In an attempt to reacquaint myself with what is going on in the world, I've officially begun to pay attention to the presidential candidates. Since it is so early in the process, I reserve the right to review my assertions and I will use my blog here to work out my thoughts. My decision is a work in progress.
Right now Obama is looking good, but frankly he's simply not experienced enough for the top job. He's got a good PR machine and it's very safe to take a strong stance against the war right now. Unless there is some serious development within the next eighteen months, I like Obama for the number two slot.
I also think Edwards would make a good VP. As with Obama, he's got a good PR machine, but he's too green. And, frankly, I'm disturbed by his apology for voting for the war. The fact is, there was a strong wave of propaganda supporting the war before the invasion, but that propaganda wasn't pervasive. The UN was making progress in their searches and sanctions had greatly contained Saddam and maintained peace in the region. In 2002 a reasonable person could make a rational case for voting for the war, but it is disingenuous to claim to be wholly misled.
Clinton, while way too programmed by her handlers, may be the strongest candidate on domestic issues. Frankly, my enthusiasm for her has dimmed over the years and I really need to reacquaint myself with her positions. My fear is that her positions are going to smack of political posturing.
Of the Democratic front runners, Biden is the one I have the most hope for. If we can cure him of foot-in-mouth disease, I think he strikes the right balance of firmness on foreign policy, and demonstrates an understanding of diplomacy as well as domestic issues. The fact that he hasn't evaporated since making his Obama gaffe means something -- I haven't decided what. If I had to pick a candidate today, he'd be my choice.
And whoever leads the Democratic ticket, he/she should seriously give consideration to putting Kucinich and Sharpton into cabinet positions. Right now the country needs plain-spoken, let-the-chips-fall-where-they-may leaders.
But, truthfully, today my dream team would be a Gore/Biden ticket. The world needs to be led by a man who has walked the red carpet.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Sunday, February 25, 2007
I Feel Pretty...
Just back from the Oscar fundraiser. I guess I must have looked pretty good because the man in line in front of me bought my ticket and one of the bartenders insisted in buying my drinks.
But the big news of the night is that RP showed up with a date -- and he looked like the Pillsbury Dough Boy. RP is a complete pretty boy so I just about dropped my teeth when I saw him pawing this guy. I don't have any idea why that made me feel so good.
Jennifer Hudson wins! Hooray!
But the big news of the night is that RP showed up with a date -- and he looked like the Pillsbury Dough Boy. RP is a complete pretty boy so I just about dropped my teeth when I saw him pawing this guy. I don't have any idea why that made me feel so good.
Jennifer Hudson wins! Hooray!
Thoughts for a Snowy Sunday Afternoon
...I have of late--but
wherefore I know not--lost all my mirth, forgone all
custom of exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily
with my disposition that this goodly frame, the
earth, seems to me a sterile promontory, this most
excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave
o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted
with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to
me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.
What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason!
how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how
express and admirable! in action how like an angel!
in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the
world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me,
what is this quintessence of dust? man delights not
me: no, nor woman neither, though by your smiling
you seem to say so.
---Hamlet, Act II, scene ii
I used to be funny. Lately however, while I appreciate a good laugh, and I seem to be genetically encoded to lighten a mood with a well-placed quip, there just seems to be so much that needs to be fixed in the world that light enjoyment almost seems wrong.
We are still in a criminally negligent war; there seems to be no one with the intellectual or political capital to propose a resolution. As a culture we're more interested in watching the slow decay of beautiful young women and giving credence to the hateful rantings of over-privileged men who wouldn't know an honest day's work if their illegal-immigrant maids served it up to them on silver platters.
And I'm afraid that this blog will become preachy and boorish because this is my overarching state of mind. This mindset is probably the fruit of being in grad school, which seems to be the antidote to any fun, but even when I read something so beautiful as Hamlet's speech I'm made sad -- not because its the frustrations of the melancholy Dane, but because I know I'll never write that. I'll never create anything that will endure like that.
I know! The audacity! That I should want to compete with Shakespeare for attention in the canon of Western literature just confirms the height of my ego and pomposity. Who am I, when at the moment the only writing I seem to be able to do are blog posts and portions of my research paper, and the occasional company-wide-published e-mail telling people to do their time sheets? No progress on the great American novel here.
So, when one is feeling like he is doing nothing of any significance to contribute to the national conversation, what is there to do? Why go to a party celebrating the American film industry, of course!
This afternoon I'm going to truss myself up in a new suit and head to Sidetrack and plunk down $50 in support of CGMC. We host an annual fundraiser centered on the Oscars. This is the third I've attended and they are loud and crowded and I would rather discuss the nuances of the Victoria Secret catalogue with Jeremy Piven than go; but I will make my appearance, sing a song, have a cocktail and then head home to gaze blackly at my navel.
The chorus is all about fun. Trust me, there is no discussion of Iraq going to happen at one of these rehearsals. And while I get frustrated with the politics of the organization, I do love to be part of it. The shows are ephemeral confections that seem to be adored by the core audiences. The friends I have who've seen them all seem to be genuinely impressed. I've done enough turkeys to be able to sense when my friends are just being polite. And while I only occasionally take on a prominent role in these shows, there have been some moments that have been some of my proudest on stage, and I've only stood at the back of the stage, almost invisible to the audience.
While I'm not going to write the next Hamlet or solve the Iraq debacle this afternoon, in spite of myself I know I'll have a good time and maybe that's every bit as important. Heck, it might be my patriotic duty. Isn't this what we're fighting for? If you find yourself at loose ends this afternoon, you should come down.
wherefore I know not--lost all my mirth, forgone all
custom of exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily
with my disposition that this goodly frame, the
earth, seems to me a sterile promontory, this most
excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave
o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted
with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to
me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.
What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason!
how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how
express and admirable! in action how like an angel!
in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the
world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me,
what is this quintessence of dust? man delights not
me: no, nor woman neither, though by your smiling
you seem to say so.
---Hamlet, Act II, scene ii
I used to be funny. Lately however, while I appreciate a good laugh, and I seem to be genetically encoded to lighten a mood with a well-placed quip, there just seems to be so much that needs to be fixed in the world that light enjoyment almost seems wrong.
We are still in a criminally negligent war; there seems to be no one with the intellectual or political capital to propose a resolution. As a culture we're more interested in watching the slow decay of beautiful young women and giving credence to the hateful rantings of over-privileged men who wouldn't know an honest day's work if their illegal-immigrant maids served it up to them on silver platters.
And I'm afraid that this blog will become preachy and boorish because this is my overarching state of mind. This mindset is probably the fruit of being in grad school, which seems to be the antidote to any fun, but even when I read something so beautiful as Hamlet's speech I'm made sad -- not because its the frustrations of the melancholy Dane, but because I know I'll never write that. I'll never create anything that will endure like that.
I know! The audacity! That I should want to compete with Shakespeare for attention in the canon of Western literature just confirms the height of my ego and pomposity. Who am I, when at the moment the only writing I seem to be able to do are blog posts and portions of my research paper, and the occasional company-wide-published e-mail telling people to do their time sheets? No progress on the great American novel here.
So, when one is feeling like he is doing nothing of any significance to contribute to the national conversation, what is there to do? Why go to a party celebrating the American film industry, of course!
This afternoon I'm going to truss myself up in a new suit and head to Sidetrack and plunk down $50 in support of CGMC. We host an annual fundraiser centered on the Oscars. This is the third I've attended and they are loud and crowded and I would rather discuss the nuances of the Victoria Secret catalogue with Jeremy Piven than go; but I will make my appearance, sing a song, have a cocktail and then head home to gaze blackly at my navel.
The chorus is all about fun. Trust me, there is no discussion of Iraq going to happen at one of these rehearsals. And while I get frustrated with the politics of the organization, I do love to be part of it. The shows are ephemeral confections that seem to be adored by the core audiences. The friends I have who've seen them all seem to be genuinely impressed. I've done enough turkeys to be able to sense when my friends are just being polite. And while I only occasionally take on a prominent role in these shows, there have been some moments that have been some of my proudest on stage, and I've only stood at the back of the stage, almost invisible to the audience.
While I'm not going to write the next Hamlet or solve the Iraq debacle this afternoon, in spite of myself I know I'll have a good time and maybe that's every bit as important. Heck, it might be my patriotic duty. Isn't this what we're fighting for? If you find yourself at loose ends this afternoon, you should come down.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
F*CK George Lopez
I just watched part of the George Lopez's comedy special on HBO and I will never watch that man again. I understand his anger at the dominant white culture and making fun of it as legitimate. I understand that I am not the target audience for all comics. I don't understand the first twenty minutes of a concert where every single punchline was "mas putos."
And while you're at it, f*ck Tim Hardaway. He can try and clean up his hateful statements from now until Tom Cruise and Clay Aiken come out of the closet; until he does some community service time with at-risk gay youth, and establishes a community program for those youth in Boise, Idaho, I'm not interested in his self-serving "apologies."
How interesting that two men who should understand something of oppression and hatred feel empowered to spread their hatred of another classification of people.
Things like this didn't used to bother me, but lately I find my tolerance is very low, and my tolerance for people who aren't outraged by such statements is even lower.
In this instance you are either part of the solution or part of the problem.
Silence still = Death.
And while you're at it, f*ck Tim Hardaway. He can try and clean up his hateful statements from now until Tom Cruise and Clay Aiken come out of the closet; until he does some community service time with at-risk gay youth, and establishes a community program for those youth in Boise, Idaho, I'm not interested in his self-serving "apologies."
How interesting that two men who should understand something of oppression and hatred feel empowered to spread their hatred of another classification of people.
Things like this didn't used to bother me, but lately I find my tolerance is very low, and my tolerance for people who aren't outraged by such statements is even lower.
In this instance you are either part of the solution or part of the problem.
