Spam a lot

My father was always an early adopter. He got the first stereo remote control, and would amuse and amaze visitors by waving one arm up and down (the other in his pocket) as the volume of the music mysteriously changed accordingly. In first grade, we had a ditto machine that bested the copier at my school. Betamax? Yep. Laser Disc? Check.

And of course, every iteration of computer (though he was a WordStar loyalist until his death in 2003. We could never talk him out of that one). Always one to spot a bargain and/or satisfy his curiosity, he would click on offers for "Free Cash!" and "L1tTl3 Blu3 P1LL!" and "I am Russian teenager." He had a small army employed to de-bug his hard drive.

I miss him every day in a different way. Sometimes it's because I want to tell him that I got a new job or fell in love or the dog got her tumor cut off or that little Bjorn went through the Christmas pageant talking about "Baby Cheeses." Sometimes it's to ask advice on how to soften up a cheap, mean editor. I forget my grandmother's mother's maiden name. I want to show him pictures of Israel, from my brother's wedding. But today, I want to send him this clip about spam, because he would laugh his big Irish laugh and send it around to the rest of the family.

Dad, I don't know exactly where you are. But I hope you have a fast Internet connection. Here you go.

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