Well, tomorrow is my final trek out to the suburban office. Overnight on Wednesday, swarms of movers -- no doubt from impoverished third world countries working for $.58 an hour -- will move the mountain of crap from the old office to the new. My entire department consists of four boxes. That is how woeful their human resources commitment has been.
However, my boss, the vice president of finance, has metric tons of crap that will be moved. In a nod to cleaning out rubbish, I've been assigned the task of sorting threw Alp-like collections of paper. Imagine my horror when I tripped across this little gem: A key ring in the shape of a fish, formed from letters spelling J-E-S-U-S. I'd found several church bulletins, but this artifact frightened me. It was taped to a plea for a commitment of $.58 cents a day to feed a Latin American family of four for a week. (Imagine the number of people who will be fed by the workers who are moving the office crap!) I momentarily toyed with the idea of tossing this urgent plea that had lain deep in the bowels of financial papers for approximately three years, but decided to use it to test my boss.
Now, understand, I like my boss. His wife works in the office next to his and the nightmare the situation could be doesn't exist. They are honestly good people. Or as good as one can be in the imperialist United States while driving gasnivorous, war-wreaking monstrosity down the rugged terrain of an Illinois expressway. Still, good people.
But with the discovery of this plastic relic, I began to fear they might be too good. How does an elephantine faggot such as myself work for one of God's Enlightened?
So, I divided the pile into three demi-piles. One was urgent stuff that needed his immediate attention, one (containing Jesus's fish) with stuff I didn't want to take the responsibility of discarding (and risking eternity bobbing in a lake of fire) and another of precious sheets of information I know need to be entombed in plastic binders.
I took the first two piles to him and discussed the urgent matters. Then I gave him the questionable materials and told him he needed to look threw. When he got to the plastic Jesus fish taped to a picture of an emaciated, crying child with mosquitoes perched on her lashes, he said -- and I quote -- "Man, this is how they get you. They know you won't throw a perfectly good key ring away." Then he ripped it from the child's face (who after three years of neglect under ancient tax returns is probably dead anyway, sated mosquitoes lounging in the hollow of her skull) and tossed the key ring into the back of his desk drawer.
Exactly what I would have done.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Monday, February 27, 2006
A Twinkle in His Eyes and His Toes
I just finished watching the finale for Dancing with the Stars even though the outcome was spoiled for me. Because I went to chorus rehearsal last night, I missed it live. So I watched the recording this evening. I'm quite pleased that my boy Drew won.
For me, the show was all about watching the push for excellence in a forum that ultimately means nothing. The trophy is hideous. There's no tangible monetary gain. Yet most of the competitors really sweated blood. Of course, humiliation on national television serves as a great fear inducer. Still, that induce enough fear in Tatum O'Neal or Master P. I'll bet both of them exert more effort in telling the maid to do the dishes. And I think that's why I never warmed to Stacy Kiebler. She'd had years of ballet and tap training, so she had a shorter distance to travel toward excellence. Her free-style piece was pathetic, and clearly she was coasting. Even though Drew was part of a boy band, that was a completely different arena designed to make him look good. This was a real challenge and his commitment was inspiring. His performances were consistently my favorites.
That drive for excellence humbles me. I have a major paper looming, and the work I've done on it is feeble at best. I have to present it in less than a month, and instead of trying to figure out how to frame it, I should be polishing it up. It's simply disgraceful. I can hide behind the new job, but the truth is that the new job is a cake walk. I couldn't ask for an easier assignment. So, this week is going to be about getting a draft of that paper done.
On another note -- rehearsal last night was fun. I'm definitely glad I didn't audition for a lead role because I wouldn't have had the time to devote to it. As it is, I have one cross, and even that is a little taxing. The show should be cute and a lot of fun.
And of course, it was the first time I saw RP in weeks and he was politely flirty, just enough to live on all week. Ah, how little fantasies sustain our dreary lives!
OK, off to work.
For me, the show was all about watching the push for excellence in a forum that ultimately means nothing. The trophy is hideous. There's no tangible monetary gain. Yet most of the competitors really sweated blood. Of course, humiliation on national television serves as a great fear inducer. Still, that induce enough fear in Tatum O'Neal or Master P. I'll bet both of them exert more effort in telling the maid to do the dishes. And I think that's why I never warmed to Stacy Kiebler. She'd had years of ballet and tap training, so she had a shorter distance to travel toward excellence. Her free-style piece was pathetic, and clearly she was coasting. Even though Drew was part of a boy band, that was a completely different arena designed to make him look good. This was a real challenge and his commitment was inspiring. His performances were consistently my favorites.
That drive for excellence humbles me. I have a major paper looming, and the work I've done on it is feeble at best. I have to present it in less than a month, and instead of trying to figure out how to frame it, I should be polishing it up. It's simply disgraceful. I can hide behind the new job, but the truth is that the new job is a cake walk. I couldn't ask for an easier assignment. So, this week is going to be about getting a draft of that paper done.
On another note -- rehearsal last night was fun. I'm definitely glad I didn't audition for a lead role because I wouldn't have had the time to devote to it. As it is, I have one cross, and even that is a little taxing. The show should be cute and a lot of fun.
And of course, it was the first time I saw RP in weeks and he was politely flirty, just enough to live on all week. Ah, how little fantasies sustain our dreary lives!
OK, off to work.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Ouch!
So, my home is mostly clean, including laundry. I'd be all finished, except this morning, while putting away laundry, I jammed my toe under the linen closet door and ripped the nail off my big toe. Amazingly it didn't hurt, but there was a fair amount of blood. And of course I don't have a bandage in the house. So I wrapped it in a clean rag and stuffed in a sock. It's still pretty tender. I've been staying off it as much as possible, but I'm getting around OK. I'll probably spend the day in sandals and socks while I try to get to a drugstore for bandages. The shower will be a bit of a challenge.
Skipped the opera last night in favor of finishing housework. And I developed my annual headache, so it's probably best that I skipped sopranoes and counter tenors.
Now, I've got to put myself together for chorus, and I think I'm going reward myself with a manicure.
I'm off.
Skipped the opera last night in favor of finishing housework. And I developed my annual headache, so it's probably best that I skipped sopranoes and counter tenors.
Now, I've got to put myself together for chorus, and I think I'm going reward myself with a manicure.
I'm off.
Saturday, February 25, 2006
'Nuff Said
In my blog travels, I found a link to this website which tells you what the number one pop song was on the day you were born.
In my case, I need no further proof that God has a sense of humor.
The song on my date of birth: "Big Girls Don't Cry."
In my case, I need no further proof that God has a sense of humor.
The song on my date of birth: "Big Girls Don't Cry."
Auntie Mame or Agnes Gooch?
So, last night I thought I'd go out and experience a Friday night on the town. My last Friday night entailed me walking across the lawn to the Boylan's to watch a new episode of the Brady Bunch. (I live the life of a cloistered, Jesuit priest -- sans the alter boys.) But, I didn't want to go out too early, so I sat down and watched Project Jay.
For the uninitiated, Jay is the first winner of Project Runway, and this was sort of a where-are-they-now episode. The man is clearly talented, and although I suspect he and I have absolutely nothing in common except oxygen consumption, I enjoy watching him put his life together. He's trying to launch a fashion line and I was impressed with his vision and passion. He knows exactly what he wants to do and how it needs to be done. He may very well be a genius in the truest sense of the world. The show included several montages of Jay simply designing; designing things that may never see the light of day. And each one was interesting and vibrant. And then the episode ended and I realized I'd spent another hour in front of the television set and had nothing to show for it except some vague admiration for someone I will never meet. And what's more, I simply went to bed. I did't even make any social contacts last night.
So, today is devoted to Jay McCarroll. I'm putting things in priority and at the end of the day, when I head off to another opera, I will have something to show for the day. This post is product one.
If I'm studying writing, then it stands to reason I should at least pretend to be a writer. When I tell people I'm working on a degree in writing, they always ask what kind of writing. Then I have to tell them that I'm not really a writer, that I chose the degree because I thought it had the broadest application to whatever I might want to do in the future. I can go into even greater detail about Ph.D. programs and communications and cultural studies; but I usually leave the conversation there and watch a confused look come over their faces.
The truth is I have written a novel. It's completely unreadable, but most signicantly it is complete. It's also three years old. I have a second one begun, but it hasn't seen the light of day in at least a year, and its subject has grown stale on me, so it may never be finished. Earlier this year I wrote some poetry that isn't half bad, but its not really my genre. Since I began working on my master's degree, I've only written a few academic papers, and none of them sparkling. Allegedly I'm working on a major paper, but I only have fragments and the deadline looms.
My apartment is a disaster. I haven't seen the inside of my gym in a week. I need to do laundry. There is only dry cat food in the house, which Butch is not happy about and I haven't had breakfast yet.
But a writer writes. So, before I accomplished anything else today, I wanted to have one complete piece of writing done. This is my best attempt. Tomorrow I will report just how successful the day was.
For the uninitiated, Jay is the first winner of Project Runway, and this was sort of a where-are-they-now episode. The man is clearly talented, and although I suspect he and I have absolutely nothing in common except oxygen consumption, I enjoy watching him put his life together. He's trying to launch a fashion line and I was impressed with his vision and passion. He knows exactly what he wants to do and how it needs to be done. He may very well be a genius in the truest sense of the world. The show included several montages of Jay simply designing; designing things that may never see the light of day. And each one was interesting and vibrant. And then the episode ended and I realized I'd spent another hour in front of the television set and had nothing to show for it except some vague admiration for someone I will never meet. And what's more, I simply went to bed. I did't even make any social contacts last night.
So, today is devoted to Jay McCarroll. I'm putting things in priority and at the end of the day, when I head off to another opera, I will have something to show for the day. This post is product one.
If I'm studying writing, then it stands to reason I should at least pretend to be a writer. When I tell people I'm working on a degree in writing, they always ask what kind of writing. Then I have to tell them that I'm not really a writer, that I chose the degree because I thought it had the broadest application to whatever I might want to do in the future. I can go into even greater detail about Ph.D. programs and communications and cultural studies; but I usually leave the conversation there and watch a confused look come over their faces.
The truth is I have written a novel. It's completely unreadable, but most signicantly it is complete. It's also three years old. I have a second one begun, but it hasn't seen the light of day in at least a year, and its subject has grown stale on me, so it may never be finished. Earlier this year I wrote some poetry that isn't half bad, but its not really my genre. Since I began working on my master's degree, I've only written a few academic papers, and none of them sparkling. Allegedly I'm working on a major paper, but I only have fragments and the deadline looms.