Silence still = Death.
The Bleach Speech
I do not have the corner office. I have the office next to the corner office. It's one of the largest in the company and one of the few that has solid instead of glass walls. It's not the nicest office I've ever had, but it's one of the prime pieces of real estate in our company. I like it. I've been in there nearly six months and with the exception of a white board, the three walls are blank. The fourth wall is a window.
The company is going through some financial difficulties and it's likely that one division is going to be gutted. The head of that division is upset and has proposed alternative staff reductions, one being the elimination of my position. The CEO has assured me that won't happen, but with employees doing crack in the file room I'm not so sure that would be a bad thing.
One of the duties I have is professional coaching. Right now I work very closely with a brand new employee, we'll call her Princess, and I'm basically directing another division because the manager is facing some very difficult challenges that we're working through, building the division from thin air. I've worked very closely with another vice president on a key project, saving the company $25,000 because no wanted to do the project and I've had to have some very difficult performance discussions with the highest levels of the organization. In addition I am the direct supervisor for the office manager and the administrative staff, which is exhausting. Yesterday I did nothing but sit and listen to employees complain. At the end of the day I was beginning to think crack cocaine was sounding pretty good.
The highlight of my day was meeting with Princess. I don't ascribe that name in any sort of pejorative manner. This young lady, apart from being stunningly beautiful with a classic hour-glass figure, almond eyes, and a shock of wild black hair. Princess is razor sharp, and drips the kind of elegance women in their fifties envy. Think a combination of Audrey Hepburn and Katherine Hepburn with a touch of Lucy Liu poured into Whitney Houston's body and you'll begin to get the idea. If I was a decade younger, sexuality notwithstanding, I'd be all over her. However, Princess is very, very green and has been hired with the idea that for the first six months she is just to observe and absorb the company. I meet with her two or three times a week to answer questions, give suggestions for areas of research and help her prepare questions for interviews with the heads of certain divisions so that she can ask intelligent questions. The formula seems to be working.
A week or so ago there was a huge conference and on the spur of the moment the CEO invited Princess along to observe. When she came back I asked for a written report. From business and grammar points of view, there were a number of things wrong with the paper, but the essence of it was sound and what was most impressive was the demonstration of critical thinking -- a dying art form. My main issue with the paper, however was the negative bent. Like all twenty-two year old she realizes that she doesn't know everything, but thinks that what she doesn't know isn't worth knowing, and it was that I wanted to address in a follow up meeting.
For business reasons I can't make clear here, it was necessary for me to explain to her that I am gay. It was relevant to the discussion. Now, I'm out at work, but not OUT -- if that makes sense. I sing with CGMC and more than one colleague has come to the concerts. My philosophy on this point has always been that my sexuality is not the most interesting aspect of my life and that if it is relevant to anything I had nothing to hide. But there is always that awkward moment when you the topic comes up for the first time with someone. The moment isn't, "Do I tell them or not?" The moment isn't, "Are they going to accept me or not?" The moment is, "Am I going to have to hear the little speech?"
The little speech can take many forms, but it invariably includes the smile and nod, a personal expression of how open and accepting the other person is, and the description of the other person's "gay" friend/sister/uncle/gardner. It's like a paper cut; not seriously painful, but an annoyance I'd prefer to avoid.
Imagine this conversation:
"I need to go in and have my roots done."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, I'm not really blond."
"I would never have guessed. It looks so natural. You know, I've always been very accepting of bleach blonds. I mean, what other people do in a salon is none of my business. I make no judgements. In fact, the woman who lived across the street from us when I was growing up colored her own hair all the time. We used to have her over for coffee on Saturdays. Now, who's you're colorist? What's he like? What does he do? Is he any good?"
Now, that isn't a perfect analogy because coloring your hair is a choice -- not that there's anything wrong with that -- but that's how inane those conversations sound to me. I've never understood why they don't go like this:
"I'm gay."
"Oh. Is he any good?"
So, given my high opinion of Princess, I not only experienced that moment of sting when I got the little speech, but I was a bit disappointment. The moment passed and I don't think any less of Princess but to me that's just the palest example of the discrimination that I've experienced.
Earlier in the week my sexuality was a reference point in another conversation. And it really was relevant. There are really three of us in the office who are key to the CEO's plans. He includes us in everything. Now the other two, the CFO and Chip, are privately very critical of the CEO. I am not. Now, I like Chip. He's young and very, very smart. The CFO is not as smart, but very good. I don't like her as much as she's just a little too good to work for our company. However, in our discussions, she honestly doesn't have a problem with my sexuality. When it's relevant she refers to it. She is a bottle blond. Chip, on the other hand, I really do believe respects me as much as respects anyone else in the office and to a degree actually likes me personally. But whenever my sexuality comes up he says absolutely nothing. He is stone silent or changes the subject. Yet he has no problem raising the topic of his girlfriend and his impending proposal.
In this discussion, I mentioned the blank walls of my office and told the CFO and Chip that there were days when I toyed with the idea of going out and finding the biggest rainbow flag I could, and nailing it to my wall. The CFO said that she thought I should. Chip was silent. I laughed at the CFO and told her she was a troublemaker and she said, "No. I'm serious. I think these guys out here are scared of you. They don't know what to make of you."
Again Chip was silent.
Boo!
The company is going through some financial difficulties and it's likely that one division is going to be gutted. The head of that division is upset and has proposed alternative staff reductions, one being the elimination of my position. The CEO has assured me that won't happen, but with employees doing crack in the file room I'm not so sure that would be a bad thing.
One of the duties I have is professional coaching. Right now I work very closely with a brand new employee, we'll call her Princess, and I'm basically directing another division because the manager is facing some very difficult challenges that we're working through, building the division from thin air. I've worked very closely with another vice president on a key project, saving the company $25,000 because no wanted to do the project and I've had to have some very difficult performance discussions with the highest levels of the organization. In addition I am the direct supervisor for the office manager and the administrative staff, which is exhausting. Yesterday I did nothing but sit and listen to employees complain. At the end of the day I was beginning to think crack cocaine was sounding pretty good.
The highlight of my day was meeting with Princess. I don't ascribe that name in any sort of pejorative manner. This young lady, apart from being stunningly beautiful with a classic hour-glass figure, almond eyes, and a shock of wild black hair. Princess is razor sharp, and drips the kind of elegance women in their fifties envy. Think a combination of Audrey Hepburn and Katherine Hepburn with a touch of Lucy Liu poured into Whitney Houston's body and you'll begin to get the idea. If I was a decade younger, sexuality notwithstanding, I'd be all over her. However, Princess is very, very green and has been hired with the idea that for the first six months she is just to observe and absorb the company. I meet with her two or three times a week to answer questions, give suggestions for areas of research and help her prepare questions for interviews with the heads of certain divisions so that she can ask intelligent questions. The formula seems to be working.
A week or so ago there was a huge conference and on the spur of the moment the CEO invited Princess along to observe. When she came back I asked for a written report. From business and grammar points of view, there were a number of things wrong with the paper, but the essence of it was sound and what was most impressive was the demonstration of critical thinking -- a dying art form. My main issue with the paper, however was the negative bent. Like all twenty-two year old she realizes that she doesn't know everything, but thinks that what she doesn't know isn't worth knowing, and it was that I wanted to address in a follow up meeting.
For business reasons I can't make clear here, it was necessary for me to explain to her that I am gay. It was relevant to the discussion. Now, I'm out at work, but not OUT -- if that makes sense. I sing with CGMC and more than one colleague has come to the concerts. My philosophy on this point has always been that my sexuality is not the most interesting aspect of my life and that if it is relevant to anything I had nothing to hide. But there is always that awkward moment when you the topic comes up for the first time with someone. The moment isn't, "Do I tell them or not?" The moment isn't, "Are they going to accept me or not?" The moment is, "Am I going to have to hear the little speech?"
The little speech can take many forms, but it invariably includes the smile and nod, a personal expression of how open and accepting the other person is, and the description of the other person's "gay" friend/sister/uncle/gardner. It's like a paper cut; not seriously painful, but an annoyance I'd prefer to avoid.
Imagine this conversation:
"I need to go in and have my roots done."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, I'm not really blond."
"I would never have guessed. It looks so natural. You know, I've always been very accepting of bleach blonds. I mean, what other people do in a salon is none of my business. I make no judgements. In fact, the woman who lived across the street from us when I was growing up colored her own hair all the time. We used to have her over for coffee on Saturdays. Now, who's you're colorist? What's he like? What does he do? Is he any good?"
Now, that isn't a perfect analogy because coloring your hair is a choice -- not that there's anything wrong with that -- but that's how inane those conversations sound to me. I've never understood why they don't go like this:
"I'm gay."
"Oh. Is he any good?"
So, given my high opinion of Princess, I not only experienced that moment of sting when I got the little speech, but I was a bit disappointment. The moment passed and I don't think any less of Princess but to me that's just the palest example of the discrimination that I've experienced.
Earlier in the week my sexuality was a reference point in another conversation. And it really was relevant. There are really three of us in the office who are key to the CEO's plans. He includes us in everything. Now the other two, the CFO and Chip, are privately very critical of the CEO. I am not. Now, I like Chip. He's young and very, very smart. The CFO is not as smart, but very good. I don't like her as much as she's just a little too good to work for our company. However, in our discussions, she honestly doesn't have a problem with my sexuality. When it's relevant she refers to it. She is a bottle blond. Chip, on the other hand, I really do believe respects me as much as respects anyone else in the office and to a degree actually likes me personally. But whenever my sexuality comes up he says absolutely nothing. He is stone silent or changes the subject. Yet he has no problem raising the topic of his girlfriend and his impending proposal.
