As with all spam you send, when you mail out to hundreds of thousands of people your "Let's Scare Women" spam message, the point is to get as many people as possible to forward it. Your message has to make people afraid, really afraid. It's important to instill fear in women, but it is equally important to instill fear in dads and husbands, because, if these males and females are scared, they might actually drag their lazy mouse hand and click on "Forward," which will fill you (although you will never know the button has been clicked), the author, with a sense of fulfillment bordering upon divine rapture.
Besides personal fulfillment, the purpose of the "Let's Scare Women" spam is to re-balance our messed-up society. By reminding women that they are weak and vulnerable, you are doing a duty by keeping women from crossing a lot of dangerous boundaries they might otherwise cross. And by making the dads and husbands afraid for them, you are providing fodder for the argument that women need a man's protection. And we all know what the sub-text of this argument is (although we don't state this to the fairer sex because they might get offended)--women should be controlled by men.
So, having established two important reasons for the composition of such a communique, let us proceed directly to the outline of how it is produced:
1) Open with a voice of concern that lets the anonymous recipient know that you care about him or her. Remember that this E-mail will be forwarded between acquaintances, so when a person receives it, your thoughtful words will make the receiver feel as if the sender actually cares.
2) Provide some examples that prey on people's natural fears. Include some examples about women being drugged, maimed, and beaten by people who were hiding in wait for the victim. You want your reader to forever wonder if someone is hiding under her car, in the dark van next to her, or in that dark blind spot behind her seat. One of the goals is to unsettle your audience. One way to do this is to make it sound as if such attacks were everyday occurrences.
3) Make an allusion to a credible-sounding source. The source can be real or imagined, but it needs to sound credible. Don't worry, most of your audience will trust that the information really came from the New York Times, or they will believe that there is a small newspaper in Kansas called the Quarterville Post. You can even provide a link to the home page of a newspaper; the reader will assume that the story must have existed and is now simply buried within the archives of the paper you linked to.
4) End the E-mail with a Call to Action. Remember that your purpose is two-fold: to get people to forward this E-mail to everyone they know, and to put women back in their place. So your call to action needs to encompass these two aims.
Below is a short example. Feel free to write much longer spam messages that include many more frightful examples.
"I'm forwarding this to you because I care about women, and I know you do too. Recently, there has been a series of brutal attacks on women that the Liberal News Media are simply ignoring. The Wall Street Journal has reported on several of these attacks, but the trend is much more wide-spread than even they are willing to admit. The Kansas-based Quarterville Post broke the news that throughout the past year, over one hundred women have been attacked in this fashion. Here is what the assailants do: They "hang out" at grocery stores and banks and wait for women to go inside. Then they quickly slip under the car of the woman and wait for her to return. When she gets back, the attacker takes out a knife and cuts the woman's achilles tendons. Now that she is unable to flee, the attacker drags her under the car with him and robs and beats her and sometimes steals her groceries, too.
"Some reports suggest that these attacks are being coordinated by a gang, and that this achilles-slicing gang has a presence in every town with a population over 10,000. The only reason you haven't heard about this is because members of the wussy liberal media think these gang members can be reformed and the members of the press don't want to offend this gang. But make no mistake: these are awful people and they are probably staking out women at your local Safeway as you read this.
"The best way to get a handle on this is to spread the word through grass-roots efforts. It is up to you to send this message on. Send it to everyone you know, even to those you don't know. If you don't forward this message, you might be responsible for the beating, robbery, and slicing up of a woman you care about. And men, don't stop there. Be sure to always escort your women whereever they go. Don't let them out of the house until you return for work. It just isn't safe out there without you there to protect them. The best way to protect a song bird from getting killed by a falcoln is to clip its wings and cage it. The same is true of women.
"Again, if you care about women, you must send this to everyone you know. It only takes .7 seconds. Send it. If you don't, you'll regret it some day. When your sister or friend or wife or daughter crawls home from the grocery store without her groceries, her face battered and her ankles bloodied, and asks you, "Why didn't you warn me?," you will regret not having warned her by simply clicking on the Forward button at the top of this page. Do it. Do it now. Forward this, or you'll be sorry, and so will everyone around you."
Now, after you have composed this message, send it to a whole bank of E-mail addresses. Someone in the group will send it on to people she or he knows, and then it will have a personal touch. You can now sleep peacefully knowing you have acheived something today: you have started a message that will probably be forwarded forever. Never mind that most cars are too low to the ground for an adult to fit underneath. Nevermind that many people would find it weird and report it if they saw a man trying to throw himself underneath someone else's car. When people are scared, they don't think about these things, because you've made it so easy for them to pass on the message. And as the message spreads through the infinite webs of cyberspace, know this: You have acheived immortality!
