And now, a moderate annoyance, written in the style of a 1940’s crime noir story. (Why 1940’s crime noir? Fuck You. That’s why.)
The wind blew cold off the icy Gotham street, as I hailed a ride in the early morning hours. I dug my hands deeper into my jacket pockets as I climbed into the back of a cab. Suddenly, a shudder. Not to worry. It’s just my phone.
The screen showed 37 new emails, all of which had arrived in the few minutes since I last checked. Even after one too many pops at the bar, I knew that wasn’t a good sign. Each note contained the same message. My email was undeliverable. Another bad sign, since I hadn’t sent any emails. Each one came from an address that had long ago vanished into the ether. Old jobs, old friends, old foes.
I stared out the fogged up window as the car rumbled down 2nd Avenue. I knew what had happened. I had been hit. I’d seen this sort of thing before. Someone is living their life, not thinking anything is wrong, then boom, just like that They get snagged. I just never expected it to happen to me.
Some two bit hacker had cracked my code and sent out spam messages to seemingly everyone I’d ever emailed over the past ten years. Of all the inboxes in all the internet, he had to break into mine.
My friends received a link to buy boner pills. My boss received a link to buy boner pills. Even my sainted mother. Annoying? You bet. I was able to clean up the mess, but not before changing the password and abandoning the address I had called my own for more than a decade.
But the fact that the faucet had stopped dripping was cold comfort. Sleep wouldn’t come as I sat in the dark, watching the headlights climb the wall through my bedroom window. I was thinking about all the people who would be affected. A series of women who I had met once and decided I never wanted to see again would wake up to be reminded of our brief encounter, wondering, “What if?” A far larger number of women who had met me once and decided that was more than enough would be reminded of our awkward conversation as they tried to enjoy their morning coffee. Perhaps they would look back fondly. Probably not. It was with that thought that I finally drifted off.
There was no sign of let up as I tried to shake off the fog of the morning a few hours later. Once the initial damage had been done, the second wave of trouble rolled in. It came in the form of a new round of emails, this time from the targets of the previous spamming. Each well meaning note delivered the same message, “Hey, I think you got hacked.” I got 41 of them. And each one required a brief response, “Yes, I did. Thanks for letting me know.” This no name hacker had succeeded in monopolizing even more of my time.
This story does not end happily. In fact, it doesn’t even really end. I just sit here, a little less secure and a little less trusting. The problem has been remedied temporarily, though trouble continues to lurk around every corner on the internet, just waiting to pounce.
Though this weeks “Just My Type” is relatively inoffensive, I’ve made no secret about my ongoing problems with Dan Patrick’s forced lad magazine humor. So, it’s interesting to note that they’ve started airing the Dan Patrick show on TV here in New York. And I have to say, when watched in large chunks, it’s pretty enjoyable. Clearly, DP’s charms are lost in translation from broadcast onto the printed page. It’s also worth mentioning that now that Dan Patrick’s 3 hour daily radio show is simulcast on MSG plus, it’s possible for a cable TV viewer in New York to sit on the couch from 6am to 6pm watching nothing but televised sports radio broadcasts. WFAN’s Boomer and Carton are on from 6-10am, Dan Patrick is on from 9am-noon, Mike Francesca is on YES from 1pm-6pm and Scott Van Pelt’s ESPN radio show is on ESPN2 for an hour every afternoon.
Roger Federer, Rafael Nadal and the Williams Sisters all lost at this year’s Australian Open. How does Sports Illustrated deal with a major in which none of these big names end up champion? It relegates the tournament to the Inside Tennis section of the magazine, instead of dedicated a full article. That doesn’t say much about the state of the sport.
The Man Of The Hour by Peter King
There’s a bit of a Peter King resurgence going on these days. He was the subject of a glowing and relatively interesting profile on HBO’s Real Sports last week. And this week, he writes this in depth, fascinating piece on NFL commissioner Roger Goodell. I like Goodell. He seems like a straight shooter who cares about people as well as product.
Chasten The Dream by Damon Hack
And here it is. It’s the piece I knew was coming, yet was dreading all the same. How is Ben Roethlisberger coping with his “situation?” Turns out, he’s a changed man, according to people who’s own careers depend directly on whether or not Roethlisberger succeeds. According to them, winning another Super Bowl will prove he’s all the way back. But, you know what? A Steelers’ championship won’t unrape that girl. There is no redemption for a monster. Fuck that guy.
Ramblin’ Scramblin’ Men by Peter King
All that stuff I said about Peter King a few minutes ago? Never mind. What a boring article. I read every word and immediately forgot half of it.
The Name Of The Game by Pablo S. Torre
I have two things to say on this one.
Search engines are like mirrors, ideal for superficial scrutiny, and in this way the Internet has never been kind to Isaiah Thomas. When Thomas, a 5’9″ guard at Washington, Googles himself to find a game photo, for instance, the famously self-assured 21-year-old is confronted not only with another man’s visage but also with existential doubt. He can even tack on a slew of personal search terms—basketball, point guard, NCAA, undersized, African-American. But the response, thanks to a certain Hall of Fame playing career and ensuing Hall of Shame executive résumé, is always the same.
Did you mean: Isiah Thomas?
This issue would be easily avoided if Isaiah Thomas included the word “Washington” in his list of search keywords. Also, I just googled basketball, point guard, NCAA, undersized and African American. This article obviously comes up first, but after that, it’s an article about some kid from Siena. Nothing about Isiah or Isaiah. The entire thesis of this opening paragraph is suspect.
But there was the man himself: praising Isaiah’s style, handing him his number, building his confidence. (Isiah was flouting an NBA policy that forbids teams to have any communication with players who have remaining college eligibility, but no matter.)
The best part of this article is the photo that opens it. It’s Giants closer Brian Wilson sitting on a balcony, overlooking Los Angeles, while he does the New York Times Crossword Puzzle in a pink t-shirt. SCP’s new best friend, L.(ewis) Jon Wertheim does of defining a guy whose spent most of his life defying definition.
Blake Griffin’s Poster Boys by Chris Ballard
Writing about Blake Griffin from the perspective of those who he’s dunked on was a very cool idea. I’m just sorry that Chris Ballard wasn’t able to carry it through to the end. Midway through, this became a very run of the mill profile.
POINT AFTER by Joe Posnanski
Pretty funny idea here by Joe, writing about getting Twitter updates from professional athletes. You know when I find Twitter most entertaining? It’s when there is a major national or international news event going on at the same time as a sports event. It happened after the Tuscon shooting, when half the tweets in my feed were providing updates on the conditions of the victims and the state of the investigation, while the other half were a play by play of the Jets-Colts game. There’s something oddly entertaining about a delivery system that gives the same weight to a message from a reporter on the ground in Cairo and Adam Schefter describing Maurkice Pounsey’s walking boot.