Recently I attended a lunch for my favorite professor from undergrad. I hadn't seen either him or his wife since graduation day, literally decades ago, but I've kept in touch with each of them over the years via e-mail and Christmas cards. They've both been phenomenally supportive of me an all of my career choices. As a kid, I looked up to both of them as models of how to live life and as I've grown older my view has not changed. I was specifically invited, singled out from the mass e-mailing that announced their arrival in Chicago, and I couldn't refuse to see them.
But it was the mass e-mail part that made me a little itchy.
I'm not the only one who feels this way about this professor and his wife. In fact, almost all the students he taught in more than twenty years of being a professor feel this way. We all feel that these two people were instrumental in shaping us into the people we've become and we all feel grateful.
But we don't all feel that way about one another.
Although I knew that there was no way to get out of the lunch, and I absolutely wanted to see these two people, I have to admit to being sort of cowardly and responded to my individual invitation with "um...so who else do you think will be there?" The response rattled off at least a dozen names I recognized, three of which were people I need never see again. I spent a couple of days stewing about what to do and how to handle the meeting. I'm not nearly as successful as I would like if and when I ever meet these people again. Although I've not been ravaged by the sands and winds of time, I no longer look nineteen. I wasn't even sure I'd have clean clothes.
Then I realized that the people I was dreading seeing again no longer exist. At best, these people are distorted memories in my head. I'm not the same person I was as a theater major. Why would I expect that they would be? I decided I was being silly and so I went.
And do you know what? None of the people I dreaded seeing showed up. Instead, I spent a lovely afternoon reconnecting with people I hadn't thought about in years. It was a nice little stroll down memory lane. There were so many people there that it was impossible to get much time with my professor and his wife. But that was OK. There was a lot of laughter. A lot of hugs and promises to keep in touch. And then it was done. It was a lot like what I imagine heaven must be like.
When I left, I had a very strange feeling, like I'd just returned from a magical time journey. I was at once nineteen and forty five. The feeling stayed with me for days. And then it was done. When the day sort of receded into my memory, so did a lot of those undergrad days. It was like tidying up that room that has been cluttered for far too long, putting away the things of value and tossing the things that are useless. That luncheon did that for me. But it has helped me put a lot of things away. Since that luncheon different pages from my past seem to be cropping up and demanding that they be put into their proper place, either in a scrap book or the waste basket. My childhood home, a friends altered blog page, a nemesis's career successes, have all brought up old feelings that I recognize as old. Not relevant to who I am today or what I'm doing.
Somewhere along the way, when I wasn't really paying attention, I might just have grown up.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
The House
While my mother moved around quite a bit while I was growing up, my father was very stationary. After their divorce, he moved in with his mother and took over the house when she died. All through my rather unstable childhood that house was literally a port in a storm.
It was small, with two bedrooms. After my grandmother died, Dad converted her bedroom into a room for my sister. I took over the unfinished basement. I loved it. Cinder block walls and a big furnace that had originally burned coal and at some point had been converted to gas. It was swathed in asbestos and no doubt I'll develop lung cancer. I don't care. That cave was my safe haven for at least ten of the eighteen years before I made my escape to college.
When my father died, I was only twenty-two. I'd just graduated college and moved to Chicago. There was no way that I could take on a mortgage and try to be an actor. I chose being an actor and after nearly a year of trying to hold on to the house, had to let it go. I won't go into all of the gory details now, but suffice it to say that my sister and I were taken advantage of and walked away with nothing.
In the time since we left that house, there have been major renovations. Fences were pulled out, trees were cut down. It was painted brown. Five years ago I drove past it for the first time in years and barely recognized it. I was happy that it was being cared for and didn't give it a second thought.
Until this week when my mother sent me a telephone listing.
My cousin bought the house.
I felt like I'd been harpooned. For years I've felt guilty for losing the house. Now, it is not only back in the family, but it was bought by a cousin who is from the branch of the family that virtually disowned my father when he married my mother. It was a rift that was never healed.
I spent about an hour feeling bad. Then I realized that house is in that small town. While I might have made more money in the sale, if I'd tried to hold on to that house, I'd have had to move back to that same small town to do it.
If I'd done that, I'd be dead.
I made this realization while I biked along Lake Michigan to my job and made plans for my exotic photo shoots. I decided that I don't think I'd trade my life today for all the little houses in that little town. My cousin is welcome to it.
It was small, with two bedrooms. After my grandmother died, Dad converted her bedroom into a room for my sister. I took over the unfinished basement. I loved it. Cinder block walls and a big furnace that had originally burned coal and at some point had been converted to gas. It was swathed in asbestos and no doubt I'll develop lung cancer. I don't care. That cave was my safe haven for at least ten of the eighteen years before I made my escape to college.
When my father died, I was only twenty-two. I'd just graduated college and moved to Chicago. There was no way that I could take on a mortgage and try to be an actor. I chose being an actor and after nearly a year of trying to hold on to the house, had to let it go. I won't go into all of the gory details now, but suffice it to say that my sister and I were taken advantage of and walked away with nothing.
In the time since we left that house, there have been major renovations. Fences were pulled out, trees were cut down. It was painted brown. Five years ago I drove past it for the first time in years and barely recognized it. I was happy that it was being cared for and didn't give it a second thought.
Until this week when my mother sent me a telephone listing.
My cousin bought the house.
I felt like I'd been harpooned. For years I've felt guilty for losing the house. Now, it is not only back in the family, but it was bought by a cousin who is from the branch of the family that virtually disowned my father when he married my mother. It was a rift that was never healed.
I spent about an hour feeling bad. Then I realized that house is in that small town. While I might have made more money in the sale, if I'd tried to hold on to that house, I'd have had to move back to that same small town to do it.
If I'd done that, I'd be dead.
I made this realization while I biked along Lake Michigan to my job and made plans for my exotic photo shoots. I decided that I don't think I'd trade my life today for all the little houses in that little town. My cousin is welcome to it.
Passion
I have a new passion. I'm taking pictures. A lot of them. Right now I'm planning to start taking wedding photos, so I'm planning six shoots. I've bought wedding dresses and tuxes (God bless e-Bay) and I've started looking for models.
And that's where the addiction began.
I posted some of my pictures on a modeling website and then started inviting models to become my "friend." To date, I have seventy-three new very best friends! One of whom e-mailed me desperately needing new photos because his agent wanted to submit him for projects in Asia and his port, (portfolio for the uninitiated) was lacking and he needed me, ME to help him out.
There are some amazing photographs on the site. The shots I've done have been for actors. They're basic headshots. By comparison, I think my headshots are some of the best in the city. They're distinctive and the actors look good. But when it comes to doing model shots, they require more pizazz, more style, more actual photographic knowledge.
I've been challenged. We'll see what happens. I may just have to start wearing sunglasses and insist on everyone calling me Guido.
And that's where the addiction began.
I posted some of my pictures on a modeling website and then started inviting models to become my "friend." To date, I have seventy-three new very best friends! One of whom e-mailed me desperately needing new photos because his agent wanted to submit him for projects in Asia and his port, (portfolio for the uninitiated) was lacking and he needed me, ME to help him out.
There are some amazing photographs on the site. The shots I've done have been for actors. They're basic headshots. By comparison, I think my headshots are some of the best in the city. They're distinctive and the actors look good. But when it comes to doing model shots, they require more pizazz, more style, more actual photographic knowledge.
