Russian roulette with six bullets

About six months ago, a Russian student created a website called Chat Roulette that pairs random strangers for webcam conversations. With a single click on the "next" button, a new partner is found. The site received wide media coverage but somehow, I only found out about it a few weeks ago. I immediately got very excited, for I love meeting new people, and myriad fantasies filled my mind. I read about celebrity sightings and a serenading pianist, I saw screen captures of people wearing costumes; I was psyched. Last Saturday, I gathered my courage and typed in the url, hoping I would catch a glimpse of Elvis or meet a scientist working from a bunker in Antarctica. After a brief pause, I clicked on "New Game."

A few more explanations are in order before I go on describing what followed. Intrinsically, I am a very naive person. I like to think the best of people and my instinct is usually to offer my trust freely until betrayed. Life has taught me that the opposite approach is much safer. Cynicism, suspicion and pessimism are my guard dogs and so far, they have served me well. No, I did not truly think I would land on someone cool. Yes, I did think that I would mostly get gross naked men masturbating. In my mind, I had done the math, and seeing a random penis or two was a worthwhile price to pay for the chance to meet someone interesting. I admit that my heart was racing a bit before I clicked. I was scared of the nasty things I might see that I hadn't thought of. What is seen cannot be unseen.

Round 1: Spin the cylinder, here we go! Guy #1 looks pretty normal. Sort of teenage lazy-bum-lives-in-mom's-basement. He's mostly in the dark. I ask why and he answers that he's watching Star Wars. Ok, could be worse. He drinks from a beer. Off camera, another lazy bum laughs and comes into view, leaning over the keyboard to, as it turns out, "next" me. I'm hurt. I'm the one who's supposed to be nexting people!

Guy #2 is much older, thankfully. I'm guessing late thirties early forties. He looks pretty good. We talk for a few minutes. He says he's only seen a dozen people so far. Lots of penises. We're starting to have a good time but mid-sentence, out of the blue, he nexts me. What's up with that? I'm getting mildly annoyed.

Fast forward through some close ups of penises (none of which looked unusual, fortunately) and then I get a pair of teenage girls wearing a ton of makeup. The tall one gives me a monster frown before nexting me. I don't get mad about that one. Then, I think I hit the jackpot. There's a guy holding a guitar. I get excited: he's like the serenading pianist! Yay! "Hi!" I say, "what's your n..." *next* What the hell! Chat roulette is not for people with a fragile self-esteem. Ok, I was due for a break.

My natural optimism was rapidly taking a dive. Should I try again or give up? I decided to go for round #2, determined to quickly next anyone who 1) looks remotely abnormal, 2) is not visibly wearing any clothes and 3) is displaying anything but their own face. Spin the cylinder once more! With my hand poised on the next key, I quickly cycle through several partners who fall under one of the above categories. I see some more undesirable stuff. Disappointed, I was reaching the conclusion that chat roulette is Russian roulette with a fully loaded revolver. You're guaranteed to die a little bit inside on every squeeze of the trigger.

But wait! One more "next" for the road, and I landed on a pretty hot thirty-something guy who looked normal and was wearing a shirt. Within the first minute, I saw him smoke and reach for a glass with different hands, therefore proving he wasn't touching himself, or at least not... um... consistently. We started talking. He was Greek. Greek! When I was a young teenager, before computers were a staple in all family homes, I had registered with this organization that matched you with correspondents from around the world. One of my matches was a Greek guy who had sent a picture and was, no joke, to die for. He was wearing dark shades on a sunny day, with the ocean in the background. I was instantly in love. So, as far as good looking Greek guys went, that was two in two. I made a mental note to move Greece up on my list of countries to visit.

The stranger and I talked for over twenty minutes. It cheered me up and I thought, "Hey, this thing isn't so bad after all!" Maybe it had been worth it. "Thanks for the chat," I told him, "I'm going to sign off now." He gave me a wide grin and said, "I had a good time too but, before you go, I was  wondering... could you flash me your boobs?"

The Boobquake Experiment

Social networking sites are dangerous. I must admit that I had underestimated the power of Facebook. Let this story be a cautionary tale to all: do not click lightly!

*

A few days ago, a prominent Iranian cleric declared the following:

"Many women who do not dress modestly lead young men astray, corrupt their chastity and spread adultery in society, which increases earthquakes."

Purdue University Jen McCreight decided to react by testing the theory: Boobquake was born. Simple and lighthearted on the surface, the idea is to rally enough women willing to dress immodestly today, April 26th, to see if we can cause an earthquake with the combined power of our scandalous bodies. The real message, of course, is that women should have the right to dress however they choose.

