NetGuide

 

Call Me Brad Pitt
By Joe Mullich

 

Don't mean to boast, but when it comes to hard drives, mine is big and sturdy and gives great performance. So it didn't surprise me that one day while I was cruising the Information Superhighway, someone would try to cruise me. After hearing how the Internet has become the great singles bar of the modem set, I have finally cyber-flirted.

Let me set the stage. It was one of those typical Saturday nights. Romance was in the air. Around town, people were prowling bars, exchanging meaningful glances. And I was sitting at my computer, sipping a Budweiser and looking at an entertainment forum on CompuServe.

I definitely need to get a life.

Anyway, I was on the forum preparing a spirited critique of the person who said the film Don Juan Demarco was not "feel-good enough" by pointing out that it certainly was a feel-good movie, because no matter what you look like you "feel good" after comparing yourself to Marlon Brando. Then someone broke into my screen with a message that said:

"Hi."

Let me point out that I am no computer geek, who sweats at the prospect of real life human interaction. I am quite comfortable with personal interaction, especially when that personal interaction is done through two modems 2,000 miles apart. So, throwing caution to the wind, I typed:

"Hi."

The mysterious stranger replied: "I am a girl. I am 18 years old."

Bad, bad opening.

Anyone who types "I am a girl. I am 18 years old" most likely has a pot belly, stubble on his cheeks, and way too much time on his hands.

However you can still have fun with the conversation, putting the person on as they try to put you on.
I have way too much time on my hands, too.

The "girl" asked me to tell her about myself.

Here, I must admit, I broke the rules of cyber-flirting. I told the truth about myself. That's how I know the person was putting me on because "she" didn't disappear. You see, I am a 34-year-old guy. Specifically, I am a 34-year-old guy with underdeveloped pectoral muscles who a teenage girl would address as "sir." And she would do that not so much from respect, but from genuine apathy.

In any case, the "girl" and I had a friendly chat about movies. I stayed clear of any salacious comments on the slight chance that this actually was a teenager, in which case being salacious would have made me feel like one of those creepy people who always turn up in newspaper sketches based on witnesses' descriptions.

The "girl" asked me what I looked like.

I responded: "Exactly like Brad Pitts, of course."

The "of course," I thought, was a nifty little comment, joking about the inherent anonymity of the on-line world. It's a world where you can look like, or be, whatever you want. I asked what "she" looked like:

"Like Cindy Crawford . . . of course."

I had to laugh at that, even if I suspected the person who was typing the comment was called "Jabba the Hut" by his colleagues on the loading dock. At this point, I was wishing the person had originally tried to convince me she was Cindy Crawford or Christy Brinkley or a 24-year-old part-time model/MBA student so at least I could get into the experience a little more. After all, online is a world of fantasy, so if you're going to cyber-flirt, be creative.

After a bit of harmless pleasantries, she changed gears. She typed: "What are you wearing?" Hubba-hubba. I'm sitting around at home at 9 o'clock, fiddling on my computer and waiting for a Cheers rerun to come on. What did she think I was wearing?

"Spandex," I typed.

I asked what she was wearing:

"Nothing," she typed. "Nothing at all."

She typed one of those smiling computer symbols :) that seem really dorky to anyone except the person receiving it.

Hmm. Naked with a smiling computer symbol. In spite of myself, this was actually getting good.
"I hope your chair is upholstered," I said.

She typed: "Bye-bye." The screen went dead. And I was left wondering what the hell I had just been part of.

That's when I realized that maybe she had been telling the truth. And that I had been electronically confronted with a naked, 18-year-old girl -- and bored her so much that she decided to go do homework instead of talk with me. That seems like a grimly realistic scenario. I can't even score in the imaginary world of online. But at least she didn't sign off by saying, "Bye-bye, sir."

Next time I intend to get more into the spirit of cyber-flirting. Look for me online. I'll be the guy in a torn T-shirt who looks just like David Hasseloff. Of course.

My humorous essays and columns have appeared in dozens of newspapers and magazines. Email me if you'd like to see some that are available for reprint.

 

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