For those of you have have talked to me or read my blogs since I started posting last January, you will notice that this latest blog was something I wrote back on March 11th. It was a blog called "Frank's Art Gallery" There is a method to my madness for posting it on here again. If you have read this before and you find this blog too boring, just scroll down below the dotted lines to the last 2 paragraphs. If you not read this before, it is tale worth telling:

Frank Miller will be calling it quits soon after carrying mail in Littleton for 33 years. He began carrying various routes as a PTF in 1975 before making regular. In 1978, Frank delivered the mail for the folks on Route 2304. 30 years later, Frank still carries route 2304, but will be retiring in May.

Frank is exercising good timing in leaving the post office in his mind. Not only is the age factor part of his reason - the post office has internally changed since 1975. He has seen his start time pushed back from 7 AM to 9 AM and he knows that Route 2304 will be abolished when he retires. With routes being cut and consolidated - the smaller routes in Littleton will be gone forever and junior carriers will be excessed to Denver or Colorado Springs.

Frank has a lot of stories about his 33 years in the P.O.  but one stands out in my mind. It doesn't involve saving a life on the route or delivering mail in three feet of snow.

This story revolves around this poorly drawn crayon drawing that has been hanging on Frank's case since I've been working here. There was a little girl that lived on the route that was always outside playing. One day, this girl walked up to his vehicle and saw a partial box of donuts inside. The girl asked Frank if she could have one and he joked , "It'll cost you just a nickel." Almost everyday this girl was playing in the front lawn and would greet Frank saying "Hi, Mr. M. - what do you have for me today." He also wondered why this girl was outside and not in school. "Mommy says were on vacation." she said.

One day, Frank said he was rushing to get his route done early and ran into this girl again. The girl said, "Hi, Mr. M." and he just handed her the mail and said that he was too busy to talk today. Several weeks went by and he didn't see this girl playing outside so he walked to the house and rang the bell. The girl's mother answered the door and noticed that it was their letter carrier. The mother said, "I know who you are Mr. M., my daughter Ashley spoke of you so much. I hope I didn't allowed her to bother you. If she was a nuisance - please except my apologies." Frank told her that she was a delightful child and wondered why she wasn't outside anymore. The mom said, "Didn't Ashley tell you? She had leukemia and died last week. By the way, Mr. M., she wanted you to have this."

The girl's mom handed Frank a smeared envelope with Mr. M. in bold crayon letters. Inside was the drawing with "It'll cost you just a nickel." written on the bottom. Frank says that it was the only time in 30 years that he lost his emotions and hugged and cried with this mother.

Ashley is gone but her drawing still lives. Frank left the drawing on his case as a reminder to him that we need to take time to enjoy living and life and each other.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I received a phone this morning that Frank Miller ("Mr. M") passed away yesterday afternoon while fishing on his small boat in Chatfield Reservoir. His wife, Cindy, whom I have known as long as I have known Frank, told me that a park ranger found him in his boat still holding on to his fishing pole. Apparently, his heart just stopped beating and rigormortis set in. A park ranger found Frank on his boat in the early evening hours when his boat was drifting too close to other boats on the lake. Frank only had the chance to enjoy 4 months of retirement after 33 years in the Postal Service.

Mr. M's wife, Cindy, wants me to co-ordinate his party after the funeral. Morbid, you say......perhaps....Frank's last wishes were simply, "when I die, throw a party." I suppose you had to know him personally to understand that request. He had asked me go fishing with him after his retirement and now I regret never going out on his boat and swapping beers, stories and lies with our former #1 seniority carrier. Frank was a happy go lucky soul who never took his job too seriously, yet; he was a hard-worker. You can't buy something like Frank's personality and work ethic for any price.

Not even for a nickel.

I just finished writing a blog about the large amount of mail that was piled up here over the Labor Day weekend and around the same time, the Postal Service decided to hire that obsessive-compulsive detective Adrian Monk to conduct the mail count audit. Mr. Monk would observe, "Route #1 has four flat tubs, Route #2 has ten flat tubs and Route #3 has seven flat tubs. Why don't all three routes have seven equal tubs with 100 pieces of mail in them? While the postmaster would be explaining the situation to him, our detective friend hears not a word and responds, "Did you know you have lipstick on your collar plus your fly is unzipped? I think I need to wash my hands again."