My apartment is a disaster. I haven't seen the inside of my gym in a week. I need to do laundry. There is only dry cat food in the house, which Butch is not happy about and I haven't had breakfast yet.
But a writer writes. So, before I accomplished anything else today, I wanted to have one complete piece of writing done. This is my best attempt. Tomorrow I will report just how successful the day was.
Friday, February 24, 2006
Political Rant 2
I've been opposed to the war in Iraq from the beginning. My belief is that if we are the world's superpower, if we are really as superior to the rest of the world as we say we are, we should prove it by being the first country on the earth to develop a means for resolving conflict without violence. We should be able to address violence visited upon us with a more sophisticated response than more violence. If we are unable to do that, then we are not the supreme power we claim to be; in which case we don't have the authority to marshall half way around the globe and brutalize another nation into our vision of democracy. They were slow and inefficient, but the UN sanctions on Iraq were having an impact. Sadam's slaughter of Iraqi nationals had ended nearly two decades prior to our invasion, the weapons inspectors were finding no weapons of mass destruction, and there was no direct link between Iraq and the 9/11 attacks.
We have no clear-cut moral authority upon which to wage this war. In fact, we have no vague moral authority upon which to wage it either.
Having said all of that, I also have believed that to abandon Iraq after ripping it to pieces was even more amoral than the war itself. We destroyed that country, we have a duty to restore it to order and help the Iraqi people decide for themselves how they should be governed.
But the recent violence has changed my view. I now believe our continued presence in Iraq can bring no good. We must accept not only defeat, but also the reponsibility for such a reckless, ill-run war. Yes, I mean all of us. We all should hang our heads in shame for sending innocent American youths to the Middle East to wage war against Iraqi youth for no legitimate reason. This is a war that will exact its price from the American people for generations to come; and we will pay a dearer price than any we've paid for Viet Nam. This time we should have known better.
Even those of us who opposed the war, but allowed it to progress share in the shame. I believe that the very least we can do as patriotic, American citizens is to write our congressmen and senators, and even Mr. George W. Bush, and demand the immediate withdrawal of troops. Further, I believe it is incumbent on the United States citizenry to demand the immediate expulsion of Mr. Bush and his "government." And the first order of business for the new administration must be to beg -- yes, I said BEG -- the world community to help us restore order in Iraq. And then to swear a solemn blood oath to never wage another war of agression. EVER. Only then can we reclaim our status as the world's super power.
Exactly how much more evidence do we need that the current administration is not only corrupt and incompetent, but that is also probably the most destructive administration in American history? Exactly what has to happen for our sleeping citizenry to take real action?
We have no clear-cut moral authority upon which to wage this war. In fact, we have no vague moral authority upon which to wage it either.
Having said all of that, I also have believed that to abandon Iraq after ripping it to pieces was even more amoral than the war itself. We destroyed that country, we have a duty to restore it to order and help the Iraqi people decide for themselves how they should be governed.
But the recent violence has changed my view. I now believe our continued presence in Iraq can bring no good. We must accept not only defeat, but also the reponsibility for such a reckless, ill-run war. Yes, I mean all of us. We all should hang our heads in shame for sending innocent American youths to the Middle East to wage war against Iraqi youth for no legitimate reason. This is a war that will exact its price from the American people for generations to come; and we will pay a dearer price than any we've paid for Viet Nam. This time we should have known better.
Even those of us who opposed the war, but allowed it to progress share in the shame. I believe that the very least we can do as patriotic, American citizens is to write our congressmen and senators, and even Mr. George W. Bush, and demand the immediate withdrawal of troops. Further, I believe it is incumbent on the United States citizenry to demand the immediate expulsion of Mr. Bush and his "government." And the first order of business for the new administration must be to beg -- yes, I said BEG -- the world community to help us restore order in Iraq. And then to swear a solemn blood oath to never wage another war of agression. EVER. Only then can we reclaim our status as the world's super power.
Exactly how much more evidence do we need that the current administration is not only corrupt and incompetent, but that is also probably the most destructive administration in American history? Exactly what has to happen for our sleeping citizenry to take real action?
Standing on the Edge of the Weekend
Ah, the sweet relaxation of Friday, 6 p.m. and a deliciously unplanned weekend sprawled in front of me.
It becomes clearer each day that this temp assignment is going to be more long term than not. My boss is incorporating me into plans six months down the road. All fine with me. No one is more surprised than I am that this assignment is working out. I never thought I'd go back into human resources. Never.
What I find even more entertaining is that I was hired as a temporary clerical worker, and yet I'm asked about some pretty important policy issues, or I just randomly spout my unsolicited opinion, and they all act like I know what I'm talking about. Of course I'm fully aware of my own wisdom, but this is the first time others have expressed such confidence in my thoughts. I usually have to explain and cite authorities and examples, and even then the management does what it wants. But not now. It's refreshing.
Today I went to lunch with the hated secretary of the chairman's office. She's nice enough, but I think she resents me because I replaced her friend, and because I think she thought she should have the job. Several people have made a point of telling me that their new policy is to post all open positions. This one certainly wasn't posted. Ah well, I've been down this road before and the freshly fertilized fields it bisects all smell the same. They'll get over it.
It becomes clearer each day that this temp assignment is going to be more long term than not. My boss is incorporating me into plans six months down the road. All fine with me. No one is more surprised than I am that this assignment is working out. I never thought I'd go back into human resources. Never.
What I find even more entertaining is that I was hired as a temporary clerical worker, and yet I'm asked about some pretty important policy issues, or I just randomly spout my unsolicited opinion, and they all act like I know what I'm talking about. Of course I'm fully aware of my own wisdom, but this is the first time others have expressed such confidence in my thoughts. I usually have to explain and cite authorities and examples, and even then the management does what it wants. But not now. It's refreshing.
Today I went to lunch with the hated secretary of the chairman's office. She's nice enough, but I think she resents me because I replaced her friend, and because I think she thought she should have the job. Several people have made a point of telling me that their new policy is to post all open positions. This one certainly wasn't posted. Ah well, I've been down this road before and the freshly fertilized fields it bisects all smell the same. They'll get over it.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Blathering
Yes, I'm still around, but I'm typing this as I try to wolf down some food between work and class.
Work is good. Today the administrative girls tried to give me a ghetto name and were stunned when I told them I already had one. Sh'Qwan. I score extra points, apparently, for the apostrophe. I've found that if you're in with the secretaries, you're in.
But there's one who is clearly the queen bee, who was very good friends with my predecessor. She's giving me administrative work, and I have no choice but to smile and take it. She's the president's secretary and probably worth her weight in uranium because she speaks both English and Japanese fluently. She's tall, thin, young and gorgeous. How many more reasons does one need to hate?
Academic life is suffering. I'm going into class tonight and I haven't cracked open the book. I'm totally and completely ashamed. I haven't done that since high school. And the major paper I'm supposed to present in a month is still just incoherent fragments. My kitchen is a disaster.
But life is good. I skipped chorus the past two weeks, so I have to go back this weekend. I hate feeling over-booked. But in a good way.
Yes, life is good.
Work is good. Today the administrative girls tried to give me a ghetto name and were stunned when I told them I already had one. Sh'Qwan. I score extra points, apparently, for the apostrophe. I've found that if you're in with the secretaries, you're in.
But there's one who is clearly the queen bee, who was very good friends with my predecessor. She's giving me administrative work, and I have no choice but to smile and take it. She's the president's secretary and probably worth her weight in uranium because she speaks both English and Japanese fluently. She's tall, thin, young and gorgeous. How many more reasons does one need to hate?
Academic life is suffering. I'm going into class tonight and I haven't cracked open the book. I'm totally and completely ashamed. I haven't done that since high school. And the major paper I'm supposed to present in a month is still just incoherent fragments. My kitchen is a disaster.
But life is good. I skipped chorus the past two weeks, so I have to go back this weekend. I hate feeling over-booked. But in a good way.
Yes, life is good.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
A Weekend in Paradise
This has been the first weekend in nearly three years I haven't had to work. Yesterday my friend J. and I braved the cold and the suburban nomads to shop on Michigan Avenue. I bought a pair of cashmere pants for $32, and then went hog-wild on a shirt and tie. We had lunch and met Pebbles for a movie, The Matador*, and then came back up north for dinner at Leona's. Indescribable luxury.
And today is all about domesticity. I've just made my first Peapod order in three years, and they remembered all my favorites. I'll delight in laundry and housework, simply because I'm doing it on the day God intended: Sunday! I had wanted to go to church, but I think God will allow me one more day of luxuriating. I think I'm going to throw some bread in the machine and defrost some homemade soup.
For the uninitiated, I live in Rogers Park, one of the last urban frontiers along the lakefront of Chicago. Although I've had several homes over the years, I currently live in the first home I've owned. It is just two blocks from my very first Chicago apartment. In the years since I first moved here, there has been very little change. Then, about a year ago, Charmers closed. Charmers was the oldest Chicago gay bar. It had all of the original art deco interior. From the outside it looked like the most frightening dive possible, but inside it was pre-corporate sanitized elegance. I had only been inside three times, but I was very sad when it closed, and even sadder when it was renovated and turned into an Irish sports pub with gleaming wood and french doors that open out to the sidewalk so the entire neighborhood can enjoy their collection of Journey CDs.
This morning, as I practically skipped with joy to the scary convenience store for cereal and milk, my Sunday-morning revery exploded into orgasmic delight when I discovered that the art deco splendor isn't lost, but has simply been relocated to the shop next door where there will be a true neighborhood deli! One more space in the neighborhood saved from Starbucks and Barnes and Noble! They aren't open yet, but once they do open I'm ready to face the existential crisis that awaits me: do I frequent the neighborhood deli, or do I study at the Halsted Caribou Coffee with the magnificent sidewalk show? With such choices to be made on a sunny Sunday morning, is it possible that life could get much better than this?
*Mini Movie Review: The Matador is a refreshingly competent movie that, had it been made in another era would have been simply pedestrian. But given today's-Hollywood race to illiteracy and obsession with perfect skin, is an actual delight. Who knew Pierce Brosnan or Greg Kinnear could actually act? The dialogue sparkles, the pace is appropriate, and the cinematography feels European. I would say a must-see, if not in a theatre, definitely on video.
And today is all about domesticity. I've just made my first Peapod order in three years, and they remembered all my favorites. I'll delight in laundry and housework, simply because I'm doing it on the day God intended: Sunday! I had wanted to go to church, but I think God will allow me one more day of luxuriating. I think I'm going to throw some bread in the machine and defrost some homemade soup.
