Save Me

OK - I give up.   I just tried to write Fred to tell him I want one of his new books. 

But, he's doing some weird thing with Kindle that allows me to buy electrons that will fit a Kindle, but not my bookshelves.  Now I just happen to know what Kindle is about.  And it has nothing at all to do with what you might think.

Kindle is not about being "green" or being an easy way to store the entire Library of Congress in an easy to carry format.  No sireebob - it's meant to kill off any hope of starting a conversation with that stunning Redhead 'cause you have absolutely no idea what she's reading.  Even though she's on the next towel over on the beach. 

Scene:  Almost fifty years ago.  An 18 inch by 9 inch transistor radio is squawking 4 Seasons music, static and all, on a beach beside a river.  Several groups of teens are sunning themselves and covertly eyeing members of the opposite sex while pretending to read.

Pimplefaced Boy:  "Hey, I see you're reading Steinbeck.  I'm a great fan of his.  Have you read To A God Unknown?"

Beautiful Babe:  "Get lost, loser.  I'm lookin' for a guy with a clear complexion."

Do any of you guys remember those conversations?  I do, and more often than not they went just like that.  But every now and again something would click.  It was all a matter how many times a guy tried, and the easily discouraged seldom won this game. 

Well Kindle just killed this deal.  How does a modern teen do it these days? 

Scene:  Same beach today.  There's more plastic crap and toxic chemicals in the water.

Pimplefaced Boy:  "Hey, I see you have a white Kindle.  I kinda dig that color."

Beautiful Babe:  "Get lost, loser.  I'm not lookin' for a racist."

See what I mean?  Unable to read the spine on a Kindle, the poor loser is lost forever.  He hasn't a clue what she's reading and can't start the conversation that just may lead to a lifetime of blissful partnership, three kids and nine grandchildren.  This new way of reading, I believe, is an enormous plot to maintain the virginity of every teen in America.  And, I'm a firm believer in sex.  It's how I got here.  You'll never catch me reading on one of those things - it's just unnatural. 

So anyway,  I tried to write to Fred and tell him I want a copy of his new book in a bound style, it matters not whither it's a Paperback or Leather Covered first edition which will be worth it's weight in gold someday.  Even when gold is worth eighteen thousand dollars an ounce.   Next week sometime.

If I wanted to write someone on my old computer all I'd have to do was click on the link that says "Write Fred".  My Outlook Express program would automatically display a form with an area reserved EXCLUSIVELY for MY use.  I'd type in some sort of message and click send.  Off it would go.  Somehow or another, and this part really is magic folks, Outlook would choose from about four billion computers located everywhere on the planet, and put my letter to Fred on his screen.

Think about that.  The US Postal Service manages to lose my mail at least five percent of the time, even though it's properly addressed and they've been at this business for a century or more.  Email makes it every time - as long as you have the right address.  And as long as ya can pull up the stinking link without getting a message from your computer that says "Could not perform this operation because the proper mail client is not installed."

Now just what does that mean?  I'm hoping there is someone out there among my readers who can translate that phrase.  My English, I'm afraid, is sorely out of date.  I think it's telling me my mail client, of which I have none, is improper.

If that is indeed the case, tell me, and tell me how to scold him.  I'll be happy to restrict his driving privileges or whatever until he straightens up and becomes "proper".  Can't paddle his butt,  some jerko political correctness policeman would throw my sorry butt in jail.  Then I'd never get to read Fred's newest book.  Probably won't get to do that anyway.  Just my luck.

So, anyway.  Fred - if you still read this rambling mess, send me an email - you have my address but sadly, yours is on my old computer up in the rafters of my garage.  I ran out of shelf space and climbing ladders is not a fit activity for a man with my back and associated balance problems.  I hired a kid to put it up there. 

And, dear readers, in the likely case that Fred has tired of my ravings, please assist me if possible.  I really have no clue what that message means, and want to buy his book. 

Man, I hate Kindle almost as much as I hate new computers.