Last Friday, I received a post-it note from the mail carrier in my mailbox, informing me that he had tried to deliver an insured package to my address, but no-one was home.
Wait, let me clarify. The mail carrier wasn't in my mailbox. The post-it note was.
Anyway, I'm assuming this package contains the Season Three master tapes that B claims to have sent my way. I stuck the post-it note on my front door, with the release signed. Today — two delivery-days, one Sunday, and one national holiday later — I've yet to see the return of the mailman, or this alleged package.
I guess I'll have to go to the PO tomorrow and pick it up, since I and Day will be leaving two days from now to go to a wedding at Donald Trump's mansion in West Palm Beach, FL.
That's right. Yesterday, I was a lowly newspaper reporter and cable-access TV producer in Missoula, Montana. Two days from now, I'll be ... well, a lowly newspaper reporter still, and a cable-access TV producer still. But I'll be hanging with The Donald in West Palm! Maybe. Or, maybe he won't be there. Nobody has clarified this point yet.
All that's certain is that an old friend from my Bloomington days, Geri Kay, is marrying a guy she met in Florida who happens to be a friend of the Donald's, and I'll be there, as will Day. Hopefully. Unless there are problems with our flight, or something else happens.
First things first: I'd better get that package. It's worth a lot to me.
— posted by J on October 13th, 2004
