Promises Are Made To Be Broken

I am so angry and disappointed today, I'm not sure how to handle it. In the past, I simply wouldn't handle it, and I'd spend the day reveling in it. But the recovery process tells me I can't just ignore it or bury it. I'm supposed to express it, face it, deal with it, or whatever, as long as it is resolved.

That's easier said than done. Not all situations are easily resolved. In this case, it involves somebody who has huge problems and issues of his own. How do I address mine without them seeming petty in comparison to his?

I've never been a big believer in promises or expectations. It has been my experience that both lead to disappointment and anger. The world of psychoanalysis and I are at odds over this one. I believe if you never expect anything you'll never be disappointed. The shrinks say if you expect nothing, that's what you'll get. Whichever theory you subscribe to, I believe the end result is the same.

Unfortunately, people assign different importance ratings to different promises. Follow me on this. On a scale of 1 to 100, an engagement or fidelity or an organ transplant would probably be in the high 90's; an invitation to dinner in the 50's; and picking up stamps for somebody at the post office would be about an 8. But because a promise or expectation involves more than one person, the different people involved might assign different values to it.

The person offering to get your stamps might only value the expectation at an 8. But the person who needs the stamps to mail a birthday card to his mother might place it at a 74. So, when the stamps are forgotten, one person is pissed, and the other shrugs it off... and that only makes the disappointment more intense.

Because both apparent answers to my problem are unacceptable in their own individual ways, I need an alternative. I can't confront the other person, and I'm not supposed to suck it up. So I'm going to choose "none of the above" and vent to the world at large. The specifics of what happened are really irrelevant. The truth is that nobody values promises or expectations in the same way. My parents used to say that promises are made to be broken. I used to think that was just a way of avoiding committing to anything. I was right. It was. But maybe what looked like a cop-out on the surface was actually the far more honest approach.

Thanks for reading my rant this far. I promise I won't get on a whiney soap box again.
And after all... a promise is a promise.

Sour Grapes

As if I didn't already have enough reasons to stop drinking...

Martha Stewart is launching her own wine label. "Martha Stewart Vintage" will be manufactured and distributed by Gallo wines, and will sell for about $15 a bottle. The first markets to get a chance to get stewed with Stewart will include Phoenix, Denver and Charlotte where, presumably, the best wine labels are already Sam's Club and Costco.

As nauseating as the prospect of Martha Stewart wines are, I do have to give her and her marketing people credit for finding every way possible to pander to the trailer park crowd in the fly-over states. A Martha Stewart line of flowers in conjunction with that famous 1-800 firm is also on the horizon.

The only thing left might be tastefully decorated Martha Stewart condoms. After all, if the idea is to be a wh*re of national proportions, one should at least do it responsibly.

Jam It

I saw a commercial on television yesterday for a mobile broadband service. The premise was that people are on board an airplane, getting ready to take off, and all are in a hurry to send the last possible e-mail or surf the last possible webpage before take off. The tag line suggested that with their brand of broadband connection, they could jam every possible e-mail and task into the last available second possible.

Why?

Where is it written that we are now obligated and required to spend every possible waking second doing something productive? What ever happened to relaxing? Doing nothing? Enjoying your surroundings, the world, or God forbid, each other?

The most ridiculous indicator of "progress" is the installation of WiFi throughout Central Park. So, you can now take your laptop to Central Park, ignore the trees, the softball games, the bikers, the kids, the cute guys/girls (depending on your preference), and instead stay glued to your 14 inch screen, Googling your heart out.

Why bother going to the Park? Just stay home, where you'll get four bars of signal, or even at Starbucks, sipping on an overpriced latte while you run your finger lovingly over your touchpad. Or even McDonald's where your McNuggets can cozy up to your Mac.

Again, at what point did we decide that no moment can pass without doing something? To be honest, the non-stop non-stopism is making me crazy. I sometimes think the best time of the day is the 30 seconds in the elevator going from the lobby of my building to my floor. Unless, of course, a lovely neighbor is on board with me using the time to text away or peck at their Blackberry because, God knows, they won't be home for another 60 seconds and whatever has their attention can't possibly wait. Tomorrow they'll be doing the same thing on the way down, because something dramatic must have happened in the world in the two minutes since they walked out the door of their apartment.

I have no explanation for any of it other than the constant availability to communicate in all ways except real conversation... or the sheer fear of being alone with one's thoughts.

