Journalism FAIL

I saw Robert Fisk tonight. Rather, I heard him speak at a lecture called, "Politics, Journalism and Globalisation of the Middle East." Man, what a crock of shit.

Not only did he do his damnedest to sell his book(s) but he wouldn't answer my question. At all.

FISK: Yes, the young lady in the back.
ME: Mr. Fisk, since you have mentioned that online journalism isn't going to succeed, and print journalism is a dying art, where do you recommend readers get their news, and moreover, how and where do you think journalism is going?
FISK: Oh. You're an American, eh? Well... journalism is changing, and that change can be seen on the internet, and making sure that online journalists can maintain a readership is important, but completely different from MY experiences... blah, blah, blah, buy my book(s).

Listen up, Fisk, I know that you're a big shot and you don't have to answer to anybody because you've achieved a buncha great things in your life, but your profession has to answer to someone, and that someone is The Rest of Us.

I wish I'd gotten an answer and then I wish I hadn't re-read his articles, because now I'm just pissed off that this guy gets to write garbage and is revered for it.

i don't know that for a fact. i can't say that. he obviously has some serious in-depth analysis and his writing is cohesive and well-supported. but it's still biased. and now, so am i.

Can you answer to THAT?

the price of infa-ME

TIME: approximately 3:15p, Saturday
PLACE: my place of employment -- The Diner

The Characters:
ME: a twenty-something server/student
HIM: a forty-something customer
irrelevant young man (IYM): irrelevant

(the scene is set in a crowded diner, sounds of clattering plates, glasses, people eating. The scent of eggs is heavy in the air, during the tail-end of the brunch rush. ME strides over to HIM, business-like, but pleasant. HIM is seated with another young man, irrelevant to the scene. Lights focus on the two.)

ME: Hi there! How ya doin'?
HIM: Good, good! My friend and I were looking to grab a bite to eat and get drunk. Well, I'm going to get drunk because I'm a shitty human being who hates himself. I'm also a washed up actor who teaches acting to other people. My work has been produced. You've never heard of me? Well, no matter. (Gestures to the irrelevant young man). He'll start with a salad.
ME: Great! That salad he wants to order is delicious.
HIM: I'll order a bottle of wine.

(ME fetches the salad and bottle of wine. ME, HIM, and the IYM chat about the establishment and theatre in a jovial manner. HIM is particularly animated. ME is attentive, but professional.)

IYM: (finishing his salad) Do you know what time it is? I have to go very soon.
ME: Almost 3p. Will you be needing the check?
HIM: No, not yet. IYM will be leaving, but I plan to stay and order an expensive meal and another bottle of wine. After that, I will convince you that I am a decent human being, directly before I excuse myself to have a cigarette and then skip out on the $100 bill. You will be upset, possibly for hours, but I will remain the shitty human being I am, unaware of the repercussions and unconcerned with your feelings.
ME: Okay, sounds good. Let me know if you need anything else. I'll be back to check on you and make sure you've enjoyed your dining experience, because after having conversation with you, I am genuinely concerned with your comfort.
HIM: Thanks. I'm a piece of shit.
ME: Enjoy your dine-and-dash.

(END)

Analysis: ME is an average person, attempting to do their job, to the best of their ability. ME inherently trusts the structure of business and everyone that walks within that structure. HIM is dishonest. HIM believes that there are no consequences for their actions and successfully deceives ME. ME is left with a sense of neglected responsibility and spends several hours after the scene Googling every detail HIM mentioned during their conversation. ME is left with nothing but a series of lies and the possibility of losing their tips for the day, in order to pay for HIM's bill. ME is devastated, not over the money, but the idea that HIM would go to such great lengths to deceive ME. After a day or so, ME decides that every person they come into contact with is inherently deceitful, and treats them as budding criminals. ME begins to question everyone's intentions and becomes spiteful and vindicative, eventually turning into a person they never intended to become. HIM is gone, yet ME sees HIM everywhere.

What the heck is WRONG with people?

all my little words

I saw "Fake Lake" on Thursday night and it moved me, but not in the way I think it intended to. I watched the actors, some of whom I knew, and some I did not, reenact an episode from the writer's life, at a time when she left Chicago to pursue... well, something else. The story that was told had humorous, dramatic, emotional, and political points to make, but I walked away from the Welles Park Pool (where, yes, it was performed IN the pool) to ponder my own choices.

Could I write a play based on my life, or a particular point in my life? Sure. Would it be any good? Doubtful. I'm not being self-deprecating, just honest. Honestly, I don't have the time to form my experiences into anything coherently meaningful. I'm too busy living out the episodes in my life, and it's non-stop. The most I can muster is a blog or two.

