Looking For a Random Stranger…

I spent last night with a bunch of total strangers.

After reading about Chatroulette in Time magazine, I was curious.  It's new tech, so I had to check it out. Little did I know that it would scratch a voyeuristic itch that I didn’t even know that I had.

Chatroulette is a simple concept. Logging on to the website enables you to see through the web cam of any one of the 20,000 other people who are also logged in, and they in turn are looking through yours. It is all completely anonymous. No personal information is given. All you know about the person is what you can see through the small window on the screen. At any time, either person can press a button and jump a different random person and once you do there is no way to return to the pervious webcam.

Although you can see and hear each other, there is very little chatting going on. Most of the interactions are slient and last less than a second before somebody presses the “next” button and disappears. During the time I spent on the site, I came face to face with dozens of different people from all over the world. Most of the time, it was a singular guy (some of whom I could tell were disappointed that I was not a hot chick), but there were also women and various groups of people huddled around their webcams.

Sometimes interesting and unexpected things showed up on the screen. One person had their camera focused solely on the neck of their guitar as they sat there and played music. Another had the camera trained on a glass bong. Sometimes the camera showed an empty room. This being the internet, there were also some naked people, One large woman wore nothing but a bustier. One couple was having sex in front of the camera. The creep factor was also high and every so often a guy playing with himself would appear on the screen. These images were fleeting and easily erased with the click of a button. Most of the time, however, it was just regular people staring at each other.

Gazing at these strangers reminded me of the distinct feeling of being a teenager at a party, looking at a girl across the room. As soon as her gaze met mine, I would shyly turn away even though making eye contact with her was my goal. Although we were all logged into a site with the singular purpose of looking at each other, the majority of the time either the stranger or I would press the “next” button as soon as our eyes connected.

The “next” button gets pressed quite a lot and each time that it is, the program gives the same message as it loads up the next camera feed, “Looking for a random stranger…”

You never know what would appear on the screen each time the button is clicked.  I began to imagine a Hitchcockian scenario that had me clicking to the next person, inadvertently witnessing some crime being committed and soon finding myself on the run for having seen too much. (The eventual movie that follows would inevitably star Shia LeBouf.) But that never happened.

My collective experience on Chatroulette was made up of micro-moments. There were a few times when a brief connection was made.  One person complimented me on my beard before clicking away. Another told me I looked creepy and I managed to return the sentiment before I pressed the button.  One guy said, “I’m looking for Jessica Alba” before nexting me. At one point I kept my camera on when I had to leave the room and I returned to find a woman staring closely at her screen, curiously trying to identify the objects on my bookshelf that she could see through my camera. As soon as I poked my head back into the shot, she was gone.

“Looking for a random stranger…”

There was a guy wearing a Boba Fett helmet, some college guys playing video games, a couple of Japanese guys in an office cubicle, two girls drinking wine, a person with cat on their head, a dude in an alien mask…

“Looking for a random stranger…”

Chatroulette is a strange experience--thousands of strangers all signed on to a website, mutually spying on each other, giving each other permission to sneak glimpses of our lives.  We simultaneously become the voyeur and the object.  It's surreal.  The moments between these strangers were fleeting, but never boring.  It is completely hypnotic.

What's Your Story?

Twice in the span of one week, I’ve had somebody ask me, “So, what’s your story?” after meeting them for the first time.

That’s exactly how each of them asked it too. “So, what’s your story?”

Both times I was flummoxed. My story? I don’t have a story. I’m in my late thirties, married with two kids. I’m perfectly average in every way. I grew up in the suburbs. I went to college. I graduated and got a job. No run ins with the police. No family tragedies. Hardly the stuff of enticing conversations.

I’m not sure what these people (both women, by the way) were trying to get from me. “What’s your story” is an incredibly broad question that implies that I, in fact, have a story to tell.

I’m sad to say that I did not respond with charm and wit either time. I stammered and repeated the question back to them, “What’s my story?” and gave a short bio of my career. Boring. I’m surprised the women kept talking to me after my lame responses.

It wasn’t until the drive home after the second time that an answer occurred to me. The next time somebody asks me what’s my story I will be ready.

