With Gmail fever sweeping the nation like an incurable disease, I thought it best to console those who have yet to receive invitations. As for my own invitation, I’m sure it’s in circulation, just waiting to wend its way into my antiquated “e”-mail account. In all likelihood an unscrupulous deliveryman probably stole it for himself, coveting it and stroking it as if it were a newborn pup.
Those are my problems, however, and we’re here you talk about yours, gentle reader. You probably haven’t received an invitation either, and for that you have my condolences. It’s okay, really, because the same unscrupulous deliveryman probably stole yours along with mine, or Google really hates you. Let’s go with the latter possibility. Have you ever questioned what the “G” in Gmail stands for? I think it stands for “Gestapo,” but that’s just me. Picture it: a Gothic tower in the heart of Silicon Valley, a gathering storm, flashes of lightning, men and women in finely tailored suits whispering dark machinations across Instant Messenger, cryptic missives doled out to those select few who are in the know. It’s positively criminal. And unfair. In the spirit of inclusion and good ol’ American know-how, let’s draft an invitation to send ourselves.
Hello Comrade,
You have toiled under this travesty, this “free marketplace” of e-mail services for too long. Hotmail, Excite, Yahoo–these are the capitalistic mongrels who would have us scream with delight and gratitude, even as they crush us under their monolithic weight.
“From each according to his ability to purchase high-speed Internet to take advantage of our massive storage services, to each according to need.” That is our credo. And it shall be yours, should you choose to join our revolution, our fight, our Gmail.
Please insert your soul into your disk drive. Meet us at the corner of xxxxxxxx and xxxxxxxx. And bring cookies. Do all of this and an account shall be
Yours,
G.
I feel much better now.
I’ve been thinking about why people choose their occupations, gentle reader, and it’s a question I’ve wrestled with for a while. Sometimes you choose out of necessity, as an answer to a conundrum posed by invisible forces and a crappy job market. You take what you can get, and the hours tick by so you can pay rent and feed yourself. Other times, when the economy grows kinder and real introspection is made possible, you pursue something compelling and serve your interests, your people, and maybe your country in the process.
Perhaps all those teachers were right, and within many of us–conceivably all of us–rests the desire to do worthwhile things. I’m not going to schlep around and try to proffer a definition of “worthwhile,” since the definitions no doubt vary as much as ice cream flavors. I do think, however, that one of the symptoms of doing something rewarding is the ability to tell great stories, true and riveting tales that pour out of one’s work.
I’m not talking about a half-baked anecdote about a goddamn water cooler, for the love of Benjy, nor am I talking about a fantastical pirate captain saying, “Yaaargh, I managed to cram pillaging and raping into the same day, all without my day planner.” I’m talking about scouring Europe for that one elusive violin and finding, of all things, a multimillion-dollar Guarneri with f-holes modified by gypsies. I’m talking about sustaining a life-altering shrapnel wound in Fallujah and still having the mettle to return and lead the troops. I’m talking about trekking out to Alaska and running a successful radio program in the frozen tundra. I’m talking about sitting no more than a few feet away from a drug kingpin, having a gun pointed at one’s face, and still choosing to stand by one’s beliefs.
I’m not sure why I’m thinking of a quote by Ben Stein, so I’ll just go with it. “Give thanks for your work,” said Ben Stein once to a packed concert hall. Whether this is a measure of your choice or a prerequisite of your choice, if that makes any sense, I don’t know. But that evening he had garish white sneakers, our attention, and very likely a point.
The office purchased a brand new water cooler, gentle reader, and the device instantly commands wonderment and, in my befuddled case, absolute confusion. Up until now, I’ve whiled away countless hours with bottle after bottle of spring water from the company fridge, so it goes without saying that I approached the cooler with high hopes. I mean, it’s like we captured the Kool-Aid Man and have him on tap, just without the Red #40.
It would surprise you to learn, then, that the beverage generously offered by the machine tastes nothing like spring water. It tastes more like a spring water factory charred to the ground. That’s the Culligan Man for you, and that reminds me of the time the Culligan Man–or one of his uniformed henchmen, to be accurate–cut me off on Central Street on a warm summer’s day.
That brings me back to my main question. How on earth do you take the burning out of spring water? Do I have to break in the cooler, put it through its paces? Who can answer these questions? Perhaps it’s time to go to business school.