Pollyana Says...

One of our customer service people quit from a division that is "over-worked." By over-worked, I mean that in order to get a full-day's work done, the people in that division have show up to work within half an hour of starting time and limit their socializing to half-hour blocks of time.

It was decided that the customer service person, we'll call her Buffy, would not be replaced, and I was charged with the task of finding out how to spread the work out among the other five customer service people.

Now, you have to understand my perspective. When I was doing all of the transactional work in human resources, I supported four hundred employees, processing payroll paperwork, insurance claims, conducting orientations and doing most of the recruiting for twelve dialysis clinics. I did this for three years and never put in a minute's worth of overtime. When I left they hired three people to replace me.

Since that time, I've won two service awards. The first was in creating and implementing a performance management system for two hundred HR managers who did not want to do performance evaluations, and thought they knew more than I did; the second was to receive an award for service in my cafe -- the one I took over in an effort to keep it from being closed and ultimately increased its capacity by two hundred percent -- all with no advertising or major staff changes.

You could say I know a thing or two about customer service and efficiency.

I can't go into specifics about the company where I currently work, but suffice it to say it's in a very competitive and specialized industry. Also, the company where I work has been dying a slow economic death for the last seven years, in large part because of the way they do business. A new management team was brought in to improve things.

So, it will come as no surprise that every suggestion for change is met with, "Well, in our business you can't do that because..." The phrase is followed by a laundry list of reasons and potential Armaggedon scenarios, and the person who makes the suggestion is made to feel like a complete imbecile and un-Christian for even suggesting a change in the way they've always done it.

So, I've met with the remaining five customer service people and gotten a list of their duties. Then I met with the people for whom Buffy's clients. No one will believe me, but Buffy wasn't all that busy, and no one seems to get the concept that a job might have taken half an hour because there was a half an hour in which to do the job.

I'm such a radical!

But what I'm discovering is something new about myself. Throughout my life, I've been in make-it-work situations. You know, situations in which you either make it work, or you don't. And if you don't you might not have a roof over your head or food on the table. Those kinds of situations. And I have found that in every one of those situations, if I ever took the tack that I couldn't make the situation work, it wouldn't work. Yes, I've had a number of failures in situations where I was certain of success; but I've never had a success when I was certain of failure.

Another One Bites the Dust

Cindy Sheehan has decided to what appears to be the American thing to do and put her life first. After two years of service to the American public, and the loss of her son, I think she's entitled to do just that. While I think it is probably the right thing for her to do personally, I'm deeply saddened by two things. First, that there is no one really to take up her cause, and second that after two years she's not retiring because the job is done, but because she's become so disheartened with the apathetic American public that she feels as a society we're beyond redemption. She's given up.

This is what it means to lose a war. I believe that Al-Quaida's goal is not military domination or even the annihilation of the American people. Their goal is simply to break the American spirit. At the heart of the American spirit is the cherished responsibility to challenge authority, to stand up for beliefs, and to work to affect change. Cindy Sheehan will no longer be doing that.

There have been nearly 3,500 American deaths in Iraq, but Cindy Sheehan is the casualty that really signals the loss of the war. The George Bushes aren't Al-Quaida's enemy. They are Al-Quaida's play things. Al-Quaida is smart enough to know that they can't change the George Bushes, but they can control them. Bush and his ilk are as predictable as the sun. Al-Quaida knows how to provoke George Bush. The Republican party has shown the way to condition the American public to knee-jerk respond to specific stimuli and were too mesmerized or too lazy to control that response.

The Cindy Sheehans are the ones that Al-Quaida should fear. They have the guts to stand up for their beliefs, even when those beliefs may not be popular. They demand to be counted. That is the American spirit and today we had another crack in it.

Memorial Day

I have a paper due tomorrow, analyzing my professor's single-most significant literary achievement. I've read -- or more accurately, waded -- through the "tome," but I just cannot get myself to sit down and commit my comments to paper. All that keeps running through my mind is, "Give me the damn diploma already!"

While reading the book, great ideas for short stories kept running through my head, and I found myself resenting having to spend my time reading a marginally interesting book, when I could be writing marginally interesting short works. I completed the second half of the book while spending time at my little coffee shop, sitting outside and enjoying the most perfect of perfect days. I know that if I'd had my laptop with me, or a pencil -- heck, chalk -- I'd have started putting a story together. As it was, I tried to continue reading while keeping details in my head. I've jotted a few notes, but what is clear is that my first major project will be a collection of short fiction. I have enough drafts and pieces that can be re-written that I should be able to assemble a coherent collection with at least a vague theme. I'm not really going to give myself a deadline, but I'm thinking it should be complete by Labor Day.

So, while I was reading and clinging to mental details for my story, I was also returning to my thoughts of Rosie O'Donnell. These thoughts, of course, lead to the war. And as I sat in my little sidewalk cafe, reading a nearly completely spurious book, I became very sad at the realization that on the other side of the planet there were young men and women who were dying, believing that their deaths allowed me to enjoy my perfect Sunday afternoon. Whether that is actually the case or not I cannot say. I can, however, ask the question, why do I deserve this? Do any of us?

