The Dual Center of the Universe

I have met one person with a Northwestern degree that I could stand. I've worked with many of them from many different programs and with many different degrees, but there is one common element: they are superior to everyone who does not hold a degree from Northwestern.

About a year ago my company hired three law students from Northwestern and gave them the title of vice president. Immediately one of them started charging up extravagant "business" trips, spending weeks at a time in Los Angeles making "contacts." To date he's not generated the first penny of revenue.

The second was incorporated into senior-level management making decisions and almost from day one he began criticizing how things were done, and not in a constructive manner. About six months ago he started telling me how he couldn't respect the other senior managers. He seemed to be able to give dispensation to anyone who might agree with him, but those who didn't are stupid.

Well, the situation at our company continues to deteriorate. The CEO went on vacation, but only after he told me to fire the Money Spender. The Money Spender had tried to make a pitch for his job and the CEO said he'd consider it, but told me almost immediately that he wasn't interested. He gave me instructions on how to handle it and I did.

In less than ten minutes the Smart One was in my office ranting about what a stupid decision this was and how it has ruined. Ruined! The Smart One has tended to be emotional and it has been my job to talk him down from more than one ledge. The CEO made it crystal clear that I was not to do that any more. Twice this week I was subjected to tirades and I had to just sit there and smile, saying, "Gee, I wish I could help."

Later yesterday, the Smart One came in and told me that one of his staff had just resigned, supposedly in sympathy over the way the Money Spender was treated. There was more than a hint that the Smart One was next.

I say good riddance. They were arrogant, high-maintenance, adolescent snobs.

Oh, did I mention that my top choice for a Ph.D. program is Northwestern?

Thinking One Step Ahead

I've learned something from Dick Cheney, and I pray that the Democrats have as well. The real election isn't for president, but for vice president. That is the catbird seat.

From that position, Cheney has sat almost completely out of reach of the long arm of the law. And if my some miracle of miracles the law was to reach him in some way, he has his trusted puppet there to pardon him.

See? Put on the show and put someone who looks good, someone who "connects" with the people and someone who will draw fire in the Oval Office. Bush has done just that. Those who say that Bush has insulated himself with cronies have it backwards. The cronies have insulated themselves with Bush. You don't dare impeach him, because Cheney is lurking, and you don't go after Cheney because Bush has the power to protect him.

What's more, as I look at the two Democratic front runners, Clinton or Obama, I fear a replay of JFK. Can't you see the news footage now? In the event that the Oval Office was unexpectedly vacated, (and I think that given the controversial nature of either candidate and the political nature of the world in which we live that's at least a possibility) I want a strong number two.

I'm no longer interested in the presidential candidate. Who are they going to put in the number two slot?

Uh, I Don't Think So.

Tomorrow was supposed to be that quarterly bonuses were to have been paid at our company. Regular readers of Ham Salad will know the seriousness of this issue when I say that management made the decision not to pay bonuses. There are some serious, serious issues with senior management and the investors. Allegedly they're working them out, but up until today there had been no real movement.

Even as late as noon my boss, the COO, was hoping for a miracle. Still, in the likelihood that an announcement would have to be made, he composed a message similar to this:

Due to a payroll timing issue, quarterly bonuses will not be paid with this payroll, but may take a couple of days to be issued.

Since I'm in charge of payroll, I took issue with that. It sounded to me that instead of saying we didn't have the money to pay bonuses, the payroll department screwed up, and once they pull their heads from their asses you'll get your money. I offered an alternative:

We had hoped to pay quarterly bonuses with this payroll. However, because of irregularities in cash flow we will not be able to issue bonuses at this time. While we hope to be able to pay bonuses in the near future we cannot anticipate when the pay date may be.

I sent that off to my boss and then stopped into his office and told him he needed to send it out. He wanted to wait. I went to a LONG lunch and came back at 2:00, to find that the message had not been sent. I marched into my boss's office and told him he needed to send the message. He said he wanted to wait until 4:00. Did I tell you that he planned to leave on a two-week vacation at 4:00? With the CEO, COO, and CFO all out on vacation, any guesses as to who would be left to mop up the carnage?

I folded my arms in the imperious way that only a six-foot-five, two-hundred-fifty-pound raging queen can and said, "Either you send out the message, or I will."

