The Postal Service is a Sham

First, let me make perfectly clear that the organization we are about to be mercilessly deriding is, in fact, the United States Postal Service, not the band “The Postal Service,” because the band is actually pretty decent at what they do, namely making sweet music. But even if their music was totally horrible, they’d still be doing a better job than USPS because, well, at least they’d be doing something. I swear to Christ, if I had a nickel for every time some deadbeat postal worker decided to go on break right when I walk in the post office, I’d be a rich man (well, I’d have at least about seventy five cents, because I try at all costs to avoid the post office like Fox News avoids the issues). Since I have been living in California (about four months) the following have not been delivered to my apartment: two issues of GQ, one issue of the New Yorker, one birthday card containing a check, and one freelance check. The following have been delivered to my apartment: numerous letters and a package for someone with an unpronounceable Asian name, a jury summons for someone named David, an alumni magazine from a college that neither my roommates nor I attended, a metric shitload of direct mail advertising for “current resident” and a letter marked “Urgent: Open Immediately, Time Sensitive Information Enclosed” for someone named Steve. I find it absolutely remarkable that I can get so much mail for people whose names are not Matt Avery, but that mail addressed to me has such a hard time actually getting to me. You’d think that at the very least, since I’m getting everyone else’s mail, the odds would be better for me to get some of my own mail too – it’s just simple odds.

Oh, and UPS, you’re on notice too. The next time you pull up next to my apartment with a package and don’t knock or even leave a “delivery attempt” slip, you’re getting a nasty blog post too. And don’t think I forgot about that time you somehow managed to get into our locked parking lot and leave a package outside my back door where I never go without leaving a note that sat out there for god knows how long before I happened to find it while I was taking out the trash. I know I live in South Berkeley and I don’t have a doorbell, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have to knock on the goddamn door. At least pretend to make an effort.

All delivery services outside of FedEx and DHL are duly warned. Everyone else, if you need to send something, send it to my work address. If you don’t know what it is, ask, but then I damn well better see a package within the week.

Punk ass delivery services think they can charge an arm and a leg and a kidney and a pint of virgin blood to not deliver packages…

A few items of note:

I bought plane tickets on my cell phone the other day. Apparently, we’ve come to the point in history where anyone can make a major credit card transaction involving interstate travel from a device that fits in your pocket. All while walking down the street. Gotta love technology.

I finally designed a show on an Eos. The show was a playwright’s series, which was only about 90 minutes long, and needed minimal tech support. I was using one of the best consoles on the market, with over 400 lights and about 40 scrollers at my disposal. It was like driving a tank to the supermarket: ultra badass, but super unnecessary.

The Bay Bridge is a PR nightmare. If it’s not getting destroyed by earthquakes or falling on cars, cars (or, more specifically, huge semi trucks) are falling off of it. I go to Treasure Island regularly because one of our rental vendors is located there, and I’m pretty sure I haven’t ever felt safe driving on that bridge. The new bridge being built to replace it is already years behind schedule and millions of dollars over budget, and the new bridge isn’t going to replace or even circumvent the retarded double deck tunnel through Treasure Island/Yerba Buena Island. Also, Treasure Island and YBI are technically only one island because Treasure Island is man-made, but that’s a story for another time. Caltrans and the Highway Patrol might as well give up and cut their losses – it’s only going to get worse from here.

I’m flying from the second busiest airport on the west coast to the busiest this weekend. Wish me luck.

Somebody out there has to hate Halloween as much as I do

I really fucking hate Halloween. It’s just the truth. I hate costumes and I hate going to parties where everyone is wearing a stupid costume and I hate walking down the street and seeing people in costumes. I hate it when all the bars are really crowded, and I hate it even more when they’re really crowded with costumed drunks. It’s like the one day of the year where everybody gets license to act and look dumber than they already do in their everyday lives. This one holiday basically embodies most of the things that are wrong with America.

I also hate children, and as such, I hate trick or treating. It really defies every type of conventional logic and reason. If there’s anything worse than a mob of children walking unattended down the street, it’s a mob of sticky, costumed, sugar-crazed children walking down the street asking you for free shit. Fuck trick or treat. Who thought up that crazy-ass shit? Let’s give all these already hyperactive children a metric f-ton of candy. For free. Yeah, that’s a great idea. Hell.

But here’s the thing: everybody else fucking loves Halloween. It’s like these people wait all fucking year to get dressed up and get really drunk and puke on their stupid ass costumes. Nobody’s even clever about it. I don’t how many girls in college told me the were going to their Halloween parties as a sexy (insert noun here): pirate, soldier, fucking bumblebee. Here’s a word to the wise. Bumblebees aren’t sexy. They’re really fucking boring. All they do is make honey and sting the shit out of people. That’s not a good Halloween costume. The only good Halloween costume I’ve seen this year is a girl who went as the Bay Bridge wrapped in caution tape with crushed matchbox cars glued to it. And the guy last night who was dressed like Aristotle Onassis, but that was more just a good fashion choice than a good costume.

I can make neither heads nor tails of it. It doesn’t seem to me like you would do more work and spend more money just to go out drinking - which, incidentally, is already really expensive– but I guess that’s just me. Which is why this year, like every other year, I’ll spend Halloween sitting in my apartment with all the lights off and the curtains closed, drinking alone and cursing quietly cursing the trick or treaters.