בשוק סמייא צווחין לעווירא סגי נהור

"In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king."

(This post's name is a similar, early phrase, meaning, "In the street of the blind, the one-eyed man is called the Guiding Light".)

I'm sure we all know what this means. Even as we recognize it as ableist, we recognize the truth of the gist of the saying.

Things are relative. I am tall relative to some standard (my basketball team, or my peer group, or the Lollipop Guild). There are objective standards, but even those have built-in assumptions. I am tall relative to the average population of humans, for example.

Personally, I think that we have evolved to normalize. We don't get too happy when things go well, because the earlier human-ish folks who thought everything was going well were more likely to get wiped out by the early frost or the tribe in the other valley that wasn't hungry but was sure as fuck not going to get wiped out by the early frost.

So, within limits, we acclimate to what our condition is. We generally are cool with moving at any speed--it's the acceleration that gets us. Of course, as you move closer to the speed of light, even a constant rate of motion becomes an issue as subatomic particles might mess up your body (I can't find a link; trust me).

This explains (to my basic monkey brain) why someone who hits the lottery can be unhappy. Or why someone who has almost nothing in her life can find joy in a sunrise. We get used to stuff, and we find pleasure and displeasure in different things.

My life is pretty cushy. I have a great, healthy family that is close to me (emotionally, if not geographically). I have reasonably good health, hair, teeth, shoes, and vocabulary. My bed is comfortable and my friends are fun and my cats are snuggly.

Life is good.

But, because my brain is telling me that I don't want to be wiped out by the early frost, I get irked by things. Even as I recognize my frustration over these things, I am able to see that these problems aren't a big deal. That helps me keep an even keel in the intermediate (and, I hope, long-) run, but I still feel a flash of irritation at them. And I'm still going to blog about them.

Here, then, are some the "one-eyed men" of problems in my "land of the blind" good life.

Unfortunately, I can experience all three of these on one commute home from work.

Umbrella/Overhang 

I live in Seattle. Seattle has rain. Being rained on generally sucks.

Much of downtown Seattle has overhangs where folks can walk along the sidewalk without being drenched.

Some folks here also have umbrellas. Which I get. I don't use them, but I don't have hair that I can't get wet. And I'm not a pussy (cat).

The source of my irritation is when folks with umbrellas don't pay attention. Don't pay attention to the overhang. Don't pay attention to other folks, like, me, without an umbrella.

This is a life-like computer-generated simulation of how this situation should work:

See how nice that is? You can see the smiles on both of their faces as the water, ever the destroyer of happiness, is foiled in its efforts to make them miserable.

Unfortunately, this sort of commonsense heaven on earth doesn't occur to everyone. Instead, we get this:

Stupid people (I know "stupid" is ableist--I'm sorry) keep their umbrellas up, walk under the overhang, and force me (at risk of getting my eyeballs poked out) to edge out, under both the rain AND the overhang drip.

That. Annoys. Me.

Waiting at the Bus

I like order. I like being in a line and making steady (even if slow) progress towards my goal. Whether it's at the grocery store or waiting for a restroom or a drink or a prostitute, I don't want to feel like I'm getting skipped over.

In certain situations, a strict line is just not realistic. Which is fine. I don't require a line. But when a line exists, I want people to play by the rules.

Whenever the bus pulls up at a busy stop, there is some uncertainty. The buses often pull up to slightly different spots, so there's no clear "perfect" spot to wait (trust me; I've tried to find it). Additionally, buses allow riders off before the folks waiting can get on, so there's always a bit of swirl.

With that being said, order usually asserts itself to a certain degree. People wait, people exit, and people then start to sort themselves.

Often into (yay!) a line. Or lines.

If there are multiple lines, the zipper merge method should be used. One person from line A, one person from line B, one person from line X, another from line A, another from line B, etc.

It's very simple and people should do it.

I get, though, that some people are incapable of understanding this logic and/or inconsiderate. So I don't expect the zipper merge to be perfect.