In this discussion, I mentioned the blank walls of my office and told the CFO and Chip that there were days when I toyed with the idea of going out and finding the biggest rainbow flag I could, and nailing it to my wall. The CFO said that she thought I should. Chip was silent. I laughed at the CFO and told her she was a troublemaker and she said, "No. I'm serious. I think these guys out here are scared of you. They don't know what to make of you."
Again Chip was silent.
Boo!
Thursday, February 22, 2007
For the Wisdom of Whitney Houston
Today a woman came into my office, burst into tears and accused two of the cleanest cut individuals of smoking crack in the file room. I didn't know what to do, so I took the information to my boss. The woman claimed that she smelled it on them and says she's familiar with the smell because she works at a homeless soup kitchen and because her husband was a chronic user. As far as I know, she has no reason to lie. My boss and I agreed that a camera should be installed in the file room. The problem is that the guy who would do the installation is the guy who stands accused. We'll call him F.
F. had been uncharacteristically irritable lately, and he seems to be bloated. I attributed it to drinking. This afternoon I started thinking crack might account for it. But I've done some research, and if he's using crack I should be seeing bursts of energy, and that isn't F.
I guess I had to take the claim seriously, but I feel bad because I didn't disbelieve it right away, and because I took the accusation to my boss. But a sobbing woman is telling you something, you tend to believe it.
I just think I od'ed on my job today. I am so glad tomorrow is Friday.
Quick update: Butch may be feeling a little better. He's taken a few nibbles of food and few slurps of skim milk. For some reason that's the only dairy he'll drink. I've never been able to get him to touch cream. Thanks to all who sent well wishes. I'm hoping the prayers worked.
F. had been uncharacteristically irritable lately, and he seems to be bloated. I attributed it to drinking. This afternoon I started thinking crack might account for it. But I've done some research, and if he's using crack I should be seeing bursts of energy, and that isn't F.
I guess I had to take the claim seriously, but I feel bad because I didn't disbelieve it right away, and because I took the accusation to my boss. But a sobbing woman is telling you something, you tend to believe it.
I just think I od'ed on my job today. I am so glad tomorrow is Friday.
Quick update: Butch may be feeling a little better. He's taken a few nibbles of food and few slurps of skim milk. For some reason that's the only dairy he'll drink. I've never been able to get him to touch cream. Thanks to all who sent well wishes. I'm hoping the prayers worked.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
My Aubergine Ass
I'm exhausted. Because of my fall over the weekend I haven't been able to get much sleep. My backside is at least three different shades of purple and some yellow. My temper is short and I have a big meeting tomorrow with my staff telling them they WILL do things the way I want them done. Not a good equation. Pray for me.
And pray for my cat. His name is Butch and in a few weeks he'll be 20 years old, if he makes that long. The last couple of months he's stopped grooming himself, so his fur is all knotted, and yesterday he stopped eating.
When I got my first cat, Genny, she was forced upon me. Then, only a few weeks after I got her she had her first litter of kittens. Butch is from that litter. When I made the decision to keep him I looked him straight in the eye and said, "You get sick, you die." I had him neutered, and that's the only medical attention he's received. I don't believe in prolonging a pet's life with expensive medical procedures. I have a friend who had two dogs and at one point she had $34,000 of debt in medical expenses for her dogs. I couldn't do it.
That said, if we're reaching Butch's end days I'm going to be a wreck. When it came time to put Genny down I called to make the appointment and I literally could not speak. The call took nearly fifteen minutes with me doing a lot of heavy breathing. Why the woman on the other end didn't hang up, I'll never know.
I've lived with Butch for 20 years and I vowed that when he went I'd be done with pets. And I'm going to keep that vow. But I have to say I wouldn't mind having him around for a few more years.
So, please, pray for Butch.
And pray for my cat. His name is Butch and in a few weeks he'll be 20 years old, if he makes that long. The last couple of months he's stopped grooming himself, so his fur is all knotted, and yesterday he stopped eating.
When I got my first cat, Genny, she was forced upon me. Then, only a few weeks after I got her she had her first litter of kittens. Butch is from that litter. When I made the decision to keep him I looked him straight in the eye and said, "You get sick, you die." I had him neutered, and that's the only medical attention he's received. I don't believe in prolonging a pet's life with expensive medical procedures. I have a friend who had two dogs and at one point she had $34,000 of debt in medical expenses for her dogs. I couldn't do it.
That said, if we're reaching Butch's end days I'm going to be a wreck. When it came time to put Genny down I called to make the appointment and I literally could not speak. The call took nearly fifteen minutes with me doing a lot of heavy breathing. Why the woman on the other end didn't hang up, I'll never know.
I've lived with Butch for 20 years and I vowed that when he went I'd be done with pets. And I'm going to keep that vow. But I have to say I wouldn't mind having him around for a few more years.
So, please, pray for Butch.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
America, Thy Name is Mediocrity
So, a Republican state chooses not to honor Bono for working for debt relief for third world nations. I'm shocked. Shocked. However, what dismays me more is the feeble attempt at the state senator's humor. Sonny Bono indeed. That wasn't funny in 1984.
I'm beginning to get a peak at how curmudgeonly I'm going to be in my old age. I find myself asking again and again, "Does no one have a minimum standard anymore, let alone a drive toward excellence?" From simple things like a delinquent expression of thanks or punctuality, to the national tendency to allow ourselves to be distracted from war by Britney Spears and her date with a hair clipper.
Perhaps I'm just as much to blame as anyone. With my over-crowded schedule I am able to focus on work and school, and little else. Because I'm studying writing I try to make time to post cogent remarks on this humble blog. I can't even get to the post office to mail my sister some CDs. So how could I be expected to keep up with world events when there's Britney to laugh at? The Iraq war is such a downer and why should I care about global warming and the hyperbolic rhetoric surrounding that issue when the Oscars are next week?
Yesterday my boss literally told me that there is no way for him to guarantee his arrival in the office before 9:00, and that the earliest he could reasonably be expected to attend a meeting is 11:00. In the morning. I simply don't know how to respond to that. He's trying to resurrect the management team meeting that I posted about last week, and he will send another invitation to the team, suggesting Wednesdays at 11:00. He didn't ask my opinion, but I'm going to decline the invitation. I have made very clear that if there is anything specific I can do to be of assistance, I'll be more than happy to do so, but I will not set a regular time in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week, for a meeting in which they review all the reasons why they can't get anything done.
Hiding my contempt for some of these people is getting more and more difficult. God save me from the mewling victim.
I'm beginning to get a peak at how curmudgeonly I'm going to be in my old age. I find myself asking again and again, "Does no one have a minimum standard anymore, let alone a drive toward excellence?" From simple things like a delinquent expression of thanks or punctuality, to the national tendency to allow ourselves to be distracted from war by Britney Spears and her date with a hair clipper.
Perhaps I'm just as much to blame as anyone. With my over-crowded schedule I am able to focus on work and school, and little else. Because I'm studying writing I try to make time to post cogent remarks on this humble blog. I can't even get to the post office to mail my sister some CDs. So how could I be expected to keep up with world events when there's Britney to laugh at? The Iraq war is such a downer and why should I care about global warming and the hyperbolic rhetoric surrounding that issue when the Oscars are next week?
Yesterday my boss literally told me that there is no way for him to guarantee his arrival in the office before 9:00, and that the earliest he could reasonably be expected to attend a meeting is 11:00. In the morning. I simply don't know how to respond to that. He's trying to resurrect the management team meeting that I posted about last week, and he will send another invitation to the team, suggesting Wednesdays at 11:00. He didn't ask my opinion, but I'm going to decline the invitation. I have made very clear that if there is anything specific I can do to be of assistance, I'll be more than happy to do so, but I will not set a regular time in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week, for a meeting in which they review all the reasons why they can't get anything done.
Hiding my contempt for some of these people is getting more and more difficult. God save me from the mewling victim.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Drivel
RP is an ungrateful wretch! Last week he posted a request for some advice in an area where I am an expert. I responded with an offer to assist if he'd not found anyone and immediately he sent me some information to evaluate. I read it and sent him my analysis and a list of questions I thought he needed to ask before he made a decision.
And I've not been thanked yet!
Or maybe I'm just a selfish little snot who thinks that the world should revolve around me, me, me. Who knows why he didn't respond? Maybe he was hit by bus and lies in an incoherent, amnesiac's haze somewhere, drooling on a nun's wimple and soiling his bed. Yeah. That's it! He's lost all knowledge of the English language and he thinks he's Marie Antoinette.
Oh, who am I kidding? He doesn't even know I'm alive and he'd doubtless be appalled to find out that I had a crush on him; or that I appropriate his persona to fulfill some pathetic little Jane-Austen romance in my head.
One of the blogs I read is written by someone I know only very casually. So casually I cannot pronounce his last name. He has no idea that I read it, let alone that I've responded. For the past few months his posts have all been about this come-hither-get-lost relationship he's been having with someone who clearly believes he is the yellow God put in a stick of butter. The second time B. got dumped I couldn't take it, so I responded to his post and told him that his "boyfriend" was a self-centered creep. I was profoundly more eloquent than that -- dare I say poetic. B. of course protested and tried so hard to be mature -- to discover his responsibility in the failure of the relationship, and to forgive the S.O.B. I wrote and told him that at some point in the distant future he could take the high road, but that at that moment he should give himself permission to cuss and pout, and above all else say not-nice things about the S.O.B. B. of course found a way to patch up the relationship, which of course has disintegrated for a third, and we're assured final time. Pass the Ben & Jerry's.
Why do people over the age of 21 do that to themselves? Maybe it's because I'm a cold, heartless prick but the way I cut it up, I simply do not have time for that crap. My time is much better spent whipping up frothy romances centered around someone who obviously either has no regard for me, or has lost all sense of social obligation -- or maybe he's accidentally chopped the fingers off his right hand and he can't type "thank you." Only two letters in that phrase are typed with your left hand, you know. Yes, that must be it! But I'm sure his left hand was spared for the wedding ring...
