Artsy Fartsy

I made the mistake of taking an art history class at a community college not too long ago. A friend of mine tried to warn me about the kinds of people I would be forced to interact with in a class like that. I didn't listen. Half way through I realized that I had made a mistake. I wasn't learning so much about art as I was other people's very enthusiastic yet uneducated opinions on life. Here's the thing about art that drives me nuts. Everyone's opinion gets to be correct no matter how idiotic it may be. In an art class full of community college students, who are usually all too ready to share their views in the first place, those idiotic opinions are actually encouraged. For some reason art instructors are under the impression that all ideas are valid. Despite the warnings I received, I failed to factor all of that in before signing up for the class.

Just because I can't stand hearing the nonsense opinion of an amateur art critic doesn't mean that I don't have any appreciation for art myself. I learned a few things from that class despite the instructor's unfortunate tendency to allow students to share their views. First and foremost is that you can always identify an idiot by showing him a piece of art and hearing what he has to say about it. I also learned that unless you have an overinflated opinion of your own world view, art museums are boring. And finally, I learned that calling something art is a culturally acceptable way to justify pornography, homosexuality, bestiality, rape, vandalism, and all manner of other behaviors that I my parents taught me are immoral.

Given my art instructor's complete failure to teach anything meaningful or relevant, I had to look elsewhere for guidance. It was my anthropology instructor that semester who cleared up the mysterious secrets of art appreciation for me. You see, art is universal; meaning all human cultures have a form of art. Art is a form of communication that appeals to the aesthetic and the abstract. Art is always about something and it is a refection of the culture and its values of which it originates. So the artist creates a piece of art that tries to say something in an abstract way, and everyone else argues about what it is supposed to mean. Ultimately everyone learns something about themselves.

Now that is my basic philosophy of art, but there are some finer points I would like to go into. I could talk about different mediums and applications of art in society, or I could talk about styles and techniques. None of that is really all that important in understanding the universal importance of art. It doesn't matter whether or not you are looking at a sculpture, or a painting, or a drawing. It doesn't matter if it's greek, medieval, or neolithic, or post modern impressionism. All of that overly complicated stuff is really only interesting to actual art critics and wannabe art critics. For the rest of us, what I discovered in my studies is that for a piece of work to be considered art, it only actually needs to incorporate one or more of what I call "the three basic elements." Art must be either weird, naked, or gross. If the artist can combine two or more of the basic elements, such as weird and naked, or weird and gross, then so much the better. Truly brilliant artists will be able to effectively communicate their ideas by incorporating all three elements together.

Now art must be weird. Anyone who has ever spent time looking at M.C. Escher's drawings should already be aware of this. Let's face it, as interesting as his sketches of endless staircases are to look at, that is some weird shit. Most modern art falls neatly into the category of being weird.

Art must be naked. This should be one of the first things that you notice about most art. There is something or someone naked. For example, Venus De Milo. Who cares if she doesn't have any arms. She's topless. Definitely art by nudity. How about Michelangelo's statue of David? How many of us have tried in vain to appreciate the overall technical mastery of this sculpture but couldn't because our eyes were inexplicably drawn towards his well crafted penis? It's certainly naked, and that's why it's art. Put some damn pants on, David. You naked bastard.

Art must be gross. I submit Marcel Duchamp's Fountain as a primary example of gross art. He signed his name to a urinal and called it art. People pee into that thing. That certainly is gross. That's why it's art.

So now that I have established what art is, (It is a form of communication. It is a reflection of culture. It must be naked, weird or gross, or any combination of the three.) I am going to create some art to provide an example of what I am talking about.

Since I know that all good art must incorporate the three elements of art I will begin with something weird. Let's say a pineapple on a bicycle:


That's pretty weird right? You don't usually see a pineapple riding a bicycle. It doesn't really make any sense either. How can a pineapple ride a bicycle? They don't even have any legs. Even if a pineapple could ride a bicycle, where would even go? They don't have brains to make decisions like that. So as you can see, by a simple combination of a pineapple and a bicycle we have created art.

Since a pineapple on a bicycle is weird, it technically qualifies as art, but it has yet become really good art until we incorporate a second of the three elements. We already have weird, now let's add some naked. For this I will cover the pineapple with breasts like so:
So, as you can clearly see, I have now successfully combined weird with naked. I could have just as easily implemented the naked element by covering the pineapple with penises or vaginas, but the use of breasts serves my purposes adequately for this demonstration. Just to spice things up a little bit, all of the breasts used in this piece of work are from famous people. So you might recognize a couple of them. For those who may be curious, I will include a key at the end of this article that identifies the particular breasts with their owners.

