polaroids from the edge

Back in the days before Maude, before digital photography, microwave ovens, ATM's and other forms of instant gratification, we had to wait for things.
You can place the blame squarely on the TV dinner.
Ever since the advent of Swanson's frozen salisbury steaks, we have demanded our convenience neatly packaged and available on demand, ready to eat in half an hour or less at 350 degrees.
We have become a nation of leisure seekers, enjoying the fruits without the labor, the gain without the pain.
This congenital impatience has been inherited and passed down freely into our daily lives as an acute inability to bide time. I want my MTV, and I want it yesterday.
Video killed the radio star, perhaps. But it is also the cause of the decline of true talent; the ability to hold a note without the aid of AutoTune. (I dare not single out a single recording artist, a term I use lightly with say, Lady GaGa, but there you have it.) Telegenics have spawned the worst case of vocal genocide since I don't know when.
But back to my point.
With all of this lack of patience, other things must surely suffer.
People expect expediency from their laptops, cellphones, and even their online hookups. Where did people meet before e-Harmony? Okay, bad example. Let's call it a fast-mood mentality that has spawned the drive-through relationship that allows the patron to order exactly what traits they desire in a potential spouse. All bread and meat, hold the vegetables. (That may be a bit of editorializing, but you get the picture.)
Basically, we get what we ask for in a neat little bleached paper bag, otherwise we complain or take it back. No hassles. No fuss. No dishes to wash.
But what is lost when we don't take the time to get to know a potential partner, when we place an inordinate amount of time on the "rush" factor and not enough getting to know the individual? Do we find ourselves going back around to the pickup window?
Love is a tricky enough proposition in itself and should not be forced or hurried.
It should be relished and savoured, especially when you get it right.
It may come at 20. or 45. Or 60. But it will come. It is gratification delayed, but gratification nonetheless.
Frozen dinners be damned.

grunches in bunches

From the start of all time, before even clocks,
the Gaggle would gather to mimic and mock,
poohpoohing the clothes and the joy of a few,
in their humpity bumpity hullaballoo.

With cocktails in hand, they mumbled and grunched,
about latest fads, and the gym, and a brunch
that didn't quite do as it does when it dunt,
the profiles all lied, the ones on Manhunt.

Sinning and grinning, and grinning in sin,
Tsk Tsking and flailing like fish without fin,
The subjects they ranged from A through U,
they were the blackiest creatures you ever could view.

Now the Grinch had no use for this useless chatter,
and the Cat, well he had too much ham on his platter,
and the Whos wondered why and the Nots wondered Who,
and Horton dismissed every consonant too.

On the edge of the circle, outside looking in,
stood one Finneas Fabreze who had heard all the din,
all the talk of the bars, and the drinks, and the frocks,
and comparison of shape and the size of their socks.

"Enough, enough" he exclaimed as he left,
ridiculed even more, he walked away deft,
"Enough with the names and the fake little games,
a place free of grunching and Gaggles my aim."

Time passed, a day, a week, a year
Then clocks were invented, the calendar near.
Other patents would follow, too many to choose,
but how about tea, and coffee, and news?

Finneas learned from the paper a curious thing,
of the town he had run from that previous Spring,
in an article framed way high on the shelf,
was a story of the Gaggle that had eaten itself.

notes from 16E

The captain turns on the Fasten Seat Belts sign, and the aluminum carton lumbers down the runway. We are about to be tossed in the air again, all of the eggs securely strapped in. But if this thing goes down, we all crack.
To my immediate right, 16F pulls down the shade and says a quick prayer under her breath while clutching a copy of Harper's Bazaar.
The guy in a t-shirt across the way in 16A still has his iPod headphones in, nodding his head in time to some nameless beat. I wonder if he forgot to turn off his mechanical device, and the plane's navigation system will malfunction causing us to fly to the Azores instead of the Midwest. Of all times to forget to pack a bathing suit.
Sitting in 14A is a young mother with a colicky baby on her lap. I quickly wonder if I packed an extra valium or a pistol in the carry-on at my feet, for emergencies such as this.
The stewardess glides down the aisle and sums up the passengers, checking our laps, careful not to stare at our crotches. Now that's discipline.
In front of me, a sign that reminds me that the seat can be used as a flotation device. My mind replays all of the footage of airline disasters that have occurred over water, and I don't remember seeing any floating cushions.
13A is reading a copy of Ann Coulter's latest piece of trash, "Treason." I begin thinking that I hope that guy has a defective seat cushion in the unlikely event of an accident.

"We Know Why You Fly," as the recently successful airline ad campaign goes. I think about the reason behind this trip knowing that it won't be an easy five days, but I will make it through and will find myself on the exact same flight heading in the opposite direction towards home come Sunday. Life is funny that way. Arrivals and departures, sometimes early, oftentimes late. But definite.
Reservations guaranteed.