It’s serendipitous that I work for an Internet company because as many of my friends will attest – I love the Internet. I love the Internet so much I want to gay marry it, which, as republicans will probably point out, is part of the slippery slope of allowing gay marriage in this country. First the gays will marry each other than those weird creepy dudes on My Crazy Obsession, who are sexually attracted to balloons, will want to get married too. Won’t somebody please think of the children?
I not so secretly love the Internet because of how much information is so readily available. I love the Interweb’s vast tentacles and its ability to neatly arrange, collect and disseminate information all with the touch of a Logged In via Facebook application.
Post secret: I once spent an entire evening trying to find Conor Kennedy on Facebook (the real Connor Kennedy – I cross referenced to other Kennedy and Shrivers) just so I could peruse his 1200 friends with the intention of trying to creep on Taylor Swift’s secret Facebook account (I figured if Prince Harry has a secret Facebook account I’m assuming so does Taylor). My end game was that if I found Taylor I could then peruse hypothetical Taylor Swift’s Facebook profile, find Jake Gyllenhaal’s hypothetical secret Facebook account and poke him.
“But Jonathan – what were you going to do once you poked him?” You may be wondering.
The answer dearest reader… I don’t know; truthfully, I hadn’t really thought that far out.
But no joke – this was literally how I spent an entire evening of my life. Not only was this an evening, this was like… a thought bubble that I not only had but I also executed on.
“Ya know what would be fun to do tonight?”
“I don’t know Jono, what? Eat ice cream, paint our toe nails and talk about boyz?”
“No loser. Let’s find an 18 year-old high school senior’s Facebook account, so we can find his ex-girlfriends Facebook profile and creep her ex-boyfriends Facebook profile.” Who hasn’t been there?
Fun Fact: after finding Connor Kennedy’s profile, spending hours trying to find Taylor Swift’s I actually stepped away from the computer totally weirded out by myself and then spent an hour making up an excuse as to why I hadn’t responded to a friends invite to go see The Help.
My love of the internet is so well know that my friend Kenny actually once admitted (while he was drunk): “I’m glad you don’t drink alone anymore, because I don’t know what you got up when you were drunk, but invariably it involved weird stuff on the internet.” (In his and perhaps my defense this was in the height of Chatroulette when lots of people were doing weird stuff on the internet).
I also have a series of emails from my friend Jordan, prompted by an email from me (“OMG I Just did so and so with Google”) with a one word sentence: Jonathan, You + the Internet = creepy.
During a period of unemployment I ‘randomly’ found an article about a friend of mine who may have been arrested for drug dealing; I sent to my friend Jared who responded: “We need to find you a job before you find out secretive information about all of our friends.”
My Internet prowess is so well known, I can find almost anyone on the internet in 60 mins tops, my friend John texted me the other day – “I think I’m being catfished – help.”
“I’ll deal with this after work ,” I wrote back. In the evening I like to turn my apartment (the overpriced one) into a mini CSI Lab like with multiple screens and the ability to zoom in on photos, extract data and identify the salient clues. (By multiple screens we’re basically talking about my cell phone, tablet and laptop).
“What do we know about the perp?” I texted back using lingo I have gleaned from watching a lot of procedural dramas.
“Send me everything you have. Images, texts. Anything. We’ll find him.” I pursed my lips like Christopher Meloni, stared off in the distance, away from the camera (which didn’t exist), and played the Law and Order theme song in my head.
“We’ll find the asshole.”
Within five minutes, based on one photo I had located the guy behind the photos that someone had sent my friend John. The real guy lived in Oklahoma and was a male nurse… prompting disappointment in my friend John who thought he had bagged himself a doctor who lived in Mississauga. Which let’s be honest – is still mildly disappointing.
A couple of Saturday’s ago, however, may have been my dénouement of Internet love. I was minding my own business assembling furniture in my apartment (my old condo in Toronto had three closets, so come fall I would unpack my sweaters and switch over my closet from summer to winter; in New York – I have one tiny Ikea dresser and a weird closet off my kitchen. Ain’t nobody got time seasonal switching).
So there I was hacking a cheap piece of furniture that I bought at the Bed Bath and Beyond (it was in the beyond section, way in the Beyond section or as I call: Yonde) when I looked out the window to what the hullaboo in the courtyard behind my apartment was. I live overlooking a small private members club called the Norwood Club, which has a gorgeous postage stamp sized courtyard (in New York, any outdoor space beyond a fire escape is a huge luxury; to be honest – I would probably date a guy just because he had outdoor space). The Norwood Club is not like an Usher Love in This Club kinda club; rather it is the type of club where fancy people go and drink cocktails after work and laugh politely and talk about ISIS in hushed tones before talking about their stock portfolio’s or yoga practices. I am not a member of the Norwood Club because I am cheap. I do, however, hope that the if I obsessively tweet about the Norwood Club (Loving Country Night at the Norwood! Great DJ!) maybe they’ll throw me a bone and like give me a free membership. I have great table manners and big dreams.
So I looked out my window and noticed that the courtyard was set up for a wedding; this was obvious because there was an aisle and flowers. The seats were slowly being filled with a plethora of incredibly stylish men and unless this was an awkward episode of a reality TV show I’d like to produce (“Girl, I think your fiancé is gay…” – spawned by those awkward times when you’re walking around Soho and there’s a tourist couple in front of you from the flyover states and its quite clear that the boyfriend is secretly eye-fucking just about every dude in Manhattan while simultaneously offering up recommendations on the quickest route to the Michael Kors store) then by gosh by golly this was a gay wedding!
In fact, while I have been to countless straight weddings, this was my very first big fat gay wedding.
So… being the intrepid, single and relatively friendless person that I am, I did what any of you would do in my situation. I:
1) Turned down the Taylor Swift I was blasting (as if you’re judging me, you’re the one reading this) out of deference to the groom and groom;
2) I went on grindr to see if any of the guests were single; niente;
3) I then sat on my window stoop and watched the entire wedding.
I literally watched the entire thing. I listened to the speeches. I got teary eyed when the groom and groom read their vows. I laughed when people described how one of them was messy and one of them was cheap. I clapped when they appeared post ceremony in their first official appearance.
And then, because I’m the creepy motherfucker that I am, I went to the Norwood Clubs Instagram and tried to find out who was getting married. In short order I found the wedding hash tag, googled the groom and groom, perused their groomal registry (Bloomingdales and Williams-Sonoma – great taste!), asked myself what I would get them I if I was actually invited, reminded myself I wasn’t actually invited and continued to creep the wedding hash tag throughout the evening. I then took a photo of said wedding “from above” and included it in the wedding hashtag.
Mazel tov Brian and Gordy; it was a beautiful wedding. Thank you for having me.