What I do expect, though, is for people to not come from outside any of the lines and start to walk right up to the door. It drives me nuts, and I do my best to obstruct people who do that. I recognize that they have their own stuff going on, but they can wait in line like everyone else (to be slightly more fair, I do a quick scan of the person... if it's someone who obviously needs to sit down more quickly, then I will get out of the way; if it's some dude who's obviously just stolen five collared shirts from Ross, I'm not going to let him get around me unless I fear he'll stab me if I don't).

I like order. Adults who act worse than first graders in terms of waiting in line really tick me off.

Backpacks on the Bus

People are different sizes. Heck, I'm a different size than I was a year ago. I respect personal space, and if someone is a bit bigger, then I am going to do my best to give them their space.

This is not a rant against heavy/bulky people on the bus. This is a rant against this:

Actually, it's even more specific than that. It's when fuckers wear them like that on a crowded bus.

Few of us know that someone is standing right behind us but then choose to pivot into that person... we have a sense of how much space we take up, and (in the interest of everyone's safety and sanity) we avoid unnecessary collisions.

That is... unless you're one of those fuckers that wear a backpack on a crowded bus.

I'm not the first person to complain about backpacks on public transportation. I even saw a sign on the bus (which I took a pic of, but it has been lost in the massive amount of photos on my phone), asking folks to place their backpacks near their feet to reduce the assholedry (my word).

Gawker has this nice summation:

You think you are out of other people's way, but your backpack is still in other people's way. This is profoundly annoying to other people. 

Get your backpack out of everyone else's way.

It's obvious, and that it is SO obvious makes it all the more annoying that so few people actually do it.

Grrr.

FOMO? More like GINT (or, "The Grumpy Old Man Post")

FOMO is a noun. It is fear of missing out. It means, according to Urban Dictionary (sort of a modern France's Académie for American English these days) as:

A form of social anxiety - a compulsive concern that one might miss an opportunity or satisfying event, often aroused by posts seen on social media websites.

I never, never get FOMO.

(What, never?)

No, never.

(What, NEVER?)

Well... hardly ever.

(He hardly ever gets FOMO!)

Whether it's because I'm extremely confident in who I am as a person, because I am extremely egocentric, and/or because I quote Gilbert and Sullivan lyrics while I'm writing a blog, I almost never see pictures on social media and think, "Dang, I wish I had been there".

Instead, I noticed last night that, instead, I more often experience GINT.

Glad I'm not there.

Which is funny, perhaps, because lots of research and opinions indicate that people often curate and distort real life when they post on social media, which causes envy amongst many of us who see it. It causes FOMO, in other words.

But me? It causes GINT. Even if I am happy that the people appear to be having fun, I usually am happy that I'm wherever I am when I'm seeing them having fun.

As I thought about the notion of GINT, I wondered what, specifically, I feel that over and I came up with a few things.

Boat Parties

I don't know these people

Listen, bikinis are great, especially when a woman is wearing one. I'm all in favor of drinking and having a good time and having adventures and doing group activities.

When I see pictures of what I'm referring to in this post as "boat parties", it is usually women in bikinis with big smiles on their faces (and often big sunglasses, of which I am also a fan) enjoying the sunshine and/or an adult beverage.

This should, given my predilections, cause me FOMO. Instead, it causes me GINT. I remember that I don't like being in the sunshine that much. I remember the times where random women have asked me if I have a boat. I remember the times where guys who do have a boat used it as a carrot to attract women.

I totally acknowledge that boats can be fun. I recognize that my friends aren't just using, in the case of men, their boat to lure women and, in the case of women, the men to get their boat. Or maybe they are and it's not malicious.

Or maybe it's malicious. I don't know. I just know I am glad I'm not there.

Burning Man

Listen: I am what I like to think of as "Burning Man Adjacent". I attend fundraisers for Burning Man camps. I have attended a decompression or two. I have literally dozens of friends or friendly acquaintances that have attended Burning Man (it's a low number of dozens, but still...)

I admire so much about it. The creativity and the openness and the sense of community and the women wearing little clothing.

So much good stuff.

I don't know these people

But I don't like getting dusty. I don't like big crowds. I don't do drugs (other than booze and the occasional caffeine-rich soda pop). I don't like the idea that if I'm not having a good time I can't just disappear, whether to my home or to a hotel room or whatever.

