Evil Exists

It is the supreme American ethic that one succeed at all costs. And as is usually the case with such grand missions, all hangs upon the definition of a single word. In this case, it all comes down to how you define success.

In some spheres, success is gauged in terms of dollars. In others it's measured in geographical units, and in still others its by the number of Christmas cards received. Success, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder.

I've always thought of success as a fluid concept. If life was an Excel spreadsheet and the summation button was hit at any given moment, a person could be evaluated as a success or a failure at that moment. But hit that button a fraction of a second later and the result could change. And success is certainly contextual. Working oneself up from a barren basement bedroom and a high-school diploma to a two-bedroom condo near the lakefront in Chicago is certainly a greater success than coming from an affluent Chicago suburb to fifteen years in a middle management position.

But ultimately the most important term in such a maxim as "Success at any Cost" is how the term cost is defined, and how you answer the question, cost to whom?

Yesterday I had an interview with a recruiter who is so clueless and seems to offer so little value to her customers that I'd be tempted to say that she is stealing from them. She collects resumes, conducts a five minute interview, and then decides whether to pass the resume on to her client, without comment. Basically, she says little more than, "I actually met this person. He has a pulse. But I have no idea if he has any talents or skills that would be useful to you."

Yet, sitting there without a job and facing the month of December when virtually no hiring is done, I felt infinitely more successful than the people who are still working at my old company. I won't go into the details, because they're too tedious to type, but essentially the level of duplicity and arrogance, and self delusion is breathtaking. While I worked there, I had two bosses, and about four weeks ago the second of those bosses was let go. But they did it such a passive-aggressive manner, telling him that they'd use him as a consultant and that he could continue to use his office while he looked for a job. Then when he went looking for pay check, they told him that he'd actually been fired three weeks earlier. Because I know the people involved, I can guess how this all played out, and how the powers that be 1) convinced themselves that their actions were in the best interests of the company, and 2) laughed themselves silly at the confusion, blaming my boss instead of their own inability to effectively communicate.

In my life, on more than one occasion, I've been told I'm an arrogant prick who thinks he's better than everyone else. Those comments have stung, so I am particularly sensitive to situations where I am aware that I'm being judgemental. Still, it's hard not to feel a twinge of moral superiority to people who blatantly lie and go out of their way to hurt other people. Then, when their deeds are done, convince themselves that it was the "right" course of action, that the ends justify the means. But then again, we seem to live in an era that could best be summed up as "The Ends Justify the Means."

Still, in my little unemployed world, willfully inflicting pain, consistently lying. continually assessing the material value of each and every relationship, both personal and professional, is just reflective of the most insidious form of evil imaginable.

Liars

As you may know, I've been hitting the job trail. When I first came to Chicago I needed to find a job -- any job -- and I think I went to every recruiting firm in the city. I had no skills, and they had no interest. I got it, and didn't really blame them. I wound up working in a restaurant, settled into a routine and before I knew it ten years had gone by. I realized that things like health insurance might be necessary, so I hit the job trail again. I still had no skills, other than being able to bring a plate of eggs to a table, but I sat myself down at a computer at the Harold Washington Library and taught myself Microsoft Word and WordPerfect. And I managed to build a typing speed of thirty-four words per minute with sixteen or seventeen errors.

This time, when I went in to recruiters, they had minimal interest, and again I understood. Eventually I landed a job, but I got it for three reasons: 1) she liked the way I handled myself on the phone, 2) she felt guilty because she'd gone to lunch and forgotten the interview, leaving me to wait for nearly two hours, and 3) the computer broke while I was taking the typing test. When I offered to retake it, I told her that I would probably score thirty-four words per minute,(leaving out the number of errors part). She looked at me for nearly a minute and said, "No, I heard you typing. That's good enough." And from that humble moment a human resources star was born.

And over the years, as a human resources manager, I was contacted, and contacted, and pestered, and harassed and stalked by recruiters wanting to place the perfect candidates with me. It was at this time that I realized that recruiters were by and large scam artists. I would place an ad, looking for a secretary, and the next day there would be three or four recruiting firms with ads very similar to mine. I would get an avalanche of resumes, and the next day I'd have recruiters calling me trying to sell me the very same resumes.

On the very rare occasion that I did use a recruiter it was either because I needed someone very quickly, say a Microsoft guru who spoke English and Mandarin, in three days (not kidding) or because my company had a long-standing relationship with a recruiting firm and I was told that they were miracle workers. They never really were.

