The Flirt

I’m in a TV studio preparing to shoot a show. There’s a lot of last minute checking and futzing that goes into the start of a production. There can also be some downtime when you’re waiting for someone else to complete their checking and futzing before you can get to yours.

It’s during one of those times when I’m not necessary (some would say that’s a constant) so I wander off. I go to the water cooler to get a drink and try not to think about everything that can go wrong in the next half hour. Trust me, that’s a long damn list.

When a woman sneaks up on me. Now, in reality, she probably didn’t sneak up on me but, when I’m in the studio waiting to shoot, I’m barely aware of anything not related to the shoot. So I’m already a little perturbed about the interruption.

“Hi,” she says. I nod with a mouthful of water. “I’ve heard so much about you.” Because of things I know people say about me I’m never sure if that’s a good thing or not.

She starts talking (I remember none of what she said) and flirting. Normally, when people flirt, the desire is simple. But when I’m in a studio and I don’t know this person, but they are obviously a producer of some type, I don’t take it as a sexual come on. I’m more apt to think of it as a production come on. Irk number two.

I sort of tune in to this lady. Her hair tossing; her open mouth laugh; her overt touching, all the signs are there. And it’s annoying me because I can’t be distracted from the show. I can already tell I don’t care what her show is about, I won’t do it. She’ll be the type of producer who wants a bastard like me until she gets a bastard like me.

She’s flirting away. I can’t tell if she can see that I’ve not even checked in. I look at a clock. It’s time for me to get back to the studio for some more futzing. So I look into her eyes and smile. She’s connected, she’s right there figuring her approach was going to win. She starts to go to her final approach when I hold a finger up to her lips and say,

“Shhhhh.” She stops talking for the first time. I make sure never to break eye contact. My finger is still aloft. She’s lost control and doesn’t like it. “I’m sure we can do something better with that mouth.” Her eyes widen. “Like shut it.”

People Tell Me Things

It’s a weird part of my life. People tell me things. Not friends or family members, they probably know enough not to say anything important or private to me. I’m talking random people I encounter. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been standing there saying to myself, “I can think of no good reason I should know this about that person.” But, sadly, it’s more often, “Whoa! I should not know that.”

I have to assume they’re willing to spew this to anyone and it’s just my turn. It can’t be because I’m so friendly and outgoing. If I’m giving the choice between a stimulating conversation with you or being left alone, unless you’re paying me, I’m going to choose left alone.

It can’t be because I offer an air of inclusiveness. I have friends who think twice before starting conversations with me. I like to assume its out of respect for my privacy. But, most likely, they’re afraid I’m going to say something to ruin their day or psyche.

So what chance does a stranger have of feeling the love from me? Especially after, from the moment I’ve turned my head to them, I’ve been looking at them like a turd on a cats ass. Sure, I know I’m going to have to take care of it, but I’m not happy about it so it’s probably going to be painful for one of us.

That’s why I assume it’s just my turn (or bad luck to be in this general area) when someone starts giving me their life story. Or at least the disgusting part they want to unleash at this time. This guy’s story was not very different from any hard luck story you hear.

Waa waa waa. My family turned on me (because I fucked them all over).

Waa waa waa. My friends don’t stand by me (because I’ve stolen from all of them).

Waa3. I can’t find a good job (because I’m so pilled up I can never remember the address).

So, yeah, the world has it out for him. Don’t get me wrong, I can and have had sympathy. I haven’t had the easiest life but each time I’ve been knocked on my ass I get up and figure out another way to get through. It’s taught me empathy. But when the story is so generic I can recite the ending a few minutes into the spiel, I get a little antsy.

And antsy ain’t a good thing for me.

My mind starts to wander. First to homicide. I begin to think of all the ways I can kill the person in front of me. Quiet ways, noisy ways, stealthy ways, broad ways. But that’s only fun for a while. I mean, how many times can you imagine jamming a heat gun into someone’s mouth to melt their tongue to their teeth before it gets boring?

Then I start to think of answers to their tale of woe. I’m in no way saying these are good or useful answers but they keep me from going to the truck for the heat gun.

After what seemed a semi-lifetime (but was probably five minutes. I find that to be my limit before I say something to bring the conversation to a crescendo) of listening to him whine about wanting to give up, throw in the towel, cash in his chips I’m done.

I find the more metaphors a person uses during a tale of woe the less like he is to go with his final solution. Most times they’re probably rehearsing to make sure the story is perfect for the pill mill doctor or parole officer.

