Tuesday, August 30, 2005

Mantrouble ...

Sunday in the New York Times there was a story about MySpace.com. I read the story. I thought, "Hmm, I wonder what that site's about?" And then I toasted a bagel.

Later, that night, my friend Brian sent me an invitation. He had just joined MySpace.com and was recruiting friends to join his online compound. The idea is to build a network of people.

OK, I thought. I'll play.

So I went to MySpace.com and signed up. One of the first things you're prompted to do is post a picture.

OK. I posted my headshot, my de facto picture for all picture occassions. I have a headshot from when I was pursuing voiceover work becasue my producer insisted on it. So I have a headshot. I have no voiceover work.

I didn't fill out the rest of the profile. I thought I'd do that some other time. Instead, I searched for Brian.

Didn't find him.

Yesterday, I received a notification in my inbox that I'd received mail on MySpace.com. It's from hrumphgrumble. Funny user name.

I logged onto the site and looked for his message.

It said: "Well I like the minimalist style of page. If it has a photo of a very beautiful lady. I would love to learn more about this mysterious woman."

Mr. Grumble is a 56-year-old man who lives in Charleston, South Carolina, and his entire site is filled with pictures of young women, most of whom are in various stages of undress. Under "Who I'd Like To Meet" he's written: "A beautiful woman dressed in a French maid's outfit and carrying a can of whipped cream."

O.K.

When I was on match.com last year, I received a lovely post from a guy who had clearly just returned from a "Sopranos" audition (complete with pinky ring) which said, simply, "You're stunning. I'm interested. Tony."

And, after catching a Todd Rundgren show at the House of Blues last year, I wrote this to Dave :

"Oh, I wish you would have been there to save me from Don. Oh, Don. What is it with me and weird male experiences this week, I ask you? Don's this tall guy, noticeably taller than me, a big guy, like he could be a football player. Don introduces himself, sticks out his hand, asks my name, I tell him, but I'm not sure if he got it right. He notices I'm standing behind this shorter woman and yells (cuz it's loud), 'Are you here with your girlfriend (as in 'friend' not as in 'girlfriend') or ...' and I say, 'I'm waiting for someone' (seemed the wisest answer). Don kinda screws up his face and says, 'Oh, OK. I get it.' And turns to go on his way. I kinda pat him on the back as he's leaving, and he turns to me and I just mouth, 'Thanks.' Nice of him to be interested, I guess, right? Later, though, Don and his two pals, all of whom are acting like the most obnoxious dorks, anything to call attention to themselves, managed to form a semi-circle around me and Don says, 'Aw, Beth, you look lonely.' Eesh. I say, 'Thanks, I'm OK.' And one of his friends, who would look like Joe Pesci, if Joe Pesci were slightly taller and had curly hair -- I swear I am not making this up -- puts his three middle fingers up to his mouth and kisses each of them really slowly and then tilts his fingers down toward me to blow me a kiss. EEEEEEEW! I couldn't help it: I gave him a look like, 'Oh. Come. ON.' And turned away from them. When the house lights went up and they were leaving, I purposely waited for them to go down the stairs, never looking at them as they passed, and then made it a point to go to the other stairs to leave.
THIS is why I am single, my friend. Because of the Dons and Don's finger-kissing friends in this world. Oh. My. God."

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