Privilege

One of the programs that I've applied to for PhD study has a website where they've posted pictures of their top undergraduate students. Better than ninety percent of those students are white. While I've not met any of those students personally, I have met many students from that program over the years. They drip privilege, and the thing that adds insult to injury is that all of the students and graduates that I've met from that program are not oblivious to the fact of their privilege, but there is something about them that communicates that the privilege is their due.

Yes, they have more advantages and opportunities than you do, but they're supposed to. You are inferior, not worthy of the advantages that they take for granted, so get over it.

Of course, it doesn't take a rocket scientist or even a high-school junior to ask, "Jealous much?" I admit that there is a part of me that is jealous of the advantage these people have. They are advantages that are almost always unearned, garnered because daddy knew someone and placed a call, or obtained over beers and a joint. While everything I have -- EVERYTHING -- I have because I worked for it.

Still, I recognize that in many situations I've received the benefit of the doubt, or preferential treatment because I'm white, or I've been perceived as straight. Don't get me wrong. I've worked for everything I have, but that doesn't mean that some of the things I've had didn't come more easily to me than they might have to someone else.

No one said the world was fair. But the inequities of this world are borne a little more easily if there was at least some gratitude.

Live Blogging: The 80th Oscars Red Carpet

* The writer's strike is over. Move on...

* John Travolta not only looks like his face is pressed out of plastic, but he also looks like his hair has been painted on.

* Did Barbara Walters piss off the entire industry? Is Miley Cyrus really the best she can come up with?

* Dress -- $15,000
Jewels -- $300,000
The look on Jennifer Garner's face -- PRICELESS

* Why do the actresses all look alike. I can't tell if I'm looking at Kristen Chenewith or Kirsten Dunst.

* Helen Mirren is the most elegant woman on the planet.

* The fashions may be boring or "safe" but we're still a nation at war. Could it be restraint?

* Jessica Alba can barely restrain herself from slapping Ryan Seacrest. Breast feeding indeed.

* "Diddy" acting? Please.

* Someone get Tilda Swinton some mascara and blush. Is she playing Peter Pan?

* Cameron Diaz. Blonde.

* Javier Bardem. Sex on a stick. Why are Europeans so much sexier than Americans?

* Summer Affleck (wife to Casey) couldn't have been less impressed with Ryan Seacrest.

* Hillary Swank looked like an over-fed cat. She really was the queen of the red carpet.

* Charlize Theron or Kim Catrall? No! It was Katherine Heigel. From a marketing point of view these women need to establish their brand better. It's not good to be interchangeable.

Tori! Tori! Tori!

Tori Spelling offers sage wisdom in the next People. There is something sort of neo-Zen about the statement, if you think about it long enough. It's like saying the word "water" over and over for five minutes... Anyway, Tori says:

If knew the styles were going to be the way they are now, I wouldn't have gotten my boobs done in the '90s. The clothes now wear so much better when you're smaller. In the '90s it was all about big boobs in halter tops.

Ah. Out of the mouths of "babes."

Finally

I am employed. It's not perfect, but it will do for now. Now, I can focus on my writing without distraction. Goal is 90,000 words, and I'm at 61,000.

Moving forward.

Words of Hate

This article demonstrates the absolute degradation of the English language.

So, let's be clear: Hillary Clinton does not deserve to be called a cunt. You may not like her politics, nor may you appreciate her public persona. (In the interests of disclosure, I do not like her politics, but I actually like her persona. I've said repeatedly that I want her to stay in the senate. I believe that's where she will stay and she can provide enormous support to a President Obama, and enormous counter balance to a President McCain.) And while I'm sure there are people in the world that Ms. Clinton hates, after being a target of the media and suffering the greatest personal humiliation any woman has ever suffered, who could blame her?

