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I have an addictive personality.

Before the rumors start running rampant, that does not mean I am addicted to anything illegal, destructive or perverse. At least not at the present time. It does, however, mean I walk a very fine line between being in control and out of control.

Addiction runs in my family. My father was an alcoholic... and a very violent one at that. His father was an alcoholic as well. And, since medical science has shown it can be passed through generations as easily as eye color or male pattern baldness, I deal with it head on. With the exception of very rare, very special family occassions or those involving close friends, I do not drink. Although I do enjoy the taste of a cold Stoli and tonic, basically I don't miss it.

Nor have I ever done drugs. No cocaine, ecstasy, meth, qualudes, or other so-called party drugs. I did smoke pot twice when I was in college. It didn't do much for me and I saw no reason to go back for a third time. I make no judgements about others who do use drugs. I just know the problems they could present for me.

I got a preview of just that kind of threat 12 years ago. I was living in Texas and had major surgery. In the three days following surgery they gave me either Morphine or Valium or both. I was having the time of my life. I had never felt like that before. Despite the stitches and the tubes, I was livin' large. The only problem was the effect only lasted about 90 minutes, and I got the shots every two hours... so that last 30 minutes was hell on earth. I craved those shots and then I flew like a bird.

I was truly very sad when they told me they were taking me off the drugs after three days. And as my head cleared, I realized more than ever just how vulnerable I was... and still am.

By and large I've managed to avoid a taste for alcohol or drugs so they haven't become players in my life. As a matter of fact, they've been as rare as boyfriends. The problem with having an addictive personality is that there are other threats and other temptations out there... all that appear harmless or benign to the rest of the world, but are disasters lying in wait for people like me.

So... what's the point, because there must be some point, otherwise I wouldn't be writing about it. I don't know if there is one. I guess I'm just aware of the fact that control can sometimes be more an illusion than a reality. Sometimes it is just incredibly exhausting, trying to teeter on the very sharp edge between living life and screwing it up.

Excuse Me For Living

On behalf of all the unregistered peons of the world, I would like to thank the owners and proprietors of the planet and all the property thereon for allowing the rest of us to walk your precious streets and breathe your sacred air.

You know the people I'm talking about. The people who live in a special cloud, oblivious to all around them, functioning as though everyone else must find a detour.

For instance, there are the Sidewalk Standers... the group of six or eight who decide they must have their intense discussion of where to have dinner, what movie to see or who the Washington Monument is named after, in the middle of a narrow sidewalk instead of taking it off to the side or to the curb. It is the responsibility of the rest of the world to step around them or stop and wait for them to come to a consensus because, after all, they ARE the most important people on the block.

There are the Escalator Toppers. These people are a real joy. Let's step off the escalator and then just stop to either get our bearings, search our purse or wipe Junior's nose. Let's ignore the fact that other people are on the escalator behind us and will start to fall over each other. They are not relevant.

Similar in scope are the Elevator Blockers. It is far more important to push onto the elevator when it stops than to allow those already on to exit gracefully. Woe to those who had the audacity to actually be on the elevator in the first place.

Incredibly special are Subway Mother Superiors. These are the very regal people who get on the subway pushing a stroller the size of a Subaru. Once through the door, they simply stop, not only blocking any behind them from getting in, but guaranteeing people already on board in that area of the car will be unable to get out through that door. They assume the role of owner of the train, absolutely convinced that the $2 fare they paid give them imminent domain over one third of whatever car they are in.

Another transit favorite is the Bus Betty. This is the rider who has been waiting at the stop for 15 minutes. Only after she steps on board does she open her purse and start rummaging through it in search of her fare card. Everyone else can wait behind her. Everyone on board can just sit there as long as it takes. It didn't matter that she had all the time in the world to find her card before the bus got there. Her routine is more important than anyone else's convenience.

Parents who own the sidewalks set a fine example for their children as Curb Hogs. It is great to see adults with young children standing in the middle of a sloped curb cut, blocking the path of the old man or old lady with the walker, forcing them to either negotiate a high curb or wait in the street until the happy family moves across the intersection. Children must never be taught what that curb cut is actually meant for.