The entire blog was wrong on more levels than one. First of all, EVERYONE reading this site today got dumped with a ton of mail and a long line of customers yesterday. Secondly, large volumes of mail and an auditor NEVER occur on the same day EVER! Also, as neurotic as Adrian Monk, I think he would view the Postal Service as psychotic.

I have quickly scrapped that blog and have decided write some more deeper into the theater of the absurd. I have decided that it is time to clean out the disorganized underwear drawer of my brain. This is the part of head that thinks idiotic thoughts that I keep to myself so my co-workers won't know how insane I have become. This diseased area of my cerebellum that has weird comebacks to management's straight lines that I keep mum before a phone call to the EAP is made. And now, on to the underwear drawer.........

I think an excellent novel would be where a bunch of guys are on a boat fishing for Ol' Charley, that 20 pound bass that eludes every fishing lure and hook. These men fish everyday for a week. But you know what? They never find him. And you know why they never find him? It doesn't say. The author leaves it up to you, the reader, to decide. Then, at the end, there's a page you can lick and it tastes like Kool-Aid.

Was there ever an episode on the Man From U.N.C.L.E. where an evil agent from THRUSH gave Napoleon Solo a wedgie until he said the name of the organization he worked for?

Have you ever thought about going up to the postmaster and say, "Is that a spot on your tie?' and boop him on the nose? I thought about doing that to Spauldo's dog Biscuit - but he might bite me.

Many people never stop to realize that a tree is a glorious living thing. Not that much different than a tall leafy clerk at the hot case that has roots and is very quiet.

Would you rather see a movie starring Jack Black with music by Jack White, or see a movie starring Jack White with music by Jack Black? Discuss.

I don't think God put me on this planet to judge others and to talk about them behind their backs. I think he put me on this planet to gather specimens and take them back to my home planet.

Today I saw a snail near the loading dock at the post office. And I thought, I too am like that snail. I have built a defensive wall around myself, a 'shell' if you will. But my shell isn't made out of a hard, protective substance. Mine is made out of tinfoil. (Beth knows what I mean.) 

Fortunes in fortune cookies are fun to Photoshop, but I would never take advice from a real fortune cookie. Fortune cookies taste terrible so I would not listen to someone that can't get their own act together. Girl Scout Cookies - now there's a cookie I would listen to. Between you and me, if a Girl Scout cookie told me to put a condom over my body and run around work yelling "I'm a squid!" Bygawd, I would do it.

To the makers of those Postal calendar/TSP magnets that get sent to us in the mail every year. Could you please make them at least 1/8th of an inch thicker. Everytime I walk by my fridge, I am attacked by a flying barrage of recipes and pizza coupons. I understand that you are trying to convey that the Postal Service deeply cares about its employees, however............scrap that idea, I just read what I wrote.....

I am tired of hearing management spouting, "Ask not what DOIS can do for you - ask what you can do for DOIS." What is it with people making those kind of off-the-wall remarks?

That's my job!!

Last Friday, I received a strange text message on my cellphone that read "hison." First of all, what is a hison? Secondly, it was sent from my mom who has never sent me a text message in her life. Five minutes later, my mom sent me this message: "howdoimakespacesandquestionmarks" Now I know what 'hison' means. I texted the words "call me" back at her.

Apparently, my mom's long time friend Vicki was teaching her how to send text messages in case the worst were to happen during Hurricane Gustav. Besides playing Mah-Jong with my mom, Vicki is an interesting character. She has operated an art gallery in the French Quarter for close to 40 years and lives in an apartment just above her shop on Bienville Street. Vicki looks like an old hippie-chick with long flowing gray hair down to her waist covered by a leather hat. Vicki dresses like a teenager sometimes and always wears sandals. She has lived in the Quarter for a long time and has never made evacuation plans. Because she rode out Katrina she plans on riding out Gustav. Vicki is always warm and speaks affectionately of her friends and neighbors. Most of us think of the Quarter as the rowdy part of town filled with bars and strip joints. For Vicki, it is her neighborhood and her whole life revolves around her art gallery, seafood and red wine.