Now I'm back on the job market and because of the grad school thing I'm not really looking for an HR job. I'm focusing on executive-level administrative work. The pay is virtually the same and instead of having to be the best friend of one hundred and seventy-nine people, I only have to manage three or four. This time around, though, I'm a Microsoft guru knowing my way around Word, Excel, PowerPoint, Publisher, and Outlook, as well as the Adobe Creative Suite. And I type seventy-three words per minute with six errors. I hold a masters degree in writing. In a word, in terms of executive-level administrative candidates, I'm hot shit.

And this time around, I have recruiters drooling over me. There is one in particular, from an agency that I've applied to and interviewed with at least four times over the last fifteen years as well as used to fill a position on one occasion. We'll call that agency Gloss. Every single time I've gone to gloss they've promised they could find me a job. Two months ago they actually sent me on an interview. I landed a second round of interviews. I landed a third round of interviews. I've been called on a weekly basis to be assured that the hiring manager is still "very interested" but just meeting other candidates. The calls go something like this:

"Scott, this Gail from Gloss. I just talked to Julie at Stupid, Slow, and Shit-for-Brains. She's been really busy sharpening pencils and there's just no movement on this job yet. You've been there, you know how it is."

"Sure, I totally understand. Say, Gail, are you sure they just aren't going with another candidate?"

"No. I've asked them point blank. I've told them that you're really interested and that it's really not fair to you to string you along this way."

"Well, I understand. When you need to sharpen pencils, all else really has to be put on the back burner."

"And look, I've worked with Julie for years. She's a straight shooter. She'd tell me if they weren't interested."

"OK. I saw that you had some other jobs posted that I'd be right for."

"Oh, I'm working on those, but they're not ready to interview yet. I'll definitely submit you."

And then, of course, nothing.

And now, I have this same relationship going with four recruiters, and every week to ten days each one of them calls me with the same patter. And each week I smile and chuckle at the difficulty of their positions, telling them I totally understand. And I do, probably better than they do.

High Hurdles

What I'm calling the semi-final draft of my writing sample is almost ready. While I don't think its brilliant, it's a long way from the piece of crap it started out to be. Sometimes, if you polish hard enough, you can get a nice little sheen on a turd.

And the little side business marked two little milestones this week. If I haven't mentioned it, the side business is a little photography service, and this week I had a picture printed in the Chicago Tribune, and two pictures printed in the Chicago Reader. Of particular note is the fact that the Reader photos carried my name! I think that's pretty good progress for just two months in business.

Now back to work on the paper. It's going to be a long evening.

The Other Boelyn Girl

This summer, as a respite from Michele Foucault and Edmund Burke, I picked up what I thought was a pulp novel, the kind my mother used to bring home and then let lie around the house for my sister and me to read. One I remember was entitled To Near the Throne, a pot-boiler about some poor girl named Jane, who wore voluminous yellow silk dresses and had to marry the man her father chose instead of the man she loved. I thought the book I'd picked up, The Other Boleyn Girl would be similar. In many ways it was, but I had no idea that Phillipa Gregory was a "New York Times Best-Selling Author."

Although nearly seven-hundred pages long, the book was a surprisingly quick read, but I really couldn't fathom why Ms. Gregory had become a NYTBSA. I'm always suspect of authors who allow the main character describe themselves. At times Gregory's writing is a little purple. Yet, she is very good at creating intrigue, and the story is gripping even though the events are well-known.

Without giving too much away, however, I do have one significant complaint about the book. The book suggests that George Boleyn discovers his homosexuality at court, and that because of his "deep, dark shame" he was susceptible to all types of blackmail as well as "other sexual perversions." Gregory's court of Henry VIII is incredibly puritanical, and she creates a world in which homosexuality carries all the stigma of the "other sexual perversions" he was later charged with.

There are a number of very creative and speculative aspects to the novel, yet for some reason Gregory chose to incorporate a speculation of Boleyn's sexuality into the story, presumably to help give plausibility to the incest charges that ultimately destroyed him. For the record, George and Ann, along with several other young men, were charged with any number of allegations. All of them are believed to have been proven false. Yet, none of them were homosexuality. Why, then, incorporate this into such a tragic figure as George Boleyn? Either way he becomes a fag who gets what he deserves, or another homosexual victim.

Above is a trailer for the film. It's one of those trailers that basically lays out the entire movie. From what I can tell, The Tudors is better -- yet neither seems to be concerned with historical accuracy. Still, I'll probably wander into a theater to see this one. Here's hoping the film takes the same number of liberties with Gregory's book that Gregory took with history.