And with this unprecedented ease, comfort, and privilege, what do we do? One of my favorite periods in history is the French Revolution. As a child, one of the first books I read cover to cover was a biography of Marie Antoinette. I remember being taken by the description of her little charades as a shepherdess and the little village she'd had built at Versailles. When I went to Paris, I took the train to Versailles just to see that village. It still stands, miniature two-story buildings that are hollow. There's nothing in them.

This is Memorial Day, a time when we remember and honor those who gave their lives -- Gave. Their. Lives. -- so that we could live ours. I find myself haunted by the question, can I do something worthy of such a sacrifice? Is enjoying a glass of ice tea on a Sunday afternoon enough?

The knee-jerk, nihilistic answer is no. But then I have to examine that answer, challenge it. What if that is enough? What if it is?

Viewing a Dream

I honestly don't know why I'm so effected by this dust up on The View. I respect Rosie O'Donnell, but I'm not a rabid fan. If I'm home during a weekday and there is absolutely nothing to do, I might flip on The View for a few minutes at the beginning to listen to them discuss current events, but I don't think I saw one session while Rosie's was on the show.

Still, I'm bothered by the clip that I've posted. I even dreamed about it last night. The dream wasn't about Rosie and Elisabeth. I was in a class, an art composition class, that was being taught by a young man and there were two other students, twins who looked an awful lot like Alicia Silverstone. Anyway, the teacher started talking about painting composition. I don't remember the substance of the discussion, but I remember thinking that the guy didn't know what he was talking about. I asked a question, trying to get a grip on his perspective because it was so radically different from mine, and it was clear that the twin sitting next to him thought my question was the dumbest thing she'd ever heard. She didn't say anything, but she looked down at the table, smirking. Her sister on the other hand appeared to be following the conversation. The teacher didn't appreciate the question, either because he couldn't answer it or because he too thought it was stupid. So, he brushed it off.

I did not appreciate that. At this point the dream became very clear. I asked the professor who his supervisor was.

"Dr. Barber."

"And, isn't your name Barber?"

"Yes."

"Interesting."

Then the dream refocused back to that fuzzy area where I could kind of see what was going on, but hear nothing. The teacher tried to set up a composition for painting, and even with my limited knowledge I could see that it was bad. The smirking twin was intent on the lecture, but her sister could also see that the class was worthless. I decided the class wasn't for me and I left.

I find that clip very interesting, because in it I see the tyranny of the nice. Elisabeth is the nice, sweet, all-American little mom, and to quote Rosie, she's the 'big, fat, loud, lesbian.' From the clip, I get that behind the scenes there was never a moment when Elisabeth came up to Rosie and said, "I know the media is being hard on you, and that we don't politically agree, but I want you to know that I still think you're a good person." Instead, she said nothing.

Make no mistake: that little dust up was more about personal issues between those two women than it was about politics. What I find interesting is the passive-aggressive position that Hasselbeck takes.

Because I've been in similar positions as Rosie, I really feel for her. One of the reasons I've taken up writing is because it requires a thoughtful selection of words. I experienced it at work recently. A person took part of what I said, dismissed the rest, and whipped up a whole drama in which I was "vicimizing" her. Fortunately, I have a handbook that pretty much dictates how I handle situations and it was very clear in short order that this woman was playing games.

That's what I see with Elisabeth Hasselbeck. She waited for the moment when Rosie would string three or four words together that could be taken out of context and then she sprang. The problem then is that either with, or without her knowlege, Hasselbeck had a conservative media machine taking those words and recontextualizing them in order to create a "Baghdad Rose" out of Rosie O'Donnell. And instead of recognizing it as a smear campaign, it appears that Hasselbeck bought into it, without examining the agenda behind it.

This little situation is going to haunt me for a while.

A Grim View

Rosie O'Donnell resigned from The View today, three weeks before the expiration of her contract.

Regardless of whether you happen to share Rosie's political views, (and I do) you must concede that in an era where public statements by celebrities (including politicians, who today are little more than celebrities) are either vapid or vetted by spin doctors, Ms. O'Donnell demonstrated the essence of the American spirit by speaking her mind. When I heard her point of view, I was sure that Rosie had done her own legwork in forming that position. She'd done the reading and she articulated her own thoughts. She was not basing her statements on information she was fed by handlers or propaganda cycled through a media machine from a defensive administration.

There will be those who will castigate Rosie for being too emotional and for losing her nerve, but I think that's an unfair assessment of the situation. Ms. O'Donnell never asked to be the lone voice howling in this war-mongering maelstrom. She should be a single voice in a chorus demanding action from the American public and government to 1) end this war, and 2) punish those who initiated, mismanaged, and ultimately lost this war. Instead she was confronted with a blond Cupie doll who could posture as a victim every time the logic of her borrowed points of view were challenged. America will succumb to the tyranny of the weak, or those who adopt the appearance of the weak every time.

Rosie, is loud and abrasive, but she's also an American and what we've witnessed today is the result of a relentless passive-aggressive attack from the political right in this country to silence a popular critic.