I am such a goon.
And I've not been thanked yet!
Or maybe I'm just a selfish little snot who thinks that the world should revolve around me, me, me. Who knows why he didn't respond? Maybe he was hit by bus and lies in an incoherent, amnesiac's haze somewhere, drooling on a nun's wimple and soiling his bed. Yeah. That's it! He's lost all knowledge of the English language and he thinks he's Marie Antoinette.
Oh, who am I kidding? He doesn't even know I'm alive and he'd doubtless be appalled to find out that I had a crush on him; or that I appropriate his persona to fulfill some pathetic little Jane-Austen romance in my head.
One of the blogs I read is written by someone I know only very casually. So casually I cannot pronounce his last name. He has no idea that I read it, let alone that I've responded. For the past few months his posts have all been about this come-hither-get-lost relationship he's been having with someone who clearly believes he is the yellow God put in a stick of butter. The second time B. got dumped I couldn't take it, so I responded to his post and told him that his "boyfriend" was a self-centered creep. I was profoundly more eloquent than that -- dare I say poetic. B. of course protested and tried so hard to be mature -- to discover his responsibility in the failure of the relationship, and to forgive the S.O.B. I wrote and told him that at some point in the distant future he could take the high road, but that at that moment he should give himself permission to cuss and pout, and above all else say not-nice things about the S.O.B. B. of course found a way to patch up the relationship, which of course has disintegrated for a third, and we're assured final time. Pass the Ben & Jerry's.
Why do people over the age of 21 do that to themselves? Maybe it's because I'm a cold, heartless prick but the way I cut it up, I simply do not have time for that crap. My time is much better spent whipping up frothy romances centered around someone who obviously either has no regard for me, or has lost all sense of social obligation -- or maybe he's accidentally chopped the fingers off his right hand and he can't type "thank you." Only two letters in that phrase are typed with your left hand, you know. Yes, that must be it! But I'm sure his left hand was spared for the wedding ring...
I am such a goon.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Condolences
I just read Kathy Griffin's father died. Ms. Griffin is one of my favorite comedians. Here is one of her latest interviews.
Evolutions
The components for my bathroom upgrades arrived yesterday: new toilet, sink, and shower fixtures. My bathroom is covered in the original 1957-pink tile and in the past four years I've not only come to accept it, but love it. All of the new bathroom appliances are very retro, with a comforting 1950's feel. Anyway, Home Depot only provides curbside delivery, which meant I had to lug all of the pieces upstairs myself. On my second trip I took a serious spill.
The utility stairwell in my building has cement steps and the melting snow created a little puddle. Because I was carrying a heavy box, my center of gravity was off and both of my feet went out from under me at the same time. I landed flat on my back on those cement steps. Somehow I missed my kidneys and took the brunt of force right at the base of my spine and on my elbows, but I took a sound blow right across the middle of my back as well, knocking the wind out of me. I scared the poor delivery guy, and he tried to perform CPR while I was sitting up. I guess I'm fine, but I tore open my left arm at the elbow and there was blood everywhere. My back is sore, and I can already see the Technicolor bruise spreading across my back.
But the upgrades continue. I was flipping through my iPod and realized a lot of the space is taken up by Bernadette Peters. Every fag seems to have his diva, and for years mine was Bernadette Peters. I just ate up her little carnival doll routine, and I loved her voice. And while I think I will always have a soft spot for Bernadette circa 1990, my admiration has cooled over the years. I've bought her recordings more out of a sense of nostalgia out of any real interest. Yet someone who's music I have become more interested in is Patti LuPone's. As she approaches sixty her talent seems to grow. I love her recordings and I've seen her in live performance twice. She's electric. I love her website, which she doesn't update nearly enough. Unlike Bernadette, who seems to desperately clinging to thirty-five, Patti seems to be embracing her age and as a result seems ageless. In her mid fifties she did her first opera, and continues to explore that world. I love people who enter different stages of their lives and absolutely refuse to sit on their laurels.
Still, my musical tastes seem to be changing. I won't say they're evolving, but I am aware that I'm more interested in male musicians than I am in female ones, my new found interest in Patti LuPone notwithstanding. While his is not ground-breaking in any way, I am listening endlessly to Daughtry. John Mayer is getting some play, as is Chanticleer. And if Tim McGraw would put out a new album, I'd have it. His latest was a greatest hits compilation, and since I have all the CD's I didn't see the need to purchase this. In the absence of openly gay musicians, (not a Rufus fan, and Elton tends to be a little too retro for me) I tend to voices that are a little rougher. Yet, I don't like hard rock which is either too adolescent or manufactured for me. I, of course recognize the dichotomy of wanting to avoid manufactured music and yet still being devoted to Daughtry and John Mayer, but for me it's the difference between Banana Republic and Target.
So, the upgrades continue: bathroom, music, and education. Because of yesterday's little spill, I'm way behind in my school work, so I need to tidy up around the house and get off to the library. More coherent blogging later...
The utility stairwell in my building has cement steps and the melting snow created a little puddle. Because I was carrying a heavy box, my center of gravity was off and both of my feet went out from under me at the same time. I landed flat on my back on those cement steps. Somehow I missed my kidneys and took the brunt of force right at the base of my spine and on my elbows, but I took a sound blow right across the middle of my back as well, knocking the wind out of me. I scared the poor delivery guy, and he tried to perform CPR while I was sitting up. I guess I'm fine, but I tore open my left arm at the elbow and there was blood everywhere. My back is sore, and I can already see the Technicolor bruise spreading across my back.
But the upgrades continue. I was flipping through my iPod and realized a lot of the space is taken up by Bernadette Peters. Every fag seems to have his diva, and for years mine was Bernadette Peters. I just ate up her little carnival doll routine, and I loved her voice. And while I think I will always have a soft spot for Bernadette circa 1990, my admiration has cooled over the years. I've bought her recordings more out of a sense of nostalgia out of any real interest. Yet someone who's music I have become more interested in is Patti LuPone's. As she approaches sixty her talent seems to grow. I love her recordings and I've seen her in live performance twice. She's electric. I love her website, which she doesn't update nearly enough. Unlike Bernadette, who seems to desperately clinging to thirty-five, Patti seems to be embracing her age and as a result seems ageless. In her mid fifties she did her first opera, and continues to explore that world. I love people who enter different stages of their lives and absolutely refuse to sit on their laurels.
Still, my musical tastes seem to be changing. I won't say they're evolving, but I am aware that I'm more interested in male musicians than I am in female ones, my new found interest in Patti LuPone notwithstanding. While his is not ground-breaking in any way, I am listening endlessly to Daughtry. John Mayer is getting some play, as is Chanticleer. And if Tim McGraw would put out a new album, I'd have it. His latest was a greatest hits compilation, and since I have all the CD's I didn't see the need to purchase this. In the absence of openly gay musicians, (not a Rufus fan, and Elton tends to be a little too retro for me) I tend to voices that are a little rougher. Yet, I don't like hard rock which is either too adolescent or manufactured for me. I, of course recognize the dichotomy of wanting to avoid manufactured music and yet still being devoted to Daughtry and John Mayer, but for me it's the difference between Banana Republic and Target.
So, the upgrades continue: bathroom, music, and education. Because of yesterday's little spill, I'm way behind in my school work, so I need to tidy up around the house and get off to the library. More coherent blogging later...
Saturday, February 17, 2007
She's Back!
I was thrilled to discover that Camille Paglia will be once again writing at Salon.com. I let my subsription lapse when she stopped. I love her straight-forward, self-glamorizing style. Every sentence is as simple as "I love me," and as complex as a quantum physics equation. I might agree with her about fifty percent of the time, but I'm always entertained and appreciative of someone who does not equivocate. And while you're checking out Salon again, you must read Heather Havrilesky. She sits on the other end of the spectrum using humorous, hyperbolic prose in a self-deprecating manner. I don't watch any of the television she reviews as I am an undiagnosed Law & Order addict, but I never miss her reviews.
With these two writers, I'd almost add them to my blogroll, but in truth I find Salon to be a little too self-reverential, so I cannot classify them as "must read." But I hold out hope with Havrilesky and the return of Paglia. Check them out and enjoy!
With these two writers, I'd almost add them to my blogroll, but in truth I find Salon to be a little too self-reverential, so I cannot classify them as "must read." But I hold out hope with Havrilesky and the return of Paglia. Check them out and enjoy!
Friday, February 16, 2007
R-E-S-P-E-C-T
I have received innumerable comments on my less-than-Christian (or perhaps way-too-Christian, depending upon your perspective) stance on Anna Nicole Smith and her untimely (or overdue, again depending upon your perspective) demise. I have been told that I should show some respect.
If I am guilty of anything, it is refusing to see a 39-year-old, multimillionaire woman as a victim. I see no reason to pity her. If the latest reports are correct, she was using drugs throughout her pregnancy. The likelihood that her death was caused by drugs is exceedingly high. And it is my belief that Anna Nicole Smith is at least partly responsible for the current glamorization of inebriation. "If Anna Nicole can snort drugs and still be wildly wealthy, it can't be that harmful. Where's my pipe, LiLo?" Anna Nicole Smith wasn't Gracie-Allen loopy, an adorable little nut job. She was a full-fledged entrepreneur who marketed a toxic image to the American public. I mourn for the eight kids who were killed by a drunk driver. I mourn for Anna Nicole's innocent baby. I do not mourn for Anna Nicole. If that makes me a cold-hearted son of a bitch, so be it, but I think I am demonstrating more respect for her by holding her accountable than anyone who adopts a little frowny face at the mention of her name.
