I mentioned at dinner that a couple of my Web sites had been hacked and defaced and Captain OCD joined the conversation. He knows nothing about that sort of thing, but knows that I get very nearly incensed when people ignorantly complain about The Emails when everything they know about the Internet is only what the ladies on The View have told them to be very afraid of. MySpace, for example, is clearly the work of the antichrist and the reason that perfectly innocent 16-year-old American youngsters fly to Pakistan to marry 23-year-old guys who deliver groceries on their bicycles (add people who use the word “youngsters” to the list of things that get me very nearly incensed). I don’t really care about MySpace one way or another, but I wish that people would know what they’re talking about before they denounce anything newish as the reason that the world is on the express train to Hell.
He asked if I would make a copy of the recipe for the rhubarb crisp he made this morning (because the copy machine is in That Room, the one full of mysterious, glowing green indicator-lights that he’d just as soon stay away from). I told him that I would give him the URL for the recipe (“Huh?”) and that he could pass that along.
When I further explained that “URL” is an indication that the recipe is on the Web site, he said, “But it’s been hacked! You won’t be able to trust the recipe!” At least he knew enough to be a smart-ass. Laughing, C1 said, “I can just see the little hacker, messing with the Rhubarb Crisp recipe: ‘I’m gonna really fuck these people up! One teaspoon of cinnamon instead of two! Brown sugar instead of white!'”