Smothering him in his sleep would be an act of mercy
Think back on the most mundane boring mind-numbing thing you did this past week. Now thank the imaginary deity of your choice that you’re not James Lileks:
So I sniffle and hack for a day or two. Iâ€™m DONE. Put the car in gear and go.
Where? Why, the postcard show, of course. The Postcard Show! The three most exciting words in the English language, next to â€œworthwhile Canadian initiative.â€ Spent a few hours working on the usual collections: pre WW2 New York, post WW2 motels and restaurants, anything Minneapolis and Fargo. Paged through a collection of old corporate correspondence, valued for the quality of the letterhead or the sentimental attachment one might have to the company. Theyâ€™re always banal: a letter from a branch manager informing a consignee that the regional sub-commander of the northern district of the eastern division has been replaced by Mr. E. W. Functionary, and please make a note of it. Signed, dated April 7, 1951. Price: Seventy five dollars. You could look at the price as proof that someone will pay it; you could look at the fact that it hasnâ€™t been sold as proof that someone wonâ€™t. But someone will. Someone who specializes in regional beers, or American gun manufacturers, or Truman era paper stock, or just has the gelt & time & inclination to assemble a collection of pre-computer era corporate correspondence. In a way the documents are records of a particular time, a particular person: you run your finger along the reverse side, feel the impressions made by the typewriter key, a dent in the paper made by a secretaryâ€™s finger one spring morning 54 years ago. Is there anything youâ€™ll do today that leaves behind something someone can touch in half a century?
Yes? Good for you.
This makes sorting socks look like Bright Lights, Big City.