Loser's list a winner
In 1994 Craig Newmark was looking for ways to improve his social life, as I often find myself doing. As I rarely find myself doing however, Craig actually bit the bullet and did something about it? he started CCing his friends a list of cool events and happenings in the San Francisco Bay Area. His friends thought it was great, and they started CCing the list to their friends. The word spread and the list grew exponentially.
Today, there are 120 craigslists in 25 countries around the world. Every month eight million users post five million free classified ads on the site, looking to let or sublet an apartment, sell some of their stuff, promote an event, post a CV, offer "exotic services" or discuss the war in Iraq. You name it, it's all happening on craigslist.
The Dublin list was launched quietly in September 2004, and it's fair to say that, for whatever reason, the uptake has been pretty slow, which is a shame really, because it's a great way of whiling away the hours when you're supposed to be working. And with so many users, there is of course a personals section on craigslist. My favourite category therein is the "missed connections" one.
How about this from the US:
"I can't believe I am doing this but it's driving me nuts... I have seen you in the morning a couple of times in Starbucks, (the one on 71st & Continental), and passing me by on the street. I think you are so cute. I haven't seen you in a few days. I really would like to talk to you. I smiled at you quite a few times. Either you are not interested or have a girlfriend. If you are interested then I am letting you know that I am interested. You will probably never even see this... such a shame."
Being a writer of sorts, I find that, with some effective scheduling, I only have to leave the house once a week or so to take care of all the minutiae pertaining to my unfulfilling life. So with nothing better to do, I thought I'd take off for the day and see if I couldn't get me a missed connection of my own.
First off, I got the LUAS into town from Dundrum. Nada. Probably didn't help that I was listening to my iPod, indicative as it is of contented isolation. So I decided to go out to Blackrock, figuring there'd be some action at Pearse Station or on the DART. On the opposite platform I spotted a tall, slim woman, bedecked in white linen and carrying a black portfolio. Thought she gave me a look alright, but she could have been just staring straight ahead I suppose. She was heading northside anyway – it'd never work out.
When I hit the main street in the village it was humming with lunchtime activity. Even though I don't drink coffee, I got a cappuccino and sat down outside Insomnia and pretended to read my book, glancing around casually every 14 seconds or so. No joy: too many alpha males in cheap suits sapping my chi.
A little disheartened I headed for the station again, only to see a vision of loveliness sitting on a bench around the corner reading a book. Though the adjacent seat was empty I boldly sat down beside her, lit a cigarette and took out my book once again, stealing furtive glances in her direction as often as I could. Carefully tussled streaky short blond hair. Tight white top underneath a cool jacket. Half-length denim skirt emblazoned with oriental script. Scuffed white mules. Great tan. Cool shades. Hubba hubba.
"Sorry, have you got a light please?"
She said. To me. What fool said smoking wasn't good for you?
"Sure thing," I said, brandishing my trusty silver Zippo.
"Thanks," she said, smiling warmly as she withdrew her cupped hand from the flame. Totally brushed my hand too. Unintentionally maybe, but contact is contact.
"No problem. What are you reading?"
Please don't let it be some chicklit shite.
"Oh cool, I read it a couple of weeks ago," I said, examining the cover of Miriam Toews' A Complicated Kindness. "Great book."
"Yeah, I'm really into it. How 'bout you?"
She'd showed me hers, so I showed her mine – Jonathan Lethem's Motherless Brooklyn.
"Any good?"
"Yeah, it is. I've read some of his other stuff. He's great."
Only a slightly pregnant pause hung in the air. Exchanging names would be the next logical step, closely followed by an exchange of numbers and a firm commitment to meet for dinner later that evening after she had dumped whatever frat boy jock she was currently – and mistakenly – involved with.
A car stopped. A horn honked. She looked up and waved to the female driver.
"Gotta go. Bye," she said breezily. Tinted with regret too, I let myself think as she got into the car.
She's my missed connection.
Donal Ruane is a writer with too much time on his hands. His most recent book, I'm Irish, Get Me Out of Here! is published by Gill and MacMillan.
?More http://dublin.craigslist.org/, http://belfast.craigslist.org/