Monday, October 27, 2008
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Low-Quality Junk Mail
I've noticed lately that most of my junk mail is decidedly inferior to what it used to be. It's almost as if junk mail authors are starting to become disheartened and are only sending out second-best work. In an effort to improve the general quality of E-spam, and to help restore it to its previously lofty position (before E-mail services imposed "junk" filters onto everyone) as America's most-read material, I am going to do a series, including examples, on how to write and disseminate good junk. If you have any favorite categories I should cover, let me know, and I'll do my best to give 'em a shoutout.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Listen
The shrill whine that train wheels make when they grate slowly against metal tracks has always appealed to me. I first heard it, and became fond of it, in the mid 1990s in Germany, in the huge train station in Hamburg, on the small platforms near rural villages. It sounds like a deeply-felt song, a series of long, high notes that trail after each other, as if one note, with its hand out, were chasing after the one that came before it, which was in turn longing after the one before, each crying out a sound of un-anxious longing.
In larger train stations, where several trains are always arriving and departing, the shrieks and cries of many large metal bodies blend to make a chorus of sorts. The sounds blend to a hum, almost like a harmonica whose five or six highest notes are being played simultaneously. Here the trains can really show off because they are guided by slanting rails into specific slots, guided sharply at clanking angles that would send them, at higher speeds, cartwheeling free of their constraints. But here, crawling along at this pace, they can bump and shimmy and squeal without worry; these sounds let their charges know that, momentarily, they will safely be deposed onto the platform, where friends wait to embrace them after their long absence. Or these passengers might ignore the hugging crowds and hurry to another train to head in yet another direction; or to home to fall asleep on the velvet couch. The heavy wheels spin one way, stop, and then spin the other way, singing on their way in, singing on their way out.
Another place, besides stations, where this sound arrests me is underneath overpasses. While in grad school in Spokane, I often walked under such an overpass at night on my way back to my car. If a train passed over, I would stop and listen to its conflicted sounds: the heavy, rhythmic crashing that caused the concrete pillars to tremble and the ground to shake, contrasted with the lofty whine of the wheels--the whale song of the tracks. On these nights those high pitches were the sound of contemplation; they embodied emotionally my disembodied thoughts.
I'm not one of those people who love trains; I don't fantasize about being a conductor or an engineer. I've never owned a model train. But I do like how the metal sounds as it grates against itself. It is a high, straining, somewhat hollow, metallic sound that rises and falls slowly. It is the sound of longing, the sound of waiting, the sound of relief, the sound of understanding, the sound of being found, of taking leave, of regret and forgiveness, of lamentations and rejoicings, the sound of coming and of going. It is the sound of gray drizzle on centuries-old roofs, the sound of cracked concrete and soot-covered backs, of luggage wheels clacking over slotted concrete, the sound of pigeons pecking pea-sized chunks of cheese bread from frozen cobblestones, the sound of hog farms and grain bins, of obsolete ingenuity and inter-dependence, of never-coming-back.
Those high peals drag their fingernails over the chalky hearts of the hearing near-by, searching, awakening...something, usually. Unless the sounds escaping from steel ring out and meet with no response, become incorporeal, impotent shockwaves diminishing into mute, dampening space
(So, um, in other words, I like that high-pitched sound that train wheels make when they move slowly down the track...and, in the moment of composition, I was also feeling fond of alliteration).
In larger train stations, where several trains are always arriving and departing, the shrieks and cries of many large metal bodies blend to make a chorus of sorts. The sounds blend to a hum, almost like a harmonica whose five or six highest notes are being played simultaneously. Here the trains can really show off because they are guided by slanting rails into specific slots, guided sharply at clanking angles that would send them, at higher speeds, cartwheeling free of their constraints. But here, crawling along at this pace, they can bump and shimmy and squeal without worry; these sounds let their charges know that, momentarily, they will safely be deposed onto the platform, where friends wait to embrace them after their long absence. Or these passengers might ignore the hugging crowds and hurry to another train to head in yet another direction; or to home to fall asleep on the velvet couch. The heavy wheels spin one way, stop, and then spin the other way, singing on their way in, singing on their way out.
Another place, besides stations, where this sound arrests me is underneath overpasses. While in grad school in Spokane, I often walked under such an overpass at night on my way back to my car. If a train passed over, I would stop and listen to its conflicted sounds: the heavy, rhythmic crashing that caused the concrete pillars to tremble and the ground to shake, contrasted with the lofty whine of the wheels--the whale song of the tracks. On these nights those high pitches were the sound of contemplation; they embodied emotionally my disembodied thoughts.