By the time I got back to my desk the message had been sent, and in less than a minute -- seriously -- I had my first employee in my office complaining about the injustice of it. What I found particularly amusing was that this was the same employee who hasn't spoken to me in a month because I told her that showing up to work an hour and a half late without calling was a problem. Now all of a sudden I'm supposed to go to bat for her bonus.

God knows what's going to happen, and at this point maybe only God cares. I'm clogging the information highway with my resume, but very few nibbles. I'm at that awkward point in a career where I have too much experience for most of the available jobs, and not enough experience for the really good ones. I've interviewed for a couple of things, but nothing has really clicked. Worst case scenario is I get laid off and can't find work while on unemployment. That would take me into the spring, which should be just months away from going back to school. If I have to I'll temp and wait tables through next summer. I'd prefer not to, but daddy's got bills to pay.

Fat!

I came home from work, turned on the television, and there on the Learning Channel was the story of the world's heaviest man. At 1230 pounds, just to look at the poor man was upsetting. He'd been bed ridden for five years and was so huge there were no clothes. But, clothes really weren't necessary because all of his privates were hidden by layer after layer of fat. He was so heavy that the fat was not depositing on his body symmetrically, with his right side larger than his left. He appeared to be a man who had fallen into an enormous vat of bread dough that had been allowed to raise for too long. Deposits of fat, each weighing between 150 and 200 pounds had built up between his thighs to the point that his legs were spread-eagle in splits. These deposits were causing toxic fluid build up in his lymph glands.

Then they started talking about his diet. The announcer, appalled said, "For lunch Paulo has five to seven tacos and half a litre of Coke."

All I could think was that they had to be bacon tacos that were deep fried and then slathered in mayonnaise and chocolate sauce. While it would be filling, I could put away seven tacos for lunch, and I could drink half a litre of Coke in a gulp. This made me feel fat.

Then the announcer introduced us to his girlfriend.

And I'm single.

Then I felt like a fat loser.

The program went on to tell how in five months Paulo went on the Zone Diet and lost a quarter of his body fat. And his girlfriend.

I felt a little better.

Turns out, Paulo's girlfriend's family thought it was a little weird to date a guy who can't get out of bed.

OK, then I stopped feeling better. Paulo's girlfriend succumbed to family pressure but she still loved him. I went into the kitchen and got my jar of peanut butter and a butter knife.

Then, mercifully the cable went out. It's just as well. If it turned out that Paulo was really Jake Gyllenhaal, I would have ordered an extra-large pepperoni, sausage, ham, bacon pizza with extra cheese and a half litre of Coke.

My First Professional Gig

The first year I came to Chicago I didn't really do any real auditioning. I had just graduated college and the prospect of actually becoming a professional actor was a little daunting. I didn't really know where to start. I had a roommate who came to Chicago with me from Drake. We went to some community theatre auditions together, but nothing serious. I remember that he and I were auditioning for a musical -- I think it might have been Pippin and we were both called back. Tom was called back to play my father. Neither of us went.

My friends Matt and Val had come to Chicago the year before, and they were taking classes at a little storefront theatre that has long since disappeared. So, since that's where they were going, I took classes there too. One of the teachers was directing Wonderful Town for a professional company in Skokie. I don't remember if I was invited to audition, or whether I signed up. Anyway, I went and was cast in the chorus. A week or so before rehearsals started the director called and asked if I'd take over one of the lead roles -- a bumbling, good-natured football player. I was thrilled. And I was terrible.

Rehearsals were exhausting and tech week actually cost me my day job. All through the run I spent my days looking for a job that would pay the bills. For the entire run I made $60. I was a star! And I was a neurotic mess. I was unemployed, needing to find my own apartment, and dealing with my father's death. It was the best of times and the worst of times.

I learned a lot from Wonderful Town. Unfortunately, it took a decade or two for the lessons to make sense. It's really true in theater. It's not what you know, but who you know. The real business of show business is making friends. Talent doesn't hurt, but it doesn't necessarily help either.

I'm trying to remember all of those lessons while I work on my writing. I'm building a nice little portfolio, but I haven't sent out a syllable yet. I sit down and read a Faulkner short story and think I'm delusional to imagine that I could ever publish something. Then I read another author and wonder what I'm waiting for.

I just have to keep pounding the keyboard. Eventually something has to come of it.

