Letters From Home

I’ve gotten on a few mailing lists put out by people who want to tell you how to make money on the internet.  Most of it was due to simple curiosity.  Those guys know how to write a great sales pitch and make their products look like…  well, in most cases like something they’re not.

All the gimme pages look pretty much the same.  I don’t know who came up with the format (one long, long, long, long, LONG column down the center of the page with lots of white space on both sides) but it seems like nobody can do it any other way now.  Most of them don’t mention the price of their item or service till you’ve wearily scrolled all the way to the bottom.  You’d think they’d realize that the savvy consumer will just press firmly on the PageDown key and skip all the inanities in the middle.  Of course, it’s likely those guys don’t plan on marketing to the savvy consumer to begin with.

Then, the price of the item always ends in a 7.  It’s $147 or $97 or $67 or $47 or $27.  Is there some kind of psychological advantage to this?  They certainly must think so.

Even the freebies want your name and your email address.  I have a fake name and email address I use to sign up for these things on the rare occasion I decide to go for a freebie (I’m not sending these guys any money, believe me).  Once you’ve coughed that up, you get several more pages trying to hustle you to pay for “better” products.  After you’ve clicked on “no thanks” a couple times you get whatever it was you went there for, and invariably it turns out to be “you get what you pay for.”  It is amusing, however, to see how many sites will offer you the same product for a reduced price once you’ve clicked on “no thanks” once.

Today I read emails from several people pushing the same “here’s a bazillion freebies” offer.  I checked that out, and not only do they want your name and email address to enter the site, before they’ll let you check out what’s there they want your first name, last name, email address and phone number.  Just how dumb do they think we are?  Oh sure, I could sign up as Fat Chance at infmom.net, and give them, oh, the White House public phone number.  But I’m not willing to waste my time doing even that.

And that’s another thing–these purveyors of internet-riches schemes all seem to be in collusion with each other.  Why, here’s Joe Blow offering his surefire scheme, and here’s Paul Whizzer offering a link to Joe Blow’s scheme plus maybe a Paul Whizzer tidbit or two (and isn’t it nice that you’ll be earining old Paul a fat commission from Joe if you click on his link).  You see these guys patting each other’s backs all the time.  Well, no wonder.  They’re all picking each other’s pockets for the big bucks at the same time.

The latest whizbang concept is video.  Sit in your chair and watch some guru blathering away on YouTube or something similar.  You don’t get a transcript or any kind of written material, just the video.  So if there is any worthwhile information at all in the presentation, you have to write it down yourself.  And of course for most people it takes a lot longer to listen to something than to read it.  Ye gods.  Do they really think we’ve got all day?

Even the usually worthwhile gurus are doing this now.  Joel Comm, whose AdSense book I purchased (and would recommend to anyone) and who has generally provided good advice, is now not only asking people to watch him on YouTube but to do free PR work for him.  Hey, digg this, write a press release, tell your friends about my new “Internet Millionaire” show and maybe I’ll give you a free iPod if you work hard enough for me for free.  Wowie Zowie, Joel.  It’s a great way to get plenty of PR work done for no money at all–but at what cost to one’s reputation as a legitimate source of good information?  What good is a fabulous rating if it’s motivated by payola?

In the beginning, I thought I might actually learn something from these people.  Oh, I learned something all right, but not what they intended, that’s for darn sure.  By now I’m just reading these internet-money things as a source of amusement.  I subscribe and unsubscribe to the various lists to see if anyone, anywhere, is offering anything new or worthwhile.  So far it looks like “The Rich Jerk” is the only one who’s honest about what he’s up to.  That’s a pretty sad commentary on how long-lasting the legacy of P.T. Barnum really is.

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Jerry Falwell is sitting on a very small cloud off the beaten path, getting more and more fidgety and irritable. He’s been sitting there for what seems like forever, in human perspective, and he’s not used to seeing things any other way, just yet.

Finally, he’s approached by a dark-haired, bearded, dark-skinned guy in a scruffy-looking, stained, somewhat smelly tan robe. “Jerry? I’m Y’shu. What seems to be the problem?”

“I’ve been waiting to get into Heaven, and all I’ve been getting is the runaraound here. They told me to sit over here. What seems to be the problem, indeed!”

“I see. And why did you expect to get into Heaven?”

“Are you serious? I’ve spent most of a lifetime doing the Lord’s work!”

“Ah. And which Lord would that be, exactly?”

“Which… look, can I talk to someone who knows what’s going on, please? I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m sure someone who knows me will understand the issue here a lot better.”

“Really? What makes you so sure I don’t know who you are? Aren’t you the guy who said that Americans brought the 9/11 attacks on themselves?”

“Well, yes, I did say that. But look at the big picture. I was upset. I’m sure God forgave me.”

“Ah yes, the same God who said that it wasn’t what went into a man’s mouth that defiled him, but what came out of it. I see. And what about the things you said about homosexuals?”

“Now look, I know I’m on firm Biblical grounds with that, and I’m sure you do too.”

