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August 12, 2009
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First of all, for those of you who don't know, mailmen/women in Los Angeles are on safari.  All the time.

They wear funny safari hats and shorts with tall socks, and shit like that. 

Regardless of where you live, interaction with mail carriers is normally limited.   This girl's advice?  Keep it that way.  Otherwise, weird shit is absolutely going to happen.

Like, last week...

My mother sent me a package to my home address, even though I've told her repeatedly not to, because the mail situation there is sketchy for the following reasons:

I live at a "1/2" address that the post office does not officially recognize.

I live in Los Angeles, where random people will take anything left on your door mat, curb, and pretty much anywhere else (including items left in your unlocked car while parked in your driveway..  R.I.P.: my discman, my roommate's iPod, my boss's iPhone).

The guy at the full numbered address down the yard from me exclusively wears old Banana Republic t-shirts (the puffy dolphin ones), doesn't speak, and is just a shady dude.

So I arrive home one evening to an orange note left by my mailman.  It's the standard-issue "sign here and we'll leave your shit" form, but for some reason most of the printed wording has been crossed out and this has been written in: "Call me!  646-564-xxxx.  Bobby" 

Okay.

I call Bobby the next day.  A confused woman answers and says there is no Bobby there.  So I fill out the card normally, and under his note write "I tried but it was the wrong number!  Please just leave the package, thank you!"

Next day, slip returned, with his number written darker, and larger.  With one number different.  "Call me!  Bobby!"

So I try again, get his voicemail and it's full.  Shocking.  Bobby gets around, and clearly enjoys leaving people both his cell phone number and no alternative.

13 seconds later the phone rings and the caller ID actually comes up "Bobby"..!  Our eager intern answers, puts the call on hold and says: "It's Bobby for you, and he is batshit crazy."

I pick up and quickly confirm.  Bobby is jabbering away, saying it's his day off and he's in Anaheim picking up some 'wood' for some 'customers', and which Bessie am I again?  And has he met me yet?  And it's very important I pick the package up in person, and where and when can I meet him?  I finally agree to call him in the morning to get him off the phone.

The next morning I go to the post office to pick up what turns out to be:  a battered box, old pajamas my mother no longer wants, and a medical-grade abrasive 'quilt' with stains on it.

Let's just hope Bobby and I don't cross paths on Saturday.

Thanks mom!!

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