I am happy to report that MAILGATE, the harrowing tale of my landlord and new neighbor conspiring to deprive me of mail has ended. The maintenance guy appeared yesterday before noon and repeatedly whacked the thing with a different thing and now it’s all good.
The paper copies of bills (that I pay online) and the endless flood of catalogs (full of products that I only ever browse online) will now have no trouble finding my mailbox, or as I like to think of it, the trash can’s waiting room.
I’m reminded of this article about the Post Office disappearing entirely. It would surely be a boon to bike couriers in the city, it seems to me. I’m told there are only six couriers in Atlanta at present. In a post-post office world that number could balloon to seven!
Just the other day I was using my computing device to peruse yet another article on the Esquire magazine area of the Interplops regarding a survey they did of 10,000 women. They asked hard-hitting questions like “Can you parallel park?” (84% said yes), “Have you ever had an affair?” (76% said no), and “What is this thing? [pointing to a bicycle]” (73% said “a laundry rack”).
The last bit of data is supported by my own experience in the field, as I found when I joined a female associate for drinks at her midtown condo not long ago. I was delighted to find a bicycle leaning against a wall in her place, but I didn’t let it show as I approach all dates with the clenched teeth of a marine firing a machine gun.
As she poured me a drink, I positioned myself in the kitchen so that I could surreptitiously reconnoiter the bike in order to determine how often she rides. I was nonplussed to note that she had plugged in a floor lamp with its cord through the main triangle of the frame. Oh well… it was a mountain bike anyway.
I collected my top hat, arranged my monocle in my eye, belted on my courting swords, and leaped through her sliding glass door out onto her patio with a terrific crash and shower of broken glass. I then executed a flawless bow, jazz hands, and screamed “I BID YOU ADIEU, MADAM” before clambering over her patio railing and bounding away into the night.
While “10,000 women” sounds like a party I would very much like to attend, ultimately surveys like the one in the Esquire article are useless for one major reason: human beings can not report accurately about themselves. You might think you are only drinking a beer or two a week, but if you actually write down how many beers you are drinking, you will find that you are, in fact, a heroin addict.
That’s why when people try to lose weight, the best thing they can do is start keeping a food diary. It’s not so that you can go back and read what you ate on Tuesday, it’s so that you can no longer pretend you didn’t mow down an entire sheetcake by yourself in just shy of fifteen minutes.
So its entertaining to read about what people say about their likes and dislikes, but if you try to interpret that data in the field, you’ll soon discover that the map is not the territory.
Or you might discover that you simply do not remember where the hell your car is parked in a strange parking deck in Midtown, thus causing you to traipse up and down the damned thing repeatedly pressing the “unlock” button on your key thingy and waiting for the car to honk to tell you where it is, courting swords clattering at your sides all the while.
Oh well, no one ever said that dating was easy.