Dear Uptight Seattleite,
My neighbor’s newly password-protected wireless connection is called cant_share_anymore. Doesn’t this seem vindictive?
No Name Please
Dear Mark Fefer,
No. If she called it cant_share_with_you_mark_fefer_anymore, that would have been vindictive. But the way it was pulled off—as a kind of anonymous note—is pretty unassailable.
The first time I wrote an anonymous note, my body and mind were filled with light. With its power to instruct without any of the awkwardness of direct engagement, the anonymous note is the glowing grail of communication strategies. “I notice that your water usage has spiked in the last few months,” I could now invisibly say in a friendly little memo tucked into my neighbor’s screen door. “Remember: short showers, happy planet!”
Anonymous notes can also be slipped under windshields, stuffed in the spokes of bicycle tires, and superglued to the collars of neighborhood cats. In that last case, I like to also enclose a coupon for a more earth-friendly brand of flea collar. It’s not that hard to grab the cats if you keep a supply of tuna fish on hand. Good thing they sell them in those little single-serving cans. Once I had to use two cans to lure a particularly slippery tabby, but I generally manage to put up a pretty consistent 1:1 can-to-cat ratio.
I mention all this by way of saying that I thought I knew a thing or two about anonymous notes, but the more I ponder it, the more I’m in awe of your neighbor’s innovations. First, there’s the way the note is phrased—”can’t share anymore,” which aims the dart of its implicit rebuke only at those with a history of wi-fi bogartary. To understand the message is to feel the guilt of its prick. Then there’s the invisible, weightless nature of the note, which exists outside the burdens of physical existence. This is a note that has transcended its own noteness. The question of harming dolphins doesn’t even come up here.
But you know, Mark Fefer, unless you consider it anti-religious to have your own Internet access, it’s something someone in your position might want to consider.
Dear Uptight Seattleite,
I just saw some dude walking down the street drinking directly out of a gallon jug of milk.
How About That?
Dear How About That?
I admit to being on the casual side, though I do adequately meet the requirement that the human body be covered with pieces of fabric. For me, the most important thing is that my clothes breathe. My bodily vapors must be continuously released through a special system of micropores. Some people might not care for my bodily vapors, but that’s their tweetle-beetle-paddle-battle to fight. If it’s a crime to resist the advertising-driven message that we’re not skinny enough, don’t smell good enough, and don’t replace our socks often enough, then you’re going to have to find me guilty. If it turns out my raincoat and sandals are a violation of international law, ship me off to The Hague right now. I’ll go without complaint.
But even I recognize that there’s a certain class of men we might label “slobs.” (Regular readers know I’m not a fan of labels, but they are handy when you need to label something.) They’re likely to have permanent bedhead, wear the same jean jacket every day for 10 years, and ask if you’re going to finish that apple. Despite their apparent haplessness, slobs often thrive. Their boyish, animalistic qualities seem to endear them to the world. They’re also a benchmark of grooming and vapor emission that even I try not to fall below.
Dear Uptight Seattleite,
I was installing some drywall in my basement when I had to make a run to the grocery store. I noticed that walking around in my sweaty work clothes made me feel manly and swaggery.
Would-Be Palookavillian
Dear Would-Be Palookavillian,
I know what you mean. The Uncles have been working up a version of “Hey Baby” for the classic-car show we’re going to play next year, and I volunteered to do the harmonica part. I left our last rehearsal without noticing that I was still wearing my Hohner neck brace, and ended up doing some errands with it on. Since my harp was right there in front of me anyway, I started to tootle on it. Softly at first, then with a little more feeling. Just to be silly, I started punctuating my sentences with the “I’m a Man” riff. I’d gotten pretty good at matching my words to the rhythm when I asked the guy at Fred Meyer to direct me to the lightbulbs and they asked me to leave. If someone doesn’t think sharing a laugh with a stranger will improve their day, there’s very little you can do to help them.
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