Post by Niemmy on Oct 5, 2007 21:47:48 GMT -5
Tara Moss | September 03, 2007
WHEN you are banned in cyberspace for impersonating yourself, strange things can happen. Ah, modern life. Internet dating. Existential crisis.
If there is one thing we are doomed to pursue, it is finding a mate. But maybe you know all of your friend's friends. Maybe they have already set you up on a blind date. Maybe you don't feel like losing your job by dating someone you work with. Maybe you have discovered that it can be hard negotiating personal discourse with an exciting stranger under the influence of an alcoholic social lubricant and a strobe light, with ear-bursting music pulsing so loud you can't hear yourself think, let alone the other person speak.
If so, you are not alone. I recently clicked on an advertised link and found myself looking at an internet dating site. Everyone is doing it, I'm told. So why was I not a card-carrying member of this cyber social elite? What better way to cut through the layers of unhelpful presuppositions provided to those 50,000 Google hits of inaccurate information about someone like me?
I put up a deliciously anonymous profile. I set up a separate hotmail account so it is not linked to my name, and I create an honest profile that has no defining features, apart from my age, the city I live in and my interests. Which books do I love, which movies, which philosophers. I upload a closely cropped, candid profile photo and I give it a password so that no one can see it unless I choose to reveal myself.
I advertise an interest in meeting a male/female for a friend/penpal/short-term/long-term relationship. Basically, let's just get chatting if we have common interests. No mention of needing to be active, or any specific body-type. No mention of destiny, or "you complete me".
I got a surprising number of uniform introduction messages within hours due entirely, I suspect, to being a fresh female to the site. Ninety-five per cent asked for one thing; the password to see my photo. No conversation. Photo please. They want to know if I'm Quasimodo.
There was one person who seemed to jell with my profile and was happy to communicate. He did not once ask about a photo and his messages became an enjoyable distraction, exploring the potentials of electronic philosophical exchange ... Sartre, Dylan, the meaning of life. This man was a genius on the e-page. I was in.
And then scandal.
After 48 hours as a member of the cyber-dating world, my social experiment was cut suddenly short. I went to respond to the latest witty repartee of my equally anonymous philosophical emailer, only to discover I had disappeared. I could not log in. My username had been wiped. Perplexed and suspecting a technical error, I contacted the gods of internet dating. After another two days of being locked out, I got a standard reply telling me that my profile was being "randomly checked for verification" and could I please send two forms of ID?
My email companion had been given another story. He forwarded it to me with the line, "Now I am intrigued": "Dear member, This member has been suspended and removed from our site for breaching our terms and conditions. (The site) does our best to prevent these types of people from abusing our system, however it can be extremely difficult as they tend to create very believable profiles and it is almost impossible to weed them out. We strongly advise that you do not contact this person as they are not genuine."
Oh, the scandal. My vampiric ways exposed. Was it the hatchet in chapter 29 that gave it away? Or chapter 39, where I executed that poor man bound in the trunk of his torched car? My god, had they read my work and decided it was unsafe to unleash me on their unsuspecting members? Was I an icepick-prone Catherine Tramell laying in wait for internet dating victims? Or was I simply my own hallucination, finally revealed by an internet dating administrator? Thank god someone finally informed me that I don't exist. This delusion has been going on for ages.
As I slip into a state of deep existential crisis, I pinch myself. Well, I do seem kind of real. Perhaps I should let them know. I dutifully sent two forms of ID, disappointed of course that my anonymous brush with internet dating is no longer quite so anonymous, at least with their administration. Three days later, nothing.
I write again. I am asked for ID again. I send it again. Finally, a reply: "We will need some photo identification to confirm that you are the person in this photo. As you can imagine, Tara Moss is a famous identity and these steps are taken to protect you."
I send clear ID once more. Passport. Driver's licence. I'm in cyber exile. And from my philosophical emailer, silence. As far as he knows I am a Nigerian scammer or cyber-savvy sociopath. And how can I defend myself without revealing my identity and spoiling this carefully chosen medium of interaction?
Groucho Marx once said, "I'd never join a club that would have me as a member." Marx and I share a birthday, so it seems my Cyrano experiment was always doomed. My cyber-dating days are over.
