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The Buckhorn

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Winters Express
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shawnpatrickcollins
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Stop and consider everything you do with your email — what is that worth to you?


Well, well, well. Based on the number of emails I received after my last column, apparently I’m not alone in my dismay over losing the Cal.net email address I’ve had for two decades. Yes, plenty of folks took the time send me a line about Cal.net’s melon-headed decision.
“Send me a line.” Ah, telegraph. Compared to ye good olde town crier, you seemed like magic.
Don’t snicker, U.S. Mail. You’ve got one foot in the grave of communication history and the other on a stack of slippery junk mail stuck inside a slick grocery store insert. Don’t get too cocky.
Remember real paper letters? Running them to the mailbox just in time, and waiting breathlessly for a letter in return? Letters even inspired songs: “Please Mr. Postman,” “Take a Letter, Maria,” “Signed, Sealed, Delivered,” “Walking on Sunshine” — luscious tension is the core of each one. There aren’t any songs about email. Well, none that matter. (Here’s looking at you, Tila Tequila.)
Luscious tension results from waiting, and we’ve become far too impatient to wait for anything anymore. Anything slower than “instant” is infuriating.