A flagrant epidemic of insanity in America

February 16, 2026

By DELL FRANKLIN

Editor’s Note: The following series, “Life in Radically Gentrifying Cayucos by the Sea,” to be posted biweekly includes the notes, thoughts, and opinions of an original American voice: author Dell Franklin. 

Franklin’s memoir, “The ballplayer’s Son” and “Life on The Mississippi, 1969” are currently on Amazon.

I spend a lot of time on my deck and have over the years noticed an increasing number of FEDEX, UPS and USPS trucks roaming around the neighborhood depositing more and more boxes on front porches or in mail boxes. My immediate neighbors, who have moved and left a huge double-deck home empty, used to seemingly get a new box every other day. I would always jump up when the truck pulled up and hope somebody somehow miraculously sent me something, but no, a box arriving on my stairway was a very, very, very rare occasion.

Although, a few months ago, after I wrote about my frustration with four straight coffee maker failures from the local thrift store having me so wildly frustrated and frazzled I was close to a breakdown and whiskey binge, a box with the cheapest, simplest-to-operate coffee maker arrived at my door. I was stumped for a day or two over who sent it until talking to my nephew in Denver who admitted to sending it in hope I wouldn’t end up in a mental institution.

But seriously, I seldom receive anything because I don’t buy things online no matter how badly I might need an item.

I have a theory that most people buy things online because they savor the thrill of coming home from work and seeing a new box on their doorstep. I know, people explain that it’s cheaper to buy on line, but is it any fun, other than getting the temporary thrill of coming home to a box or package?

I used to wonder what my neighbors ordered. It seemed every week, when we took our cans out for the collectors, they had flattened cardboard overflowing their cans. I suspected these wonderfully generous neighbors who always brought this old bachelor tons of food during every holiday or birthday celebration and whose son volunteered to hack up the weed garden surrounding my rental, thrilled at the sight of boxes on their porch.

My suspicions were confirmed when they moved after 16 years of being my neighbors. It took an SUV and the biggest U-Haul truck to cart away their possessions. We’re talking about a mountain of relatively new appliances and furniture and clothes—my God!—as well as everything else imaginable.

They had a sale and sold a slew of the mountain, but still had to have the U-Haul stuffed so tightly they could barely seal the door shut. They even offered me a chair and a beautiful lamp but I shook my head and fled.

I think this urge to order something for delivery is kind of a modern epidemic that probably needs to be treated by a shrink. I don’t mean to say that my old neighbors were mentally ill, no, but that they appeared addicted to having boxes on their porch.

After a while, as I lolled on my recliner and heard the delivery truck draw near and halt next door on idle, I refrained from jumping up or even reacting, knowing that nobody anywhere, not even my sister, was considering sending me anything. Although, the other day my other nephew in LA called and said he was sick of seeing me in the hoodie he sent me in 2019 and that a new one would arrive in a day or two, and yes, I was thrilled when I spotted the package by my door after playing tennis and immediately tore it open and tried on the hoodie which was extra large and was very satisfied though I am not quite ready to wear it at this point and folded it up in a closet for future reference.

But it felt so heartening that my nephews, the only people who send me anything—except an old basketball pal called Hondo who’ll send me a book or a pair of tennis shoes or a T-shirt every year or so and even sent me a stationary bike a decade ago—were thinking about me.

The other day my mailbox was stuffed with a thick manila envelope and I was thrilled because I thought it was a book and then disappointed to discover it was a life insurance policy that I don’t need because I have nothing worthwhile to insure.

Part of the problem in Cayucos is that those who still live here or have moved here own huge homes like the one next door, and need to fill them up with as much expensive junk as they can.

My friend Dave who lives in Huntington Beach and is 83 and has all the money he needs, does buy things on line, and he tells me that half the time they send him appliances he’s incapable of operating or putting together and seeks help from teenage neighbors.

He’ll order something and receive the wrong thing and when he manages to call in after an aggravating hassle they tell him to just keep it and then send him the right thing but it doesn’t work, and when he calls to complain they tell him to keep it and finally send him the right thing that works; but he’s befuddled having all this wrong-thing-non-working-tough-to-put-together junk to dispose of. He buys XXL shirts and they send him XL. He ordered these pillows considered the most heavenly comfortable ever, and they sent him a double order and, lo and behold, I had a package on my front porch of these heavenly pillows and by God they are exceptional, I admit.

Dave’s my oldest and best friend from high school and we talk every two weeks for close to an hour, rehashing athletic triumphs and grumbling about our injuries and always discussing books we’re reading, and I think I’ll call him tonight and ask him to send me this book he says I’ll love.

I can’t wait to see it in a package on my porch.