Craigslist

Who is this Craig, I wonder at times, whose simple list is so singularly useful? Who is this Craig, who harnessed the harsh isolation of the world wide web to actually nurture cohesive communities.

The service is pure, a free flowing of ideas, political, commercial, religious, alternative, prurient and extreme. You can rant or rave about your local Starbuck's barista, or buy or sell a lawn mower. You may advertise or apply for open jobs. Seek Mr. right, or simply Mr. Right-Now. Join a church. Join an orgy. Join a conversation about lesbian-themed knitting circles on NW 23rd.

Whereas eBay and Amazon were the first sources for goods on-line, Craigslist has become the autonomic search engine of choice for many who need goods or services in their general vicinity.

I have purchased camera gear, computer components, and a freezer from the list. I have even tapped the list to hire office help. Listers are generally easy going and good natured, and share a certain Craigslist sensibility. I'm certainly not saying that it's perfect. It isn't a digital utopia, but it is quite likely the best thing going.

I currently scour the list on a daily basis. I am looking for three things.

First, there is a lens that I Desire. Note, the capital "D "in the last sentence is intentional. I Desire this lens. It is currently the number one tangible material thing that I crave. I covet it. I lust for it. I would commit other sins, deadly or otherwise, to get this lens.

Problem is, I have a hang up against paying full price. So, I wait, and watch the list. It is a rare item to find for sale. Rarer still to find for a discount. I am patient though.

Volo proinde ego exspecto

Second, I want a telescope, and again I wait for the discount price from some sad nerd who has become disillusioned with astronomy. Fact is, I've always wanted a telescope with which to scan the heavens. Since childhood, I've wanted one. Every year I asked for one. Even as an adult, I have been drawn to them, especially so now with Jupiter, Saturn and Venus all visible to the eye in the early-evening sky.

No one has ever bought one for me. I never opened one under the Christmas tree. Strangely, I've never purchased one for myself, though I think about it often.

At Frye's, I gravitate with intention, or otherwise, toward the telescope aisle. I never stop long for fear of being found out that my geek is meek in this technosphere. See, I know next to nothing about them. So, I look and lust from afar, or from a well-risked glancing pass, but avoid any embarrassing contact with the erudite retail ogres, who stalk the walkways.

Lastly, and this one took Mrs. G&T by absolutely no surprise at all, I'm looking for a newer, bigger aquarium, for my office. Preferably with its own attractive stand. This one, really, is quite simple. See, after my first real office job in Portland, my wife bought me a ficus for my desk, which did well, but which, also, on a whim, I licked. Still, it and I both survived the licking, until one day, at the next office, it got bugs and died. The next new job was celebrated with the purchase of a small 6 gallon fish tank, which grew too small too quickly, and was replaced with a 20 gallon. With, then, the departure from the last gig, and the two-week down time, that tank came home, where it currently sits with bubbling blue tranquility behind me at this very moment.

So, I'm going to keep it here, which leaves me with a vast gaping gap along the rear wall of my office, which begs for fish, a tank to hold then, and a small cabinet upon which the whole marvelous contraption may rest.

Fortunately, folks post about a dozen aquariums, some with stands, on Craigslist, everyday.

So, I search, and soon I will have little swimmers in the office. I may even take pictures of them for you with the new lens, unless, of course, I'm too busy peeping into the window across the street with the telescope.