For the uninitiated, I live in Rogers Park, one of the last urban frontiers along the lakefront of Chicago. Although I've had several homes over the years, I currently live in the first home I've owned. It is just two blocks from my very first Chicago apartment. In the years since I first moved here, there has been very little change. Then, about a year ago, Charmers closed. Charmers was the oldest Chicago gay bar. It had all of the original art deco interior. From the outside it looked like the most frightening dive possible, but inside it was pre-corporate sanitized elegance. I had only been inside three times, but I was very sad when it closed, and even sadder when it was renovated and turned into an Irish sports pub with gleaming wood and french doors that open out to the sidewalk so the entire neighborhood can enjoy their collection of Journey CDs.
This morning, as I practically skipped with joy to the scary convenience store for cereal and milk, my Sunday-morning revery exploded into orgasmic delight when I discovered that the art deco splendor isn't lost, but has simply been relocated to the shop next door where there will be a true neighborhood deli! One more space in the neighborhood saved from Starbucks and Barnes and Noble! They aren't open yet, but once they do open I'm ready to face the existential crisis that awaits me: do I frequent the neighborhood deli, or do I study at the Halsted Caribou Coffee with the magnificent sidewalk show? With such choices to be made on a sunny Sunday morning, is it possible that life could get much better than this?
*Mini Movie Review: The Matador is a refreshingly competent movie that, had it been made in another era would have been simply pedestrian. But given today's-Hollywood race to illiteracy and obsession with perfect skin, is an actual delight. Who knew Pierce Brosnan or Greg Kinnear could actually act? The dialogue sparkles, the pace is appropriate, and the cinematography feels European. I would say a must-see, if not in a theatre, definitely on video.
Friday, February 17, 2006
Droopy-Eyed Catching Up
Perhaps the reason I'm so emotional is because I'm exhausted. I finished nine straight days of work, which isn't necessarily that draining; but when you're used to a four-day schedule, it's a Herculean task.
A task, by the way, that I completed successfully. Every indication is that I'll be hired permanently at this company. I was homesick for my little cafe only until I received my first paycheck. Time to move on! The people I'm working for are adorable.
Today I was invited out to lunch with "the guys." I never feel more gay than when I'm with a bunch of hetero men. There were eight of us there, and because the business is sports orientated, that was predominantly the topic of conversation. And because it's a predominantly hetero company, I haven't come out to them. It's only been a week, and frankly I don't see the necessity. That doesn't mean I'm hiding being gay, or pretending to be something I'm not. Somehow, in a business setting, my sexuality hasn't come up. And, bless their hearts, if they haven't figured it out they certainly were fishing. At one point the topic of conversation suddenly changed to The Lindsay Lohan True Hollywood Story on E! And the guy to my left, possibly the least attractive man at the table, spoke to me once and then never looked in my direction again. Perhaps I'm paranoid or egocentric. Of course I was seated directly across from the most attractive man, and there was virtually no where else to look but at him. The more I looked at him the gayer I felt.
But, it looks like employment and income issues are over for a while at least, and now I can concentrate on my social life and school.
Speaking of school, I received and unexpected A- on my latest test. An A in the class isn't necessarily completely out of the question after all.
A task, by the way, that I completed successfully. Every indication is that I'll be hired permanently at this company. I was homesick for my little cafe only until I received my first paycheck. Time to move on! The people I'm working for are adorable.
Today I was invited out to lunch with "the guys." I never feel more gay than when I'm with a bunch of hetero men. There were eight of us there, and because the business is sports orientated, that was predominantly the topic of conversation. And because it's a predominantly hetero company, I haven't come out to them. It's only been a week, and frankly I don't see the necessity. That doesn't mean I'm hiding being gay, or pretending to be something I'm not. Somehow, in a business setting, my sexuality hasn't come up. And, bless their hearts, if they haven't figured it out they certainly were fishing. At one point the topic of conversation suddenly changed to The Lindsay Lohan True Hollywood Story on E! And the guy to my left, possibly the least attractive man at the table, spoke to me once and then never looked in my direction again. Perhaps I'm paranoid or egocentric. Of course I was seated directly across from the most attractive man, and there was virtually no where else to look but at him. The more I looked at him the gayer I felt.
But, it looks like employment and income issues are over for a while at least, and now I can concentrate on my social life and school.
Speaking of school, I received and unexpected A- on my latest test. An A in the class isn't necessarily completely out of the question after all.
We Hardly Knew Ye
Lisa Rinna was my number two choice for Dancing With the Stars and tonight she lost. It was very emotional. But my boy Drew is still in there, and he's going to give that peroxide pair of stilts and that arthritic jock a run for their money.
We love you Lisa!
We love you Lisa!
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
I'm a Discount Whore
I've discovered that one of my favorite clothing stores uses e-Bay for their clearance items. I won't mention the store, because I don't want the multitudinous throngs who come to my blog to quench their thirst for my wit to make a mad run on the goodies. But I'm buying shirts for literally ten cents on the dollar. I've been a bidding fiend!
I'm In
Briefly -- The VP I'm working for told me this morning that it wasn't his decision. He needed to wait until the new CEO was in place, but that he was recommending that the firm hire me. He said I'm the IDEAL candidate.
Ignore previous post.
Ignore previous post.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
"Hello, my name is HamActor and I'm an addict..."
It's been about seven years since I've gone to work and not thought that at some point someone might pop up and fire me. In 1999 I left a job and they hired three people to replace me, so I knew my position was secure there. But even there, the first year was pretty tense. I didn't really calm down until I read my first review and got my first raise. At virtually every job since then I've fretted, even though I've always gotten above average raises. Furthermore, if there is anyone who doesn't have to worry about employment, it really is me. I'm a crackerjack HR manager, I have stellar clerical skills, I'm a certified bartender and I've waited tables for twenty years.
Still, I'm a temp in a job I think I'm going to like with a firm that is great. Today, however, there was a misunderstanding that was completely not my fault. Yet it still made me look bad. I was the one who salvaged the situation and made everyone else look good. But I spent the entire day expecting the call saying that I wasn't working out and that I should go home. I was told I would be getting a big project, and when it didn't come to my desk, I was sure that was the sign I'd lost all credibility. Turns out the project isn't ready yet and I should get it tomorrow.
And this would be an example of the the type of reaction that is an addiction for me. I walked around with my stomach in knots, needing reassurance but not daring to ask for it. Finally, as I was leaving and they said, "See ya tomorrow," I was reassured that I had another day of employment.
Another, completely unrelated addiction, is to blogs. I don't have a couple of my regulars posted, not because their naughty or anything, but because they are from people with whom I'm casually acquainted, and there's a part of me that thinks they might think I'm stalking them. I don't know one of the guys all that well, and I think we've spoken three words to one another. I'm not really interested in expanding the relationship, but I enjoy his blog. The second is actually a guy I don't particularly like. He's very much in love with himself, and as a rule I find that repulsive. But again, I find is blog entertaining.
I'll share some of my favorites in the near future.
Still, I'm a temp in a job I think I'm going to like with a firm that is great. Today, however, there was a misunderstanding that was completely not my fault. Yet it still made me look bad. I was the one who salvaged the situation and made everyone else look good. But I spent the entire day expecting the call saying that I wasn't working out and that I should go home. I was told I would be getting a big project, and when it didn't come to my desk, I was sure that was the sign I'd lost all credibility. Turns out the project isn't ready yet and I should get it tomorrow.
And this would be an example of the the type of reaction that is an addiction for me. I walked around with my stomach in knots, needing reassurance but not daring to ask for it. Finally, as I was leaving and they said, "See ya tomorrow," I was reassured that I had another day of employment.
Another, completely unrelated addiction, is to blogs. I don't have a couple of my regulars posted, not because their naughty or anything, but because they are from people with whom I'm casually acquainted, and there's a part of me that thinks they might think I'm stalking them. I don't know one of the guys all that well, and I think we've spoken three words to one another. I'm not really interested in expanding the relationship, but I enjoy his blog. The second is actually a guy I don't particularly like. He's very much in love with himself, and as a rule I find that repulsive. But again, I find is blog entertaining.
I'll share some of my favorites in the near future.
Mirrored Transitions
The new job progresses. Not smooth as glass -- no major blips -- but not a train wreck either. My last day at the cafe was surprisingly emotional. The owner hasn't taken the news of my leaving very well. He likes to believe that the people who work for him have no other attractive options, so he's genuinely surprised when one of his long-term employees (read, chattle) leaves for greener pastures.
As I make this transition, I'm reminded of how few authentic people there seem to be in the world. Or maybe it's just my skills of perception demonstrating their limitations. Everyone I seem to meet lately reminds of someone else I've known before. I'm trying to see these new people as individuals, to distinguish them as something other than carbon copies of a predessor, but it's very difficult.
The reason I think it's important for me to make these distinctions is because I'm really working on establishing new patterns, especially in my interpersonal skills. No doubt, part of my problem is that I view a new person as model #4503-B, so I make assumptions on what to expect and how they will behave. Eventually, I'm not disappointed. Either that means I'm incredibly insightful and my brilliance knows no bounds; or more likely, I'm only capable of processing incoming data into certain outputs. I can distinguish male and female, blond and brunette, nice and not nice, but I may not have developed the ability to discern beyond that. And since I can't process beyond a certain point, inevitably I repeat old patterns. This means that even the simplest social interaction is becoming a conscious process for me. I'm comfortable with that being the case for a while, but I hope it becomes more natural feeling soon.
Or, just as likely, I am over-thinking everything again. Either way, the trap here is getting caught in my mental maze and that is to be avoided at all costs.
On the good news front: I found a faster way home. It'll only be good for about another week until we relocate the office, but if nothing else this new job has quenched my annoyance when asked to travel to the suburbs. Or at least out to Skokie.
On the bad news front: Note the time I post this entry. My cat has developed the annoying habit of announcing when he's used the litter box, or taken a drink of water, or anything. Every night at between midnight and two o'clock, the serenade begins. I've had my cat for nineteen years and all of a sudden he's turned into an attention whore. Needy little bastard.
As I make this transition, I'm reminded of how few authentic people there seem to be in the world. Or maybe it's just my skills of perception demonstrating their limitations. Everyone I seem to meet lately reminds of someone else I've known before. I'm trying to see these new people as individuals, to distinguish them as something other than carbon copies of a predessor, but it's very difficult.
The reason I think it's important for me to make these distinctions is because I'm really working on establishing new patterns, especially in my interpersonal skills. No doubt, part of my problem is that I view a new person as model #4503-B, so I make assumptions on what to expect and how they will behave. Eventually, I'm not disappointed. Either that means I'm incredibly insightful and my brilliance knows no bounds; or more likely, I'm only capable of processing incoming data into certain outputs. I can distinguish male and female, blond and brunette, nice and not nice, but I may not have developed the ability to discern beyond that. And since I can't process beyond a certain point, inevitably I repeat old patterns. This means that even the simplest social interaction is becoming a conscious process for me. I'm comfortable with that being the case for a while, but I hope it becomes more natural feeling soon.
