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VULTURES
There is a part of the movie Mean Girls that, if I still had a VCR, I would rewind to and play again and again. It’s the part of the story, after they discover the burn book, where Miss Norberry and Mr. Duvall gather all the little beyotches in the gym. The girls stand on a platform and apologize to one another. As Karen tells her friend Gretchen, “I'm sorry I laughed at you that time you got diarrhea at Barnes & Nobles… And I'm sorry for telling everyone about it… And I'm sorry for repeating it now.” She spins on her heels, and falls gracefully into the arms of her former pincushions. This free-fall catharsis was a shedding of the proverbial bad juju one carries on ones shoulders when one shit talks. It’s hard to believe the vehicle used in Tina Fey’s 2004 topographical map, traversing the peaks and valleys of being a high school sophomore, could feel dated in 2009. ; A burn book? It’s so pre-2.0, so tangible, so… I dunno, old school. Why bother when you can anonymously lambaste online? You’ll never be held accountable, and you can say whatever you like. It’s as easy as making Shrinky Dinks. Just cut out a handle, color it in with anecdotes about your boss; how this one time he made you send opiates to Canada… Or comment Brooklyn Vegan/Pitchfork/Stereogum because you can’t stand how bad Wavves sucks … Or you are a closet homo who has nothing better do than post anti-gay rants on Craig’s list. Stick it in the Internet on low, and let it cook negativity into hard fact. For many, this kind of incognito slander is retribution for being fired in a shitty economy. Or because having to give up your dream of being in a band, to sit in a cubicle, crunching numbers in Midtown while some trustafarian gets to melt down on stage in Spain after he combined Xanax and MDMA is just unacceptable… and you really are a loathsome, closeted homo. It’s healthier than punching the walls, right? It’s the culture ladies and gentlemen… of anonymity. IT’S FREE and it’s winning the war on sympathy! No matter what your income, social status, background, say whatever the fuck you like. Here we are all created equal, as long as you aren’t posting kiddie stuff, post away. It’s your choice: you reveal your true identity or you can retain deific status like Gossip Girl, who blogs about her classmates at an elite Upper East Side prep school… and who am I? That’s one thing I’ll never tell. It will probably happen to you now that everyone is famous. Just because Mario “Perez Hilton” Lavandeira’s primary focus is photoshopping white coke dots under LiLo’s nose don’t think you are safe. You want to be a YouTube sensation like Fred Figglehorn? The fictional character created by Lucas Cruikshank, a 16-year-old from Nebraska. You’d better be prepared for a good portion of your eighteen-thousand some odd comments to read like this one: Master0Shake (35 minutes ago) Even yours truly! And I’m not even remotely interesting enough to have a combined name like RaiRo. People are just mean now It’s not only the girls. Before if people didn’t like me, they didn’t talk to me. Or we’d have a moment senior year, like the night Melissa Ruiz and I were smoking cigarettes on the patio of a house party shortly after graduating high school. In four years, we never communicated, so when I know you don’t like any of us came out of left field it caught me off guard. Looking back, I have to applaud her gumption, had we been in school together now she might have just replied to my status update: Raimy is like… not sure if she wants 2 go2 tha party coz she dosnt drnk LOL <3 If we were Facebook friends in 1996 I could see the inner trappings of her status updates. My glimpse in 160 characters or less, that life was just as hard on her end. But I didn’t, I knew that we never spoke. Had I known that when she was finally allowed to drive, she had to call her mother when she arrived at school, regardless of whether or not she was late for Sequential Two math. Or that she oft times felt wayward and misunderstood… had I known that, maybe I would have tried to talk to her. We could share our protective, neurotic mother stories in person! My mom does that too! Let’s get Friendly’s after school, K? I know so much about people I never talk to that I know nothing at all. Do I really need to know about what my former high school classmates do on weekends? Should I be remembering these people? Why do my vegan friends do such an amazing job of making me feel like a total asshole for eating omelets? Do I really need to see photos of my college cohort’s new homes? Should I feel privy if I receive invites to watch their TV shows? Do they invite me because they know that I’ll be home on Saturday night at 10pm? Or am I just another thumbnail box to check off? Judging from the hundreds of party invites I’ve received while being laid up with a broken ankle, I would venture the latter. Recently, a tangible friend of mine celebrated her 32nd birthday. They hung a sign for her that read, “Happy Not So Sweet 16x2” I started thinking about my own birthday, and had a revelation… I should have a sweet 16 times two! I never did have a first one. A 1994 themed soiree complete with table arrangements, a Viennese table and tuxedo clad DJ’s in plastic “Ray Bans” with neon sides. AND just to make it super old school, I will actually SEND out invitations with little pieces of glitter that fall to the floor when you open the envelope. A night under the stars themed, banquet hall extravaganza, just to give it extra flare I’ll stage it at the Huntington Town House, that’s authentic enough, my brother had his Bar Mitzvah there. The party will be a blow out! My friends will tag the bathroom walls about what a kickass party I throw instead of posting comments to my Facebook page. Those uninvited won’t anonymously shit talk because it will happen without them knowing AND if word gets around, and there are feelings hurt, let us all gather in the park, speak our feelings, trust-fall and go grab a beer. XoXo
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