I've been challenged. We'll see what happens. I may just have to start wearing sunglasses and insist on everyone calling me Guido.
Monday, June 16, 2008
From the Gods
The muse has not visited in a while, so writing anything -- much less a blog post -- has been arduous. But this morning I received a sign that it was time to get back to work.
I live in Rogers Park, the northern-most neighborhood along the lakefront of Chicago. It's a neighborhood that has risen and fallen dramatically with the economic tides, and as such one of the last lakefront neighborhoods to experience the real estate renaissance. This means that businesses have not opened as quickly as one might like. Still, on the corner there is a precious little coffee shop, Charmer's, that I've adopted as my home away from home. When I was unemployed, much of my days were spent there swilling Diet Coke and pounding out short stories. I became one of the characters I had known when I'd run my own cafe. And over those months I grew to know most of the staff and some of the patrons. One of the patrons is Meredith, a wiry woman in her sixties who looks as if she's subsisted on nicotine and coffee since the Reagan administration. She's the wife of a retired English professor and aggressively gets to know anyone she's seen in the cafe more than once. We've discussed literature and politics and neighborhood gossip.
This morning as I was collecting my morning donuts for my train ride to work, she took notice of the book I was carrying. I'm reading McClellan's What Happened and she momentarily thought it was a novel she didn't recognize. We chatted for a moment and then she held up an anthology of works that had been published in The Paris Review. It was published on its fiftieth anniversary.
"Have you read anything in The Paris Review?
"Not in a few years," I said. The truth is that I've purchased a couple of copies, but that nothing I've ever read in them moved me to loyalty.
"Would you like this?"
The book was obviously unread. I flipped through the introduction from George Plimpton and the original foreword by William Styron. The language is both spare and luxurious. On the train, as I read those two brief pieces, I ached and felt ashamed at the length of time I've been away from my writing, focusing on my photography. Out of the blue, from an unexpected source, the inspiration returned.
I'm back.
I live in Rogers Park, the northern-most neighborhood along the lakefront of Chicago. It's a neighborhood that has risen and fallen dramatically with the economic tides, and as such one of the last lakefront neighborhoods to experience the real estate renaissance. This means that businesses have not opened as quickly as one might like. Still, on the corner there is a precious little coffee shop, Charmer's, that I've adopted as my home away from home. When I was unemployed, much of my days were spent there swilling Diet Coke and pounding out short stories. I became one of the characters I had known when I'd run my own cafe. And over those months I grew to know most of the staff and some of the patrons. One of the patrons is Meredith, a wiry woman in her sixties who looks as if she's subsisted on nicotine and coffee since the Reagan administration. She's the wife of a retired English professor and aggressively gets to know anyone she's seen in the cafe more than once. We've discussed literature and politics and neighborhood gossip.
This morning as I was collecting my morning donuts for my train ride to work, she took notice of the book I was carrying. I'm reading McClellan's What Happened and she momentarily thought it was a novel she didn't recognize. We chatted for a moment and then she held up an anthology of works that had been published in The Paris Review. It was published on its fiftieth anniversary.
"Have you read anything in The Paris Review?
"Not in a few years," I said. The truth is that I've purchased a couple of copies, but that nothing I've ever read in them moved me to loyalty.
"Would you like this?"
The book was obviously unread. I flipped through the introduction from George Plimpton and the original foreword by William Styron. The language is both spare and luxurious. On the train, as I read those two brief pieces, I ached and felt ashamed at the length of time I've been away from my writing, focusing on my photography. Out of the blue, from an unexpected source, the inspiration returned.
I'm back.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Hope
As the political season progresses it seems to me that there is really only one choice for president. And while I'm comfortable with that choice, I also wish that choice didn't feel so inevitable. The choice for president of the United States shouldn't seem so clear.
I am a a fan of romantic comedies. I love even the bad ones. Some day I'm going to sit down and compile my list of the tend greatest romantic-comic films. While it probably won't top the list, An American President will come pretty darn close. Not only are the performances pitch perfect, the script is smart without being condescending, light without being saccharine. And it contains one of the greatest monologues in film history.
Michael Douglas, a widowed president, begins dating Annette Bening. This romance is used as a political weapon by Richard Dreyfus with increasing venom until it reaches the point where Dreyfus makes personal attacks on Bening. That coupled with the backfiring of a political shell game forces Douglas to stand in front of the American public and demonstrate his character. It's the point where he either has to put up or shut up, and in that sixty second speech Douglas embodies not only what the ideal president should be, but what a real man is. I still get tingly thinking about that moment. And it's to Douglas's credit that I give his performance such high praise because I've never -- and still am not -- a Michael Douglas fan.
Of course it's a fictionalized, fairy-tale version of American politics, but the idealism of that moment reconnects, and in fact begins to reclaim the concept of honor.
In an era when both Clinton and McCain are caught in webs of their own political double speak, Obama seems to stand alone as a man of principle and character. He is not afraid to take an unpopular stand when he believes its the right thing to do. His first speech on Reverend Wright and racism does not receive the credit it deserves. Reverend Wright said some hateful, politically damaging things. Yet Obama demonstrated the Christian ethic of hating the sin and loving the sinner. It was only after Wright crossed the line that Obama severed ties. He handled the situation honorably. When there was talk of a gas-tax holiday, Obama rightly, simply, and elegantly opposed it. And when the press began attacking his wife for expressing her sincere point of view -- one that is shared by millions, both black and white -- in no uncertain terms did Obama make it clear that he would not tolerate it. There was no whining. There were no threats through surrogates. There was Obama, standing next to his wife, simply saying that such treatment will not be tolerated.
My admiration for Barak Obama grows daily.
And still I wish there was a credible alternative on the horizon. Not because I'm dissatisfied with Obama, but because our political system should be able to produce more than one person of character. Political character should be more than a marketing image. The world situation is complex enough that the American public should be more challenged to consider different credible views without demonizing the person who holds them.
Yes, I have a crush on Obama, but like high-school football captain, I feel a little guilty because I'm looking around the gym wondering if there isn't a better prom queen. There's nothing to say that I would change my choice, but damn it right now there is no choice!
I am a a fan of romantic comedies. I love even the bad ones. Some day I'm going to sit down and compile my list of the tend greatest romantic-comic films. While it probably won't top the list, An American President will come pretty darn close. Not only are the performances pitch perfect, the script is smart without being condescending, light without being saccharine. And it contains one of the greatest monologues in film history.
Michael Douglas, a widowed president, begins dating Annette Bening. This romance is used as a political weapon by Richard Dreyfus with increasing venom until it reaches the point where Dreyfus makes personal attacks on Bening. That coupled with the backfiring of a political shell game forces Douglas to stand in front of the American public and demonstrate his character. It's the point where he either has to put up or shut up, and in that sixty second speech Douglas embodies not only what the ideal president should be, but what a real man is. I still get tingly thinking about that moment. And it's to Douglas's credit that I give his performance such high praise because I've never -- and still am not -- a Michael Douglas fan.
Of course it's a fictionalized, fairy-tale version of American politics, but the idealism of that moment reconnects, and in fact begins to reclaim the concept of honor.
