Internet Privacy: An Oxymoron?

For centuries people have tried to hide their dirty laundry (e.g. King David and Bathsheba, Nixon, Clinton, etc), but somehow the filth has always leaked out. We buy curtains to maintain our privacy, wear sunglasses to remain incognito, and decide to be unlisted so we can’t be stalked. Thanks to the web, all that is now in vain. The term “internet-privacy” is an oxymoron in this age.

Pop up ads for people locator websites are all over the Internet. Pay a small fee and boom… your target person is found; no matter where they are. The fact that some people don’t want to be located didn’t seem to be a consideration when these websites were launched. What if your old high school prom queen, doesn’t want to be found? Did anyone ever consider the fact that she might live among wild penguins in Alaska because she doesn’t want nosy neighbors prying into her life?

The worst part about the Internet is that once your dirty laundry has hit the web, it has hit the web. Even if the webmaster of the site that posts your clandestine information will be nice enough to take it down [not likely], it’s already too late. There is no return policy, this isn’t J.C. Penny. People don’t send back the images and information they see of you. That picture of you with toilet paper dangling out of your underwear at the office party while doing an impression of your boss is gone; it’s currently being downloaded by millions of evil minions laughing at you in their cubicles.

The annoying thing about the Internet is that it’s a haven for cyber outlaws. There is no sheriff policing DSL lines for the sake of your privacy. Most of the time people can post anything about you and get away with it. It’s called free speech and it pirouettes around webpages sassing you. A person can write a mean-spirited website about you out of pure spite and nine times out of ten you can basically do nothing.

We have to admit, some people ask for it. They purchase webcams, create self-revealing websites, post Internet diaries, leak sex tapes, and let all the stalkers in the cyber-world know exactly where they keep the spare key to their apartment. The point is this: they ask for it. Some of us don’t. It’s all fun and games when a future employer researches you before an interview and discovers you were high school valedictorian. It’s not as enjoyable when they see your DUI arrest from your misguided college days.

You hear numerous accounts of bosses firing employees because they were looking at pornography on company time. It is commendable that these perverts were fired, but might we be missing the larger picture here? The picture that shows corporate America playing the role of big brother in the work place. Yes, your employers saw the incriminating porn links, but did they also have a ball laughing at your personal emails from your doctor about that embarrassing “rash”? Unfortunately, that goes unnoticed because if you are caught looking at porn during company time, all your social privacy expectations are worthless, just like Confederate money after the Civil War. You’re not exactly the poster child needed for a corporate privacy crusade.

It doesn’t seem possible to hide dirty laundry anymore. An average person can only take so much. Even Google co-founder Sergey Brin admits that it would bother him if Google search results produced his home address. Just think: an inventor of Google has qualms about privacy! Is anyone safe?

While you ponder that thought, you can return to what you were doing before you saw this article (looking up whether Betty really is from old money, or just got lucky in the Virginia lottery ten years ago), and hope someone isn’t doing the same to you. Click. Click. Click.

Photo: "Keys to the Castle" by Jennifer Tomko Wilsie

Chained to the Treadmill...

It all started with this:
“Hi, it’s Sue Ellen from the gym…today is the last day of our January special…if you join after tomorrow it’s $150 more."

I’d been screening her calls while I decided whether or not I wanted to sink my money into her establishment; but when I heard this message, I dropped my jelly filled donut, and showed up at the gym faster than you can say “dumb bell.”

Sue Ellen had the air of a person from a small town in Idaho who was determined to make her gym successful in the big city. She looked like she was in her late forties and it must be noted that she was one of those few human beings that had conquered the ultimate feat: she had obliterated all her body fat.

Her one physical oddity was her really long hair…it wasn’t shampoo commercial long, but the kind of long that looked like it hadn’t been cut since she was in the 5^th grade. The kind that made you want to sneak up behind her with scissors and just sni-
I digress.

Scene: GYM

Sue Ellen greets me and pronounces my name incorrectly.
Everyone does.
I correct them only if I see a friendship in our future…Sue Ellen is
a shark…it is obvious our friendship will cease once she has gotten me to sign up.

We small talk...her voice and mannerisms are friendly…but not her eyes.
Those don’t smile. Must have been a rough childhood in Idaho.
Too many potato dinners?

We sit to do paper work.
“Where do you work?” she asks.
In my mind: (Why do you need to know Sue?)
Out loud: I say the name of my magazine.
“What is that? ” She asks doubtfully.