Or, just as likely, I am over-thinking everything again. Either way, the trap here is getting caught in my mental maze and that is to be avoided at all costs.
On the good news front: I found a faster way home. It'll only be good for about another week until we relocate the office, but if nothing else this new job has quenched my annoyance when asked to travel to the suburbs. Or at least out to Skokie.
On the bad news front: Note the time I post this entry. My cat has developed the annoying habit of announcing when he's used the litter box, or taken a drink of water, or anything. Every night at between midnight and two o'clock, the serenade begins. I've had my cat for nineteen years and all of a sudden he's turned into an attention whore. Needy little bastard.
Saturday, February 11, 2006
...And Then There was Light
The moment I've been dreading in this whole employment issue came and went almost as a nonevent. The owner of the restaurant, as I've noted elsewhere, is a rabid control freak. In the last few weeks he's invested rather heavily in my little cafe. As with all of his long-term employees, he tends to take a proprietary attitude toward me. I know for a fact he's sabotaged several lucrative potential job offers at other neighborhood establishments because he does not want his recognizable employees appearing anywhere else. He's very jealous.
We met only briefly and I simply gave my notice. I told him I had an opportunity that I simply could not afford to pass up; that it was only temporary; and that I hoped to come back -- in fact I'd figured a way in which my spot could be kept open with long-term coverage -- but I understood if he couldn't do it. He said he'd call me on Monday and we would talk. Whether he will hold open my current shifts or not really doesn't matter. I think there is a better than even chance this job will go permanent, and even if it doesn't, I can temp until I do find something.
I'm thrilled to have my weekends back to myself, even if only temporarily. I'm looking forward to a regular, civilized routine and reconnecting with my friends who also live in the Monday - Friday world. I've missed them.
We met only briefly and I simply gave my notice. I told him I had an opportunity that I simply could not afford to pass up; that it was only temporary; and that I hoped to come back -- in fact I'd figured a way in which my spot could be kept open with long-term coverage -- but I understood if he couldn't do it. He said he'd call me on Monday and we would talk. Whether he will hold open my current shifts or not really doesn't matter. I think there is a better than even chance this job will go permanent, and even if it doesn't, I can temp until I do find something.
I'm thrilled to have my weekends back to myself, even if only temporarily. I'm looking forward to a regular, civilized routine and reconnecting with my friends who also live in the Monday - Friday world. I've missed them.
Friday, February 10, 2006
New Job -- Sort Of, Part Deux
Well, two days into the temp job, and it's OK. I don't really need to go into a lot of detail. It will be a great job for somebody, someday. Maybe me. I'm really ambivalent about it. The job means more money for me now, but at what price later. I am going to school for a reason, and this job could impede my progress. On the other hand, it really is a walk in the park. The pay is more than adequate and maybe it would be good to have a job where I don't have to worry. I've already written more than I intended at this point. Obsessing about work is one of those triggers I have to manage.
What I really wanted to write about was how I seem to be reliving my life at an accelerated speed. It began three years ago, when I bought my condo. It's three blocks from my first Chicago apartment. I use the same L stop I used twenty years ago. I'm back in school, like I was twenty years ago. And now, this new job takes me out to Skokie on the same bus line I used for my first Chicago job twenty years ago. I'm waiting tables back at the same restaurant where I was waiting tables twenty years ago. I'm even obsessing about the perfect unattainable man again. Is this the definition of a rut?
Actually, a rut might be a step up. This is a return. I've been places and done things, and here I am back where I started. And in my darker moments that's how this all feels. But most of the time I use all of these parallels as a yardstick to measure growth. Yes, I'm living mere yards from where I started, but now I own my own home. I'm traveling up to Skokie, but it isn't for a twelve-hour shift at Sears. I'm waiting tables, but it's in a cafe for which I'm responsible. I'm in school, but it's for a master's degree. And I'm obsessing over the unattainable man, but now it's more of a hobby -- something I'm conscious of and indulge, and not something that is painful.
Right now my biggest challenge is how to manage my relationship with the restaurant. If I was offered a permanent job with this company, I'd take it. But, it's only permanent and I'm imagining that the soonest it will end is six weeks, and could drag on for twelve. I don't think it will go much past that before they make me permanent, but I could be wrong. It all hinges on the hiring of a new CEO and what he wants to do with human resources. And that is probably two weeks away, and then I'm imagining another two weeks before he comes on board, and then a month before he addresses human resources. It's not a major issue with this company. But if this does turn out to be temporary and I quit the restaurant, in six weeks I could be up a creek without a paddle. What to do?
I guess I did want to write about my job situation. This is very dangerous territory for me.
What I really wanted to write about was how I seem to be reliving my life at an accelerated speed. It began three years ago, when I bought my condo. It's three blocks from my first Chicago apartment. I use the same L stop I used twenty years ago. I'm back in school, like I was twenty years ago. And now, this new job takes me out to Skokie on the same bus line I used for my first Chicago job twenty years ago. I'm waiting tables back at the same restaurant where I was waiting tables twenty years ago. I'm even obsessing about the perfect unattainable man again. Is this the definition of a rut?
Actually, a rut might be a step up. This is a return. I've been places and done things, and here I am back where I started. And in my darker moments that's how this all feels. But most of the time I use all of these parallels as a yardstick to measure growth. Yes, I'm living mere yards from where I started, but now I own my own home. I'm traveling up to Skokie, but it isn't for a twelve-hour shift at Sears. I'm waiting tables, but it's in a cafe for which I'm responsible. I'm in school, but it's for a master's degree. And I'm obsessing over the unattainable man, but now it's more of a hobby -- something I'm conscious of and indulge, and not something that is painful.
Right now my biggest challenge is how to manage my relationship with the restaurant. If I was offered a permanent job with this company, I'd take it. But, it's only permanent and I'm imagining that the soonest it will end is six weeks, and could drag on for twelve. I don't think it will go much past that before they make me permanent, but I could be wrong. It all hinges on the hiring of a new CEO and what he wants to do with human resources. And that is probably two weeks away, and then I'm imagining another two weeks before he comes on board, and then a month before he addresses human resources. It's not a major issue with this company. But if this does turn out to be temporary and I quit the restaurant, in six weeks I could be up a creek without a paddle. What to do?
I guess I did want to write about my job situation. This is very dangerous territory for me.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
New Job -- Sort Of
Today I received two phone calls. The first was to inform me that they would be continuing construction on my little cafe and so we would be closed tomorrow. The second was offering me a temp-to-perm assignment in the HR department of a marketing firm that would pay quite a decent salary. They want me to start tomorrow.
What to do?
I took the assignment and covered my shifts at the restaurant for the next two weeks. If it works out, I'm in good shape. If it doesn't I still have my shifts at the restaurant.
There are two drawbacks:
1) The job is in HR. For more than two years I loathed the idea of going back into human resources. But, this sounds a little different. More administrative and less dealing with employee issues. I don't ever want to have to fire anyone again.
2) I don't know who the boss is, and my biggest fear is that I end up working for an ass. I'm too old to kow-tow to someone I can't stand and who is abusive.
So, I go in tomorrow and find out what this is all about. Worst case scenario is I loose two days of my life. A worthy investment.
What to do?
I took the assignment and covered my shifts at the restaurant for the next two weeks. If it works out, I'm in good shape. If it doesn't I still have my shifts at the restaurant.
There are two drawbacks:
1) The job is in HR. For more than two years I loathed the idea of going back into human resources. But, this sounds a little different. More administrative and less dealing with employee issues. I don't ever want to have to fire anyone again.
2) I don't know who the boss is, and my biggest fear is that I end up working for an ass. I'm too old to kow-tow to someone I can't stand and who is abusive.
So, I go in tomorrow and find out what this is all about. Worst case scenario is I loose two days of my life. A worthy investment.
My Night at The Opera
The last time I went to the opera as a spectator I saw Renata Scotto's final performance in Tosca. This elderly woman with blonde curls pinned to her head jumped from a platform, as if from the top of building to commit suicide, and then bounced back up. I was surrounded by grieving opera fans trying like hell to choke back the laughter.
Since that time, I've actually appeared on the Lyric stage as a supernumerary. Twice. Once in a historic production of Salome as one of the Romans treated to Salome's dance, and once as one of the swing supers in Aida. As a swing, I was plugged into the holes where other supers didn't show up. One night I was an exotic guard carrying the king of Egypt. All the other nights I was a soldier, painted ominous black. One of those nights I was the standard bearer, leading the Egyptian army into war. I mistook the prompter's signal and left the stage a full four measures too early, stranding some world-famous tenor on stage to sing to the curtains. Invariably I was one of the four soldiers who is entombed with Aida and Radames in the pyramids. Real raw deal.
My opera knowledge is only slightly deeper than my knowledge of football. I have a couple recordings that I'll pop into my machine when I'm cleaning the house. Once I actually sat down with the libretto and followed along. Opera is OK. Like peanut butter, I can take it or leave it.
As a student, I'm eligible for student tickets at the Lyric. For twenty dollars I can sit wherever they have an empty seat. Last night I saw der Rosenkavalier, another Strauss opera. Since Salome, I've developed a fondness for Strauss. I won't say this was disappointing. It's a comic opera and as such it's light. Susan Graham plays a boy who is initially in love with an older woman and then meets a girl. The girl is engaged to a letch who is the cousin to the boy's older woman. The plot isn't too complicated. Of course the music was gorgeous and the soprano who played the older woman couldn't act to save her life. But, boy could she sing. And the bass who played the letch truly was brilliant. But the staging was straight out of Freshman Blocking 101, and the sets looked like they came from a community college production. It most definitely wasn't the giant mirror I stood on in Salome. But I've decided that I like my operas grand and tragic. I want to weep if I'm going to be sitting there for four hours, and I don't want it to be because my butt has gone numb.
And, as a student, I was seated with a lot of other students. A gaggle of them to be precise, all full of the splendor of undergraduate certainty. We were all shoved up at the front, stage right. Actually, not bad seats., and the plus is you don't hear any dowagers unwrapping cough drops. During the intermission my fellow comrades from academia were all denim-clad worldly sophistication, but during the performance they were slack-jawed kids in awe. It was all pretty cute and a lot of fun.