In an era when both Clinton and McCain are caught in webs of their own political double speak, Obama seems to stand alone as a man of principle and character. He is not afraid to take an unpopular stand when he believes its the right thing to do. His first speech on Reverend Wright and racism does not receive the credit it deserves. Reverend Wright said some hateful, politically damaging things. Yet Obama demonstrated the Christian ethic of hating the sin and loving the sinner. It was only after Wright crossed the line that Obama severed ties. He handled the situation honorably. When there was talk of a gas-tax holiday, Obama rightly, simply, and elegantly opposed it. And when the press began attacking his wife for expressing her sincere point of view -- one that is shared by millions, both black and white -- in no uncertain terms did Obama make it clear that he would not tolerate it. There was no whining. There were no threats through surrogates. There was Obama, standing next to his wife, simply saying that such treatment will not be tolerated.
My admiration for Barak Obama grows daily.
And still I wish there was a credible alternative on the horizon. Not because I'm dissatisfied with Obama, but because our political system should be able to produce more than one person of character. Political character should be more than a marketing image. The world situation is complex enough that the American public should be more challenged to consider different credible views without demonizing the person who holds them.
Yes, I have a crush on Obama, but like high-school football captain, I feel a little guilty because I'm looking around the gym wondering if there isn't a better prom queen. There's nothing to say that I would change my choice, but damn it right now there is no choice!
Sunday, May 04, 2008
The New Job...
...is tedious, but fine. The new boss - or bosses - are interesting.
The first boss, I never see. He works from home a lot because he's battling cancer. He's an amazing man and the reason I took the job.
The second boss? Not so much. First, and this is huge, he's a Kellogg graduate, which means he thinks that his MBA entitles him to royal treatment. And which means that I know I'm already biased against him. I kid you not when I say that even though his desk is less than four, unobstructed feet from mine, he knocks on his desk to get my attention. Or the wall if he thinks that will be more effective. The last time he did it, the gay waiter in me came out and I smiled and said, "That's never really going to work as well as saying 'Excuse me.'" Ten minutes later he apologized.
But the final demonstration of his attitude that I'm not worthy was when he offered me the opportunity to make some extra cash by BABYSITTING HIS KIDS! Of course, he did this while I'm sweeping up a mess that someone else made and everyone had simply walked around all day. I have to give him credit. He trumped anything I could have given back, so I simply said, "No."
But, it's relationships like these where my genetic talent for passive/aggressive behavior comes in sooo handily. I don't know -- and, God, don't want to know -- exactly what the problems are, but his marriage seems to be rife with mid-life drama. Little phone spats are inflicted upon my work space every now and then. And after each and every one, I start chirping about all of the fabulous things I can do because I'm single; that I don't have a care in the world except as it relates to me, me, me!
That virutally insures a full half hour of silence while Boss Number 2 contemplates his formulaic, middle-class existence.
The first boss, I never see. He works from home a lot because he's battling cancer. He's an amazing man and the reason I took the job.
The second boss? Not so much. First, and this is huge, he's a Kellogg graduate, which means he thinks that his MBA entitles him to royal treatment. And which means that I know I'm already biased against him. I kid you not when I say that even though his desk is less than four, unobstructed feet from mine, he knocks on his desk to get my attention. Or the wall if he thinks that will be more effective. The last time he did it, the gay waiter in me came out and I smiled and said, "That's never really going to work as well as saying 'Excuse me.'" Ten minutes later he apologized.
But the final demonstration of his attitude that I'm not worthy was when he offered me the opportunity to make some extra cash by BABYSITTING HIS KIDS! Of course, he did this while I'm sweeping up a mess that someone else made and everyone had simply walked around all day. I have to give him credit. He trumped anything I could have given back, so I simply said, "No."
But, it's relationships like these where my genetic talent for passive/aggressive behavior comes in sooo handily. I don't know -- and, God, don't want to know -- exactly what the problems are, but his marriage seems to be rife with mid-life drama. Little phone spats are inflicted upon my work space every now and then. And after each and every one, I start chirping about all of the fabulous things I can do because I'm single; that I don't have a care in the world except as it relates to me, me, me!
That virutally insures a full half hour of silence while Boss Number 2 contemplates his formulaic, middle-class existence.
Saturday, May 03, 2008
Fear
To watch the news is a real test in stamina. Facts are no longer reported, they are presented in a context of hyper-emotion with swirling graphics in hot colors and presented in emotional rhetoric that either is designed to disgust or frighten. This compulsion to frighten is everywhere, to the point that almost daily communication is presented that way. The only thing that seems to be reported is celebrity gossip, and I swear to sweet Jesus that I could not care less if Katie Holmes is being held captive by Scientology or whether she simply got a too-trendy haircut.
Katie Fucking Holmes is presented as news. The presidential election is reduced to a tabloid serial and Halloween 2008. I lost it the other night when Countdown with Keith Olberman showed age-progression pictures of the three leading candidates, depicting how each may look at the end of their first term. I kept expecting Stacy and Clinton from What Not to Wear to pop out and recommend A-line skirts for all of them.
Of course, in many ways the fearful are more easy to control. At least in the short term. The thing that the powers that be and the mainstream media seem to forget is that the fearful sometimes do erratic, unexpected things, like elect a black man as president.
Over the past few weeks I've become more and more convinced that Barak Obama is the best candidate standing for president. I'm willing to weather the difficulties that will result from his lack of experience and I'm willing to accept the inevitable social turmoil that will result with his election, and make no mistake: there will be turmoil.
But there is subtle and not-so-subtle fear mongering going on. What sort of retribution will a black president exact from white America? And the pointing at Reverend Wright is exactly the tool to scare the bejesus out of white, middle America.
The fact is that Wright does speak for a segment of the African-American community. I've heard such comments from black co-workers. It's not a fringe element here in Chicago. And it doesn't take a wild imagination to put yourself in their position to understand why they see America as they do. In fact, there are times where it is a major leap of faith to say that they are wrong.
While I believe that Barak Obama is first and foremost a politician, and by definition a politician is not free of an agenda, I do believe that he just might be the savior figure for the American political system. Many candidates before him have tried to run a clean campaign, and while that's not totally possible when running against a Clinton or a Republican (is there even a difference anymore?) I think Obama is seriously trying to make a difference.
And as scary as a black president might be, one who could actually effect change is more so.
Katie Fucking Holmes is presented as news. The presidential election is reduced to a tabloid serial and Halloween 2008. I lost it the other night when Countdown with Keith Olberman showed age-progression pictures of the three leading candidates, depicting how each may look at the end of their first term. I kept expecting Stacy and Clinton from What Not to Wear to pop out and recommend A-line skirts for all of them.
Of course, in many ways the fearful are more easy to control. At least in the short term. The thing that the powers that be and the mainstream media seem to forget is that the fearful sometimes do erratic, unexpected things, like elect a black man as president.
Over the past few weeks I've become more and more convinced that Barak Obama is the best candidate standing for president. I'm willing to weather the difficulties that will result from his lack of experience and I'm willing to accept the inevitable social turmoil that will result with his election, and make no mistake: there will be turmoil.
But there is subtle and not-so-subtle fear mongering going on. What sort of retribution will a black president exact from white America? And the pointing at Reverend Wright is exactly the tool to scare the bejesus out of white, middle America.