Or perhaps I'm just hormonal. At work I was hand picked to be a member of the senior leadership team. While I'm one of the oldest people on the team, I am still the most junior. On Thursday mornings at 9:00 we have a standing meeting without the CEO to discuss the details of various on-going projects. When the team was formed, we all agreed that one of our core values was mutual respect and that one of the key ways we could demonstrate that respect was to be on time for meetings. Yesterday was the third or fourth time I went to the conference room and sat there for fifteen minutes waiting for someone to show up. At 9:15 I went back to my desk and reviewed my e-mail to be sure I didn't miss a cancellation announcement. Then I sent out my own e-mail stating that I was removing this meeting from my calendar. Further, I would only be submitting my weekly updates to the CEO. If any of the team members wanted to know what I was doing, or if I could assist them with anything, they could come to me and ask me directly. No one responded.
So, I had meetings scheduled with two of the team members, one of whom was my boss. The meeting with my boss was to discuss a project that had been originally assigned to him in August, reassigned to another team member in October, and re-reassigned to me in November. I took four weeks to bring the project to the point where it needed review from my boss and it has sat on his desk for the last three months. I scheduled two meetings to discuss the project, and at the third meeting he still had not reviewed it, so we scheduled yesterday's meeting. Half an hour before the meeting I received an e-mail requesting that we push it back two hours. I did not respond, so he got up from his desk, walked the twenty feet to my desk, and asked if the new time was all right. I said no and did not explain. He sat down and tried to chat for a few minutes and I simply stared at him. He went away.
The second meeting was with the CFO. She was hired, in part, to establish a new division and generate a new stream of revenue. A manager was hired in October and since that time the manager has been left at a desk to decay, doing secretarial work. I went up and down the chain of command and asked if I could be of assistance, and everyone agreed that someone should do something, and from all reports my contributions have been very successful. Any development of any kind that has happened in that division is because of me. I didn't show up for my meeting with the CFO, and when she came to my office to see where I was, I told her I couldn't make the meeting. She stood in the doorway for a moment and then made a comment on how tidy my office was. "I had some extra time this morning." She went away.
I am currently of the mind that all respect must be earned. Just by converting oxygen into carbon dioxide does not entitle you to respect. At best it entitles you to indifference. For me, an individual begins to earn respect when he or she makes an effort to make a positive contribution. I'm not sure I even require success. But I do require effort.
If I am guilty of anything, it is refusing to see a 39-year-old, multimillionaire woman as a victim. I see no reason to pity her. If the latest reports are correct, she was using drugs throughout her pregnancy. The likelihood that her death was caused by drugs is exceedingly high. And it is my belief that Anna Nicole Smith is at least partly responsible for the current glamorization of inebriation. "If Anna Nicole can snort drugs and still be wildly wealthy, it can't be that harmful. Where's my pipe, LiLo?" Anna Nicole Smith wasn't Gracie-Allen loopy, an adorable little nut job. She was a full-fledged entrepreneur who marketed a toxic image to the American public. I mourn for the eight kids who were killed by a drunk driver. I mourn for Anna Nicole's innocent baby. I do not mourn for Anna Nicole. If that makes me a cold-hearted son of a bitch, so be it, but I think I am demonstrating more respect for her by holding her accountable than anyone who adopts a little frowny face at the mention of her name.
Or perhaps I'm just hormonal. At work I was hand picked to be a member of the senior leadership team. While I'm one of the oldest people on the team, I am still the most junior. On Thursday mornings at 9:00 we have a standing meeting without the CEO to discuss the details of various on-going projects. When the team was formed, we all agreed that one of our core values was mutual respect and that one of the key ways we could demonstrate that respect was to be on time for meetings. Yesterday was the third or fourth time I went to the conference room and sat there for fifteen minutes waiting for someone to show up. At 9:15 I went back to my desk and reviewed my e-mail to be sure I didn't miss a cancellation announcement. Then I sent out my own e-mail stating that I was removing this meeting from my calendar. Further, I would only be submitting my weekly updates to the CEO. If any of the team members wanted to know what I was doing, or if I could assist them with anything, they could come to me and ask me directly. No one responded.
So, I had meetings scheduled with two of the team members, one of whom was my boss. The meeting with my boss was to discuss a project that had been originally assigned to him in August, reassigned to another team member in October, and re-reassigned to me in November. I took four weeks to bring the project to the point where it needed review from my boss and it has sat on his desk for the last three months. I scheduled two meetings to discuss the project, and at the third meeting he still had not reviewed it, so we scheduled yesterday's meeting. Half an hour before the meeting I received an e-mail requesting that we push it back two hours. I did not respond, so he got up from his desk, walked the twenty feet to my desk, and asked if the new time was all right. I said no and did not explain. He sat down and tried to chat for a few minutes and I simply stared at him. He went away.
The second meeting was with the CFO. She was hired, in part, to establish a new division and generate a new stream of revenue. A manager was hired in October and since that time the manager has been left at a desk to decay, doing secretarial work. I went up and down the chain of command and asked if I could be of assistance, and everyone agreed that someone should do something, and from all reports my contributions have been very successful. Any development of any kind that has happened in that division is because of me. I didn't show up for my meeting with the CFO, and when she came to my office to see where I was, I told her I couldn't make the meeting. She stood in the doorway for a moment and then made a comment on how tidy my office was. "I had some extra time this morning." She went away.
I am currently of the mind that all respect must be earned. Just by converting oxygen into carbon dioxide does not entitle you to respect. At best it entitles you to indifference. For me, an individual begins to earn respect when he or she makes an effort to make a positive contribution. I'm not sure I even require success. But I do require effort.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Judgment Day
"Judge not that ye be not judged." Matthew 7:1
There is a massive blizzard raging in Chicago. I excused employees from work and left early myself. If one were ever to imagine a world forsaken by God, it would look something like Chicago today.
Icky.
The subway was packed with irritable people, all convinced that theirs was the most important journey. Moods were foul and tempers were barely restrained as the cars filled to capacity. At my stop I've discovered that the last car is usually the best bet for staking territory, and while there were no seats available, I managed to find a spot that kept me out of traffic patterns and allowed me to have a comfortable handhold. On a day like today, more could not be expected.
At the next stop a crush of people got on. Included in this was a man clearly suffering the worst of a winter cold. He looked miserable and it was clear that his nose was particularly problematic. It was red and swollen and dripping. Not an attractive, yet understandable condition. He moved as best as he could to the end of the car and I paid him no more attention. My focus was taken by three teens who were clearly enjoying the weather. They were loud and having a good time in that annoying-yet-harmless way that teens do. I noted them and then retreated back into my own thoughts.
That is, until the flash went off. I turned to see one of the teens pointing a camera in my general direction. Even under the best of circumstances I'm reluctant to have my picture taken, but in direct, overhead fluorescent light, taken by a stranger to be broadcast on the Internet? I don't think so. I simply turned my face away. Then another flash went off. And then another. Finally I looked to see what was going on. The camera was not pointed at me, rather it was pointed at the man with a cold, who had taken a tissue and stuffed it up one nostril allowing a large portion to dangle over his mouth. Of course he looked ridiculous. Yet given his array of inelegant options while trying to maintain his balance on a jerky train, I thought this was the most practical, if not the most a flattering. Still with each flash of the camera, and there were several more, my attention drifted from the man to the kids taking the pictures.
If there is any standard by which taking that man's picture would not be considered rude, I don't know what it might be. I did what I could to position myself between the man and the camera, but the boy taking the pictures was determined. I grew more and more angry on the man's behalf. I judged these kids, and this boy in particular, to be rude. Then I became aware of my judgment.
As creatures of the universe, I believe it is impossible to interact socially without passing judgment. Some are benign, like preferring the first Darren to the second on Bewitched; others may be more harsh, such as deciding that a particular individual is a toxic influence in one's life and taking steps to avoid that person. In the case of the latter, others may determine that the individual in question has some redeeming virtue, and view your judgment to be too harsh, or short sighted, or made with some degree of ignorance; and in that, those people are making their own judgment.
It has been my experience that people make judgments in a hierarchical fashion, meaning that what meets with approval is considered superior to that which does not. On rare occasions I've met people who would have you believe that they make no judgments, or if they do, they keep those judgments to themselves. How would that be possible? Isn't that judgment expressed by a decision to not return a phone call, or by simply looking away? And in the extreme, I'm always entertained by those who point out other judgmental individuals and comment upon it -- usually in a superior fashion.
The pinnacle of judgment is reserved for those who make the judgments yet act against them. Those who volunteer in a homeless shelter, not because it's a social responsibility, but because they are helping those less fortunate. Pity is the most insidious form of judgment there is; at least in my opinion.
Passing judgment is simply a fact of life. Everyone in recorded western history has passed judgment. There are those who might argue that Christ was the last person on Earth who did not pass judgment. And yet, was it not Christ who said, "Father forgive them; for they know not what they do." (Luke 23:34) Could there be a more judgmental statement? Of course, we give Christ a pass because he was the son of God. But how can God expect humans to do something that even He was unable to avoid in His final moment?
As the train plowed through the snow, people disembarked at various stops, and the kids moved away and on to other topics, blithely unaware of their insensitivity. In the grand scheme of things there was no harm done, and they were just children. Still I think the real lesson here is not to avoid making judgments, I think the real lesson is to realize when the judgment has been made and then to practice forgiveness. And if that's the case, who is it I should forgive? The kids for being self-absorbed American teenagers? Myself for wanting to slap them senseless for their rude actions? Or the man with the cold for not being able to find a more elegant way of dealing with his malady?
And of course, none of this would have run through my head if I had simply been able to sit down and read my Red Eye.
There is a massive blizzard raging in Chicago. I excused employees from work and left early myself. If one were ever to imagine a world forsaken by God, it would look something like Chicago today.
Icky.
The subway was packed with irritable people, all convinced that theirs was the most important journey. Moods were foul and tempers were barely restrained as the cars filled to capacity. At my stop I've discovered that the last car is usually the best bet for staking territory, and while there were no seats available, I managed to find a spot that kept me out of traffic patterns and allowed me to have a comfortable handhold. On a day like today, more could not be expected.
