McCain - DOA

As I get older I'm less likely to dismiss a Republican candidate out of hand. That said, I've yet to find one that even comes close to being a serious consideration for my vote.

The closest I've come was John McCain in 2000. Then he put his tail between his legs and Bush's dick in his mouth and it was all over. (For the irony-impaired, I am not implying that McCain and Bush are lovers. What would the world be if Bush had ever had a blow job that was any good?)

Of late I've been bored by James Wolcott. His writing has become too baroque and self-congratulatory. Still, this post very succinctly details why McCain has lost my consideration.

On Bill Mahr last Friday, Dennis Kucinich demonstrated himself as being a strong consideration for my vote. He lacks that Henry V quality that I think will ultimately carry this election. Even Clinton comes across as someone more capable of taking the battlefield, and that's what we need in terms of the Middle East: Strength After Political/Diplomatic Options Have Failed. That said, whoever wins should seriously consider Kucinich for secretary of state.

Now, if we could only get Al Sharpton back in the race. And Gore? What would this world be with a Gore/Sharpton ticket?

Bill Moyers -- Buying the War

If you missed Bill Moyers's Buying the War on PBS this week you can buy a copy of it on the PBS website. It should be required in all high school government classes. It's chilling to see how an institution like the American media could be so easily distracted and cowed.

At the very least, check out Moyers's blog entry on the airing of the special segment.

Bitter Gloating

Writing sucks.

I have great ideas, themes, structures, nuance. All of that lives vibrantly in my brain. And then it all evaporates when I get near a computer. It evaporates painfully slowly if I try to write long hand. I scrawl as quickly as I can, trying to capture what's in my head, but my mind goes almost completely blank before I can finish.

It's a gorgeous Saturday, and I've sworn that the entire day will be devoted to writing. I have a piece due for class this week and the beginnings of a poem that I can work on, as well as four or five pieces from class that I need to critique.

In the past, when I've made these vows, I allow myself to be distracted by the television, laundry, the Internet, etc. However, to help with that distraction problem, and as a graduation gift to myself I bought a laptop. I'm typing this now at the little coffee shop near my house. The problem is that it has free Internet connections so while fewer, the distractions still exist. Drat!

But, I have got a good start on my piece for class and I'm allowing myself to post to my blog as sort of a reward. I can see outside, and I tried sitting out there but the glare makes the screen impossible to see.

As I approach graduation I begin to have doubts that I have anything to write about that anyone would want to read. I've only had a total of six pieces submitted and rejected in the past five years -- hardly a definitive indication that I have no talent or voice. I'm sort of taking it on faith that the fact I'm going to graduate with honors says something about my abilities, but I'm not exactly sure what.

When I first started acting, the second show I did was an original musical. When I landed that show my father had died only a year before, I'd spent a terrifying eight weeks unemployed during which time I also had to find a new apartment, and I was coming to terms with my sexuality. The last thing I needed to be doing was an original musical where tensions are already high. I won't go into the gory details here because I don't really know how to tell the story without looking like a complete ass. At one performance I had a bit of meltdown and I ended up being fired from the show. It was completely deserved.

In the show was an actress who I really liked. She was good and funny and she seemed to like me. Ultimately she was the one who had me fired. Several years later I was hired as a replacement for a long-running show and I had to work opposite her, complete with a love scene. I was mortified. It was a large cast and I found a corner behind the costume rack where I took up residence. I spoke to almost no one backstage and never to her. My reputation as a flake was sealed.

The actress went on to relative success in Chicago theatre. For a few years after that last show with her our paths would cross. Sometimes she'd acknowledge me, sometimes she wouldn't. As her reputation grew, so did her list of professional connections. Whether it was in my head or not, I was always convinced that if she found out I was working somewhere she felt it was her duty to let the director know how difficult I was. That label of being a difficult actor is a terminal affliction. In spite of the fact that I was regularly cast and had a pretty impressive resume, I felt like I had a scarlet D emblazoned on my chest. I'd try to cover it, but no matter what I did I knew it was just a matter of time before I'd be discovered.

Then one day I decided that whether or not I was difficult, that fact was that that's who I was/am. I might as well embrace that fact. I'm smart. I have opinions and ideas and fortunately as I get older I'm learning if and when I should express them. That, I'm afraid is something I'm always going to struggle with.

