Emails Found on my Old Computer, Episode #1

I used my former home computer from late 2000 to late 2004. I've held onto some of my sent emails from that era that I found somewhat amusing. From time to time I may share a few of them here. Names will be altered to protect the innocent and/or prevent me from getting sucker-punched.

1/31/02

Just met third-floor neighbor Ben. What a rich pretty-boy assface. He was polite and all, and "We haven't met," and I'm all, "I left an outpost.com package by your door, and I met your dad."

"How was your new years?" he handsomely said.

"Quiet," I said, uglily. "Stayed here in town. How about you?"

"My family is in Connecticut," he not-at-all-surprisingly said. "So, it was going between our place and the girlfriend's place...."

"You fucking asshole," i didn't say out loud.

Packaged Food Instructions 1, Jack 0

Last Saturday night, the parking space I found was pretty close to the big fancy Shop-Rite supermarket in town. So I thought, hmmm, instead of getting a takeout chicken parm sub tonight, or ordering a pizza, or making due with the third-of-a-bag of Rold Gold thin pretzels in my apartment, I suppose I could purchase and heat up some sort of frozen item. And not some run-of-the-mill frozen item from the boring A&P near my place—an exciting big fancy Shop-Rite frozen item. Something I've never had before! And I had orange juice at home. This was going to be a gourmet meal!

No Hot Pocket tonight, no sir! I walked up and down two-and-a-half long aisles of frozen delights. As I've stated before, I spend very little time in supermarkets, so every visit is a fun scavenger hunt. Everything's new! It's like that movie Memento if it were a comedy.

My eyes lit up at the sight of Barber Foods skinless breaded boneless chicken cordon bleu. "Quality since 1955," the package said. "Half off!" the price tag chimed in. Time-tested, value-priced chicken, cheese, and ham? Count me in, brother!

But first I decided to read the instructions.

Ooh. Do not microwave. That's a drag, but—not a deal-breaker. I do have a conventional oven, which I believe to be in working order.

Bake for 28 minutes. Huh. That's a long time. That's a really long time. And very much at odds with my oft-stated philosophy: If it takes longer to prepare than to eat, screw it. And it was nearly 9 p.m. already. But…no, no, I could do this.

But then came the words that stopped me dead in my tracks. "Cook to a minimum internal temperature of 165 F measured by a meat thermometer."

A meat thermometer?

I do not own a meat thermometer. (Unless we're using it as a euphemism, and then, yes, in that case, "Ay, I got yer meat thermometer right here, dollface.")

I momentarily wondered what a meat thermometer might cost, but quickly realized that even a bargain thermometer would totally blow the budget for this particular meal. And since I rarely use the oven, I have no idea if it bakes hotter or colder than the dial would indicate. And the folks at Barber Foods felt compelled to mention the meat thermometer twice on the box, also adding the words "UNCOOKED" and "For Food Safety..."

I've got enough problems without giving myself a case of salmonella from half-price frozen chicken. I placed the package back on the freezer shelf.

That night's dinner? A Jimmy Dean Breakfast Bowl. "Ready in 3 Minutes!"

Which is also not a euphemism.

Idea for a Short Story

A guy is lovesick. He is thinking about this woman all the time and his stomach hurts and he feels all weird inside. Sometimes it’s so acute he feels like he might vomit at any second. Then he drops dead because, you see, the symptoms had nothing to do with the girl or his emotions. He had a horrible illness that went untreated because he chalked it all up to love.

Budgeting advice

For as long as I can remember, newspaper and magazine articles offering basic budgeting advice have followed a standard script: drink less coffee, eat at restaurants less often, carry cash, balance your checkbook. You know times are getting tough when you come across a passage like this one:

Consider downsizing your living quarters. For example, after business began to slow at Saxon Anderson's teeth-whitening kiosk at a Los Angeles area mall, the 26-year old downgraded from a nice single apartment to a house with five roommates.

The Loneliness of a Middle Distance Runner

Last Saturday in these pages, Frank suggested that I run a 5K, ostensibly to meet women. Never one to back down from a challenge, I completed the Paramus Run 10K on the very next day.

OK, OK, it wasn't that spur-of-the-moment: I'd run the same race in 2004, '06, and '07 (missing '05 due to an ill-timed bout of insomnia); the Nike Run-Hit-Wonder 10K in 2004 and '05 (seeing acts such as Tommy Tutone and General Public perform on the race route); the 5K in Paramus in 2002 and '03; and the 3.5-mile Corporate Challenge each year since 1994 (including one surreal year as a replacement on my company's Corporate Challenge world championship team). Aside from these events, I probably only run an additional 3 or 4 times a year. I am consistently sporadic.