“Really? You know, I’ve been watching you humans for a long time and I know you’ve written down a lot of stuff about God in the Bible that isn’t quite accurate, but–you do say you’re a Christian, right? A follower of the teachings of Jesus the Christ?”

“Of course! I’ve spent most of my life… look, can I talk to someone who knows who I am? Please?”

“I guess I just missed the part where the Bible said Jesus the Christ said anything about homosexuals, that’s all.”

“You must not know your Bible very well, then. I’m an authority on it and I assure you, God really has it in for those guys. I mean, I don’t agree with everything Fred Phelps does, but you have to admit that he’s fundamentally correct.”

The scruffy, dark-haired man rubs his beard and blinks. “That’s really what you believe, then. I’ll make a note of that. Now, what about all these things you said about people who aren’t Christians?”

“I’ve always believed that the only way to Salvation was through a personal relationship with Jesus Christ.”

“Do you think those personal relationships are a two-way street, by any chance? That is, do you think Jesus the Christ has an equal connection to the people?”

Falwell is shocked. “Of course He does! He must!”

“Mmm-hmm. And what about the things you said about women? All that stuff about the Equal Rights Amendment, for example.”

“Oh, come on now. It’s right there in the Bible! Paul explains it quite clearly–the proper place of women, and too darn many women today haven’t read their Bibles and don’t know their place.”

“Paul. Ah. The guy who based all his teachings on some kind of revelation he had in the hot sun. So you’re a disciple of the Apostle to the Gentiles, then?”

“Uh… yes, I guess you could put it that way.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t Jesus the Christ clearly condemn people who teach as doctrine the precepts of men?”

“Not in my Bible, He didn’t.”

“Your Bible? Which one is that?”

Falwell is amazed. “Why, the King James Version, of course.”

“That explains a lot. Now, what’s this business about you and your flock living high off the hog and expecting people to give you money? Where in the Bible did Jesus the Christ say anything about expecting a handout from the people he preached to?”

Falwell sputters. “He sent his disciples out into the world with nothing but the clothes on their backs. How could they spread the message if they didn’t have any income coming in? They had to expect support. We’re just going out in the world like the disciples did and expecting support from the people who hear our message of salvation.”

“Interesting concept of support. And of salvation, for that matter. Now, I also see that you’ve always taken full advantage of everything the 20th and 21st century had to offer in the way of modern technology, medical care, and so forth, but you expected people to live by a code of ethics that was formulated back in the days when a chariot was high tech and a lot of people earned their living herding sheep.”

“Of course! There are some things that never, ever, change!”

“You certainly got that right.”

“Look, I didn’t expect to come here and haggle over trivia. I died this morning and I should be in Heaven now, not sitting on a cloud somewhere. I mean no disrespect, Y’shu, but I need to talk with Jesus. I’m sure He’ll recognize me right away and we can join each other in Paradise. That’s what I’m here for.”

“Really?” says the dark-haired man. “And just whom did you think you’ve been talking with, all this time?”

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A long time ago, in what seems like a galaxy far, far away, I had an online friend who called himself Slim D.

You wouldn’t know it to read his writings, because he truly had the soul of a poet, but he was a near-recluse in an apartment on the fringes of Harlem in New York City.  He was a brilliant writer, equally skilled at writing satire, commentary and erotica.

Eventually, some other online friends who lived in the area met him and persuaded him to do some traveling, which is how I finally met him out here in LA.  His name was David, and he had been born with transposition of the major vessels of the heart and was one of the first children to have the surgery to correct it, in the 50s.  Although the operation improved his health dramatically, he was never entirely well.

I loved talking with him and reading the things he wrote, and after his trip to Los Angeles he began to get out a bit more, quit the dead-end job he’d had for years and got a new one building and selling computers, which he loved.  He owned one of the first Amigas and was passionate about it, although he could never afford to expand it beyond its original configuration.

Slim D found a girlfriend, with whom he was happy enough to leave the USA and travel to  Rome, where she worked, and stay with her there.  But his health was slowly deteriorating, and he made the decision not to have more surgery even though his doctors pushed for it.

One day, he got on his moped and set out for destinations unknown, and somewhere along the way, he pulled to the curb, collapsed and died.  Other friends with whom I had lost touch managed to track me down and give me the news.

The world was a diminished place without this gentle soul.  But time went by, and I let his memory fade.  It’s been more than ten years now since he died.

Last night I dreamed about my friend David, and he was happy, and whole.  I think of it as a message of hope and peace.  Wherever you are, Slim D, thanks for the memories.

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I loved the movie “Smoke Signals” and always planned to read the book it was based on, which is The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven by Sherman Alexie.

I finally got a copy from the public library and settled in to read it.  I was surprised that it was a collection of short stories rather than a full length book.  Once I got started reading the stories, I could see where the movie script came from.

Alexie is a wonderfully talented writer, but I found the book very difficult to read.  Not because of the writer but because of the subject.

Sherman Alexie’s life was shaped by an alcoholic parent, as mine was.  I think all of us “ACOA” (adult children of alcoholic) people have similar experiences.  Which makes it hard, sometimes, to read about someone else’s journeys through the same things.