WHEN you are banned in cyberspace for impersonating yourself, strange things can happen. Ah, modern life. Internet dating. Existential crisis.
If there is one thing we are doomed to pursue, it is finding a mate. But maybe you know all of your friend's friends. Maybe they have already set you up on a blind date. Maybe you don't feel like losing your job by dating someone you work with. Maybe you have discovered that it can be hard negotiating personal discourse with an exciting stranger under the influence of an alcoholic social lubricant and a strobe light, with ear-bursting music pulsing so loud you can't hear yourself think, let alone the other person speak.
If so, you are not alone. I recently clicked on an advertised link and found myself looking at an internet dating site. Everyone is doing it, I'm told. So why was I not a card-carrying member of this cyber social elite? What better way to cut through the layers of unhelpful presuppositions provided to those 50,000 Google hits of inaccurate information about someone like me?
I put up a deliciously anonymous profile. I set up a separate hotmail account so it is not linked to my name, and I create an honest profile that has no defining features, apart from my age, the city I live in and my interests. Which books do I love, which movies, which philosophers. I upload a closely cropped, candid profile photo and I give it a password so that no one can see it unless I choose to reveal myself.
I advertise an interest in meeting a male/female for a friend/penpal/short-term/long-term relationship. Basically, let's just get chatting if we have common interests. No mention of needing to be active, or any specific body-type. No mention of destiny, or "you complete me".
I got a surprising number of uniform introduction messages within hours due entirely, I suspect, to being a fresh female to the site. Ninety-five per cent asked for one thing; the password to see my photo. No conversation. Photo please. They want to know if I'm Quasimodo.
There was one person who seemed to jell with my profile and was happy to communicate. He did not once ask about a photo and his messages became an enjoyable distraction, exploring the potentials of electronic philosophical exchange ... Sartre, Dylan, the meaning of life. This man was a genius on the e-page. I was in.
And then scandal.
After 48 hours as a member of the cyber-dating world, my social experiment was cut suddenly short. I went to respond to the latest witty repartee of my equally anonymous philosophical emailer, only to discover I had disappeared. I could not log in. My username had been wiped. Perplexed and suspecting a technical error, I contacted the gods of internet dating. After another two days of being locked out, I got a standard reply telling me that my profile was being "randomly checked for verification" and could I please send two forms of ID?
My email companion had been given another story. He forwarded it to me with the line, "Now I am intrigued": "Dear member, This member has been suspended and removed from our site for breaching our terms and conditions. (The site) does our best to prevent these types of people from abusing our system, however it can be extremely difficult as they tend to create very believable profiles and it is almost impossible to weed them out. We strongly advise that you do not contact this person as they are not genuine."
Oh, the scandal. My vampiric ways exposed. Was it the hatchet in chapter 29 that gave it away? Or chapter 39, where I executed that poor man bound in the trunk of his torched car? My god, had they read my work and decided it was unsafe to unleash me on their unsuspecting members? Was I an icepick-prone Catherine Tramell laying in wait for internet dating victims? Or was I simply my own hallucination, finally revealed by an internet dating administrator? Thank god someone finally informed me that I don't exist. This delusion has been going on for ages.
As I slip into a state of deep existential crisis, I pinch myself. Well, I do seem kind of real. Perhaps I should let them know. I dutifully sent two forms of ID, disappointed of course that my anonymous brush with internet dating is no longer quite so anonymous, at least with their administration. Three days later, nothing.
I write again. I am asked for ID again. I send it again. Finally, a reply: "We will need some photo identification to confirm that you are the person in this photo. As you can imagine, Tara Moss is a famous identity and these steps are taken to protect you."
I send clear ID once more. Passport. Driver's licence. I'm in cyber exile. And from my philosophical emailer, silence. As far as he knows I am a Nigerian scammer or cyber-savvy sociopath. And how can I defend myself without revealing my identity and spoiling this carefully chosen medium of interaction?
Groucho Marx once said, "I'd never join a club that would have me as a member." Marx and I share a birthday, so it seems my Cyrano experiment was always doomed. My cyber-dating days are over.
hehe We could have a romantic candle lite dinner at this new french restaurant called sha' maccers under the golden arches