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

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,

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.

Monday, June 21, 2004

It never occurred to me, gentle reader, how much effort it takes to score a point in baseball. While the ticket was generous, Friday’s baseball meeting was my first–and last–game ever, and I made this quiet vow while I sat under the cooking sun in the company of hundreds of drunken fans.

I’ve never had beer spilled on my person with dependable regularity, so I kept an open mind during the game. Now I know: I’m not into the whole beer spilling thing. I also noticed a good number of fans wearing an adhesive rendition of Sammy Sosa’s facial hair, a souvenir I should’ve bought in bulk for mass consumption. And that, in so many words, is how my meeting went.

I don’t know if it’s sunny or dreary in your region, dear reader, but I’m realizing the strong ties between weather and maintaining Secondhand Rants. It’s raining now, so I’m attributing Muse’s disappearance to the gray weather. If it were sunshiny outside, I’d be skipping and singing and dropping all that knowledge and shit. You know it.

Thursday, June 17, 2004

Believe it or not, gentle reader, I’m just getting out of work. I think Muse went shopping with some friends, so that leaves me in a comparatively quiet state. Truth is, I’m actually preoccupied with other thoughts, thoughts about what might happen at a business meeting scheduled for tomorrow.

One of my clients generously proffered Cubs tickets, which are apparently in high demand. I’m told that the bleacher seats, where I’ll be conducting my bidness, are where fans juggle watching the game and getting fantastically roaring drunk. Now, I’ve never been interested in baseball, though the bats–and the potential “sinergy” one could wreak with them–have always fascinated me. Adding bats to drunkenness only heightens the fun factor. We’re going to a bar beforehand, and since I favor the ale known as ginger ale, I’m going to be in a prime position to wheel and deal.

It’s time to zip up those synergy pants and start shifting those paradigms. Kill me now.