The only public person I can think of who would come close to qualify as a cunt would be Ann Coulter. It's unfortunate for the purposes of this post that Ms. Coulter is also, allegedly, a female. Long, flowing blonde hair notwithstanding, I have seen no actual evidence of that fact. Men can be cunts too, and actually quite frequently are more brilliant cunts than women could ever be. (Again, in the interests of clarification, Adolf Hitler is not a cunt. There is not a word sufficient in the English language to describe him. The frequently used term 'monster' casts him with a pastel light of a bed-time story, which I think is generally agreed inappropriate.)

No, Miss Coulter qualifies as a cunt because her entire reason for existence is to spew hatred, divide people and promote herself. She is a symptomatic display of the ugly parts of this country with virtually no discernable redeeming quality. And virtually every time she is on the television screen she deserves to be called a cunt.

That is the difference and the inappropriate use of the term to describe Ms. Clinton not only demonstrates the level of thinking in Roger Stone, but also demonstrates that for the conserative agenda there is nothing sacred.

Lawsuit

A German kid, living in Colorado, may be the first person to sue a tormentor under a new hate-crime bill.

In a lot of ways that kid looks like I did at twelve. In the ninth grade I attended four different schools during the course of the year, ending up in the small-town junior high school in the town where my father lived. Whenever things became too difficult for my mother, my sister and I went to live with our father. As a teenager there was a lot of shuttling into and out of the same small-town school, where I perennially seemed to be the new kid.

As a right of passage the new kid is always teased. However, I came from an unstable home environment and I had no sense of proportion or distance. I took everything too seriously. At one point I decided to stop going to school. I skipped for about two straight weeks. Because I was always in and out of that school, it took a while for anyone to really notice. Finally I was dragged back and sat in front of the principal to explain myself. I told him I didn't want to go to school because no one liked me. He told me I didn't have a choice and that if I didn't go to school my father would go to jail. He also told me that, of course all of the kids liked me. I just needed to give them a chance. It was all my fault.

One morning, I don't remember why, I was late to school. Instead of going to my locker, I had to run to my first class. During the morning announcements over the intercom the principal made some sort of announcement about how every one who went to that school had the right to go to school without being tormented and harassed. There were several of us who were targets, so while I thought the announcement was a little odd, I didn't really think too much about it. Then one of the kids leaned across the aisle and said, "He's talking about you."

Nothing out of the ordinary had happened. I probably had a dramatic incident with another student every other week, and that was the down week. "Really?"

"Yeah. Somebody put a poster up on your locker. It wasn't very nice."

I never saw the poster and no one ever said anything more about it to me. I'm sure it would be tame compared to what a kid today might do. Anyway, I didn't think anything about. Stuff like that was happening to me all the time and finally someone else saw it. I went about my day, not getting to my locker until lunch time.

When I opened my locker, I discovered that whoever had decorated the outside had also decorated the inside. It must have been several boys -- girls would never have done this. They had spit green loogeys all over everything. The books that had been in the locker, my gym clothes, everything was covered in slime.

I closed the door and walked directly into the principals office. People who know me now would have no problem believing this story, but then I was a shy, quiet, bullied twelve year old. The principle was in a meeting, which I interrupted. I demanded that he come to my locker. When he saw what was inside he said, "What do you want me to do about it."

"I want you to have someone clean it up."

"It's not their job to clean the inside of your locker."

"Then I'll use another locker until they do."

I didn't touch any of my books. I didn't do any of my homework, because I wouldn't touch any of my books. I just went to class and sat in a desk. It took about a month, but finally they cleaned my locker and gave me new books.

Everybody gets teased in school, but unless you've experienced it on this level you have no idea what this kid in Colorado is going through or how it will effect the rest of his life. For years he's going to see green slime where there is none. Maybe for the rest of his life he's going to expect that the rug is going to be pulled out from under him when he least expects it, so he'll always expect it to prevent it from happening.

And suing won't help. Even if he wins. Especially if he wins. The kids will never let him forget that he had to get someone bigger to handle his problem.

After that sliming incident, I there were no more overt acts, but as the kids got older the tormenting became more subtle. Kids who were supposed to be my friends got into the act. I don't know if it was out of peer pressure or what. I do know that some pretty mean things were said and done, and that I spent most of my twenties and thirties trying to get my bearings in the real world.