My friends post beautiful pictures of their time at Burning Man. I'm not sure that they capture being on the Playa--in fact, I'm quite sure they don't--and I can't discount the possibility that I will go som day. But I look at the posts and the pictures and I don't feel any sense of missing out or longing to be there--I feel GINT and pleasure that I can't get Playa foot in my living room.

Twitter

I'm pretty active on social media, and I have expectations for each of the primary platforms:

• Instagram: Inspirational quotes, food, and female butts.
• Facebook: Baby pictures, political nonsense, memes.
• Snapchat: First-person driving videos with music on the radio, pot smoking.
• TikTok: Hypersexualized under-age girls lip-syncing songs I've never heard.
• Twitter: Angry blow-hard opinions, racism/anti-semitism, SJW nonsense.

(With TikTok [at the time, Musical.ly] it took me about an hour before I determined it wasn't for me and uninstalled it. Enough said about that.)

I really don't like this

I limit my time on Twitter almost as severely. I really, really don't like it.

I've maintained an account since 2007 (although I rarely post), and while I acknowledge its importance to some folks, I believe it's one of the worst things to bubble out of the Internet. 

I don't like how the artificially low number of characters allowed (originally so you could text in a post) change how people spell and form thoughts. I don't like how certain users are deemed to be "blue check-worthy". I don't like, you know, the racism and anti-semitism and group think and tribalism and stupidity and rage.

Soooooo... while it's not a specific type of social media content, whenever I hear people talking about Twitter arguments (which is almost always the case, since Twitter exchanges are usually either yelling at someone or agreeing to dogpile on someone) I nod and feel a strong sense of GINT.

Remembering Angel

I went to bed early because I had stayed up late the night before and the presence of football caused me to avoid taking naps in order to see if I would win in the two fantasy football leagues where I had a chance to make the playoffs and even after it turns out that I did win, in both leagues, I ate leftover pizza and messed around with a new computer game until, suddenly, it was 10:30pm and I was utterly exhausted.

I brushed my teeth and, after repositioning the cats that enjoy my soft bed even more than I do (two of which are mine to go with a third, a beautiful Russian Blue named Frey [pronounced like what a piece of cloth does, rather than an allumette-cut deep-fried potato], that I am cat-sitting) I did a bit of reading on my phone until I started falling asleep mid-sentence.

I rarely dream dreams that I can remember unless, as presumably is the case with most people, I wake up in the middle of dreams, and I usually wake up in the middle of a dream when I want to wake myself up from that dream, and I usually want to wake up from a dream when the dream is unpleasant.

I closed my eyes and, at some point, I started dreaming about being back in my childhood home (in the living room, specifically, with the same orange/rust-colored semi-shag carpet that I remember we had in the final days of my time there) surrounded by people I recognized but could not name upon awakening and to whom I knew I was not related.

I was aware that I had not been these in some time and I was enjoying being back again, talking to the other occupants of the childhood living room in my ming, marveling at how much had changed in my life as time had gone by, when I was approached by our family dog (well, our third family dog of four, if my memory serves, although I didn't go detail as I dreamed my dream).

I kept trying to talk, in my dream, to the other folks, although I have little recollection of what I was saying and although I was distracted by Angel, our third family dog (of four), who sidled up next to me and licked my face and ... stopped with her tongue on the bottom of my jaw (which would be called the wattle if I were a bird and/or predisposed to having caruncles on my neck).

I found myself at a loss for words and I felt my eyes tearing up and I thought about, while I had never really forgotten Angel, I hadn't thought about her in years because, to be honest, she has been dead and gone for years and we'd gotten another family dog and I've had two dogs myself that have all been such good dogs and, I suppose, my brain only has room for remembering so much at any given time.

I hadn't forgotten Angel, but that I hadn't remembered her made me sad so I wanted to wake up.

I woke up and stared at the ceiling, in the dark, for some time.

We Met...