I explain to her that it’s a national publication in the business-to-business market.
(If I were going to lie about working for a magazine Sue, I would probably go with something more elitist like “The Economist,” or maybe something fabulous like “Vogue”).

“What do you do there?”

(I fry chicken nuggets Sue)
I painstakingly explain that I am an assistant to the editorial director there.
She smiles. She likes this answer. She looks slightly impressed and comforted.
Impressed to know I have a career path, comforted to know I have a salary and will pay up each month.

She explains that the gym will keep my check card information and automatically take the money from my account each month.
This alarms me.
She holds out her hand for my plastic.
(Why don’t I just hand you my pay check Sue…it’s in my purse...better yet, why don’t I have my company send it directly to you?)
I pause and silently hand her my checking account card. She is pleased.

She returns with a contract.
Basically the contract says I have to keep my gym membership for a year, the only loopholes are a) moving out of the area or b) dying.
I’m pretty sure Sue Ellen would want to make sure I didn’t fake a death to get out of that contract. If she heard of such news about me on a chilly winter night, she would probably opt to wrap her feakishly long hair around her for warmth (instead of using a jacket), and come to the hospital and check my pulse herself.

The contract has so many places to sign; it makes me feel like I’m making Sue Ellen a joint holder on my checking account.
I sign in 4 places. My stomach sinks lower with each squiggle.

Are you working out tonight?” Sue asks.
I say no….what is my excuse though? I moonlight as a doctor and have to fly to Iraq tonight to save a solider with gangrene? No…I will tell the truth.
I explain that I am giving myself a break since it’s the last night I will be a gym-free woman.
She looks disapproving. She is judging me. I can read her thoughts…they say: As long as you haven’t zapped away all your body fat like I have, you shouldn’t get a “break.”
She has labeled me a quitter…the girl who quits going to the gym on the first day she joins.

Unlike you Sue, I am not a work out machine. I am human. I laugh, cry, and eat pizza).

We get two free trainer sessions with the gym membership.
I’ll sign you up for those sessions this week. Sue Ellen tells me.

I know the drill…you get a trainer who works you to the ground, he makes you cry “UNCLE,” and suddenly you feel like you can’t succeed in any area of your life without him barking out orders to you. He promises you the body of Angelina Jolie, Halle Berry, or Carrot Top (to each his own) and you foolishly believe him and continue paying him additional money (on top of your gym membership) to achieve this ridiculous result.

I am not falling for that.

Who goes to a trainer when they haven’t had time to get fit beforehand? You don’t go to a trainer to get fit….you get fit so you can go to a trainer. You work out obsessively for weeks and weeks before you use your free trainer sessions so when the trainer yells, “Lift this 250 pound cement block for an hour!” you look him in the eye, chuckle, and lift the cement block…with just your pinky…for 3 hours.

I tell her I will wait a month. Sue will not make me do anything I don’t want to do (aside from paying hundreds of dollars to her gym each year). She agrees but I get the feeling she will fight this battle again with me sometime soon…and probably win.

I crack a joke that isn’t funny. Sue laughs because she is supposed to.
She says bye to me as I stand up.
But I know she had already said bye to me once I signed the contract.

I walk out the gym and decide to eat something fried in Sue’s honor.

Take that Sue.
I do what I want.
(Unless Sue instructs me to do something else and then I’ll do that instead…but it’s not like she is the boss of me though….)

Photo credits: www.nogearfitness.com

Go on, MAKE MY DAY

In the delightful ballroom dancing movie Shall We Dance, John Clark (played by Richard Gere), spends numerous evenings traveling home from work on the subway. During what we are supposed to assume is evening rush hour, Gere sits comfortably in the subway car. The subway is portrayed as a pleasant lulling mode of transportation with no hustle and bustle. This relaxing scene IS A SHAM

Commuters in Chicago, New York, and specifically the D.C. metro area know that the “Metro” (the D.C. version of the subway), is nothing like that during rush hours. Real commuters know that during this time the Metro is a fast paced world of harried commuters with little patience and really short fuses, fighting for seats. With this is mind; here is a list of things a first time rider should do to survive on the DC metro system.

DO stand on the left side of an escalator effectively blocking all the people who need to walk up or down. Try not to pay attention to the fact that the left side is not for standing and sipping a four-dollar low-fat latte. “Standing” on the left side of the escalator is the symbolic equivalent of driving 25miles an hour in the left lane of a highway. The left side is meant for moving briskly… even for running when necessary (yes, as ridiculous as it sounds, there are times when it is necessary for commuters to run up an already moving staircase to get to work on time). Try not to notice that when most commuters want to enjoy the lifestyles section of their morning newspaper on the escalator, they stay on the RIGHT side (no pun intended).

