Suspicious emails: unclaimed insurance bonds, diamond-encrusted safe deposit boxes, close friends marooned in a foreign country. They pop up in our inboxes, and standard procedure is to delete on sight. But what happens when you reply? Follow along as writer and comedian James Veitch narrates a hilarious, weeks-long exchange with a spammer who offered to cut him in on a hot deal.
It may have been because I questioned whether or not an Admin’s post actually happened in Geneva (my inquiry was subsequently deleted). Maybe it was because my best post there garnered over 150 likes while said Admin’s post got 4.
It also may have been because I let the group know that the latest issue of my magazine was now available in Geneva:
Some of you Geneva folk may know that I put out a monthly magazine of things I write and photos I take around the Fox Valley. It’s filled with pretty much the kinda thing you’d expect from me.
This month’s cover photo was taken right outside the Portillo’s by Super Target on the east side. That’s St. Charles turf but whatever. The hydrant flushing piece you all know and love is even in there!
Anyways, at this very moment I’m in the Starbucks on State in Geneva and have a few copies of the magazine with me. If you want one, I’ll be here until about 7:15 or 7:20pm.
Yes, you can buy single issues and subscribe for a full year if you’re into that kinda thing.
Maybe since I don’t have a true brick and mortar store I was crossing the line. Maybe since one of the Admins is a publisher for Fox Valley Magazine, I was competing with and/or threatening him.
Who knows. Who cares. My life will go on after the group just as it most certainly went on before it. 😉
After Maggie goes to her mom’s for the day I’m always taken back by how quiet it is.
After I get home from the errands and the store and have put away the groceries. Shut off the podcast and brought a load of laundry upstairs.
I noticeably hear nothing while putting clean towels away in the bathroom. No TVs talking down in the family room. No cups filling in the kitchen. No movement on beds in the bedrooms. No dresser handles clinking. Nothing but the sounds I, myself, am making.
The black plywood creeks as I walk into my bedroom. The house is so quiet the only thing I hear when I pause is the clock flipping the minutes.
Not long ago there were four of us and three cats. Now there’s just me and two cats. And my phone.
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