Serenading 'the mutes'

Stop me if you've heard this one.

So I walk out of a bar and sit down on a bench with two friends. A man walks up to me and says, "Hey baby, can I play you a song?" He's holding a guitar. "Just a little...ditty?" He glances at my chest on the last word. Clever.

His friends-cronies? flunkies?-chortle in unison in the background, slapping each other on the back.

I arch my left eyebrow and meet his gaze dead-on. I try to make my thoughts audible-I need to show this creep exactly who he's messing with. I choose my words carefully. My tone must be even, my response measured. That's right, jerk. One shot of Absolut Ice Maiden, coming right up.

"Um, heh heh, okay. I mean, I guess."

Right.

So much for the perfect punch line. Apparently I'm about as smooth as that girl that plumber-cracks everyone when she trips up the BC stairs in the post-econ mass exodus.

Hahaha. I love that girl.

Sharon Olds, a favorite poet of mine, has a poem called "The Mutes" that I often think about. In it, she describes the feelings a group of mutes would have if the asylum where they lived was burning down-overcome with emotion and struggling to escape, but unable even to scream for help.

I love that poem and the desperation it evokes, but I can't say I feel suicidal after an obscene shout. I'm not picketing for all wolf-whistlers to be rounded up, tossed in the paddy wagon and carted off to whichever dank alcove ALE takes second-time offenders.

In real life, I alternate between being either completely oblivious, or completely disappointed. The disappointment comes with seeing an overt waste of talent, like watching Talented Guitar Man (TGM) play irritatingly uncreative "diddies." If you can play me the first few riffs of an up-tempo "Free Fallin'", as I heard TGM do prior to "Lick My Balls," then you're too good to be playing three-chord gonad songs. Besides, I get enough testicle jokes from people who actually know my full name.

Still, TGM wasn't the most pathetic I've encountered.

At a model Congress in high school, I'd been assigned to be Rep. Barbara Cubin, the at-large Congresswoman for the state of Wyoming. The last day of the weekend-long assignment, I saw a group of kids from the conference on the street. One of them pointed at me. "Hey Sam," the kid shouted to his friend, smiling and meeting my stare. "Isn't that Wyoming-at-large?"

"Yup," said Sam. "And I gotta tell ya-I'm feeling pretty at-large right about now. If you know what I mean. Heh."

For the record, Sammy-me, my roommate, my editor, my grandmother, my bio TA and my dog all know what you meant.

But when my gag reflex subsided, I laughed-heartily. It was gross, sure, but pretty clever-and it takes a certain degree of intellect to be funny.

Which leads me to my point: Smart, witty, musically gifted men of America, why are you wasting your talents on throw-away come-ons? If you used your God-given ability to formulate even one clever, civilized thing to say to a girl, I think you'd be surprised at the results. As in, you might get a date-or at least a break from the old martini-in-face maneuver.

A few weeks ago, my friend Jennifer watched as a drunk kid made some rather uncouth remarks about my apparel. I shrugged it off, despite her protesting that I should chew him out.

Half in jest, I later asked her what particular aspect of my personage she thought invited harassment.

"I don't know," she said. "Maybe it's the 'Please Harass Me' sign I surreptitiously tape to the seat of your jeans every time you go out."

Ah hah. Must be it. I would be that girl with paper stuck to her butt, anyway.

Sarah Ball is a Trinity sophomore and editorial page managing editor for The Chronicle. Her columns runs every Thursday.