Still, I regret the friendship that I might have destroyed with that meltdown. I read the actress's name in a review this week. She's performing on a very prestigious stage in a very well-received production. Most actors would sell their mother's for this opportunity. I've not seen the show and I'm not likely to. But I'm sure she's brilliant, and I really wish if I did see it I could walk up to and say that I'm really sorry. At this point she may not even recognize me and I'm sure that if we did speak she'd be "professional/gracious." I guess that is what is meant by regret. I'd just want to tell her that I'm sorry we couldn't have been friends.

And that I got to that stage fifteen years before she did.

Resisting Temptation

This week was Bring Your Kid to Work Day, the high holy day of human resources. I hate it. This year I hosted eight kids, but I had the brains to enlist the help of some of my administrative assistants who did most of the research and work. The event went off without a hitch, the kids were delirious with giddiness because they had some constructive fun projects, the parents were happy because the kids got very special attention and the rest of the employees enjoyed the novelty of kids running around the office drawing pictures and serving ice cream.

This morning I sent out a public thank you to the four people who helped with the event, along with pictures of the kids. It should have been all happy.

But in response to my e-mail I got an message from one of the employees whose office is near the kitchen, complaining that his entire day was a waste because of the noise the kids made. Understand that the kids were in the kitchen from 3:00 until a little after 4:00 having ice cream. The rest of the company was invited to join them and it was a nice little party -- a much needed boost to company morale.

But, you see, it was my event, and the complaining employee is the son of the Chairman of the Board. He suggested that the next time such an event was planned I be more considerate of him and the three other people whose offices are near the kitchen, and who might be there if they are not on the road.

This is the level of insanity that my work situation has devolved to. Without going into tedious detail, there are two of us who've been targeted by the Chairman because we are supporters of the CEO. The Chairman took his fight to the board of directors and ultimately lost. The CEO and his two main supporters are still standing. There have been other incidents, more severe than this and ultimately this week had to tell them to back off or I was contacting a lawyer. I can't go into detail here, but suffice it to say that making a case for sexual harassment would not be too difficult. Most of them backed off when I made that threat.

I took the high road in responding the complaint, apologizing for disrupting his day and swearing on a stack of bibles to consult his schedule if ever I have the urge to do something that would boost company morale. But, it has taken every bit of strength I have not to forward the e-mail to the entire company. Ooooh, but I want to soooo bad.

God Bless Roger Ebert

For the most part I always agree with his reviews, but even the ones I don't I have concede are well reasoned.

We're pulling for you Roger!

Aging Gracefully

Busy, busy weekend. The chorus had its concert this weekend, to wild audience acclaim. From my side of the footlights, while the chorus and the concerts seem to feed me in an inexplicable way, the concerts really were non-events.

And work is just too heinous to write about. I'm beginning to fear that I might for the first time be experiencing the bubbling of genuine hate and it's not pretty.

But the REAL event of the weekend was my eye examination. I haven't gotten new glasses in four or five years, and my most recent pair disappeared on the CTA about three years ago, and the most recent pair after that were about seven years old, so I've been limping through with glasses that were nearly ten years old.

I don't wear glasses very often; only when I'm working long stretches on the computer or reading Russian literature. To the tell the truth, it was vanity that sent me for a new pair more than anything else. The pair I was wearing were so outdated they are starting to come back into style.

The examination was uneventful, except that whatever it is they try to pierce your eyeballs with couldn't get anywhere near my eye. The doctor looked at my paperwork and then marvelled that at my age; I could get away with a single-vision prescription. However, he warned me that I would likely wake up one morning and not be able to see clearly. He said it will seem to happen over night, but based on his examination he didn't expect that to happen any time soon.

I was congratulating myself on the obvious evidence of my immortality as I was completing the order for my new glasses when the owner of the shop happened to look at my prescription. He snatched up the paperwork and marched back to my doctor, demanding to know why he hadn't written a prescription for bifocals. My doctor explained that I didn't need them. Mind you, it's a small shop and I'm overhearing every word. Then the mortal blow came.

"But he's too OLD for single-vision glasses."

While my Little-Mary-Sunshine mind tried to turn that statement into a positive -- my preserved youth even baffles health-care professionals is how I was composing it -- the real issue came out.

"You could have charged him another hundred dollars for bifocals."

At this point I decided that the glass was not only half empty, but I was getting ready to fling the remaining contents into someone's face. But ever the discrete individual, I simply asked the shop girl processing my order to slip into the back room and explain that I could hear every word and if they wanted to keep the sale they'd keep their mouths shut.

