Can I have that zip code sir? I cough up the zip code one more time.
Really do not know why I keep giving it to them, they never seem to hang on to it. It seems as if everyone is knock, knock, knocking on my door these days. Everyone wants a little piece of my world.
If there ever was a concept that we can look back on nostalgically, it would be privacy. That’s gone. It’s been gone for a long time anyway. There are cameras on the street, in most of the buildings, on an increasing number of policemen (and maybe soon everyday civilians will be wearing them). Even the cotton pickin’ toilets at WalMart know when you are done and flush themselves these days, privacy as we knew it is now long gone, everyone is watching.
We are being tracked in our automobiles and even built into your computer and cell phone you will find similar devices to hunt you down. You can be sure that twenty-four hours a day, seven days per week, “They” know who you are, and where you are, right down to the GPS coordinates, and the Google Street View.
If you buy something, your habit is put into a zillion profiles, and your ads will change to reflect those habits. “They” will try to get you to buy something else.
Again and again and again.
All we will have left is that which can’t be changed … would be our “Memories.” And that apparently is slipping away from some of us each day. Having said all that, I will say this. With all this change going on, and our personal lives being laid open in the electronic world, our privacy taken repeatedly, one thing remains a constant in our feckless lives.
The dysfunctional postal system and the moron’s that run it.
Everyone and his dog want my zip code, Lowe’s, Home Depot, Radio Shack (in order to buy flashlight batteries that is a hoot), now it is Tractor Supply for a paltry handful of flat washers. So again, the zip code goes out … and herein lies the rub.
The U.S. Post Office cannot find me, even when everyone who ever made a dime in retail has my zip code. Yesterday I am home ALL DAY I did not leave the property. In my mailbox I find a notice that requires me to drive nine miles to the Post Office to pick up a package “that they say could not be delivered because they were sorry I was not home and they missed me?”
So dutifully I load up in the family truckster and drive the nine miles. As luck would have it, the line is short, I am doing well.
The woman in line at the Post Office in front of me, makes an inquiry about her package to the attending postal clerk. The post office representative said it would cost $2.40 for fast delivery or $1.30 for slower service.
“There is no hurry,” she told the clerk, “just so the package is delivered in my lifetime.”
The postmaster glanced at her and said, “That will be $2.40, please.”
I walk up to the counter, lay the paper notice on the counter, the guy looks at it, and says,
“Can I have your zip code?”
Here we go again. Repeat after me … It Is Not Your Circus … And These Are Not Your Monkeys. It Is Not Your Circus … And These Are Not Your Monkeys.