Arrogant Snot

It's becoming more and more difficult for me to contain my contempt for recruiters. The relationship typically begins with a breathless, bouncy call, all excited because they received a resume with no typos and then progresses to a face-to-face interview, where some fresh-faced woman (sorry, but they're always women) asks earnest questions about my work history, scribbling cryptic, politically correct notes. Then she ends the conversation with, "I'm working on several positions and I'll be in touch over the next couple of days."

What they don't mention is that the "several positions" they're "working" are the same ads that I've seen and submitted my resume to. And somehow, they think that because they've read my resume, made a phone call and conducted a thirty-minute interview, an employer should pay upwards of twenty thousand dollars for presenting me to them...when my resume is more than likely already in the pile they've already received.

I got one of those calls today. The conversation took a turn when she came up with, "I see you have some HR experience."

"I actually have quite a bit of HR experience."

"Well, is that something you want to continue, or are you looking to get out of human resources?"

"I'm looking to make money. Honestly, I can do anything."

We discuss my background a little further where I make it clear that I can form a declarative sentence and communicate a concept more complicated than hunger.

"Well, could you come in and meet me sometime next week?

"Sure. I'm working a temp assignment, so can we meet after five o'clock?"

"We don't generally do that."

"Oh, OK."

See, if I truly were a great candidate for a perfect job, she'd stay past five o'clock to interview that perfect candidate. The candidate who is more than likely going bring her twenty thousand dollars in revenue.

"Everyone we interview is looking for a job. Sometimes we meet them over their lunch hours."

"Well, I don't have a full hour for lunch on this assignment."

"OK. Give me a call when your temp assignment is done."

Not. A. Chance.

Oh My God.

When a person is unemployed he encounters a number of people who are also out of a job. The lack of employment isn't so bad, until you look at the company you have to keep and then, from time to time, you have to ask yourself, "Am I one of them?"

Of course, that is just a reflection of frustration, but there are more than a few people on the streets of Chicago who seem to be too stupid to grow hair.

And then, you log into the Huffington Post and come across a link to an article like this. And "stupid" is completely redefined in heart-stopping stark terms.

Cravings

This has been a strange week. I've had the most bizarre cravings. Bread pudding, sweet pickles, canned spinach.

I hope I'm not pregnant.

Time Travel

It's odd how the most innocuous thing can transport you back to another time and in an instant -- and for just an instant -- you simultaneously are the person you were and the person you've become.

Years ago, out of sheer boredom, I registered with ClassMates.com. And now at least once a month I receive an e-mail urging me to upgrade my membership because people are just dying to get in touch with me. If ClassMate is to be believed, all 201 members of my graduating class are collectively pining away for lack of knowledge of my whereabouts and my well being.

There isn't enough alcohol in the world that would make me believe that. There isn't enough money in the world to get me to act like I believed that.

I went to several different high schools because my mother was something of a nomad. She also tended toward self destructive acts, which meant that when circumstances were overwhelming I was shipped off to live with my father and re-attend the same small-town high school, with the same small-town people. Because of all that moving, I was perennially the new kid, which fostered a constant state of social insecurity. That insecurity made me an easy mark for other kids dealing with their own insecurities, and the easiest way for them to feel better about themselves was to make someone else feel bad about himself. That was very easy to do to me and for many very entertaining because I would react.

Even at the time I was told by almost every adult I knew that I needed to develop some perspective and to learn to control my emotional reactions. I needed to grow up. All I can say is that I did that as quickly as I could.

Still, those little ClassMate e-mails can really take me back to that same angry, emotional teenager. I become reacquainted with that raging voice inside me that can do nothing but howl at the memories of high school and the people there. There are layers of anger, first that I was treated so badly, then that I allowed it, then that I never completely let that anger go, and so on. It's just a kaleidoscope of ugly emotions that are sparked by simply seeing certain names appear on my computer screen, names that I need never experience again.

