How much more pathetically husklike it is, then, to live in a social media matrix where "real" and "imaginary" ... "truth" and "lie" ... "friend" and "stranger" become interchangeable. Let the tale of Strappo, old and mad, be a cautionary tale to you!
I counted the slow increase of Facebook Friends with pride. Gains, some losses, more gains. I didn't notice the losses because the people I followed, and whose posts I often marked "I like" and almost as often commented upon -- we were frequently in communication. We formed a bond. It seemed like friendship, so much at one were we, so attuned, so humorous, whimsical, kind -- how could it not feel like friendship to one who has so few friends and whose agoraphobia makes it frightsome to leave the apartment?
While I possessed numerous Facebook Friends in Italy and many other places, I was particularly proud of my links to famous people. Actors, playwrights. I loved the dream reports of John Patrick Shanley, the famed playwright. I loved the political fire of Ray "Little Carmine" Abruzzo. And the artistic fire of Terry Kinney who co-founded the famous Steppenwolf Theatre Company. Ray and Terry commented on my comments, and through such commentaries are friendships born. One of my proudest moments came when Terry Kinney commented on my comment, which was accompanied by a picture of me! It occurred to me that he would know who I was if ever we met in the street. Which was not so far-fetched as it may seem because he lives in Brooklyn, a "borough" in New York City, and he is constantly scrabbling for work in what the world knows as the real New York, Manhattan.
One of my great disappointments was the complete personal silence of Fran Drescher. Not to mention President Obama. Governor Paterson tried to "friend" me: ignore, delete. Ditto PeeWee Herman, some Catholic priest who was probably not into men of my age or any reasonable fraction thereof, Glenn Beck and the Church of Latterday Saints. Ignore, delete all, you damned buggers. Well, at least we can be pretty sure the priest was a "bugger."
Such are the vicissitudes of online life.
I was able to maintain some measure of dispassion until one day, as I was walking down the Bowery I passed a man who seemed quite familiar. Fortunately, he wasn't wearing dark glasses, so I managed to recognize him before it was too late. I stopped his uptown progress with a stern hand. He had been lost in inscrutable preoccupations of his own. He snapped to. He fiddled with his glasses (not dark, as I mentioned). He fixed me a curious look and asked, "Do I know you?"
Terry Kinney, actor and sometime director of Oz. Not the best picture but thieves can't be choosers
"Of course you do! It's Strappo. Strappo Hughes! From Facebook! Facebook? Facebook."
He squinted a moment and then the light dawned. I think it took a while because he's originally from Illinois. "Oh, sure. Right. Yeah, I sort of get the resemblance. But you look much younger and handsomer in person!" Fine, he didn't utter the last sentence or two, but I knew he thinking it.
That was my cue to speak a "line" or two.
"It's a great thrill to meet you in person! I really admired your work in Oz." He didn't smile back. Maybe Oz was too long ago. I hadn't seen him in anything since. I'd spent too much time online. Anyway, the crowds at theatres scare me. Plus, most shows bore the shit out of me. Especially if they're "serious." Like we need more "serious" in life.
But let's relive the ecstatic moment. The ecstatic imagined moment, even more perfect and chiseled in my heart than any mere "real" or "actual" moment could ever be! "And after all the exchanges on Facebook it's strictly a pleasure to meet you in the flesh," I gushed, grabbing both his hands.
He adjusted his glasses and looked away, blinking. "Yes, yes it is. Well, nice meeting you in the real world. I have to run to an appointment now."
It occurred to me that it was 1:12 PM. Lunchtime.
"Where are you going?"
He pointed across the street. The Bowery Hotel. Gemma. A customer of Domenico Selections!
"Nice place! A little expensive for what it is, but of course it's haunted by TFB's."
"TFB's?"
"Trust fund babies. And wannabe stars."
Silence. Terry, not Terence, Kinney looked nonplussed. "Well." Trust fund babies always kill a civilized conversation.
I grabbed his arm and led him across street against the traffic. I screamed at the cabbies and gave the finger to SUV drivers from the Garden State. They didn't belong there anyway. "I'll help you choose the wines!" I exclaimed.
"That's very kind of you, but this is sort of a business lunch."
I waved a magnanimous hand. "It's my pleasure. I won't steer you wrong."
We entered the darkened, pseudo-rustic semi-Italian restaurant. Some day-shift geek I didn't recognize didn't recognize Mr. Kinney. Or me. ("I'll have a word with the management, if you like," I told him. Graciously he exclaimed, "No! No, please don't!")
Eventually a Sicilian waiter led us to a table where two men who looked terribly familiar were toying with glasses of ice water.
