An old friend emailed a batch of seasonal pictures, heralding the arrival of the greatest month. Thanks, g-Dawg.

The single biggest complaint system administrators hear these days is about how much unsolicited email reaches user inboxes. Definitely the number one complaint I hear at school. Well, that and “I want faster Internets.”

From stock pump and dump tips, to come ons for penis and breast enhancement, some yutz somewhere has something useless to pawn on an unsuspecting public and figures the best way to reach them is through electronic messaging The sheer volume makes one want to never open their email program. Yet people keep opening Outlook, Lotus Notes and Gmail, hourly, twice hourly, at times checking every few minutes. They dive into their inbox compulsively, knowing full well odds are good the only thing waiting is a long stream of steaming crap.

We like our email, I guess. Or more precisely, we like getting email.

But I suspect that deep down many people also secretly like spam–and simultaneously revile it–because it gives them something to complain about. Whining is the national pastime; that and speculating on whether OJ did it and if he did it, when he going down for it.

And after all, usually spam is addressed to us. To think some bot in China took a microsecond to send a message about Cialis.

You’re feeling the love, right?

My stepfather’s staple saying during my teenage years: “Never assume, because you make an ass out of you and me.” Oh, how time has proved his wise maxim so very true.

Last week the photography studio that prepared my wedding photos offered me the negatives for purchase. Every anniversary the price drops until the seventh, when they dropkick the celluloid down an alley. Or maybe they burn them just to spite Al Gore. Though the offer was compelling from a monetary standpoint–quite reasonable, actually–I had trouble selling myself on the need for more pictures of a marriage that ended in divorce. Hardly an impulse buy, never mind a logical one. So I called the ex, who had the same message on her cell. We laughed and agreed both of us anticipated no future need for prints. I don’t plan on calling the studio back, which means in two more years, the roaches will have an extra snack.

While I’m letting their mistake of ignorance stand without a reply, there was an egregious omission of sense recently. GEICO, a discount auto insurer, mailed a special rate quote in consideration for my graduation from the University of California, San Francisco. Trouble is, I graduated from another college, one on the East Coast, far and away from sunny climes and calm tides of the Pacific Ocean. While I traveled to San Francisco, I never drove past UCSF. But by exercising my discount in the next eight weeks, I might save as much as thirty percent on my annual premiums. Converting that into a meaningful dollar metric, it’s roughly fourteen cases of quality beer, or ten good sized bottles of Tanqueray. Shazam!

Ah, such weighty moral dilemmas taunt and vex me. Change carriers and load up on “free” hootch, or keep paying slave rates, because it’s easy. Some ruts are so easily reinforced by passive behavior, which may explain why they are the hardest habits to alter.

After thirty seconds of thought, the spirit of deviltry got the better of my judgment. I have decided to call the UCSF and find out if they will accept the letter in consideration for an honorary degree. After all, if one of the largest insurers has my name and address, likely the university sold me down the river in the first place. Can they really prove they didn’t misplace my transcripts? I think not.

Random note: a trip to Moscow this December is in the works. And not Moscow, Texas. Moscow, Russia. Eto ya!