October 29th, 2008


usps.com enters chaotic inference over FOI act

And this is why I will not vote for a winner in the general elections

The operator who answers the telephone for customer service sounds really sexy at the post office. I went to the local yokel


… for the simplest task. I almost felt as if I was wasting my time as there's a mail box at the corner from where I work. I figured I have an hour to kill for lunch, so I would visit the nearest US Post Office.

After waiting in line, I am met by King Philip whom with thick native accent explains to me that the next dispatch would be at 4PM and that he could assure me that my letter would be postmarked with today's date. It's not that I didn't trust him, or that I'm a grumpy ol` fogy, but I asked him to return to me my letter so that I could drop it off myself.

Long story short… I drive out to another post office at top speed. After the clerk accommodates my request there (with a lashing of my whip that I keep in the trunk of my car. "Post mark it, slut!!"), I began to wonder WTF? i thought all post offices were supposed to provide simple services like that. I plan out my next strategy for a quick lunch order at the Beef Bowl, but the left turn arrow signal on Glnd and S.F. doesn't turn green. I'm sitting in line there for another five minutes before I make a u-turn and ponder a change of plan for lunch. Hard Times came thru in a clutch. I sat there waiting for my Eggplant parmesan sandwich listening to a hi-def version of KLOS rock music and reading the metro section of today's newspaper on a mafia segment they've been running the last couple days.

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Last night's REM dream

JC had called on my mom's telephone. She nagged me that I should say hello, but at first I got the impression he was visiting so I started for her house.

On the phone he'd asked me if I remember who the relative was that had visited the last time JC had been over for dinner. I recalled the moment but couldn't remember. I went to talk to my dad and ask him. He was about to write down on a slip of paper the name of the relative when he was hit by a pain of arthritis. In the process of asking, I accidentally disconnected the call.

After Dad had recovered, I asked him to just tell me who they were (the thin man with glasses who always reminded me of James Wood). Dad began to tell me the story when he first met this man. I asked if he had the same last name. Dad told me he had told him he was family, but later in the ongoing kinship relationship, he (James Wood double) revealed that his last name was indeed Martinez and he laughed in a chide. "ha ha ha, I had you going. You thought my last name was the same as yours." At this, my father cringed. He was hurt to recall these memories.

Later that night, somebody comes knocking on my door; a group of media representatives from NBC. I ask if they knew Ana Garcia and that I wanted to meet her (first, before answering any question from the survey it seemed that they were soliciting). They chide amongst themselves as different reps approached my door to get involved, some higher in the corporate chain of command than the others. A blackberry device like contraption is used to do a google search for the name Ana Garcia (chidingly) in combination with other boolean search terms (my name: slavezombie). The lower in rank NBC rep hesitates before she hits the button as she ponders for more keywords to include in the search. I reach over and press for her. She prints it (in a portable label printer and I'm handed my copy. Bizarre events had preceded these chain of events in the dream. I can't remember what they were. Disturbing, for sure.