Contradictions*

The chorus rehearses on Sunday nights. (The concert is coming up. Do you have your tickets?) After rehearsal I've begun the habit of wandering over to Whole Foods and picking up a tasty treat to nibble while I watch whatever must-see Sunday night TV the cable is offering up. (The current favorite is Dexter, and if you don't have Showtime, you should at least to go out and get the first season on DVD. One of the top-ten best shows of all time.)

So, each Sunday I wander up and down the aisles looking at the "organic" food, all of which is much more expensive than the "corporate poison" I'll find in my Dominic's, which is in turn more expensive than the lower-end brands I'll find in the little Mexican vegetable market. Then suddenly it hit me. All of this socially superior nourishment is packaged in plastic! So, the message is: The polar ice caps can melt, but I'll be so healthy I can tread water until the next ice age.

Sometimes the hypocrisy of the self-important, upper-middle classes is stifling. The hubris and ignorance is like one long, continuous fart waiting for someone to simply light a match and make it all go away. These same baby-on-board, pre-suburbanites who will live in the city just until little Morgan or Conrad either gets into the right private school or they are forced to the flee the city for the better suburban schools have bought the message that the world is their oyster. They can, if they think they can, and damn anyone else who may have to pay the consequences.

I have no problem with wanting to eat healthier foods and I support anyone whose beliefs take them down the vegan path. It's commendable. But just don't load all of your precious, nutritious ashram-grown sprouts wrapped in plastic take-out containers into your Hummer, to drive three blocks to your Lake Shore Drive condo and think for one second that you're "sticking it to the man!"

*This post may have been written while in an over-caffeinated state. Long live Diet Coke!

In the Moment

Time is a strange thing. In many ways, in my head it's still July and I'm going to have get up tomorrow and drag my ass to a job where everyone is trying to destroy everyone else, and in other ways it's already January 2, 2008 and I'm planning for the coming year.

It's the right now that I'm struggling with. Struggling, but making progress: serious resumes are going out and getting response; teeny, tiny buds for my new little business are emerging; the paperwork for my major life shift is getting done, if only in fits and starts; and for the first time in a long time I'm really enjoying my life. Yes there are moments of stress, like when I realize that student-loan payments loom, but then I take a deep breath an realize that I'm projecting myself into the End Days and I settle back into the reality of the moment, rededicating myself to my multiple projects.

And last night, for the first time in at least two years I went to a live theater production. Since retiring from the stage nearly a decade ago, I haven't really felt compelled to return to the theater as a civilian. Too frustrating. Too much energy expended mourning what woulda, coulda, shoulda been. But last night it felt like being visited by an old friend. What was particularly pleasant was the fact that the theater was at the end of the block and I could take a nice, quiet stroll home and slip into bed.

The production was in a wildly inappropriate space, long and narrow; the audience seated in one long row of cheap folding chairs against the wall; the set, mere scavenged pieces of furniture suggesting locales; the lighting grossly inadequate; the costumes, pulled from the actors' own closets, were uninspired; the script at least one major re-write away from being good; and the acting a spectrum of amateurish gesticulation and subtle, heart-breaking nuance.

I loved it!

This may have been the first time since I was sixteen that I went to the theater and was able to manage the critic in my head. During the performance I didn't second-guess the director or the actor; I didn't tell myself in some form that they were damn lucky to have me in the audience; I wasn't simultaneously creating my own production of the script in my head while I watched this one unfold in front of my eyes; and I wasn't cursing myself for not actually being in a New York theater -- where REAL theater happens -- and holding court on the inadequacies of whatever production was lucky to have me as an audience member.

I simply watched the play and enjoyed it. It was what it was. Yes there were flaws, and yes it might have been slicker had there been more money behind the production. But it had a freshness to it. There's an old Stephen Sondheim lyric -- an actress is quoting one of her first reviews that says, "At least she's sincere..." -- a hint of condescension. Yet, this production had a sincerity and vibrancy that wasn't colored with ambition. Perhaps it's my own personal baggage, but I found that thrilling. This performance was ephemeral and just for the eight people in that room last night. There was no one in the audience who might help these actors build a bigger career. This production isn't a stepping stone for anyone. It was sincere.