Blockage

My goal is to have a selection of twenty short stories from which to put together a collection of twelve for possible publication. I planned to have ten by the end of June and the entire collection complete by Labor Day.

By flipping through my files, I have now have nine stories and the tenth is forming in my head. At this stage some are stronger than others, some are more polished but all of them are pretty good. Or at least so I think. I've been casually reading short fiction from different writers and I don't think mine compares all that unfavorably to some, and is actually as strong as some others.

I'm feeling good about what I've got so far. July first I'm setting it all aside to start work on my Ph.D. applications. All of this is stuff that I just have to keep putting one foot in front of the other and not think about the big picture or I'll start to freak.

Waitress

I am a fool for a romantic comedy. I have seen them all -- love them all. I can say with great authority that the quintessential of the modern genre is You've Got Mail. Not my all-time favorite, but it has the formula down nice and tight. If that's taken care of, even a cinematic horror like Meg Ryan cannot mess it up.

Last night, after many attempts, my friend Cathy and I saw Waitress. It's an unpretentious little romantic comedy that understands the genre and as a result very smartly knows where to put the twists. It's a delight, and almost worth the $10 ticket price. (Understand that I hesitate to spend the $3.99 for the In Demand movies on cable. $10 is a major entertainment investment.) Think Like Water for Chocolate meets Frankie and Johnnie in the Claire de Lune with a smidge of Private Benjamin.

Two things bothered me about this movie, and both are symptomatic of the portrayal of diner staff. Working in the service industry in general, and restaurants in particular, is a great way to earn fast cash. That's why it is usually staffed with students and artistic types. It's hard work and the jobs are disposable. However, those people in the industry who are in it for the long haul tend to be very interesting, and therefore ripe material for artistic projects.

Much of the story of Waitress is set in a road-side diner, or more accurately a diner found deep in the middle of the woods, and it seems to require a Greyhound Bus to get to it. OK, I can suspend my disbelief that far. Keri Russel plays the title character, a heart-of-gold young woman who loves her job, but finds herself caught in a terrible situation. The "loves her job" part is important. Aside from the fact that every movie waitress from Mildred Pierce to Keri Russel has loved her job, she's also supposed to be the greatest thing to ever walk in orthopedic oxfords.

So, why is it that every waitress since Mildred Pierce (Joan actually got this right) does not know how to serve a glass of water? I've worked with a few diner wonder waitresses, and they all know you NEVER touch the rim of the glass. Yet in the movies they all come to a table, cradling a tray against their bosoms, chewing gum and contaminating their customer's beverages. We can CGI entire galaxies, but we cannot require our actresses to do some basic research. Disgraceful.

The second point is that we're supposed to believe that rail-thin Keri Russel with her professional lip liner is supposed to be a blue-collar waitress. She's supposed to be a little frumpy, with low self esteem. Keri Russel is the Hollywood version of frumpy?

Now, I understand that the romantic comedy is fantasy. That's why I go to them. It's never going to happen in my life -- eyes lock from across a crowded room, violins swell, and romantic hilarity ensues -- but for ninety minutes I can dream. But please, don't insult what little intelligence I have to engage by telling me Keri Russel is frumpy and that she doesn't know how to serve a glass of water.

It's Not in My Head

Lots of clerical work at work. I hate it. Had a meeting with the manager who imitated me in a meeting. She can barely conceal her hatred of me, but she's been told that she has to do what I say.

In another meeting, my boss was mocked by two other managers. He made a point, and they laughed at him. It was shocking. Because they've both expressed their contempt for him to me, I knew that I was not mistaken in how I was interpreting their laughter. But two other people, plus my boss mentioned the outburst to me -- all three of them completely unprompted by me.

So, I met with both of the managers separately and told them that their outburst was inappropriate and probably did not serve their own interests. I told them both that they would be forever defined, at least in part, by that outburst. The more junior of the two managers got defensive and spent nearly half an hour trying to justify his actions, saying my boss doesn't deserve any respect. He ultimately said he was going to apologize. He's yet to do it.

The allegedly more senior manager listened politely to my little speech and responded with, "Point taken." And then we moved on.

This is the kind of people I'm dealing with on a day-to-day basis.

Well, I've avoided my story long enough. It's going well...