Rosie O'Donnell will not be last to be silenced, but I hope America wakes up before the all the voices of dissent are eliminated. We don't have that many left.

Awareness

Dedicated readers of Ham Salad know that I have never posted a video clip before, but I thought this exchange was very important.

Joy Behar's statements at the beginning of the clip are really the reason to watch this, and Rosie O'Donnell lets her speak. It's when Elisabeth Hasselbeck tries to define the war that things go wrong.

Here's an idea: What if they all were right?

Here's another idea: What if the reason we're in a war in Iraq is because we allowed it?

No one seems to remember that the U.N. Peacekeepers were inspecting Iraq and were saying that there was no evidence of WMD's. And while it's true that we're there now and we need to focus on getting out, it can NEVER be forgotten how we got there.

That said, one the one hand, as much as I oppose the war, I think it is a mistake to publish a timetable for leaving Iraq. On the other hand, war is escalating in the Middle East. If we don't get out of Iraq soon, we will be driven out by a war with Iran, Syria, Pakistan, and all of the other countries over there who want to preempt a U.S. invasion. Given our conduct and rationale for this war, they would have every right to do just that. We cannot win a multi-front war on the other side of the planet, and we'll have no allies. We will go it alone. We will have to institute a draft. We will be incredibly vulnerable to domestic attacks. And I believe that if this happens during this administration, we will feel justified in using nuclear weapons. If that happens, all bets are off.

There is, however, some good coming out of this war. Slowly. Painfully, I think America is becoming aware and re-engaging in world politics. It's not too late for us to reclaim the high ground and to lead the world to peace. It is not only too late, but it is our responsibility to do that.

And by "our" I mean "your." I mean "my." It's not up to Barak Obama or Hillary Clinton or Rudy Guiliani or John McCain. It is your responsibility to take a stand on world peace.

I've asked it before, and I ask it again: What are you going to do?

Terrorist

What is the definition of terrorist? The American Oxford Dictionary: a person who uses or favors violent and intimidating methods of coercing a government or community.

Now, I ask you: Why are we in Iraq? I'm not interested in the real reason, at least for the purposes of discussion. As I understand it, we went to Iraq as a preemptive strike against forces who have sworn to destroy the United States. It was believed that Iraq harbored such forces, or at the very least supported them.

"We are fighting them over there so we don't have to fight them here."

In addition, if I understand the reasoning, we went into Iraq to depose Saddam.

In my view, the flaws in these reasonings are many and obvious, and not the point of this post. I want to focus on the word "terrorist."

"A person who uses or favors violent and intimidating methods of coercing a government or community."

Now I have another question: do two wrongs make a right? How do you take the high road when you use the same (or worse) tactics as your opponent?

Frankly, I do not think the American troops are terrorists. I think they're dupes. I think the vast majority of them thought joining the military was the best available career option and I think that the American government has taken advantage of them.

That said, I'd also like to add that I think it is a very dangerous thing to talk about the American government as if it was a discrete entity. WE are the American government, each and every one of us, whether we voted for the current administration or not. That's the price you pay for American liberty. This war is being fought in my name by...

"A person who uses or favors violent and intimidating methods of coercing a government or community."

I wish I knew where it came from, but my mother sent me the best quote today regarding Jerry Falwell. I'm paraphrasing:

You're supposed to say something nice about someone when they die, so here it is: At least the son of a bitch is biodegradable.

That pretty much sums it up.

Random Updates

• After this week's drama surrounding parking, it was good to spend yesterday with other condo owners sprucing up the yard. It was perfect weather as opposed to the cold and threat of rain we have today. I think I mended fences and should have no trouble getting on the board when one of them leaves soon.
• The kitchen-floor guy simply decided that he didn't want to work yesterday, so he just called to say he'll finish the job on Wednesday, which means another wasted vacation day from work. But what's done so far is beautiful.
• RP has another post up on Match.com. Since I'm taking a break from the chorus, I won't see him again until September.
• In the absence of RP, I think I've come across a Virtual Prototype, (VP). I seem to be developing a thing for Harry Connick, Jr. I guess it's true: the heart wants what it wants.
• Work is depressing. I hate virtually everyone there.
• School is a drag, but I only have three weeks until graduation.
• Writing is actually going well.
• I am falling more deeply in love with my little neighborhood coffee shop, Charmers. The entire staff appears to be lesbian.

Fussy Cat

My cat is twenty years old, and he's been with me since birth. He's very vocal. One summer the electricity went out during a heat wave and he made sounds I haven't heard come from a tenor.

Butch is very fussy. He will only eat food immediately after its come out of a can. When he's finished, the remaining food can sit there for days. I know, because we occasionally fight that battle of wills and more often than not I relent and open a new can. I keep some dry food out for him, but really it's for decoration. He never touches it. Lately, Butch has become fussy about his water. He needs fresh every couple of hours. He's fussiest about his litter box. He's never been a cat to bury his turds, and if there's one turd in there he'll walk around complaining until its removed. If there are two turds in his box, and he needs to make a third, he will make a deposit anywhere he damn well feels like. It's his loving way of letting me know he's being neglected.

