One day a little while back I went to the post office and waited in line to mail a tyvek envelope to a friend and near the conclusion of the transaction I asked for some stamps saying do you have any rock stars or politicians? I got George Bush he said. Which one? I asked. The dead one, he said they don’t make stamps of people that are still alive oh and I have JFK too. I’ll take the JFKs I said.
Today I’m sending a postcard to my mom with a JFK forever stamp. That’s 55 cents for first class letter postage. I believe there are postcard stamps too that cost a bit less but I no longer mess with those because I like to send big fat postcards made out of 12 pack packaging or repurposed scraps sillkscreened with cows or chainrings.
On December 29 2020 I mailed a large postcard to Alistair. He received it on March 2 2021. It only had to travel from the 98195 to the 98115 and it got close to him but not quite to him for more than 60 days.
As a post apocalyptic electric assist mailman I get a little behind the scenes look at the delivery process and realize the sequence of events that must fall into place for a scrap of paper to make its way from one person to another. It’s an epic journey with multiple opportunities for human error, stupidity, laziness, dyslexia, oversight, understaffing, sticky fingers, spilled milk, spilled chocolate milk and good old bad luck. It’s amazing anything arrives at all. And that’s on a good day. I won’t even comment on the current USPS situations you’re reading about in the news.
A side note in the realm of plausible deniability as those in the know know: chocolate milk is a euphemism for another beverage that is popular with bicycle delivery people and I’d like to remind all y’all that when you click on some plastic shit to buy on line… some sad sack sucker like me will be schlepping it those final fifty fucking feet to your door. It’s not magic and it’s not all on line and not everyone is able to work from home.
Philately is right up my alley. I’m not a collector just an observer. There’s a guy on my route that pays his bills with checks written on paper inserted into envelopes with stamps that he hopes and wishes will travel via USPS all the way to their destination. I smile and do my part on the first leg of the letter’s long journey. Today that’s rather unusual because as you know there’s an app for that and that and that too. This guy isn’t just old school he’s way way old school and I like that. In 1985 the price of a first class stamp went up to 22 cents and that Joe Jackson song was a throwback jam and this guy must have been sitting on some serious stamps. As you can see he gets to 55 cents one way or another but he takes the long way. Sometimes he brings in a glue stick or scotch tape for extra support and some adhesion. All this speaks to me as a potential Pearl Jam song titled “elderly professor emeritus sitting in his office in the chemical engineering department of a large state university” I’m humming along to it as we speak.
When you say Steel Wheels, the Stones lukewarm 21st studio album released in 1989 comes to mind for a split second. I spend a great deal more time thinking about bombing down a hill on an old bike in the rain rocking 27 inch (630 bsd) steel wheels with no hope of stopping at the red light intersection at the bottom of the hill because my brake pads are 46 years old and my rims are steel so I deploy various Flinstone foot techniques to slow down a bit.
This bike has been on a rack at UW for weeks and weeks. After the bike vultures plucked the brake calipers it has been left alone. This speaks to its level of shittiness. Any bike that still looks like a bike after 24 hours unattended in the 98195 must be a piece of shit. If I was sorting through a dumpster of bike donations at Bike Works, this bike, with its cottered cranks and steel wheels, would go straight from donation to re-donation or heaved into the scrap metal bin.
Someday some facilities dude will tag it as abandoned, then wait a few days and grind off the u-lock. But we might reach herd immunity before then.
The coolest thing about this bike is the presta valve tube oozing out of the schrader-sized hole in the front wheel.
I asked for an Immortal and he said oh no no you can’t order from me as he handed me the laminated card with the QR code...
...all I wanted was a pepsi, actually it was an IPA but I didn’t have the app to scan the code to download the menu to order the beer to pay with a credit card to sit outside of a bar I used to frequent frequently so I said fuck this and went to the corner store for a six pack.
What is in a name? That which we call a tree by any other name would smell like turkey bologna.
Hey google, suck it out of my ass and save it on a server somewhere near Moses Lake so you can sell it back to me later. I’ve been saying it for years. google it. rectum.
Should we talk about the weather? One thing that’s worse than the weather is the chitchatsmalltalkhorseshit speculation about the weather.
ask me if it’s raining.
ask me about messenger RNA.
ask me if I’m your jimmy john.
ask for a "Mark" with hot sauce and cup of drip coffee today because they're shutting down until even fucking further notice or forever whichever comes first.
When you say Ford Pinto, I say Mercury Bobcat. Then I’d say rear-end collision, gas tank explosion, litigation and tort reform. Eventually I’d say Dodge Omni, Chevy Vega and finally AMC Gremlin. But the last thing I’d ever think of after you said Pinto, would be bike racing.
Well the official car of the 1971 Tour of California was the Ford Pinto. As you can see, I’m holding the souvenir program in my hand as we speak. It features full-page ads for Shimano components, Raleigh, Gitane and Nishiki bikes. As well as various smaller ads for random bike shops and Phil Wood hubs.
The cover price was $2($2 in 1971 is equivalent in purchasing power to about $12.86 today, an increase of $10.86 over 50 years. The dollar had an average inflation rate of 3.79% per year between 1971 and today, producing a cumulative price increase of 543.15%). I was curious to see if anyone like me is selling one of these on eBay but my 7-second google search turned up very little. However it reminded me to remind you that the guys in this 10 stage, 685 mile race were wearing wool jerseys and reaching down to shift onto one of their 5 cogs in back.
I thought I saw another human but it turned out to be my own reflection in the window of the locked down empty building I was delivering to.
I know I’ve said that before but it bears repeating like a recurring dream or theme or theme song or mantra. barely audible mumbles. repeat as needed. repeated repeatedly. repeating repeatedly. been there. done that. same undular bore six months later under six more layers of clothing. head cheese spread sheet repeat.
I thought I saw another human but it turned out to be my own reflection in the window of the locked down empty building I was delivering to.
Looking at all the layers of clothing piled up on the floor at 5:30 am is so surreal so ridiculous so comical that it can’t be depressing that load of laundry left there last night after one winter day of working as a post apocalyptic electric assist mailman and now I’m putting it all back on. I never really cared which way the Pearl Izumi logos pointed but the fact that 87 still gives that shit his full attention makes me smile as I pull on yet another layer. the logos on my leg warmers are barely legible and they never line up.
to Chemical Engineering I delivered this case of 200 Coffee Mate creamers contained in cute little 11 ml plastic cuppies destined for the landfill sooner and or later. I’d like to think that someone’s up in there doing something chem E related to that corn syrup soybean shit but the truth is it’s going into some crusty old timer's crusty old coffee cup.
pull up a chair and postup somewhere on the coffee-beer continuum but please don’t put that shit in your coffee. sitting in the same seat 12 hours apart once for coffee once for beer once more for coffee and beer like clockwork like. you can set your watch by it kinda like my coffee pot plugged in on top of the kegerator. what time is it? what day is it? same shit different drink. same drink different day. same day different drink. same bench different coozie. same coffee cup but that's not coffee bro.
reminds me of that good old first-stop-in-the-morning-was-your-last-stop-last-night routine. reminds me of a Perkins Coie vs podunk lawyer rush round trip signature coffee story. reminds me always and forever of GBV.
just got home from a Cave Singers show but it was in my basement and I was the only one there so I guess I never left never went anywhere never say never whatever my friend Cat told me about the show so I clicked in and it was good sincerely for real really heavily sponsored on youtube live it was and perhaps someday it will replay so you too can live it live later