What this kid needs to do is grow up and become rich and famous on Broadway. That'll show 'em.

Nation of Hypocrites

I am as shocked as the next person when hearing about animal abuses. I'd like all of the cows and duckies to be petted by little blond five-year-olds and then mercifully shot between the eyes before we eat them. I really would.

But what's interesting about this story isn't the outrage over the possibility that a meat distributor had no problem feeding potentially diseased cows to school children. What's troubling is that this meat has been recalled and charges have been filed because of animal cruelty.

And yet, we can't determine if waterboarding a human is a crime.

Ah, you say, but waterboarding a terrorist could prevent a dirty bomb being exploded in the New York subway system. Arguably. But what cannot be disputed from this article is that a perception of being mean to cows stirs more moral outrage than the possible infection of school children. Should the meat have been recalled? Yes! But because it was not properly inspected, not because the cows weren't properly massaged before they were killed.

Our priorities are askew. We care more about the ethical, humane treatment of cattle than we do the ethical, humane treatment of people. And that sentiment includes our own children.

Where is the outrage at torture. Why is the federal government so slow to move on that, but quick to make sure Bessie gets a bedtime story? But the bigger question is, why do we let them?

Agony

I've done some research. The average length of a published work of a first-time writer is between 80,000 and 120,000 words. After six months I'm at 50,000 and I only have two more rough stories left.

Writing is hard.

My Newest Addiction

The 1920s Radio Network is sublime.

Cunt...

...may be my favorite word in the English language. I save it for really, really special occasions, like fine heirloom silver. There are so few words that carry such succinct emotional impact. But there are two others that I keep in that extra special drawer:

Faggot.

Nigger.

There are other epithets, but they've really become archaic. No one says 'spick' anymore. I'm not even sure I know what that word was intended to mean. 'Kyke?' Why would anyone use that word? Those are hateful, but lack the emotional impact that others do.

'Faggot,' 'nigger,' and 'cunt' really embody the venom that are intended by their use. Do I use these words often? Hell no. Even at my most riled, I'm very, very rarely that angry. Maybe once every decade someone will anger me to the point that I need to use a word that can hold all of my venom. That's when I trot out one of these little gems. They are rhetorical nuclear weapons that trump all arguments.

Am I proud of my use of these words? Absolutely not. But not because I'm concerned about the injuries they may or may not inflict. When I use them, I direct them at individuals I want to hurt, and hurt badly. I'm embarrassed about using these words because I think they are markers for the limits of my education. The use of these words, and the need to use these words, illustrate to me that I am not as evolved, not as civilized, and not as loving as I'd like to think that I usually think I am.

I need these words. I think we all need these words. There are so few things in our society today are universally off limits. 'Nigger' is marginally acceptable from certain segments of the African American community. It crops up enough to be startling, but there are contexts in which it is almost a term of endearment. The same is true for 'faggot.' There are some gay men who have embraced 'faggot' and thread it throughout their daily discourse. I'm not one of them. It's a grotesque word. The only one that lacks an acceptable context is 'cunt,' and now Eve Ensler is trying to reclaim 'cunt' in her Vagina Monologues. I am against such reclamation.

We've lost 'fuck.' When I was a kid, that was the ultimate curse word, the one certain to send the speaker straigh to H-E-DOUBLE TOOTHPICKS. Now its a word that litters daily conversation to the point that adults feel quite comfortable using it in front of their children. It is almost the universal noun, verb, adjective and adverb. In a business meeting, I counted its use twelve times by three different speakers. No one noticed. I'm proud to say that I controlled the impulse to say 'cunt' just to see the effect.

But just barely.

So, Eve Ensler: I want my 'cunt!' I need my 'cunt!' Don't touch my 'cunt!'

Interview Questions

When being interviewed for a job, most times the interviewer will come to the point where he/she asks the question, "Do you have any questions for me?"