Most of the people I’ve met in my life, I’ve met incrementally. By that, I mean this: I’ll see someone, then later I’ll exchange a few words and maybe get a name, and then later our meeting will “stick”… but by that time I don’t remember our first interaction. This is especially true of women and how I meet them. With some, I feel like I’ve just known them for a while. With others, I remember specific incidents that led friendship, sexy-times, and/or nowhere.

I never considered being a writer for vocation. I have experienced bursts of activity where I have written stuff down/typed it up, but I lack the discipline to ever do it as more than a dilletante. With that being said, I have been interested in writing something that is structurally different—a book with a series of story endings, for example, rather than a beginning, a middle, and an end. This blog entry is a slight nod to that insofar as it is 20 beginnings. Some of these beginnings blossomed into friendships that I still value today, and one led to my heart being broke, while at least one of them went no farther than what I write here.

Here are 20 beginnings. They're not the 20 most important beginnings, and I have other memorable ones in my life, too. They’re not in any particular order and I’ve left out details intentionally to reduce the chances that acquaintances will recognize the person (although the person herself should have no problems). They include, though, some important people in my past and present.

We met in a laundry room at a hostel. 
My buddy was ironing my shirt and you walked in with a bag of laundry. I asked you about the design on your bag and we talked about international currency.

We met at a party before a theme party.
You had been invited by my friend but had never met him in person before, either. We ended up posing in costume together as we waited for an Uber.

We met at karaoke.
Your friend was meeting my friend for a date after meeting online. I remembered you from the same website, but after I asked you about it you denied you were on the site at all.

We met at a club where you worked.
After you got off of your shift, we talked about how the spaceships were named. We were both pleased and surprised that we were able to have such a real, nerdy chat.

We met in school.
At some point class had to pair off and do some mini group exercise … I don’t remember the particulars of the schoolwork, but I remember your smile and the mischief in your eyes.

We met for dinner after connecting online.
We had dinner and at some point in the conversation discovered we used to be neighbors, and that it was you and your ex-bf that were always arguing so loudly I could hear it.

We met at your birthday party.
It was actually a co-birthday party, and the other birthday girl was the only other person I knew there. You knew EVERYONE there but still took the time to get to know me.

We met at a fake bachelorette party.
Your friends had rented a limo and I was invited because I knew one of your friends. I was dressed in a costume and we had three different types of cinnamon whiskey.

We met at a fashion show.
I was attending by myself and you were with a friend. You sat right across the runway from me and my efforts not to stare at your legs led you to believe I actively disliked you.

We met at a club.
I was waiting to get a drink and you were in “no-man’s land” in terms of not getting served. When the it was my turn, I deferred to you but it turns out you had just been served.

We met online.
I was looking for someone else with the same first name but thought you were cute and sent you a message. I must have said something funny/interesting/something because you replied.

We met in a casino.
It was late and you were with your girls when you saw me and called me over. You called me Edward Cullen and bought me Patron and we ended up getting lost in the hotel.

We met online.
We exchanged a series of drunken (from my side)  messages as you waited for your plane to depart Sea-Tac airport. I remember standing in a club, wondering how you were willing to put up with me.

We met walking down the street.
You were just out of prison and I was in a good enough mood to focus on your obvious, uh, assets. We texted a bit that evening and I got really freaked out by your life.

We met in a bathroom line.
I was right near the front, and you scrambled up to me, asking to cut. I said you could, but that you’d have to hurry. You urinated faster than I knew was humanly possible.

We met on Pride weekend.
I was dressed up for it and you weren’t, but you still looked good. We sang karaoke and drank alcohol and had some very intense conversations about some heavy stuff.

We met on Halloween. 
Although promo girls get hit on by everyone, and you were on the clock as one, I managed to make a good impression even as you thought I was bald under my wig.

We met at a dueling piano bar.
My friends and I were regulars there for Ladies Night, and I definitely noticed you. We had an interesting conversation about how you wanted to be on the Amazing Race.

We met just as we were about to get onto a boat.
I was dressed up and you complimented me. I saw you a bit later on the boat and you let me know that you’d added more swag to your outfit.