I also enjoy the Munch-Alongs. These are the people who have been standing in line at the fast fooderie behind six other people, but wait until they get to the counter to decide or discuss what they're having... now with six MORE people lined up behind them waiting. "I think I'll have the Quarter Pounder. No wait, the Double Cheeseburger. Make it a Value Meal. No, I think I really want McNuggets." Good God. It isn't like the Golden Arches has changed in 20 years. Since when did a McDonald's menu become an SAT test?

So, in conclusion, we lowly mortals humbly apologize to the rest of you for being so needy that we would actually expect some common sense and common courtesy from others who occupy the same planet and community as we do. We shall attempt to learn the error of our ways, and to avoid interefering with your personal quest of Supreme Assholedom.

Coffee, Tea Or A Pain In The Ass?

Who knew? An airline that actually has balls!
But still, not enough brains!

AirTran actually threw a family off one of its airplanes in Florida because the three year old daughter was throwing a temper tantrum prior to takeoff. It seems the parents couldn't keep her quiet long enough to buckle her in, so with the flight already running 15 minutes late, the cabin crew off-loaded them all. The airline refunded their money... but then gave them additional round-trip tickets as well to compensate them for their inconvenience.

First of all, HOORAY FOR AIRTRAN. That's probably the first and only time anybody has actually uttered that sentence. But as someone who has spent more than enough time sitting in front of miserable kids kicking my seat, behind kids who cried or pouted from LaGuardia to Los Angeles or sat across the aisle from kids who spent hours on end running up and down the aisles while their parents got sloshed on $5 Budweisers, I applaud any airline that tosses them out on the tarmac. I have said over and over that airplanes should have child and non-child sections, just like they used to have smoking and non-smoking sections. The day someone comes up with a successful business model for a no toddler airline is the day somebody strikes gold.

I don't dislike children. Nor do I dislike smokers, farters or fire-eaters. However, not all are appropriate for what is essentially a flying hallway with chairs. And, if smokers are expected to control their nicotine cravings and farters are expected to control their bowels, then it isn't too much to ask that Joe and Mildred Sexmixer control their offspring. Why should 112 people held captive on board a 737 have to be subjected to the bad behavior of one three year old who had too much sugar or too little sleep, or both?

And no... I don't advocate banning all children. Most times kids have a good time on planes with only an occasional outburst. The holy terrors I think we all want to avoid are the ones that are perpetually out of control... the pint sized versions of Veruca from Willy Wonka.

The only thing I think AirTran did wrong was give this Massachusetts mom and dad free tickets over and above their full refund. What compensation did they offer the passengers who wound up getting to their destination 15-30 minutes late? The family said they are so angry they'll never fly AirTran again. I can think of at least 112 customers and six or eight flight crew who hope to take that promise to the bank.

Air travel stopped being fun about a decade ago. Today it's about as exciting as a subway ride to Queens. But at least on the subway, when someone gets in your car with a screaming child or a stroller the size of a Volkswagen, you can change seats, or even change cars. No such luck at 30,000 feet. So even though airlines are subjecting us to the indignities of crowded terminals, cramped seats, bad service, lousy schedules and high fares, there should be some respect for our battered eardrums and shattered patience. Just because the airline is too cheap to show a movie on my flight doesn't mean I need to be subjected to a real life family drama across the aisle. I'll get plenty of screaming kids and screaming parents when I get to my brother's house. I don't need 6-10 hours of it enroute.

Pod People

I don’t know if Shirley MacLaine is right and if there are future lives after this one... but if there are, I know what I want to be when I come back.

An iPod.

Strange but true. And perhaps manufactured objects aren’t on the table for reincarnation, but the allure is there.

I was in the Apple store yesterday. As far as the eye could see, men and women, young and old, tenderly caressing all things Apple. It was a retailer’s version of live action porn. But few things there or anywhere else rate the love, adoration and commitment of the iPod in all its variations.

People can’t be separated from their iPods. They buy them wonderful dress up outfits, keep them clean and shiny and constantly feed them new content. They take them with them everywhere. Work, vacation, the gym, the car wash, school, funerals, job interviews, shopping… it doesn’t much matter. It goes everywhere with them. The commitment to take their iPods seems more important than taking their spouses or children. Of course, the iPods are far less demanding and far more accommodating. After all, at least you can stop an iPod from constantly repeating the same old song.

