December 1998 smoking jacket by Gregory Alkaitis-Carafelli |
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Baby, I don't want your number
Bring on the spam, because there is trouble here in River City -- that's
right trouble -- starts with T which rhymes with P and that stands for
personal. E-mail that is. Just like it's OK now to say penis and eat
asparagus with your fingers at black-tie affairs, it's just fine to
admit to yourself the truth: personal e-mail is a big hassle, and it's
only getting worse. People were not meant to be brought closer by
technology.
For proof, imagine you're me in this idyllic holiday scene: the screw
top has been off the wine for a long time, people who shouldn't handle
sharp objects because of their medication have been "helping" in the
kitchen, some family members are dead or sleeping (it's hard to tell) in
front of the endless drone of televised holiday sports: and in the
middle of it all suddenly everyone begins exchanging e-mail addresses
(when did my family all get e-mail!?) and promising to stay in
touch daily.
A bit like Jenny, my e-mail address makes me too available; it's the
867-5309 for this decade: once people have your number there's no
stopping them. How am I to keep up? Family members pester daily, school
friends require replies, as do many other acquaintances digital and
otherwise. Say what you will about spam, it makes no demands on your
time. It does not require thought, emotional involvement, or even
context. Pamela and her hot wet action, those great deals at ONSALE,
offers to find people who don't want to be found (and you can mess with
their credit rating too for just a few dollars more!) -- that stuff is
great! Spam just is and it can be deleted, read or ignored, with no
black spot of guilt on your coincidence.
But personal e-mail is never so glib. It's just frequent and vigorous,
the digital equivalent of being outside in a rain of flaming telephone
books and direct mail catalogues with a broken umbrella. I must steel my
nerves prior to opening each and every message, usually for no good
reason, but I do it still, only to lie exhausted in bed every night,
completely spent. Instead of priority, I'd love my inbox to sort by
guilt potential so that truly pressing mail can be dealt with properly.
I just let it all sit anyway, but I'd feel a whole lot worse with a
waving little red flag by each message, and maybe a custom whine sound
to get me motivated to procrastinate, something like: "Whhhhhhy won't
you taaaaalk to me?" Unlike spam, people require answers, lots of them,
preferably right away, right from the heart, also only give good advice
and be witty and sensitive too. This is a complex but still tolerable
task to do once or twice, but e-mail is lightning quick: people have no
idea of the speed at which they can mount repeat attacks, and eventually
the red flags of guilt are out and waving like it's D-Day or worse;
there are 600 unanswered messages from (probably now former) close
friends and I'm up at 3 AM with a collection of little airplane-sized
bottles of liquor and a bag of stale Doritos like in "Planes, Trains and
Automobiles," except I'm alone, not funny like Steve Martin, and there's
nothing on television.
There is a reason the U.S. Postal Service is so slow: it's a defense
mechanism, there to protect you like airbags save lives in head-on car
collisions. Are there 600 unanswered letters waiting in your mailbox?
Unless you're Craig Shergold, probably not. Like the brain, floating
alone in its protective sea of fluid and membranes, letters have their
own protective wrappings, dryer and more subtle but there nonetheless,
disguised as the effort of putting pen to paper (not to mention finding
pen, paper, and effort to start), the mailing, the waiting -- all of
which keeps letters real, thoughtful, honest and most of all incoming at
a reasonable rate.
So more spam! Send spam not letters if you must fill a need to e-mail.
But if you're trying to reach me here in River City, I'll only talk to
you by telephone. I think you know the number.
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