However, he's become less fussy about his fur and at the moment its a matted mess. If you give some of the knots a tug, slabs of fur come off and expose his pink skin. So far we've cleared up the knots under his neck and along his ribcage. But there are still matted messes on his chest, stomach, lower flanks and his potty area. Some of the knots have been so uncomfortable they've effected his walking. Sometimes he complains when you try to cut them off, and sometimes he just sits and purrs.

Is this what marriage is like?

Contractors

Today was supposed to be the day that my new kitchen floor was installed. The guy showed up, tore up the old floor, laid the subflooring, and then said he couldn't complete the job until the back door was removed, cut, and rehung.

I hate getting angry, but when I called to see if there was someone I could get to come out to cut the door, I was told, "We don't do that, and it's in the contract..."

I interrupted the man on the other end of the phone, "I understand you don't do that, but your man wants to take my back door off it's hinges and leave it that way for a week. That can't happen. Can you recommend someone?"

"We don't do that, and it's in the contract that this might be a possibility and that we can't take responsibility..."

"So, when the man who came out and measured my kitchen, he couldn't have told me that I needed to cut the door down?"

"He would have no way of knowing how thick your tile is."

"But since the tile isn't delivered until it's to be installed, why didn't the installer check this out before he ripped up my floor?"

"Well, there's no way he could know that until he'd rip up the old floor. It says in our contract that we're not responsible for doors..."

"So, two professionals cannot determine whether a door needs to be cut down until the old floor is ripped up and a new subfloor is laid, but I'm supposed to magically know how much a door should be trimmed and schedule a contractor to do it before your installer arrives?"

"It says in the contract..."

"Thank you."

I hung up and got on the internet. I called Janet at Handyman Matters and her scheduler, Julie was amazingly helpful. They scheduled someone to come out on Monday to cut the door and the floor installer said he would try to come back Wednesday morning to finish the project.

But, this should be the last of my little condo touch ups for a while. If you're looking for a handyman, you should call Janet and Julie at Handyman matters. They're particularly good with hysterical queens with dismantled kitchens.

Retail Therapy

As many of the people in the office are, I am virtually useless at work. There was a big board meeting today and essentially the Chairman was fired. The CEO was behind closed doors with the venture investment people when I left the office for class this afternoon. When I went in this morning at 7:00, the CEO was already there. He sat me down and told me that I would likely be out of job by Friday. Now, it looks like I'll be employed for life.

The drama has been building for weeks and yesterday I'd reached my peak and went shopping at lunch. Shopping for clothes is more depressing with each passing year. I'm at that in-between stage where most of the clothes that are produced are for younger men and I would look like a fool if I wore them, or their produced for the younger men's great-great grandfathers who are one golf swing away from that great putting green in the sky. I'm simple in my tastes, but even I would like something a little snappier than a white shirt and khakis.

I'm sure that somewhere there's a collection of young-men's wear designers laughing themselves into comas. Have you tried to buy casual clothes for me? The men's department in Macy's looks like a giant garage sale with dirty, torn jeans and rumpled shirts. I kid you not: I found a brown t-shirt with some logo on it that looked like one I'd worn in grade school, and looked I'd worn it every day since grade school. It was stretched out of shape, the sleeves had holes in them, the collar was frayed. It was ON SALE for $42. I didn't even bother to hang it up, just dropping it on the floor. I'm sure I actually enhanced it's value.

But the Levis were on sale, so I bought a pair, and I found four dress shirts with sleeves that actually reach to my wrists, so I bought them. I spent nearly two hundred dollars, which I NEVER do.

Thank God I'm still employed!

Ding, Dong, the Witch is Dead...

Jerry Falwell has gone to meet his maker. Let the rejoicing begin!

It's On!

I read several blogs that I do not have listed on my "Must Read" List. They're blogs that seem to have potential, but are seriously flawed in one way or another.

Like Ham Salad.

Well, one of these mid-potential writers just won a serious award for book-length collection of poems. He just graduated with his bachelor's degree.

Time to get cracking.

Writing Crap

I've been re-reading some of my older posts.

My writing is crap. The sentence structure is stiff and predictable. My subject matter is narcisstic and mundane.

But I am not giving up. I am not giving up.

Update

It's definite. The CEO is staying. I turned down an interview and have decided that they will have to fire me to get me to leave. I'm staying until I go into my Ph.D. program.

Baby's First Deal

Shortly after the first of the year the CEO called me into his office and told me he'd hired Jordan.
Jordan is a beautiful young woman of African, Chinese, American heritage, who graduated magna cum laud in three years from an Ivy League college in something like history. She'd moved to California for some unknown reason, and while there decided that she was going to make a name for herself in marketing. She set about haunting successful marketing and advertising executives she read about. She'd hounded the CEO for months and finally he agreed to meet her. She flew to Chicago, met with the CEO, worked the word 'penurious' into her conversation with me and a week later was hired.

The day the CEO told me he'd hired Jordan, he'd been in several tough meetings and was in a particularly foul mood. He informed me that it was my personal responsibility to turn Jordan into a marketing superstar.