The cast included five actors. There were eight of us in the audience. At thirty percent capacity, last night's performance might have been considered a big crowd for most productions in Chicago. The play started with an actor and actress both giving declamatory speeches to the audience, and both had been panned in recent reviews. I can tell you that when a production receives a bad review the cast has a very hard time working up even the most fundamental level of enthusiasm for a performance. This cast was no different. But as the performance progressed and the cast got the sense that the audience was with them, they warmed, and by the second act even the weakest actor was "living in the moment" and giving a fine performance. There was nothing but the actor, the text, and the audience, and that second act might be one of the best I've ever seen.

Don't get me wrong: I have no interest in returning to a life in the theater -- at least at this moment. I'm too busy trying to be an entrepreneur/writer/human-resources manager/singer/scholar to want to be an actor again too. But an occasional visit to a black-painted room filled with found furniture and aluminum folding chairs isn't necessarily a bad idea.

Make It Work.

I'm pooped. Half of my writing portfolio is ready to go and the other half is a creative shambles. I have to whip into some sort of readable format by 11:00 tomorrow morning. A professor who has agreed to write me a letter of recommendation wants to see the paper before she writes her recommendation. I had planned on at least another six weeks, but instead I had less than forty-eight hours. Yikes.

Applications

Right now my life seems to be completely about applications. Job applications, my PhD applications, etc. I have the professors lined up for the recommendations, but one of them wants to see my writing sample before she does the recommendation. The writing sample isn't nearly ready and I have to have a coherent draft by Thursday, noon. It will be tight, but I think I can do it.

The business seems to be flowing. My work, I think is steadily improving and my clients seem to be genuinely impressed. I'm not taking any new appointments over the holidays, and since I've been assured that no one does any hiring between Thanksgiving and New Year's Day (in spite of the fact that I always hired someone during that time) I'm preparing for a semi-official vacation. The school applications will be done in the next week or two. I won't have any clients. I'll be decorating my house for Christmas. So all that will be left is to finish up my short story collection.

Frankly, I could use a vacation. Though much of the work in the past two months has been more of an investment than a stream of income, I've been working very hard, and I have to say that as I look back on the year I have to put 2007 in the win column. True, for nearly half of it I have been "unemployed" but I don't think I've ever been more productive.

Tomorrow there are bound to be more inane calls from recruiters, so I'd better get to bed.

What Have You Been Doing...

So, I'm getting called for interviews now, in spite of the fact that things "slow down as we go into the holidays" and they all ask, "So, what have you been doing since July?"

"Well, I've been writing this paper on the institutionalization of whiteness, focusing on Edmund Burke, but drawing interpretive parallels to Malcolm X and Michele Foucault. And in my spare time I started a side business, which required that I research the business, and teach myself the skills necessary to perform the services I wanted to offer as well as the marketing skills necessary to launch the business. In addition I've been editing my collection of short stories.

"Oh, and looking for a job."

And still they invariably let that little silent pause in to indicate that they think you're a slacker.

Lions for Lambs -- Spoiler Included

I'm going to discuss the Robert Redford film Lions for Lambs. While I'm going to talk about to some degree about the artistic merits of the film, this is not a review, and therefore I do not feel compelled to keep the ending a secret. If that matters to you, stop reading now.

Before I went to the theater, I read Roger Ebert's review. Lions for Lambs is a hard film to review on its artistic merits because, quite frankly, there aren't many. It's a very talky film. I like talky films. The characters are not complex, the story is hardly subtle and ideology behind the film isn't even thinly disguised. Still, I walked out of the theater thinking about the movie.

The characters really function as representatives of the major forces that combined to form the American involvement in Iraq. From a "liberal" point of view, the iconic characters speak the "truth." Still, the real question is the implied question, that never is voiced.

Robert Redford, who also directs, plays a university professor of political science who one morning confronts a bright student about his apathetic attitude. The student's fundamental response is very existential: what is the point if the result is the same? Throughout the movie, the professor and the student circle around this question, and the best answer that the professor can give is "At least you will have done something."

The student's response then is, "Well, why shouldn't I live the good life? It's not my fault that I'm smart enough to figure out how to live the good life." (I paraphrase here.) To which the professor responds, "What good is a $90,000 Bentley if there are no roads to drive on? If there is not gas to fill the tank?"

And, of course those are valid, important questions.

But the deeper question really is, "What have you done, or what will you do that entitles you to the Bentley in the first place?" The better question is, "At whose expense do you receive that Bentley?"