The fact is that Wright does speak for a segment of the African-American community. I've heard such comments from black co-workers. It's not a fringe element here in Chicago. And it doesn't take a wild imagination to put yourself in their position to understand why they see America as they do. In fact, there are times where it is a major leap of faith to say that they are wrong.
While I believe that Barak Obama is first and foremost a politician, and by definition a politician is not free of an agenda, I do believe that he just might be the savior figure for the American political system. Many candidates before him have tried to run a clean campaign, and while that's not totally possible when running against a Clinton or a Republican (is there even a difference anymore?) I think Obama is seriously trying to make a difference.
And as scary as a black president might be, one who could actually effect change is more so.
Friday, April 18, 2008
No Matter Where You Go, There You Are
My cat wakes my up every morning, somewhere between one and five o'clock. It is completely at his whim. I then usually spend several hours lying in bed drifting in and out of a light sleep.
This morning two very strange things happened. In my light sleep every morning, I usually run through the same thought scenarios. And, usually it's replaying some frustrating event, something that has been a disappointment. There is an entire library of these events, and some of them date back a good decade. In these replayings, I'm usually sifting through everything trying to find my responsibility in what went wrong. The whole thing is sort of a nocturnal sifting through a haystack looking for the single golden needle. This morning I think I may have found it.
In each event, if I found some overt action of mine that contributed to the frustration or failure, it is usually something stupid, thoughtless, or careless. For example, typos. When I first started typing, it didn't matter what I did or how many times I proofed a document, each and everyone would contain a typo. Or yesterday, for another example, I had to write two checks for my boss's signature. I carefully calculated them, prepared the supporting documentation -- all of it flawlessly. Then when I actually wrote them, I wrote one for the wrong amount. I do something stupid like that every day. Sometimes three and four times a day. My boss simply gave the check back to me and I rewrote it, but I beat myself up about that type of mistake all day long.
This morning, I recognized that not only do I do something stupid, I do it on a subconscious level so that I can beat myself up. I use that series of little events to build a case for failure. I let little things like that sabotage me all the time, then I beat myself up and become self conscious so that the failures and mistakes take on mythic proportions. And if there aren't any mistakes, I find other ways to make me feel bad about myself.
The goal is self punishment of some kind. There is an element of myself that feels like this failure is inevitable, that I deserve it. In spite of tangible evidence that I can succeed, (my own business, masters degree, etc.) I focus on the failure, the lack, the missing, and when I'm looking at the lack I have nothing to build from.
I've always known that I was responsible for my own shortcomings. But this morning I began to make the connection as to how I was responsible. For more than a minute, the entire picture became clear. I'm hoping I can hold on to that clarity.
The second thing that happened may or may not be related, but I swear to God the earth moved. I live on the third floor of a four-floor building. There is traffic on the street, but not a lot and especially little at four in the morning. Still, something happened and for a full minute my bed swayed. It was as if there was someone else in the room, rocking the bed back and forth. The bed continued to sway even after I sat up. I wasn't dreaming. And there was a rumble. Have you seen movies where a plane is about to crash and they show the people on the ground? The camera jiggles and there's a roar? This was just like that. I suppose it could have been a very heavy, passing truck, but it went on too long. It might have been an earthquake, but I'm in Chicago. There could have been a perfectly logical explanation.
Or, it could have been a slight shifting of my world. This new realization or perception might be the start of a change for me. At the very least, I feel like I have a new perspective and I'm going to try to hold on to that.
This morning two very strange things happened. In my light sleep every morning, I usually run through the same thought scenarios. And, usually it's replaying some frustrating event, something that has been a disappointment. There is an entire library of these events, and some of them date back a good decade. In these replayings, I'm usually sifting through everything trying to find my responsibility in what went wrong. The whole thing is sort of a nocturnal sifting through a haystack looking for the single golden needle. This morning I think I may have found it.
In each event, if I found some overt action of mine that contributed to the frustration or failure, it is usually something stupid, thoughtless, or careless. For example, typos. When I first started typing, it didn't matter what I did or how many times I proofed a document, each and everyone would contain a typo. Or yesterday, for another example, I had to write two checks for my boss's signature. I carefully calculated them, prepared the supporting documentation -- all of it flawlessly. Then when I actually wrote them, I wrote one for the wrong amount. I do something stupid like that every day. Sometimes three and four times a day. My boss simply gave the check back to me and I rewrote it, but I beat myself up about that type of mistake all day long.
This morning, I recognized that not only do I do something stupid, I do it on a subconscious level so that I can beat myself up. I use that series of little events to build a case for failure. I let little things like that sabotage me all the time, then I beat myself up and become self conscious so that the failures and mistakes take on mythic proportions. And if there aren't any mistakes, I find other ways to make me feel bad about myself.
The goal is self punishment of some kind. There is an element of myself that feels like this failure is inevitable, that I deserve it. In spite of tangible evidence that I can succeed, (my own business, masters degree, etc.) I focus on the failure, the lack, the missing, and when I'm looking at the lack I have nothing to build from.
I've always known that I was responsible for my own shortcomings. But this morning I began to make the connection as to how I was responsible. For more than a minute, the entire picture became clear. I'm hoping I can hold on to that clarity.
The second thing that happened may or may not be related, but I swear to God the earth moved. I live on the third floor of a four-floor building. There is traffic on the street, but not a lot and especially little at four in the morning. Still, something happened and for a full minute my bed swayed. It was as if there was someone else in the room, rocking the bed back and forth. The bed continued to sway even after I sat up. I wasn't dreaming. And there was a rumble. Have you seen movies where a plane is about to crash and they show the people on the ground? The camera jiggles and there's a roar? This was just like that. I suppose it could have been a very heavy, passing truck, but it went on too long. It might have been an earthquake, but I'm in Chicago. There could have been a perfectly logical explanation.
Or, it could have been a slight shifting of my world. This new realization or perception might be the start of a change for me. At the very least, I feel like I have a new perspective and I'm going to try to hold on to that.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Soul--Sucking Employment
There's just no denying that I was happier when I was unemployed. Apart from the lack of income and looming financial collapse, I really rather enjoyed having days on end, stretching as far as the eye could see, available to do with as I saw fit. Now, with the new job, I can manage at most four hours a day for myself. Factor in things like cooking and cleaning and we're down to possibly an hour a day. And at the end of the day, getting the brain revved up to write a story is painfully slow.
Of course, there is Saturday and Sunday, not to mention the odd holiday. But if one is to have any sort of personal relationships of any kind, those days are swallowed by annoying social engagements.
And this job is just plain weird. I sit in this large room with up to eight other people and the room is absolutely silent while everyone stares at their computers. Much of the interaction among us happens with text messages. If anyone does speak, they whisper. And soon we'll be adding more people, which will mean that I'm moved. I will have the three top executives sitting directly behind me, watching every key stroke. It kind of freaks me out.
But they're nice people and the commute isn't painful. The work itself is mind numbing, but it's paying the bills.
The good news in all of this is that I think I've finally got my final story mapped out in my head. For me, that's three-quarters of the battle. Now if I can just get it typed out I can begin the revision and editing process, which has always gone smoothly in the past (knock wood), so I should be on target for a June 1 deadline to start the query/submission letters.
Of course, there is Saturday and Sunday, not to mention the odd holiday. But if one is to have any sort of personal relationships of any kind, those days are swallowed by annoying social engagements.
