Get out there!

In the 90s, I developed an intense dislike for that hipster voiceover artist on those Carnival Cruise Line commercials. “Get out there!” she commanded in a husky, playful tone as Iggy Pop’s Lust For Life throbbed in the background. In our stained pajamas on our dusty couches, we enviously watched as smiling, athletic waterskiers, jet skiers and rockwall climbers enthusiastically had the time of their lives during the vacation of their dreams. Of course, what wasn’t advertised as much was that those same vacationers were sometimes getting so drunk on those obscene, floating pleasure palaces that they would fall overboard in the middle of the night and their bodies would never be recovered. Putting yourself “out there” can have some unpleasant consequences.

I experienced the anxiety of that firsthand this week when I thought I had been blocked by a celebrity on Twitter.

It’s not really important who it was, (although here’s a hint: her first name is Rosanne and if Johnny Cash walked through her door she would wave excitedly and say “Hi, Daddy!”), the important thing to know is how the interaction made me feel. Because, if we have learned only one thing about this blog so far, it’s all about me. And this little Twitter episode made me flush with anxiety and reminded me that, no matter how big my boobs get, on the inside I’ll always be a scared, insecure little girl. An insecure little girl with enormous breasts.

(I didn’t really want to mention my breasts in the above paragraph but, if there is one thing I learned from that writing seminar I imagine I took with Michael Chambon and Richard Russo, it’s to reference the twins as frequently as possible, even when writing a clemency letter to a governor or a pope. Keeps the reader’s eyes rivetted on the page.)

Admiring Rosanne Cash is not a fresh and exciting new adventure in my life. I’ve been doing that for as long as I can remember. There are two things that I am proud of in this world. One is the soft, curvaceous set of mammary glands that I squeeze into my overworked bra every morning, (Eyes on the page, people!), and the other is that on a somnolent Sunday morning, I got to stand in the doorway of the King’s Record Shop, right where Rosanne Cash stood for the album cover of the same name in Louisville, Kentucky. Some people have their Abbey Road moment, whereupon they try to replicate that iconic picture of the Beatles. I have my King’s Record Shop moment.

I also happen to think that album is the finest country album from that era, but I digress.

As a self-proclaimed feminist, I have always been drawn to strong, intelligent, independent women who are not afraid to step outside of someone else’s shadow, and so it should come as no surprise that I admire Ms. Cash. She’s never really struck me as someone who tries to be someone she is not. She has this wonderful combination of talent and brains and style and grace mixed with this down-to-earth quality that makes her fame and success seem natural and free-flowing. She’s endured many scares and potential tragedies with quiet courage and strength. I spent a few years in the early “aughts” reading a blog that she maintained and it helped me appreciate her overall intellect, aesthetic, and political viewpoint. She is an outstanding writer. And, through it all, through the highs and the lows, her music just keeps getting better. She is aging like a fine wine and she truly is an American treasure.

If I ever met her in person, I would try to tell her how much of a genuine inspiration she is, how much I appreciate her unique musical gifts and how the grace of her life is helping me see that not all celebrities are pretentious, narcissistic assholes with no redeeming qualities other than a pretty face or a gorgeous sense of entitlement. (I’m looking at you, Ashton Kutcher!) Unfortunately, if I ever did get an opportunity to meet her, I probably wouldn’t say any of that. I would probably sound an awful lot like the “I like turtles!” kid.

“I like your music!” “You’re really great!”

I know exactly how I feel about Rosanne Cash, but I’m not so sure how I feel about Twitter.

Twitter is a strange social media concept. It is incredibly illusory. No one you actually know in real life uses Twitter, so you latch onto celebrities, musicians and comics, eager to see the niblets of brilliance that will be tweeted from their phones. It doesn’t take long to discover, though, that…well…most of them are kind of dicks. But you can’t really tell anyone in the Twitterverse that they are banal or vain or way too obsessed with cock jokes, because that is simply not done. You either admire uncritically or you…unfollow.

But then there’s Ms. Cash. I’ve been following her for months and not one cock joke! She’s taken her enormous writing skills and condensed them down into this techno haiku that brightens an otherwise dull, dark Twitterverse. And she interacts with people, so it’s very easy to get caught up in the sense of community that she fosters with her Twitter feed, because…well…she cultivates a sense of community.

So imagine my horror when I thought I had been blocked! The anxiety that races through the brain.

What did I say? Did I interject myself one too many times into her world? Did I become a nuisance? Did I say something to offend her? Had she grown sick of me, yet another desperately lonely “tweep” who continually interrupted her otherwise sensational day with my pathetic little attempts to communicate with her?

This is why you don’t put yourself out there, Laurie. Not only should you not go parasailing in Jamaica, you shouldn’t even try to talk to anyone above your station. You’re just a bystander. Go stand in the corner and don’t speak until spoken to, please. And, trust me: No one will speak to you.

That and more is what you feel when you realize that someone you’ve never met rejects you in a way that you didn’t even realize was possible when the flip phone was first invented. It is unpleasant and nerve-wracking and not something I want any of my gentle-hearted friends to endure. So, fuck Carnival Cruise Lines. Don’t get out there. Just stay inside and play Free Cell. If you need to feel connected with life, get a cat. After you talk to it long enough, you will be surprised at how vociferously it reacts to the sound of your voice.

Of course, it turns out that she hadn’t blocked me at all. It was simply that the tweet I was trying to send her was too long. I couldn’t send it until it was shortened.

But, I think the lesson I learned was a valuable one, which is that sometimes it is okay to just be an admiring bystander. Either that or I am just too plain fucking stupid to use Twitter.

My breasts and I thank you for listening.