I want that kind of love and commitment.

Scan the personal profiles from MySpace, AOL, Tickle, Match or whatever, and you’ll find questions asking the three, four or five things people can’t live without. Invariably, their iPod is going to be on the list. More than a boyfriend, girlfriend, spouse, child, pet, Honda, toaster or rubber blow up doll, people want their iPod more than just about anything else.

How can anything compete with that?

Don’t get me wrong. I joined in the orgy, plunking down $400 for a new iPod and case to buy myself a little love. My new sleek video model replaces an older first generation version that just kind of died before Christmas. Yes, I could live without the iPod and yes there are other devices in my fleet of electronics that could take its place. But nothing is quite as universal as iPod intoxication. And now that it has video as well, I can actually be mesmerized by staring at the screen instead of watching the real world go by.

So in my next life, I want to be an iPod. I want my wheel spun and clicked lovingly. I want to be stared at for hours on end, listened to without question, never left behind, ignored, overlooked or taken for granted. In my next life I want to be an iPod... to be the last thing someone touches at night and the first they touch in the morning. I want to the object for which they buy accessories, bling and endless amounts of goodies to fill me.

I want to be an iPod so that someone will absolutely unspool if they discover I haven’t been properly cradled at night or they’ve neglected to plug me in. I mean, who doesn’t like the idea of a priority plugging?

Idol Shame

Everyone, it seems, has something to say about the new season of American Idol and its nasty new episodes.
The View

I should start by saying, until this week, I had never watched American Idol. Really. I never had any interest in the show, even though it had become a national obsession. But Wednesday night there was absolutely nothing on television, and I just couldn't take watching another rerun of Cash In The Attic on BBCAmerica. So, I decided to finally watch American Idol so I could at least participate in the Thursday morning reviews.

Like most everyone else who watched this crapfest, I was horrified. This wasn't a program showcasing new American talent. This was a show devoted almost entirely to the humiliation of young men and women who should know better but don't... people who have never been told they can't really sing but have been listened to for years out of politeness because nobody wanted to hurt their feelings... people who sing on Sunday morning in church simply because nobody else will. These are people who might have limited talent but still have dreams and souls and feelings. And some of them, as weak as they might be, still have more talent than Paris Hilton. They just haven't done an Internet sex tape.

American Idol has indeed JUMPED THE SHARK.

But I'm not going to lay the blame for the tasteless agony all at the feet of Simon and the producers. It really is because of the insatiable appetite we all have for misery and agony. See "Dirty Laundry"

There is no end to the number of things that concern me about this show and the fact that it was an overwhelming monster in the ratings. But I'll focus on one area other critics might have bypassed... and that's the fact that millions of parents sat down to watch this with their children and had the opporunity to laugh and hoot at the freak show, spurred on by Paula and Simon. They will learn that it is OK to laugh at people, humiliate them and call them names. At some point later in life, they might even decide it is OK to use the word faggot at the Golden Globes. Different headline, same theory... cultivating hate by cultivating intolerance and turning people who are different or don't fit into our individual mold into outcasts or castoffs.

I can't say American Idol lost me, because they never had me to begin with. I only hope there is sufficient anger and outrage elsewhere in America that other people who might have given this program their time in the past will now give it nothing more than a cold shoulder.

While I doubt American Idol will wind up on the scrap heap next week or next month, I think it is possible people might finally begin seeing it for what it really is: a forum for people so shallow and and with so little self confidence and worth in their own lives, their only joy can be found in the destruction of others.

Simon and Paula need some humanity lessons from Tim Gunn.

Don't Walk The Line... Jump It!

There might be a thin line between love and hate, but it isn't nearly as important or relevant in everyday life as the even thinner line between sane and everything else.

The sanest person I know is my friend Connie in South Florida. I worked with Connie for many years in Miami. She is now a college professor and sharing her experience, and hopefully her common sense and humor with a new generation of young people.

But thinking of Connie got me thinking about that thin line. While Connie might be the sanest person I know, even she will tell you that sanity is a subjective and often questionable commodity. I think there is Connie, and then there is everybody else... each finding their own place along the scale or in the great realm of crazy... from mildly offbeat to completely certifiable.