But the most fun of the evening was that I got to use my Withering Glare® twice! And I didn't for a second feel bad about it! The first time was during the first intermission. I'd gone to the lobby and spent ten dollars on a candy bar and Diet Coke, and was standing next to a waste basket to discard the wrapper. I reached for the basket and this woman barreled past me. We bumped into one another and I smiled and mumbled an apology. She kept walking, very slowly, but with her head turned back, glaring at me. Since she was the elephant who ran into me, I drew myself up to all six feet, five inches and showed her how to glare properly. For added measure, I ever-so-slightly curled my upper lip. I was ready to throw down right there in the marble foyer of the Lyric Opera of Chicago. Bring it Grandma! The weird thing -- three minutes later she walked past me again and smiled.
My second Glare® took place on the train on the way home. A very suburban-looking white man decided all of the passengers needed to have their souls saved. It was after midnight, and if the options before me were Everlasting Hell Fire, or thirty minutes of his preachings, I needed a minute to make up my mind. I endured him until the Addison stop. Up to that point I'd caught his eye once and given him a demiglare and he preached more quietly. But at the Addison stop my seatmate needed to get off. So, I stood up. At that moment the preacher looked at me again. I tilted my head down and invited the demons of hell to use me as a vessel to rid the train of such pompous spewing. I glared so hard I may have strained something. But I'm sure the preacher saw the demons I intended, because he his eyes got wider, never leaving my face as he scurried from the train.
Now that's opera!
Since that time, I've actually appeared on the Lyric stage as a supernumerary. Twice. Once in a historic production of Salome as one of the Romans treated to Salome's dance, and once as one of the swing supers in Aida. As a swing, I was plugged into the holes where other supers didn't show up. One night I was an exotic guard carrying the king of Egypt. All the other nights I was a soldier, painted ominous black. One of those nights I was the standard bearer, leading the Egyptian army into war. I mistook the prompter's signal and left the stage a full four measures too early, stranding some world-famous tenor on stage to sing to the curtains. Invariably I was one of the four soldiers who is entombed with Aida and Radames in the pyramids. Real raw deal.
My opera knowledge is only slightly deeper than my knowledge of football. I have a couple recordings that I'll pop into my machine when I'm cleaning the house. Once I actually sat down with the libretto and followed along. Opera is OK. Like peanut butter, I can take it or leave it.
As a student, I'm eligible for student tickets at the Lyric. For twenty dollars I can sit wherever they have an empty seat. Last night I saw der Rosenkavalier, another Strauss opera. Since Salome, I've developed a fondness for Strauss. I won't say this was disappointing. It's a comic opera and as such it's light. Susan Graham plays a boy who is initially in love with an older woman and then meets a girl. The girl is engaged to a letch who is the cousin to the boy's older woman. The plot isn't too complicated. Of course the music was gorgeous and the soprano who played the older woman couldn't act to save her life. But, boy could she sing. And the bass who played the letch truly was brilliant. But the staging was straight out of Freshman Blocking 101, and the sets looked like they came from a community college production. It most definitely wasn't the giant mirror I stood on in Salome. But I've decided that I like my operas grand and tragic. I want to weep if I'm going to be sitting there for four hours, and I don't want it to be because my butt has gone numb.
And, as a student, I was seated with a lot of other students. A gaggle of them to be precise, all full of the splendor of undergraduate certainty. We were all shoved up at the front, stage right. Actually, not bad seats., and the plus is you don't hear any dowagers unwrapping cough drops. During the intermission my fellow comrades from academia were all denim-clad worldly sophistication, but during the performance they were slack-jawed kids in awe. It was all pretty cute and a lot of fun.
But the most fun of the evening was that I got to use my Withering Glare® twice! And I didn't for a second feel bad about it! The first time was during the first intermission. I'd gone to the lobby and spent ten dollars on a candy bar and Diet Coke, and was standing next to a waste basket to discard the wrapper. I reached for the basket and this woman barreled past me. We bumped into one another and I smiled and mumbled an apology. She kept walking, very slowly, but with her head turned back, glaring at me. Since she was the elephant who ran into me, I drew myself up to all six feet, five inches and showed her how to glare properly. For added measure, I ever-so-slightly curled my upper lip. I was ready to throw down right there in the marble foyer of the Lyric Opera of Chicago. Bring it Grandma! The weird thing -- three minutes later she walked past me again and smiled.
My second Glare® took place on the train on the way home. A very suburban-looking white man decided all of the passengers needed to have their souls saved. It was after midnight, and if the options before me were Everlasting Hell Fire, or thirty minutes of his preachings, I needed a minute to make up my mind. I endured him until the Addison stop. Up to that point I'd caught his eye once and given him a demiglare and he preached more quietly. But at the Addison stop my seatmate needed to get off. So, I stood up. At that moment the preacher looked at me again. I tilted my head down and invited the demons of hell to use me as a vessel to rid the train of such pompous spewing. I glared so hard I may have strained something. But I'm sure the preacher saw the demons I intended, because he his eyes got wider, never leaving my face as he scurried from the train.
Now that's opera!
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Political Rant 1
I follow politics. I don't always understand what is going on -- the historical significance of a particular event -- but I am always interested. Of particular interest to me at the moment is the Bush administration's war on terror. Bluntly, I believe that it will lead to a third world war within the next ten years. All of the signs are there, reflected most recently in the world-wide protest over the Dutch cartoon. I believe these protests are designed to demonstrate just how widespread anti-Western feelings are in the Orient. I also believe that the stumbling response by the European leaders is a clear indication of how unprepared the Occident is for another global conflict. Interesting, isn't it, that there have been no reports of such protests in the United States. I wonder if the attacks on the Alabama churches might be part of these protests; an attempt to stir up racial divides and begin to conquer from within.
But of most interest to me at the moment is the rancor directed at Senators Clinton and Obama. I've often noted the Democrat's strategy of sending out red herrings to draw fire and smoke out the Republican agenda. Paper candidacies like Al Sharpton's and Dennis Cucinich's are designed for these purposes. Both Sharpton and Cucinich are thoughtful, plain-spoken men, who can speak their minds within the Democratic perameters established. They were both free to inflame debate and I found both of them more appealing than either Kerry or Edwards in the last election. I believed a Cucinich presidency with Sharpton on the cabinet would have brought radical change to this country. Perhaps that's why neither of them survived. I was genuinely disappointed when Cucinich dropped from the race.
I've not been surprised by Clinton's antagonism of the Bush administration. The animosity between those two factions of the ruling class is well documented. I don't believe that Clinton will run for president in 2008, although I like her as a vice presidential candidate. I think what we see here is Clinton positioning herself to take Ted Kennedy's role in the senate, and with no strong opponent in the next election, it appears that she's well-positioned for a long senate tenure. If she is on the ticket in 2008, win or lose, she's on the political stage for the rest of her career.
I also don't believe that Obama will make a run in 2008. This flare up between him and McCain, I think, is a simple miscalculation that can be chalked up to freshman foot-in-mouth disease. The surprising thing is McCain's response. Such prissiness is out of character, and I think it's the best indication to date of the desperation of the Republican party to recast themselves as reformers. If they can taint Obama then they've demonstrated just how uncooperative the Democrats have been in reform.
In my opinion, McCain is guilty of every bit of partisan politics he's accusing Obama of. Any man who would tow the Bush line in the name of Republican solidarity loses all crediblity. His work with Lieberman hardly qualifies as bipartisanship. Lieberman is a democrat in name only. I believe that the Democrats had a stronger VP candidate in 2000, even a marginally stronger one like Edwards, they'd have won the 2000 election.
The Republicans have repeatedly demonstrated the winning formula. The nice guy for president, the bulldog for VP. If the Democrats learn that formula, and barring anymore faux pas, Obama may be ready for a presidential run in 2012.
I predict a Biden/Clinton ticket in 2008.
But of most interest to me at the moment is the rancor directed at Senators Clinton and Obama. I've often noted the Democrat's strategy of sending out red herrings to draw fire and smoke out the Republican agenda. Paper candidacies like Al Sharpton's and Dennis Cucinich's are designed for these purposes. Both Sharpton and Cucinich are thoughtful, plain-spoken men, who can speak their minds within the Democratic perameters established. They were both free to inflame debate and I found both of them more appealing than either Kerry or Edwards in the last election. I believed a Cucinich presidency with Sharpton on the cabinet would have brought radical change to this country. Perhaps that's why neither of them survived. I was genuinely disappointed when Cucinich dropped from the race.
I've not been surprised by Clinton's antagonism of the Bush administration. The animosity between those two factions of the ruling class is well documented. I don't believe that Clinton will run for president in 2008, although I like her as a vice presidential candidate. I think what we see here is Clinton positioning herself to take Ted Kennedy's role in the senate, and with no strong opponent in the next election, it appears that she's well-positioned for a long senate tenure. If she is on the ticket in 2008, win or lose, she's on the political stage for the rest of her career.
I also don't believe that Obama will make a run in 2008. This flare up between him and McCain, I think, is a simple miscalculation that can be chalked up to freshman foot-in-mouth disease. The surprising thing is McCain's response. Such prissiness is out of character, and I think it's the best indication to date of the desperation of the Republican party to recast themselves as reformers. If they can taint Obama then they've demonstrated just how uncooperative the Democrats have been in reform.
In my opinion, McCain is guilty of every bit of partisan politics he's accusing Obama of. Any man who would tow the Bush line in the name of Republican solidarity loses all crediblity. His work with Lieberman hardly qualifies as bipartisanship. Lieberman is a democrat in name only. I believe that the Democrats had a stronger VP candidate in 2000, even a marginally stronger one like Edwards, they'd have won the 2000 election.
The Republicans have repeatedly demonstrated the winning formula. The nice guy for president, the bulldog for VP. If the Democrats learn that formula, and barring anymore faux pas, Obama may be ready for a presidential run in 2012.
I predict a Biden/Clinton ticket in 2008.
Monday, February 06, 2006
The Perils of the Locker Room
One of the awkward things about being a gay man is the very real potential of running into your adolescent crush in a locker room. Such first exposures require either significant planning or significant alcohol to avoid mortification.
However, when one looks good, much gratification can be found in similar situations.
Several years ago I quit what would be considered by some to be a "very good job." I won't elaborate on the horrors, as the details are tedious and have been survived. However, on the day I resigned it's safe to say that this square peg came to the painful realization that I would never fit into that round hole.
I went into VP's office. Now, I'd been making noises about quitting for several weeks, and twice had allowed myself to sidetracked. This time I was not going to be swayed. It was no secret that this VP did not like me and I purposely waited until my boss was out of the office so I could teneder my notice to his boss. I wasn't polished enough for his taste. I also think my being gay factored into his problems. Whatever they were, he could barely hide them. When I went into his office he was annoyed. I sat down and told him I would stay in the office another two weeks. He seemed genuinely surprised and asked why.