And this job is just plain weird. I sit in this large room with up to eight other people and the room is absolutely silent while everyone stares at their computers. Much of the interaction among us happens with text messages. If anyone does speak, they whisper. And soon we'll be adding more people, which will mean that I'm moved. I will have the three top executives sitting directly behind me, watching every key stroke. It kind of freaks me out.
But they're nice people and the commute isn't painful. The work itself is mind numbing, but it's paying the bills.
The good news in all of this is that I think I've finally got my final story mapped out in my head. For me, that's three-quarters of the battle. Now if I can just get it typed out I can begin the revision and editing process, which has always gone smoothly in the past (knock wood), so I should be on target for a June 1 deadline to start the query/submission letters.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
Update
Life has been at a dead run for the past few weeks. Quick update:
1) The job is a job. There isn't really anything challenging about it, but I'm getting traction. Solved a few sticky problems.
2) The photography progresses, but still no real money. I'm starting to get some faint nibbles and some recognition. The money will come.
3) The writing is suffering. What is particularly frustrating is the fact that my first major quality project is so close to completion and I just can't seem to get it together enough to finish. I think I've got the first draft of the last story of the collection started. I just need a couple of clear days to devote to it.
4) Spring is finally happening in Chicago. Every winter feels like the longest of my life.
I will be better about posting.
1) The job is a job. There isn't really anything challenging about it, but I'm getting traction. Solved a few sticky problems.
2) The photography progresses, but still no real money. I'm starting to get some faint nibbles and some recognition. The money will come.
3) The writing is suffering. What is particularly frustrating is the fact that my first major quality project is so close to completion and I just can't seem to get it together enough to finish. I think I've got the first draft of the last story of the collection started. I just need a couple of clear days to devote to it.
4) Spring is finally happening in Chicago. Every winter feels like the longest of my life.
I will be better about posting.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Race!
As I predicted, as Barak Obama becomes more and more a credible presidential candidate, Race will enter the national discussion on a more substantive level than it has in the last forty years.
Geraldine Ferraro's comments are classic. For a white person to say that an African American who is making professional progress to dismiss that progress "because he's black," is the typical response that many African Americans expect from white America. It is impossible to isolate the modern African American from generations of second-class status. Taking color out of the equation for a second, everyone I know knows someone who enjoys a position of privilege and comfort because his or her parents gave them money or connections, or were able to position them in a good school. Those are things that are not common in the African American community. The reason for that is the black diaspora that began with the Civil War and continued through the nineteen sixties. Then factor in the overt and covert, conscious and subconscious racial hatred in American society that still exists today, and I think it's much fairer to say that Barak Obama is where he is in spite of his racial background.
Becoming a Harvard grad, a senator, and now a credible candidate for the United States, are all achievements than a tiny, tiny fraction of the entire population of the world ever achieve. And to have Geraldine Ferraro dismiss these achievements with "because he's black," betrays a deeply ingrained sentiment that she herself is incapable of recognizing.
But then, to add insult to injury, when she's called on the racism of her statement, she has the gall to claim victim status, saying that she's the object of racist comments! Again, this is just another layer of what the African American community has come to expect from the white community the second it's threatened by a black man's success.
And finally, the perception that all of white America are secret (or not so secret) racists is confirmed not only by media outlets like Fox News, but even by more liberal sources where white pundits try to discuss the issue, either by trying to diminish the entirety of African American history by pretending it doesn't exist, or suggesting that every time someone tries to put Obama's candidacy into a broader historical perspective they are sensationalistic or whining.
The fact is that white America does owe a debt to African American America, one that has never been and probably never can be calculated, and the biggest disappointment of the current discussion on race fails to recognize that simple fact.
Geraldine Ferraro's comments are classic. For a white person to say that an African American who is making professional progress to dismiss that progress "because he's black," is the typical response that many African Americans expect from white America. It is impossible to isolate the modern African American from generations of second-class status. Taking color out of the equation for a second, everyone I know knows someone who enjoys a position of privilege and comfort because his or her parents gave them money or connections, or were able to position them in a good school. Those are things that are not common in the African American community. The reason for that is the black diaspora that began with the Civil War and continued through the nineteen sixties. Then factor in the overt and covert, conscious and subconscious racial hatred in American society that still exists today, and I think it's much fairer to say that Barak Obama is where he is in spite of his racial background.
Becoming a Harvard grad, a senator, and now a credible candidate for the United States, are all achievements than a tiny, tiny fraction of the entire population of the world ever achieve. And to have Geraldine Ferraro dismiss these achievements with "because he's black," betrays a deeply ingrained sentiment that she herself is incapable of recognizing.
But then, to add insult to injury, when she's called on the racism of her statement, she has the gall to claim victim status, saying that she's the object of racist comments! Again, this is just another layer of what the African American community has come to expect from the white community the second it's threatened by a black man's success.
And finally, the perception that all of white America are secret (or not so secret) racists is confirmed not only by media outlets like Fox News, but even by more liberal sources where white pundits try to discuss the issue, either by trying to diminish the entirety of African American history by pretending it doesn't exist, or suggesting that every time someone tries to put Obama's candidacy into a broader historical perspective they are sensationalistic or whining.
The fact is that white America does owe a debt to African American America, one that has never been and probably never can be calculated, and the biggest disappointment of the current discussion on race fails to recognize that simple fact.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Contentment
I don't know how anyone else's life works, but mine seems to change in a minute. One minute I'm managing a sleepy little cafe, and the next I'm a director of human resources for a marketing firm. Then I blink and I'm a starving writer. And in a breath I'm helping start a software company and one of the most popular new theatrical photographers in the city. It leaves me breathless, but I'm not sure I'd have it any other way. How do people simmer along in the same job for a decade?
Yes, along with these whiplash changes there come some incredibly low moments where I'm left to wonder what exactly is wrong with me, why can't I have a normal life? I've watched friends get married, have children, get divorced, all on schedule, and I've missed all of that. Missed is probably the wrong word. While I'd like to be partnered, I don't feel like I've missed something by not being married. I love kids, as long as they belong to someone else. And divorce is something I've experienced second hand on a number of occasions. I don't need to feel that for myself.
But tonight, as I type this, I have to admit that I'm pretty happy and grateful for the life I've had so far. It hasn't been perfect, but thank God for that.
Yes, along with these whiplash changes there come some incredibly low moments where I'm left to wonder what exactly is wrong with me, why can't I have a normal life? I've watched friends get married, have children, get divorced, all on schedule, and I've missed all of that. Missed is probably the wrong word. While I'd like to be partnered, I don't feel like I've missed something by not being married. I love kids, as long as they belong to someone else. And divorce is something I've experienced second hand on a number of occasions. I don't need to feel that for myself.
But tonight, as I type this, I have to admit that I'm pretty happy and grateful for the life I've had so far. It hasn't been perfect, but thank God for that.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Where It All Began
Here is a picture of where it all began, taken more than twenty years after my auspicious debut at the local community theater. Originally the local post office, when that facility was relocated, the building was purchased by the local community theater for a dollar. The security catwalk, where managers watched to make sure the workers didn't steal made a great light booth. By comparison the space was primitive to the high school auditoriums that I worked in, but was down-right palatial compared to some of the venues I worked later in life as a professional.
