I LOVE it when someone comes up to me at a club or a party and introduces himself with something like “Hi, Michael, I’m Larry. I met you two years ago at the S&M festival. I was the one in the harness who begged you to throw hard boiled eggs at my ass.”
I love that it’s so specific. It’s detailed yet quick enough so as not to be intrusive. And though I still might not know who the fuck the person is, at least he’s attempted to pencil in what our relationship was rather than let me figure it out as if blindfolded and on a game show. I can then proceed to have some pointed small talk with him rather than go the vague “Hey, fella, how have things been?” route.
But people aren’t usually merciful enough to do that. In a club, they never seem to explain themselves or wear a sticker that says “Hi, I’m Alice, who sold you beef jerky at a 711 in Beaver Falls in March of 2002.”
Instead, they run up to you and gurgle, “Hi! Remember me? Who am I? Come on, take a guess!” They want to turn the whole thing in a test, to see how memorable they were during your two-minute exchange in a bowling alley dozens of years ago.
That’s such an irritating game and so very draining, so I usually just sneer and respond, “If YOU don’t know who the fuck you are, I certainly can’t tell you.”
This article from the Village Voice Archive was posted on August 19, 2009