They stared at me, as nonplussed as Terry Kinney had looked outside. "I'm Strappo," I said, offering my hand to one or both. They gave each other a glance and shrugged microscopically as if unfamiliar with the person in front of them. I laughed briefly. "Oh, I'm sorry -- I must explain to put myself in context. Facebook context. I'm Strappo Hughes. One of your Facebook friends." I looked at the younger and darker of the two as Terry Kinney sat down on the half-circle banquette. I noticed there was plenty of space for one more. I slid in next to the dark one, whom I then recognized as Ray Abruzzo, one of my favorite characters on "The Sopranos." I mean, his character, Little Carmine, was one of my favorites. The actor is not the role, you see. "Ray!" I cried. "It's a real honor to meet you. Another Ray is one of my favorite people of all time. Can you guess which one?"
This is Ray Abruzzo
He could not. In fact, he made no effort to try.
"Ray Davies! Of the Kinks!"
He sort of smiled. "Yeah, he's great."
A silence covered the table like Vesuvian dust. Desperate to break the awkward silence, I spoke to the other man who had been sitting there waiting for Mr. Kinney and myself. "Excuse me, you look familiar, too? Refresh my memory with your name?
He looked very shy. Mr. Kinney spoke up. "That's John Patrick Shanley."
I clasped my cheeks and emitted a great cry. "Oh shit, of course! I'm so sorry. The author of 'Doubt,' one of the best evenings of the theatre ever -- I never saw 'Cats' and I couldn't sit through Jude Law's 'Hamlet' -- and the dream-teller on Facebook. Let me shake your hand, sir!"
I reached across Ray and knocked over his water glass. I grabbed Shanley's hand and pumped it a little vigorously, I'm afraid. I was such a fan, you see.
Introductions made, it was time to eat. I shared a menu with Ray. I told him, "Order this, don't order that, forget about that wine, this is much better -- authentic and terroir-driven!"
When the waiter came everyone sort of froze until I piped up. "Cameriere, pago tutto io." I'm paying for everything.
Within moments they had loosened up considerably. I said to myself, These big shots -- stars and famous playwrights, they're "just like you and me". They love a free meal! LOL! ROTFL!
Then I tightened up because I regretted having counseled such expensive dishes. And wines. I wasn't sure what had come over me. The giddy heat of the moment, I suppose.
Playwright John Patrick Shanley. Edges out Mr. Kinney for "Most Irish Looking"
I surely could not afford to spring for lunch for four at a TFB sort of eatery. The three Facebook friends' awkward silence around me had told me that I wasn't welcome. Very nice people, but I didn't belong. The wrongness of the moment hit hard. And would hit harder when it came time to produce the credit card.
I got up. I was thankful I still had my parka on. I told them I was going to the bathroom. Ray Abruzzo pointed and said, "It's back there. You don't need your coat."
"I -- I like the one in the hotel lobby much better. They have nicer soaps. And linen towels. BRB," I joked on the way out.
I'd like to imagine a scene full of comic tension and dramatic ambiguity, but that's for other talents to do. I don't even wish to imagine what they said and how they sneered when I didn't return from the toilet. Although, really, it seems like it would have been more of a David Mamet scene. Full of tense silences like Pinter and obscenities like, well, Strappo. As they plotted some ghastly retribution. Honestly, Joe Mantegna's great on "The Simpsons" but he's no Little Carmine.
I took the next 6 train home.
I defriended them all immediately.
The shame, the remorse and the profundity of utterable loss haunt me still.
No it didn't happen that way, not "really," but I defriended them ASAP anyway.
I felt quite humiliated irregardless, thank you very fucking much.
Kafka meets Dom Delillo, meets "Being John Malkovich".
Strappo creates a haunting atmosphere, possibly made even weirder by a certain dose of hard-to-admit, yet undeniable familiarity.
Can't help thinking what someone like Mamet or Pinter would do with this story. Or the real "Strappo" for that matter, assuming there is such a person.
Posted by: twitter.com/gianpadano | December 28, 2009 at 12:12 PM
There is no "Strappo." He is a personage who exists only in cyberspace. And he's a sad enough wreck there.
Posted by: TH | December 28, 2009 at 12:16 PM
This is the cask of amontillado in the Bowery. Felt like notes from the underground a bit actually. Ur a fucking nut. I love it. Let's
drink wine
Posted by: Zachary adam Cohen | December 29, 2009 at 12:56 AM
Notes from the Underground exactly!
Glad someone picked up on it.
Posted by: TH | December 29, 2009 at 09:28 AM