Like many, many kids, theater groups represented a haven from the all-too-cruel real world. My first play, ever, was as the mute stage manager in a children's theater production called "Land of the Dragon." I stole the show, if I do say so myself. That taste addicted me and in my early teens I was lucky enough to land in various local productions of Finian's Rainbow, and The Music Man. I moved a lot as a kid, but the summer after my sophomore year I settled down in Le Mars, Iowa and began my theatrical career in earnest.
Because the local community theater was sort of dependent upon the high-school students for the larger shows, they coordinated their larger musicals. So, in three years I did Anything Goes, Mame, Guys and Dolls and Annie Get Your Gun. I directed three children's shows. And when I wasn't preparing plays, I was competing in speech and music competitions.
But I always sort of think as the Postal Playhouse as my artistic home. My last performance there was when my college toured through the area and performed Hamlet. I only played the Ghost and various smaller roles, but that performance was the closest I ever felt to being a star. As we packed up the bus after the performance, a photographer from the local paper came to take a picture of me receiving a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar scholarship check. It ran on the front page of the local paper.
The last time I saw the Postal Playhouse the lobby had been untouched since it's post-office days, with the exception that the clerk's windows had been removed to allow entrance into the theater proper. Old movie-theater seats had been mounted on platforms of various levels that could be moved to form different seating configurations. There was a simple lighting square hung from the ceiling, and there were probably a dozen ten-foot flats that were stiff with the paint of dozens of productions. Off either side of the lobby were rooms, one for the administrative office and one serving as the paint room and concession area. The full basement served as the dressing room and housed thousands of costumes, clothes donated from area closets that had been cut and restitched into various outfits.
Of course, I didn't have a clue as to what I was doing and I shudder to think what artistic crimes I committed on that stage. But it's quite possible that stage saved my life, but the very least it served as the springboard for where I am now and I am eternally grateful.
Friday, March 07, 2008
Mediocre Spice
At my last job, I worked with a woman named after a character from a popular sitcom from the 1960's. For the purposes of this post, we'll call that woman Ginger.
Ginger had a relatively successful career. She came to us from a multi-national company where she'd played a key role in the merger of several smaller multi-national companies. She had an MBA, owned several small pieces of real estate, had a happy marriage, and lived in Lincoln Park. Her talent was to assess a situation, determine which course of action would require the minimum amount of effort to maintain a baseline of existence, and then generate only that amount of effort. She wasn't interested in earning an A for effort. She was comfortable with a C-. Her life looked smooth and comfortable.
And it also looked bone-crushingly boring. She would frequently go to exotic vacation locations and never set foot outside of the spa in the five-star hotel. She would go to punk-rock concerts by bands from the'80's, thinking she was being ironic, ala Alanis Morrisett, and never even be curious about the cultural genesis or context of the music she was hearing. Her presence at these places and events gave her all the character she thought she needed. She had no interest in exploring anything beyond its surface value and as a result she had the depth of a soiled Petrie dish.
One day this forty-year old woman came into the office with a new haircut. She'd gotten it cut because she liked the way it looked on Victoria Beckham. Let's just say that Ginger was no Posh Spice.
I truly hated her.
I thought about her today as I opened my three rejection letters. I was not accepted into any of the PhD programs I'd applied to. To be fair, I have no idea how Ginger would have responded to the news of my failure, but in my imagination I could see her smirking. Ginger had, and frequently exhibited, a superior attitude to just about everyone. (On three separate occasions I closed her office door and told her that laughing at someone in a meeting, and bad mouthing them when they weren't present really did not serve her purposes. I'm sure she never got it.) But I do know this: to Ginger these three rejections would be tangible, objective proof of failure, of inferiority. It would justify her feeling of superiority because she had never received such a rejection.
But the truth is, she also never risked anything. She had an MBA, but only God knows how she got it. There was never any shred of evidence that she was capable of using it. On more than one occasion she took credit for someone else's work, and on more than one occasion she shifted the responsibility for a failure to someone else. She never created or contributed anything that was even partially her own, let alone wholly original.
She lived, and I imagine still lives, a mediocre life.
And while she has more money than I, and holds more symbols of status, I'm not sure I would trade all of her Armitage-Avenue, boutique trappings for a single one of those rejection letters. Because I view them, not as symbols of failure, but as evidence of character. I shot for the moon. I missed, and the accompanying disappointment stings. But those letters are proof that I found the resources to dare to dream and to act on that dream.
For me, there will be other dreams, more effort, and one day I'll have another success. Just like I'll have another failure. For Ginger there will only be a lifetime of people confusing her name with a mediocre sitcom character and a common kitchen spice.
Ginger had a relatively successful career. She came to us from a multi-national company where she'd played a key role in the merger of several smaller multi-national companies. She had an MBA, owned several small pieces of real estate, had a happy marriage, and lived in Lincoln Park. Her talent was to assess a situation, determine which course of action would require the minimum amount of effort to maintain a baseline of existence, and then generate only that amount of effort. She wasn't interested in earning an A for effort. She was comfortable with a C-. Her life looked smooth and comfortable.
And it also looked bone-crushingly boring. She would frequently go to exotic vacation locations and never set foot outside of the spa in the five-star hotel. She would go to punk-rock concerts by bands from the'80's, thinking she was being ironic, ala Alanis Morrisett, and never even be curious about the cultural genesis or context of the music she was hearing. Her presence at these places and events gave her all the character she thought she needed. She had no interest in exploring anything beyond its surface value and as a result she had the depth of a soiled Petrie dish.
One day this forty-year old woman came into the office with a new haircut. She'd gotten it cut because she liked the way it looked on Victoria Beckham. Let's just say that Ginger was no Posh Spice.
I truly hated her.
I thought about her today as I opened my three rejection letters. I was not accepted into any of the PhD programs I'd applied to. To be fair, I have no idea how Ginger would have responded to the news of my failure, but in my imagination I could see her smirking. Ginger had, and frequently exhibited, a superior attitude to just about everyone. (On three separate occasions I closed her office door and told her that laughing at someone in a meeting, and bad mouthing them when they weren't present really did not serve her purposes. I'm sure she never got it.) But I do know this: to Ginger these three rejections would be tangible, objective proof of failure, of inferiority. It would justify her feeling of superiority because she had never received such a rejection.
But the truth is, she also never risked anything. She had an MBA, but only God knows how she got it. There was never any shred of evidence that she was capable of using it. On more than one occasion she took credit for someone else's work, and on more than one occasion she shifted the responsibility for a failure to someone else. She never created or contributed anything that was even partially her own, let alone wholly original.
She lived, and I imagine still lives, a mediocre life.
And while she has more money than I, and holds more symbols of status, I'm not sure I would trade all of her Armitage-Avenue, boutique trappings for a single one of those rejection letters. Because I view them, not as symbols of failure, but as evidence of character. I shot for the moon. I missed, and the accompanying disappointment stings. But those letters are proof that I found the resources to dare to dream and to act on that dream.
For me, there will be other dreams, more effort, and one day I'll have another success. Just like I'll have another failure. For Ginger there will only be a lifetime of people confusing her name with a mediocre sitcom character and a common kitchen spice.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Privilege
One of the programs that I've applied to for PhD study has a website where they've posted pictures of their top undergraduate students. Better than ninety percent of those students are white. While I've not met any of those students personally, I have met many students from that program over the years. They drip privilege, and the thing that adds insult to injury is that all of the students and graduates that I've met from that program are not oblivious to the fact of their privilege, but there is something about them that communicates that the privilege is their due.