Huddle's

My father was selfless in a lot of ways. He worked a job that paid almost nothing, as a graphic artist in the days before all of that work was done on computers. He designed and produced all of the large logos that were used on the sides of cargo trains and semi trucks. If you see a cargo train with a logo on the side, chances are very good that even today my father designed it. How my father made ends meet is a mystery to me. When he died, more than twenty years ago, he was making about eight dollars an hour. With that money he saw it to that my sister and I have nearly everything we wanted. It wasn't until I went away to college that I knew I'd grown up poor.

The one extravagence that my father allowed was his vacation. For one week in August every year he managed to scrape together enough money to take the family to a fishing resort in Minnesota. The first resort was The Rainbow Resort on Lake Osakis. It was called Rainbow Resort because each of the cabins was painted a different color. The year I was five was also the year that the heater in our cabin malfunctioned. The first night there I woke up and threw up all over the bed my sister and I were sharing. My sister screamed and that woke my grandmother, who first was very angry at first, but then she smelled gas and got us out of the cabin. Although that was also the summer my parent divorced, in family storytelling that summer was forever known as "the summer we got gassed." That was also the last summer we stayed at Rainbow.

The next resort was on the same lake. It was Sunset Resort. Although my parents were divorced, somehow they managed to be civil long enough to take a family vacation. There are pictures at Sunset of my mother in a white and blue swimsuit with a little white skirt and the brightest sunburn ever recorded. I remember spinning on the merry-go-around and singing and a lady telling me that I had a good voice. My sister and I invented "Mr. Weatherbee" which was a swimming game. Most of our days were spent running in and out of the lake, tracking sand into the cabin, and being good-naturedly scolded for doing so. It was vacation, so it didn't really matter.

Later, when my mother started seeing another man, she stopped going on the family vacations. When that happened, my father started taking us to another resort, further north, to Leech Lake. The resort was my father's idea of high class. It had a lodge and family events. The first year we stayed there my grandmother would sat with me on bingo night and I remember the year I won ten dollars. She made me stop playing. I have never in my life felt richer than I did that week. That was the her last year with us.

By the time I turned eighteen, I was pretty much over the fishing resort vacations. My sister and I went, of course but we'd outgrown the excitement of sitting in a boat and catching perch. My sister and I dreaded those trips and I think my father resented that. Once I went to college the trips stopped completely.

In 1999 I was working a very stressful job for a multi-national consulting company and when it came time to schedule a vacation I remembered that resort. The idea of being among the trees, doing nothing seemed exotic at that moment so I found the resort online and booked a cabin. Huddle's had not changed a bit. Roy Huddle, who owned the resort seemed to recognize me, but I didn't identify myself. He'd have remembered my father, and probably me, but I just wanted to keep my memories to myself.

Well, as a treat to myself I've booked another week at the end of August. Me, my laptop, a stack of books, and a lake. In a lot of ways it's the closest I have of being able to go home. It will be the perfect vacation.

Mish-Mash

I apologize, but this is going to ramble. I'm just throwing thoughts up to get them out.

I finished another rough draft for a short story this weekend. This one doesn't have a plot so much as events. I'm not sure that's bad, but I've got to weave the events into a narrative structure. So, I have four of the predetermined twenty that I need. I'm really struggling to come up with the next one. I have absolutely no ideas. I'm looking at a couple of writing books I bought a few years ago. I'm going to flip through them tonight and see what comes.

Work is still hideous, but I think I have a handle on it. It has always been my practice to assume that if a situation was a mess I had a hand in creating that mess and it was my responsibility to determine what that was and fix it. That philosophy has caused me many, many difficult moments. However, with this situation I'm taking a different approach. Nothing is my fault. My only responsibility is not to do something that will aggravate the situation. It feels like I'm being judgemental, and perhaps I am, but the truth is I work with some genuinely hateful, evil people. I don't like thinking about them in those terms, but several of them are so miserable personally that they lash out, and because of my position within the company I'm an easy target.

The employment situation may change, though. I had an interview with another company on Friday. I have no idea if they'll hire me, but it was a very good conversation and if it comes through I'm going to take it.

The down side to a possible new job, and this one in particular, would mean that I'd have to buy a car. I've never owned one and I have some very definite feelings about them. At four dollars a gallon for gas, and the threat of planetary extinction -- not to mention the war for oil we're waging (and let us not forget the impending student loans that will need to be paid) the last thing I need is to buy a car. The car will be a major factor in my decision, scary decision.