Perhaps we spend too much time searching for sanity and reason, and trying to make people and circumstances conform to some storybook idea of normalcy. Why do we believe that normal is that 1960’s version of network television sanity, when normal might be far closer to Jack Nicholson and Nurse Ratched?

There is nothing wrong with being a little off kilter, or, as they used to call it in my hometown, “a half bubble shy of plumb”. Colorful people give us something and someone to talk about over dinner, cocktails or during road trips. If we didn’t know crazy friends, crazy co-workers and crazy relatives, we’d be reduced to talking about Tony Danza and Dr. Phil all the time. And trust me, you don’t want to do that.

It’s time to embrace insanity. Cuddle up to craziness and hug a looney. If that looney is yourself, so much the better. Life is full of stress, demands and pressure around every corner and curve. The struggle to be constantly in control needs to be less of a priority and more of an option.

Think of sanity as expensive, rare cologne. Just a touch shows high class and exquisite taste. Too much just stinks.

You Are... Who?

I had a conversation with a friend and co-worker tonight about a situation at work, that wound up branching out, as these things always do, in a dozen different directions. But the point I was left with was the one about making a mark. We were talking about a colleague who had recently resigned and the mark she had made and the legacy she was leaving. We agreed, despite whatever problems people might have had with her (and there were many), she was a smart woman who left a legacy behind her and a mark that would be remembered.

Which got me thinking... what's my mark? What is my legacy?

I always wanted to write the great American novel or the next great American Broadway smash hit. Hasn't happened. Isn't likely to.

I always harbored a secret desire to be Presidential Press Secretary. I'm not smart enough, Republican enough or straight enough. Not gonna happen.

No children, so no legacy there.

Not a captain of industry. Not an inventor, scientist, artist, actor, defender, criminal, psychopath, rock star or Paris Hilton's sex tape co-star. Nada, nothing, zilch, zero, zip, bupkus.

So, I'm at a loss about my mark and my legacy. I suppose in the grand scheme of things leaving one isn't absolutely necessary. History is full of people who just passed through... paying taxes and retail and quietly departing when the time came. There's nothing wrong with vanilla. It is, after all, America's favorite ice cream flavor (according to CNN & Money Magazine). But few people stand in lines around the corner for vanilla, or tell their old classmates about it at their high school reunions.

Spare me the maudlin family love and impact goop. That's like saying your new car came equipped with a radio. It's not unappreciated, but it certainly isn't profound either.

For the vast majority of us, I suppose just getting through day after day, week after week, making ends meet and not losing our minds is as close to a legacy as we'll get. Great civilizations and great republics are not built on the backs of rock stars and football stars and hotel trust fund heiresses. They are built on the foundations of millions of pyramid builders who haul the boulders up hill in the sand every day. The fact that we were here doing what we did will mean a few hundred million will get to do it all over again a couple generations from now.

I guess I can live with that, even if my name won't be on a building, monument or statue. Although there is one sidewalk behind a house in Baltimore where it still might be written in the cement.

Gimme Dirty Laundry

I really don’t care about Donald Trump or Rosie O’Donnell. Together, separately or as a couple… I really don’t care.

Trump is a moderately successful businessman who loves being the center of all attention. In my opinion, he has joined the ranks of Paris Hilton and Fabio, as people who are famous simply for being famous. And annoying.

Rosie is a moderately funny comic who parlayed her schtick into an enormously successful television franchise, then walked away from it. Now she needs to rein herself in before she becomes even more of a parody of herself.

That said, I realize that their very public sniping makes great headlines. I think it speaks volumes about us and them.

I think there is this enormous fascination with Rosie and Donald screaming at each other, because people love seeing other people unhappy or miserable or in pain. Someone once told me that people don’t go to automobile races to see accidents, but if there were no accidents no one would go. I absolutely believe that.

I think people revel in unhappiness. In business, when Company A has a better quarter than Company B, the executives at Company A gleefully sing about how miserable the folks across town must be.

When the baseball Doodads beat the Hoohahs, fans and teammates are thrilled to have trounced them. There is not nearly as much joy in their own victory as there is in someone else’s failure.

