Friendster – Verb Café, Williamsburg, July 19, 2003

“Dude, have you updated your Friendster profile lately?”
They were hunched over the crowded little condiments nook at the Verb Café on a Saturday afternoon spilling milk and honey and sugar and little red straws all over the counter while ten others just like them tried to squeeze in, pushing forward with their pale little claws gripped around $3 soy mochas and spears of chocolate-chip biscotti.
“No.”
“Yeah, it didn’t look like it. You really should update it dude,” said Jim, the taller of the two, as he poured a little coffee in the trash. “I fuckin’ told them to leave room for milk. Fucking peons. Hand me the whole milk wouldya?”
“What’s wrong with it?” said Noah, the shorter one.
“What’s wrong with it? Fuck man! The first few sips are the best part of the coffee, and I was just forced to waste it. Plus, I fuckin’ tell them every time and they never remember.”
“No dude,” said Noah. “I mean, what’s wrong with my Friendster profile?”
A tattooed girl with a lip ring had successfully pushed in between the two and was making a grab for the sugar dispenser.
“My God!” said Jim, shuffling back a few steps to fend her off. “Wouldya just wait your turn for fuck’s sake? We’re almost done here. Jesus.”
She flipped him off behind his back.
“What is this? Fucking Delhi? Christ,” he said, pouring a large mound of sugar into his cup. “Anyway dude, for one thing, you’ve still got White Blood Cells listed in the ‘favorite music’ category.”
Jim popped a lid onto his cup and abruptly turned, sugar in hand, to the tattooed girl.
“Here you are my dear. Have at it. We’re all finished here. And thanks for being such a good sport.”
“Fuck off,” she said.
Jim turned to Noah: “You wanna know why you need to keep your Friendster profile up-to-date, Noah?”
He pointed toward the girl, who by now was stirring her coffee.
“Case in point, my friend. Case in point. If you don’t keep that shit fresh, you’ll probably never meet anybody cool and you’ll end up with some crazy bitch like that.”
The girl turned and mouthed the word ‘asshole’ at them as she walked away.
“That’s class,” Jim said, making sure she could hear. “Absolute fucking class.”
They took a seat out on the patio. The tattooed girl was sitting at the table behind them with another girl.
“Where were we?” asked Jim.
“White Stripes.”
“Oh yes, so, White Blood Cells. You should change that, Noah.”
“What for? I like that album.”
“Chill dude, really,” Jim said, patting Noah’s shoulder, which always irritated him. “It’s a totally brilliant album, I agree. But check it out: Haven’t you heard Elephant yet?”
“Yes of course I’ve heard it,” Noah said, sipping his coffee irritably. “But I like White Blood Cells better so …”
“But!” said Noah, interrupting. “Let’s get one thing straight, my friend.”
“You’re such a prick dude,” said Noah. But Jim carried on like he hadn’t heard.
“Okay, so, let me ask you a question,” said Jim. “In which position do you most enjoy fucking?”
Noah lit a cigarette.
“I guess I like giving it from behind the best,” he said.
“Doggy-style. Good man,” said Jim, easing into his chair, stretching his arms. “It’s a very popular position. Very primal. And I suppose most of the ladies you’ve been with enjoyed it as well?”
“Yeah, most of them, I guess. But I don’t see how that has anything to do with …”
“Ahhh-ah-ah! Just hang onto your britches buddy,” said Jim. “I’m getting to that. So, have you ever fucked any girl doggy-style the very first time you slept with her?”
Noah considered this for a moment, crossing and re-crossing his legs.
“No,” he said. “Usually it takes a few times to ease them into it.”
“Exactly,” said Jim. “But it is, after all, your favorite position, isn’t it?”
“I just told you that, fuckhead.”
“Alright alright dude! Noah, you really gotta let the rhetorical spirit take you away here.”
“Fine.”
“And I assume you consider yourself a relatively honest man, do you not?”
“I would say so, yes.”
“Then why don’t you just tell the young lady that you enjoy punching the rump better than missionary and just trust that she’ll understand.”
Noah responded in a bored, sing-songy voice.
“Because-then-I’d-never-get-laid-ever-again!”
“Because you absolutely must play the game,” added Jim, a smile creeping over his face. “Which is exactly why you need to change your Friendster profile to say Elephant instead of White Blood Cells!”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Duuude! Don’t you get it?” Jim tapped his head for emphasis. “It’s just like meeting a girl on the street, you have to play the right angles to attract the prime chicks! Honesty must be sacrificed in service of getting pussy. At least initially.”

The tattooed girl from the condiment counter, who’d been casually eavesdropping on them, made a gagging gesture to her friend, who quizzically mouthed the words ‘punching the rump’ while shooting herself in the head with an imaginary gun.

“But I don’t see how Elephant is any more attractive to chicks than White Blood Cells is?”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” said Jim. “It’s like teaching quannum physics to a goddamn dog. Okay, there’s two reasons. White Blood Cells is two years old now, and since Elephant is universally recognized as the superior of the two, but you insist on keeping the inferior of the two on your otherwise solid profile, it makes it look like you either, A: have shitty taste, which is not a good start or B: you don’t care about Friendster maintenance, and hence, aren’t serious about meeting a girl. It’s a death knell,” said Jim, taking a cigarette from Noah’s pack. “That’s all I’m saying dude. Do with it what you will.”

