For your consideration today: when was the last time you received a letter from the now-dilapidated USPS that was a personal catch-up? Years for me, dating back to the Easter Rebellion probably, but oh what a time it was. I’m a senior citizen (though discounts are scarce!)-though not yet in second childhood-and I’m allowed to natter and natter about an America, for better or worse, that no longer exists. Because… all rational ruminations aside, you just never fucking know! I took the opportunity to clean up my upstairs office, which is a ramshackle mess, and was bonked on the head by a small shoebox of old letters from decades ago, and that got me curious, figuring I’d learn (or re-learn) details of the to-and-fro from friends and relatives who are all much older now or punched their ticket to either Happy Trails, Over-the-Rainbow or Oblivion, an open question for yours truly. Windy, windy, windy, that’s how this storm is going, but stick with this and carry on. I took a walk outside to consult with neighbors, who all said call 311 and complain with urgency-“And do it at least twice”-and since I follow orders from my betters in maneuvering the Byzantine (that’s Sunday-morning charitable, sort of like comparing Succession or Seinfeld or Matlock to Aeschylus or Homer) morass at downtown’s city hall. Not like it was as disrupting as a power outage, but can you spell inconvenient? (Not a trick question). Just minding my business last Wednesday afternoon, playing Meat Is Murder at a high volume to drown out the noise from the Baltimore City construction crew that’s torn up our street, and torn it up again for good measure, for the better part of three weeks-blocking access to the road, as if residents don’t have to get in and out-and then the workers disappeared (a short, union-mandated I’m guessing, work day of nine-three) and realized the Department of Public Works had forgotten to turn the water back on.
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