"I'll do my best," I said.

"That's not good enough."

"OK. Consider her your next superstar."

I know nothing...nothing...about marketing and within a week I was meeting for an hour every day trying to tell this very smart young woman, who also knew nothing about marketing, how to become a marketing professional. She told me that she wanted to be unconventional and not only, "think outside the box, but redefine the box." Hell, at least she knew what the box was.

I started talking about tarot cards and archetypes. We talked about Karl Jung, and from there talked about developing our clients into archetypal modes. Jordan was really excited about the idea and researched tarot cards and Joseph Campbell and Karl Jung for weeks. Finally, she went into a big marketing meeting and started talking about archetypes and their role in branding our clients. They practically threw her from the office, and our daily meetings were reduced to once a week.

About a month ago Jordan came to my office on a day that had been less than pleasant for me. I asked her what she was working on, and she told me she was making cold calls, trying to drum up personal appearances for our clients. I asked about any creative projects and she started to cry. She said nobody liked her ideas and she was beginning to think she'd made a big mistake.

I lost my cookies. I chewed her out for an hour and told her that if she wanted to be superstar in marketing she needed a tougher skin. I told her she was going to have a million brilliant ideas that nobody but she would like. I ordered her out of my office and literally told her not to come back until she had something creative to show me.

Yesterday was the day. She sat down all bubbly and told me how she refocused her research on one client and found out everything about him, and then drew parallels between him and his sponsors. Then she identified a unifying them and found a gap. She then researched products to fill the gap, and found the perfect one. She made some calls and began negotiating her first deal.

It's a very small deal, but the significant thing about it is that it's not random. It's the lynch pin to the entire marketing strategy. She found the missing link. This was something that a collective thirty years of experience had failed to do, and she did it on her own in four months.

Jordan and I talked and celebrated in my office for about an hour. I couldn't have been more proud if I'd done it all myself. That one hour made up for the last six weeks of horror. I'd forgotten what a good day at work felt like.

I Quit

Yep. I quit the chorus, at least for the rest of the season. I had to. Work is insane and the class is demanding and I want to graduate with honors, so the chorus had to go.

I'm not sure I'm going to go back. The fact is after three years I still don't know anyone very well -- and I tried. It's a really tight-knit group of guys and unless you fall into a specific demographic that includes ample salary and/or trim waist, you're really wasting your time trying to get know any of them.

I may feel differently in the fall, but for now I'm done.

Dread

The absolute dread of going to work tomorrow hit like a brick wall at about 2:00 this afternoon and I've been virtually paralyzed all day. I'll make it in to the office, but I honestly don't know how much longer I can take this.

I work with truly hateful, hateful people.

First Burst of Brilliance

This is how I think my writing should read.

Will I ever be good?

Sunday Entitlements

Unlike my friend at It's a Booger, I revel in Sunday mornings. After decades of donating my Sundays to a local diner, making the owner incredibly wealthy and providing him with a small degree of fame, I feel like I've earned my right to fritter my Sunday mornings away scanning the Internet and sipping Diet Coke. The sheer joy of not having to be nice to people I'd just as soon spit on overrides any dread of Monday, even at this horrific time in my employment history.

Yes, I admit it: there are elements of human society that I loathe. I know it's not very evolved and that I'm likely to roast in hell for my lack of Christian charity. In this post by James Wolcott, he vividly captures one segment of the American population who, I believe, make Americans hated around the world.

If you've ever worked in the service industry you might have some idea as to the heinous nature of those who feel as though the world is owed to them because... You learn very quickly that you are a second-class citizen if you wear a uniform, apron, or name tag while earning your living. Those people who decry the decline of quality in the American service industry are more than likely the same people who snap their fingers to get a server's attention, arrive late the movies and insist on sitting in a center-of-the-row seat, and wait until they get to the front of the line before pulling out their wallets.

Sometimes I feel that my real job is working through the contempt I feel for certain behavior. Right now I struggle with people who seem to act as if they are morally or intellectually superior, if not exactly to me, to other people. And the real challenge in wrestling with these feelings is avoiding the danger of manifesting the type of behavior I detest. How do you be charitable to the uncharitable, and do they even deserve it?

Doesn't George Bush deserve our pity instead of our scorn?

Of course, given my liberal political leanings, and living up to the stereotype, my knee-jerk reaction is, "No, he deserves all the scorn we can heap onto him." But why?

Because whatever lack of intellectual capacity he may have...

...however limited his world view is by lack of intellectual curiosity...

...however shelter his life has been...

George Bush has quite simply abused his position of power. Whether he's been led astray by more nuanced minds with exclusive --- dare I say Fascist --- agendas, he has broken his oath to the American people by refusing to listen to the will of the American people and begin to bring the war in Iraq to an end.

I know this is just another modestly-informed blog stating the painfully obvious, but that last paragraph is an exercising of my American birthright. Objecting to the war, criticizing our president is my right. It's your right.

And that is what is a right, an entitlement, not making people crawl over your dog at a sidewalk cafe just because she's so comfortable sprawled out in the middle of the walkway.

