CinePhillyist Reviews... The Twilight Saga: New Moon
Playlist Rewind: Shonen Knife at Johnny Brenda's
Phillyist Playlist: 311 at the Borgata Event Center
Where Have All Our T-Shirts Gone?
I Have a Baby and Ten Dollars...Now What?
You've probably heard of it before - the mythical Rejection Hotline, whispered about in local bars and college parties as the savior to sexy Philadelphians (and their misguided suitors) everywhere. Philly's Rejection Hotline number, 215-618-1505, directs you to a cheerful recording voiced by a man that sounds like he stepped out of an Enzyte penis-enlargement commercial: "You're probably boring dumb, annoying, arrogant, or just a general weirdo!” "This person would rather play leapfrog with unicorns!" (Which, of course, could also characterize the kind of people that buy Enzyte.) We at Phillyist have heard of the number, too - not because, uhm, we were actually given the number or anything, but, you know, we were talking about it at a Phillyist happy hour. Or something. Ahem.
Anyhoo, last Friday night aside, what interests us about the service is that the creators of the Rejection Hotline have deemed themselves "a public service." According to Jeff Goldblatt, the maestro of Rejection Hotline, "The rejector has an easy way to get someone to leave them alone. And the rejectee can leave the situation with their pride and dignity intact and find out later - in the privacy of their own home - that the other person wasn't interested...The Rejection Hotline allows for no mixed signals or ambiguity." Fair enough - the average blushing gal (or guy!) may be facing a genuine threat to their safety, and a faux number is the only way to avoid harassment. Good for them; better a silly phone service than backed into a dark alley in Old City with no Cuba Libre baristas to save you. Protecting yourself, of course, is no joke. We like that the Rejection Hotline is doing its part for safety.
But - and we hate to sound like a Naive Nelly - please tell us, Virginia, what ever happened to flat out honesty?
There's no doubt that the Rejection Hotline, kind in sparing public humiliation as it is, puts no holds barred on private humiliation - the end of the canned voicemail sounds like an extra flying monkey from the set of The Wizard of Oz, and probably feels worse to the recipient. There's a social value in kindly sparing the undesirable, but does this social value have to repeatedly remind recipients about their "bad body odor" and characterize the caller as a "creepy stalker?" Wethinks not. He (or she!) could be a creepy stalker, but he could also just be sporting an unfortunate toupee. And that requires a Queer Eye intervention, not mean-spirited advice. Kyan looks like he needs more to do lately, anyway.
In short, we wonder why more people don't learn to say a flat-out "No thanks, I'm not interested," instead of resorting to the novelty of some fancy schmancy phone number to get the message across. Is it that hard of a task to rebuff Randy Richard completely at the bar, without prolonging false hope for the carefully timed three-day wait until he calls said number? Philadelphia, we could be nicer (yes, you, Philadelphia) than signing off with "And the person that rejected you certainly isn't thinking about you anyway!" And don't forget the awkward moments that might follow if you don't leave after dispensing said number - Randy Richard, under the delusion that he has a chance with you, may follow you like a puppy dog from bar to bar. That would certainly cramp our style. And don't forget the ultimate embarrassment - what if the weirdo in question is a repeated Rejection Hotline recipient? Upon receiving your faux digits, h/she just may call you out on it. Loudly. Then 618-1505 really could spell t-r-o-u-b-l-e.
But then again, there's always the Kinder, Nicer Rejection Hotline (tm), which tells us to "think of (this rejection) as a fortuitious blessing in disguise!" Maybe next time we'll hear this number (781-382-3478) after propositioning that cute new Phillyist staffer next Happy Hour. This message repeatedly tells us, "It's not you - it's them!" We'll keep telling ourselves that. Just like we told Virgina that there is a Santa Claus.
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