After I left the shop, glasses in hand I did some shopping. Then the final two concerts, which required me to do some intricate make-up work. I pulled out my new glasses and for the first time in I don't know how long I could see clearly. I literally gasped.

"I can see clearly now..."

Heartbreak

Tonight, as way of greeting, RP called me "Sphincter."

All hope is lost.

Updates

1) The CEO did not get fired or resign today, so I still have a job for a little while longer. However, I'd say that those members of the management team who did not stand by him during this ordeal should be a little concerned.

2) None of my four submissions for the student magazine was accepted. I'm a little disappointed, but the truth is I haven't really paid any dues yet. But we're still in the first half of the year and there's plenty of time to get published yet.

I Shudder to Think...

This could have been me.

At this stage in my life I don't often think about my teenage years. I operate with the assumption that pretty much everyone between the ages of 13 and 23 is experiencing some sort of adolescent angst. Mine extend well into my 30's, and I think in part at least it was because of my inability to deal with bullies in school.

I always knew I liked boys, but it wasn't until I was in high school that I was able to put a name to it. And once I did, I didn't really feel ashamed. I always sort of thought of it as adolescent embarrassment. But I did know that my attraction wasn't typical and that it was really going to have to be something I dealt with once I'd move out of my home town.

Still, I had moments of brutal harassment. I was beaten once or twice by a gang of boys. Once an announcement was made over the loud speaker from the principal that the harassment of a student would not be tolerated. Only later was I told that the announcement had been made because there had been an obscene poster put on my locker before school. As luck would have it, I was late that day and never saw the poster.

But I the beatings and harassment I endured was nothing like this. It seems to me that tying up a kid and repeatedly beating him over several hours could be interpreted as attempted murder. A four-year sentence isn't enough. But what's worse is the continued harassment this poor boy suffered after the beatings.

It will be amazing if this boy isn't dead within a year.

Spending Money I Shouldn't

Even though I face uncertain employment, I go out today to buy my first laptop. Later in the week I order my new kitchen floor and last week I paid for my first vacation in seven years.

I'm either incredibly confident or incredibly stupid.

Great Minds...

I honestly had not read the Harvey Fierstein piece in the New York Times before I wrote my post, but it too was mentioned by Bill Mahr last night. I'm a fan of Mr. Fierstein's, but there are times when I think he's just a little too sensitive on the issue of gay rights. Still, no one could improve upon his final paragraphs.

Deja Vu

Read the posts of April 8, and then April 13.

I had a very brief discussion with the CEO about how to open the cafe if I decided to do it.

Potty Mouth Protection?

I watch Real Time with Bill Mahr on HBO every week. I don't always agree with Mahr, but I applaud his willingness to take a stand. However I have to say that this week he really missed the boat.

To summarize and perhaps overgeneralize, Mahr basically asked what's the big deal with Don Imus? So he made a disgusting, racially degrading remark. It's not like those women would have heard it had the remark not been blown out of proportion by the media, and thus obscuring the real story in the news: the bombing of the embassy in the green zone. While I've written about the gossipy nature of the media in the past, I have to say that Mahr misses the point. The fact is that the bombing in Iraq and the Imus comment are branches of the same story, and that is the increased tolerance of intolerance in this country.

The reasons for being in the war in Iraq can be debated, as I suppose can the ethics of the war. What cannot be debated is that the war in Iraq is a war against "the other." The same is true for the other side. The difference however, is that America is supposed to be the great melting pot, founded on the single principle that all humans are created equal. For a nation whose fundamental principle is tolerance and understanding to fight an ideological war of aggression is an oxymoron; even a war where the opponent hates us. Because the other fact of the Iraq war is that if we are fighting the terrorists who attacked us on 9/11, we've overshot our target. The terrorists came from a country a little south and west of Iraq. But, we attacked a country that had a recognizable bogey man, and as a country we bought the message that Saddam Hussein was a threat, not on current evidence but on memories that were fifteen years old. The current war is based on that fear and disgust of a tyrant who, while unspeakably horrible to his own people a) had been pretty much neutered by the United Nations, and b) had nothing to do with 9/11. But he was Muslim and led a Muslim nation, and because the terrorists were Muslim, Iraq must be guilty by association. That may be an over-simplified analysis, but it's mine and I'm sticking by it.

