Historical humor and personal reminiscence. Original opinions and comic exaggeration are preserved as the writer’s period account.
Most of my favorite things are pretty typical. Y’know – chocolate chip cookies, MASH, convertibles, winning seasons, more chocolate chip cookies, and rainy Saturdays. Deep down, though, underneath my highly polished veneer, I have a strong idiosyncrasy. It’s not easy to admit, but I’m a real mailaholic. That’s right, I love receiving mail. More than almost anything, I enjoy getting packages, letters, catalogs, magazines, postcards, solicitations, and, even, political flyers. I don’t know how or when my fascination with the mail started. I do remember enjoying getting mail as a kid, although, for the life of me, I can’t imagine what kind of mail I could have gotten.
Most of my friends couldn’t write, and those who were semi-literate couldn’t afford stamps.
When I got my first real job (I knew it was a real job because I had to call in when I would be out sick) I celebrated by joining the Book of the Month club. Talk about nirvana; even if you didn’t order the book they would send you the monthly brochure! I’ve stayed in the Club to this day. It’s not that the books are reasonably priced or particularly exciting; rather, by now I’ve earned so many Book Dividend Credits that I can’t afford to quit. I imagine that my total of +42 puts me in a tie for first place with some schoolmarm in New Hampshire. Unfortunately the only things that you can spend the credits on are knitting books, recipe books, or books with titles such as “Pictorial History of Poplar Bluff, Mo.” I’ve always had a penchant for magazines delivered by the friendly (if inefficient) postman.
Without stretching or counting “professional periodicals” (those that you can take off on your taxes), at one time or another I’ve subscribed to over 35 magazines and newspapers. from MAD Magazine and Wall Street Journal to Inside Sports and Organizational Dynamics.
While I scanned most of them and read quite a few of them, I’m embarrassed to admit that a number came and left without having their innards see the light of day. I suspect that they’re floating somewhere in magazine purgatory, waiting for a tawdry proofreader to set them free.
Now that I’m older (if not wiser), I’ve somehow come across the luxury of purchasing through catalogs. Somewhere, somehow I got on the catalog mailing list (not that I’m complaining, mind you). I now get gift catalogs, toy catalogs, novelty catalogs, cheese catalogs, clothes catalogs, and even catalog catalogs (kind of like reading a menu to determine which restaurant to visit). Thumbing through a catalog is a bit like watching the Miss America Pageant on television – everything looks good. Things that I didn’t even know that I needed become things that I must have (would you believe that we now have a genuine bronze toilet paper holder?).
As if magazines and catalogs and book clubs aren’t enough, I’ve now joined a mailorder cigar club.
Oh, it’s not really a club, there aren’t any meetings or dues or election of officers (and what’s a club without officers, right?), but I will be mailed a monthly shipment of cigars.
Now these aren’t just regular cigars either.
These cigars are made from genuine Cuban tobacco seeds that were smuggled out of Cuba just before Castro took over.
The growers searched until they reached Honduras, where they found the climate and soil to be just like that in Cuba so that they could grow these rare “Cuban” cigars.
I know it sounds a little far-fetched, but it seems very plausible to me. I’m sure it’ll seem even more realistic when I put on my ol’ Army uniform to enjoy the tobacco.
If I can paint, “Cuba, SI, Yankee, NO” on the wall, it will be even better.
Besides, if all else fails and they’re really no better than my El Ropo 200s, at least I’ll have the consolation of getting them in the mail. Oh yes, the bronze toilet paper holder looks quite nice, thank you.
Originally published in The Paper, October 1981.
Read this article in the original newspaper issue.
Original source: SD_Times1981_10.pdf, printed page(s) 8; PDF page(s) 8.