The difference now, however is that I can turn them off. Because I changed school so much, I wrote a lot of letters to friends, and many wrote back. I still have most of those letters, as well as yearbooks and other memorabilia. The anger I'm describing is like that musty box of paper
that I can pull out, look at, and then pack back up. It's something I would never really miss if I got rid of it, but it feels sort of disrespectful to just pitch it.

Fear

There's a reason that many people ignore the news. It's because so much of it is designed to scare the average American. The reason for this, quite frankly is because fear sells. When you're afraid you want to prepare for the worst. The best way to prepare is to try to see as far into the future as possible, and what most people think is that the best way to do that is to keep tuned to the news channels and to read the newspapers.

I believe that fear is a self-fulfilling prophesy.

In 1986 my father died and I spent six weeks unemployed, at the end of which I did not have a dime to my name. It was the most terrifying year of my life. I had been working a few months and had managed to save a few dollars when there was a news report saying that the country, in fact the world, was on the verge of the next great depression. The stock market had just sustained the largest loss since the great depression. I was scared. I took my tiny savings and bought silver dollars. I figured that silver would be worth a lot more than paper in an nuclear economic meltdown. For the next year, every time I had an extra ten dollars, I went to Carson Pirie Scott and bought another silver dollar.

Of course the worst did not happen, and in a few short years America was back to a booming economy.

One of the first things that is hit in an economic downturn is the job market. Last week I was juggling the interview schedules for nine different opportunities. Yesterday I had two more calls. While I'll concede people are concerned about the economy, I don't believe we're facing an Armageddon. I remember that as Clinton left office and the nation wasn't certain who would be heading the next administration there was the same economic uncertainty. I predict that once the nation knows who will be the Republican and Democratic nominees, things will relax. They will relax because we will then know who will be telling us exactly what we need to fear next.

Heath Ledger

I'm not one to wax poetic about the death of a celebrity. I don't know them, I've met only a few, and the most I can ever say is that their faces or personae have represented something in myself or my life that I found important. And of all the celebrities in Hollywood, I think its safe to say that Heath Ledger fell pretty low on my list of favorites.

But, I have to say that I actually gasped when I read of his death this afternoon. If ever there was a young man who had everything to live for, Heath Ledger was it. The circumstances of his death are unclear, and I'm sure we'll be treated to all of the details and the endless speculation about the meaning of those details for weeks to come. Still, it is shocking to hear when a familiar face has died.

I've enjoyed Mr. Ledger's performance in several films, but of course the one that had the most resonance for me was his performance in Brokeback Mountain. The film held some importance for the gay community during the winter of 2006, but in the final analysis it was nothing more but a formulaic telling of Hollywood's version of a gay love story. One dies and the other lives a life of quiet desperation. Still, as the quiet and desperate one, Ledger really fleshed out the character, bringing an ugly stereotype to life. As opposed to a number of young artists in Hollywood who seem to be throwing away their talent and their lives with both hands, Ledger really had intelligence, depth, and promise.

Death of Heath Ledger is truly a loss to American cinema.

Respecting the Military

Parking space in Chicago is at a premium. On side streets it's not at all uncommon to have to wait while someone who has double parked runs up to a house and knocks on a door. It's just an annoying traffic fact of life in Chicago, but that is also exactly what happened recently when a U.S. marine, on leave from Iraq went to pick up a friend to go to dinner.

A divorce lawyer came up behind the Marines car, saw military stickers on the car, and went ballistic. The lawyer got out of the car, screaming about how arrogant the American military was and how the United States had no business being in Iraq. He then proceeded to take his car keys and scratch the Marines car, causing $2,400 in damage.

Since that time, the lawyer has been the most hated person in Chicago. He's far more hated than the poor guy who caught that ball in Wrigley Field during the World Series. The long and the short of the situation was that the marine acted like a gentleman, called the police, and the lawyer was arrested. The outcome is chronicled in this Chicago Tribune article.

