I blame smiling.

The first lie, whenever it took place, whether it was a snake in a garden or just some swindler trying to sneak his way up a skirt – it really doesn’t matter. It all began with a smile. Unlike most of the animal kingdom, bearing teeth for the human animal is wrongly perceived as something positive.

Hardly.

It’s the first lie. Never trust a smile. And, especially, don’t trust a smile in a photograph. It’s cemented, like the initials of two young lovers; they’re now divorced and dueling over the custody of three blithe children. But their photograph remains like a bloodstain on a well-worn t-shirt sleeve. Permanent. The smile in a photograph wants to prove something, perhaps how happy one has the potential of being or, worse yet, how perpetually happy one actually is.

So, the first bit of advice regarding “online dating” – be wary of those celluloid smiles. Or, if you’re building your profile for a dating site, simply don’t smile. Be as somber and as serious as those delightful, faded old photographs taken of families two hundred years ago. There’s good reason those people weren’t smiling, and having taken a few tumbles now, I’m certain I’d rather date my great-great-great-great Aunt Elsabie any day of the week, and twice on Sunday,  than the hyper-happy and active flubber that passes itself off as female nowadays.

Gross? Maybe. But there’s wisdom in those old photographs, a seriousness towards life that can now only be found in largely unread literature, and perhaps those few movies that struggle at the box office because they’re, god-forbid, “such downers.”

Life really isn’t full of smiles or chuckles or outright laughter. Aunt Elsabie and her family knew this; she and her family worked harder than we’ll ever understand, all so they could live in a shack and chow down on some hodge-podged American goulash and play pinochle at the end of the day. Of course, “historians” will tell you that people didn’t used to smile in photographs because the photograph itself simply took too long to take.

People always say you can learn from history, but what can you possibly learn from that? That exposure-times have made great strides? History, in this case, fails us. So we rely on stories. “That’s what fiction is for,” says Tim O’Brien. “It’s for getting at the truth when the truth isn’t sufficient for the truth.” And the story is this: those poor old souls didn’t smile in stupid photographs because they saved their smiles for real occasions. You know, when something went right, and the smile could become a genuine gesture. Let’s face it, these people couldn’t be as slap-happy as we are. They didn’t live with supermarkets or Netflix, and especially didn’t have Facebook’s show-and-tell, self-gratifying overindulgence to placate themselves with.

The point is a smile, like the cock of an eyebrow, should mean something. It should be interpretable. But because we have chalked it up as beautiful and because it’s become a selling-point, people now pin their cheeks up for weeks at a time. And now, it’s hard to not capture the smile, especially with modern-exposure times. So they pose, demonstrate their excess delight, and say, of all things, “Cheese” as the photograph is snapped and their insipid beauty is captured for time and all digital eternity.

It’s lost most of its spontaneity. Its lost all its sincerity.

If you still think a photograph can’t lie, consider the most popular of current selling-points. The camera conveniently poised above the head and body, peering downward like a deity, and the “cheesy” prayer from below – “Oh, Lord, hallowed be my name. Let them forget how fat I may be, and perhaps the pomp of my cleavage may, like my poised and pinned-on grin, likewise garner their binary attention for ever and ever. Amen.”

Oh, I blame words, too.

With online dating, you’ve not much to go one besides what people write and what poised photographs of themselves they choose will best suit their needs. That’s right. Everyone has an agenda. And on a dating site, it’s not hard to guess what that agenda might be.  While I’d like to believe otherwise, I am inclined (and entirely disgusted) to quote Pamela Anderson: “What I know in life runs the gamut of the ‘feminist experience.’ The true meaning of feminism is this: to use your strong womanly image to gain strong results in society.”

A better sentiment would be her words and a better role-model would be herself, but alas she now lives in that aforementioned largely unread literature – Virginia Woolf – who said, quite simply, “If you do not tell the truth about yourself, you cannot tell it about other people.”

These are good words. Not necessarily fun or peppy or witty words. They are more. They are wise and honest. And is it too much to ask that, if people neglect to portray their outward beauty honestly, that they at least describe themselves honestly?

I think it is. People are subscribing to the Pamela Anderson school-of-thought, the sell-yourself-at-any-cost philosophy.  Variety may be the spice of life, but it certainly isn’t the spice of clicking through dating profiles. Andy Warhol once said, “I think everyone should be a machine. I think everybody should be like everybody.” I think he’d be quite pleased with online dating.  The good news is, you aren’t going to need much of a vocabulary as you cycle through the profiles of people proudly pawning themselves off as god-like.  The bad news is – well, your choices are about as vast as extra-value meals.

Humility is not the grace of our age. No. And Warhol’s machines are pretty predictable. Terms such as “fun” and “independent” and “happy” and “strong” are spewed forth with more vigor and resolve than semen in a sperm bank.

So, the second piece of advice regarding online dating is quite simple – be wary of words.  People these days seem to have an overabundance of self-esteem, so it’s wise to consult The Devil’s Dictionary and the brilliance of Ambrose Bierce before continuing:

“Self-esteem, n.  An erroneous appraisement. “

That said, and on that note, proceed with caution as you “read up” about persons on their profiles. For example, if someone describes themselves as “resilient,” consider that they are instead aloof and, in the past, were quite likely irresponsible (not to mention, dreadfully irresolute).

Those who are “confident” are merely too cocky to bother even with bragging.

People who are “fun” are fake.

People who are “energetic” are exhausting.