So a pineapple on a bicycle with several random breasts attached to it is starting to look more and more like something you might see in an art museum. I am not finished yet. I have weird and naked adequately represented here, but I haven't got anything particularly gross. Adding gross is one of the more challenging elements of art. It needs to be gross enough to churn the stomach of the viewer, but not so gross as to be banned from an art museum entirely. There is a fine line you must walk when implementing a gross element to a particular piece of work.

After thinking about it for awhile, I have decided that there is nothing grosser or more horrifying than cannibalism, but I would like to contrast it against something innocent and soothing. So I think I will have the pineapple eating a baby like so:

(I don't know why that stupid black line is there next to my art. It wasn't supposed to be, but I am too lazy to go back and edit out now. Stupid computer. Just ignore that part)

Eating babies is pretty gross. I can't think of anything grosser right at this moment. I just hope that it's not so gross that no one will take the time to appreciate the work that I have done. It would be a shame if the idea I am trying to communicate was missed because I made something so gross.

That's all three elements of good art rolled into one image. Am I not brilliant? So now that I have created an image that incorporates something weird, something naked, and something gross, what does it all mean? Art is a form of communication right? And a reflection of culture too. In all honesty I mostly put this image together as a joke. It's not really supposed to mean anything at all, at least not to an intelligent person. If you were to show this image to some of my former classmates and not tell them that it's not meant to be taken seriously, you might get some interesting responses.

One might be inclined to say "The artist clearly is indicating that life is like a baby eating pineapple on a bicycle with multiple titties." Well that seems pretty obvious.

How about "The pineapple is on a bicycle. Since the pineapple is trying to lower his CO2 emissions by using more a eco-friendly means of transportation it must mean that if we don't do something to stop global warming now, a hedonistic pineapple will eat all of our babies."

"The pineapple has breasts, and it is eating a baby. The artist must think that it's okay for a woman to abort her pregnancy as long as she rides a bicycle to the clinic."

"The titties in this image are quite stimulating. They make me want to eat pineapples and make babies."

"There are six titties, but they are all different titties. No two titties on the pineapple are the same. The non paired titties must represent mastectomies of breast cancer. The pineapple and the bicycle represent a healthy lifestyle. The baby represents a fear that is devoured. So if you are a woman and you are afraid of breast cancer, taking care of your health will eliminate that fear. Clearly this multi-tittied pineapple is trying to convince women to get checked for breast cancer."

Since I already said that the point of all this was to be a joke, it seems pretty silly to read into the meaning of the baby eating pineapple on a bicycle with multiple titties. This image should have absolutely no meaning to an intelligent person, but can the same be said for an unintelligent person? Try as I might to communicate absolutely nothing this image still has value for it's target audience. I am of course talking about the idiots (who, incidentally, all happen to vote Democrat) in my art class. If you stand and stare at this image long enough trying to explore the deeper meaning of it all, the message that should scroll across the marquee of your brain is "I am a pretentious asshole with no idea of what I am doing or talking about." If the baby eating pineapple on a bicycle with multiple titties communicated something to you, and it was something other than "you are a pretentious asshole with no idea of what you are doing or talking about," then I have failed as an artist.

It is to my anthropology lessons that I will turn to once again in conclusion to all of this. All cultures are valid. Every human society has culture and no one culture is better than another. That is very open minded right? Here is the kicker. We are allowed to be critical of cultures. As long as you do not define your own culture by the way you negatively react to another, it's okay to not like certain things other people do. For example, I do not have to like communism, but that doesn't mean I am losing any sleep over it. I do not have to like the fact that the Nazis decided that it was okay to oppress the Jews. I do not have to like that abortion is acceptable in our society. Since art is a form of communication that reflects a culture all art must be valid within that culture. That does not mean that I have to like or appreciate or even respect all forms of artistic expression. Some of it sucks. Some of it is just plain stupid.

All of that having been said, let's take a final look at my baby eating pineapple riding a bicycle with multiple titties. In this instance, in which I am trying to communicate absolutely nothing at all, art has become a double edged sword. I put together a bunch of nonsense hoping for it to be nothing more than nonsense. Try as I might to create an image with no meaning, it does seem to suggest that I believe that not all ideas within our society are valid. Anyone who looks at that image and thinks that it is a valid expression of some kind, is a pretentious asshole with no idea of what they are saying or doing. (Incidentally, these are the kinds of people that can be counted on to vote for Hillary Clinton in the 2008 election for no good reason.)