We met when you were on a date.
I was singing karaoke with friends and you gravitated towards our group… much to the dismay of your date. He left shortly thereafter but you didn’t regret it at all.

Want to Be Ed O's Facebook Friend? You'll Never Believe These Simple Tricks!

I have been on Facebook for a while, and I am on it quite regularly. It is one of the few websites I check every day, and it's one of a handful of apps I use every day. 

In the social media world, I really don't care for Twitter, I only sporadically use Snapchat and Instagram, and (unfortunately) don't write as many blog posts as I used to. Facebook is "good enough" for me--I can post and review pics (like Instagram), stories (like Snapchat and Instagram, albeit with a much smaller audience since fewer Facebook folks use that aspect) and news/posts/whatever written word pops up (like a blog).

The thing is, as much as I'm on it, I can be rather finicky with regards to who I want to be Facebook friends with. I currently have 224 Facebook friends, and I try to keep it between 200 and 240. Because I go out a fair bit and meet many people, if I want to keep the number in that range, it means cutting people.

Why do I want to keep the number relatively low? I want to care about everyone I'm friends with... and if I don't care about them as people, I at least want to care about what they're posting. I also don't want to give things away for no reason. Much of my stuff on Facebook is absolutely worthless to anyone other than me, but I'd like to think that I'm generally pretty funny and I post some embarrassing things about myself... so I want to keep the circle tight in order to feel comfortable.

I've been asked (by other people, not just my inner voices) about the reasons for me unfriending someone and I have had a few parameters. This blog entry is an effort to (only slightly tongue-in-cheek) examine the factors that go into a decision. In spite of the specificity (I use numbers and everything!) I don't use this much logic, and sometimes it just comes down to my mood or my booze consumption. 

With that being said, here is my Facebook Friend Score Sheet:

Family

If you are my parent: +1000 (points)

If you are my sibling: +500 

If you are my grandparent: +500

If you are a first cousin, aunt, or uncle: +250 

If you are a more distant relation that I've met in person: +150 

Note: Basically, you get big points by being related to me. 

Living Status

If you died while you are my Facebook friend: +500

If you died while you are my Facebook friend while being a total asshole: -475 

Note: I've had two relatives die while they were my Facebook friends and it's painful. I don't think I could intentionally remove anyone "in good standing" at the time of their demise. Since I plan on living to be 253 years old, I suppose this means my friends list will eventually grow. Also, the "total asshole" penalty here has not been invoked yet.

Hotness Status

If you are an attractive female human: +50

Past Relationships

If you have lived with me and we've had sex: -350

Note: I've only had a pair of these, and our Facebook relationships went sideways faster than our real relationships for some reason.

Length of Relationship

If we have known one another for more than ten years: +100

If we have been Facebook friends for more than five years: +75

If we have been Facebook friends for less than six months: +25

If we have been Facebook friends for less than three months: +25

Note: Nostalgia and newness are both things that get you extra points.

IRL

If we see one another once a month or more: +25

If we see one another once a week or more: +25

If we don't at least say "hi" when we see one another half the time: -50

If we don't talk when we see one another at least half the time: -25

If we currently work together: -100

If I doubt I'll ever see you IRL again: -50

If I don't remember meeting you IRL: -25

If I don't remember meeting you IRL but you're a cute female: +50

Notes: 

• Real life contact matters.

• I prefer to generally keep "Work Ed O" and "Non-Work Ed O" separate.

• I get that some people are more comfortable virtually or in real life, but it's irritating when someone who is friendly online ignores me IRL.

Friendship Genesis (Current Facebook Friendship)

If you Friend-requested me: +25

If I Friend-requested you after you called me out for unfriending you: +10

Note: I am occasionally Unfriend-shamed by someone and if I invite them to re-friend me, then I feel bad and they get a score bump.

Quality of Posting

If you post funny stuff: +10

If you post interesting stuff: +10

If you post sexy stuff (of yourself and/or your female friends): +25

If you invite me to events: +10

If you invite me to events at Monkey Loft: -20

If you post one-sided political stuff: -10

Note: I like Monkey Loft, but getting invitations to events I can't attend there gets a bit old.