I have a home phone, a cell phone, a fax machine, two work cell phones, a wireless work PDA and a desktop and laptop computers. And I can't wait to turn them all off.

The silence is overwhelmingly therapeutic. And trust me... I need all the therapy I can get.

Manhattan Morning

New York has a reputation as a 24 hour city. You can get, go or see anything at any time, around the clock. Dinner at 3AM, breakfast at 3PM, an AA meeting at 2AM or a gospel preacher in the subway at 4PM.

But to find the real magic of the city, you have to be willing to haul your sorry ass out of bed before the paper hits the front door, and be willing to be out on the sidewalk right behind the person who delivered it.

There's something strange and wonderful about New York before the rest of the city gets going. That brief hour between 7AM and 8AM is my favorite hour of the day. The city is certainly never silent, but that's the hour it has kind of a quiet anticipation. Traffic is still light, few horns or sirens, no blaring radios, screaming babies or rumbling diesels. Yet you know they're just around the corner or up the street, because it's already full blown daylight. Everybody is waking up and planning their attack on the day. They're just not in your face yet.

I enjoy walking down Broadway or 8th Avenue as the city wakes up. Everybody moves at a slower, more relaxed pace. It reminds me of animals waking up from hibernation, venturing out bleary-eyed into the world, trying to get their bearings. There is almost an unspoken fellowship among the early risers, and a secret mutual understanding of how special and soothing these fleeting moments really are. To me, even a springtime afternoon in the park is not as relaxing or mind clearing as this early morning walk through Manhattan.

Then, as 8:00 comes and goes, the pace automatically quickens. More pedestrians, cabs, cars and buses whiz by. There's a noticeable increase in the number of trains rumbling beneath the street, and the coffee shops and bodegas buzz with people grabbing their morning coffee and bagels. By 8:30, the quiet is a mere memory. The city is at full throttle.

And then, people like me blend into the fabric of the high speed landscape, off to do whatever it is we do, but with a secret hidden smile that we've just been part of New York's best kept secret.

Who Knew?

Yes...
It IS possible to be TOO gay.

Everything Is Not Always Fit To Print

Have you ever read the wedding announcements in the Sunday New York Times?

First of all, I think you have to be related to royalty to even be considered for the wedding announcements section. I'm not sure what the requirements for inclusion are but I do tend to notice that the vast majority of couples are white, certainly extremely upscale, disgustingly photogenic and certainly of expensive country club caliber. Every picture is professionally posed. No Canon Sure Shots here, and nothing from that road trip weekend to Long Beach Island or the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. In other words, people I wouldn't even pass on the street, let alone know personally. This applies to the sex-mixers and same sex couples as well.

I'm not sure who writes these things, but the idea of restraint or moderation is obviously not a concept often considered. After the names of the intended, their parents, grandparents, siblings, house pets and nannies, we must read every last detail about the wedding arrangements. The dress, the church, the reception, the decorations, the menu and the toilet paper in the bathrooms which these people are far too dignified to ever need to visit.

Then there's the honeymoon. The destination, means of travel, length of stay and expected activities, other than the obvious. They haven't yet delved into the various sexual positions to be tried, but that would be infinitely more interesting.

After all that, we read how they met, who introduced them, and where they went on their first date. Riveting. They do leave out information about the first time they hit the sack. Hell, if I have to know about the wedding trip to Barbados, at least tell me if they did it on the first date or whether they held out until the third or fourth. Did they go to her place or his... or did they go to the Marriott Marquis? Did they spend the whole night together, or schtup and run? Was the cat in the room watching? Did the doorman smile knowingly? Did he use a condom? (The boyfriend, not the doorman... unless of course the doorman was invited to participate. Hey, this IS New York.)

The last one I read went into great detail about how the couple broke up for awhile and one or both of them began dating other people until one flew off to see the other to make up in some distant city. And Spielberg wasn't there to capture it all? Didn't I see this in a movie with Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan?

Obviously the concept of too much information has never occurred to Muffy and Buffy or the hacks reviewing their nuptials. I'm beginning to think the depth of the wedding announcement is directly proportional to the cost of the wedding. The higher the price of the affair, the more column inches must be devoted to chronicle the spectacle.

I've wondered recently if anyone reads short stories anymore, or if anybody actually still writes them. I think I know the answer. They are still alive and well. They just live in the Sunday Style section of the Times.

The Break is Over

I took a break. Now it's over.
Thanks for your patience.
Let the madness begin again.