I grew up at the very end of the Vietnam war and I remember being terrified that I would be drafted. I saw the images on the nightly news and I spent most of my time as a kid sure I would never become an adult. I was thirteen when the draft was suspended and I literally breathed a sigh of relief, and I had my first anxiety attack when Reagan reinstated the registration for the draft. Since I passed the draftable age, I've not really given much thought to the military.

But several years ago I did a show where I played a marine. I had rented a costume that looked pretty authentic. I didn't really think too much about it. On the way home the train was crowded and I had to stand in the aisle, holding the uniform in a dry-cleaner's bag.

There was a very small old man sitting in one of the seats. He could have been a hundred years old, and he looked very frail. He pointed to my uniform and then stood up and offered me the seat. He insisted that a military man take his seat. Of course I thanked him and explained that I was just an actor and the uniform on the hangar was just a costume. He eyed me skeptically and only reluctantly resumed his seat.

I think there were one or two other men who saw me with the uniform who commented on it with a degree of respect. I was almost embarrassed to be carrying the uniform, as if I was making a grab at distinction that I had no right to even pretend.

Since that time I've given a little more thought to the people in the military, and since the start of the war I've given a lot of thought to the people in the military. Usually the only stories in the news that can really generate any emotion for me are about crimes against children, but lately I've had to learn to manage my outrage at the way our soldiers are treated. I've never heard of such treatment on a personal level as the story of the marine and the lawyer. But in the news now it is becoming increasingly more common to hear about how our government is mistreating our returning soldiers.

Because we have an all-volunteer military, I do not pity the soldiers in Iraq. For whatever reason those soldiers made the personal choice of a military career. That said, I am outraged at the way our soldiers are being treated by our government. These soldiers have been thrown -- repeatedly -- into an unjust, mismanaged mess. They are risking life and limb in an ideological fight in a country that did not do a single thing against us. The argument that Iraq harbored terrorists may have some validity, but if it does it's an equally valid argument against Saudi Arabia. That's where the 9/11 terrorists came from. That's the country that launched a full PR campaign in the days after 9/11, denying responsibility, and that's the country that is currently holding our economy hostage with historic oil prices.

And that is the country that George W. Bush is currently courting.

There is something horribly wrong in this world when a frail old man offers his seat to a healthy young man merely holding a military uniform, and the commander-in-chief fawns all over the country that sponsored the actual attacks on the United States.

A Day of Writing

I have been feeling like a complete slacker. True, I am juggling interview schedules for some pretty amazing jobs. I'm pretty excited about a few of them. I've had an interview every day this week. Still, each one only seems to mire me a little more deeply in limbo and I really need to feel like something is moving forward.

So, each day I've devoted some serious time to my short-story collection. I had thought that I wanted to have twenty stories, but my stories are tending to be on the shorter side, and I really feel like I need two-hundred and fifty pages of material before I can say I have enough material to make a complete collection. I've been editing and rewriting some of the material I have. Several pieces are just worthless. As of today I have one hundred pages of material that I like. Forty of that I finished in the past three days. I really want to have this collection finished by the time I start a job.

Monday I go to update my information with the temp agency, so my endless string of empty days is coming to an end.

Precision and Integrity

I am fascinated by mediocrity, probably because I spend so much time wallowing in it.

My father was a self-taught graphic artist. He graduated high school, but did not pursue a formal education beyond that point. After high school he went into the army, and then came out and started painting. In our small town there was virtually no place in town that did not have a hand-painted sign that my father created. He painted the mascot on the high-school gym floor. He did all of the signs at the fair grounds and the "Old West" town. Every year the city hired him to paint the welcome billboard, and one of the grocery stores hired him to make the weekly special signs.

I wish I had pictures of those signs especially. They were done on simple white paper and thrown away each week. Yet each and everyone of them was flawlessly done. Fluid.

In addition he designed and made huge logos that were stenciled onto railroad cars, trucks, company cars, etc. All of this was before computer. It was all done by hand.

When my father died, the man who had employed him for more than thirty years told me, "He always took a little longer, but when he was finished it was always right." That was an amazing thing for me to hear because my father was an incredibly impatient man. There was nothing that would frustrate him more than to be walking along and to get stuck behind someone who was just meandering along. That's a trait I inherited.