Yes, they have more advantages and opportunities than you do, but they're supposed to. You are inferior, not worthy of the advantages that they take for granted, so get over it.
Of course, it doesn't take a rocket scientist or even a high-school junior to ask, "Jealous much?" I admit that there is a part of me that is jealous of the advantage these people have. They are advantages that are almost always unearned, garnered because daddy knew someone and placed a call, or obtained over beers and a joint. While everything I have -- EVERYTHING -- I have because I worked for it.
Still, I recognize that in many situations I've received the benefit of the doubt, or preferential treatment because I'm white, or I've been perceived as straight. Don't get me wrong. I've worked for everything I have, but that doesn't mean that some of the things I've had didn't come more easily to me than they might have to someone else.
No one said the world was fair. But the inequities of this world are borne a little more easily if there was at least some gratitude.
Yes, they have more advantages and opportunities than you do, but they're supposed to. You are inferior, not worthy of the advantages that they take for granted, so get over it.
Of course, it doesn't take a rocket scientist or even a high-school junior to ask, "Jealous much?" I admit that there is a part of me that is jealous of the advantage these people have. They are advantages that are almost always unearned, garnered because daddy knew someone and placed a call, or obtained over beers and a joint. While everything I have -- EVERYTHING -- I have because I worked for it.
Still, I recognize that in many situations I've received the benefit of the doubt, or preferential treatment because I'm white, or I've been perceived as straight. Don't get me wrong. I've worked for everything I have, but that doesn't mean that some of the things I've had didn't come more easily to me than they might have to someone else.
No one said the world was fair. But the inequities of this world are borne a little more easily if there was at least some gratitude.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Live Blogging: The 80th Oscars Red Carpet
* The writer's strike is over. Move on...
* John Travolta not only looks like his face is pressed out of plastic, but he also looks like his hair has been painted on.
* Did Barbara Walters piss off the entire industry? Is Miley Cyrus really the best she can come up with?
* Dress -- $15,000
Jewels -- $300,000
The look on Jennifer Garner's face -- PRICELESS
* Why do the actresses all look alike. I can't tell if I'm looking at Kristen Chenewith or Kirsten Dunst.
* Helen Mirren is the most elegant woman on the planet.
* The fashions may be boring or "safe" but we're still a nation at war. Could it be restraint?
* Jessica Alba can barely restrain herself from slapping Ryan Seacrest. Breast feeding indeed.
* "Diddy" acting? Please.
* Someone get Tilda Swinton some mascara and blush. Is she playing Peter Pan?
* Cameron Diaz. Blonde.
* Javier Bardem. Sex on a stick. Why are Europeans so much sexier than Americans?
* Summer Affleck (wife to Casey) couldn't have been less impressed with Ryan Seacrest.
* Hillary Swank looked like an over-fed cat. She really was the queen of the red carpet.
* Charlize Theron or Kim Catrall? No! It was Katherine Heigel. From a marketing point of view these women need to establish their brand better. It's not good to be interchangeable.
* John Travolta not only looks like his face is pressed out of plastic, but he also looks like his hair has been painted on.
* Did Barbara Walters piss off the entire industry? Is Miley Cyrus really the best she can come up with?
* Dress -- $15,000
Jewels -- $300,000
The look on Jennifer Garner's face -- PRICELESS
* Why do the actresses all look alike. I can't tell if I'm looking at Kristen Chenewith or Kirsten Dunst.
* Helen Mirren is the most elegant woman on the planet.
* The fashions may be boring or "safe" but we're still a nation at war. Could it be restraint?
* Jessica Alba can barely restrain herself from slapping Ryan Seacrest. Breast feeding indeed.
* "Diddy" acting? Please.
* Someone get Tilda Swinton some mascara and blush. Is she playing Peter Pan?
* Cameron Diaz. Blonde.
* Javier Bardem. Sex on a stick. Why are Europeans so much sexier than Americans?
* Summer Affleck (wife to Casey) couldn't have been less impressed with Ryan Seacrest.
* Hillary Swank looked like an over-fed cat. She really was the queen of the red carpet.
* Charlize Theron or Kim Catrall? No! It was Katherine Heigel. From a marketing point of view these women need to establish their brand better. It's not good to be interchangeable.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Tori! Tori! Tori!
Tori Spelling offers sage wisdom in the next People. There is something sort of neo-Zen about the statement, if you think about it long enough. It's like saying the word "water" over and over for five minutes... Anyway, Tori says:
If knew the styles were going to be the way they are now, I wouldn't have gotten my boobs done in the '90s. The clothes now wear so much better when you're smaller. In the '90s it was all about big boobs in halter tops.
Ah. Out of the mouths of "babes."
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Finally
I am employed. It's not perfect, but it will do for now. Now, I can focus on my writing without distraction. Goal is 90,000 words, and I'm at 61,000.
Moving forward.
Moving forward.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Words of Hate
This article demonstrates the absolute degradation of the English language.
So, let's be clear: Hillary Clinton does not deserve to be called a cunt. You may not like her politics, nor may you appreciate her public persona. (In the interests of disclosure, I do not like her politics, but I actually like her persona. I've said repeatedly that I want her to stay in the senate. I believe that's where she will stay and she can provide enormous support to a President Obama, and enormous counter balance to a President McCain.) And while I'm sure there are people in the world that Ms. Clinton hates, after being a target of the media and suffering the greatest personal humiliation any woman has ever suffered, who could blame her?
The only public person I can think of who would come close to qualify as a cunt would be Ann Coulter. It's unfortunate for the purposes of this post that Ms. Coulter is also, allegedly, a female. Long, flowing blonde hair notwithstanding, I have seen no actual evidence of that fact. Men can be cunts too, and actually quite frequently are more brilliant cunts than women could ever be. (Again, in the interests of clarification, Adolf Hitler is not a cunt. There is not a word sufficient in the English language to describe him. The frequently used term 'monster' casts him with a pastel light of a bed-time story, which I think is generally agreed inappropriate.)
No, Miss Coulter qualifies as a cunt because her entire reason for existence is to spew hatred, divide people and promote herself. She is a symptomatic display of the ugly parts of this country with virtually no discernable redeeming quality. And virtually every time she is on the television screen she deserves to be called a cunt.
That is the difference and the inappropriate use of the term to describe Ms. Clinton not only demonstrates the level of thinking in Roger Stone, but also demonstrates that for the conserative agenda there is nothing sacred.
So, let's be clear: Hillary Clinton does not deserve to be called a cunt. You may not like her politics, nor may you appreciate her public persona. (In the interests of disclosure, I do not like her politics, but I actually like her persona. I've said repeatedly that I want her to stay in the senate. I believe that's where she will stay and she can provide enormous support to a President Obama, and enormous counter balance to a President McCain.) And while I'm sure there are people in the world that Ms. Clinton hates, after being a target of the media and suffering the greatest personal humiliation any woman has ever suffered, who could blame her?
The only public person I can think of who would come close to qualify as a cunt would be Ann Coulter. It's unfortunate for the purposes of this post that Ms. Coulter is also, allegedly, a female. Long, flowing blonde hair notwithstanding, I have seen no actual evidence of that fact. Men can be cunts too, and actually quite frequently are more brilliant cunts than women could ever be. (Again, in the interests of clarification, Adolf Hitler is not a cunt. There is not a word sufficient in the English language to describe him. The frequently used term 'monster' casts him with a pastel light of a bed-time story, which I think is generally agreed inappropriate.)
