unforgettable loser

previously published by me elsewhere:

For me several classic moments in Sam Mendes' "American Beauty" strike significant chords within me. The bit that comes to mind right now happens during some annual real estate dinner. Upon being introduced to the so-called Real Estate King, Kevin Spacey's character Lester says that they've already met, then adds the clincher: "I wouldn't remember me either."

A couple weeks ago marked one year since I signed up with Myspace. I had initially been resistant, because I had perceived the site as a place for the high school set, and felt I'd be a glaring example of a married, steadily aging thirty-year-old in search of his youth or a means to identify with contemporary culture thanks to the echoes of late sixties America about not trusting anyone over thirty.

I have come to discover the site as something altogether different.

Sure there are the occasional so-called ninety-nine year old fourteen year olds scantily clad in their default pictures. It's also a place to discover underground art, meet new people, and reunite with long gone friends. I've reconnected with a number of friends who've been out of touch for upwards of thirteen years. Recently I tried to do the same with an old college friend from UCF.

We had met through one of our low-level sophomore year classes. My initial interest in her was predictably in the romantic pool, which was often the case given my overflowing libido and disposition as a hopeless romantic. Unfortunately she wasn't real receptive to my initial inclinations. In fact she was noticeably blind to them, but we had pretty well hit it off in the friend department, that specified area that usually makes lesser guys run cowering for the hills. Even though the relationship never worked out, a friendship did development through e-mails, letters, phone calls, lunches, and whatnot.

When I left UCF for UF in the summer of '97 we completely lost touch. I spotted her on Myspace about a month ago, and considered e-mailing her, but I cope with hesitance like it's alcohol. Add to that her "old flame" status so to speak in that 1950's vernacular that makes conversations evermore classy. The wife even thought I should write her.

So I did.

And it turns out that she couldn't even place me. What the fuck?! It's one thing to pass by someone in the halls of your middle school and promptly forget them, but to actually interact with somebody over lunch and whatnot and to completely lose sight of them like Jim Carrey in "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" is ridiculous. The scenario is one of my worst fears, and the reason that anytime I've contacted someone through Myspace from a number of years ago I include the phrase "I don't know if you remember me". Usually that's just the underdog in me whimpering.