When did I become so paranoid? When 'THEY' all started spying on me.
A recent visit to the gym confirmed my worst fears. It is not only a faceless government that wants a piece of FRANK BACON. My neighbors have gotten in on the actION.
LIVING in New York is living a life exposed. The city streets are a jumble of humanity, where a fellow traveler is glimpsed in a fleeting moment of frenzy, pride, joy or sadness.
Curtains can be drawn inside the home, butthere is still the knowledge that someone acrossthe way, like Plato's man in the cave, may betrying to divine meaning from shadows on theshade.
This is part of the bargain we make, a little less privacy for a lot more life. But it is always contingent on the idea that any exposure was ephemeral.
Sure, we tolerated the cameras on traffic lights, the call centers recording our rantings while we waited on hold, and bureaucrats poring over our library records, deciphering why someone who fancies Aeschylus would also check out so much Danielle Steel. But now, literally, our nakedness is being captured.
When the camera-phone first became popular a few years ago, it seemed to be just be one of those annoying things people whipped out at parties.
Wrong.
Recently, I saw a creepy posting on Craigslist. "I am not a stalker," the posting began.
Underneath was a photo of a girl, her top falling off her shoulders and her hair disheveled, snapped unknowingly at a party at the Puck building in SoHo. A message from the photographer, admitting he had snapped her with his camera-phone, implored her to get in touch.
I hope the love affair fails. If taking a picture of a strange girl, posting it for all the world to see and then begging her for an e-mail qualifies as modern romance in the city, I am going to crawl into the oven and shut the door.
The Accidental Exhibitionist JAN. 16, 2005
ContinueReadingTheMain storyShare This PageShareTweetEmailMoreSave