Tuesday, June 22, 2004

The Brunch Critic, in all his timely generosity, recently extended a Gmail invitation to me, effectively pushing Secondhand Rants into a higher Netchelon. Whereas my e-mail ritual of old involved hacking away at a dirty keyboard in the waning dusk, warding off curious street urchins with a rusty doorknob, my new e-mail digs afford me comfort unmatched. I tell ya, gentle reader, I had trouble remembering my username let alone my password with those other webmail services, but things are different with Gmail. Hell, now I trot out the brie and the Chablis whenever I browse my new messages. Just ask Muse.

It used to be I would surf to Hotmail, retch repeatedly, and then negotiate my way to the Inbox, only to find a hundred pieces of unwanted mail each day. Unlike their unchecked forebears, modern spammers must contend with devious spam blockers, which is why you see dozens of cryptic e-mail headings such as these:

en.large it for cheep

get ur free univ3rsity dipl0ma b4 itz 2 late!

why don’t you call?

deposed French president needs money wired now

brunette loves girls, buffalo

help

It goes on and on and on, so much so that I found myself banging my head into the keyboard one fine morning.

“What the heck is that noise?” asked Muse as she peeked into the study. “Oh, boy. Not again.”

I stopped mid-slam and looked up.

“What, do you have any better ideas?” I shot back testily.

“Yes, in fact I do,” she said with a sigh. “Maybe you should talk things over. You know, be direct.”

I gave her an annoyed look, but deep down I knew she had a very valid point. I went to work drafting the letter to end all letters.

Dear Hotmail,

I think it’s over between us. I tell you my name and my super secret password every single day, and what do you give me? The same baggage, day in and day out, about the same damn things: mail-away diplomas, herbal remedies brewed by dying Wichita sages, all kinds of bodily enhancements, forbidden pleasures simply unheard of in all the U.S. territories, except maybe Guam.

You bring the baggage, I toss it into the trashcan, you bring more baggage, I toss that into the trashcan, and so the great wheel turns. And the kicker, the final shiv in the ribs, is when you warn me that my “account size is approaching its limit” because of YOUR angst. The nerve! When will it be my turn, my chance to share? I have so much to give. But not to you. Good bye.

Hands shaking, heart beating with an anxious roar, I seized the letter with nary a proofread and jammed it into Hotmail’s gaping maw, which is to say I copied and pasted the message into the “Password” box again and again. I hit “Enter.” Nothing. I hit “Enter” again. Still nothing, but I knew my righteous indignation had been set free.