The Imus comment, which was preceded by Hardaway, Richards, Gibson, and many others, reflects the boldness of the current climate of intolerance, and just how casually that intolerance has been accepted in this nation. Imus is the first to suffer any tangible consequences for spewing his hate over the airwaves, and he should. Mahr, understandably, views this as a free speech issue, and to an extent he may have a point. But the free-speech argument does not take context into consideration. There was no point to the Imus comment beyond degrading and humiliating women who should have been recognized for their accomplishments. It was a throw away statement, made in an unguarded moment and one that I believe reflects his view of African American women.

Does he have the right to air those views? Absolutely. But so does the American public have the right to respond. The political right has used threatened boycotts as a weapon for decades and it's a little disingenuous to object at this stage when one is threatened against a bigot, simply because he's an outspoken proponent of the right-wing agenda. To summarize the Reverend Al Sharpton on Real Time, Imus spoke. America responded. Imus lost his job. That's how America works.

But the larger issue here is the tolerance of intolerance, and I believe that when America demanded consequences for Don Imus's diarrheic mouth, we began to speak up against such tolerance. The message really was, "ENOUGH!" I'm hoping this is just a clearing of the throat before the aria of outrage begins and not the entire opera, but at least in one instance in these dark, dark days of American history, an echo of the America that is yet to be was heard.

K-K-K-K-K-Katie

I haven't written a lot about my experience of 9/11, in part because it's really part of a much more formal essay, one I intend to write and sell. But there was an element of that day that I would like to share.

I was home from work on 9/11 and in the aftermath I spent all of my time glued to the television. I had several hundred channels and I flipped among them searching for new details. However whenever I found it all a little overwhelming, I flipped back to NBC for Katie Couric. Her reporting was dispassionate, yet soothing. Perhaps she filled some primal need for maternal comfort in me, but I found the men all slightly hysterical. From that moment on, Katie Couric became the person I wanted to turn to in times of national crisis.

Of course times change, and thankfully I'm growing which, means my needs change. I no longer rely on broadcast news for my information -- depending now on the ever-more reliable Internet, so I've lost touch with Katie Couric. I did not follow her to the CBS Evening News because I'm trying to live my life at that hour. But I've read about her difficulties in establishing her credibility as a major news anchor. In the news industry gaining the public's trust isn't easy, and it shouldn't be. Couric had spent fifteen years combatting the dismissive criticisms and labels of "America's Sweetheart" only to piss it all away with this incident.

Couric has shattered her credibility with a puff piece of journalism about her library card -- and at CBS of all places -- and in the role the journalistic icon Dan Rather vacated for similar reasons. The stupidity and waste is shocking.

Couric now has less credibility than Nancy Grace or Star Jones Reynolds, and probably fewer employment prospects. It will doubtless take a few months (I'm guessing no more than three,) but Couric will be dismissed, and she should be. At a time when this country needs to depend on its journalists; at a time when this country needs to hear a feminine perspective on the real issues of the day; at a time when there is a famine of integrity in the world -- all of which Couric embodied -- to plagiarize a personal essay is beyond stupid. It's criminally negligent.

Couric claims to have been unaware that the piece had been plagiarized, and that defense could offer her some cover if it had not been presented as a first-person memoir! Couric is a major journalist. She should be capable of writing her own memories, and she certainly should insist that anything that bears the stamp of her personal experience also bear the brand of authenticity.

Of course the disgrace of Katie Couric doesn't begin to compare to 9/11, but there is an element of disappointment and betrayal that makes me reflect on the comfort I received as Couric narrated the rescue efforts that day. I'm going to miss Katie Couric.

Food for Thought

I have spent far too much time on this blog documenting my anger. If you read this on a regular basis, no doubt you think there is no fun or joy in my life and that simply is not true.

So, the drama at work continues to get more intense, but I'm beginning to think that the CEO is not going to leave, and if that happens I'm basically employed for life. I only need the job for the next 18 months, but having such an impressive force behind me is a good thing. On more than one occasion over the past three days he's gone out of his way to tell me that if he leaves, he will make some calls on my behalf. Since it seems everyone in the city of Chicago owes him a favor, I'm pretty much in good shape.

That said, I'm not one to sit around. I've spoken with three headhunters, and all three seemed eager for my paperwork. And today I went and looked at a restaurant that's for sale.

Right now it's a small coffee/sandwich shop. There is such a romantic feel about it, and looking around I knew exactly what needed to be done to make it successful. Right now, it's essentially a bare room with a few tables, but I could envision it full of bustle, servers pouring coffee and making babies giggle, cooks slinging eggs up on the shelf and fighting in Spanish. The owner had the radio on, but I would put in a sound system and play quirky jazz tunes. I could make it very successful.