“But, yeah, it’s been a tough road,” he says thinking I’m listening. “I’m thinking about giving up, throwing in the towel, cashing in my chips.” He looks at me for a reaction. He finds none. I know I’m staring blankly because I’m thinking about pizza. I haven’t had one for awhile. Maybe I should see if my girlfriend wants one. But before I can ask her he interrupts me with, “Yeah, well, I’ve been thinking lately about killing myself.”

No time like the present, I always say.

But I can’t say that. I mean, I can, but it’s not what people generally consider polite. I know I’m supposed to say, “Stop with the crazy talk! You’re just having a bad time! Brighter days are near!” Then hum a depression era feel good song. But that’s not what came out. In my pizza addled mind I said,

“Oh, don’t talk like that! You don’t want to give up! Did Kurt Cobain give up? Did Robin Williams give. . .ooops, bad examples.”

I don’t understand why so many people storm away from me angry.

“Whatcha doin’?”

Is the innocent question someone asks me while I’m in the middle of an hour which consisted of dealing with a torrent of increasing stupidity someone I know sidles up to me and queries about my recent activities.

“What have I been doing?” I respond while dumping what can only be described as the remnants of a wildebeests feast into a proper receptacle. “Dealing with an ever growing legion of psychopathic plebes who are spiraling into the abyss of stupidity at such a breakneck pace my hearing is going from the constant shattering of the sound barrier.”

“How’s things?”

Someone asked me.

“I’m a toilet and the world is shit.” I responded.

Should I be concerned?

Every time I’m talking to someone and they use the phrase,

“I like talking to you. Its nice to talk to someone at the same level.”

I find them to be pig-headed, moronic bores.

Social Media Shaming

Dear Social Media people,
Hi! It’s me! Your Facebook friend! Your Instagram follower! Your Skype type! Your Twitter hater (come on! You know that’s true. There are no friends on Twitter. Just a bunch of people waiting for you to say something stupid so they can attack)! And whatever else is out there I’m supposed to be with you on!

It’s so great to hear from you! I hadn’t heard from you in about fourteen seconds! I was worried you were having a ‘problem’ after eating a pound of chocolate fried matzo balls! You know how they can repeat on you! (smiley face! frowny face! happy face! poop!)

But what I’m really here to say is it’s all a lie. No, no, no! I’m not a woman trapped in the body of an asshole. I’m who you think I am. The same old half sarcastic/half sarcastic ass toad you’ve grown to adore. The lie is I don’t see your posts.

And I know they’re great! And its my loss. But I just can’t slog through the hundreds of pictures of Minions a day with the oh so funny sayings to get to everything. I don’t ogle your pics of the granulated bacon squares you’re known for (although they do sound wonderful). I don’t even have Skype (I found their icon on line and put it on my desktop so people think I’m a Skyper). And I don’t see your observations about the world in 140 characters or less (but that’s on me. I log on, say my shit and skip to the loo the fuck out of there).

But the problem arises when I’m face to face with someone who says, “Did you see my post?” First off, what post? The one about the time you found a bagel that, if you squinted just right, looked like Drew Carey? Or the one where you took pictures of your fast food burrito because it was so damn tasty? Or was it the one where you gave your most intimate thoughts because you were trolling for sympathy likes?

What? It was none of those? It was one filled with insight and passion; thought and compassion? Oh, ah, yeah, I missed that too. Sorry it was so important to you that I saw it. Do you know how you would have insured I saw it? If you’d sent it to me directly. Message me, email me if you want me to see it. Don’t try to guilt me into missing something that’s surrounded by semi-racist rants veiled in the cloak of protecting our freedoms to the right and heart tugging articles about overcoming adversity from click bait sites to the left.

It’s not my job to know everything about you. As a matter of fact, I probably would like you better if I didn’t know what I know now. “Did you see my post?” is this eras lunatic on a soap box on a street corner. A shout for attention you can usually avoid by averting eye contact and crossing the street. To assume everyone sees every post is an ego bashing battle. My girlfriend has over 2300 friends. The last post she saw from me was my first one. And only because, back then, I was her only friend.

I’m not saying don’t post. Share! Emote! Smote! But don’t for one second believe anyone, much less everyone, sees it. Toss it out there, soap box the shit out of it, and be happy with that. You got to express yourself! Get out the feelings, emotions, ideas that were, mere seconds ago, bubbling up inside you! But don’t expect an outpouring of admiration for every meme you slap on. And, when you don’t get the attention you crave, don’t go guilting someone because they missed it.

Just assume too many Minions were in their way.