At the next stop a crush of people got on. Included in this was a man clearly suffering the worst of a winter cold. He looked miserable and it was clear that his nose was particularly problematic. It was red and swollen and dripping. Not an attractive, yet understandable condition. He moved as best as he could to the end of the car and I paid him no more attention. My focus was taken by three teens who were clearly enjoying the weather. They were loud and having a good time in that annoying-yet-harmless way that teens do. I noted them and then retreated back into my own thoughts.
That is, until the flash went off. I turned to see one of the teens pointing a camera in my general direction. Even under the best of circumstances I'm reluctant to have my picture taken, but in direct, overhead fluorescent light, taken by a stranger to be broadcast on the Internet? I don't think so. I simply turned my face away. Then another flash went off. And then another. Finally I looked to see what was going on. The camera was not pointed at me, rather it was pointed at the man with a cold, who had taken a tissue and stuffed it up one nostril allowing a large portion to dangle over his mouth. Of course he looked ridiculous. Yet given his array of inelegant options while trying to maintain his balance on a jerky train, I thought this was the most practical, if not the most a flattering. Still with each flash of the camera, and there were several more, my attention drifted from the man to the kids taking the pictures.
If there is any standard by which taking that man's picture would not be considered rude, I don't know what it might be. I did what I could to position myself between the man and the camera, but the boy taking the pictures was determined. I grew more and more angry on the man's behalf. I judged these kids, and this boy in particular, to be rude. Then I became aware of my judgment.
As creatures of the universe, I believe it is impossible to interact socially without passing judgment. Some are benign, like preferring the first Darren to the second on Bewitched; others may be more harsh, such as deciding that a particular individual is a toxic influence in one's life and taking steps to avoid that person. In the case of the latter, others may determine that the individual in question has some redeeming virtue, and view your judgment to be too harsh, or short sighted, or made with some degree of ignorance; and in that, those people are making their own judgment.
It has been my experience that people make judgments in a hierarchical fashion, meaning that what meets with approval is considered superior to that which does not. On rare occasions I've met people who would have you believe that they make no judgments, or if they do, they keep those judgments to themselves. How would that be possible? Isn't that judgment expressed by a decision to not return a phone call, or by simply looking away? And in the extreme, I'm always entertained by those who point out other judgmental individuals and comment upon it -- usually in a superior fashion.
The pinnacle of judgment is reserved for those who make the judgments yet act against them. Those who volunteer in a homeless shelter, not because it's a social responsibility, but because they are helping those less fortunate. Pity is the most insidious form of judgment there is; at least in my opinion.
Passing judgment is simply a fact of life. Everyone in recorded western history has passed judgment. There are those who might argue that Christ was the last person on Earth who did not pass judgment. And yet, was it not Christ who said, "Father forgive them; for they know not what they do." (Luke 23:34) Could there be a more judgmental statement? Of course, we give Christ a pass because he was the son of God. But how can God expect humans to do something that even He was unable to avoid in His final moment?
As the train plowed through the snow, people disembarked at various stops, and the kids moved away and on to other topics, blithely unaware of their insensitivity. In the grand scheme of things there was no harm done, and they were just children. Still I think the real lesson here is not to avoid making judgments, I think the real lesson is to realize when the judgment has been made and then to practice forgiveness. And if that's the case, who is it I should forgive? The kids for being self-absorbed American teenagers? Myself for wanting to slap them senseless for their rude actions? Or the man with the cold for not being able to find a more elegant way of dealing with his malady?
And of course, none of this would have run through my head if I had simply been able to sit down and read my Red Eye.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Moving On
Four years ago I decided that I'd had enough of the workaday world and wanted to hide in graduate school. My undergraduate degree is in theatre and I knew that I did not want to go back into that world, even just for study, so I was at loose ends. Prior to my hard-moment decision I had toyed with the idea of grad school for three years and always found a reason to put off any action. Then one day at work I simply had enough, turned in my notice and never looked back. But I still didn't know what I wanted to study.
There were logisitical things that had to be figured out first: I had just closed on my first condo, hadn't even made my first mortgage payment, and now I was unemployed, but sometimes pivotal life decisions are not made with an eye toward fiscal responsibility. On my way home on that fateful day, I stopped into the restaurant where I'd worked ten years earlier and asked to be put on the schedule. I walked out with a full roster of shifts. Then I went home and immediately enrolled in bartending school. My reasoning was that bartending was the easiest way to make the most cash. My adventures in individual alcohol distribution meetings is grist for another post. It was nearly a year before I sat down in my first course at DePaul, aimed at a masters degree in writing.
That course was the study of multicultural rhetoric. The first reading assignment was a hundred pages of modern rhetorical theory. I had to read the introduction to one of the articles three times, and I was never sure I fully understood it. During that class, more than once I sat at my computer cursing the professor. It was exhausting, but I survived.
The posts below pertain to this in that they are the first significant indication that my study is paying off. I've posted the responses from one reader because they were germain to the topic. I have received others enouraging comments that I've chosen not to post, received from outside the comment arena of this blog. A year ago I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to write anything more signficant than a check. Now I have some hope.
And I'm right back where I started with a hundred pages of modern rhetorical theory to digest and synthesize into a three-page paper, and a review of primary source materials for a research paper that my professor seems to think could be publishable.
So, I better get crackin'.
There were logisitical things that had to be figured out first: I had just closed on my first condo, hadn't even made my first mortgage payment, and now I was unemployed, but sometimes pivotal life decisions are not made with an eye toward fiscal responsibility. On my way home on that fateful day, I stopped into the restaurant where I'd worked ten years earlier and asked to be put on the schedule. I walked out with a full roster of shifts. Then I went home and immediately enrolled in bartending school. My reasoning was that bartending was the easiest way to make the most cash. My adventures in individual alcohol distribution meetings is grist for another post. It was nearly a year before I sat down in my first course at DePaul, aimed at a masters degree in writing.
That course was the study of multicultural rhetoric. The first reading assignment was a hundred pages of modern rhetorical theory. I had to read the introduction to one of the articles three times, and I was never sure I fully understood it. During that class, more than once I sat at my computer cursing the professor. It was exhausting, but I survived.
The posts below pertain to this in that they are the first significant indication that my study is paying off. I've posted the responses from one reader because they were germain to the topic. I have received others enouraging comments that I've chosen not to post, received from outside the comment arena of this blog. A year ago I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to write anything more signficant than a check. Now I have some hope.
And I'm right back where I started with a hundred pages of modern rhetorical theory to digest and synthesize into a three-page paper, and a review of primary source materials for a research paper that my professor seems to think could be publishable.
So, I better get crackin'.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
An Unexpected Response
I have a few favorite blogs that I read regularly. One belongs to Alexandra Billings, an actress who got her start in Chicago and who is currently pursuing her dream in Hollywood. She has grit and moxy and charm: all the things I don't have to be a big, big star. After I wrote my eulogy to Anna Nicole Smith below, Alex posted a comment. I've approved the comment for posting here, but for some reason it doesn't want to come through.
Alex's comment was actually a response to my comment that I posted on her blog, linking my eulogy to hers. We had very different views. However when I posted it, I assumed it would be taken in the spirit in which it was intended: you've shown me yours, I'll show you mine. Since she responded to my comment on her blog as well, I'll link to it here. If you're a blog fan, you should check Alex's out. It's one of the best.
Apparently I still have a lot to learn about writing. I tried to post my clarification to Alex's website, but as should have been expected it was too long. I post my response here:
***
Yipes. I did not mean to give offense in anyway. I'm actually a fan of yours: seen your work on stage and television and have heard you sing many times and always enjoyed it immensely. More than once I've watched you and wished I could do a tenth of what you have done. Even though I don't know you personally, I know enough about you to feel like you are a whole, real person who functions in world similar to mine.
I guess the point I was trying to make with my blog post is that I can't mourn the loss of a celebrity image -- a tabloid character -- and to me that's what ANS was/is. Much like I didn't mourn the loss of Kevin Dillon's character in Poseidon. The ending was expected, the timing was not.
I didn't know the woman, Vickie Lynn Hogan, so I have no idea whether she personally was a waste of space or not. However, in my opinion, her public persona was a toxic diversion from very real issues: like cotton candy before dinner, entertaining but of no nutritional value and too much makes you queasy. My intended point, which obviously failed miserably, was that her public persona -- the tabloid character, ANS, -- overpowered her humanity. I should feel some respect for the loss of the woman, but because of the public character I don't, and frankly I don't think many people actually do, all public hand wringing notwithstanding. It's not that I couldn't respect Vickie Lynn's background or her history or anything I've read in a tabloid about her. I watched her reality show and enjoyed it; always aware that I was supposed to look at the character of ANS and chuckle at what a train wreck she was, to think, "There but for the grace of God..." I've never for a second thought that what I was seeing on a television screen was supposed to be real.
The only thing that I would I hold Vickie Lynn accountable for is the waste of a life, and arguably three lives. She was very young when she died, witnessed her son's drug-induced death, and left a baby in a horrible circumstance. If that isn't waste, I don't know what is. If the woman was crushed by the character of ANS and its relationship with the American public, at the very least Vickie Lynn was not an innocent victim of the relationship. Based on what I've read from you, I think you would agree with at least that point. And if our fascination with the demise of a media character allows us to be distracted from the disintegration of American society as happened on the day of her death, (how much news coverage was given to the Scooter Libby trial that day?) then yes, Anna Nicole Smith was a toxic waste of space. I'm not saying the woman got what she deserved. I am saying that the character fulfilled the public's expectation and gave yet another excuse for the delay of taking responsibility for cleaning up some serious issues; the point of my post being to examine my own reaction, which surprised me, and to rail for a moment against my own tendency to allow myself to be distracted by such things. I was surprised that I responded like a Roman watching the death of a gladiator, not being able to relate to the person behind the shield. And I was honest and horrified that I really wanted to cheer.