Frequency of Posting

If you post on your wall frequently: +25% points from Quality of Posting

If you post on your wall REALLY frequently: -50% points from Quality of Posting  

If you post on my wall: +10

If you post really weird stuff on my wall that makes me wonder what's wrong with you: -15

Responding to My Posts

If you Like and/or Comment on more than a quarter of my posts: +25

If you Like and/or Comment on more than three-quarters of my posts and aren't my mom: -10

Note: My mom is the the only one who doesn't get dinged for being TOO into me on Facebook. Although I've definitely enjoyed when some FB friends have been in the past...

Chatting

If we chat every day: +50

If we chat every week: +25

If you initiate chats: +25

If you do not respond to my chats: -25

Note: Facebook chat is a distinct but important part of my Facebook existence.

And that, gentle readers, is my unscientific and not 100% accurate, in spite of its specificity, Facebook Friend Score Sheet!

Ed herO (with footnotes)

I live in an apartment building. There are about forty units or so, and it's a older, rather intimate (in proximity terms, not emotional) environment. I've lived there for almost a year and a half, and I think I've said about ten words to everyone else who lives in the building during that time, half of which have been complimenting dogs going for their walks.*

It's not that I dislike any- or everyone in the building. I just do my own thing.

We have (as many apartment buildings do) a mailroom where we get (shocking, I know, and this is really where my blog adds value to your life) our mail.

The other day I got home from work and was checking my mail (including looking for any of the near-daily Amazon packages I seem to get) when I noticed that someone had left their keys in their mailbox. I looked around to see if there was anyone near, but I was alone with this stranger's keys. The mail key was in the mailbox lock, and there was another key on the chain... which was obviously the apartment key. And obviously the key to the apartment that was numbered the same as the mailbox.

As I stared at those two keys, dangling from the mailbox, I was conflicted.

On the one hand, I didn't want to meddle. What if the person was coming down one (of the two) stairwells to retrieve their keys, even as I walked up the other stairs to return them? What if the person walked in right as I was taking the keys out of the mailbox? While I am sure I could talk around these things, it would be awkward... and while awkwardness is inherent in who I am, I don't always seek it out. (It's sort of like the thug life in that respect.)

On the other hand: what if the keys fell into the wrong hands? What if something terrible happened and I could have prevented it by simply scooping up the keys and safeguarding them until I placed them securely into the hands of their rightful owner? I might not get a parade out of it, but maybe I would sleep a little better at night, knowing I did a good deed.**

The other hand won out in this case (as it should occasionally so it doesn't feel left out of the decision-making process). I took one last furtive glance about me (which probably looked shady as fuck to anyone observing) and grabbed the keys. I marched up the stairwell and straight to the door, where I knocked.

No answer.

Of course there was no answer. It was impossible that my worry over trying to do the right thing would be ending so quickly.

I knocked again, and then went to my apartment, plotting my next move. After staving off after-work cat affections, I grabbed a stack of post-it notes and a pen and started to write.

Unfortunately, I wasn't exactly sure what I was going to say. That fact, coupled with my very sloppy penmanship, resulted in me blasting through five post-it noted before finally settling on a (rather sloppy, but not VERY sloppy) note that encouraged the apartment-dweller (who was on my floor, but not next-door) to retrieve his/her keys.

After knocking (no response) and leaving the note (it was sticky enough, but I considered using tape to help it stay (I did not)) I went back to my apartment, plotting my next move.

The cats needed attention, but I had to close the loop on the key situation. I considered leaving a note in the mailroom, but decided to email the property manager, hoping she would alleviate my concern and let the rightful key owner know what was up.

Fortunately, she emailed me back shortly thereafter, thanking me and letting me know she'd reached out to the apartment dweller. I was relieved that the odds of me getting into trouble and/or someone having to pay for being locked out of their apartment just went way down.