The Poseidon Adventure

I first saw the original The Poseidon Adventure at about the same age as Eric Shea was in the movie. The fact that I can quote the name of the never-heard-from-again boy who played in the movie should give you some idea as just how much of an impact that film had on me. I had wanted to see it because I'd wanted to watch the boat tip over. Then when that scene came, I ran from my first-row seat up to the lobby and waited until all of the screaming stopped before I went back in. I remember what impressed me about the movie was how those people survived, even when they shouldn't have. That it was there sheer determination that got them through it.

I've always admired that in others -- determination to succeed -- even when I haven't been able to adopt that mindset myself. There's a part of me that wonders what degree of success I'd have achieved if I'd not stopped acting. There's another part of me that wonders where I would be if I hadn't taken nearly a year out of my professional development to basically watch T.V. While I don't think I'd have drowned in the ballroom of the S.S. Poseidon, I'm not sure I wouldn't have sat down and waited for the water to come get me.

Then again, I'd have probably sat there and figured that if the water was going to get me anyway, there was no reason to make it easy and I'd have gotten up and trotted after Reverend Scott.

I picked up the two-disc set of The Poseidon Adventure the other day and I just finished watching some of the special features. There is absolutely no denying that the dialogue is awful and the symbolism has been applied with a trowel. Still, there's a refreshing innocence to the film that probably comes more from associations with my childhood than anything else. Yet, to hear Stella Stevens gush with such great pride at having been part of the film I get enthusiastic for it all over again.

And, it seems that very late in life I'm beginning to adopt the much-admired quality of determination. My employment situation has got to be the most dire I've ever seen or heard of, but I'm not giving up. They are going to have to come and get me and I'm not going to make it easy for them.

As for the Poseidon, I saw the television remake, and the recent studio release with Kurt Russell. In both cases the special effects were superior, but the results had lost the charm of the original. You can only experience something like that once, and re-broadcasts serve as charming reminders. Remakes should not be attempted.

Rum-and-Coke Therapy

I think this was the absolute worst week of my professional career: worse than the week when I fired someone every single day; worse than the week I worked thinking I had the flu that turned out to be hepatitis; worse than the week I worked as an HR coordinator in a law firm.

This week I had one of the VP's take my list of proposed staff cuts, add my name to it and turn it in to the board of directors as her own analysis. This week I had another VP who has been stabbing me in the back with the staff because I've been too supportive of the CEO and do too much of his delivering of bad news come into my office - yet again! - close the door, and ask me basically if the CEO was mad at him. This week I had an employee make up a story with a germ of truth to it, and when I tried to explain that she didn't understand what she was talking about, she called me a liar. In writing. Twice. The CEO is still threatening to quit, which means if he goes, I go, and at this point I don't care.

But to ease the pressures, tonight I treated myself to several Rum and Cokes. I think this might be the first time I've actually drunk to relieve stress. I can't say that the stress was relieved so much as I got a brief vacation, during which I could sort of see all of these situations a little more clearly. Of course, the problem is that the clarity that comes with alcohol consumption is short-lived. Still, I think I reached the point where I recognized and accept that all of these issues are other people's problems and they're trying to make them mine. And for the first time I'm not going to let them.

Monday should be fun because that's the day the CEO plans to deliver his ultimatum and there will probably be a big meeting to discuss the delusional employee.

And when we get her issue settled I will expect an apology.

Something Good

I've reviewed my posts of late and decided that they're pretty damn depressing. Sorry for that. I'd like to be able to write light, frothy little essays when the world around me is disintegrating; I can't.

But I'll try.

The good news today is that I left work at noon and I'm not going to take any benefit time. I'm going to make them pay me for the entire day.

And the professor sent out an announcement saying that class would start half an hour late!

And I checked my bank account and if I'm really frugal I can save per month about what I made in two months managing the cafe.

And in the event of an emergency, I have enough money in the bank to carry me for nearly a year.

And I have a vacation planned and paid for.

And I have a kitchen floor ordered and paid for.

And it's spring!

And I've almost forgiven RP for calling me a sphincter.

Almost.

...and It Continues

Just when I'm convinced that each day at work is the absolute worst possible, it gets worse.

Today an employee who has been told he's going to be fired made an allegation of "racial preference" against the CEO -- the person who will be firing. In spite of the drama it was likely to cause, I sat down and had the dreaded talk with the CEO, who responded better than expected but still not with ice cream and a raise.

The allegation is easily disproved, so I'm not worried about that. I'm just tired of being put in the middle of these situations. Yes, I know it's my job, but I hate it.

Still, I'm not going to quit.

McCain - DOA

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

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

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

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

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

Bill Moyers -- Buying the War

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

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

Bitter Gloating

Writing sucks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Resisting Temptation

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

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

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

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

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

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

God Bless Roger Ebert

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

We're pulling for you Roger!

Aging Gracefully

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I can see clearly now..."

Heartbreak

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

All hope is lost.

Updates

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

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

I Shudder to Think...

This could have been me.

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

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

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

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

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

Spending Money I Shouldn't

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

I'm either incredibly confident or incredibly stupid.