Stamina

I'm working on another short story. This one is clearer in my head but I seem only to get about two pages out at a time, and what I've got so far is only a shadow of what it should be.

And I'm exhausted. I'm tense. I'm at my Caribou Coffee watching beautiful men. It's raining and my bike is outside, seat absorbing water.

I'm wasting time surfing the net, posting whiny blathering on my blog.

Weekends aren't long enough.

Wicked

Of late, I've been trying to read contemporary fiction. If that's what I want to write, then I should be familiar with what is selling. I have a stack of books I've collected over the past three years that I've promised I would read once I finished my degree.

I graduate tomorrow.

The first book I read is Wicked by Gregory Maguire. Written in 1995, I expected a campy re-telling of the Oz story. Instead it's a straight-forward fantasy piece that humanizes the legendary Wicked Witch of the West, and ostensibly examines the definition and evolution of evil.

It's a long book. Four hundred and nine pages, with very long stretches of two characters holding philosophical discussions. There is humor, particularly in the early sections but as the book progresses the humor either evaporates or becomes forced. Maguire really wants to deal with some weighty themes but almost seems trapped by the genre. Frank L. Baum, the originator of the Oz stories, may have worked subliminally with big themes -- good vs. evil -- but he first and foremost delivered a story that transcended the ages. The Oz books were wildly popular at the beginning of the twentieth century, far more so than even Harry Potter -- and that was in the age before mass media brainwashing. That popularity comes from Baum's ability to tell a story. He's done the hard part for Maguire, creating characters and laying a template, and Maguire doesn't fully capitalize on it. Baum's stories are all action, but philosophy supercedes action in Maguire, almost to the point that action seems an afterthought. Sadly, the philosophy isn't that profound either. Granted, I've just finished graduate school so I've just spent that last three years reading some of the most intricate and convoluted philosophy ever committed to paper. Still, lack of original story, forced humor, weak action, dime-store philosophy, and still the cover proclaims, "More Than 1 Million Copies in Print." Presumably those copies have sold. If that's the case, my confidence level has risen a notch or two.

Maguire has hit on and been wildly successful with a technique that I've used: telling an established story from the point of view of a minor character. My first - virtually unreadable -- novel is a retelling of The Cherry Orchard from the maid's point of view. It's a great exercise, and one I recommend for any writer because it really forces you to examine what a master has done with his or her storytelling and deconstruct the mechanics of the work.

Wicked is actually Macguire's second book. I've also got his first, Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister. I suspect that might actually be a better book. There are others, but unlike Michael Cunningham or Doris Lessing, I'm not sure I'm interested in his entire canon.

Since I'm concentrating creating short fiction right now, I've decided I need to read some masters of that genre. Doris Lessing is my favorite and one of my role models. Well into her nineties and she's still churning out admirable work. If you've not read her, you must. Months ago a friend gave me a slim collection of Annie Proulx's work, Bad Dirt: Wyoming Stories 2. Proulx wrote Brokeback Mountain, which I've not read. I've started the first story in this collection, and she's very, very good.

Sanctity

I am not easily shocked. I might be easily offended, but to truly shock me you have to really get creative. This article and headline shocked me to the point of nearly cancelling my AOL subscription.

Political figures, religious figures, Paris Hilton -- even my mother -- are all fair game for jokes and light-hearted essays. A fluff piece on global warming suggesting that there are "pluses" to the northern hemisphere if the planet heats up a few degrees, AND if there is a down side, it really won't matter because it will all happen long after we're dead? Shocking.

Now, let me preface all of this by saying that I have not done any in-depth study of the issue. My knowledge is based on the general news, discussion, and political rhetoric. My suspicion is that global warming is a serious problem, but that for political reasons the situation has been made a little more dramatic than necessary.

After all, to be successful politically you need a bad guy to rail against. The current administration has chosen the Muslim straw man. That, however, cannot last forever. With technology shrinking the planet, the otherness of Afghanistan will be virtually gone in my lifetime. Early Christianity had it right: create a bad guy who is omnipresent, yet invisible so that when there is a political enemy, you can paint him with the bad-guy brush. Satan, Christians, Al-Quaida...and now "Global Warming."

