The author goes through his mail
I start with an hour of meditation, and I wash yesterday’s dishes. Then I make a cup of something, Morning Thunder or Roastaroma usually, sometimes coffee for a harder kick.
I feel obligated to go through my email. There’s hardly ever anything worthwhile in my inbox, save daily quotations from Abraham-Hicks and Living Compassion. Still, I’ve got to see if the British High Commission for Nigeria has finally cut me a check for the $8 million promised me by a former government official who wants only to rid himself of the burden of his former boss’s fortune.
I’ve gotten offers and proposals from Mrs. Farida Waziri, Abel Ubeku, Ben Ayodele, Mrs. Rose Wood, Khyati Desai, John McGowan, Mr. James Nana, Mr. Paul Smith, Dr. Omar Bin Suleiman, and Robert S. Mueller, who works for the FBI. More than once someone overseas named Porter has died intestate, and I’ve been picked to inherit all of his money. I haven’t gotten it yet, but when the cash shakes loose I don’t want to miss out, so I keep checking my email.
If no money has fallen out of the sky, I go through my notes. I use a digital recorder, so my notes are sound files. Now and then listening to notes gives me a useful idea. I usually know when I record a note whether I can get a column out of it, though I may have to listen a second or third time to know what’s there.
I used to read the news headlines for fodder, though not anymore. Politics and commerce—mostly the same thing—are easy subjects in that I have plenty to say about what’s going on. When I write about easy targets, though, I end up thinking about them as targets, and I no longer think constant attack is helpful to me or the things I care about. Janice was never comfortable with my political writing, and I’ve come to understand why. In desperation I can fall into my old habits and whip out a rant that’ll fill my box on the back page, but when I do, although I can make me laugh—which is always satisfying—it feels like cheating and a waste of time.
I just checked my email, and it seems that a Chris Brunelle, who goes so far as to address me as “Dear,” has a “package box” for me containing $1.5 million and has been waiting for some time for me to claim it. All I have to do is pay the $195 “security keeping fee” and I’m good to go. Finally.