Goldberg: Poacher

By Tod Goldberg

I have a sickness. I am a desperate man. I am a worthless man. I am a form of human that has existed for only a short period of time, but, during this epoch of malfeasance, I have wrought much. I have lied about who I know. I have lied about how I know them.

I am an e-mail poacher.

I am reminded of this on a daily basis. I type the letter N into my e-mail program and up pops Nick Hornby's e-mail address. It's not much--just a name, followed by an @ and then a rather innocuous-looking url that ends with .co.uk. But nonetheless, it is Nick Hornby, author of High Fidelity and About a Boy and How to Be Good and generally regarded as the voice of dick-lit, a superstar in the literary world. How did I come to have his address? I'm not sure exactly. I think it might have been an e-mail that was sent out by a literary journal. It might have come from a friend we have in common (I don't know who this friend is, incidentally). I remember seeing the address in some long group e-mail sent out about...something. Literacy? A writing contest? Global warming? John Cusack? Whatever it was, I distinctly recall cutting and pasting his e-mail address into by address book and admiring it like Nick and I were old friends.

Maybe I should shoot him an e-mail, I thought. Let him know I thought How to Be Good was a right fine book. Maybe he'd write back to say, Cheerio, Tod, fly out to London for the weekend and share a pint with me.

I'm aware that these thoughts make me sound like a sociopath and because of that I've never actually e-mailed Nick Hornby. Instead, I sometimes look at his address and think, Well, if I ever desperately must get to Nick Hornby to save his life from slow-moving terrorists, God willing, I'll be able to.

Sadly, Nick Hornby isn't the only famous or mildly famous person whose e-mail I've poached.

For some reason, I have Peter Coyote's e-mail address. I'm not exactly sure if I can even picture Peter Coyote accurately, though I do know that for a time he was a Very Big Star. Or, maybe, for a time he was Almost a Very Big Star and instead ended up being a person who does a lot of voiceover work. I kind of recall the day I stole it. It was an e-mail about the environment. A fundraiser. Yes: a fundraiser for the environment. I remember scrolling through the names to see if anyone exciting was on the list and there, somewhere in the middle, was Mr. Coyote. I added him to my address book just in case I ever needed him. In case I decided to have a barbecue and thought he might have access to a pony keg of Natural Light. That must have been my thinking. He lives somewhere in the San Francisco Bay Area and I'm always tempted to drop him a line before I go up that way just to see what might happen: Dear Pete, I'm coming to town to see the A's play, wanna meet up for a beer?

And then there's Arianna Huffington. To be accurate, before Arianna is actually Angelyn, the woman known chiefly for having exceedingly large breasts and a pink Corvette and a billboard in Los Angeles featuring both. I remember distinctly stealing her address because a friend e-mailed it to me, along with a message that said, "This is Angelyn's e-mail address. You might be the only person on Earth who'd give a shit." He was right. Wither Arianna then? I believe it was an e-mail regarding politics. Or an e-mail from a politician. Or maybe from someone who works for the media or does media for politicians. I recall that a second e-mail came directly thereafter admonishing all that the first e-mail was to be deleted unread, which made me immediately open it. (It was not unlike when my cousin sent out a digital photo album of her newborn baby but first included photos of her reproductive organs in action...though with less wholesale embarrassment.)

Within was a long list of private e-mails, many for names I didn't recognize, and many more that I did, including Arianna's. I scanned along. George Stephanopoulos? What if I decide to run for office? Added! Tim Russert? I might have information on Iraq he'd find interesting in trade for, say, nude photos of Katie Couric. Or Campbell Brown. Or Brian Williams. I'm not picky. Added!

I can't be the only one who does this...and a quick call to just a few friends and family confirms this. Kristen offers Viggo Mortensen and all three adorable members of Hanson. My mom tosses up Eddie Fisher. Irina has Iggy Pop and Jonathan Franzen. Jim tells me of having Dave Navarro's e-mail and of subsequently instant-messaging him to see if he'd be interested in having Jim play drums for him on any future solo projects, which makes me feel far less crazy than I am. Almost normal, really.

So. Now then. Ahem. Dear Mr. Hornby...