And finally, as promised. Here is the key with all of the breasts clearly labeled as to who they belong to. Enjoy pervs.

Gay Bagel

I walked into Starbucks the other day expecting to be irritated. I hate Starbucks. I hate the whole psuedo-Italian culture that place tries to pass off while pushing overpriced drinks with unnecessarily complex names. Just because you put the word "gourmet" in front of a foreign sounding menu item doesn't mean you have any call to put on airs about it. I hate that they make a simple thing like a cup of coffee unnecessarily complicated. It's all the same crap anyways, why do they insist on deceiving their customers with choices? The worst thing about Starbucks is the other customers that are usually there. It's always crowded with people who drive better cars than I do, and have more money than me and think that their time is more valuable than mine. It's bad enough when I have to wait in line at a place I actually like to be, but it's almost more than I can stand when the guy ahead of me at the counter is too busy talking into his stupid bluetooth cell phone head set while pointing his coffee snob nose in the air trying to figure out what kind of frappa-dappa-crappa-bullshit-chino that he wants this time to make a decision and goddamn order already.

As much as I hate that place, I do end up going there from time to time. It's supposed to be fast and easy for the coffee snob on the go. I found a Starbuck not far from where I live that I thought would be okay to buy coffee from occasionally. It's hidden just off the 15 freeway inside of a shopping center next to a movie theater. With a Starbucks on every corner it's ironic that I go out of my way to find the most secluded one in Southern California. Usually this place is so out of the way that it's completely empty at six in the morning. Most of the pretentious irritating snobs that make Starbucks so unpleasant are standing in an absurdly long line at a more so-called-convenient location. Up until recently, this had been my favorite place to stop for a quick coffee in the morning on the few occasions that I desired as much.

Now I always order the same thing when I go to Starbucks, a large coffee and a plain bagel. I like to keep things as simple as possible. That's how I present the order to the cashier ( I refuse to use the self important title of barista, unless I am making fun of them). When I get up to the counter and they address me with their over-practiced-too-cheerful-for-six-o'clock-in-the-morning
greeting, I grunt, "Large coffee and a plain bagel." Occasionally there is some confusion because I didn't order a venti coffee and I didn't specify if the bagel was to be toasted or not, but for the most part this approach eliminates most of the unnecessary complexities of placing an order at Starbucks.

A few days ago - And we shall refer to this day as the last day I will ever go to Starbucks again - I had stopped at my "favorite" Starbucks to get a quick cup of coffee and a bagel. On my previous visits this had been a simple enough errand. Most of the counter people there could interpret my irritated grunts and pointing, and there hadn't been a problem. On this particular day - the last day I will ever go to Starbucks again - the regular staff that I had become accustom to seeing there had been replaced by new much more energetic and helpful people. In fact, these people were deliberately helpful which I think was wholly uncalled for. This was the barista dream team, the super stars of Starbucks. It was the corporate shareholder's wet dream of Starbucks personal behavior. It was like walking into one of those company training videos where everyone acts and responds to situations in predictably unbelievable ways. I was the only one there who hadn't been briefed on the script.

I slapped the three bucks I had in my hand down on the counter and grunted my usual order at the most annoying woman I have ever met. This woman was way too excited to be working behind the counter of a Starbucks and I could tell that she wore the Starbucks smock a little too proudly. Everything about her said that she believed that serving coffee at a Starbucks was the great accomplishment of her life. She had drunk a little too deeply of the wine of Starbucks culture and the sickness that now polluted her life was vomited back at anyone who got too close. So when I said to her that I wanted a large coffee and plain bagel, that just wasn't simple enough.

"Was that a venti, a grande, or a tall coffee?" she asked as though she didn't just hear me say that I wanted a large. Before I could answer she was off on a coffee fueled tirade. She took a step back and indicated the row of coffee makers behind her that I was previously unaware of. "Would you like the house breakfast blend, our special urba blend, or we also have an arabic blend which is a little bolder than the rest. The house blend has a healthy aroma that blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah..." On and on she went about the virtues of the various coffee selections. My eyes glazed over and I leaned on the counter. This was way more help than I needed at that time in the morning. What the hell happened to just regular coffee?

"Just give me the regular one," I said as I pointed vaguely in a random direction. I had hoped that she would be able to draw a conclusion on her own.