Yet, I also remember my father spending hours in the garage or in the basement working on his signs. In the winter he could sit at the kitchen table and work late, late into the night making fishing lures. Had the Internet been available, he would have been in heaven researching fishing resorts and just generally surfing. But I don't believe he'd have ever used it to do his signs or design work.

I remember when I was very small asking him why he didn't just trace the letters. He'd bought me a set of stencils so that I could make my own signs. He said that would be cheating.

As I look at my work, both as a photographer and a writer I can see the flaws. I don't always know what to do about them, but I see them. And I wonder if my father looked at his own work in the same way. I suspect that everyone does.

But the difference, I think, between mediocrity and greatness is that in mediocrity the work is diminished by the flaws and in greatness the work is enhanced by them.

The Hollywood Writers Strike

As a fledgling writer with absolutely no publishing credit except this anonymous blog, I feel honor-bound to support the writers. I have enough experience in the entertainment industry -- in almost all of its manifestations -- to understand that the emphasis is on industry and not entertainment, and always has been. Even a tiny non-Equity production running for two weekends in an Evanston art gallery has to be concerned about production costs and ticket sales. While that is far, far removed from the revenue streams of even the most mediocre cable television show, it illustrates the point that it all comes down to dollars.

Here is the one, irrefutable fact. The Internet has changed the face of the entertainment industry, and no one knows exactly to what extent. In the past ten years revenue streams have been identified and new delivery technologies perfected that make the old television in your living room a quaint concept. The amount of money that can be generated is literally unimaginable. But it all hinges upon what the industry terms "content."

Content is the material that is sandwiched between commercials and advertisements. In the entertainment industry today, there is a content crisis. There are literally more people wanting to advertise than there is content to sandwich between the advertisements. That's why we have the QVC! Content, while not necessarily irrelevant is increasingly an afterthought. Yet, while high artistic ethics have always taken a back seat to other considerations, entertainment has not. The movies weren't created for art. They were created for revenue and the best way to generate revenue was to entertain. That is no longer true.

Movies, television, and even live stage productions are now to anesthetize. And the American public not only accepts it, but craves it. How else can you explain MTV, VH1, E!, and the rest of the networks that are built on pathetic "reality" shows that offer no insight nor entertainment. Yet, the undeniable fact is that even these shows rely on a narrative. The only difference is that now that narrative is created in the editing room. The problem with this, of course is that even the most sophisticated editing technique cannot create a story that wasn't filmed. And as these reality shows become increasingly more formulaic the only thing that distinguishes them...well, actually there's nothing that distinguishes them. They are all about over-privileged people getting drunk and doing unspeakable things to one another and humiliating themselves.

But the money men don't care. They care about money, which comes from you. And that only happens when you turn on your television. In a few weeks the television industry begins sweeps week. That means that they officially count the number of people who are watching television and use that data to determine how much to charge for their advertising spots. What would happen to those dollars if their data showed that no one is watching? What would happen in Hollywood if the American public stopped purchasing movie tickets -- even for one Saturday?

While the writers and other hard-working professionals who create content and are being exploited by the entertainment conglomerates would benefit from the support, the American public would also win. The message would be sent that we demand more entertainment and less industry. We demand a discourse with artistic minds who are working with concepts beyond the all-mighty dollar.

We want smart people to tell us stories and we're willing to stop listening until they are appropriately compensated.

Until the strike ends, I'm not turning on my television, and I'm not buying a movie ticket. I challenge you to do the same.

Fiction Fraction Friday - 1

The coffee shop was packed. The only seat was at the counter that faced the front window, looking out into the street. The light rain slid down the outside of the window and there was drip from the ceiling, caught in a small plastic tub on the counter. The Greatest Hits of Ella Fitzgerald bubbled in the background.