While I was talking with my mom on the phone, she was telling me that dad was boarding up the house and getting the dog ready for the trip up to Monroe Louisiana. My parents were going to the same motel that they stayed at during Katrina.

Even after Katrina, my parents still ask me to move back down there. I have grown to love Colorado and it is now my home. I would rather remember the New Orleans from my childhood. Riding bikes and fishing with my childhood friends, coming home in the humid Louisiana air that would be perfumed with the aroma of barbecue or the smell of dinner on the neighbor's stoves with open doors. In those days, the Gangster Disciples or The Latin Kings weren't lurking in neighborhoods.

One of the crazier things from the past was a hurricane ritual that several people, including my parents, used to participate in. Scores of neighbors would be outside pounding plywood over their windows and loading up their cars with irreplacable papers. But this was no evacuation. Back then, this hurricane ritual, like so much in New Orleans, was accompanied with a party. People would meet at a home on higher ground where pots of gumbo were cooked. Beer and Hurricane drinks were slammed down during these hurricane parties that defied logic and nature. My parents always escaped. They had survived hurricanes Audrey, Hilda, Betsy and Camille. But they sensed something wrong with Katrina and this time there was no bravado. My parents evacuated for the first time in a hurricane. With the news of Gustav being the "mother of all storms" there was no more anxiety in my mom's voice but total dread. Feeling absolutely vulnerable, Katrina took away the idea of the hurricane party and something else that most us of take for granted - a home. Even something as simple as the phone call I received early this morning from my dad is something I have taken for granted.

They are doing fine.

Dad says that they won't get a chance to see what damage was done to their newly rebuilt home for a few days. From what he has been able to find out, their neighborhood sustain minor wind damage and little flooding. They are surviving on restaurant food, sparse phone calls and the prayers of total strangers.

Hopefully, they can get back home and move on with their lives. Perhaps, they can throw a party after the hurricane. They could invite Vicki over and I'm sure she will be toting her bottle of red wine.

I need to respond back to a text message, "iloveyouson" ........Yes, mom ,I love you too.

My friend Chip and I finished watching the latest Tony Curtis flick and we lit on out to the malt shop. Chip's steady, Thelma, worked at the malt shop and would slip us free tokens for the juke box. Sure we digged Ricky Nelson, Connie Francis and Buddy Holly, but Thelma was sweet on dancing The Stroll with Chip with that Diamonds number.

It was Labor Day, 1958. Pops was going to be in the big Labor Day parade in town. My pop was a steelworker just like Chip's old man. The United Steelworkers Union always had the largest group and drew the biggest crowds down Main Street. Our town was built around that old steel mill. Chip and I were drafted in 1954 and did our four year stint for Uncle Sam before getting our jobs at the Post Office in town. We belonged to the National Federation of Post Office Clerks. It is what you younger people now know as the APWU.

Thelma was telling Chip that the malt shop was going to be closed on Monday because it was Labor Day. All the businesses were going to be closed. All of the townsfolk were going to watch the parade and meet at the town's park for the annual Labor Day picnic. Mom would always fry up a mean batch of chicken breasts and make her bodacious potato salad. My steady, Mary Lou, would help my mom with the cooking. Mary Lou and I always looked forward to the carnival outside of town. Mary Lou sure looked pretty in her poodle skirt and my hands would start travelling. Because Mary Lou and I never went passed second base, we never knew what that magic moment would be like and we were full of anticipation.

I remember watching pop as he walked along side of his co-workers with pride down Main Street. There would be occasionally a few rowdy union activists carrying picket signs about Union rights and taunting the crowd. People in town took it in stride and the fuzz just left them alone as they had a deep-seated sympathy for the working man. The heat back in those days belonged to their own union, The Policeman's Benevolent Association. They would watch our town's Labor Day parade with the same pride as those marchers. Because it is Labor Day - it was OUR day. We get one day while management gets the other 364 days of the year.