No, Miss Coulter qualifies as a cunt because her entire reason for existence is to spew hatred, divide people and promote herself. She is a symptomatic display of the ugly parts of this country with virtually no discernable redeeming quality. And virtually every time she is on the television screen she deserves to be called a cunt.
That is the difference and the inappropriate use of the term to describe Ms. Clinton not only demonstrates the level of thinking in Roger Stone, but also demonstrates that for the conserative agenda there is nothing sacred.
Lawsuit
A German kid, living in Colorado, may be the first person to sue a tormentor under a new hate-crime bill.
In a lot of ways that kid looks like I did at twelve. In the ninth grade I attended four different schools during the course of the year, ending up in the small-town junior high school in the town where my father lived. Whenever things became too difficult for my mother, my sister and I went to live with our father. As a teenager there was a lot of shuttling into and out of the same small-town school, where I perennially seemed to be the new kid.
As a right of passage the new kid is always teased. However, I came from an unstable home environment and I had no sense of proportion or distance. I took everything too seriously. At one point I decided to stop going to school. I skipped for about two straight weeks. Because I was always in and out of that school, it took a while for anyone to really notice. Finally I was dragged back and sat in front of the principal to explain myself. I told him I didn't want to go to school because no one liked me. He told me I didn't have a choice and that if I didn't go to school my father would go to jail. He also told me that, of course all of the kids liked me. I just needed to give them a chance. It was all my fault.
One morning, I don't remember why, I was late to school. Instead of going to my locker, I had to run to my first class. During the morning announcements over the intercom the principal made some sort of announcement about how every one who went to that school had the right to go to school without being tormented and harassed. There were several of us who were targets, so while I thought the announcement was a little odd, I didn't really think too much about it. Then one of the kids leaned across the aisle and said, "He's talking about you."
Nothing out of the ordinary had happened. I probably had a dramatic incident with another student every other week, and that was the down week. "Really?"
"Yeah. Somebody put a poster up on your locker. It wasn't very nice."
I never saw the poster and no one ever said anything more about it to me. I'm sure it would be tame compared to what a kid today might do. Anyway, I didn't think anything about. Stuff like that was happening to me all the time and finally someone else saw it. I went about my day, not getting to my locker until lunch time.
When I opened my locker, I discovered that whoever had decorated the outside had also decorated the inside. It must have been several boys -- girls would never have done this. They had spit green loogeys all over everything. The books that had been in the locker, my gym clothes, everything was covered in slime.
I closed the door and walked directly into the principals office. People who know me now would have no problem believing this story, but then I was a shy, quiet, bullied twelve year old. The principle was in a meeting, which I interrupted. I demanded that he come to my locker. When he saw what was inside he said, "What do you want me to do about it."
"I want you to have someone clean it up."
"It's not their job to clean the inside of your locker."
"Then I'll use another locker until they do."
I didn't touch any of my books. I didn't do any of my homework, because I wouldn't touch any of my books. I just went to class and sat in a desk. It took about a month, but finally they cleaned my locker and gave me new books.
Everybody gets teased in school, but unless you've experienced it on this level you have no idea what this kid in Colorado is going through or how it will effect the rest of his life. For years he's going to see green slime where there is none. Maybe for the rest of his life he's going to expect that the rug is going to be pulled out from under him when he least expects it, so he'll always expect it to prevent it from happening.
And suing won't help. Even if he wins. Especially if he wins. The kids will never let him forget that he had to get someone bigger to handle his problem.
After that sliming incident, I there were no more overt acts, but as the kids got older the tormenting became more subtle. Kids who were supposed to be my friends got into the act. I don't know if it was out of peer pressure or what. I do know that some pretty mean things were said and done, and that I spent most of my twenties and thirties trying to get my bearings in the real world.
What this kid needs to do is grow up and become rich and famous on Broadway. That'll show 'em.
In a lot of ways that kid looks like I did at twelve. In the ninth grade I attended four different schools during the course of the year, ending up in the small-town junior high school in the town where my father lived. Whenever things became too difficult for my mother, my sister and I went to live with our father. As a teenager there was a lot of shuttling into and out of the same small-town school, where I perennially seemed to be the new kid.
As a right of passage the new kid is always teased. However, I came from an unstable home environment and I had no sense of proportion or distance. I took everything too seriously. At one point I decided to stop going to school. I skipped for about two straight weeks. Because I was always in and out of that school, it took a while for anyone to really notice. Finally I was dragged back and sat in front of the principal to explain myself. I told him I didn't want to go to school because no one liked me. He told me I didn't have a choice and that if I didn't go to school my father would go to jail. He also told me that, of course all of the kids liked me. I just needed to give them a chance. It was all my fault.
One morning, I don't remember why, I was late to school. Instead of going to my locker, I had to run to my first class. During the morning announcements over the intercom the principal made some sort of announcement about how every one who went to that school had the right to go to school without being tormented and harassed. There were several of us who were targets, so while I thought the announcement was a little odd, I didn't really think too much about it. Then one of the kids leaned across the aisle and said, "He's talking about you."
Nothing out of the ordinary had happened. I probably had a dramatic incident with another student every other week, and that was the down week. "Really?"
"Yeah. Somebody put a poster up on your locker. It wasn't very nice."
I never saw the poster and no one ever said anything more about it to me. I'm sure it would be tame compared to what a kid today might do. Anyway, I didn't think anything about. Stuff like that was happening to me all the time and finally someone else saw it. I went about my day, not getting to my locker until lunch time.
When I opened my locker, I discovered that whoever had decorated the outside had also decorated the inside. It must have been several boys -- girls would never have done this. They had spit green loogeys all over everything. The books that had been in the locker, my gym clothes, everything was covered in slime.
I closed the door and walked directly into the principals office. People who know me now would have no problem believing this story, but then I was a shy, quiet, bullied twelve year old. The principle was in a meeting, which I interrupted. I demanded that he come to my locker. When he saw what was inside he said, "What do you want me to do about it."
"I want you to have someone clean it up."
"It's not their job to clean the inside of your locker."
"Then I'll use another locker until they do."
I didn't touch any of my books. I didn't do any of my homework, because I wouldn't touch any of my books. I just went to class and sat in a desk. It took about a month, but finally they cleaned my locker and gave me new books.
Everybody gets teased in school, but unless you've experienced it on this level you have no idea what this kid in Colorado is going through or how it will effect the rest of his life. For years he's going to see green slime where there is none. Maybe for the rest of his life he's going to expect that the rug is going to be pulled out from under him when he least expects it, so he'll always expect it to prevent it from happening.
And suing won't help. Even if he wins. Especially if he wins. The kids will never let him forget that he had to get someone bigger to handle his problem.
After that sliming incident, I there were no more overt acts, but as the kids got older the tormenting became more subtle. Kids who were supposed to be my friends got into the act. I don't know if it was out of peer pressure or what. I do know that some pretty mean things were said and done, and that I spent most of my twenties and thirties trying to get my bearings in the real world.
What this kid needs to do is grow up and become rich and famous on Broadway. That'll show 'em.
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