going postal-less

The sign at the Carousel Center post office glass door says [figuratively speaking, because a sign can't talk]:

THE POST OFFICE
IS PERMANENTALY CLOSED.

Maybe email did 'em in.

Or spellchecking.

You didn't even warn us.

I'll miss you, and the convenience [another word that spellcheckers love] you gave me, and the occasional blogger fodder [remember the Aussie who put me down royally? What did she call me, "ya mongrel"?].

Why close that branch, with its weekend and evening and holiday hours and social intercourse?

At the nearby Division Street branch I later heard talk of high rents and mandated repairs.

Close THE POST OFFICE entirely everywhere everyday. After all, it's the federal government. Give the tea partiers a run for their money-less. No taxes! No services! Anarchy! Solipsism!

one-sentence meditation upon a sympathy card

Commissioned by my wife to buy a sympathy card for her sister-in-law's father, someone I had never met (well, not for him; he's dead; a card for my spouse's sister-in-law and her family), I ambled into the Hallmark Gold Crown store (sure, I did in fact recently join the retailer's crown rewards [trademark but not i-capped on the thingy I got in the mail] program) at Carousel Center mall, destined to be Destiny USA, or Arendi, or more precisely likely predestined to be a cavernous echo of the last of our swollen appetites (appetites are so pre-recession), I browsed the variegated racks of offerings as displayed by signs, like highway markers or exit announcements (after all, an exit is what made me enter this retail outlet): Retirement, New Home, Get Well, New Job, Birthday, Thinking of You, Encouragement, and realized, albeit whimsically if not flippantly (and shared as much with the mother and daughter or mother and sister near me, garnering a nervous chuckle), that all such markers are but synonyms for Sympathy, conceding that our Buddhist friends are right in saying that all things are connected.

My Life as a Dawg

Scene: U.S. Postal Service (USPS) Post Office, Carousel Center.

I walk to the counter and see three young people preparing a mass mailing, putting address labels or stamps (or both) on postcard mailers. It's not the counter where you make your purchases, but a counter where people fill out addresses, write bills, wrap packages, that sort of thing. This trio has hundreds of cards they're working on. I'm doing some paperwork of my own, listening. One young gal decries Syracuse. "I mean, why would anyone want to live here? There's nothing for artists." Not true, in my view, but I keep quiet. The three are working fast, but seem to be having a good time, openly chatting with each other. I get in line. (USPS lines are notoriously slow, and the USPS is dreadful when it comes to being customer-oriented. Lunchtime and a line of 533 people? Sorry. One staff person to serve you. Need one lovely stamp? Sorry. You must buy 20. Or use the machine, which provides no stamps.) My wife and daughter come in as I am waiting in line and bantering with The Trio, whose leader is blonde, attractive (of course). (Yes, The Laughorist Dawg's tail is wagging and his tongue is lolling; i.e., I'm shamelessly flirting.) "Hey, these folks will pay you to work for 'em," I joke so that my daughter hears and so does The Trio. They laugh but don't offer my young one the job. "Yeah, we've got to get these out before closing," Blonde Entrepreneurial Leader (BEL ) reveals. "What are selling, you entrepreneurs?" I chirpily inquire. BEL, sporting shiny eyeliner, replies, "Permanent makeup." I hardly know what that is, but later my wife and daughter give me the lowdown. "We've got to get all these out by closing." [Closing is 9 p.m., about 35 minutes away.] "Where'd you get your address list from? Did you buy it?" "They're my customers, all 850 of them," BEL says. Detecting a maybe-but-not-so-sure-of-it British accent, I cheekily, rudely, and teasingly add, "And where'd you get your fake British accent from?" while already regretting it and sensing the pie hurling toward my face. "It's Australian. I'm Australian, ya mongrel!" But she says it for effect, with a smile, and we all laugh. Heartily. Especially me. It was funny. She took no prisoners. I deserved it. It seemed everyone had a good time with it. (Except for the stoic, expressionless older woman across from me, whose face declared, like a billboard: "You mongrel cad!") Ah, The Laughorist strikes again. In public, this time. Now you can see why my profile photo is accurate after all. p.s. I love that movie, My Life as a Dog.