I keep telling my 16-year-old daughter, Adrianne, to watch what she writes online, because Internet stupidity lives on forever.
When I was her age, I did stupid things, but they were never recorded for posterity. That’s because there was no YouTube, MySpace, or Facebook. The Internet as we know it didn’t even exist.
Well, things have changed. Someone steps in doggy doo, there’s video up in 15 minutes.
If that had been the case when I was 16, everyone would have known about my first experience with mass rejection.
It happened at a party in the 80s. The DJ played my favorite LL Cool J-tune, and I stupidly approached a group of girls who were dancing with each other, and asked one to dance with me.
The young lady looked at her friends like, “I know this fool did not just ask me to dance.”
I should have walked away then. Problem was, I had asked, so I was kind of obligated to wait for the answer. Knowing this, her girlfriends began circling like sharks.
They never said anything aloud. Their opinions were clearly etched on their faces.
The one in the tight Gloria Vanderbilts scrunched up her nose as if to say, “He’s not cool enough.” The one with the perm twisted her lips to signal, “He’s not cute enough.” The one with the huge gold earrings tugged at her ear, which clearly meant, “He’s broke.”
Having been struck down by the Council-of-Girls-Who-Dance-Together, I had only to wait for their leader to make it official.
When she opened her mouth to give her answer, the music seemed to stop and the whole room appeared to be watching.
“No,” she said, her voice echoing across the room.
Then the music resumed, and the crowd, having been entertained at my expense, turned away.
Today, that incident would turn out much worse.
A cell phone video of the entire exchange would get 30 million hits on YouTube. Then someone would begin a discussion thread on their Facebook page called: Solomon got played – the true story.
“First she said ‘no,’” the poster would write. “Then she pulled out a stun gun, and Solomon was like, ‘Don’t taze me bro!’ She said, ‘My name ain’t bro!’ and she tazed him anyway.”
Thankfully, things have changed for me. I am now secure enough – and women my age are flexible enough – that if I was single and approached the Council-of-Girls-Who-Dance-Together, they’d look at me differently.
They’d see my necktie and determine that I’m gainfully employed. I’d smile and they’d guess that I have dental insurance. If I jingled my car keys it might start a catfight.
With my luck, the brawl would make YouTube. Then someone would start a Facebook thread called: “Solomon’s a womanizing jerk.”
Knowing the probability of these things happening to me makes me paranoid enough to believe that they can happen to my kids. That’s why I periodically make my daughter pull up her Facebook page so I can peruse it.
If you’re a parent who’s anything like me, you should do it, too.