Great Minds...

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

Deja Vu

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

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

Potty Mouth Protection?

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

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

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

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

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

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

K-K-K-K-K-Katie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Food for Thought

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Update

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

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

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

More later...

Angry and Incoherent

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

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

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

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

2 Dreams

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

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

Dream

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

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

I woke up.

Scalliwags as Role Models

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

The Jefferson class was full.

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

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

Can you tell I'm a grad student?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I think I have a new favorite fictional character.

Epiphany

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

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

Whatever that means.

Inspiration from a Weird Little White Dude

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Resolution: My day job is not my personal definition.

Personal Power

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

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

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

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

Mental Health Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dancing with the *'s

I love Laila Ali.

A Great American

I am not a sophisticated person, so I do not know how to add a You Tube screen to my blog. If you're interested in seeing the segments I'm talking about, please click here.

I like Rosie O'Donnell. I think she's opinionated and perhaps could measure her words a little better, but I like her. I also think the dynamic tension with her and her castmates on The View is intentional and makes for good television -- certainly some of the most interesting television in day time.

I don't know what to make of her conspiracy theories of 9/11. They are plausible, as most conspiracy theories are. However I applaud Rosie for speaking her mind without her views being run through a public opinion poll.

The companion piece is from Bill O'Reilly's show where he has three Fox news analysts whimpering because Elizabeth Hasselback isn't a match for Rosie or Joy Behar. The irony of the fact that they had absolutely no liberal commentator to discuss Rosie's right to uncensored free speech completely eludes them.

Make no mistake: O'Reilly wasn't talking about the validity of Rosie's claim. He was outraged that she has a platform to air a view that he disagrees with, and so he's calling for her dismissal.

Note to Mr. O'Reilly: America is a free country, one of the pillars of which is free commerce. If The View doesn't bring in its numbers, Rosie will lose her platform. That is how our system works.

I'm an Addict...

Quickly:

1) The stories are progressing nicely. One nearly finished, a second coming together. For the third I decided that I would pull something from my archives and rework. Before reading any, I mentally made a selection and then sat down and read it. Written in 2003, "The Tragic End of Beulah Pear" is a surrealistic piece that I was quite proud of when I finished it. It's complete crap, but worthy of being rewritten. What this piece makes clear though is that I've significantly improved as a writer -- good to know that $45,000 in education can do that -- but that some fundamental issues still remain. Again, crediting the education, the ability to identify these problems is invaluable.

2) Work is an ever-evolving nightmare. It's bonus week and no one but me seems to be happy. We lost 4.5 million dollars last year and the fact that the board of directors approved any bonuses is a minor miracle. But, because I work with a bunch of over-privileged, middle-class morons they are all lining up in front of my office to whine about "more." It's interesting to see that the least deserving are those doing the most whining.

3) I'm hating being in the chorus right now. It's taking up way more time than I want to give it. My little specialty number is more difficult than I want it to be. And I have to dance. I DON'T DANCE! And yet they asked me anyway.

4) This weekend I'm making my pilgrimmage to Home Depot to exchange the toilet seat. I asked for the same salesperson who did the order and I'm working with her on my kitchen stuff now. Ordering a new floor, stove, and refrigerator.

5) I've decided that my graduation treat to myself is going to be a laptop computer and a week-long trip to a little fishing resort in Minnesota. More about the resort later. During that week I'm going to polish my collection of short fiction and work on my third novel. A year from now I'm going to be a published author.

Dear Car Owner,

Here's a thought: if your car is so important to you that you have a car alarm installed, then you should park it where you can hear said car alarm. If your car alarm is going off for a solid three hours and you don't respond, that's pretty much an invitation, nay a plea, to steal it.

At the very least you're asking the neighbors to call the police and have it towed away.

Your Friend,

Hammy

Hiatus

I'll be taking a brief break to finish my short story submissions. I have one I need to complete and four that need polishing for submissions next week. Meeting my goal of generating three poems as well isn't looking so good, but hope springs eternal.

So, I'm going to have to manage my addiction to blogs until I get them completed and submitted. But fear not, devoted readers. If I can maintain my schedule I should be back by the weekend.

The Real Dirty Little Secret

At the moment I'm having to take my political examinations very slowly. Even reading writers I admire is beginning to make me a little itchy. You can follow my links by going through James Wolcott's blog, or you can go directly to this vlog from Pamela Geller. While I still think James Wolcott is a superb writer, his emotional style is beginning to chafe as much as the Geller piece. The absolute moral certainty and crushing disdain for opposition from both pieces is what identifies them as being cut from the same bolt of cloth for me. Woolcot, at least is intelligent and beautifully, ornately articulate. I've visited the Geller blog a couple times and I really struggle to understand the personal motives for trying to position oneself simultaneously as a political analyst and a bimbo party girl. To be over thirty and that drunk at 11:30? One can only imagine the next morning. Has no one learned anything from Ann Coulter?