This is a critical point in the interview, because they aren't really interested in helping you get a better understanding of the position, or clarifying a point. They are judging you on the originality, freshness, and insite of the question. While as an interviewer, I'm good at asking questions, as a candidate I'm brilliant. One of my objectives is to see if I can stump the interviewer and I don't consider the interview a success unless I get the interviewer to say, "That's a good question..." and then watch as their eyes roll back in their head while they struggle for an answer.

It's also the point when they test how you will handle the power shift. Asking the questions is usually the position of power, except when the situation is so dire and the person who is expected to respond may hold the answer to an unanswerable question. If the question is too insiteful then clearly you're going to be too difficult to manage, and if the question is too mundane then clearly you're too stupid to breathe the oxygen that's generated by the plants in the room. At one interview years ago, the interviewer had kept me waiting ninety minutes and then hadn't even read my resume. When she said, "Do you have any questions for me?" I pulled out my note book and asked, "Exactly how would you categorize your management style? Can you give me a specific example that demonstrates how your style has helped you achieve an objectively measurable goal?"

I think it was the smirk after I asked that question which eliminated me from consideration.

The dynamics in an interview have always fascinated me. I do not exaggerate when I say that I have probably done a thousand interviews. One summer about ten years ago, I logged three hundred interviews. If you were to count auditions as interviews we could very easily be into five figures.

I am fearless in an interview.

Fearless.

But if I've decided that I don't want the job, I can barely work up the interest to be snarky. Today is the perfect example. I had three interviews today. The second interviewer was with a man who was both a doctor and a lawyer. As he was escorting me back to his office we passed an office with a name tag that said "Suzy Brite."

"Suzy Brite?" I asked.

The interviewer turned to me, "Do you know Suzy Brite?"

"I know A Suzy Brite. I worked with her at Acme Company. Is that the same Suzy Brite?"

"That would be her."

"Oh, I adore Suzy Brite. She's brilliant." It is generally a good idea to be lavish in your praise of anyone who comes up during an interviews.

"We fired her last week."

For every rule, there is always a good reason to break it.

The fact is Suzy is a dynamic, opinionated woman. She can be difficult, but she really is brilliant at what she does. There are maybe six people in the state of Illinois who do what she does at the same level. Every couple of years there's a big profile done on her in some national publication. She knows everyone in the tristate area. She could get Bill Clinton on the phone and have him over for Sunday dinner, she's that good. And if Suzy was fired, I can guarantee you it wasn't her fault. At that moment I decided that I was no longer interested in the job, and I hadn't even interviewed for it yet.

It was very clear that this interview was taking up much of the interviewer's valuable time. The entire thing took less than thirty minutes, and of that he spent at least five gently bashing Suzy Brite. That is never a good sign.

Then he asked if I had any questions for him. Frankly I hadn't really been paying that much attention to what he was saying to come up with an intelligent question. But as a matter for form I had to ask something. I tossed out my standard stumper, the one that will trip up the amateur interviewer every time.

"If we work together, how will I know if I'm doing a good job for you?"

"If we're working together three months from now, you're doing a good job."

And that pretty much ended the interview.

The Importance of Completion

With nothing like a silly job to distract me, my writing is becoming increasingly more important. And it progresses. I've targeted a minimum of two-hundred-fifty pages before I declare my collection of short stories complete. Last week I broke the one-hundred page mark of completed work, and I probably have another fifty pages of incomplete work, maybe more. With an uncompleted story it's always difficult for me to tell how long it's going to be. The current piece isn't half finished and I'm approaching twenty pages, which is a mammoth short story for me. But I'm not convinced of it's quality. It has several possible endings, but each one feels derivative of some favorite story or other. I'm setting it aside to polish up the others.

But writing and the subject of writing has become of much interest lately. PBS has been running a series entitled The Complete Jane Austen. They are British dramatizations of all of the Austen novels. Jane Austen's charm seems to completely elude me, but I do find the structure of her stories interesting and I'm completely impressed by her willingness to recycle characters and plot points. I think the fact that I'm not enchanted by Austen makes her easier for me to study. I'd love to study Faulkner or Williams, but I'm in such complete awe of their use of language I can't overcome the dazzle.

