Dear Amritsar,
I am happily married with three children, a pet cow named Oscar Meyer (our youngest, Willem, was a little unclear on where we get our meat from when he named her) and a mortgage that would make your ears bleed. Despite all the good things that I have managed to claw out of existence in this indifferent and unforgiving universe, I find myself fondly fantasizing about my college days.
In particular, I have become a little obsessed with a flash mob I was part of in my second year at Harrods Secret Shopper Academy. It’s not that I think about it all of the time – I thought about wiener dogs a couple of days ago, for instance, and last week I spent almost a minute thinking about how different the world would have been if Harry Houdini had been a concert pianist.
The group met in the quad (just behind the student centre and below the belt – you know how young people are!). There were over 50 of us (that was the mob part). At the same moment, we stripped completely naked (that was the flash part) and lurched side to side like autistic robots faced with a paradox for 27.8 seconds (I found counting off the eighth of a second to be the hardest part). Then, humming “My Cherie Amour,” we grabbed the clothes of the person to our right and ran off in all directions. I spent the rest of the day dressed like a garden gnome (I really should have found somebody taller to stand next to, but strange things happen to everybody’s clothes their first time).
I have never felt so alive. Well, not without the risk of STDs and pregnancy, in any case.
The problem with flash mobs – other than goose bumps – maybe January wasn’t the best time for it – is that you don’t know anybody involved with them. Is there any way I can find out? I’d like to invite them out for coffee, or maybe a night of Stevie Wonder karaoke.
Jenny from the Hood Ornament
Hey, Babe,
Flash mobs – that was over a decade ago, right? I thought that they had something to do with a DC Comics hero, but obviously, I was mistaken.
Okay, give me a second…F-L-A-S-H M-O-B – no strange accents or silent letters? Good…okay, right – weird social phenomenon featuring strange public behaviour…un hunh…early manifestation of what was possible with new computer-aided communications technologies…right…I see…ended when all of the people who couldn’t be embarrassed had already been part of one…right, right right – WITH A MELON?
Ahem. Okay. I have consulted experts on…this sort of thing, and they tell me that you are looking for a flash mob reunion. The experts – who would rather not be named because nobody gives tenure to anybody who studies obsolete technologies – except, of course, for English professors – claim that this desire is not uncommon.
In fact, according to one of my experts – no, seriously, you wouldn’t even recognize his name if I – you’re willing to take that chance? But…okay. Okay. My expert is…Ai Weiweipedia. He’s…Chinese. Okay? Happy now? In fact, according to – you know what? This paragraph has been ruined for me. Let’s start afresh in the next paragraph.
According, in fact, to one of my experts, there is a Flash Mob Clearing House Web page (http://www.fmch.urg/index.shhtml), where people who were once part of one can try to connect to other people who – no, wait, it just shut down because of a malware attack. But, the Flash Mob Clearing House’s Farcebook fan page is still – no, hold on, the page has been reinstated, but now you have to sign in and verify your identity. Okay, so, if you want to find – oh, now a splinter group that doesn’t like the new policy has started its own Web page – The Clearing House for Flash Mob Info page – that will remain open to anonymous posts.
Things really move fast on the Internet.
Okay, so, the point is that there are ways for you to connect with other people who may have been involved with your flash mob. But, do you rally want to relive your peak experience?
When I was…even younger than the young age I am now, I took a balloon tour of Europe. Ah, the misty spray on my face, the gentle swaying of the gondola, the bucolic landscapes below! This was a peak experience that I cherished for years.
Then, last year, I had the bright idea of reliving the experience. That misty spray? It was acid rain that left my skin blotchy and discoloured. The gentle swaying of the gondola? There isn’t enough Dramamine in the world to settle my stomach! And, the bucolic landscapes? Shuttered factories and abandoned company towns aren’t as romantic as they sound, even when viewed from several thousand feet in the air.
Believe me – the only thing that can come from a second peek at peak experiences is disappointment!
Send your relationship problems to the Alternate Reality News Service’s sex, love and technology columnist at questions@lespagesauxfolles.ca. Amritsar Al-Falloudjianapour is not a trained therapist, but she does know a lot of stuff. AMRITSAR SAYS: I often relive pique experiences, but that’s a completely different matter, one that I am not prepared to share with the likes of you!