Internet Killed the Video Star

    Bless your heart if you move to Los Angeles and are able to find a good group of friends. I don’t mean acquaintances. I mean friends you have many similar interests with, with whom you spend time with regularly and with whom you all seem in sync with each other whenever you hang out. I had a group in college. I miss my group.
     On laundry night, Carlos and I went to the corner laundromat to knock it all out in one shot, rather than use the two machines in our building. We arrived to find, much to our pleasure, no one was there but us. We owned that place. We could dry one sock in each dryer if we wanted to.
     We had just started about 7 washers full of laundry when it happened. Four inebriated, Indigenous Mexican transsexuals whirled in like a tornado. Well, that’s not exactly right. One entered before the rest to begin the initial surveillance of the place.
     She was the scout tranny. I was hunched over stuffing sheets in a vertical washer when she said hi to me, the kind of hello that was accompanied by a flirtatious subliminal wave and a bend at the hip.
     I returned the salutation as I stood to see a 6 foot goliath with her hair pulled into a ponytail on top of her head. She donned a worn out flannel shirt, sandals with socks (the horror) and khaki shorts she rolled up as high as she could but left the fly completely unbuttoned. How they stayed up and why she left it open was a mystery.
     All I could think was, “Damn it! I already said hello.”
     My expression must have showed this because she turned and walked back out. Or perhaps this is what the scout tranny was supposed to do. A few minutes later she returned with her crew.
     Each had grown her hair long and stringy, but only one wore make-up.
     ”What half-asses!” I whispered to Carlos. If you’re gonna do it, do it right.
Their skin was rough and leathery and betrayed any real hope any of them had for passing as ladies. The one with make-up on had wrapped a blanket around her shoulders to use as a cape. These were the few details I could notice without looking for too long. If I did, they said hi again.
     Now, to each her own; we all have to live together. Let me say I have no problems whatsoever with transsexuals, public drunkenness or split ends. But when they pulled out a pint of vodka and poured it into wine goblets they brought filled with orange kool aid, my sensibilities were irreparably offended.
     The day-long hour that followed was an array of pitifully obvious ploys for attention. They sprawled out on a folding table and cracked jokes to each other that each began “Girl…” until they laughed so loud their bodies collapsed on top of each other. They cursed like sailors no matter what gender or age group entered and left the laundromat. Scout tranny pushed a worker tranny onto her back, threw worker’s legs over her shoulders and proceeded to hump her with wild abandon while make-up tranny cheered.
     They acted like 13-year-olds who stole some liquor from Grandma’s cabinet and rode the bus to get trashed behind the town library. We were convinced they had each been gang-banged by their families under the Christmas tree when they were 10. It was the only trauma that could justify such behavior.
     Finally, we finished our laundry and left.
     ”Ok, what luck to find one other Indian tranny alcoholic to run around with, but four?” I turned to Carlos and said (I thought they were Native American at first). “What are the odds?”

     Here I’ve lived in LA for over 5 years now and I have one true friend who doubles duty as my boyfriend and it’s just not fair. Where’s my sub-subgroup? Don’t get me wrong, I’m very grateful for Carlos and the fact he’s my best friend is even better.
     We have many acquaintances and a handful of friends we hang out with here and there. We’ll meet them for a lunch or drinks once in a while, but for the most part it’s me and my man, doing our own thing.
     On a sunny weekend we’ll drive to Griffith Park and go for walks with our camera. We take pictures of the leaves, flowers and hillsides and make video clips of each other climbing trees. On the drive home I bug him to stop for Saltado de Pollo, a Peruvian dish he introduced me to.
     We return home and sprawl out on our bed and talk while the kids (our cats) jump on the bed to nap with us.
     The younger cat, Oscar, will make you stop whatever you are doing to service him with a full body massage. The older cat, Bruiser, was apparently weaned too soon and still climbs on my stomach and kneeds my chest while he tries to nurse on me. All you hear is little sucking sounds he makes on my t-shirt.
     During one of our conversations on a day like I just described, we talked about the jerks we had come across recently online. We complained how it seems no one understands the concepts of consideration, dependability and punctuality. They were merely words that most likely only he and I could even spell.
     Over the years, I have retreated more and more from people, deciding they were a waste of time and I liked it better at home with Carlos. I still like to communicate, however, and interact with others, so I do what many do: I go online.
     I exchange emails with people on Myspace or chat on instant messenger. If I get really bored I go to Gay.com. It goes something like this:

7:15 pm, Assplunger writes,   ”Nice pics stud, you like to get pounded?”
7:21 pm, Hotlatinboi writes, “Hola papi, you looking? My culo is nice and                                               wet for you.”
7:25 pm, Looking4more writes, “You have a very nice face. I’m not looking                                               for a hook up. I’d like to meet someone                                               special. Would you like to maybe meet for                                               lunch sometime?” next to a close-up photo of                                               him spreading his ass cheeks while his                                               nutsack dangles in a leather cockring.
7:26, I log off.     

Periodically, I or Carlos will decide to meet a new friend from online for a drink or invite them to dinner. Things go well for a while, until the usual behavior kicks in. They flake on plans, or disappear for long lengths of time then resurface when they don’t have anything better to do, or just become all around annoying.
    Then one day, while Oscar lay on top of the magazine Carlos was reading until he stopped to pet him and Bruiser was sucking on my t-shirt, Carlos said it: “It’s the fucking internet! Think about it, people meet online because they have no social skills in person.”
    There it was, as simple as ever. Why had we expected social etiquette from social rejects? I then took it one step further and applied it to myself.
     When I was a kid, it would drive me crazy that my dad had the audacity to stop and talk to whomever he encountered. I never understood my mom’s jealousy until one day I went to the grocery store with my dad and he struck up a conversation with the lady clerk that lasted well after she finished our transaction. I was jealous too; it was more than he had said to me all week.
    People don’t think of me as shy because I am pretty well-spoken, but I am. My strength is in the written word, not small talk. I’ve never understood other’s compulsion to talk to strangers. I think to myself, “Why would I talk to that person? I don’t know them.”
    ”Well, numbnuts, how do you expect to meet anyone then?” my conscience responds.
    It’s that initial hello that boggles me. Who do I say it to? How do I say it? What do I say next? After the ice is broken, good luck shutting me up, but until then there is only one place I feel comfortable walking up to someone and saying hello: the internet.
    It’s minimal effort and if you don’t like who you encounter, all you have to say is “later dude” or “no thanks, just chatting today” or “fuck off” without hesitation because they’re not standing in front of you.
    I used to talk to someone and make plans to meet, spend hours regretting it in their company and return home swearing I wouldn’t do that again. I did, of course, until gradually it became just too much energy to waste on human interaction.
    Was I always like this? Did I turn to the internet because I couldn’t hack it in the real world? Or did the internet deprive me of social practice and make me entirely ineffective face to face?
    In college I took it for granted how easy it was to meet people. I walked outside my door and it was “hello there, new friend.” I had my Scooby gang that gathered every weekend to get into trouble and laugh till we cried.
    Now, I’d be lucky to get trashed with a gang of trannies at the laundromat.