Do use your cell phone for LOUD super personal conversations in the morning on a silent metro car full of tired commuters. Example:
“Yes Jenny, he left last night with Katia! No, not Katia the kleptomaniac…Katia the bikini waxer! Yes, her (… she does do great work...) do you think he sensed the commitment issues that I developed when Matthew left me for that German gymnast?”
Sleepy eyed commuters who are trying to take a pre-work pick-me-up nap really appreciate this.
Ignore the fact that most of the time the proper etiquette for picking up a cell phone on the metro in morning is:

Looking panic stricken and apologetic that your cell phone not only rang, but was also answered by you.

Whispering in pained tones and saying things like “Honey, you fell off a ladder and can’t get up? That’s horrible. Can I call you back in 15 when I get off the metro?”

Do get on the metro when you are sick. Metro riders love this…especially if it is something contagious. What classifies as sick? Anything airborne…or even anything that isn’t contagious but sounds or looks like it might be. Whooping cough? Yes. Who doesn’t love to be raucously coughed on? Measles: Yes, yes! Puss filled boils: Yummy! Leprosy: People will be fighting to sit next to you!

Do play the music in your iPOD earphones so loud that other commuters feel like they are physically front row center at a concert. Especially if the music is one of the following genres: punk, heavy metal, or explicit rap. Ignore all the partly angry and partly imploring stares people give you while you are doing this. Also ignore the fact that even the deaf woman next to you has gotten up to find a seat somewhere else.

Do try to hop onto the metro while the doors are closing…especially if you are not athletic and have never tried to do this before.

What non-seasoned metro riders don’t understand is that metro doors aren’t modeled like elevators doors…they aren’t designed to thoughtfully open quickly when they sense a human body part between them. They are actually patterned like shark jaws…they are designed to close when they want to, thus effectively cutting off human appendages. If you are not a) James Bond b) a professional acrobat or c) a seasoned athletic metro rider, and you attempt to dive in while the metro doors are closing, this will likely result in a “half in, half out” situation.

Putting yourself in this situation will genuinely delight metro riders… they don’t mind their time being wasted if it is to be entertained by the sheer stupidity of another human being. Phone calls usually go something like this, “Hey, Pelosi, tell the Congress to hold off an extra five minutes …I’m delayed on the metro because some idiot has his head stuck in the metro car and his body stuck on the platform…it’s great…what was that…. is he a Republican? I’m not sure… I’ll ask him…”

*Note: This incident actually did happen on the metro. Witnesses (in the car) say the man didn’t look troubled or concerned about his predicament…he appeared quite peaceful. That was either one really brave guy or one really stupid one. You decide.

Do start a metro spat, which you don’t have the moxy to finish.

Example: two middle-aged, overly made up women stood on the metro two weeks ago. One had on a mink coat, the other didn’t. A man jumped up to leave the train... as he rose both ladies saw the open seat. The usual barbarian climate took over the way it always does when the metro is crowded and there is an open seat. The women shoved, bumped, and clawed people to get to the seat first. In the end, the mink coat lady won the battle and settled herself in the seat. The lady with the regular coat hissed in anger…she was ashamed and embarrassed the whole metro car had watched her lose such an epic battle. So she dropped her last jungle bomb, she said loudly, “People who wear mink coats shouldn’t need to be riding public transportation.” The mink coat lady was shocked and speechless...she scoffed haughtily and looked away. She may have been the one to receive the last insult, but at the end of the day, metro rules of engagement state that mink coat lady won the spat. On the metro, the real loser is the one left standing.

Do try to avoid using this.

If you are from out of town DO be an obnoxious tourist, and if you aren’t one, DO act like one. Commuters know the type: baseball hats, cameras around their necks, shocked “Well lookey here, I’m in the big city” expressions painted on their faces. Do yell and scream “Oh, Dupont Circle? Is that where we are now? Did we miss our stop? Where is the White House?” While you are at it, also place a bulls-eye on your back…this will really help out muggers and homeless people.

So there you are…some guidelines for how to ride the DC metro. Godspeed to you.

*Disclaimer: Blogspot.com, Google, The D.C. Metro Transit System, and Sb take no responsibility and will not be held liable for the outcome of following the guidelines listed in this article. These guidelines are merely thoughtful suggestions …ultimately, you are on your own.

Photography by Declan McCullagh