There's a romance to the idea of that life. I loved running that little cafe a year and a half ago. I really did. I made up the menu and cleaned the toilets and fought with the cooks, but it was an easy, simple life. And in the summer months, with the front open and the customers sitting on the sidewalk chatting and enjoying themselves while I flipped through the New York Times...there was nothing better.

The problem is that very successful in cafe terms doesn't really translate into any real money. At the end of the day, I'd probably be living off tips with the rest of the revenue going to salaries and operating costs. The sad fact is that an independent business man cannot make a serious living running his own cafe. It's too cost prohibitive.

But that's not going to prevent me from doing some calculations to determine exactly how unprofitable it would be. Like buying a lottery ticket, I can dream of what might have been.

Update

Well, it's practically official. I will be looking for a new job in the very near future. I simply don't have the energy to go into all the details, but it's pretty certain that the CEO is going to resign either at the end of the week or on Monday. He's told me that he will help me get a new job and there are several very interesting options on the horizon. There's no way of knowing if any of them will pan out, so tomorrow I'm schlepping over to the temp agency and registering and getting my software testing out of the way.

There is also a very interesting opportunity that I had never considered before, but I'm not going to jinx it by writing about it here. I'll know more by the end of the week.

The new class is also sort of fortuitous. The title is "Writing the Literature of Fact." While it may not be apparent by the posts here, my experience in this marketing company is a book just waiting to be written. The characters are wonderful and beautifully flawed and if I have enough talent my experience here could make an amazing story. I just hope it doesn't turn out like Truman in Kansas and take six years for the execution.

More later...

Angry and Incoherent

I have never told a lie about anything that really mattered. The lie I told last week to get out of work hounded me with guilt, and then on Monday when I had to carry thru with it in person I pulled it off, but I hated it. That was the first serious lie I told in nearly twenty years, and because I felt so horrible I will probably never tell another.

But today someone lied to me and I lost all, every bit of, respect for the person.

Things at work are getting more dramatic and it's looking pretty good that the CEO will lose his job. Either he'll be fired or he'll get so fed up with the politics that he'll resign. In my opinion, while he's difficult to deal with, this would be a mistake for the company. I spent most of my day with the CEO discussing this and he told me that my boss, the COO, is the one behind the hatchet job. I didn't want to believe it and argued with the CEO. Then I went to the COO and asked him. He denied knowing anything about it and for the thousandth time professed his undying support. Yet, when the board of directors was having their secret meeting to vote on the CEO, my boss somehow couldn't be found in the office. It seems pretty clear that CEO is right. Frankly I've had many conversations with many different people about their doubts regarding the CEO. It's been exhausting, but I have been unfailingly supportive of him.

But, I can't just let things lie. We have one very, very, very BIG client and the director of that account has a lot of clout within the politics of the office. He controls the account and the company cannot survive without it. I went to him and asked him if he knew what was going on. He said he'd heard something about it. When I explained how serious the situation was he offered to call in to the board of directors and express his opinion. I told him that I couldn't ask him to do it, but that if he felt strongly enough... When I left he was headed for his phone.

2 Dreams

Dream One: I was having martinis with Zsa Zsa Gabor on a sunny veranda. Zsa Zsa was wearing a fox turban and was absolutely delightful. I had a new tabby kitten, but the tabby had some Persian mixed in because there was some gray in her long fur. Zsa (that's what I call her) admired the kitten, so I gave it to her.

Dream Two: I was living back in the house where I grew up, and the house was virtually unchanged. (I frequently have dreams set here, even though I haven't seen the house in five years and when I did see it, it looked nothing like it did when we lived there.) My adult sister and her youngest son were living there with me, or they'd come for a visit. I was looking at a large stack of snap shots, I believe taken recently, when a major blizzard had hit, leaving several feet of snow. There were four pictures that I remember. In the first I am wearing a Santa outfit and trying to climb over a tall snowbank. The picture is a candid shot and taken from behind, but I'm sure it's me. In the second, a fair close-up, my sister and her son are looking at the camera and from the end of a short tunnel in the snow. It's a very small tunnel, more for passing things through instead of climbing through. Their heads are close together and they're smiling for the camera. In the third shot, my sister and her son are building a snow man. In the final shot, I am posed at the end of the snow tunnel and in my nephew's place from the previous shot, is the head of the snow man. This picture in particular caught my attention because I thought it was an especially good picture of me, which is rare since I've never seen a picture of myself that I could look at for more than a second.

