From Maya Kumar, Membership Intern:
When I applied for the membership intern position here at Tripod, I was told that one of my primary responsibilities would be communicating with members via e-mail. It was only after I had accepted the position that they told me that we have over 50,000 active members. And it would appear that a significant percentage of you write daily. Don't get me wrong, I love to hear from members -- but I hear an awful lot. These messages range in subject from changing e-mail addresses and trouble-shooting homepages to answering questions about our company and re-routing personal messages to Tripod employees.
The latter are among the most amusing I receive (though I could deal with fewer invitations to virtual dates). Your letters to TriPup have proven to be particularly delightful. TriPup has received questions on topics ranging from his lineage to the etymology of his name, and gifts ranging from virtual pats on the head to virtual sausages. Mmm hmm.
Before my fifteen minutes of Tripod fame expire, there is one matter to which I would like to draw your attention. All of you hear from our cruise director Tung every week in the Tripod Insider, but as a membership intern who actually works for him, I feel it is my duty to reveal to the world the dark slimy underbelly of Tripod membership services. Sometimes the truth hurts, but it is important that all of you know the true origins of our member newsletter. The Insider is not the product of our overworked membership director; rather it is created through the unpaid, uncredited labors of his ghost writer, TriPup.
From Scott Moran, Editorial Intern:
Kicking back on my porch, I watch a honeybee buzz towards me at a hundred miles an hour and veer away within an inch of my face (the proportionate g-forces would have crushed any fighter pilot). My dog, Murphy (named after either Mrs. Murphy's Chowder House or Murphy Brown, we aren't sure which), somehow believing in her little doggy mind that the kamikaze attack by the bee was more than poor flying, proceeds to chase the bee that violated her master's personal space. Murphy lunges off my porch into a hedge of junipers (which can be quite scratchy), howls a bit, and continues after the bee. The brave dog on a mission, with her eyes trained on the bee, slams headlong into a tree. Dazed but undaunted, Murphy runs around in circles chasing after the 20 bees she now sees. Five minutes later, she flops down face first into the grass, exhausted. I think some earthworm looked at her funny.
Well that's what my summers in the Berkshires are like. . . oh, and working with Tripod is pretty cool too.
From Scott Case, Editorial Intern:
I am sharing an apartment with two other Tripod interns for the summer. For the first time in my life, if I want to eat I have to cook for myself. I was honestly thrilled with the idea of escaping from the dining hall at school, but I had no idea what a challenge cooking would prove to be. The first night that we made our own dinner, we didn't actually get to sit down and eat until almost 10 p.m. Who knew making spaghetti and corn on-the-cob could be so difficult?
Since then, I've been trying to live off microwavable Stouffer's Macaroni and Cheese with Cheddar Goldfish sprinkled on top -- but I finally broke down the other night and decided to cook a real dinner. After calling a friend in town and my mom in Colorado to ask about cooking chicken, I got down to work. The next 2 1/2 hours were magical. I successfully made myself lemon herb chicken, egg noodles and a salad. It may not sound too impressive, but the fact that the noodles and the chicken were done within five minutes of each other tells me that I may yet survive the summer. Never mind that the pasta was so thoroughly stuck together that I was actually having "chicken and noodle."
My message is one of hope for the culinarily challenged among the world's college students: Just wait until you're hungry enough, and whatever you cook will taste good. Besides, we all have to start somewhere.
Read more "Letters from Tripod" in the archive.