This isn’t a long book, but I kept having to put it down and come back to it another day.  Still, I would recommend it, for the lyrical skill of the author and for anyone who liked “Smoke Signals.”  If you’re an ACOA, though, you may not be able to read through it all at once.

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It’s a glorious day out there today.  I had trouble sleeping last night, so I woke up late, but felt good when I did wake up.  The cats were snuggled around me and the baby house finches were cheeping in their nest under the awning.

F’zer got up early to go to an all-day meeting, and Vengeant was in his room doing whatever Vengeants do, so the house was pretty quiet when I finally decided to get my lazy fanny out of bed.  I took a nice long shower and ate a really late breakfast and as the song says, everything’s going my way.

So I don’t feel too bad about the fact that the cat box needs cleaning and something I can’t find in the kitchen smells.  I will get that all cleaned up today and will no doubt enjoy it.

Still, smushing down the garbage in the kitchen wastebasket and putting it by the cat box to remind me to scoop the box before I take out the trash reminded me that F’zer’s beloved compost container is overflowing (I checked, though, that’s not what smells).  And that got me to musing about F’zer’s…  um, dedication to recycling.

OK, let’s say it, F’zer is a NUT about recycling.  I mean, and I truthfully am not making this up, when he saw that story on the news about the kid who claimed that his teacher made him pee in a Gatorade bottle, the first comment out of F’zer’s mouth was “And he just threw the bottle in the trash instead of rinsing it out and recycling it!”  F’zer will go through a wastebasket that is 90% wads of tissue and 10% subscription cards from magazines and carefully separate out the cards so they can be recycled.  He doesn’t want to throw anything out that he thinks we could recycle or donate to the Salvation Army, and I have had to explain to him that the Salvation Army only wants good, resellable stuff, not worn-out items  that might possibly still have use as a rag for wiping off a greasy oil dipstick, if you weren’t too concerned about whether the oil actually stuck to the rag.  (It goes without saying that we have a large plastic bin in the laundry room into which remnants of old towels and underwear and worn-out socks get carefully stashed for use as rags, and I have had to put my foot down to keep him from trying to wash every dirty rag he ever uses.  At least he no longer brings bags of rags home from work to wash.)

We have a compost bin in the side yard even though we have no garden upon which to put the compost.  If he catches me putting the slimy remains of an old bag of precut salad mix into the trash, he will remove it and insist it should go in the compost.  Ditto for egg shells and coffee grounds.

Which is why, this morning when I finished putting the coffee through the Aeropress and found no more room in the compost container, it felt so deliciously wicked to just drop all those coffee grounds in the trash.

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In the mid-70s, I was browsing the local newsstand and came across a magazine called The Mother Earth News. It was printed on inexpensive paper, and chock-full of the kinds of information that people would need to be self-sufficient in the last days of hippiedom. I bought one magazine, and then over the next few months went back to the newsstand again and again to pick up every back issue I could get my hands on. And I subscribed.

The magazine had been founded by John and Jane Shuttleworth, and it was their personal philosophy that dictated what appeared. Many of the articles were geared toward people who were giving up the urban life to go “back to the land.” Of course, people raised in suburbia who were embarking on a glorious quest to become self-sufficient farmers needed plenty of advice, so there was no shortage of material.

The one main complaint I had about the magazine in those days was John Shuttleworth’s constant whining that the readers just could not comprehend how HARD he was working to keep the magazine alive. It began to seem like he thought we’d forget that he was working his tail off if he didn’t bring it up in endless variations in every issue. Yes, the magazine was being run on a rather frayed shoestring in those days, but what could we-the-readers do about it? We were, after all, buying the magazine and subscribing. They even offered lifetime subscriptions in those days. I think originally those cost $100.

Time passed, and the Shuttleworths moved on, and the masthead changed so that they were listed as “founders.” And then it changed again so that John Shuttleworth was the “founder” and Jane Shuttleworth was the “co-founder.” Maybe there was a divorce in progress, who knows? At any rate, the content of the magazine itself changed with the times, and eventually became (to my eyes) nothing more than “Better Homes and Gardens” for rural residents, with mediocre article content and even more mediocre editing.

So, the time came when I canceled my subscription. But I still had a nearly complete collection of about the first ten years of the magazine. And they were thick, meaty publications that took up a lot of room, but they were still worth re-reading and chock-full of useful information.

Alas, the first year in this house, we had a flood in the back yard, and lost 15 cartons of books and my boxes full of old Mother Earth News magazines. I hoped to save some of them, but when a magazine is printed on inexpensive newsprint-like paper and gets soaked… sigh. Out they had to go.

Yesterday, I was reading Gizmodo, one of my favorite blogs, and came across an article describing someone’s construction of a solar heater with black-painted soda cans inside a glass-fronted frame. “That’s not new,” said I. “The Mother Earth News did that ages ago.” So, on a whim, I put “mother earth news heat grabber” into a Google search.

Be still, my beating heart. The Mother Earth News has put their archives online, going all the way back to the beginning! I haven’t yet explored enough to find out if there’s a comprehensive year-by-year index… but I’m going to.

Everything old is new again. I love the internet.

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