For once the elocution gods smiled; and I was able to say in the politest, most professional terms that I thought he was the fruit of Satan's spilled seed taking root in the primal ooze. Recently I heard the phrase, "He was born on third base and thought he hit a triple." This applied to the VP. He was very smart, but not too intelligent, and clearly had gotten through life on his elfin charm and dimples. However, at fifty, youth was fading fast. That was, I think, another part of the problem with me. I'm very youthful. Anyway, I served my two weeks and then went home to sink into a seven-month deep depression.
The depression was tolerated, and eventually contained through a very strict regimen of exercise. Up at 4:30, at the gym at 5:30, six days a week. After a year and a half at this pace I looked better than I have ever looked in my life. One morning, after my shower, I rounded the corner to my locker and was confronted by Satan's bastard in all his sagging, elderly glory.
I dropped my towel and had "difficulty" opening my locker. I didn't need to say a word. And he didn't speak either. I was late for work that day because I just couldn't bring myself to get dressed while he was in the locker room.
Today, in the middle of the afternoon at the gym, I saw RP, the adolescent crush. Fortunately I was able to choreograph my exit so that we weren't in the locker room at the same time. Not that I think he'd even notice me. But I would definitely notice him.
However, when one looks good, much gratification can be found in similar situations.
Several years ago I quit what would be considered by some to be a "very good job." I won't elaborate on the horrors, as the details are tedious and have been survived. However, on the day I resigned it's safe to say that this square peg came to the painful realization that I would never fit into that round hole.
I went into VP's office. Now, I'd been making noises about quitting for several weeks, and twice had allowed myself to sidetracked. This time I was not going to be swayed. It was no secret that this VP did not like me and I purposely waited until my boss was out of the office so I could teneder my notice to his boss. I wasn't polished enough for his taste. I also think my being gay factored into his problems. Whatever they were, he could barely hide them. When I went into his office he was annoyed. I sat down and told him I would stay in the office another two weeks. He seemed genuinely surprised and asked why.
For once the elocution gods smiled; and I was able to say in the politest, most professional terms that I thought he was the fruit of Satan's spilled seed taking root in the primal ooze. Recently I heard the phrase, "He was born on third base and thought he hit a triple." This applied to the VP. He was very smart, but not too intelligent, and clearly had gotten through life on his elfin charm and dimples. However, at fifty, youth was fading fast. That was, I think, another part of the problem with me. I'm very youthful. Anyway, I served my two weeks and then went home to sink into a seven-month deep depression.
The depression was tolerated, and eventually contained through a very strict regimen of exercise. Up at 4:30, at the gym at 5:30, six days a week. After a year and a half at this pace I looked better than I have ever looked in my life. One morning, after my shower, I rounded the corner to my locker and was confronted by Satan's bastard in all his sagging, elderly glory.
I dropped my towel and had "difficulty" opening my locker. I didn't need to say a word. And he didn't speak either. I was late for work that day because I just couldn't bring myself to get dressed while he was in the locker room.
Today, in the middle of the afternoon at the gym, I saw RP, the adolescent crush. Fortunately I was able to choreograph my exit so that we weren't in the locker room at the same time. Not that I think he'd even notice me. But I would definitely notice him.
Social Commodification
One of the most profound realizations of my adult life is that social intercourse is really a form of commerce. This is an idea that still doesn't sit very well with me, and for the past four or five years I've been carefully positioning myself as an observer in most social situations, trying to disprove it. I can't.
Several years ago I was seeing a therapist. When this realization first dawned on me, I brought up the topic with him. He told me that there was nothing wrong with social commodification. People use people for their own ends and discard them when they are through, and there is nothing wrong with that. Coincidentally, soon after that I stopped seeing that therapist.
I come from a small town where there just aren't that many people to discard. The social code is very simple: you either like someone or you don't. The people you like are your friends, the people you don't like are not. Growing up, that's how I saw social interaction. Certainly in my small high school there was no real jockeying for social position. You were born to your status and that was that. In my case, I was born to the social misfits who were talented, funny, and smart. We weren't necessarily pretty, but in high school you're supposed to be a work in progress. We understood that and accepted it.
When I moved to Chicago to become an actor, at first I accepted social commerce as an trait exclusive to the theatre world. It wasn't long before I realized that the friends I made in the theatre weren't true, long-lasting friendships. They were friends who were interested in professional networking. I quickly could gauge my success in a show, not by the reviews of the critics, but by the number of people who wanted to stay in touch with me after the run of the play. It was a painful lesson to learn, but I got it. When that aspect of being in the theatre became too much for me, I gave it all up.
Tragically, however, I discovered that is the way most of society works. Your mere existence isn't enough to warrant decent treatment. You have to represent some form of opportunity or possess some exploitable potential. Everyday, in every way, is a trip to the local marketplace to pedal your wares: your self. Any professional skill, any wisdom or talent are really secondary to your exploitable potential. In personal situations, that translates not only into sexual desirablitity; but the potential for leading to sexual activity, either with you or someone you're likely to know. As I've gotten older, this has expanded to the possibility of partnership and economic stability. In the chorus I watch this jockeying all the time. This dance can be quite entertaining to watch.
Ultimately, this realization took a very, very heavy toll on me and I fell into a deep, dark depression. In that depression, I railed against a world that wasn't the way I thought it should be. Slowly I accepted the ugly fact of social commodification and realized that if I was going to survive, I was going to have to get into the game. If I wanted to have a life, I was going to have develop my product and marketing strategy, personal goals, and a detailed shopping list of the type of people who would help me achieve those goals.
Even just typing that makes me kind of nauseus, but it's a metaphor that has some power for me, even though I still can't fully subscribe to it. In professional settings I try to be upfront with people: "This is the reason we're friends. This is not personal." I'm not explicit, but I do keep up a distance that allows me to keep perspective. Don't get me wrong: I still have friends who are my friends simply because I like them, they are cool people who travel in wildly different circles than I, but keeping up with them is difficult. And I think that maybe because they see the world in the terms I've just described, they don't always understand my perspective.
Sometimes I deeply miss the days when someone was my friend just because he made me laugh.
Several years ago I was seeing a therapist. When this realization first dawned on me, I brought up the topic with him. He told me that there was nothing wrong with social commodification. People use people for their own ends and discard them when they are through, and there is nothing wrong with that. Coincidentally, soon after that I stopped seeing that therapist.
I come from a small town where there just aren't that many people to discard. The social code is very simple: you either like someone or you don't. The people you like are your friends, the people you don't like are not. Growing up, that's how I saw social interaction. Certainly in my small high school there was no real jockeying for social position. You were born to your status and that was that. In my case, I was born to the social misfits who were talented, funny, and smart. We weren't necessarily pretty, but in high school you're supposed to be a work in progress. We understood that and accepted it.
When I moved to Chicago to become an actor, at first I accepted social commerce as an trait exclusive to the theatre world. It wasn't long before I realized that the friends I made in the theatre weren't true, long-lasting friendships. They were friends who were interested in professional networking. I quickly could gauge my success in a show, not by the reviews of the critics, but by the number of people who wanted to stay in touch with me after the run of the play. It was a painful lesson to learn, but I got it. When that aspect of being in the theatre became too much for me, I gave it all up.
Tragically, however, I discovered that is the way most of society works. Your mere existence isn't enough to warrant decent treatment. You have to represent some form of opportunity or possess some exploitable potential. Everyday, in every way, is a trip to the local marketplace to pedal your wares: your self. Any professional skill, any wisdom or talent are really secondary to your exploitable potential. In personal situations, that translates not only into sexual desirablitity; but the potential for leading to sexual activity, either with you or someone you're likely to know. As I've gotten older, this has expanded to the possibility of partnership and economic stability. In the chorus I watch this jockeying all the time. This dance can be quite entertaining to watch.
Ultimately, this realization took a very, very heavy toll on me and I fell into a deep, dark depression. In that depression, I railed against a world that wasn't the way I thought it should be. Slowly I accepted the ugly fact of social commodification and realized that if I was going to survive, I was going to have to get into the game. If I wanted to have a life, I was going to have develop my product and marketing strategy, personal goals, and a detailed shopping list of the type of people who would help me achieve those goals.
Even just typing that makes me kind of nauseus, but it's a metaphor that has some power for me, even though I still can't fully subscribe to it. In professional settings I try to be upfront with people: "This is the reason we're friends. This is not personal." I'm not explicit, but I do keep up a distance that allows me to keep perspective. Don't get me wrong: I still have friends who are my friends simply because I like them, they are cool people who travel in wildly different circles than I, but keeping up with them is difficult. And I think that maybe because they see the world in the terms I've just described, they don't always understand my perspective.
Sometimes I deeply miss the days when someone was my friend just because he made me laugh.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Merrick
And I'm back to being an anonymous face in the crowd. RP has absolutely no idea I'm alive. He'll flirt with a chair if that's all that's in the room. I hate adolescent crushes.
My very first serious adolescent crush began as a freshman in college. Coming out of the closet, for me at least, has been like pealing an onion. I've always known what was at the core, but its getting at that core that has not always been easy. Anyway, continuing with the onion metaphor, freshman year was ripping the dried skin layers off.
At the beginning of my second semester, I discovered a beautiful young man who always seemed to be crossing my path. He had cheeks that were chiseled from granite and eyes the color of pina coladas. He wore a forest green leather jacket. He was breathtaking. Of course, I had no idea what his name was. When I'd go to dinner at the cafeteria, no matter where I sat, he'd be sitting on the other side. Four out of five meals a week I'd catch him staring at me. I'd tell my friends, and when they'd look he'd be absorbed in conversation or a book. Everyone thought I was crazy. Finally, toward the end of that semester, Jeffery who was gay and had no knowledge of the situation with me and my imaginary boyfriend, pointed him out to me and told me that he'd been staring at me.
I don't remember the social gyrations I went through to discover his name was Merrick. He was working on an urban planning degree, and he lived in the men's dorm. I had his last name too, and that was it. On several occasions I'd be having a conversation with someone while Merrick was within earshot, and I'd try extra hard to say something witty. Twice I caught him laughing at what he'd overheard.
Yet he never approached me, and being the social moron that I am, I never approached him. But once we did speak.
I had a paper due and needed a specific book reserved at the library. I went tearing into the library early, but there was no one around. I didn't realize they weren't open. As I was looking around, trying to find someone to help me, Merrick popped up from behind a desk. I literally stopped breathing. He asked what I wanted. His pale eyes were frightening and thrilling at the same time, and they were locked onto me. I'm sure I stammered something. Anyway, he said I'd have to come back because the reference books were locked away and he couldn't get to them.