I'm also a Bill Mahr fan. I record Reel Time and watch it every week. For the most part he tries to understand the opposing view and sometimes he's funny as hell. However, his mission seems to be to to boil any issue down to identifying the ultimate person of responsibility. Who is responsible for the war in Iraq? Who is responsible for global warming? Who is responsible for the death of Anna Nicole Smith? The answers, according to Bill Mahr are: George Bush, big oil companies, the media.

I have a better answer.

You are responsible. Yes, you! The person enjoying the brilliance of Ham Salad at this very moment. YOU.

Understand: I'm not taking myself off the hook either.

I didn't believe in the war on Iraq, but I only wrote one letter of protest and sent it to Barbara Boxer. (Barbara Boxer ROCKS!) I don't have a "Support the Troops" sticker on anything. I'm not even sure I buy the sentiment of supporting the troops of an all-volunteer militia who are fighting an unjust war. (The caveat is that I recognize that the military is mainly comprised of people who have very, very few economic options and whose final years of education is a product of the No Child Left Behind policies. I believe people "support the troops" so they don't feel so bad for not having done enough to prevent the troops being sent on a pointless suicide mission.) I have never attended an anti-war rally. Iraq is not even a major topic on my blog. I could and should do more. So can you. If nothing else, read about it. I promise, a week of casual reading about the war will motivate you to do something.

I drink Diet Coke from plastic bottles. A lot of Diet Coke. And I just throw the bottles away. Sometimes I don't even crush them and so they take up even more room in the plastic garbage bag. I don't recycle. In my defense I do not own a car of any kind and suffer through the Chicago public transit nightmare -- even though I now could afford a car and the necessary parking space that would accompany it. I sort of think that leaving a few thousand plastic bottles in various landfills for all eternity is a fair trade off, but I avoid watching Al Gore talk about global warming because I still feel a little guilty.

I've blogged about Anna Nicole Smith, and although I haven't been panting at the Nancy Grace analysis of her death, I will be interested in reading about the autopsy report and the DNA testing of her baby. It's a sickness I cannot seem to control.

You allowed George Bush frighten you into silence by not questioning his justification for the war. You, personally, did not do enough to object. You could and should live a greener life. And finally, we wouldn't know nearly as much about Anna Nicole if you weren't watching it on television, accepting candy-ass coverage as a substitute for hard news.

We are part of the richest, most powerful nation in the history of the world. Even in our decline we are still the supreme power on the planet. With that position of privilege comes a deep, deep moral responsibility to put down the Game Boy and Miller Lite and devote a couple of hours a week to one -- just one -- global issue of your choosing. If you truly know something about it, you will do something about it.

Our troops have ponied up their lives and limbs so that I can blather in cyber space and you can read it. That beautiful sense of honor is being grossly abused in this war.

Now, what are you going to do?

Homeland Security

My mother writes her own blog in which she waxes venomous about all things political. She has very strong views about Mr. Bush. She blogs anonymously and doesn't take it too seriously.

But the government might.

She is being read by two computers in the House Sergeant of Arms office as well as one House Rep's office. I'm not sure how she knows that, but she sent me a screen capture of a report she gets on the activity on her blog.

While I find her writing entertaining -- and apparently she's becoming quite big in China -- I'd be surprised if Washington would be interested, let alone amused.

Or, perhaps big brother truly is watching.

I Am Not in Control

I am a dolt. Even though I have extensive proof to the contrary, somehow I continually convince myself that a) the current situation, whatever it may be, will continue forever; and b) that I really am immortal.

That's why when something irrevocable happens I am so deeply shocked. A few weeks ago I fell pretty badly, ripping open my left arm and very seriously bruising my lower back. The fall came as a complete shock because there was nothing I could do to prevent it. One minute I was upright, and the next I was flat on my back gasping for air. In that brief second when I realized something that I had not intended -- something I could not control -- happened, I also thought of the possibility of paralysis. It was a fleeting thought, but I realized in that fraction of a section that it could happen to me. While there was pain involved in the fall, what was more upsetting was the realization of just how delicate my control of my world really is.

An old friend is going through the process of losing her father. As I write this he is most likely in hospice care. At Christmas when I saw my mother for the first time in five years I realized that my feeling of perpetual youth is just an illusion. My mother, who has been twenty-five in my head for as long as I've known her suddenly is a senior citizen. While she's always feigned frailty for attention, now the fragility is reality and being confronted with that reality was/is very frightening. When I received news that my friend was losing her father, I of course was sympathetic, but I experienced that fear again because I know that some day soon I'm going to have to deal with my mother's death, my cat's death, throwing away my old bathroom sink.

Even the most mundane irrevocable act makes me uncomfortable; that's why I have nearly eighty gray sweaters. Three quarters of them don't fit and never will again, but I can't bring myself to give them away. If they were a gift from someone, probably now long since forgotten, it still feels wrong. I still have a sweater that my mother gave me for my twelfth birthday. It was a gift and I cannot get rid of it.

But more important, by holding on to these things I am able to convince myself that nothing is changing and that I'm safe.

Yet, my friend's e-mail, my fall, my cat's health, and my mother's advancing age are telling me that things are changing with or without my approval and participation. And by extension my safety is called into question.

Christ, I think too much.