“I was born a poor black child…”*











*It's not offensive, it's a reference.

Table Scraps, Volume #5: Peanuts and Parenting

Table Scraps are little bits of writing that aren't quite enough to be full posts. But just because they are little, doesn't mean they can't be shared. So every once in a while, I dust them off and throw them together.

__________________

I took the Bean to his first sporting event, the Harlem Globetrotters. Sitting in the stands, I taught the Bean to shell peanuts, the way my dad taught me when he took me to sporting events. While he seemed to enjoy watching the game, he was more interested in putting the empty peanut shells on his fingers and entertaining his friend, who had come with us. And it dawned on me as I watched him that I have created a little ham.

__________________

Everyone always talks about how daughters are supposed to loooooove their daddies. Daddies are their world. This has not happened to me with Sprout. Everytime I take what I think is a step forward in my relationship with her, she bluntly reminds me that I'm nowhere close to the center of her world. Right now, she refuses to give me hugs and kisses. Sometimes when I leave in the mornings, but always at night before she goes to bed. Sprout continues to cling to her mommy, just like she always has and maybe always will.  She is an impossibly frustrating child, wrapped up in a very cute package.  

__________________

It feels like I spend my time parenting a pre-schooler being elated and completely mesmerized and entertained by him to being blindingly mad at him. WonderWife™ and I have very different parenting styles. Mine is to get really frustrated and mad at him, which is always a great way to parent.

Influential Education

A different kind of post from me today over at Hot Dads, talking about a New York Times article, education and the state of Texas.

(I know, I hardly recognize me either.)

Elementary My Dear Watson

“Wu is 5 in Spanish,” the Bean said to me as he bounced around on my bed while I changed from my work clothes into my pajamas.

The Bean had been known to make up words and call them Spanish. While I understood his newfound fascination with languages other than his own, we live in Southern California, where a great deal of the population speaks fluent Spanish. I would hate for him to appear insensitive, so I decided to nip this in the bud straight away.

“No buddy, cinco is 5 in Spanish.”

He was very insistent that I was wrong. “My teacher told me,” he bellowed.

The Bean had also been known to misinterpret his teacher’s lessons, which is why it took us three days to convince him that Martin Luther King, Jr. did not in fact want to keep black people and white people separated.

WonderWife™ suggested that I speak with his teacher in the morning, but I wasn’t done interrogating the subject yet. I remembered that the Bean had said something earlier in the week about a dragon. I also recalled that it had just been Chinese New Year.

“Are you learning Chinese?” I asked the Bean.

“Yes.  The good luck dragon.”

“Buddy boy, wu is 5 in Chinese.”

“That’s what I said, ‘wu is 5 in Chinese.’ I told you that, Daddy!”

The next day, the Bean’s teacher confirmed that they had been learning Chinese in class.

And that is how I cracked the case of the mysterious and misguided wu.

In the Cushions of My Couch

The following is what was discovered in my couch while cleaning it:

One souvenir flattened penny from the aquarium
Three grocery store coupons, expired
$1.10 in change
Two toy cars, one medium sized convertible, one Lightning McQueen
One full package of Disney table toppers
One play baby bottle
Five glowsticks, expired
One marble
One play plastic fork and knife
One real plastic fork
One Cars book
One pair of Sprout’s pants
Two mismatched socks
Four pens
Three pen caps
One plastic toy pirate sword
One Mickey Mouse memory game card
One AA battery, expired
One porcelain baby spoon
One Palm smartphone stylus
One playing Card, 5 of spades
One KCRW free music download cards, expired 2007
One crayon, lime green
One plastic ID badge from toy doctor kit
One package fruit leather, peach (still wrapped)
One ticket for amusement at local petting zoo

A Peek at the Future

A few weeks ago, I was amongst the many members of the Mac cult who perked up at the reveal of the iPad, thought about it and collectively said, "meh."  But after watching this, I get it now.  It may not happen right away but I think that based on how Wired magazine is going to be creating for the tablet, it is the thing that just might save publishing.

This is really cool stuff right here.