He spent a semester in South America, and I know he saw me in two plays. By the time I did Jesus Christ Superstar, we had a mutual acquaintance who was aware of my fixation, and he told me Merrick saw the show. The second was a studio production that began with my character addressing the audience. On opening night Merrick was in the front row, alone. How I made it through that, I'll never know.
The week before we graduated, I went to the art store. At the end of the block I saw Merrick crossing the street. I stopped and watched him walk out of sight, certain that would be the last time I ever laid eyes on him. When he was out of sight, I remember sighing and then going into the art store to get whatever it was I needed. When I came out, there was Merrick again at the end of the block, walking in the same direction as before, but this time he had his shirt off. I didn't break my stride, but kept walking in his direction. He just waited at the corner, as if for a crossing light that wasn't really there. When I reached the intersection, without looking at me, Merrick just got a big grin on his face and then continued on his way, sun beating on his perfect body.
The last time I actually did see him was after the graduation ceremony. He was wearing a pink shirt under his gown and he seemed to be looking for his family. The crowd swallowed him up, and that was that. End of romance.
Years later, as the last American to buy a computer, I finally hooked up to the Internet, and one of the first things I did was run his name through a search engine. I discovered that he'd gone on to Harvard and gotten a degree. And died shortly afterwards from AIDS. He didn't reach thirty.
I can't say I was devastated, but I was sad. It's still a great romantic story, but in a sort of dusty rose and lace way. And I will always remember him.
In a few ways, I react to RP similarly. You'd think I'd have learned my lesson -- not to let opportunity pass you by -- but fear, for lack of a better term, prevents me from taking that first step. There isn't a chance in the world RP is interested in me. Not one. And I don't really need another Merrick story. But why can't I let the fantasy go?
My very first serious adolescent crush began as a freshman in college. Coming out of the closet, for me at least, has been like pealing an onion. I've always known what was at the core, but its getting at that core that has not always been easy. Anyway, continuing with the onion metaphor, freshman year was ripping the dried skin layers off.
At the beginning of my second semester, I discovered a beautiful young man who always seemed to be crossing my path. He had cheeks that were chiseled from granite and eyes the color of pina coladas. He wore a forest green leather jacket. He was breathtaking. Of course, I had no idea what his name was. When I'd go to dinner at the cafeteria, no matter where I sat, he'd be sitting on the other side. Four out of five meals a week I'd catch him staring at me. I'd tell my friends, and when they'd look he'd be absorbed in conversation or a book. Everyone thought I was crazy. Finally, toward the end of that semester, Jeffery who was gay and had no knowledge of the situation with me and my imaginary boyfriend, pointed him out to me and told me that he'd been staring at me.
I don't remember the social gyrations I went through to discover his name was Merrick. He was working on an urban planning degree, and he lived in the men's dorm. I had his last name too, and that was it. On several occasions I'd be having a conversation with someone while Merrick was within earshot, and I'd try extra hard to say something witty. Twice I caught him laughing at what he'd overheard.
Yet he never approached me, and being the social moron that I am, I never approached him. But once we did speak.
I had a paper due and needed a specific book reserved at the library. I went tearing into the library early, but there was no one around. I didn't realize they weren't open. As I was looking around, trying to find someone to help me, Merrick popped up from behind a desk. I literally stopped breathing. He asked what I wanted. His pale eyes were frightening and thrilling at the same time, and they were locked onto me. I'm sure I stammered something. Anyway, he said I'd have to come back because the reference books were locked away and he couldn't get to them.
He spent a semester in South America, and I know he saw me in two plays. By the time I did Jesus Christ Superstar, we had a mutual acquaintance who was aware of my fixation, and he told me Merrick saw the show. The second was a studio production that began with my character addressing the audience. On opening night Merrick was in the front row, alone. How I made it through that, I'll never know.
The week before we graduated, I went to the art store. At the end of the block I saw Merrick crossing the street. I stopped and watched him walk out of sight, certain that would be the last time I ever laid eyes on him. When he was out of sight, I remember sighing and then going into the art store to get whatever it was I needed. When I came out, there was Merrick again at the end of the block, walking in the same direction as before, but this time he had his shirt off. I didn't break my stride, but kept walking in his direction. He just waited at the corner, as if for a crossing light that wasn't really there. When I reached the intersection, without looking at me, Merrick just got a big grin on his face and then continued on his way, sun beating on his perfect body.
The last time I actually did see him was after the graduation ceremony. He was wearing a pink shirt under his gown and he seemed to be looking for his family. The crowd swallowed him up, and that was that. End of romance.
Years later, as the last American to buy a computer, I finally hooked up to the Internet, and one of the first things I did was run his name through a search engine. I discovered that he'd gone on to Harvard and gotten a degree. And died shortly afterwards from AIDS. He didn't reach thirty.
I can't say I was devastated, but I was sad. It's still a great romantic story, but in a sort of dusty rose and lace way. And I will always remember him.
In a few ways, I react to RP similarly. You'd think I'd have learned my lesson -- not to let opportunity pass you by -- but fear, for lack of a better term, prevents me from taking that first step. There isn't a chance in the world RP is interested in me. Not one. And I don't really need another Merrick story. But why can't I let the fantasy go?
Saturday, February 04, 2006
TurboSux and Other Ravings
I spent forty dollars on software to file my taxes electronically, only to be visited by the screen that says the government hasn't completed the necessary forms. So I have to wait.
****
Because it's snowing, I made smoked turkey soup. Not bad, but it needs salt.
****
In anticipation of job interviews, and with a nod to fiscal responsibility, I've been surfing e-Bay in search of decent suits. I'm a 48L because of my shoulders. The jackets are always too big, but not so that I look like a twelve-year-old in his brother's hand-me-down. The pants usually have to be deconstructed and rebuilt. At that size, the waists are somewhere around 50 inches. I am not. So, with every suit comes an extensive alteration bill. However, on e-Bay I can only conclude that there short, fat gorillas hawking Italian suits. All the 48L suits come with pants that have 29-inch inseam. For even the most miserly hem, I need at least 36-inch inseam. These suits must be intended for men who's knuckles are dragging three inches behind them when they walk. How else is it possible to require a long jacket and short pants? Maybe Auntie Mame is stocking up? I may be forced to save my pennies and hope for a clearance sale at Barny's where they sell men's separates.
****
There is a weekly quiz in my editing class. I went into the quiz last Wednesday with my mind a blur with punctuation rules. I was sure of nothing. But by the time I'd completed the test, I felt pretty good. I left the room thinking an A wasn't completely out of the question. I went into this program, you must understand with the expressed goal of graduating with a 4.0.
As the week progressed, I began to second guess my work. The panic set in when I thought I might actually get a B on the quiz. That would mean two Bs so far. I calmed myself with the syllabus, which says that the lowest score would be dropped. I could factor a B into the remaining As and still eke out an A in the class.
Then I took that rationalization to the next level a day or two later when I began to believe that a C was distinct possibility. Every syllabus in the program carries a dire warning stating that if you ever receive a C you should immediately make an advisory appointment with the professor and seriously consider dropping the class. I have actually received on C on a midterm, but through some clerical magic I managed to pull an A in the class. While I knew the grade fairy wouldn't be visiting again this time, I was able to manage the panic and function knowing that one C could still be dropped from my class grade, and all would be fine.
Then the afternoon before I was getting the quiz back, I began to wrestle with the very real idea that I could land a D on the quiz. A D, while it could be jettisoned from the grade calculation, surely signaled deeper problems and could realistically be a warning bell for a grade less than a B in the class. Not only would that eliminate a 4.0 gpa, but those same syllabuses tell you that a class grade of a C puts you on academic probation where you have one term to redeem yourself, or you're out. Auf veidersehn. See, I can't even spell that!
As the class began, I steeled myself for the eventual F I knew was going to be glowing from the front page of my quiz. I prayed that I didn't cry when I got it. An F surely would mean a lifetime of restaurant work and clearance sales. Of course, mine was the last paper to be turned back.
I got a B.
****
Because it's snowing, I made smoked turkey soup. Not bad, but it needs salt.
****
In anticipation of job interviews, and with a nod to fiscal responsibility, I've been surfing e-Bay in search of decent suits. I'm a 48L because of my shoulders. The jackets are always too big, but not so that I look like a twelve-year-old in his brother's hand-me-down. The pants usually have to be deconstructed and rebuilt. At that size, the waists are somewhere around 50 inches. I am not. So, with every suit comes an extensive alteration bill. However, on e-Bay I can only conclude that there short, fat gorillas hawking Italian suits. All the 48L suits come with pants that have 29-inch inseam. For even the most miserly hem, I need at least 36-inch inseam. These suits must be intended for men who's knuckles are dragging three inches behind them when they walk. How else is it possible to require a long jacket and short pants? Maybe Auntie Mame is stocking up? I may be forced to save my pennies and hope for a clearance sale at Barny's where they sell men's separates.
****
There is a weekly quiz in my editing class. I went into the quiz last Wednesday with my mind a blur with punctuation rules. I was sure of nothing. But by the time I'd completed the test, I felt pretty good. I left the room thinking an A wasn't completely out of the question. I went into this program, you must understand with the expressed goal of graduating with a 4.0.
As the week progressed, I began to second guess my work. The panic set in when I thought I might actually get a B on the quiz. That would mean two Bs so far. I calmed myself with the syllabus, which says that the lowest score would be dropped. I could factor a B into the remaining As and still eke out an A in the class.
Then I took that rationalization to the next level a day or two later when I began to believe that a C was distinct possibility. Every syllabus in the program carries a dire warning stating that if you ever receive a C you should immediately make an advisory appointment with the professor and seriously consider dropping the class. I have actually received on C on a midterm, but through some clerical magic I managed to pull an A in the class. While I knew the grade fairy wouldn't be visiting again this time, I was able to manage the panic and function knowing that one C could still be dropped from my class grade, and all would be fine.
Then the afternoon before I was getting the quiz back, I began to wrestle with the very real idea that I could land a D on the quiz. A D, while it could be jettisoned from the grade calculation, surely signaled deeper problems and could realistically be a warning bell for a grade less than a B in the class. Not only would that eliminate a 4.0 gpa, but those same syllabuses tell you that a class grade of a C puts you on academic probation where you have one term to redeem yourself, or you're out. Auf veidersehn. See, I can't even spell that!
As the class began, I steeled myself for the eventual F I knew was going to be glowing from the front page of my quiz. I prayed that I didn't cry when I got it. An F surely would mean a lifetime of restaurant work and clearance sales. Of course, mine was the last paper to be turned back.
