Old Fart Pet Peeve Incoming

At our house, we're still antiquated fossils in that we have a supply of postage stamps. Yes, we pay many bills online. Yes, we communicate with most folks via the Intnernet. Nevertheless, there are still things that go out through the United States Postal Service, and some of it internationally.

Thus lies the problem: None of the stamps, be they for domestic or international service, carry their value on the face of them anymore. Used to be (gather 'round, kids) stamps displayed their value in US currency right on them. If you needed a stamp for a domestic letter, you looked until you found a 25-cent stamp.

Nowaways, with stamp prices increasing with the regularity of the tides, the postal service just prints "Forever" or whatnot on them, disguising their value.

Every time I need a stamp, I wander into my wife's craft room. Then I have to call her, Keeper of the Stamps, to ask which stamps are for domestic mail, and which are for international mail. I don't want to use an international stamp -- which cost more money at the post office but conceals its true value to all but the purchaser -- on a domestic letter, thus paying more to The Man than necessary.

In short, USPS, can you go back to printing the value of the stamps on them, or at least clearly label them in some way so as to differentiate between domestic and international rates.

Expecting no reply, I remain sincerely yours, or at least until we no longer need your services.

 

Skin Failure

A while back, I had a job I hated.

I left that job and eventually moved on to something much better.

But there are still the reminders that crop up. The failures, mostly, because I screwed up at times at that job.

But the thing that gives me total skin failure is when I hear a phone ring that’s the same sound as the phone I had at the job I hated. I will not even try to reproduce it here, because it’s that awful.

So much better off where I am now. When the phone rings, I don’t cringe.

Please Release Me

I’m old school. I remember seeing my first JibJab video after waiting for nearly 30 minutes for it to download – I was on dialup at the time. So I know what waiting is for. I know why they included “web” in World Wide Web.

Heck, I remember when they called the internet the World Wide Web.Nothat we’ve got high-speed internet, I’ve got a lot more time for stuff, including adjusting the onion I have hanging on my belt – hey, that was they style at the time.

But I hate the tether.





The idea that every little app I have on my Kindle Fire has to be constantly connected to the internetty-thingy for some reason or other.

I say nay, nay.

Some things I can understand why we need the tether, Mandrake. But childrens’ games, Mandrake? Childrens’ games. Do we really need the tether for that? We don’t, of course. But of course the developers do. Just in case during these games we get so tired of the limits placed on us that we break down and buy our way through these games.

Not me, bub. Homey don’t play that. Though Homey does come up with a lot of pop culture references to explain why he does or does not do things.

I’ve got an app, for instance, put out by Audubon to help me identify birds. It thoughtfully includes videos, sound clips, photos, etc. Unless I’m, you know, actually out in the wild, far away from the dock, ahoy, without a wi-fi connection. Then those extras aren’t available to me, so I’m left dumbfounded (I’m used to that) staring up at the bird that just shat on my Kindle because the bird-identifying app is virtually useless without a wi-fi connection.

I’ve got another app on wilderness survival that – yessir – has to be tethered to the internet for full functionality. Yes, I could pay for the ten-peso version that’s untethered. But I don’t want to; it’s in the same repo room as my floor. So I’m stuck here walking around in the pipes because I don’t want to be tethered. Though it might still prove useful in a wilderness survival situation; once the app works I know it’s on wi-fi, and if I keep wandering in a direction that shows the wi-fi signal getting stronger, that’ll likely get me to civilization.

Maybe I’ll just go back to trying to get my rocker to fit on my suburban porch. That’s more my speed.



Monday, Monday. Morne Plaine.

I am, betimes, an imperceptive soul. It took me until I was in my early twenties to realize that my father, immigrant, bricklayer, gardener and dreamer, didn't like to go to work. Especially, he didn't like to think about going to work on Sundays. One evening we were sitting on the porch as the sun set, listening to the robins and the meadowlarks. He gave a big sigh. Someone asked what the sigh was about. "I don't like Sunday evenings," he said, "It means I have to go to work in the morning."

He wanted to be a farmer. He became a bricklayer. Damn good one, too. I can still drive around the area and point out the brick work he did. Still, he didn't like to think about going to work on Sundays. Neither do I.

Another Monday song. I'm getting depressed. So on to the social commentary. This video is so '70s. The lights. The soft focus. The awful, awful hair. Then there's the Mamas and the Papas -- so sixties, right down to the minimalist set -- I kept waiting for Krusty the Klown to emerge to begin discussing the modern labor movement with George Meaney -- and the goatee.Whee, looka mee, I gotta goateeee. And the little Nehru jacket. This man is too cool to be kept anywhere but the freezer.

Don't whine. I love the M&P and the Carpenters. It's just odd looking at this stuff and thinking it passed for cool. Grampa Simpson was prophetic:

"I was with it, then they changed what it was. Now what I'm with isn't it, and what is it is weird and scary. It'll happen to you!"