I see a Mansard roof through the trees, I see a salty message written in the eaves

Rich and I were just engaged in a discussion about Netflix, and by discussion, I mean to say a shake-your-head-in-disgust bitch session (not really, but it reads better this way). Rich brought to the table a troubling account wherein he had lost the return envelope for a film he had just watched and had to supply his own. He double stamped it, put the film inside, and put it in the mail slot, where he hoped it's journey back to Netflix would soon commence unhindered.

A couple of days later, when I came home from work and grabbed the mail, I saw that the envelope he had just mailed had been returned to him. It had the word "no" scrawled on it in red ink. An arrow pointed up and away from the word in the two o'clock position towards the forwarding address, which had a big X over it. I deduced that in lieu of a "Return to Sender" stamp, the Post Office had employed a more primitive and, consequently, amusing approach. Rich, however, did not see the humor in the situation.

When I saw him that night, he was outraged that the film had been sent back to him. He asked me if I wouldn't mind sending the movie back with my next return. I told him I would and went off to watch The Illusionist. The fucking movie froze up and fragmented so many times I felt like throwing my TV out the window, where it would land on my neighbor Steve's head, crushing it beyond recognition.

Lately, more often than not, I've been getting scratched discs from Netflix. I've been pleased with their service overall, but if this trend continues, I'm going to have to consider severing ties. So, that's what Rich and I were discussing tonight, these two tales of ineptitude, and possible malfeasance on the part of Netflix. Of course, in Rich's case, his ire was for the Post Office, but Netflix had something to do with it, albeit indirectly.

"Imagine if the mailman took matters into his own hands and never let your envelope make it to the Post Office", I said. "He was probably like: ' Oh, this guy put the wrong address on here (Rich had addressed it to a location in California, where it had originated. The usual destination is Worcester, Ma). I'll do him a favor and send it back to him, even though I'm not doing my job correctly by doing so, and even though he went through the trouble of affixing not one, but two stamps on it, indicating he was eager for a speedy and safe trip to its destination."

"Whoever sent it back to me was an asshole and cost me two stamps", Rich said. "Fucking prick---the address was correct! I didn't need that shit sent back to me"

"I know, it's kind of odd the way it was handled. Whoever did it, noticed a deviation, didn't trust it, and sent it back to you. It's like if you sent a birthday card to your Aunt Rita, who had just moved, and your mailman notices it and thinks: ' This guy must have been smoking the good shit when he addressed this envelope because, if my memory serves me, Rita lives in Lexington, not Scranton. I'll be his savior and give it back to him, sparing him a lot of aggravation. Maybe he'll give me a juicy tip around Christmas.'

We laughed a bit and went our separate ways. I finished watching the director's commentary for The Illusionist. Tough going, that, with all the scratches on the disc, but worth it because it was very good, just like the film. In the spirit of the film, here's some Ricky Jay, one of the best:



Craig practically begged me to slap him during an exchange we had this morning. I'll give you a brief set up: Craig couldn't find his keys and he looked for them all over the house as I tried to haul my late ass out the door. He asked me if I had seen his them. I told him I had not. I asked him where he recalled seeing them last. He said in his bedroom He then muttered "I didn't ask you where I should look for them, I asked you if you had seen them."

SLAP!!!!

I didn't really slap him, of course, nor did I respond verbally because I should have been on the road already and had no time to get into something I wasn't too invested in to begin with. I'm not sore with Craig at all because I think what happened, especially in retrospect, was pretty funny. And I know he was frustrated with the situation and it was early in the morning, not the most resourceful and clear-headed time of day for many of us, and probably didn't mean for it to come out the way it did. Or, who knows, maybe he did. Still funny, though.

On my way to work, I marveled at how, no matter how pressed my shirts appear when I put them on, my seatbelt does a number on them. When I get out of the car, I look I had slept in my clothes. It's a disconcerting thing to deal with. I may need therapy. Am I the only person this happens to? Help me Obi Wan, you're my only hope!