They sat for several moments in silence. Noah perused the Times, while Jim smoked.

“Oh yeah,” said Jim. “There’s one more little thing you might consider updating.”
“Yeah?”
“Well, I noticed you still have the Cremaster Cycle listed as one of your interests. I mean, I love Matthew Barney as much as the next guy, in fact I think he’s the greatest artist of our generation, plus he bones Bjork on a daily basis, which is no small accomplishment, but dude, as a selling point for Friendster, Barney is, like, kind of old. I mean his Guggenheim show was over last month. What’s the purpose of having his name down there?”
“Fuck you!” said Noah. “I happen to like Matthew Barney and I don’t give a damn if his show is over. What difference does it make Jim? You really need to get out of the apartment more often.”
“And you need to fuckin’ prioritize,” said Jim. “You’re sitting on a gold mine and you don’t even know it. I mean, you studied lit. or something didn’t you?”
“Comparative lit.,” said Noah.
“Use that shit man! You could totally do a sort of poet thing. Quote some Rilke or something. Girls go nuts over poets, do you realize that?”
“Yeah but …”
“No!” said Jim. “Here’s a great idea! Check it out: You should change your screen name to some really obscure reference from a Rilke poem! I’m tellin’ you man, you’ll be bagging pure gold with that.”
Jim reached over for Noah’s cigarettes again, “Can I?”
“Go ahead,” said Noah.
“Yep, that’s fuckin’ quality control is what it is dude,” said Jim. “Actually, if you’re not gunna do it, I might start another account and do the whole poet thing myself.”
“Be my guest,” said Noah.
“See dude, you just have a bad attitude,” said Jim. “How about this: I’ll write you a really kick-ass testimonial saying what a humble, kinda-out-of-it, but in a really cool poety way, guy you are. I’ll say you, like, just got back from writing a novel in Bar Harbor or something and you’re like really …”
“But I don’t want a fucking testimonial Jim!” Noah yelled. “Don’t you get it dude! I don’t fucking care about that shit! I DON”T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT FRIENDSTER OKAY!”
“Chill dude, seriously,” said Jim.
“You chill, you fucking lunatic!” said Noah, standing and shaking his cup at Jim.
“Alright, just sit down dude,” said Jim.
“If you really think girls buy that bullshit you’re out of your mind!” said Noah. “I’m taking a piss, watch my bag.”
“Hey, wait,” said Jim.
“What?”
“Get me a refill wouldya?”
“Get it yourself dude.”

“Fucking morons, I swear,” whispered the tattooed girl to her friend.
“Totally,” her friend said.

Jim snuck another cigarette out of Noah’s pack.

“And incidentally,” said Jim, as Noah slid back into his chair. “Girls do buy it, actually.”
“Bullshit,” said Noah. “You haven’t gone out with a single girl since you got on Friendster.”
“But that’s all about to change buddy,” said Jim. “I’m meeting a girl at the Red and Black tonight for drinks.”
“You’re kidding right?”
“Nope, it’s true.”
“Well, I don’t see how you’re gunna pull it off.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? I landed the date right?”
“Yeah but you lied through your teeth to get it,” said Noah.
“Dude, it’s a meeting of the minds. That’s what’s so great about Friendster. She absolutely loves Fast Food Nation. We have all the same interests. I don’t see how it could go wrong.”
“But that’s the point! You’ve never even read Fast Food Nation!”
Jim reeled back in offense: “The hell I haven’t! Look, I’ve got a copy of it right here.”
“But you haven’t read it,” said Noah.
“I’ve skimmed. I’ve got all the major concepts.”
“I dunno man,” said Noah. “I don’t think you put enough stock in physical chemistry. That’s where the spark is. So what if she read Fast Food Nation? That doesn’t mean shit. She’s probably lying anyway.”
“Ahh, well, all the better then, at least I won’t have to answer any questions about it.”
“So, what’s she look like anyway?” asked Noah.
“Hot as hell dude,” said Jim, self satisfied.
“What color eyes?”
“I don’t know yet. But I’m guessing blue.”
“How could you not know?”
“Because, dumbass, all she has up for her picture is her mid-to-lower section. But it’s fuckin’ hot dude. She’s wearing these little black panties, sort of lounging on her bed,” said Jim, winking. “Eye on the prize man, eye on the prize.”
“What’s her name?”
“Well, her screen name’s Siouxsie Sioux, which is cool as hell, if you ask me.”

“Oh fuck!”
The tattooed girl leaned over very close to her friend and whispered frantically. “We have to get out of here! Right now!”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
She pointed at Jim, “That’s the Friendster guy!”
“What? PetSounds17? That’s him? That asshole?”
“Yes! Let’s get the fuck out of here! I gotta go cancel my date.”
The tattooed girl dragged her friend out to the street, pushing past Jim and Noah.

“Better go easy on the sugar next time honey!” said Jim as the girls passed.
“Fuck you!” she said.
“See dude,” said Jim to Noah. “If you don’t watch out, you’re gunna end up with some freaky bitch like that.”