Dream

I don't usually remember my dreams when I wake up, or if I do it's not for very long. People from my real life are almost never in my dreams.

After I finished my last post I laid back down to get some more sleep. I dreamed I was back running my little cafe, which by the way was well on its way to becoming very successful both in the dream and in reality, when my current CEO showed up to tell me how to run it.

I woke up.

Scalliwags as Role Models

A couple of summers ago I had to choose a class from a very limited selection, just so I could get the student aid money and live through the summer. The choice was between studying the writings of Thomas Jefferson or "teaching women writers."

The Jefferson class was full.

The college where I'm getting my degree does a terrible job of providing course descriptions, but given the fact that I didn't really care -- I had to take the class -- I simply signed up. I assumed that the class was geared toward helping women develop their voices within a sexist, patriarchal society. That was a wrong assumption. The class was focused on incorporating women writers into the canon of American curriculum. That means I read a lot of overlooked masterpieces of literature written by women.

I understood before the class, and have an even better understanding now, that the feminine voice is under expressed in the Western, not to mention Eastern, canon and that a proactive approach needs be taken to correct that. I, however, have a bit of a problem with identifying a single under-represented demographic and not taking steps to give voice to other under-represented demographics. Where was the African American contribution being studied in our program? The Asian American? The LGBT voice? And while there is no argument that the masculine, Caucasian voice has presumptively assumed the normative position, now that the normative is recognized as arbitrary shouldn't there be a re-examination of the formerly presumed masters within that context? First, what were the aspects of these writers that made them the presumptive norm; second, within this more expansive context how do these writers now contribute to the Western discourse?

Can you tell I'm a grad student?

To say that the class pissed me off would be fair. The politics of the professor were blatant. The ancillary reading assignments were feminist and post-feminist theory. I took great glee to point out that one of the pieces sited as cutting edge post-feminist theory was written by two women who went on to become astrologers for Teen People. The professor hated me, or at least I hope she did.

She assigned final projects, which were to present lesson plans based upon one writer studied in class, combined with one writer discovered on our own. I chose Rebecca West and Margaret Mitchell. There was an actual groan when I announced my authors.

Gone with the Wind is one of my favorite books. One summer when I was exceptionally poor I invested in a paperback copy and spent the hot summer evenings at the Checkers on Halsted and Addison, allowing myself a single extra-large Diet Coke, reading Wind and watching the merging of the suburban, jock culture spilling over from Wrigley Field with the drag queens going to Circuit. Yes, good times.

The novel, however, does have its detractors. There is no argument that it lacks literary style and there is a strong argument to be made that it is racist. But it cannot be denied that the book, not to mention the film version, have made an immeasurable contribution to American culture and that Scarlett is arguably the prototype for the modern woman. Whenever I'm asked for my favorite fictional character, I always list Scarlett O'Hara. I love that dame.

Still, the scene from both the book and movie that I remember most doesn't contain Scarlett. It happens at Twelve Oaks and all of the women are napping after the barbecue and before the ball, while the men smoke cigars and talk of war. All of the plantation aristocracy are a-swagger when Rhett Butler calmly and logically explains why the South can't win a civil war. The gentlemen in the room are offended and finding they cannot counter Rhett's logic, attack him personally. Rhett Butler simply bows and says, "I apologize for all my shortcomings," and then makes an elegant exit. In the past I always took that moment to be an Rhett's acceptance that he's flawed in the views of society he inhabits. I admired the ability to accept his flaws and remain composed instead of running and hiding behind the portiers. Today I see the scene for what it really is and admire it even more.

There is that cool second in which Rhett realizes he sees things more clearly, that he's in essence smarter than everyone else in the room, and the decision that he doesn't need to demonstrate that superiority further. Ashley recognizes it and follows Rhett, presumably to be a good host, but I have no doubt it's also to hear more of Rhett's views. In another time the two could have been great friends. All of this is unspoken in the text, but clear. Rhett who is the more complex character and his self-knowledge is enough for him. He's an Ayn Rand character displaced into a Dickensian, American-Gothic romance.

Now, this had no place in my lesson presentation. I drew parallels between West and Mitchell and introduced interpretive techniques that had not been discussed in class. We were to distribute copies of reading selections, and during my presentation the professor was frantically flipping through the sheets I'd distributed. After my presentation she admitted that she'd assumed that she knew the literature and had not read it. She also conceded that I made a strong argument for including the novel in a syllabus. I got an A in the class.