But honestly, I think that on some level I'm supposed to want to cheer -- that the media character was created as a modern morality play with this inevitable end, all along intended to make me want to say "good riddance" at the final curtain -- and I'm appalled that part of me actually has bought into that. And, finally, if Vickie Lynn's death does not receive the respect it deserves because the circus of ANS's end overshadows it, Vickie Lynn shares some of that responsibility.
While you seem to draw some sort of parallel between your life and hers, that similarity honestly didn't occur to me when I posted the link to my blog. However as I think about it, I realize why those aspects of her life might resonate with you. But because I've seen you perform a variety of roles and read your blog regularly, much like your very young friend watching you play a wicked queen on stage, I feel like you're something of a real person in my world. If you have a media character you play on your blog and in your cabaret act, it is far more real to me than ANS was, and I buy it more completely.
To be clear: I wouldn't try to insult you by inferring that because you might have shared a similar beginning I think you deserve her fate, or --God forbid-- are a waste of space. I don't, mainly because if there is a similarity between the two of you it ends at the point where you identified behaviors you felt were destructive, took responsibility for them, and changed them. We have no way of knowing if the woman, Vickie Lynn Hogan, ever felt the same way and was in the process of making those changes, but we do know that the character ANS did not.
And as for my reason for posting it on your blog, it's quite simple: I enjoy reading it and I simply wanted to share mine with you. I think you have an amazing self-awareness that is incredibly rare in the real world, let alone the world of entertainment, and I greatly, greatly admire that. That admiration is only compounded by your willingness to publicly be self examined without being self absorbed, and you're often funny while doing it. Such dichotomies are rare. (Another distinction, by the way between you and Anna Nicole Smith.)
If I did give offense, I am deeply sorry. That was not my intention.
Alex's comment was actually a response to my comment that I posted on her blog, linking my eulogy to hers. We had very different views. However when I posted it, I assumed it would be taken in the spirit in which it was intended: you've shown me yours, I'll show you mine. Since she responded to my comment on her blog as well, I'll link to it here. If you're a blog fan, you should check Alex's out. It's one of the best.
Apparently I still have a lot to learn about writing. I tried to post my clarification to Alex's website, but as should have been expected it was too long. I post my response here:
***
Yipes. I did not mean to give offense in anyway. I'm actually a fan of yours: seen your work on stage and television and have heard you sing many times and always enjoyed it immensely. More than once I've watched you and wished I could do a tenth of what you have done. Even though I don't know you personally, I know enough about you to feel like you are a whole, real person who functions in world similar to mine.
I guess the point I was trying to make with my blog post is that I can't mourn the loss of a celebrity image -- a tabloid character -- and to me that's what ANS was/is. Much like I didn't mourn the loss of Kevin Dillon's character in Poseidon. The ending was expected, the timing was not.
I didn't know the woman, Vickie Lynn Hogan, so I have no idea whether she personally was a waste of space or not. However, in my opinion, her public persona was a toxic diversion from very real issues: like cotton candy before dinner, entertaining but of no nutritional value and too much makes you queasy. My intended point, which obviously failed miserably, was that her public persona -- the tabloid character, ANS, -- overpowered her humanity. I should feel some respect for the loss of the woman, but because of the public character I don't, and frankly I don't think many people actually do, all public hand wringing notwithstanding. It's not that I couldn't respect Vickie Lynn's background or her history or anything I've read in a tabloid about her. I watched her reality show and enjoyed it; always aware that I was supposed to look at the character of ANS and chuckle at what a train wreck she was, to think, "There but for the grace of God..." I've never for a second thought that what I was seeing on a television screen was supposed to be real.
The only thing that I would I hold Vickie Lynn accountable for is the waste of a life, and arguably three lives. She was very young when she died, witnessed her son's drug-induced death, and left a baby in a horrible circumstance. If that isn't waste, I don't know what is. If the woman was crushed by the character of ANS and its relationship with the American public, at the very least Vickie Lynn was not an innocent victim of the relationship. Based on what I've read from you, I think you would agree with at least that point. And if our fascination with the demise of a media character allows us to be distracted from the disintegration of American society as happened on the day of her death, (how much news coverage was given to the Scooter Libby trial that day?) then yes, Anna Nicole Smith was a toxic waste of space. I'm not saying the woman got what she deserved. I am saying that the character fulfilled the public's expectation and gave yet another excuse for the delay of taking responsibility for cleaning up some serious issues; the point of my post being to examine my own reaction, which surprised me, and to rail for a moment against my own tendency to allow myself to be distracted by such things. I was surprised that I responded like a Roman watching the death of a gladiator, not being able to relate to the person behind the shield. And I was honest and horrified that I really wanted to cheer.
But honestly, I think that on some level I'm supposed to want to cheer -- that the media character was created as a modern morality play with this inevitable end, all along intended to make me want to say "good riddance" at the final curtain -- and I'm appalled that part of me actually has bought into that. And, finally, if Vickie Lynn's death does not receive the respect it deserves because the circus of ANS's end overshadows it, Vickie Lynn shares some of that responsibility.
While you seem to draw some sort of parallel between your life and hers, that similarity honestly didn't occur to me when I posted the link to my blog. However as I think about it, I realize why those aspects of her life might resonate with you. But because I've seen you perform a variety of roles and read your blog regularly, much like your very young friend watching you play a wicked queen on stage, I feel like you're something of a real person in my world. If you have a media character you play on your blog and in your cabaret act, it is far more real to me than ANS was, and I buy it more completely.
To be clear: I wouldn't try to insult you by inferring that because you might have shared a similar beginning I think you deserve her fate, or --God forbid-- are a waste of space. I don't, mainly because if there is a similarity between the two of you it ends at the point where you identified behaviors you felt were destructive, took responsibility for them, and changed them. We have no way of knowing if the woman, Vickie Lynn Hogan, ever felt the same way and was in the process of making those changes, but we do know that the character ANS did not.
And as for my reason for posting it on your blog, it's quite simple: I enjoy reading it and I simply wanted to share mine with you. I think you have an amazing self-awareness that is incredibly rare in the real world, let alone the world of entertainment, and I greatly, greatly admire that. That admiration is only compounded by your willingness to publicly be self examined without being self absorbed, and you're often funny while doing it. Such dichotomies are rare. (Another distinction, by the way between you and Anna Nicole Smith.)
If I did give offense, I am deeply sorry. That was not my intention.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Anna Nicole Gives Good Head
I don't know the details, but do they really matter? Anna Nicole Smith, icon of self indulgence, made good on her promise. Whether this episode was accidental or not, the fact is she's been teasing us like a preacher's daughter on prom night, and finally she delivered.
I have to say that when I heard the news today I was titillated. I kept waiting for the moment when my humanity would kick in and I'd feel something other than almost glee. There is something so ultimately trashy, so Americanly sublime about this story. Isn't this how the date with Anna Nicole is supposed to end?
I didn't know Anna Nicole Smith. I'd seen her on television, and I'm sure like many I thought she was something of a social freak; a ripe, sexualized clown. And today when I heard that she'd died I tried to feel something. I tried to find a shred of respect for her and I couldn't. Like everyone else who follows pop culture, I was the horny football captain, and like any adolescent sports hero who receives a hand job after the big game, I feel like I only technically got what I wanted. I'm relieved, but not satisfied.
When I was told about her death, I laughed because there was no other response possible. Anna Nicole, Paris Hilton, Donald Trump...sadly the list seems to stretch into the abyss...all are social prick teases. They are media beauty queens with too much make-up and striped hair who shake their titties at us making us drool and forget our plain-Jane girlfriends like health care, education, and they war. They're fun little sluts, but they're only interested in picking up the bills from the dresser after the wad has been shot.
We can't even claim that Anna Nicole or any of these other media tarts have taken advantage of us. We crawled into the back seat and begged them to go back there with us. We told ourselves that no one would know. And now after the sordid little grope and slurp session, there is nothing left but a vague, hollow feeling, a bastard child, and a slight burning sensation.
RIP ANS
I have to say that when I heard the news today I was titillated. I kept waiting for the moment when my humanity would kick in and I'd feel something other than almost glee. There is something so ultimately trashy, so Americanly sublime about this story. Isn't this how the date with Anna Nicole is supposed to end?
I didn't know Anna Nicole Smith. I'd seen her on television, and I'm sure like many I thought she was something of a social freak; a ripe, sexualized clown. And today when I heard that she'd died I tried to feel something. I tried to find a shred of respect for her and I couldn't. Like everyone else who follows pop culture, I was the horny football captain, and like any adolescent sports hero who receives a hand job after the big game, I feel like I only technically got what I wanted. I'm relieved, but not satisfied.
When I was told about her death, I laughed because there was no other response possible. Anna Nicole, Paris Hilton, Donald Trump...sadly the list seems to stretch into the abyss...all are social prick teases. They are media beauty queens with too much make-up and striped hair who shake their titties at us making us drool and forget our plain-Jane girlfriends like health care, education, and they war. They're fun little sluts, but they're only interested in picking up the bills from the dresser after the wad has been shot.
We can't even claim that Anna Nicole or any of these other media tarts have taken advantage of us. We crawled into the back seat and begged them to go back there with us. We told ourselves that no one would know. And now after the sordid little grope and slurp session, there is nothing left but a vague, hollow feeling, a bastard child, and a slight burning sensation.
RIP ANS
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Too Little Too Late
Andymatic is one of the blogs I check out from time to time. Tonight, he had posted this Molly Ivins pieces that seems to resonate nicely with my preceding post.
Molly Ivins is a particular favorite of my mother's. I can't say that I ever followed her that much, preferring James Wolcott. Yet, I have to say that I think my mother is right. Ivins is so much more accessible and entertaining.