I'm not one of those people who love trains; I don't fantasize about being a conductor or an engineer. I've never owned a model train. But I do like how the metal sounds as it grates against itself. It is a high, straining, somewhat hollow, metallic sound that rises and falls slowly. It is the sound of longing, the sound of waiting, the sound of relief, the sound of understanding, the sound of being found, of taking leave, of regret and forgiveness, of lamentations and rejoicings, the sound of coming and of going. It is the sound of gray drizzle on centuries-old roofs, the sound of cracked concrete and soot-covered backs, of luggage wheels clacking over slotted concrete, the sound of pigeons pecking pea-sized chunks of cheese bread from frozen cobblestones, the sound of hog farms and grain bins, of obsolete ingenuity and inter-dependence, of never-coming-back.
Those high peals drag their fingernails over the chalky hearts of the hearing near-by, searching, awakening...something, usually. Unless the sounds escaping from steel ring out and meet with no response, become incorporeal, impotent shockwaves diminishing into mute, dampening space
(So, um, in other words, I like that high-pitched sound that train wheels make when they move slowly down the track...and, in the moment of composition, I was also feeling fond of alliteration).
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Travel vs. Goats
My friend Laura posted some thoughts on her blog that sort of tapped into a latent dilemma that lately has been pressing on me: the traveling urge. Ever since Elizabeth and I got back eight years ago from spending three months in Europe (we were mostly in Germany, but we also spent time in the Czech Republic, Austria, and France), I have wanted to go back. Two and a half years ago, we geared up to go on a really cool trip; it still pains me to think about it.
Here were the plans: Our group would consist of Elizabeth, Sonora (then 1.5 years old and thus costless on an airlplane), me, and Elizabeth's sister Carrie and her new husband Carson.
We would fly with our bikes, panniers, a child bike trailer, and our camping gear to Munich Germany, where we would set out to the south-east. We would take 4 leisurely weeks biking through southern Germany and most of Austria, finally ending up in Budapest, Hungary. We would either take a train back to Munich, or fly out from Budapest.
We had the whole trek planned out. There are campgrounds, most of which are right on the water at one picturesque mountain lake or another, every ten miles or so along the route. I looked up rules on taking bikes as luggage. We purchased all the gear we needed.
And then we did our budget.
The year before, we had lived on my $22,000 salary, and while my salary had increased since then, we weren't going to be able to muster up, without going into debt, the $3,500 we figured we'd need for the trip. So for the next few months I cringed when a now-irrelevant deadline passed: the date we would need to buy our plane tickets; the date we would board the airplane; the date we would set out peddling at the feet of the Alps.
Since then we've taken one trip--to Alaska for a week--which was a pretty cool trip; it felt as if we had gone somewhere. Besides that, we've just driven to Utah or Colorado or to the other side of Washington. Or we've had stay-cations, which are a poor substitute. Our journeys have been kept short partially because, having purchased a house, we haven't had much extra money, and because we had Rowyn.
But as Rowyn gets old enough to make travel a little easier, and we begin to entertain thoughts of travel again, we've also started making plans that will anchor us to where we are. These plans consist of goats and chickens.
Elizabeth and I are as drawn to the idea of procuring our own food as we are to traveling and, I'm realizing, these are mutually exclusive pursuits. Milk goats have to be milked multiple times a day, every day of every week of the year, or else the milk will dry up. Eggs have to be gathered every day or else eventually the chickens will peck into them and develop a taste for eggs that would ruin the flock for egg-bearing.
We could ask our neighbors to milk our goats and gather the eggs, but to ask someone to do this for a month while we romp about Europe (or South America, or Africa, or Asia, or Australia) would be irresponsible. Besides, few people would have time to do this. Fewer people still would like us enough to do it.
We don't have any animals yet, nor do we have any plans for travel. Over the coming winter, we will make a decision that will of necessity exclude from our lives something we are excited about.
Here were the plans: Our group would consist of Elizabeth, Sonora (then 1.5 years old and thus costless on an airlplane), me, and Elizabeth's sister Carrie and her new husband Carson.
We would fly with our bikes, panniers, a child bike trailer, and our camping gear to Munich Germany, where we would set out to the south-east. We would take 4 leisurely weeks biking through southern Germany and most of Austria, finally ending up in Budapest, Hungary. We would either take a train back to Munich, or fly out from Budapest.
We had the whole trek planned out. There are campgrounds, most of which are right on the water at one picturesque mountain lake or another, every ten miles or so along the route. I looked up rules on taking bikes as luggage. We purchased all the gear we needed.
And then we did our budget.
The year before, we had lived on my $22,000 salary, and while my salary had increased since then, we weren't going to be able to muster up, without going into debt, the $3,500 we figured we'd need for the trip. So for the next few months I cringed when a now-irrelevant deadline passed: the date we would need to buy our plane tickets; the date we would board the airplane; the date we would set out peddling at the feet of the Alps.