Don't misunderstand: I think that most of the deep problems of this country and the world can all be traced back to corporate greed, including the institutionalization of African slavery in European and American cultures, and beyond. The root of all evil isn't money, or even the love of money. The root of all evil is the willingness to sacrifice absolutely anything for the collection of money. Up until now, the highest price to pay for financial wealth has been human dignity.

Now, it appears that our planet, and by extension even our very existence are up for sale. And even if we're not at the point of total annihilation just yet, this is the quintessential slippery slope and not a topic I'm willing to see splashed about with articles about the trials and travails of Paris Hilton.

But, even setting Armaggedon aside, there's something more insidious in this article. Yes, human life may be sustainable in the Northern Hemisphere for a period of time if we lose the polar ice caps. But what about everyone south of Spain, Russia, and the U.S.? Think about that for a second. Who lives in the Northern Hemisphere, primarily, and what peoples live around the equator? What about them?

Finally Writing

I just finished my first post-graduate piece of short fiction. It's not bad, but the fundamental problem I had with my fiction before I went back to school still remains. I can create characters, dialogue comes fairly easy, building conflict, describing setting -- all of that I think I can do fairly well. For the life of me, I cannot come up with compelling plots. The plots tend to center on subtle character development, especially in my short fiction. And while I see the development, it's sometimes lost on my readers.

I've promised myself to have a cohesive collection of short fiction by the end of the summer. I think if I had fifteen to twenty pieces, I'd have a fair selection from which to pick for publication proposals, with perhaps ten to twlve being in the final selections. Right now, I have three fresh pieces and I think I have three more that I can polish up. None of them are too action driven. That's OK, if I can come up with some stories in which something really happens. But taking the glass-half-full view: almost a third of the way! I'm going to devote the rest of June to short fiction, exclusively. Then July is going to be divided between new fiction and polishing up my academic pieces for my writing portfolio. Come Labor Day I want to move on to a collection of essays based on my acting experiences -- and begin to start submitting my short stories.

And I'm just going to ignore that little voice that screams that my writing is mediocre. I'm sure I'll get enough in the way of rejection slips to confirm that suspicion.

Heinous

The people I work with would eat their young. I used to feel bad, like I wasn't doing a good job, but I don't anymore. Almost without exception the people I work with are self-absorbed, viscious, lying beasts with a veneer of charm.

Now, there are those who have said the same about me. The difference, I think, is that with my self absorbtion comes a dollup of self awareness. No matter how socially awkward I might be, I have never called someone stupid. I have never mimicked someone. I have never lied and called someone a liar.

I've been contacted about another job and the interview is on Friday. As much as I hate the idea of spending the next year being the new guy again, I'm not sure I want to spend it being called a stupid faggot anymore either.

The Return of the King

James Wolcott has gotten annoying of late. His posts have become all style and rarefied substance -- a pre-Revolution Versailles, full of self reference and smug.

And then on a dime, he re-engages and sends a mini-essay that reminds me why I enjoy reading him. Of late, as I finish up my final projects and contemplate WHAT'S NEXT, I'm finding writing all over the place that I wish I'd written. I don't aspire to Wolcott's style, but I do envy his elegance.

The E-Mail I Cannot Send

Ann:

I've needed a couple of days in deciding how to respond to a brief moment that happened in our meeting with Marty earlier this week.

I believe you were trying to make the point that certain employees are reluctant to come and talk to me because I am viewed as reactionary. You've certainly made that claim on more than on occasion in the past. I'm not completely sure what your point was in our meeting with Marty because Marty interrupted to tell you that your attitude to our discussion wasn't appropriate. Your specific point, I believe, was to tell me that that I over-reacted in a meeting with you and Nova in which the two of you expressed concerns about the work assignments I was proposing for Claudia Xxxx. I explained to you that for a moment I felt like I'd been ambushed. In that meeting with Nova, and again in the meeting with Marty, we covered this issue thoroughly, so I don't think it needs to be rehashed here. As far as I'm concerned, that particular matter is resolved. However, in that discussion with Nova, and again with Marty, I told you that I was particularly sensitive to the issue of being told that employees might feel like they couldn't come and talk to me. In the past you've expressed the opinion I'm too quick to get angry, and I'll allow that is a possibility. Whether or not I've been successful, I can tell you that I have gone to great pains to be respectful and accommodating in my dealings with you.