I have vowed to finish this collection of stories before I start a new project, but I have to hurry because a new one is forming. I started to put it into a short story, but it's a play and there's just no way around it. I'll scribble notes, but I will not start writing it until I have this collection completed and a submission strategy to get it published mapped out.

Completion is important to me, more so than publication or income.

How My Cat is Responsible for My Self Doubt

Cats, as a general rule, are nocturnal. For the last twenty-one years, my cat has been not only nocturnal, but vocal. That means that at some point in the middle of the night he feels like talking. He's not particularly interested if you want to hear him, but he's going to talk. Or scream. It seems to be most pronounced in the late winter months, because in February and March it seems my days can start anywhere from two to three o'clock in the morning.

There are times when I hate that cat.

Starting a day that early in the morning and having Internet access can be a dangerous thing. What I find happens is I start typing names into search engines. The names are usually long-lost people from my past. They don't even have to be people I knew well, or even cared about. I'm just curious to see whatever happened to them.

The thing is: if the name comes up at all, it's generally in connection to some great success they've had. There is nothing more depressing than sitting at your computer at three in the morning reading about someone else's success. Especially when you're unemployed. Again.

Of course, what are not listed in these electronic accolades are the divorces, the bankruptsies, the felony convictions, the broken hearts, and all of the false starts and failures that everyone faces ever day. I'm usually reading some glowing report intended to generate public interest. And so, at three in the morning, in a darkened room, I'm comparing the shambles of my life to a sanitized, air-brushed version of someone else's.

It goes something like this:

Johnny Smartass (scene here in a production still from his triumphant European tour as Hamlet) has just accepted his third Pulitzer Prize for his thrilling narrative of his personal struggle with discovering the cure for his own pancreatic cancer, not only saving his own life, but the lives legions of brilliant people who make the world a better place to live.

I then compare it to my life:

I met with a smug twenty-three year old recruiter and tried to convince her that I am capable of typing a memo and filing a document no one will ever look at again. She told me that she'd be in touch. I'm waiting for the phone to ring.

Of course, I could write my own glowing account of my life:

After a reasonably successful career in the Chicago theater, Joe Blogger began a successful career in the human resources industry, rising from below-entry-level administrative positions to senior management in less than ten years. Having achieved such success he began his third career as a writer after completing his master's degree in writing. He is currently under consideration for the PhD programs at three major universities to begin his fourth and final career in academia. In addition, the awe-inspiring photo that accompanies this article is a self portrait.

See? I do a reasonably good job at pulling myself up by the boot straps and moving on. But none of this would be necessary if my damn cat would just let me sleep through the night.

Temping

Temping sucks. There's just no other way to put it. This assignment is reviewing, cataloguing, and organizing eight hundred documents in a room with no ventillation and three other people who play video games all day. I have two interviews tomorrow, so today is my last day.

But this has gotten me to thinking about the nature of work and how people approach it. Believe me when I say that there is nothing I'd rather do less than alphabetize and file. I start to feel as if ants are crawling beneath the surface of my skin. Still, for the past week I've shown up every day and torn into the job at hand, doing the job essentially by myself and getting it completed days ahead of schedule.

And there've been three other guys in the room, playing video games.

I start at nine. At ten I allow myself a tiny break, ignoring the rules and check my e-mail. At noon I take my hour-long luch break and check my voicemail and return calls. At two and four I allow myself more e-mail checks, and then I leave at five. Those are my landmarks and I enjoy measuring my progress against those landmarks. I particularly gain satisfaction from completing a job I'd rather not be doing, and doing it better than anyone else. If I'd had to sit in that same room for two more days looking busy, instead of being busy, I'd have gone insane.

But the other side of that coin is that now I go home at least two-day's-pay poorer and I haven't even played one video game.