When a co-worker sent me the event invitation through Facebook, I accepted immediately. To be truly honest, while I wholeheartedly agreed with the cause, I had no intention to actually put my boobs on display. I figured none of my Facebook friends would notice nor care. I was wrong. It did not take long for several co-workers to excitedly inquire about what I was going to wear (and not just men!) Not wanting to lose face, I revised my stand and decided that I would put my money where my mouth was. Showing off the goods is not an easy thing for me.

Last night, I tried on the outfit I came up with for the occasion. Looking in the mirror, I had an anxiety attack. There was no way I would ever dare to wear this to work. Ever. I could not look anyone in the eyes, which is fine for the actual work portion of my shift, since I sit in front of a screen, but it would severely limit my travel through the building during breaks. I even wondered if my manager wouldn't send me home with a warning for dressing inappropriately. No, I could not risk it. Choosing a deep (but still respectable) cowl neckline instead, I still felt I might get teased for backing off. My solution: take a picture and post it on Facebook for the day, dispensing me from having to look anyone in the eyes while they stare at my endowments.

Happy Boobquake Day to all cleavage lovers out there and may women free themselves from religious servitude.

Llorando for Lhasa

Science says that olfactory memory is the strongest. Most people I know claim to be visual. The real distribution is anyone's guess: a quick google search shows wildly different results. I am definitely auditory. I've known it since high school, where I quickly noticed that if I really paid attention to what the teachers said in class, I had little to no studying to do at home. You'd guess that I am consequently a real music lover. I'm not, not really. Sure I have my favorite tunes and bands, but I usually choose to listen to audio books or spoken radio over music. I do love music for dancing, however, and most of all, I love specific songs for the memories they anchor in my mind.

I remember the song of my choreography for my first dance recital, at age 5 (Culture Club, "Do You Really Want To Hurt Me".) My first slow dance with a boy, in my early air cadet days (Wham, ''Careless Whispers''). I remember an opera song my dad used to play, very loudly, every Sunday morning. There was also a movie soundtrack he would play on repeat for hours, with headphones, lying on the couch. I remember my mom used to love playing Aznavour in the background, when we had guests over for dinner. My favorite song during the summer I spent working in Dominican Republic still stirs my feelings (Marc Anthony, ''Hasta Ayer''). All the songs of The Eminem Show will forever remind me of an intense summer of 2002 spent training in Cornwall. Most men I've known (why just men I wonder?) are linked in my mind with a single song they made me discover early in our friendship. I have some musical memories that are less prominent, but sometimes they resurface with surprising power. Such is the case of Lhasa de Sela.

It was the summer of 1998. I was 21 years old, working a meaningless minimum wage job near little Italy, in Montreal. After a few tumultuous years following my dad's passing, I was finally settling down into some semblance of a normal life. For the first time in my life, I had my own apartment, a steady (minuscule) income and just about as much freedom as I could wish for. And no idea what to do with it. My life was completely directionless. I was a human wind vane facing the direction of the most influential person in my life at the time, which probably changed daily. My time in the Dominican Republic had sobered me from the depressed state I used to live in. I had seen their miserable work conditions and poor living arrangements. Despite living off a few dollars a month and working 12 hour days, 12 days in a row (then traveling by bus for hours to spend 24h with their family before starting a new cycle), I saw these people gather up on the beach every night with their guira, drums and accordion, to sing and dance merengue, looking relaxed and cheerful. How's that for a new perspective. Upon returning to Montreal, I decided I had no right to self-pity, not after what I had witnessed. But what was I to do? What was I to be?

I searched for answers within myself. I searched for inspiration from others. There was a little coffee shop near my place. I often stopped by on my way to work, to spend an hour pondering these great questions over a delectable cappuccino. On a beautiful July afternoon, the music that was playing caught my ear. The voice of the singer was deep, irresistibly sensual and yet strikingly earnest. Like Cupid's arrow, it went straight to the heart. Her music was unique, a gypsy mix of Latin influences that somehow sounded very local. Lhasa de Sela was her name. I listened to the entire album, enthralled. During the last song, a stranger approached me, holding pencils and a sketching pad. "Excuse me Miss," he said, "I like to draw strangers for fun. I saw you and thought you had interesting features. I hope you don't mind." He smiled and extended a sheet from his book. I took it and thanked him, flattered. I don't think it was a particularly good likeness of me. He had drawn me looking pensive, as I must have been while lulled by Lhasa's rhythms. I saved the sketch and did not think of that moment until two months ago.