But Frank's words definitely caught my attention, as the exact same suggestion had recently come from another friend, who shall remain nameless. (His parents did not give him a name.) This friend had just completed a triathlon, with great preparation assistance from those fine folks at Team in Training. (Their acronym is the not-quite-accurate TNT, and you can probably guess why.) My family-man friend forwarded a photo of his training squad: Hey, look at all the pretty girls you could meet!

Sorry to get all Bartleby the Scrivener on you guys, but, I would prefer not to. And it's not just because I don't want to ask friends for more fundraising funds. (I already hit them up each year for the AIDS Walk--not a bad place to meet kind-hearted women, actually--and then there was my recent Obama-begging.) Nor is it because I shy away from doing anything where my real, hidden purpose is meeting girls (buying a dog, taking a pottery class, dressing stylishly...).

No, it's just because...I don't want to be a runner. I don't want to be an...anything. I find that people who focus on any one topic can become so absurdly boring to anyone who isn't also focused on that topic. They let that one interest define them as humans. You've met them, hobbyists of all stripes: The football fan. The religious zealot. The day trader (ok, you haven't met one of them recently). The gym rat. Ethics-based diet enthusiasts. Parents of young children. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, as Yul Brynner once said.

And so it is in a race setting: Everyone seems to be talking about their last race, or their next race, or the weather at this race three years ago, and so on. Someone always mentions their meniscus. And everybody is wearing a running-themed T-shirt. (Indie rock must be the only special interest group in which wearing the shirt of the event you're attending is considered a serious faux pas.) Oh, the wide but limited range of shirts you'll see: The Such-and-Such Race to Save or Eliminate Something. The So-and-So Memorial Half-Something-or-Other. The St. Whoever Academy Track Team ("Go Fightin' Mongooses!"). In all honesty, the only woman who spoke to me on Sunday said, "I like your shirt," and only because I stood out by sporting an Obama/Biden logo. But let's just say that I'm not sure she was old enough to vote.

To be overly earnest for a moment, it's one of the things I've enjoyed most when writing non-fiction: You can become an expert on a subject for a brief window of time—and then drop it if you like. I'm a dabbler by nature. I know way too much about some things (music, comedy, baseball, where to get fresh mozzarella in Hoboken). I know enough about a number of other subjects to do pretty well in trivia contests. And on many very important matters, I'm woefully ignorant, having only read the Yahoo News headline.

But I know what you really want to hear: How did I do in the race? I'll keep you waiting no longer. I ran the 6.2 miles in 56 minutes, 35 seconds. I was pleased; it was 35 seconds faster than last year. Though to keep things in perspective, I did finish just behind a dog.

Hmm...I wonder if his owner was really just hedging his bets in trying to meet a girl.

Oh, Those Connor Girls!

I'll admit it: For the past five years, I have been obsessed with social networking. First it was Friendster, and then MySpace, and now Facebook. And somewhere along the way, through overseas friends, I've signed up for hi5 and Bebo. Some of these sites have been infiltrated with fictional women, perhaps connected to porn websites or mail-order-bride operations. And of course these spam-generated "women" prey on men who list themselves as single.

It had been a while since I last checked in at hi5. But today, an e-mail notified me that I'd received a friend request from "Daisy Blaire." I clicked through, not thinking that I might actually know Daisy Blaire, but, oh come on...I'm writing this blog post on a Friday night; I obviously have some free time on my hands.

Lo and behold, I had 16 friend requests waiting for me on hi5! And I'd like you to meet 8 of them (pictured above, left to right, top to bottom):

• Erica Connor, requested Mar 6, 2008 4:30 PM

• Whitney Connor, requested Mar 7, 2008 10:42 AM

• Angela Connor, requested Mar 9, 2008 5:07 PM

• Lindsey Connor, requested Mar 17, 2008 5:01 PM

• Julia Connor, requested Mar 29, 2008 1:44 AM

• Trix Connor, requested Mar 31, 2008 4:57 AM

• A different Erica Connor, requested Apr 3, 2008 6:44 PM

• And last but not least, a different Angela Connor, requested Apr 6, 2008 10:10 AM

I don't know how to put this, Erica, and Whitney, and Angela, and Lindsey, and Julia, and Trix, and other Erica, and yes, even you, other Angela, so I'm just going to speak from the heart. I want to be friends with each of you. Who knows, maybe our friendship could develop into "something more" if we take things slow. But if I accept only one of you, I risk hurting the others. And if I accept you all, it might just tear the Connor household apart. And that I simply cannot do. I trust that you'll find happiness, Connors, in some kind of Eight Brides for Eight Brothers sort of deal. But it's not going to happen with Team Silbert.

One in the Loss Column for Team Silbert

Ah, that exquisite moment.

You've waited all day for an e-mail you hoped would arrive, and it didn't arrive.

But just to be sure, you check the spam filter.