The strong coffee steamed and left her nose moist. There was a clean draft from the door. She settled back into her seat and breathed in the wet. Steam rising from her cup, drip splashing in the tub, rain splattering on the window.

Her reflection glittered a crystalline sparkle that grew pink and gold as the barista lit candles on the tables behind her. A man standing under the awning outside smiled at her. She returned the smile.

She turned the page of her New York Times, took another sip of coffee. There was nothing to race home to.

Drama Kitty

In about a week my cat will be twenty-one years old. That might make Butch the Miss Jane Pittman of cats. And he's the most opinionated animal I've ever met. He has a comment for everything. Seriously, this cat talks. A lot.

Our friendship actually began with his mother, Genvieve. I had recently moved into an apartment and was living alone for the first time. I owned a futon and a couple of milk crates for my books. It was after my first stint of unemployment and I was not only holding down two part-time jobs, I was rehearsing a new musical. One of the jobs was as a host at a very popular restaurant.

The people who worked at this restaurant were colorful. One of them was a waitress named Liz. She liked to tease her hair until it was a wiry pillar at the top of her head. She came up to me and said, "You look like you could use a cat."

"I don't like cats."

"No, seriously, I think you would be great with a cat, and I have just the one for you. I won't give her to you now because she's in heat, but as soon as that's passed I'll let you have her."

"I don't want a cat."

"Just come over and meet her. You'll love her."

Liz lived two blocks from my new apartment, so once the season had passed I went over to Liz's apartment. I don't remember there being any furniture. When I arrived, it was lit by candles and the floor in the living room had a pentagram painted on it. There were cats everywhere. I counted eight, but there were more in hiding. Liz disappeared into a room and brought out this gray cat. She had was a solid gray, no stripes, and she had sea-foam green eyes. She handed the cat to me and started ushering me to the door. "See, she likes you." Before I knew it, I had a cat tucked under my coat and was walking home.

Gennie spent the first three weeks under my bed. I set food out for her and she came out while I was gone and ate it. She was the perfect cat for a person who did not like nor want a cat.

The show I was in progressed. Since it was a new musical it was fraught with backstage drama and it was exhausting. My employment situation had improved and I was working one nine-to-five job. Things were stressful and I wasn't getting much sleep.

Then Gennie went into heat again.

The vet told me that she could not be spayed until her season had passed. We were both miserable. There was a male cat somewhere in the building and Gennie could smell him. I spent two nights suffering through her screams and finally had to put her outside. I decided that if she was around in the morning she still had a home and if not, oh well.

The next morning she came home and was content. Eight weeks later I came home from work and found her nested in my laundry basket, mid birth. With a kitten half hanging out of her it was the first time I'd heard her purr. There were four kittens.

As the weather improved, I let the kittens out on the fire escape to play. The biggest kitten liked to climb up to the top, but he was afraid to come down. He'd sit up there and cry. Gennie was less than interested and so I would go up and get him. Ten minutes later he'd be back up at the top crying again. I thought it was cute. I was stupid.

I found homes for two of the kittens. The third kitten was evil and just plain mean. I had no problem taking him to the local shelter and just shrugged when they told me he would likely be destroyed. But I kept the big, dumb one and named him Butch.

And that's when Butch started talking. He'd greet me when I came home. He'd complain if it was too hot. He'd walk out of the room bitching if he didn't like the food. There was one heatwave where his screaming took on operatic proportions. And when I had him neutered he yowled in his carrier on the bus ride to the vet's. When I came back the next day to pick him up I could hear him in the back when I walked him. He yowled on the bus ride home and when I finally let him out of the carrier he was hoarse.

Now that he's old he seems to be developing dementia. He wanders around the house and then just stops and stares off into the distance. He'll stand almost frozen, but not at attention like he's hunting. It's more like his mind has just gone completely blank. He's decided that he should have a two a.m. feeding and starts walking up and down the hall announcing that he's hungry. When he uses his cat box, he'll walk into the living room and announce that he's finished. The only thing that will shut him up is for me to lay on the couch. Then he'll curl up at the other end and go to sleep . That's how the perfect order of his world should go.