I think I have written before that I believe that the universe is a balance. In order for some people to be happy, other people must be unhappy. People can’t seem to find joy in their own happiness or success unless it is at the expense of somebody else. It isn’t enough that Joe got the promotion. It’s that he beat out Jack. It isn’t enough that Sadie got married. It’s that her husband is a better catch than Dorothy’s.

There seems to excitement in excrement. People devour gossip magazines, gossip columns and gossip websites looking for any evidence of wrong-doing, screwing-up or screwing around. I’m no different than anyone else. I check out Perez Hilton, TMZ and many of the others. But at some point I think the taste for blood should start to fade. My worry is that it doesn’t.

I’m really dating myself when I quote “Casey At The Bat”, and the last line which goes: “But there is no joy in Mudville – mighty Casey has struck out.” If the famous Ernest Thayer poem were written today, the last line might go: “But all of Mudville had orgasms – mighty Casey has struck out.”

Five Words

(removed for editing. will be re-posted)

Waiting For The 104

I have become one of "those" people. An earbud person. I am now one of those people who can't walk down the street without a set of earplugs jammed into my ears... usually connected to a portable XM satellite radio receiver, although occasionally connected to an IPod. The audio is always cranked up to mind numbing, drowning out the sounds of the city as I take long walks through the streets from one side of town to another.

I have found it best to block out the sounds of the city, since the sounds have become more and more inane. The horns and sirens I could handle. It's the people that drive me crazy.

The tourists first of all. Don't get me wrong. I'm glad they're here spending their money. But they all sound the same. Starstruck honeymooners from Tennessee wondering if they can get in to see Saturday Night Live (they won't); clueless families from Ohio looking for the Jekyll & Hyde Restaurant (5000 world class restaurants in the city and they want to go to a theme joint where the plastic menu tastes better than the food); confused school groups from Nebraska staring at the Chrysler Building and thinking it's the Empire State Building; know-it-alls from Oregon chatting about what a pain in the ass security precautions are since 9/11 (yeah. my heart bleeds for you.)

The locals... The mothers screaming at their kids as they drag them on shopping trips they don't want any part of; the bridge and tunnel people from Jersey who hit the city sidewalks once a week for cheap Broadway tickets and complain about everything they see, from the high price of parking, to the Naked Cowboy in Times Square to the cabs they can't get because the matinees have just let out and nobody can get a cab (hint: next time go to Paramus); the nannies too busy talking on their cell phones to pay attention to the screaming kids (just like the real mommies); and the assorted cell phone junkies who have to wear a Bluetooth headset everywhere they go and never stop talking on it. (I swear there really isn't anyone on the phone. The headset is just a cover to allow them to talk to themselves without the stigma of being so obviously certifiably insane.)

I do take the earbuds out when I go in a store though, since I actually might have to communicate with someone in there. But again, there are times I would rather not. Take today. I stopped in the supermarket on the way home. Walking by the seafood counter, I saw a woman arguing with the clerk over the raw shrimp. At $11.99 a pound, she was bothered by the fact there was ice on them, and wanted to know how much the ice weighed that stuck to the shrimp she was buying. I did a double take. On the scale was $20 worth of shrimp, and probably about 8 cents worth of ice. But she's there arguing about it. That's kind of like buying a $60,000 Lexus, then arguing about gas going from $2.55 to 2.57 a gallon. I wanted to stop and make a suggestion. I wanted to tell the clerk to weigh out her shrimp, then take it and put it out in today's 70 degree sun for about three or four hours. Then re-weigh it without the now dried up ice, and the woman would be happy. He'd be happy too, since in the process the raw shrimp would turn rancid, she'd get good and sick and hopefully would never bother him again. However I thought better and continued on.

Of course, wearing earphones in the store would also deprive me of one of my greater pleasures... The stupid checkout question. At least once a week, when I am standing with half a dozen other people waiting to go through one of the self-serve checkouts, someone will come up to me, seeing the people waiting, the cash registers and the bagging in progress and say to me "Is this the line?" I get to respond, with just the right combination of sarcasm and fatigue "No. We're waiting for the 104 bus. I hope you have exact change." The dirty look I expect. What amazes me is that they will turn around and ask somebody else the exact same question.

Here's today's Daily Motion discovery. It's called CUT THE CRAP.