I feel like a boob because I only learned to appreciate her after she is gone.
Molly Ivins is a particular favorite of my mother's. I can't say that I ever followed her that much, preferring James Wolcott. Yet, I have to say that I think my mother is right. Ivins is so much more accessible and entertaining.
I feel like a boob because I only learned to appreciate her after she is gone.
Power of Definition
I've come to the conclusion that every expression is really an expression of oneself.
In the office we have a new girl. She's not really new, and she's hardly a girl, but she was hired to develop a new line of revenue as a corporate concierge. To do this, she first has to get close to the clients. However the clients are rabidly protected by their handlers, who view the new girl as a threat. She's not. She just needs the handlers to help launch her business. Still the handlers go out of their way to make her job difficult and to make her look bad. It's all very passive agressive.
So in an effort to keep my brain from freezing while on the train to work today, I thought about what these handlers were doing and realized that their actions said more about them than it ever could about the new girl. Even assuming the new girl was an incompetent boob, which she's not, the fact that they do nothing to help her, the fact that they exclude her socially, and the fact that they've gone running to the CEO to complain about her, says absolutely nothing about the new girl. But it speaks loudly and clearly about the character of these handlers. Think Wicked Stepsisters and you have a pretty accurate picture. So sad.
With this new-found realization, paradigm if you will, I took a look at my own actions and I have to say that I did not like what I saw. And beginning immediately I am going to evaluate my decisions, actions and speech in this new light. "What does this say about me?" In the past I've viewed things in terms of how people reacted to me. Did they like me? Did they think I was smart? Now, I'm starting to think about what I'm trying to say and how I define myself. That's the key. Instead of giving everyone else the power to define me, I have to take back that power and define myself for them. Then, if they don't like it, too bad. I'm taking control of the message, and there is infinite power in that action.
And I'm no longer allowing people to review my actions and define them for me. Nor will I any longer accept other's definitions unquestioningly.
I have the power.
In the office we have a new girl. She's not really new, and she's hardly a girl, but she was hired to develop a new line of revenue as a corporate concierge. To do this, she first has to get close to the clients. However the clients are rabidly protected by their handlers, who view the new girl as a threat. She's not. She just needs the handlers to help launch her business. Still the handlers go out of their way to make her job difficult and to make her look bad. It's all very passive agressive.
So in an effort to keep my brain from freezing while on the train to work today, I thought about what these handlers were doing and realized that their actions said more about them than it ever could about the new girl. Even assuming the new girl was an incompetent boob, which she's not, the fact that they do nothing to help her, the fact that they exclude her socially, and the fact that they've gone running to the CEO to complain about her, says absolutely nothing about the new girl. But it speaks loudly and clearly about the character of these handlers. Think Wicked Stepsisters and you have a pretty accurate picture. So sad.
With this new-found realization, paradigm if you will, I took a look at my own actions and I have to say that I did not like what I saw. And beginning immediately I am going to evaluate my decisions, actions and speech in this new light. "What does this say about me?" In the past I've viewed things in terms of how people reacted to me. Did they like me? Did they think I was smart? Now, I'm starting to think about what I'm trying to say and how I define myself. That's the key. Instead of giving everyone else the power to define me, I have to take back that power and define myself for them. Then, if they don't like it, too bad. I'm taking control of the message, and there is infinite power in that action.
And I'm no longer allowing people to review my actions and define them for me. Nor will I any longer accept other's definitions unquestioningly.
I have the power.
Saturday, February 03, 2007
You know you're getting old when:
1) you see a cute guy running from bar to bar on Halsted, hands jammed into his jeans and shoulders bunched up, and instead of thinking how hot he is all you can think about is how cold it is outside, and what an idiot he is not to be encased a down coat and sixteen scarves.
2) you start interviewing people for professional jobs who could biologically be your children.
3) you go shopping for clothes and all you can think is that no one makes anything worth buying anymore.
4) you don't mind when the kid behind the counter calls you sir.
5) the guys you thought were trolls five years ago all of sudden seem interesting.
6) you look back at the '80's with bemusement instead of bewilderment.
7) you realize you wouldn't relive the last twenty years for anything.
8) you don't miss being twenty five.
9) you realize you could work yourself up into a big hissy fit, but then ask yourself if the expenditure of all that energy is really worth the trouble.
10) you look in the mirror, realize that you look your age, and you don't care.
2) you start interviewing people for professional jobs who could biologically be your children.
3) you go shopping for clothes and all you can think is that no one makes anything worth buying anymore.
4) you don't mind when the kid behind the counter calls you sir.
5) the guys you thought were trolls five years ago all of sudden seem interesting.
6) you look back at the '80's with bemusement instead of bewilderment.
7) you realize you wouldn't relive the last twenty years for anything.
8) you don't miss being twenty five.
9) you realize you could work yourself up into a big hissy fit, but then ask yourself if the expenditure of all that energy is really worth the trouble.
10) you look in the mirror, realize that you look your age, and you don't care.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
A Date?
I think I can count on one hand the number of times I've been asked out on a date. I'm big and intimidating and have spent decades perfecting my don't-even-THINK-of fucking-with-me aura. Initially it was my protective armor from being hurt. Now it's my protective armor from being bored. I can no longer find the entertainment value in a bad date. So imagine my surprise when I was asked for one.
It happened last night during our break in class. As I progress in the program, my colleagues just seem to get younger and more annoying. The past year I've withdrawn from even trying to attempt social cordiality. What is the point? I do not follow the youth culture, let alone the pseudo-culture of the faux world-weary graduate student. I do not know, nor do want to know any local bands. I have no interest in emerging writers other than myself. For Christ's sake, I bathe. I have nothing in common with any of these children. I try to exude the attitude of "get me out of here with my dignity in tact," and generally hope not to be bothered by post-adolescent innanities.
I was standing at the soda machine, cursing the company responsible for stocking it because it seems to be eternally out of Diet Pepsi, (which by the way is a pale substitute for my beloved Diet Coke) when all of sudden, from behind me I hear, "Do you have plans after class?"
It was Amanda. I KNOW! A twenty-two-year-old WOMAN. We'd been in a class together a year and a half ago and I vaguely remember complimenting her poetry. At the time she was pretty over weight and hid behind striped hair. The hair was unchanged, but she clearly had dropped about forty pounds and was feeling very good about herself. Dare I say, frisky. And (I struggle to type this through waves of nausea) it appears I was the desired plaything.
I smiled and did not comment on her weight loss. (I always find commenting on someone's weight, gain or loss, to be rather inappropriate.) I did however tell her she looked incredible and we chatted for a second. Then she asked if I wanted to join her for a cup of coffee after class.
The issues and questions were at war in my brain as I tried to compute what was going on. How could she not know that I am gay? How could she possibly be interested in me? How had I sent signals to her? Could I keep my dinner down?
Then I took a deep breath and realized that this had nothing to do with me and everything to do with her. It was clear that she had done a lot of work on her self esteem and that she was taking an enormous risk. How could I possibly damage that?
So indigestion be damned, I accepted.
What else could I do? She then suggested a bar across the street and told me she'd wait for me there. After class I found her in a typical college bar: bad lighting and ventilation, pool tables and basketballs game on televisions suspended from the ceiling. We chatted about the events of our lives in the past year and discussed classes. After about twenty minutes we were joined by three jovial fellow students, after which I gulped my club soda and made my excuses to leave.
That's when Amanda threw a big hug around me and asked for my e-mail address. I smiled and gave it to her. What else could I do?
Flattered, I am. And I'm praying I don't get an e-mail.
It happened last night during our break in class. As I progress in the program, my colleagues just seem to get younger and more annoying. The past year I've withdrawn from even trying to attempt social cordiality. What is the point? I do not follow the youth culture, let alone the pseudo-culture of the faux world-weary graduate student. I do not know, nor do want to know any local bands. I have no interest in emerging writers other than myself. For Christ's sake, I bathe. I have nothing in common with any of these children. I try to exude the attitude of "get me out of here with my dignity in tact," and generally hope not to be bothered by post-adolescent innanities.
I was standing at the soda machine, cursing the company responsible for stocking it because it seems to be eternally out of Diet Pepsi, (which by the way is a pale substitute for my beloved Diet Coke) when all of sudden, from behind me I hear, "Do you have plans after class?"
It was Amanda. I KNOW! A twenty-two-year-old WOMAN. We'd been in a class together a year and a half ago and I vaguely remember complimenting her poetry. At the time she was pretty over weight and hid behind striped hair. The hair was unchanged, but she clearly had dropped about forty pounds and was feeling very good about herself. Dare I say, frisky. And (I struggle to type this through waves of nausea) it appears I was the desired plaything.
I smiled and did not comment on her weight loss. (I always find commenting on someone's weight, gain or loss, to be rather inappropriate.) I did however tell her she looked incredible and we chatted for a second. Then she asked if I wanted to join her for a cup of coffee after class.
The issues and questions were at war in my brain as I tried to compute what was going on. How could she not know that I am gay? How could she possibly be interested in me? How had I sent signals to her? Could I keep my dinner down?
Then I took a deep breath and realized that this had nothing to do with me and everything to do with her. It was clear that she had done a lot of work on her self esteem and that she was taking an enormous risk. How could I possibly damage that?
So indigestion be damned, I accepted.
What else could I do? She then suggested a bar across the street and told me she'd wait for me there. After class I found her in a typical college bar: bad lighting and ventilation, pool tables and basketballs game on televisions suspended from the ceiling. We chatted about the events of our lives in the past year and discussed classes. After about twenty minutes we were joined by three jovial fellow students, after which I gulped my club soda and made my excuses to leave.
That's when Amanda threw a big hug around me and asked for my e-mail address. I smiled and gave it to her. What else could I do?
Flattered, I am. And I'm praying I don't get an e-mail.
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