Camera phones, besides killing privacy, tact, deliberation over what information should be public, and manners, are now killing the postcard.
This makes me sad.
Granted, I have piles of postcards collected over my lifetime that guilt prohibits me from dumping or nostalgia requires I keep, and I think on certain levels I'd like to burn them all just to lighten my pack rat load.
But. They remind me friends who thought of me while on their exciting, far off vacations. They are images of art works that moved me on my fourth grade trip to the Getty. The old one. They are funny or plain or antiquated. One found by my dad in a box somewhere implies that on some level I was fated to meet my husband: it's an Italian relative's familiar handwriting on a postcard depicting still largely accurate scenes of Ipswich, England, in the 1960s.
They are some thing look at while wating for driving companions to buy twinkies at rest stops. They allow you to ironically herald your arrival in Bakersfield.
I'm going to start buying them and sending them again.