PROMISES PROMISES

I am writing this morning to cheer myself up.  (Hmmm, why the "up"?) If there is one thing that can temper my otherwise omnipresent cheerfulness it is not feeling well and that is the case this morning as it has been for a couple of days.  I might be sick, but I'm not sure. If I was sure I would set about doing those things like taking medication and having witch doctors rattle chicken bones in a gourd while dancing around my bed and chanting that have worked so well in the past to get me back on my feet.  No sense, though, in going to those extremes if I'm not really sick.  I suggested to Woowoo Charly yesterday that I might be suffering from a flashback hangover.  It can't be an actual hangover because I haven't had any booze for quite some time in an effort to lose a few pounds. Wait! That's not really accurate.  We don't actually lose the pounds do we? I mean we know right where they are should we want them back.  The effort, I should point out, has had but minimal success, with a couple of pounds being temporarily misplaced principally because my eating habits have picked up the slack left by my tea-totaling. "Thank you, I will have another piece cake."  My condition - "I just dropped in to see what condition my condition is in." - described using classical medical terms is one of, "I'm not sick, I just don't feeeeel good" and does indeed have the aspects of a mild hangover. If there can be drug flashbacks, why not booze reruns?  I have vague nausea, a mild headache, a general feeling of un-wellness and a propensity for grumpiness. Is this not an accurate description of a hangover? Minus the fuzzy tongue, that is.  Anyway,  it is that last part, the grumpiness, that I am writing to put an end to. ("To" along with "up" being the second time I have ended a sentence with a preposition.  I am clearly a writing rebel.)

Of course wanting to write and writing are two different things.  I find that in order to turn the first into the second one needs something to write about. ("About" making three on the preposition monitor.  I'll no doubt be advocating literary revolution before the day is out.) (Out? Does that make four?)  I do have something on this occasion that has been disturbing my thoughts. Thoughts, as you know, prefer tranquility to unrest, well mine do anyway, and should be left alone to contemplate the deeper aspects of life-as-we-know-it like Zen and why do the Denver Broncos fumble the ball so often.?  What has been bothering my thoughts and even occasionally me - the two are not one and the same and often go their separate ways - is a failed promise.  

You see, when I was a kid growing up in the Forties and Fifties, the Future promised certain things.  It promised, for instance, that mankind would go to the moon.  It promised our televisions would one day have color equal to that of the movies.  It promised we would be able to see the person talking to us on the phone.  It promised and delivered so many things that I am reluctant to point out the one failing that I find so important that I am simply compelled to mention it.  I mean I don't want to appear ungrateful, but, here it is nevertheless:  We were promised years ago, over and over again - they even showed us prototypes - that we would have IN THE NEAR FUTURE, flying cars.  That's right, flying cars.  Where are the damn flying cars?  If I had one of those, I'm sure I'd feel better.

But, of course, I'd still have to write.