But this is 2008 and I am sure you younger dudes and chicks would not understand. There are almost no more Labor Day parades anymore and there are certainly no more picnics. Some people don't even bother to leave their house and just have a barbecue dinner. Some slump on their sofas and watch the Jerry Lewis telethon, guzzling Budweiser waiting for the next million dollar tympani. Crooked businessmen go on television and tout, "For every carrier we screwed on mail count, we will donate One Dollar to Jerry's Kids." But in general, most people see it as another paid Monday off of work to do whatever they please. For those who do work on Labor Day, obviously - you are not in a Union workplace. Sure, Mary Lou and I still attend the small Labor Day activities in town, but it mostly comprised of us old Mouseketeers and Fonzies of the past.

Mary Lou tells me if we were to organize a Labor Day parade nowadays with picket signs, the cops would haul us all of for disturbing the peace and motorists would think we were a nuisance for blocking traffic so that they could rush to the end-of-summer sales on those designer clothes and electronic gadgets.

Basically, the working people have lost the core respect of the public. We just don't matter anymore in society. There are those in society, that view the working class, not as trade unionist, but as isolated computer-clicking nerds in an isolated cubicle like Dilbert. We just don't amount to much in society's eyes anymore.

I can imagine strolling in the "new" Post Office 20 years from now with Mary Lou still on my arm. Because postal clerks don't matter anymore, they have all been replaced by robots. I willl walk up to the counter:

"Good morning...bzzzt....I am your personal clerk robot....please wait 90 seconds as we are still using the 20 year old POS system to warm up...bzzzt....while we are waiting what is your I.Q. sir?..bzzt..."

"Wow, you are like that crazy robot from Forbidden Planet, man" I said, "My I.Q. is 150." The robot clerk and I had a short discussion on astro-physics and philosophy. My next visit to that post office, the robot gave me the same song and dance about waiting 90 seconds. Robot clerk asked me my I.Q. and I told him that it was 100. Robot clerk talked to me about 2028's NASCAR champ Dale Earnhardt the Third and why the Chicago Cubs still haven't won the World Series.

On the last visit Mary Lou and I went to the "new" post office. Robot clerk was there again. We had to wait for the old POS system to warm up. Robot clerk asked, "What is your I.Q.?" I told him that it was 50. Robot clerk then asked me, "Are you the p-o-s-t-m-a-s-t-e-r  g-e-n-e-r-a-l?"

Mary Lou doesn't wear a poodle skirt anymore, but I still give that grandma a squeeze now and then. But just like Mary Lou and I were taught in Sunday School class, "Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men, since you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward." - Colossians 3:23

This ain't your grandfather's postal service anymore. 

I have noticed that for the last few weeks when I have visited this website, I keep viewing the same two ad banners over my home page. The same royal blue banners that read "Obama '08" or "McCain '08" Currently, Insane McCain is perched on top of my page. I miss some of those old ad banners, like "The Lesbian Test."  I clicked their banner and passed their test with flying colors. I love women and I am a lesbian. Perhaps next week, I will be dancing with Ellen Degeneres if Portia will let me.

I decided to take action and make my own banner to view before seeing the rest of my homepage. Not a bad choice either and why not PostalTexan in 2008? I can think of many positives why she would make a great first female president. Has she ever lied to you and wrote blogs and articles from both sides of her mouth? Of course not! Has she ever been caught in a sex scandal involving Chippendales dancers? I don't think so.! Did she ever seek counsel from a radical pastor from the Holy Church of the Cosmic Muppets. Absolutely not! And I know for a fact that PostalTexan was not present at the White House when they pushed NAFTA through and she has NEVER once raised taxes. PostalTexan's record is spotless.

I am just tired of hearing about politics. It is on the internet, television and billboards that I pass by going to work. I live near Denver where the Democratic National Convention is taking place. The Denver Police have ordered extra security equipment such as heavy duty chains, ropes and handcuffs. And this is only for Bill Clinton's suite - it is worse elsewhere. I am hoping these delegates and visitors from out of state adjust to the altitude of the Mile High City. Newcomers may experience something called "altitude sickness" with symptoms of dizziness, nausea, forgetfulness and the ability to make clear decisions. For those watching the news outside of Colorado - if hear about these kind of symptoms going on at the DNC...um....it's just the altitude.

America is a free country and it is our own votes that will decide the outcome. Let the best man win......or the best woman. Vote PostalTexan in 2008.

My name is Mark and I approve this message.