"Okay, but we have three blends this morning. Did you want the breakfast blend, the urba blend the blah blah blah blah blah blah blah..." I didn't care, but I didn't want to say that I didn't care which one she poured into the cup. Telling a Starbucks idiot that you don't care what kind of coffee you drink is just asking for a coffee snob argument.

"Just give me the one that you normally have," I said waving my hand dismissively

"Okay, but was that the breakfast blend, the urba blend, the blah blah blah blah blah..."

I looked around the room half expecting to see a clown or one of those mirrors that distorts your features and makes you look too tall or too fat, or a lion tamer or something. Breakfast was quickly turning into a circus. I pulled my hand down over my face and steadied my nerves. It was going to take a lot more effort than I thought for something simple to happen this morning.

"This is what I want you to do," I said deliberately at her as she smiled back idiotically. "Take the biggest cup that you have..."

"Was that the venti, sir?" she interupted.

"Is that the biggest one you have?" I ask her, my voice rising slightly.

"Yes it is." she nodded.

"Then that must be the one I want." She picked up the cup and smiled back pleasantly waiting for further instructions. "Now I want you to pour the most normal coffee you have into that cup," I said as I deliberately pointed to the cup in her hand to remove any further possibility of confusion, "and then give it to me to drink." That all seemed simple enough to me.

She turned back to the three coffee makers on the back counter and was immediately confused again. "Was that the house blend, the urba ble..."

"The most normal coffee you have in this entire building!" I yelled.

Apparently normal coffee does not exist in Starbucks. After a few moments of indecisiveness she said, "I'll just give you the house blend today. It's got a very mild flavor."

"Awesome," I grunted irritatedly as I took the coffee from her. Apparently the house blend is normal enough.

After a minor scuffle about the details of my plain bagel - was it to be toasted, was it to have cream cheese, did I want butter, etc. - I stepped back to wait. She pleasantly handed the chore of bagel preparation to her equally annoying coworker. This was a man in his mid forties. As he very cheerfully moved about, I couldn't help but wonder what horrible wrong turns he took in life to end up smiling behind the counter of a Starbucks at his age. Nobody in grade school that I can remember ever said, "I want to be a barista when I grow up!" There he was, and happy to be there too. What alternative to Starbucks could have been worse to make him smile so much in his role as a fast food service employee? Prison? Drug addiction? Divorce? Homelessness? The military? Maybe he had voted Democrat at some point in his life? Who could say.

I was already irritated by the row I had over my coffee selection that morning, but I was content to wait patiently for the oldest man working at Starbucks to finish with my bagel. It wasn't long after the whole toasting and buttering process was completed that I was unnecessarily annoyed by a Starbucks employee for the second time that morning. Holding my bagel high in the air, the oldest man working at Starbucks sang, "I've got one plain bagel with butter!" That's right. He sang, and in no particular tune. Maybe he forgot that he was at work and not in his shower at home, but for some reason my plain bagel brought him so much joy that he broke out in song about it. "I've got one plain bagel with butter! Oh, one plain bagel with butter!" Over and over he sang that line calling to me to take the bagel from him.

Shamefully I raised my hand to indicate that the joyous bagel belonged to me. He didn't see me. Instead he turned and walked to the far end of the counter singing all the way. "Oh one plain bagel with butter!" Of course I was irritated by this. I couldn't help but wonder where that strange man was going, and why was he singing to my fucking bagel? Perhaps that bagel meant something to him that it didn't mean to anyone else. Perhaps that bagel signified that he no longer was locked up in prison, or that he no longer was addicted to drugs. Maybe he was finally free of a bad marriage, or he had a home at last. It could have been that he had just gotten out of the military, or maybe he had just finally realized that he no longer had to vote Democrat to be politically and morally conscientious. Who knows? Those are all perfectly good reasons to sing, but what it was that made him want to serenade my bagel that morning is still a mystery. What I did know for certain is that if I wanted my bagel I was going to have to chase down this middle aged weirdo, and take it from him singing or no.

I caught up with him at the far end of the store where was continuing to sing. Cleverly working our brief conversation into his song, he sang out, "Is this your plain bagel with butter sir?"

"Yes," I hissed at him. I snatched the bagel from him and glanced quickly at the handful of other customers who had wandered in during all of this nonsense. They all heard him singing to my bagel too, but none of them looked as irritated by this as I was. I spun around and made a move for the side exit. It was locked. The store had just recently opened, and no one had bothered to unbolt the side door. I was going to have to walk all the way back through the store with the weirdo still singing to my bagel despite the fact that he was no longer in possession of it.