Since then we've taken one trip--to Alaska for a week--which was a pretty cool trip; it felt as if we had gone somewhere. Besides that, we've just driven to Utah or Colorado or to the other side of Washington. Or we've had stay-cations, which are a poor substitute. Our journeys have been kept short partially because, having purchased a house, we haven't had much extra money, and because we had Rowyn.
But as Rowyn gets old enough to make travel a little easier, and we begin to entertain thoughts of travel again, we've also started making plans that will anchor us to where we are. These plans consist of goats and chickens.
Elizabeth and I are as drawn to the idea of procuring our own food as we are to traveling and, I'm realizing, these are mutually exclusive pursuits. Milk goats have to be milked multiple times a day, every day of every week of the year, or else the milk will dry up. Eggs have to be gathered every day or else eventually the chickens will peck into them and develop a taste for eggs that would ruin the flock for egg-bearing.
We could ask our neighbors to milk our goats and gather the eggs, but to ask someone to do this for a month while we romp about Europe (or South America, or Africa, or Asia, or Australia) would be irresponsible. Besides, few people would have time to do this. Fewer people still would like us enough to do it.
We don't have any animals yet, nor do we have any plans for travel. Over the coming winter, we will make a decision that will of necessity exclude from our lives something we are excited about.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Summer's End
One of the reasons I'm pleased with my job is that I get summers off: almost three months in a row, one-fourth of a year. That is a pretty good deal. I don't get paid for these months, but we've been able to save up enough money to make it through each summer so far. I cherish these months of spending time with Elizabeth and the girls. But one difficulty with this schedule I've noticed particularly acutely this time around is that, when I go back to work, I go through withdrawals. The symptoms are sadness, frustration, and a sense of loss.
Elizabeth feels many of these same feelings when I go back to work. She can't just go outside and leave the baby. She can't just make a quick trip to town or run an errand without packing up the kids. Most days, she sees no other adults and spends her time reviewing the alphabet, wiping up curdled breast milk, making crafts and cleaning up the house. When I get home, we try to talk to each other about our respective days, to re-energize each other with casual, caring conversation, but we can't really talk, because Sonora becomes frustrated at the shift of attention away from herself and yelps "MOMMYMOMMYMOMMYMOMMYMOMMY" until one of us busies ourselves with her.
However, tonight, Sonora said something that led me to believe that she, too, senses that something has changed, that she, too, misses having her other parent around. "Daddy, do you feel okay?" she asked me. I had had a hard day, a long series of non-accomplishments at work. And I had had a couple of hard days before that--working a normal day, coming home for an hour to eat dinner, going to three-hour Scout meetings, and coming home to a dark, silent house. Tomorrow, I get to spend another Saturday doing Scout stuff.
"No, I don't feel that good," I told her.
"I wish we could play together more," was her reply. Since mid-September, I've only taken her to the park once.
"I wish we could, too."
I don't really have a right to complain. I love spending that time, those slow, warm, family months, with them. Few families get to spend that kind of time together. But the transition back out of that life is a shock, even though I knew it is coming. It's a sort of metamorphosis, I guess, like the cycle of a perennial plant that withers with the first frost, hunkers its essence down into its buried bulb and then waits, waits, those long, lonely months, for the sun to warm the earth and beckon it into bloom.
Elizabeth feels many of these same feelings when I go back to work. She can't just go outside and leave the baby. She can't just make a quick trip to town or run an errand without packing up the kids. Most days, she sees no other adults and spends her time reviewing the alphabet, wiping up curdled breast milk, making crafts and cleaning up the house. When I get home, we try to talk to each other about our respective days, to re-energize each other with casual, caring conversation, but we can't really talk, because Sonora becomes frustrated at the shift of attention away from herself and yelps "MOMMYMOMMYMOMMYMOMMYMOMMY" until one of us busies ourselves with her.
However, tonight, Sonora said something that led me to believe that she, too, senses that something has changed, that she, too, misses having her other parent around. "Daddy, do you feel okay?" she asked me. I had had a hard day, a long series of non-accomplishments at work. And I had had a couple of hard days before that--working a normal day, coming home for an hour to eat dinner, going to three-hour Scout meetings, and coming home to a dark, silent house. Tomorrow, I get to spend another Saturday doing Scout stuff.
"No, I don't feel that good," I told her.
"I wish we could play together more," was her reply. Since mid-September, I've only taken her to the park once.
"I wish we could, too."
I don't really have a right to complain. I love spending that time, those slow, warm, family months, with them. Few families get to spend that kind of time together. But the transition back out of that life is a shock, even though I knew it is coming. It's a sort of metamorphosis, I guess, like the cycle of a perennial plant that withers with the first frost, hunkers its essence down into its buried bulb and then waits, waits, those long, lonely months, for the sun to warm the earth and beckon it into bloom.
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