Cats don't usually live into their twenties. When he was first born and I decided to keep him, I picked him up, looked him straight in the eye and said, "You get sick, you die." I stand by that proclamation. I don't believe in kitty surgery, or kitty chemo. He's a cat. He's been a dear friend for more than twenty years, and I can't imagine life without him, but he's a cat.

Here's hoping we makes it to twenty two.

Clinton in New Hampshire

Since writing yesterday's post I saw a picture of a Hillary stump speech where some idiot stood with a sign that said, "Iron my shirt."

Then I watched the primary results. Up until the polls closed there was an endless stream of talking heads speculating on the longevity of Hillary Clinton's campaign and all but anointing Barak Obama.

Then the election process kicked in, and from the very beginning Clinton took the lead. I'm not sure if there was ever a point where Obama was the leader. Watching the pundits backpedal was dizzying.

And I couldn't be happier.

Understand, I do not relish the prospect of a Clinton presidency. Edwards is my candidate, but I'm comfortable with Obama.

But I find I have to ask myself if my preference isn't based upon latent sexist views. Do I oppose a Clinton presidency just because she's a woman? I don't believe so. There was a point when Bill Clinton first ran for president when I went on record saying that I wished I could have voted for her. I think it might have been at the first convention and she either gave an interview or campaign speech. Then again when the Whitewater scandal broke and Hillary went into a room that was empty, except for a chair, and sat down in front of an army of reporters and said, "I'll sit here until the last question is asked and answered." And I actually admired her famous "baking cookies" comment. I supported her bid to reform health care.

And then that Hillary went away. As if broken by defeat she took on a public persona more appropriate to Jackie Kennedy than Eleanor Roosevelt, and throughout her husband's presidency took on a very subordinate role. I assumed that was a pose, an attempt to keep a low profile in order not to make unnecessary waves for a president beleaguered by a right-wing conspiracy.

It was this switch in public persona that makes her emotions of the other day newsworthy.

There was a final glimpse of the Hillary Clinton I admired when she stood by her family during the Monica Lewinsky nightmare.

Then she ran for the senate in New York, a state where she had never lived, and my feelings began to change. It was at that moment that she seemed to adopt the mantle of inevitability. It was then that there was serious speculation that she would make her own bid for the White House, and it was then that her political maneuvering became apparent.

No doubt a politican cannot survive without playing the game of politics. Appearing to be above the fray and a Washington outsider has long been the desired political persona. But Clinton has not been above the fray for many, many years -- if she ever was. Her political maneuvers have become shop-worn tricks. The Clinton triangulation may have been necessary when the Silent Majority had real power, when the Republicans were a force to be reckoned with. The parsing of linking verbs and positive spin that is outright fiction -- all in the name of a greater good -- is tired. A new day is here, and it turns out that the country is saying that not only is winning important, but so is how you play the game.

The pundits were saying last night that Clinton's tears came at the same time there was a distinct change in tactics in her campaign. Instead of sealing herself in a bubble of inevitability, making stump speeches, Hillary took questions from the gathering crowds. And while planted questions are a staple in American politics, the pundits believed that these were real. In the last few days, it seems, there was a glimpse of the old Hillary.

Her campaign must be confused. By all predictions, including their own, she was to have lost New Hampshire. I could not be more thrilled that she's still standing. I don't want her in the White House, but I do want her in the race. I think this country needs a good, old-fashioned, barn-burning election and I think Hillary Clinton is capable of making that happen.

And if she is to become the next Democratic candidate, I will vote for her over any Republican currently running. My comfort with that vote, however, depends on which Hillary Clinton faces the world today.

Tears or Fears

Hillary Clinton got all feklempt yesterday, expressing just how personal her mission to become president is.

I wanted to puke.

Much has been made of that teary-eyed moment, and I think that much should be. There are really only two ways to interpret that moment.