Now I draw new inspiration from Rhett Butler and adopt that scene as a role model for myself. While more often than not I am not the smartest, most insightful person in the room, I am most likely the most productively self-critical. This self criticism, I hope, heightens my self awareness, and with that self awareness I now need to move on to self acceptance.

I think I have a new favorite fictional character.

Epiphany

I can't vouch for the quality, because I've never published anything beyond this blog, but this morning I accepted the conclusion that I am a writer. Admittedly my entries here are not great literature, many of them dashed off with little more than a quick proof, but in the past few days I've really been focused on reworking an old short story and a brand new sonnet. Although neither is a great work, the process has been an immense relief from the stress of worrying about my job and the people I work with.

Then, as I read the second assigned Capote piece, "A Day's Work," I realized that all of this is a process, a journey, to get me to where I want to go. My day job, whatever else it might have been, has always been a distraction -- an excuse -- for not fulfilling my own perception of my potential -- an excuse for not really going for it. The dramas that seem to come with just about any day job are like a drug to me, and I'm addicted to focusing on them instead of what is really important. My day job pays my bills. That is all. The quality of my writing is the reflection of my personal quality.

Whatever that means.

Inspiration from a Weird Little White Dude

I remember Truman Capote from the Dinah Shore Show. Or was it Merv Griffin? I think everyone my age remembers those shows as after-school annoyances that took up valuable TV time that could have been better used by Gilligan's Island or Star Trek or Big Valley. Anyway, even at the tender age of five or six, I found Truman Capote irritating. On some level I knew he was gay -- even before I knew what gay really meant -- and because I was taunted and tormented on a daily basis for being a fairy, both at school and at home, all I knew was that I didn't want to become that.

That aversion has continued into adulthood. I saw Capote against my will. The thought of listening to that voice for nearly three hours was more than I could endure. Still, at the end of it I was at least impressed with Phillip Seymour Hoffman's skill, if nothing else. I've read Breakfast at Tiffany's and wasn't particularly entranced. So imagine the thrill of being assigned three of his pieces for class.

I've actually read "Music for Chameleons" before, and again I just have the sense that I'm missing something. Arguably it's well written, but when I finished the piece I felt as if I'd just wasted twenty minutes.

However, Capote's preface to this collection of essays may just have been exactly what I needed to read at exactly the moment I needed to read it.

In addition to Capote, we've been assigned other essays for class discussion. The one I'd finished prior to reading Capote was "Three Spheres" by Lauren Slater. In it she describes returning as a psychiatrist to a mental facility where she'd spent most of her youth as a patient. It's all about maintaining personal power and not succumbing to old fears. (See previous post.) When I finished that piece I smiled and nodded to myself.

Then I read Capote's preface. There is just no other way to say this: Capote was a weird little white dude. His power came from the fact that he knew and went on about his life, pretending at least not to care how the world perceived him. What else could he do?

However, one of the reasons I've been less than enthusiastic about Capote as a writer was I always thought he was sloppy. This is an unfair judgement since I haven't read In Cold Blood, but it has always seemed to me that a nonfiction novel was somehow cheating. As usually happens when I make a predjudiced stance such as that I will probably very reluctantly pick up the book and discover that my life is changed forever. But for now I'm still not a fan of Capote's writing.

What struck me about the preface was how Capote described his writing process. There is no questioning his intellect. I'm reserving judgement on his talent. But he described the dilligence with which he approached his art, and hints at his own feelings of inadequacy for living up to his standards of greatness.

And when I read that I was ashamed. I'm finishing a writing program, and I cannot get myself to do any actual writing. I have potential, but I'm afraid of trying to cultivate it. What if my fully realized potential still indicates a mediocre talent? If I do nothing, at least I don't have to face a reality of mediocrity.

And while my work situation confronts me with some old personal demons, that war really was won several years ago and I think I'm falling back on those insecurities in order to avoid facing new personal challenges, namely moving forward with my writing and into the next program. Those distractions are convenient, familiar patterns that do not need to be re-established.

If Truman Capote could come to grips with being a weired white dude and still produce respected work, there is absolutely no reason I can't.

Resolution: My day job is not my personal definition.

Personal Power

One of my failings is my willingness to give up my personal power. I've spent the entire day feeling guilty for calling in to work, and tomorrow I face another day of guilt. But, today was valuable for me. I realized that this job is an opportunity for me to learn how to navigate very difficult situations without losing my self: a very difficult challenge, indeed.

