TBogg

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. I’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 “worthwhile Canadian initiative.” 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. They’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manager informing a consignee that the regional sub-commander of the northern district of the eastern division has been replaced by Mr.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 hasn’t been sold as proof that someone won’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 secretary’s finger one spring morning 54 years ago. Is there anything you’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.

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Yeah. Like I would tell you....