I got a B.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
I Don't Know How to Love Him
So I spent a couple of hours this afternoon reading the Chicago Manual of Style! I needed a minute to catch my breath, so I thought I'd do an extra blog post. Yes, I set the standard for the high life.
Anyway, the riveting reading today was the accepted practices for capitalization. And, truthfully, it's the first time in a very long time I read something that shocked me.
Now, I'm not an overtly religious person. There are some strong religious convictions in my family background. I was told by my grandmother that the world would probably end in my lifetime; that I probably wouldn't even reach adulthood. To this day, I look at things like Hurricane Katrina and hear my grandmother predicting The End. However, I had a rebel mother who did what she could to shelter me from that kind of indoctrination, so I'm not really expecting the Rapture tomorrow.
Still, today's reading had a profound effect on me. I read that the Chicago Manual of Style prefers that the pronoun used in reference to either Christ or God not be capitalized. Have you ever heard such blasphemy? The correct reference is not 'Him," but simply, 'him." This flies in the face of all the teachings and readings I've ever done. The CMS states that the reference is not capitalized in the Bible.
Whether that's true or not, I don't know. But I do know that I felt a little twinge when I read that.
When I was a little boy (maybe six years old), I don't remember who it was, but someone told me that boys could not kiss boys. I'm sure it was in response to my question of what would happen if such an occurence took place. At first my question was just me being a smart aleck, but I thought the answer was silly. Of course boys could kiss boys. There were no physical barriers to stop them. But I also believed what I was told; that if a boy kissed another boy he would be damned to hell. And there was something inside of me that wanted to try it to find out. I couldn't wait to be old enough to kiss another boy. I don't remember my first male kiss, but I do remember the feeling that it was all over by the sizzling.
That's the feeling I had when I read this misguided advice on capitalizing a pronounal reference to our Lord. Whoever wrote that will be in a circle of hell closer to the center than the one reserved for boys who kiss boys.
Anyway, the riveting reading today was the accepted practices for capitalization. And, truthfully, it's the first time in a very long time I read something that shocked me.
Now, I'm not an overtly religious person. There are some strong religious convictions in my family background. I was told by my grandmother that the world would probably end in my lifetime; that I probably wouldn't even reach adulthood. To this day, I look at things like Hurricane Katrina and hear my grandmother predicting The End. However, I had a rebel mother who did what she could to shelter me from that kind of indoctrination, so I'm not really expecting the Rapture tomorrow.
Still, today's reading had a profound effect on me. I read that the Chicago Manual of Style prefers that the pronoun used in reference to either Christ or God not be capitalized. Have you ever heard such blasphemy? The correct reference is not 'Him," but simply, 'him." This flies in the face of all the teachings and readings I've ever done. The CMS states that the reference is not capitalized in the Bible.
Whether that's true or not, I don't know. But I do know that I felt a little twinge when I read that.
When I was a little boy (maybe six years old), I don't remember who it was, but someone told me that boys could not kiss boys. I'm sure it was in response to my question of what would happen if such an occurence took place. At first my question was just me being a smart aleck, but I thought the answer was silly. Of course boys could kiss boys. There were no physical barriers to stop them. But I also believed what I was told; that if a boy kissed another boy he would be damned to hell. And there was something inside of me that wanted to try it to find out. I couldn't wait to be old enough to kiss another boy. I don't remember my first male kiss, but I do remember the feeling that it was all over by the sizzling.
That's the feeling I had when I read this misguided advice on capitalizing a pronounal reference to our Lord. Whoever wrote that will be in a circle of hell closer to the center than the one reserved for boys who kiss boys.
No, I Don't have a Pic.
I don't know how to write this post without sounding like a pompous ass, so I'm just going to go at it and let the chips fall where they may.
AOL chatrooms are hysterically funny. The discourse is distilled to the lowest form of communication and the niceties of real society evaporate. Now, I've been in Sidetrack at closing, so I've seen rude; but at least I'm not forced to look at naked pictures of hopeful sweethearts. I've chatted with really nice people, but I've also experienced the charms of some real asses. My philosophy is, and always has been, I don't type anything I wouldn't say in front of my grandmother in church.
Let me just say, that for the record, I've met exactly two people in person whom I've chatted with. The first was very shy and completely incapable of a conversation that didn't involve typing and the second turned into a stalker. This is why I don't have a picture to trade online. I don't know, really, who is getting it or what they plan to do with it. I also don't share any specific information that could immediately identify me.
The stalker was many years ago when I was very young and naive. Do you remember phone sex chat lines? Before the internet? Well, the started during the first rush of the AIDS panic, but they were initially advertised as great ways to meet people. I was new to Chicago, knew almost no one, and as I said, very naive. I only spoke to people who were polite. The minute the other guy became vulgar I'd move on. That's pretty much the routine I use in chatrooms.
However, there was one guy who was very nice on the phone, and I agreed to meet him. We decided on Leona's. Since he was coming from the suburbs, and not sure of his directions, he made several stops and would call. With each stop, his calls got more graphic and disturbing. Still, I agreed to meet him. But I went in through the back and waited where I could watch people come in. I spotted him immediately. He was small with a hawk nose, but the thing that disturbed me was what he was wearing: a ski jacket over a suit. That was the deal breaker.
I know it's shallow, but I was twenty-two. And since his calls had gotten disturbing, I decided to bag the whole thing. I rationalized that it was better to be the asshole who stood him up than to be rude to his face. Big mistake.
I wasn't home more than five minutes when my buzzer rang. I was in the middle of checking my answering machine. In the time it took for me to walk three blocks home he'd left two angry messages. Apparently, he'd called reverse information and gotten my address and was at my door. Leaning on my buzzer. There was no way I was going downstairs to confront him, so I went out my back door and to a movie. When I came home, there were six or seven messages; each getting progressively more violent. When he threatened to kill me if he ever saw me, I called the police.
There was one thing going in my favor. He'd never seen me. The police were no help. They told me that technically, threatening an answering machine was not illegal. The phone company was more helpful, instructing to leave an outgoing message stating that my phone was being monitored and all threatening phone calls were being forwarded to the police. That stopped the calls, but it upset my mother horribly. I lived in that apartment for seven years after that, and I think it was three before I used the front door.
But the story doesn't end there. Maybe six or seven years after that incident, I went out to the way-west suburbs to a Christmas party. I took the train out. I was at the party for about three hours before I realized that my stalker was also a guest at the party. Since he'd never seen me, and years had passed, I wasn't too concerned, but I kept my distance. Until I went home. Turns out, he took the train out too, and we rode back into the city together. Of all things, he was chatting about getting into politics. He wanted to be an alderman. We talked about the neighborhoods where he might want to run. When we started talking about my neighborhood, I made the mistake of saying something that rang a distant bell in his head. He was looking at me differently. He couldn't be sure of who I was, but he thought he knew. I just continued to chat until we got back to the city. I never returned to that Christmas party again.
So, I go into chatrooms, but never for anything more than to keep my computer online. Occasionally I'll receive an IM from someone who is able to carry on a conversation, but the conversations usually end when I tell them I don't exchange pictures. I'd rather be shunned in an AOL chatroom than killed in my living room.
AOL chatrooms are hysterically funny. The discourse is distilled to the lowest form of communication and the niceties of real society evaporate. Now, I've been in Sidetrack at closing, so I've seen rude; but at least I'm not forced to look at naked pictures of hopeful sweethearts. I've chatted with really nice people, but I've also experienced the charms of some real asses. My philosophy is, and always has been, I don't type anything I wouldn't say in front of my grandmother in church.
Let me just say, that for the record, I've met exactly two people in person whom I've chatted with. The first was very shy and completely incapable of a conversation that didn't involve typing and the second turned into a stalker. This is why I don't have a picture to trade online. I don't know, really, who is getting it or what they plan to do with it. I also don't share any specific information that could immediately identify me.
The stalker was many years ago when I was very young and naive. Do you remember phone sex chat lines? Before the internet? Well, the started during the first rush of the AIDS panic, but they were initially advertised as great ways to meet people. I was new to Chicago, knew almost no one, and as I said, very naive. I only spoke to people who were polite. The minute the other guy became vulgar I'd move on. That's pretty much the routine I use in chatrooms.
However, there was one guy who was very nice on the phone, and I agreed to meet him. We decided on Leona's. Since he was coming from the suburbs, and not sure of his directions, he made several stops and would call. With each stop, his calls got more graphic and disturbing. Still, I agreed to meet him. But I went in through the back and waited where I could watch people come in. I spotted him immediately. He was small with a hawk nose, but the thing that disturbed me was what he was wearing: a ski jacket over a suit. That was the deal breaker.
I know it's shallow, but I was twenty-two. And since his calls had gotten disturbing, I decided to bag the whole thing. I rationalized that it was better to be the asshole who stood him up than to be rude to his face. Big mistake.
I wasn't home more than five minutes when my buzzer rang. I was in the middle of checking my answering machine. In the time it took for me to walk three blocks home he'd left two angry messages. Apparently, he'd called reverse information and gotten my address and was at my door. Leaning on my buzzer. There was no way I was going downstairs to confront him, so I went out my back door and to a movie. When I came home, there were six or seven messages; each getting progressively more violent. When he threatened to kill me if he ever saw me, I called the police.
There was one thing going in my favor. He'd never seen me. The police were no help. They told me that technically, threatening an answering machine was not illegal. The phone company was more helpful, instructing to leave an outgoing message stating that my phone was being monitored and all threatening phone calls were being forwarded to the police. That stopped the calls, but it upset my mother horribly. I lived in that apartment for seven years after that, and I think it was three before I used the front door.
But the story doesn't end there. Maybe six or seven years after that incident, I went out to the way-west suburbs to a Christmas party. I took the train out. I was at the party for about three hours before I realized that my stalker was also a guest at the party. Since he'd never seen me, and years had passed, I wasn't too concerned, but I kept my distance. Until I went home. Turns out, he took the train out too, and we rode back into the city together. Of all things, he was chatting about getting into politics. He wanted to be an alderman. We talked about the neighborhoods where he might want to run. When we started talking about my neighborhood, I made the mistake of saying something that rang a distant bell in his head. He was looking at me differently. He couldn't be sure of who I was, but he thought he knew. I just continued to chat until we got back to the city. I never returned to that Christmas party again.
So, I go into chatrooms, but never for anything more than to keep my computer online. Occasionally I'll receive an IM from someone who is able to carry on a conversation, but the conversations usually end when I tell them I don't exchange pictures. I'd rather be shunned in an AOL chatroom than killed in my living room.
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