I came across a reference to Lhasa in a news article. She passed away in January this year, at age 37 from a long battle against breast cancer. The news came as a shock to me. I watched videos of her on youtube. I listened to La Llorona again and I cried. I knew nothing of her but what I saw on those videos but her inner beauty radiated so strongly that it tore at my heart. That 1998 afternoon, in the café, I was desperate to find myself. So desperate, that I was trying instead to build myself an identity from a mishmash of exotic interests, philosophical contemplations and vagabond ambitions. To my 32 year old self, it now seems that I merely wanted to be different, to stand out from the masses, as if my very survival depended on it. Perhaps it did. Now, I am content to be who I am, common or rare, regardless of whether I blend in or stand out. Lhasa, she was a rare, unique gem that shone brilliantly, spreading her warm light to all the hearts that opened up to her. That's who she always was, without trying, from start to finish.

Ashes to Ashes

At my father's funeral, I remember thinking to myself that someone had made a mistake. It couldn't possibly be my dad in that small urn. He was so big! This piece of evidence sufficed to justify the denial I lived in, and I left, dry-eyed and strangely lighthearted. It amused and puzzled me to see everyone else accept what they were told, without question. I would deny this out loud, but I suppose I am a bit like those crazy Elvis fans who swear he is still alive, living like a recluse. A part of me would not be surprised if I found my father knocking on my door someday.

His (alleged) ashes were interred, not scattered. I do not know if he had left specific instructions or not. I often wonder where I would have scattered them if it had been asked of me. It saddens me that I cannot name the place that would likely have been the most meaningful to him. At the time of his passing, our relationship was just beginning to change, slowly turning into a more adult-to-adult rapport. I believe that the rites of the dead are meant for the living. I would have scattered his ashes in a location that reminds me of him. I think I know just the place, a derelict property on the shore of lake Sacacomie...

***

As the Icelandic volcano spreads its river of ashes in the European skies and beyond, I wonder. I have no spiritual allegiances but I love to temporarily suspend my disbelief in order to look for symbols. I force myself to connect them to my own life and this exercise makes me reflect and learn. Ashes symbolize death, loss. Scattering them means letting go. Seems to me my message is simple: I must let go of things that are dead. More specifically, relationships.

This is not a new concept as it pertains to romantic relationships. I've always been able to let go of those. No, I am referring to friendships, those sacrosanct bonds that must be preserved at all costs, even if they must be placed on life support. There was a quote from Emily Bronte that I used to swear by as a teenager:

Love is like the wild rose-briar;

Friendship like the holly-tree.

The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms,

But which will bloom most constantly?

Loyalty in friendship is fiercely important to teenagers with short-lived romances, but must it be so for grown adults? No love is truly unconditional. Should friendships be? As lovers may grow apart over time, so can friends. When all we have left in common is memories from a shared past, when there is nothing about our current lives, the friendship is dying. The life support is all the gatherings, the reunions full of effusive reminiscing. Instinctively, I think “We've been friends for so many years, I can't possibly let go!” But I can. Not that I will, yet, but herein lies the novelty: I am giving myself permission to let go. Letting some friendships ebb could allow new ones to flow, ones that correspond more with who I am now and where I am going.

Hiatus on Hiatus

It's been nearly 3 and half years since my last post. Hard to believe so much time has passed. I have been so busy, my life turned upside down by some major changes in so many ways... It's slowly settling back into some sort of normalcy and blogging surfaced in my mind when I decided to resume some activities I previously enjoyed.

One of the aforementioned major changes is my weight loss journey. It opened up a world of possibilities and has caused me to make a list of things I could now resume doing, but also a list of new activities to try that were simply not an option before, such as the hang gliding dream I wrote about in a previous entry. However, due to the associated costs and relatively short window of opportunity to try it out, I will have to tentatively postpone that particular activity to the summer of 2011.

Blogging, on the other hand, costs me nothing but time and going through old posts has reminded me of how soothing I used to find it. There is something very therapeutic, very liberating, about throwing your thoughts at the universe, free for all to read. Posts like Minivanophobiac were quite cathartic, for instance. The peace I derive from writing comes for the process of introspection I must go through before penning my thoughts. I feel that I must first distill the essence of my message before I can clearly express it. In doing so, I often make interesting connections between seemingly unrelated events of my life. In my lifelong quest to improve my understanding of human nature, this simple exercise becomes a valuable learning tool.

So enough slacking off and back to learning! Let's see... Which interesting connections shall I make today?