I wish, however that could be the end of this discussion, but I'm afraid it isn't.

In the conversation with Marty we also discussed Erica Xxxx. (I have recently had two meetings with her, one in which I expressed my disappointment at her blatant tardiness and her disregard for me by not calling me when she was nearly an hour and a half late. In a second meeting with her I expressed my disappointment at her resistance to making suggestions for adjustments to the workflow in your division as a result of Mackenzie's resignation.) Your implication, again, was that Erica in particular and to a lesser extent the administrative staff in general, might feel they cannot talk to me for fear of my reactions, and that you wanted to act as some sort of buffer between me and the staff in future meetings. Since this is not the first time you've made this implication -- unfairly in my opinion -- I've been very careful to keep an open line of communication with all of the administrative staff -- those servicing your division in particular -- telling them that if there is an issue they need to discuss, and they are not comfortable talking to me, they should meet with Marty or Mike Xxxx. I have been assured repeatedly by all of the administrative staff on more than one occasion -- Erica included -- that they are comfortable in meeting with me. I have written communications from employees that they enjoy working with me.

In your attempt to illustrate your point, twice you offered an imitation of me, specifically categorizing my reaction during our meeting with Nova as "melodramatic," and stating that "People don't talk that way." I'm not sure if it is my mannerisms you find offensive, my use of the word furious, the tone of my voice...I don't know. To be honest, I was so taken aback at being mocked, I thought I might have imagined it. I asked Marty the next day if he noticed your demonstration, and he told me that he did and that he was surprised by it as well. I did not imagine it.

I've spoken to several people about this, so as to be sure not to over-react, and I'm putting this in writing so as not to over-emphasize or over-dramatize my point. While there may or may not have been some merit to the substance of your comments, I have to say that imitating a person for any reason really does not serve your point effectively. We've already established your opinion that I tend to over-react, but if there is a proper reaction to being mocked in a business meeting I'm at a loss to know what that might be.

What's more, since I am the only gay employee at XXXX, I'm not sure if your performance was meant to imply that certain employees are reluctant to talk to me because I'm gay. Your impersonation of me certainly could be interpreted as an an attempt at a gay stereotype. That's how I took it. I'm not entirely sure what your intention was by imitating me. I can tell you that in my experience, such mocking gestures have been an attempt at marginalizing and humiliating the person being imitated. While I'd like to believe you wouldn't do that, that you were in some way trying to be helpful, especially to a colleague who has gone out of his way to build and maintain a cordial working relationship, up to and including having you to his home for dinner, I honestly cannot be sure.

Obviously I feel strongly enough about this issue to take the personal steps I feel necessary to maintain some sort of dignity and self respect. I wanted you to know that I find being mocked for any reason unacceptable. I leave it up to you to decide whether your behavior was appropriate.

The Chapter Begins to End

I have just come home from the final meeting of my last class for my masters degree.

I don't remember either my last class for undergrad or high school, but I do remember when both of those chapters of my life felt like they were over.

High school was a torture for me. I haven't written much about it for two reasons: 1) it was so long ago it's virtually irrelevant, and 2) a miserable high-school experience is almost the Common American Experience.

I graduated from high school in a small, affluent town in northwest Iowa. My family was not affluent, and for the most part neither were the families of the kids I hung out with. Linda's father seemed to be eternally unemployed; Carol's parents were retired; Mark and Mary's mother was supporting nine kids on a nurse's salary; I think Dennis's mother tended bar; and Beth's parents were struggling through the Great Demise of the Family Farm. My father was a sign painter who at his death made a little over $8 an hour and my mother...was my mother. I spent most of my teen-age years trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, waiting for the moment when I would go to college and could be myself.

I took a bus from Le Mars to Des Moines, which is basically an all-day affair. The bus left early on a Friday morning and I had everything I owned, including a pillow and a copy of the complete works of Shakespeare, packed into two suitcases. My mother and sister said good-bye to me at the house and my father drove me to the laundromat where the bus stopped. When I got there Mark, Mary, and Carol were waiting to see me off. I don't really remember too much except that as the bus pulled away my father was standing next to his ancient white station wagon, waving his frayed fishing hat while my friends ran after the bus, waving and screaming. That is the moment when my childhood officially ended.