The person didn't pick up their keys that evening, but the next morning the property manager sent out an email letting the building know that the mailroom had been burgled*** the night before. Which is weird and coincidental and I wish it tied into my keys story a bit better, but it doesn't.****

What it did, though, was justify me being a good person. Justify me overcoming my fears of being perceived as stepping on toes in the pursuit of justice. Even if the criminals would not have gone up to the third floor and used the apartment key for further burgling...***** even if someone else would have grabbed the keys before the criminals saw them... I know that my actions helped prevent that person being more exposed than they otherwise would have been.

Plus, I totally went into their apartment and looked through their nightstands.******


*Actually, I think I had a long conversation with a woman who lives in her building late one night. I was quite intoxicated, though, and I have little recollection of the chat other than that I learned that she was married.

**Actually, I sleep quite well at night. I don't actually need anything to help me sleep any better. That's not bragging... it's a straightforward admission that a sleep aid might result in me spending the better part of a week snoozing.

*** I use the verb "burgle" and all its conjugative forms as often as I accurately can. I love that word. Burgle.

**** Wouldn't it be cool, and a much more interesting blog post, if someone had stolen all of the keys as part of an elaborate heist, and they were using me as a scapegoat for the caper? I mean, it would suck for me to be framed for a crime, but it would be a better story for me to type up from prison.

***** See?

****** Just kidding.

Some Sherlock Holmes Shit

Earlier this week I was on the bus on the way to work. As they tend to do, people got on the bus and I glanced up from my phone long enough to ensure that no very old, very young, or otherwise challenged people were boarding. Not because I wanted to make fun of them (I rarely do that unless I'm in a very bad mood...) but because I wanted to be a mensch and give up my seat for someone who might need it more than I do.

A second advantage of doing the quick new passenger scan is that I have an opportunity to spot attractive women. (For some reason, as I typed that, I envisioned myself with my hands poised under a barbell as a hot chick lifts weights.)

Every woman, of course, is beautiful in her own way. They are all founts of strength and life-bringing awesomeness that have provided light and stability to every corner of the known universe.

Some women are more beautiful than other women, though, when it comes to me being interested when they get onto the bus.

My admiration of these women, when they magically appear from the sidewalk, doesn't go anywhere. I am loathe to talk to strangers generally, and I believe that the last thing a person wants on the bus is for me to be chatting her up. Maybe I'll smile at them but generally I just bury my nose back into my phone. I'm still marginally happier knowing that there is a cute girl in my vicinity, in any event.

As I was saying, earlier this week I was on the bus on the way to work. On the ride there was no cause for me to give up my seat (yes!) and an attractive woman sat next to me (yes!). After giving her a quick (but hopefully subtle) once-over, I looked back at my phone. Facebook occupied my time, and I noticed, especially, a pic of my friend GG in her new work outfit. As I tend to do, I dropped her a quick chat letting her know that she looked great and that I hope her new job was going well.

After a short time and a few stops, I glanced up from my phone and looked at her phone. I have good eyesight and am curious, and unless I did something stupid like get caught and/or blog about doing so, who would ever know how invasive I was being?

She was looking at Facebook, as well, my eyes spied. And as she scrolled down, what did I see? I saw the same pic of GG in her feed.

Part of me was really close to poking her on the shoulder and asking her how she knew GG. But the rest of me was chastising that dumbass part, because, "Hey! I was just visually eavesdropping on you and I noticed we have a friend in common!" is not the best first impression a guy can make... partly because "visually eavesdropping" is an awkward phrase, but also because, you know. It's weird.

So I didn't talk to her. I looked back at my phone and, after I departed the bus and was walking to work, GG chatted me back. She thanked me for my compliment and general well-wishings, and I told her about what had just happened.

What happened next was one of the most startling chats I've had in a while. Here it is, as it happened, with only the names changed:

GG: Hahahha, I wonder who is was.
GG: That's funny!!

Me: I wonder, too... she's hot!
Me: haha
Me: dark brown hair. Nice chest. Pretty eyes
Me: white

GG: Brunette? 

Me: that's not a lot to go off of, I know 

GG: Her name is [redacted]. 

Me: :)
Me: I guess it IS a lot to go off of! haha

She then sent me a picture. And it was the correct person. I still am not quite sure how she did it so quickly and accurately... it was some Sherlock Holmes shit.