Interpretation 1) Sincerity. I have no doubt that Mrs. Clinton wants to be president really, really, really badly. And I'll bet if she loses she'll cry. I'm quite sure she wouldn't be the first candidate to shed a tear at defeat. Lord knows I'd cry like a baby and curl up in a ball in the corner until my mommy brought be a great big bowl of chocolate ice cream and my bankey.

But you would never see me cry. "Never let 'em see you sweat" is just one notch above "Never let 'em see you blubber." As president Mrs. Clinton would have to preside over some pretty difficult, terrible circumstances, and short of losing her child -- and possibly her husband -- no one would be interested in her tears.

What's worse is that an emotional issue over something so abstract as the possible loss of the New Hampshire primary plays right into every stereotype about a female world leader. She'd have been better off simply getting up from the table and excusing herself to the ladies room.

Interpretation 2) I actually think this is more likely. Hillary Clinton's campaign staffers recognize that her campaign is in trouble and someone looked back through Bill Clinton's greatest media moments and found one where he was wiping away a tear. "We need to humanize Hillary!" I would not be at all surprised if the camera panned outward we'd find Bill under the table pinching Hillary's toes.

Suddenly Hillary appears thoughtful and caring and maternal, worried about all of America, the children she's always wanted and who are just waiting at the Beijing airport of the first Tuesday in November for her to arrive, wipe away our tears and put little pink bows on our heads for Christmas with the Clintons.

With the stakes so high, there is not a moment where a camera is within fifty miles of any candidate that is going to be left to chance. And with the Clintons in particular it's all about spin, image, and public perception.

And yet, Mrs. Clinton has then the nerve to try to scare us with something about a possible attack on the first day of the new administration. It's clear that Mrs. Clinton isn't running on her beliefs or convictions. She's struggling to present an image that she thinks will work.

The Prestigious Decline of Prestige

There is an article in this morning's New York Times bemoaning the the loss of status and glamor of the professions in the areas of medicine and law. It's hard to remember, but there actually was a time when people went into those professions with motives other than monetary, notoriety, or prestige. But in a world that has elevated the profession of being a Gabor sister to the luminary heights of Paris Hilton, anything is possible.

But let me the second, if not the first to say that Prestige, while ailing is not dead.

Prestige has become a commodity that is bought, not earned. From our glorious leader in the White House, to Paris Hilton, to surgically replicated lemmings scurrying from one over-priced boutique to another on Oak Street here in Chicago, the trappings of the aristocracy, class, and prestige have become mass marketed and stocked on the shelves of a Wal-mart near you!

Of course, these trappings have always been for sale. And the truly aristocratic in every society has laughed themselves silly at the bourgeoisie who have purchased them and spotlighted the pricetags for all the world to see. But only in the dawn of the twenty-first century has the traditional aristocracy begun to believe that such prestige can be purchased, thus driving up the demand and price.

I think that is why America seems ready to take a chance on an untried commodity such as Barak Obama. In the Democratic party we have a brilliant example of true aristocracy, and faux aristocracy. To be plain, real aristocracy is not something that may be inherited, but it truly is earned. Paris Hilton comes from an aristocratic background, but has done nothing to earn her aristocracy. Obama comes from a modest background, but his accomplishments have earned him that aristocratic air. And Hillary Clinton, even with her list of accomplishments, spotlights her dime-store aristocracy every time she parses an issue, afraid to take an unequivocated stand on any issue.

A true aristocratic air is not one that takes a condescending view of the rest of the world. A true aristocratic air works toward accomplishment, acknowledges that success, but does not take it for granted. It is not achieved through a prescribed plan of grammar school, high school, college, business school, law school, money. And once achieved, it does not feel the need to proclaim that success to the world, nor demand accolades for it.

One of the great founding principals of the United States of America was that there was no recognized aristocracy. But the plan wasn't to level society to the basest elements, rather to elevate the entire society to the level of the aristocracy. And that elevation was not intended through commerce, but through grueling hard work and achievement.

