Today I offer a hodpodge of odes, assembled from the swaths of gratitude I feel every day for small trivialities that amalgamate in a great, pleasing satisfaction. One of the travesties of thanksgiving, i think, is that no one prepares for it; i don't know one person who sits down in the middle of the day and recounts all the things he/she is thankful for. There are literally zillions of preposterously invaluable additions my life has taken on within the last 2 weeks, not to mention the past year, past decade, or past lifetime. Not to mention, I should add, the relative pace at which the Mets approach a world series championship, in anticipation of which I have been wearing the battered and paint-splattered Mets hat I wore to shea stadium in 2000 when the amazins clinched the pennant against the cardinals. But I digress.
Back in the forum of topicality, I call to your attention the greatest technilogical advent since internet-accessible pornography: Yahoo! beta mail. The new mail system is so good for so many reasons, none of which more important than its striking likeness to microsoft outlook. Since the day i converted to beta mail, no one at work has been able to walk by my desk and recognize, as they've done for the past year, my wasting time checking my emails. since the whole office operates on outlook, a cursory glance at my screen conveys the artificial impression that I am doing work, while, in reality, I'm emailing back and forth with public relations friends regarding the virtues of professional pornography, specifically vis a vis amateur pornography (long story short: more profitable and better looking girls).
Etching the virtues of yahoo beta mail brings me to my next small pleasure: my email contacts list. Sorting through my hundreds of contacts affords a small moment wherein I am extraordinarily popular, even a cyberspace celebrity. Typing any letter--even 'x' or 'q'--in the "To" window generates a mouthwatering drop-down rolodex fit more for a monarch than a malcontent. Meanwhile, sixteen million miles away, tucked under six feet of earth and a monument, the bones of Alexander the Great resound with envy: could it be that I have more friends than the conquerer of the known world? Well, since Alejandro didn't have email, and I do, Yahoo! beta mail tells me that I am incalculably more conspicuous than he (incalculable because the number of his contacts, zero, cannot be multiplied to reach my number, because of the multiplicative property of zero and my outsized desire to belittle individuals who conquer more terrirtory than I do).
The last items I'll visit are my thoughts. Without those racing, confusing, and possibly hypomanic sons of a bitch, where would i be? not on beta mail, that's for fucking sure.
Stay lucid, hypothalamus
MC dissolved in a puddle of single malt scotch
PS--what are you thankful for? Licorice? Prison? The Constitution? The trace amounts of mercury in every can of tuna? Hit me up--I'm very empathetic.