"Oh, one plain bagel with butter!" he wailed on as I ran through the store. "You have a good morning sir and enjoy your plain bagel with bu..."

Enough.

I pushed through the door and was outside before he could finish his ballad. I sat down in my car and shook my head at how emotionally exhausting a large coffee and a plain bagel had been this morning. As I drove away, I sipped at my drink and tried not to think about the stupid aroma or how mild the blend was or whatever nonsense that pain in the ass had been prattling on about. My bagel sat lonely in the empty passenger seat waiting for me to eat it. Every time I reached for it, that weirdo's bagel song filled my brain and I was forced to leave the bagel lying where it was. Thanks a lot you singing asshole. Now my bagel is gay.

I threw the gender confused bagel out the window as I swung into a McDonald's drive through. No one there argued with me over the size, or blend of my coffee, and no one sung to me about my egg mcmuffin. So what if the food there was greasy and disgusting and may my intestines complain bitterly for hours after I had eaten! It was simple and easy and not irritating. I had hoped that Starbucks would have been so accommodating, but I guess that's just too much to ask for from a bunch of coffee snobs. I will never go to a Starbucks again.

Infrared

I used to think that having infrared vision would be a pretty cool super power. There are a lot of useful things a superhero can do with infrared vision. You can see in the dark. You can identify dangerous devices that are dependent on a power source like a bomb. You can find people that are hiding behind walls or in trees, or track just about anything with a heat source. Infrared has a lot of nifty applications in the super hero biz. It's a good supplemental power to have to compliment some of the other more standard powers like being able to fly or invulnerability.

The really cool thing about infrared vision is that it isn't just a silly notion that exists only in the make believe world of comic books. There are devices available for sale to the general public that bring the sensory delights of infrared imaging to the common man. Presently infrared imaging technology is being used for all kinds of interesting and useful things like home inspections, automotive diagnostics, mold detection and so on. The price of these devices has dropped considerably as the technology has been refined over the years. No longer relegated to the world of superheros and super spies, I imagine that one day most everyone will have infrared vision capabilities of some kind or another. It is a future we should beware of, because as cool as it may seem, and as useful as it may be, there is a darker side to infrared vision. Read on, and consider yourself warned.

Infrared imaging is often call heat vision or thermal imaging. That is not exactly correct. It doesn't "see" heat specifically. I do not pretend to know the science of how it works exactly, but there is a definite correlation between the amount of heat an object has and the way it is perceived through an infrared viewer. So the hotter something is, the better it shows up especially when compared to something colder. That is what makes infrared imaging so useful. It can visually identify heat sources. Now what concerns me is that there is something that all human beings do that most certainly should not be visually identified. You see, when pressures build up in the lower abdomen a release of that pressure is required in order to maintain an equilibrium. Excess gases mixing in the digestive system known as flatus are expelled out of the rectum in what is commonly referred to as a fart. A fart exits the body at a balmy 98.6 degrees and meets with the outside air which is commonly much cooler. An infrared camera detects the difference in the temperatures of the fart and the air around it and the result is a swirling cloud that suddenly appears out from between the buttocks and envelopes the lower regions of the farter. In some instances this cloud can be seen hanging around for awhile until it is carried away by the wind.

The implications here should be obvious. In a world where infrared imaging is becoming more and more common, gone are the days when a man can steal a quite moment alone in an isolated corner of the room and discretely honk one off. Everyone would see him do it and react accordingly. I am of the opinion that a fart should be smelled and not seen. I prefer the current fart detection system we humans employ; You know, the one involving a sudden wrinkling of the nose followed by some nervous giggling that we are all so familiar with. Others may argue in favor of an infrared imaging powered early warning system, but I say ignorance is bliss. Let us consider for a moment that as of September 2007 the world population is estimated to be 6.7 billion. With the average healthy person farting anywhere from 6 to 20 times a day, that comes out to roughly 40.2 to 134 billion fart clouds present on the planet on any given day and that doesn't include burps, queefs, and animal farts. Could you really live in a world in which you are constantly trying to dodge 134 billion visible clouds of potentially unpleasant air? That would be enough to drive someone mad. Mother Nature designed farts to be invisible for a reason. Besides, if a man farts in the woods and no one is around, does it make a smell? I think not.

