1-7-11 Uniondale, NY

This morning's introduction to the world dances to the propane flame flicking one of those fake ceramic logs in the hotel lobby. Basking in its scant glow, the obligatory bowl of styrofoam fruit lounges in eternal ripeness. Not terrible semblances of their requisite natural forms, save for the occasional perforation of the skin, revealing its true form. Some christmas decorations adorn the top of the heap, rapidly turning past their date, unlike the fruit which supports them. Funny that the forms of fruit, seasonal as their own natures may be, never seem to go out of style; food is in. The shiny red orbital balls and pine twigs, no more authentic than their fruity friends, bring back a whiff and fleeting taste of the year-end holiday misery that has just passed. I want to toss them in the propane fire, and efface their mockery of the genuine and truly joyous, but fear of retaliation from the hotel staff for destruction of their meager holiday decor, and fellow patrons in the adjacent breakfast room over the smell of burning plastic. Ironic considering the uncanny similarity of the hotel breakfast and plastic itself. The holidays have always held a special sort of misery for me, the repulsive decor strewn about in garish fashion, the trite combinations of tactless fragrances (nutmeg, cinnamon, and the like,) the long awkward social gatherings replete with uncomfortable pauses and breaks (some wonder orchestra composers can stand the season,) and the days spent in nothingness. What a way to waste a week or so. The pervasive sentiment of the whole affair seems to be guilt; have I forgotten to buy a gift for anyone? Have I spent too much? Have I spent too little? Should I call? Should I send a card? How am I going to afford this? How long will it take to pay off this holiday season, and will my credit lines recover in time to strain and tax themselves for another round next year? Communicational guilt, financial guilt, imagined guilt. Seems like a miserable affair any way you stack it. And the climate control, good Crom, is completely out of control. For as much as celebrators of the annual drudgery claim to rejoice the winter season, it's some wonder they can tell it's even going on past the incredible heat pumped into domiciles, businesses, and public places. Well, at least the fruit won't rot, and will look snappy adorned with eggs, obscurely dacted clovers, pumpkins, or whatever other seasonal items they'll bear until they meet their piney friends once again.