The day I graduated from Drake was a hot, mid-May Sunday. My family came to see me receive my diploma, Mom driving in from Seattle and my father and sister driving down from Le Mars. I was surprised that my father made it, not because he didn't care. He just didn't usually attend these types of things and I honestly didn't expect him. I don't remember where the ceremony was held -- some large sports arena -- and I don't remember too much about the ceremony except that my friend Jill's family made the most noise when she walked across the stage, and she walked across right before I did. I remember the instant I received that little black book -- I mean that fraction of a second -- I wanted to hand it back and say, "OOO! I know what this was supposed to have been. Do overs!"

In part, I went into grad school as an undergrad do over. Of course, very quickly I realized that this experience wasn't going to be anything like the womb of four years of undergraduate work. As an undergrad, it was the people who had the most impact on my life. In graduate school, it's been the actual study.

I write this, and I wonder what did I learn? In class tonight the professor gushed about the quality of writing in the class and how some of us were destined for great careers. He wasn't talking about me; he told me as much in my individual evaluation with him. But tonight wasn't about seeking validation from a professor. I find myself asking bigger questions. How am I a different person from the one who started this degree? Did I learn anything? Is my professor right and the best I can ever aspire to is ephemeral mediocrity? Those are probably unfair questions to ask at this point. I still have projects to turn in, a diploma to accept school loans to repay, a Pulitzer to win...

Whether I'm a new and improved version of myself; whether I'm wiser; or whether I can ever rise above the pedestrian, I can't help feeling like a new chapter is beginning, and that the possibilities for me are only limited by myself. As a writer, I should sum this up with a pithy, yet profound insight, but unfortunately I have to close with the observation that maybe the cliche is true for me. Only time will tell...

Buzz Kill

The picture of this little girl, wounded in Iraq, came from Rosie O'Donnell's website. Now, I realize that it's kind of a buzz kill, especially for those who come to Ham Salad for the unrelenting joy to be found here normally. The problem is, we see so few images from this war that make it real and specific. There is nothing that could do a better job than this picture. Like most of the citizens of Iraq, she had nothing to do with the beginning of the this war. I sometimes think those who were so zealous to show Al-Quaida we mean business forget that it's people like this little girl who pay the heaviest price.

Random Updates

So much to write about, and as is typically my problem I don't know where to start. So, quick updates on random topics:

School:

I'm finishing my final reading assignment, then on to critiques of class projects, then on to finishing rewrites of my projects. Then graduation.

I'm really conflicted about graduating. If it's not apparent from my posts, I'm mentally fatigued. Yet I'm dreading the lack of structure that not being in class brings. Every summer I've gone through an emotional period of about three weeks when a class ends. There is no chorus until September, so that just leaves work.

Work:

The emotionally stunted people I work with drain me of any initiative I might generate.

Writing & Reading:

This is actually a fairly exciting area for me. With freedom from academia, I'm able to devote some time to the reading and writing I want to do. I've been sneaking some time with Joan Didion, who is allegedly the guru of creative nonfiction. While I'm enjoying The Year of Magical Thinking and recognize quality writing, I'm not finding it to be jealousy-inducing work. I have not found a must-read author in Didion that I discovered in Faulkner last summer.

As for writing, I have two essay collections rattling around in my head, an idea for a collection of short stories, not to mention my novel that is begging to be re-written. I have to find a way to translate enthusiasm into discipline.

Condo:

I'm at the painting stage, but I'm waiting to hear about new windows. If they're going in this summer, I'll wait to paint.

Politics:

I'm beginning to wonder if a monarchy isn't a bad idea. I'm having difficulty generating enthusiasm for any candidates, but I've definitely eliminated Clinton, Guiliani, McCain, and Romney. I'm less than enthusiastic for Edwards. Obama hasn't really proved himself to me, but he gets kudos for disclosing his income tax report to the media while others hesitate or refuse. I'm willing to give Biden a chance to reform himself, but I'm not hopeful. Kucinich belongs in the next administration's cabinet, along with Sharpton (I know he's not running this time around.)

At the moment I think a campaign between Paul and Gore might be the most productive for the country, but I'm not confident in either men as a world leader yet.

RP

Nothing until September.