And it's not there either.

And then—oh, this is lovely—just to add insult to injury, several of the collected spam messages bear the subject line:
You look really stupid jsilbert

Hello, New Jersey!

Well, Jack's bittersweet tale of a love that never was has been linked by nj.com, endearing him to the locals, who are rooting him on with comments and tributes such as, "What a wuss" and "stop wasting time and space on this crap."

First of all, the concern about "column inches" seems to be misplaced. But more importantly, a further investigation of nj.com reveals a disturbing reality. I'm sure people who live there are sick of the Sopranos references. But the stark truth is that New Jersey is a land of too many laws. I don't know about the rest of you, but I can't risk living in a state where this is illegal:

MEDFORD, N.J. -- An 18-year-old Sherwood Drive man was arrested Sunday afternoon on charges of disturbing the peace for allegedly firing a homemade potato gun into the air, according to the Burlington County Times.

The man reportedly was firing potatoes into a lake near where he lives. He was processed and released to await a municipal court hearing.

Curse You, Patrick Moberg

I was intrigued by the tale of Patrick Moberg. He was the wonderboy who created a website a few months back to find the "girl of his dreams" who he'd spotted on the New York subway. And, by gum, he found her! The Internet was all a-buzz—as it is wont to do—and the happy couple even appeared on Good Morning America. Moberg was a flavor of the minute, and the story was forgotten as quickly as it appeared.

But not forgotten by everyone. Young master Moberg may not have considered a sinister consequence of his seemingly innocent romantic quest: Providing entirely too much hope to we legions of pathetic guys who stare at women on public transportation. The following true story takes place a mere two days after I watched the infamous GMA appearance in a Houston hotel room.


With Moberg on my mind, I am on the PATH train platform at Newark Penn Station on Sunday night, returning from a trip. I see a pretty girl. A plain pretty girl. My "type." I think, I'll get on the same train car as her.

And I do. She sits in the corner. Should I sit near her? No, I'll stand, with my suitcase, a safe distance away.

She starts reading a magazine. The image—the girl, the hair, the posture, the magazine—is extremely appealing to me. I decide to clandestinely document it on my cellphone camera.

I figure I should take a close-up too. For good measure.

Hmmm. I calculate the odds. There's about a 10% chance she'll transfer at Journal Square to a Hoboken train. If she does, maybe I'll talk to her. If it's the New Yorker, definitely. But doesn't quite look like the New Yorker. Could be a fashion magazine.

Journal Square. She gets off the train. I get off the train. There's a waiting-at-the-end-of-the-line Hoboken-bound train across the platform. But there's not an obvious car straight across for both of us to enter. I take a chance and choose first. She doesn't follow me. I'm sad.

"Joaquin," calls one of the friendly employees from the Spa Diner, where I am a regular. I don't know his name. I explain that there was a "mujer bonita" on the "otra tren." But where she is now, I don't know. I am a little "triste."

I get off the train in Hoboken, go up the first flight of stairs, approach the exit, and—wait, I recognize that jacket, that bag, those black tights, that longish-dirty-blonde hair that is the trademark of 1/3 of the women I am attracted to. She exits first. She takes the steps to ground level TWO STEPS AT A TIME. Wild.

Is she walking home? No, she's headed to the taxi line. I planned to walk but, now I must also take a taxi. I bid "buenos noches" to my diner friend, who must begin his shift.

Now I am standing behind her in the taxi line.

I am nervous.

First cab pulls up. "Fourth and Madison," she says. This cabbie refuses: Most cabs take three passengers, but the first determines which section of town they will drive to.

So if a cab accepts her and still has room for me, WE WILL RIDE TOGETHER. Fourth and Madison being one block south, two blocks west of me. And since I won't be asking for the same exact intersection, it won't TOTALLY seem like I'm stalking her. It's what they would call a "happy coincidence."

That’s how it goes down. I am SHARING A BACK SEAT WITH HER.

She buckles up. Backseat buckling is for wusses but I do it. I buckle up. But will I buckle down, or buckle under?

As we drive into the Hoboken night, I think, "Man, it's fucking creepy that I have two photos of this girl on my phone."

And then I think, I should say something.

There's a third passenger, in the front seat. A woman. I am not attracted to her.

I think, how can I talk to one without talking to everyone? What would Moberg do?

Maybe we'll drop off Front-Seaty first.

No.

We're headed to my street first.

Fuck.

I haven't said anything.

Maybe I'll say something as I get out.

But I don't.

Fuck.

Not even "goodnight."

I am angry at myself.

I am triste.

Later I post one of those pathetic "missed connection" messages on craigslist.
But there is no reply.
No reply at all, as Genesis once sang.
This is the time of no reply, said Nick Drake.

And the wind cries Moberg.