Now, however, wealth has accumulated in this country and has become hereditary. Even with her status as virtually disinherited, Paris Hilton will share in a $69 million dollar estate. And with her share, she will do nothing of any note except buy the trinkets that other people tell her are "hot." How many people could build a successful life from one-tenth of one percent of that much money?

The fact of the matter today is that becoming a lawyer, or to a lesser degree a doctor, has lost status in our society is because there's no real risk in achieving success. Even a mediocre lawyer is going to earn more than the most innovative artist. The difficulty and struggle in the legal and medical worlds are mapped out and people who enter them at twenty-five have a reasonable idea of what their life is going to look like at forty. That's safe, and safe doesn't deserve prestige. Those professions have sold out. Thirty years ago prestigious law schools could afford to be selective about its students because they were funded by public and private grants. Harvard and Yale could not take any new law students if they did not find anyone worthy. Now they are profit centers needing to generate tuition dollars and placing a secondary emphasis upon the building of our national character. And medical profession has quite simply lost community respect because it sold its soul to insurance and pharmaceutical companies. Yes, both professions demand hard work, but both professions also are famously aware of the rewards they feel their entitled to. Entitlement is the ugly antithesis of the aristocratic, and entitlement is what the new Ugly American marinates in. Entitlement demands recognition. Prestige is given.

The New York Times article says that the new areas of prestige are found in the creative areas, because that is where autonomy can still be found. That's where the prospecting spirit still lives, where it's possible to strike it rich because of the ability to build something from nothing, born from achievement and hard work.

As a concept, prestige still exists and for those who truly want to earn the real thing instead of buying the cheap knock off, it can be had through moxy, zest, and plain and simple hard work, and true trail blazing.

When was the last time you met a trail-blazing doctor?

Race Rights

If Obama wins, what are people who are fond of the phrase, "...it's because I'm/he's/she's black," going to say?

Gone are the arguments of inferiority, both of ability and opportunity. Gone are the accusations that a black man can't get a fair shake in America, or that a black man is too lazy to do any real work. All of that is just gone.

That, however does not mean that racism is dead in America. I've seen first hand and experienced myself racial discrimination. I've seen African American professionals, people with serious educations making serious, serious money argue that they suffer from lack of opportunity. And I've heard Caucasian Americans brand African Americans with Ivy-League educations and more than thirty years of accomplishments and historic accolades as stupid. I have seen it up close and in person. And it's always breath takingly shocking.

But now we face the possibility that we will have our first African American president. Admittedly Obama has led a life of privileged opportunity that most African Americans can't even dream of, but that's true of Americans of any race. And I guarantee you that Obama has faced racism far more insidious and hateful than most African Americans in this country, because it was probably delivered with a smile from people who knew exactly what they were doing. The racism he's faced is born, not of ignorance, but of hatred.

An Obama presidency can't help but shine a bright light on racism and the responsibility of people of every race. The truth is, there are African Americans who profit by promoting the idea that white people are devils, and there are white people doing stupid, hateful things that make that theory difficult to disprove.

Still, in an overwhelmingly white country, a black man has become a serious contender for the presidency. The ramifications of that reality echo throughout this country and will echo throughout history. And whether Obama wins or loses the presidency, the phrase, "because he's black," will sound just a little bit more idiotic.

Obama in Iowa

Well, nothing could be more pleasing than Barak Obama taking Iowa in the caucus. It's an historic event for two reasons. First, his being an African American candidate with a credible candidacy, but also being the first candidate from the next generation.

The Clinton loss is not so much a rejection of a female candidate, although I do think that plays a part, as much as it is an acknowledgement that there is a new political day. Clinton is too much of a throw back. Edwards may be too much of a throw back. But Obama, even with his lack of significant experience is the new day. These results say that we are putting our stock in the future.

Or, at least Iowans are putting their stock in the future. We await the verdict of the rest of the nation.

In the meantime, I'm still planning to vote for Edwards in the Illinois primary. My vote isn't for the presidential candidate, but for the vice-presidential candidate. I think an Obama/Edwards ticket is what this nation needs.