Now, just to make perfectly clear that this situation really is difficult, and not just made-up drama, you must realize that at least half of my time is spent listening to my fellow managers complain about the CEO, and he complain about them. These are never conversations that I never start -- I've been meticulous about that, and I spend 80 percent of my time trying to convince the other managers just how short-sighted they are. But what these conversations confirm is that I'm not the only one struggling with dealing with our CEO.

What tends to happen with me is that I give over all my power and then reach a point where I resent it and do something drastic to try and balance the power in the relationship. That is not a productive pattern. So, while I try to find another job I'm going to work on maintaining my personal power.

But, I think the decision is clear that I have to find another job. I'm going to go insane listening to these people bitch about one another.

Mental Health Day

I called into work today. Actually, I e-mailed in that an uncle died and that I had to go to Iowa and take my mother to the funeral. I know I'm tempting karma that way, but I only have two uncles left, I don't really know them, and they've both lived long lives so I figured I could chance it. It's just that the level of insanity at work has reached epic proportions and if I went in today I would either be the emotional football between two warring sides or I would definitely say something I would regret.

First, let me say that I am not one to play hooky. The last time I did it was in 1987 -- and oddly enough it was pretty much for the same reason. Then, as now, I have a boss who is insane. I do not mean wacky, kooky insane. I mean get-the-net-and-the-Thorazine insane. He has officially alienated all but one of his management team -- the one believed to be smoking crack in the file room -- and me. And yesterday he started to turn on me.

You see, the company lost $4.5 million dollars last year, and although we were projected to make a modest profit this year, we continue to lose money. The CEO's team keeps making suggestions for improvements and he keeps coming up with reasons for not implementing them and doing nothing. And I really do mean nothing. And with each failure in the office, no matter what it is or how tangential I am to it, I get sat down and told why it's all my fault:

1) The manager for a new division quit because she got no support from the rest of the company. Never mind the fact that I objected to hiring this manager. Never mind the fact that I was not the supervisor for this division. Never mind the fact that I am the only who realized she was having problems. And never mind the fact that I am the ONLY one who stepped up and helped her in any way. The reason she failed is because I couldn't make the rest of the company play nice with her.

2) For a year that had record losses, the CEO -- against all advise -- went to the board and won record bonuses for the employees. He gave large pots of money to the division leaders, knowing full well they would take most of the money for themselves and cry that it wasn't enough. Never mind the fact that I wasn't included in any of the discussions preparing this plan. Never mind the fact that I wasn't consulted on how to roll out the plan; in spite of the fact that I've won an award doing just that. Never mind the fact that the CEO approved all of the bonuses. Now that the employees are pissed, it's my fault for not making it clear to them that they really shouldn't have gotten any bonuses at all, but that for the majesty and grace of the CEO they would be penniless.

3) We have one high-potential, all-star employee who has mishandled a few minor political issues within the office. The CEO had me sit the young man down and tell him that the CEO was considering demoting him, just to convey the message that the CEO was in charge. Never mind the fact that I spent six hours -- literally -- preventing this kid from quitting. Never mind the fact that I tried to set up a meeting for the two of them to talk. Never mind that every initiative this kid starts is thwarted by the CEO. The fact that this kid has lost all motivation and is plotting against the CEO is my fault because I haven't done enough to communicate this kid's value to the company.

Yesterday we had a management team meeting. We'd been having them without the CEO to discuss the details of various projects. Attendance had been spotty and enthusiasm for them low, so the third time I was the only one to show up for the meeting I sent out an e-mail to the rest of the team saying I would no longer participate in them. That was in January and finally someone took it upon themselves to schedule another meeting and ask me nicely to attend. The CEO got wind of it, interrupted the meeting and pulled me out of it to ask a silly question. At the end of the meeting, where nothing of any interest was discussed, I invited the CEO to join us for lunch. He responded, "I don't trust you guys." Then he made increasingly threatening comments to me throughout the day, just loud enough for the other managers to hear, presumably to intimidate them. He has no idea just how deeply he bores them.

Because of the precarious financial situation my job is on the line. You don't need an HR director when you have forty people. Brighter days are still promised, but I no longer believe the promises. I met with a recruiter this week and I intend to send out more resumes. I only have one uncle left and I'm not sure how soon I can kill him off for mental health reasons.

Dancing with the *'s

I love Laila Ali.