Those are the fundamental questions that I think many people, particularly of my generation, are afraid to answer. I am, therefore I'm entitled. When I graduated from college there was a shocking number of my classmates who moved right back home to Mom and Dad. One of my friends died at home. They did so because home was comfortable and it eased the responsibility of repaying student loans.

But, is the easy way the best way? I wonder what might have been lost in their characters by not learning to fend for themselves. I wonder what might have been lost in my character because of the struggle I endured establishing myself. And then I compare my struggle to real struggle in other parts of the world and I'm ashamed that I would even begin to compare the challenges I faced in the same light of a contemporary in another part of the world.

Essentially, the film ends posing the question, "What are you going to do with your privilege, power, and wealth?" Yes, it's an easy political question, an obvious question. But it's a question that really has to be asked and the American people are responsible for answering, and we are responsible for avoiding it.

Revived

There is nothing I like worse that being at the end of my rope. I need a plan of attack. I need a mission. I have to be working toward an end.

They won't make a decision on the job until next week. Apparently I am the only candidate they've seen, but they're still interested. They're just not ready to make the decision yet. In my experience that could mean anything, but I actually trust this recruiter to cut me loose if they weren't interested.

In the meantime, I've started my applications. More waiting since I sent several professors requests for letters of recommendation. It's Friday, and frankly none of them really work on Friday, so it may be next week before I hear. But transcripts have been ordered, test scores will be sent, applications are in process, and the writing sample doesn't seem as if it's going to take as much time as I thought.

So, even though I still feel like I'm pulling this sled all by myself, I'm feeling much better about it. I have a couple of other projects in mind once these applications are completed.

Things are good again.

Paying Bills

Paying bills when you're unemployed sucks. The bank account is holding, and I'm good for nearly a year yet, but still...

Eye on the Ball

Have you ever made a leap of faith without a net? I have, several times in fact, and I can tell you with absolute authority that it does not get easier with each leap.

This week has been absorbed with job interviews. After weeks of being virtually ignored, suddenly I was being considered for four different jobs. None of them are my ultimate calling and none of them fit into my overall objectives, but each one of them would give a modicum of security and relief, but also a token of approval. Every now and then, no matter what anyone says, a person needs a little validation.

These past five years have really been about doing things without a net. Buying a home, enrolling in a masters program, quitting a secure job, then taking a risk on a company that had the possibiity of failing (and did), being laid off, starting my own little business, and finally applying to PhD programs. These may be just logical steps to most people. To me they are milestones.

Growing up, when my father was angry -- which was much of the time -- he would tell me that I was retarded. No amount of scholastic achievement would really ever convince me otherwise. And because of my size, as an actor I was frequently cast as characters with subpar intelligence.

When I was a boy, maybe five or six years old, I asked my mother if I was handsome. She told me that I wasn't movie-star handsome, but that I wasn't exactly ugly. That sounds pretty harsh, and it's difficult to imagine a mother saying that to her son, but that's how I remember it. Whatever the actual wording, I do remember feeling like I wasn't good enough.

And as a kid, I adored my sister. She was charming and pretty and made friends easily. And she hated me. I never knew why, but I just knew that if I fell off the face of the earth she'd never miss me. And as adults, that has sadly been pretty much proven true.

So, much of my adult life has been about disproving these notions or disspelling the feelings these notions generate. I write this, not in some sort of self-pitying revel, but to help me get a handle on how I want to move through this next period in my life.

One of the jobs that I interviewed for this week could provide a little haven where I could essentially hide from the world. There would be no stress, a comfortable income, and I'm reasonably assured that I would be very successful and much appreciated in the role. It's a situation that could conceivably carry me through to retirement. I could write my stories, and maybe even get published. And by all measures within my family history I would be considered a success.

By all measures, that is, except my own.

Now, I no longer have any doubts about my intelligence. At the very least I'm relatively sure I'm not retarded. And I've long-since past the age where being matinee-idol gorgeous has been an obsession of mine. And I've almost gotten past worrying about what people think of me or what I do. Still, I've started down a path toward something that had always been a goal, and I'm getting cold feet. Tomorrow I'm going to start the applications for the PhD programs and I'm terrified of not being accepted and terrified of failure if I am accepted. I'm not applying to easy programs, and I've never really tested myself on such a scale before.

But, then I realize that these doubts are almost always fed by fatigue and inaction. What I've realized is that to be successful all I need to do is identify the goal and then just put one foot in front of the other until I'm there. If I look up to see how far away the goal is, I'll be lost.

Still, it must be nice from time to time having someone on the sideline, cheering you on.