Spam and Conmails
A slow post-holiday email morning--having cleaned out my mailbox last night, just 25 messages: four Nigerian or Congolese conmails ("I am the widow of the late Mobuto Sese Seko..."); four of those Asian-language pitches for...well, I don't know, since I can't read any Asian languages; a couple of natural penis-enlargement pitches; a breast enlargement pitch; two "natural high" mock-marijuana pitches; a cell-phone sales offer; two make-money-at-home via undefined methods pitches; a few analyst reports; and three of the same attachment-laden, modem-clogging press releases about a subject I don't cover from the UK.
No personal mail. I think registering at all those porn sites for that Wired article may have made my mix more interesting than it might otherwise be, but still. It may be time to establish a fresh email address.
As threatened, they did not have fireworks last night--there was too much danger of igniting the drought-parched George Washington National Forest. We had a good Fourth anyway. Hamburgers and hot dogs on the grill, cold beer. I taught the Elijah and Sydney and their cousins Claire and Laura how to play seven-card stud, using popcorn kernels for chips.
My dad died fifteen years ago today. It's nice to be with my mom and my sister for the anniversary. When my dad died I was in Quiogue, New York (by which people who don't know the Hamptons often think I mean Quogue.) Two of the friends I was with that day are dead now, too--my hostess, Lili Kibel, and Calvin Gooding. I never thought I would know so many dead people.
I regret that my father, Donald, never knew his grandchildren, who are like him and unlike him in interesting ways, and who would have adored him in a way that he could not have anticipated. And I'm sorry that he, a student of history who lived though much of the last century's highlight reel, didn't live to see the Berlin Wall come down or Jesse Helms leave the Senate or any other endings to the stories that fascinated him.
I miss my father. I quote him often (on being a native North Carolinian and Jew: "Some of my best friends are anti-Semites"; on one of his rich cousins: "He made his money the old-fashioned way--he rolled up his sleeves, spit on his hands, and inherited it"; on interpersonal relationships: "Let's you and him fight"; etc.) I think of him daily, dream of him probably once or twice a week. He's still very much a part of my life.