Those who are “happy” are just oblivious and those who are “optimistic” are downright delusional. If only Bierce were alive today, perhaps she could help shed some wise suspicion on the self-aggrandizing way people describe themselves…

Independent, adj.  Self-sufficient
Self-sufficient, adj.  Self-serving
Self-serving, adj.  Borderline sociopathic

Positive, adj.  Obtuse

Outgoing, adj.  Asphyxiating

Driven, adj.  Insatiable
Motivated, adj.  See Driven

Outspoken, adj.  Insolent

Assertive, adj.   Dismissive

Strong, adj.  Vigorously neglectful

Loveable, adj.  Overweight
Loving, adj.  See Loveable

Passionate, adj.  Melodramatic

Intelligent, adj.   Condescending

And so the last piece of advice regarding online dating is this: consider that those who blog about the bane of online dating are quite likely bitter, more than a bit broken, and unlikely to meet anyone even in the seemingly endless and opportune void of virtual space.

Copyright © 2010 Christopher Yeates

I am writing this so you remember,
because we have so much joy that some of it rises
in the sky and is replaced by newer joys.

I am writing so you can reminisce
when I am an old senile man playing bocce
or devouring novels in a rocking chair.

I don’t want you to forget a June day in the park,
a stolen hammock on my shoulder and a search
for two trees that could hold all our love

(two trees growing close together).

I want you to remember our tangled knots,
woven twine hanging just high enough to feel
the grass beneath us as we swung.

Bring to mind our feet touching, your painted toes,
Liberty and a book by Steinbeck

(You are my Pearl. Every moment is precious with you).

Read this poem one day and remind me.
Sit on my lap in the rocking chair
and kiss my cheek.

I will hold you and smile.
What was that for? I’ll ask.

Tell me I told you to.

I will search through
the forest of memories we’ve planted,
and down a long path, I’ll find two trees

(that grew close together like we have). 

Copyright © 2010 Nicholas Pappas

by Ryan Richins

If I turn my eyes slightly inward—cross-eyed—I can’t see the dust particles and hair that seem to dance through the gap in the curtains. I wish the light were cleaner; less yellow. My brother is still sleeping on the couch, has been for hours. It’s more of a loveseat really, and he spills over both ends, but that doesn’t seem to bother him. He showed up unannounced at ten this morning. Chéri, his wife, whose name only has an accent aigu at her insistence, went up the coast to her mother’s house for the day. He laid down on the loveseat on arriving, we talked in the living room for an hour or so about all the things we always talk about, and, while I looked for some playing cards, he fell asleep. We hate playing cards.

What’s really amazing is that he’s slept through all the shouting that’s been pushing through the burlap curtains for the last half hour.

“Quieres pan?! Quieres leche?!” 

“Do you want bread,” he asks me from across the parking lot, “do you want milk.” I don’t know him; don’t know his name, and I’m not particularly hungry. I suppose it’s rather self-absorbed to assume that he’s talking to me. He is, after all, yelling toward the sky. Maybe I’m just within earshot. Maybe he’s talking to God.

“Quieres pan?! Quieres horchata?!”

He asks if God or I would like some bread; if we would like some cinnamon rice water. This man is in his fifties. He wears cowboy boots and a sweat-stained baseball cap that, with surprising duality, advertises both Nike and Reebok. You can get those at the dollar store on Santa Barbara Street. They cost four dollars.

“Leche, no hay!”

Apparently there isn’t any milk. He was leading us on. I look through the curtains at him again. He’s closer now; on the grass. He has a scorpion in his belt buckle; looks like a paperweight. The hair that peaks out under his cap has traces of transient gray, but his mustache is still black and thick. He’s from Mexico I’m sure, though he’s probably lived for years here in California; worked with his hands and his back. Maybe I’ll give him a name. Kevin. Kevin Racewater. Perfect.

My brother stretches, and rolls from his stomach to his side to his back to his stomach, and groans. I look up ready to tell him all about Kevin Racewater, but he’s made the full revolution before I can catch his attention and his face is again buried in the cushions.

I can see now that Kevin is not, in fact, talking to me. He’s carrying on a conversation with someone to his left, and then with someone to his right. Both must be much taller than he. There’s some urgency to whatever matter they’re discussing about the milk, and the bread, and the cinnamon rice water. Yes, Kevin Racewater is resolving a matter of some weight.

Maybe I should go out and talk to him; I could try to help. There’s some movement upstairs where Consuelo, my neighbor, lives, and this makes me hopeful that Kevin has awoken her baby; that he’ll make her baby cry. The baby, as far as I can tell, she named Little Fatty. “My Gordito,” she’s always saying. When Little Fatty cries, Consuelo sings. Consuelo’s voice carries throughout the apartments—paper-thin. Sometimes I’m tempted to wake Little Fatty myself; to erect some sort of tower with pots and pans, and then slip. “Damned!” I’d say, so she’d know it was an accident; that I was as sorry as she. Then I’d sit in the hallway with the closet door open—sound travels best there—and listen; doze off.

The movement upstairs begins to settle, and I consider going out and yelling at Kevin Racewater. “Get out of here ya crazy bastard!”  He’d yell back, I’m sure; certainly loud enough to wake Little Fatty. No one could blame me. I’d shake my head so everyone would know that I was as sorry as they—that it had to be done. “The crazy drunk bastard,” I’d tell them.

My brother’s breathing deepens. The cadence slows and his breath sounds heavy with saliva. A cop car pulls into the parking lot, flashes its lights, and gives a short blast of its siren. Little Fatty starts crying—someone beat me to it. Police siren: brilliant! I would have never thought of that. It was probably Eddy two doors down; crotchety old man.

Kevin Racewater explains to the officers about the bread—theatrically explains that it’s not for them and confirms this with his sizable cohorts. I let the curtains fall shut. I open the closet, sit on the floor, and listen as Consuelo does her best to sing me and Little Fatty to sleep.

Copyright © 2010 Ryan Richins