myspace blues

So I have an old friend who I rediscovered last week (through myspace--go figure--and I just got an account so that I could comment on my little bro'sspace) who happened to just be finishing the process of getting a tattoo--an outline of a cute cross on the right shoulderblade to be precise.

But--for all of you more interested in the tawdrier details of my romantic life rather than the higher world of philosophy...skip to "Part II" below, where someone propositions me on mySpace, and quandries ensue.

Now this tattooing is a pretty serious move from a conservative, Christian homeschooled girl, whether or not she's in law school. I mean, we weren't just reading "I Kissed Dating Goodbye" in high school--we were mad hardcore Eric Ludy fans. "When God Writes Your Love Story." Which, if I may digress, absolutely blows. He doesn't. He doesn't write anything. He just kind of sits there waiting for you to do something, and there you are waiting for him to do something, and there's this awkward silence...

Well. Anyway. She's got this tattoo now, against the advice of her parents, etc, etc., and decided to explain it. On Myspace. I for one, am thinking she'd better not have any serious agnostic or faith-shaking experiences for the rest of her life, because, hey, you've got this permanent tattoo, and people will always be asking, and you'll be either bitter or ashamed. And carrying a cross of bitterness on your back is probably a bad idea. Unhealthy psychologically.

At any rate. "I sincerely wanted to permanently and publicly identify myself as a Christian. It's a personal thing - I've struggled in the past with being ashamed of my faith, and this is my way of telling myself and the rest of the world that I am no longer, and will never again be ashamed of my relationship with Jesus."

Well. Okay. This helped me finally resolve some of my ambivalence about calling myself a Christian. I am not ashamed of my faith. But I am pretty ashamed of a lot of other peoples'. The church across the street is advertising on that little church-sign of theirs a "Christian" coffeehouse. Which pretty much guarantees that it will be lousy, contrived and uncomfortable. Quite frankly, if I could go through life without ever again being called Christian, I would be quite happy. I would actually be free to live the life my creator made me to live and the mysterious, often vaguely ominous but always fiercly beautiful, holy ghost calls me to. The last group to publically and permanently take up the cross as part of their bodily attire was during the Crusades, and we all know how that went. You will never see a tattoo of the cross on my body because I would rather cut off my right hand than identify myself with what passes for "Christianity" today. I will take up the cross in my lifestyle, thank you, since I have tried enough to avoid it to know that such a feat is impossible anyway.

well. that gets that off my chest.

Part II.

And then I checked my mySpace mail. Now, keeping in mind that I started this whole mySpace thing as a fun way to get back in touch with a bunch of old friends who, I happened to discover, were using said electronic forum, know (O gentle reader) that I whimsically chose to make a good time of it and not reveal my identity easily.

So the myspace space lacks my actual name, and the picture I used on my profile is from a certain Shakespeare play in which I was topless, clad in yellow harem pants, with flowing black hair and a "Dark Egyptian" complexion courtesy of a ridiculously brown, liberally applied sponge. And I had a beard. And I was attempting to imitate Ben Stiller, of the Derek Zoolander "Blue Steel" fashion.

Suffice to say, it's not a very...representative...picture of me. and I'm flexing what little bulk Iwas in posession of as well. I still had abs back then...or so I like to think.

So I check my mySpace mail, to see if said old friends have written me back with confused queries as to my identity yet, and some lady in Albany, (blonde, young and attractive, with a healthy social self, if the picture tells any truth), pops up in my Inbox. she is, as mentioned, cute and presumably in posession of a healthy enough social existence to not be an internet obsessed mySpace stalker mind-job. the subject line reads: "heyyyy buddy..." which is precisely the sort of thing I'm well known to say. I'm sure you're all quite aware of my little fondness for elipses.

so I open the letter.

"Hey there buster brown...

"So i guess the time has arrived for me to start using this site. I can resist no longer...Let the games begin! I took a look at your page and well, I liked what I saw... ;p"

"So, my name is C-----, and I'm from Albany, New York. I think us crazy kids should be friends. Cause you seem pretty nice, and smart, and possibly cute! (it's so tough to tell in this cruel digital world.. :)

And so on. Now, as many of you know, I am completely vain and ridiculously vulnerable to flattery. Especially when topless. But, quandries (and insecurity) begin striking me immediately. They always do. I no longer have flashing black hair flowing like sheep down the mountains (the sheep being black, and the mountains being my masculine shoulders except that it was never that long...more's the pity) I have a self-buzzed crop of red hair with a sparse, rather mundane goatee.

And, if I get her greeting right, I also am no longer "Buster Brown." More apt perhaps would be Wanker White, or Poppa Paleface. I am, after all, the child known for a rare ability to blind airline pilots at will by merely wearing a bare-midriff t-shirt (not that I have ever committed such an abomination...but think about it.) (on second thought, no, please don't.) (for the sake of your sanity and your bright future, I implore you, stop. the effort will leave you a broken man.) (or woman.)

And please to not even be mentioning my "EMS tummy" which has become much more...comfortable with its "lounging by the fireside in a dressing gown with wine and a quiet, self-satisfied belching and tummy-scratching" self. At least I don't have "EMS ass" yet.

hmmm...caught under false pretences, and I wasn't even trying. I guesss the lesson to take away from this is...

I'm that good. [polishes fingernails on shirt] can't fight the moonlight, baby...

[addendum and disclaimer] This has nothing to do with the previous two posts, and the firestorm on controversy surrounding the mysterious identity of the lady Nissa. just got this mySpace thing this morning. Amazing things can happen in my life and have nothing to do with women. Truly! I know it is hard to believe, but there is life without estrogen! And it's quite good!