From time to time I will make some small mention in this space about my growing belief that the inanimate world isn’t. Inanimate, that is. Let’s say, for instance that you have been struggling to open a jar for twenty minutes. Blood vessels are bursting in the palms of your hands from the effort, and just before you consign that infernal glass to the garbage heap your wife quietly asks “Mind if I try?”
You hand her the object with a curl in your lip and wait for her to fail just as you have when … she hands you the open jar. She has not even broken a sweat. Now there is no way in hell that this could happen unless the jar itself was a participant, and had a bias toward your wife.
Here is today’s example. In my email inbox this morning I received this message:
I had to grab my right hand with my left to keep it from clicking on the link, a la Dr. Strangelove. Who in the world wants their motoring license to be terminated? And because of irregularities in my profile? What’s in there that could have such an effect on my driving freedom? And then I saw that the note was addressed to email@example.com. I don’t know who that is, but I am fairly certain that it isn’t me.
The whole thing reeks of scam-ness, but what’s important is that somebody sent akillaly a message in the UK and I received it here in Paradise. A piece of hardware between the scammer and myself is probably quite pleased with itself for its contribution to the befuddlement of mankind.
So … that shoe that you stumbled over this morning before dawn … you know that you put it away last night … you are sure of it. But, my friend, once you put it down that shoe had choices to make.
BTW: I would strongly suggest that no reader copy or click on the above link. It is likely that there is something noxious waiting there for you including a pack of viruses, some ransomware, and a phone call from an aluminum siding salesperson.
Bob Dylan just sold the rights to all of his songs in one big package. The buyer had to come up with a bundle, rumors are that it was around 300 million dollars. And what do I say about this? Whew and God bless is what. Now I can stop worrying about Mr. Dylan’s well-being, since 300 million dollars should be enough to carry him through, even if his life proves to be very, very long.
So here he is in 1961, before becoming famous. One has to wonder if that grin says that he knew all the time how this story was going to turn out.
From The New Yorker