Even as a superhero, you cannot escape unfortunate unintended results of infrared vision's use. Imagine hanging out in the Hall of Justice with the Super Friends and a hero meeting was about to start. You see Superman sneaking back over to rejoin the rest of the group with a contented smile on his face that says he thinks he just got away with something sly. "Nay nay, Superman! You just super poohed! I saw it with my infrared vision. " Now you have gone and compromised yourself by outing a man with X-ray vision. All the infrared imaging in the world won't save you from the payback you can look forward to. Far be it from me to blatantly mock the man of steel, but maybe it's best to not be confronted with such a temptation in the first place.

As cool as infrared vision is, I am afraid that I am just going to have to cross that one off of my list.

Robin

The internet claims to know the name of my love soul mate. An obnoxious yet colorful ad with lots of glittery letters and some candy like sparkling twinkling thingies appears on my screen every time I log on to check my messages. I am annoyed by this foolish ad every time I see it, but I can't help staring at the stupid thing. I haven't actually found my own love soul mate as of yet. In the past I have had to settle for temporarily borrowing other people's love soul mates from time to time to get me by. It would be nice to finally have a love soul mate of my own. So as gaudy and intrusive as this seemingly innocent blip of multimedia inanity is, I secretly gaze at it and harbor vain fantasies of who my love soul mate might be.

The rational side of my brain tells me that it is preposterous to think that the internet might know the true name of my love soul mate. This is clearly a trap. I shouldn't even bother to ask the internet what my love soul mate's name is. That way lies Spam email and junk credit card offers that will clutter my end table. The internet can't possibly know for sure and even if it did, it would probably lie.

But...what if the internet really does know the name of my love soul mate and was genuinely interested in disclosing that information to me? You never know. It could happen. Knowing the name of my love soul mate would certainly narrow the search by a considerable degree. In fact just knowing the first letter of her first name could be pretty handy.

Despite the gnawing desire to know the name of my love soul mate, I find myself reluctant to answer that ad and ask the internet to share it's knowledge. I can't figure out exactly why I hesitate. What if I have been too jaded by the results of other false advertising gimmicks and broken promises? What if all that disappointment I have suffered in the past from other shameless promoters has made me too afraid to take the kinds of risks necessary for true internet stimulated romance? God forbid that one day in the future I run into my love soul mate at the grocery store, but don't recognize her because I was too afraid of a ridiculous marketing ploy to get her name from what could have been a very credible source? How could I let threat of a little junk email make me miss out on my one chance for true happiness in life? This is a critical juncture of my life and it's time, for good or for ill, to make a choice.

So, ignoring my instincts and all the blaring alarms of common sense sounding vigorously in my head, I choose to take the bait of this obvious trap and see just what the internet has to say about my love soul mate. It turns out that getting the name of your love soul mate from the internet is annoying. There are a bunch of forms to fill out and questions to answer and lots of pesky personal information that has to be revealed to total strangers before the question of love soul mates is even addressed.

It turns out that my love soul mate's name is Robin. Well of course it is. It couldn't be any other name. The internet told me so and the internet is wise. Her name is Robin. Where have you been all my life, Robin? I hope you aren't fat. At first I am very excited. This is going to be easy. Now that I have my love soul mate's name, all I have to do is type her name into a search and - Presto! - instant internet love soul mate gratification!

My enthusiasm hasn't lasted long. Shortly after I began the search for my beloved Robin two critical and disturbing pieces of information occur to me and the implications have left me shaken and in doubt of all that I once thought to be certain . The first is that, despite the key advantage of knowing my love soul mate's name, Robin is a fairly common name. There are a lot of people on the internet named Robin. The results for the name Robin number in the tens of thousands. So my chances of randomly happening on the right Robin are still significantly less than 0.0001%. As tantalizingly close as she may seem, she is still forever lost in the ambiguous results of an internet search engine. The second, and quite horrifying revelation is that Robin does not necessarily have to be the name of a woman. This of course leaves the distinct and frightening possibility that the internet thinks my love soul mate is a man. I find this to be most disconcerting.

So I have this proposal for you Robin, whoever you are. If you are a beautiful single woman who has been missing her love soul mate all her life, you need look no farther. I am right here. The internet wants us to be together. I have the spam email to prove it. You should IM me some time. We can go for coffee or something and then end up getting married two weeks later in an ill conceived whirlwind romance. And if you are a beautiful single woman who isn't named Robin, but you are willing to legally change your name to Robin for the sake of ill conceived whirlwind romances, the above applies to you as well. I want to hear from you, baby. But if you are a man, and your name is Robin, and you are my internet appointed love soul mate, I will make you this offer...You stay in your closet, and I will stay in mine and we need never speak of this again.