How do these people make the time to write, practice, perform AND work their day jobs? All of my motivation is tied up in school right now, and I know that's part of the problem. I wish I had gone through my higher education in a conventional method. Four years and a mountain of loans. Done. Instead, I squandered my time and effort and still have little to show for it. I just want to be done with school and get ON with my life, before it's all gone.

For the time being, I suppose I will have to content myself with being consistently impressed with the efforts of artists. One day, I hope to join the ranks of the creatively employed.

nighthawks at the diner.

i mentioned in an earlier post that i have a shitty waitressing job.

i take it back. it's not shitty. ANYMORE.

i recently asked for my job back at the diner that is conveniently located ten minutes away from where i live, knowing full well that i may have to deal with the same drama and blatant discrimination that drove me out in the first place. i have yet to encounter those problems.

something changed. the staff is more or less the same, but the business has tripled, making everyone involved happier. i hate to say it, but money changes people. no one fights over the "good" shifts anymore. everyone does the work that needs to be done. my co-workers are much more pleasant and far less mean-spirited than i've ever known them to be.

i don't dread the work anymore. it's a relief. i can climb out of debt again and keep my soul intact. for those who know where i work, please come see me again. i'm happy to serve you.

Redefining "Between Jobs"

it means going crazy. it doesn't actually mean that you're looking for something else. between jobs is about dancing like a monkey betwixt schedules that are ships in the night. never the twain shall meet. if the two schedule-ships DO meet, then there will be hell to pay. i have too many jobs. i'm always 'between them'. always.

i believe i go from being The Most Employed Person Ever to being The Most Unemployed Person Ever. neither are very good titles to hold.

i'm working at a fancy french restaurant on the weekends. i work across the street at a little middle eastern place, most days. i go to school in the evenings. i write art reviews for Newcity. i barely make enough to get myself where i need to be while affording a home to go to when i need to collapse.

this is wholeheartedly miserable.

Attack of The Panic

ogeez. what have i done? i picked up three assignments with Newcity and still have two articles to finish for Conscious Choice and i got ANOTHER waitressing gig to supplement my income, which, i assure you, is quite meager, AND i start school again in less than two weeks. i'm panicking. yes, indeedy. full on panicking.

i need to keep my head above water, no, i need to be able to walk on water. yes. then turn that water into wine and drink it down, because god knows i need a freakin' drink right now. oh dear.

i will get this done. i will stay awake until it is done. i suspect that i may not sleep for a few weeks.

Three-for-One

You know how there are some nights when you can't seem to find ANYTHING to do? Tonight was not one of those nights.

I can't believe how much STUFF happened today. Don't get me wrong, it was all GREAT, just A LOT. I doubt I'll be having another night like this again soon. Then again, it was the sort of day that makes me happy with my life, exactly as it is. I don't remember the last time I could say (write) that. I usually just whine.

I spent my workday at 'Conscious Choice,' writing. I actually think I might be able to make a solid go of this journalism thing. I still hate Hemingway, but I can finally appreciate his style. While I was at work, I got a call about 'testing' a new computer game. I don't think I'm allowed to divulge the silly and fun details of the game, but I will say that I had a blast playing, singing and guessing. Karaoke is like opera for the working class. Then I went to Bill's Blues Club, in Evanston.

I normally don't do well in 'blues' clubs. I find them pretentious and stifling. I suppose I should have known better because my good pal, G, invited me to come see him play tuba in a band called The Prohibition Orchestra. It was wonderful to listen to a full band play music that should be a lot more mainstream than it is, these days. I highly recommend seeing them. Oh, golly. What next? Oh, right. A cabaret show that didn't start on time, so we went to Silvie's to see another friend's band play. Also good. Then back to the 'cabaret' show, which turned out to be a series of inside jokes that weren't very funny at all.

I don't think abortion jokes are funny. It doesn't matter how you dress it up, it's just not going to be funny.

Phew. It's been a heckuva day. I wonder what's going on tomorrow...

The Start of a Season, The End of an Era

I went to the Cubs game yesterday, as a sort of engagement party for some friends from the days of Yore. We caught each other up on our lives, ate many hot dogs and cheered loudly enough to be deemed "obnoxious." It was a great time, and a great day for a painful ball game. Oh, Cubbies, will you never learn?

I'm not much of a sports fan, but I can appreciate a game of baseball or basketball more easily than I used to. I think I only made two snarky comments. My friends knew I would. That's what friends do. They know and understand, and sometimes, I think they rather enjoy my sarcasm. We've known each other for nearly ten years, most of us having met while we worked together at a Bakers Square in Naperville while some of us were just regulars at the pie-infested eatery.

I love my friends from the Bakers Days. If I had enjoyed high school more, I would have kept in touch with people from high school. But I didn't particularly like high school. I liked working with the Bakers crowd. They taught me how to play euchre and how to enjoy late-night heavily-caffeinated conversations about Nabokov or Fellini (and a number of other pretentious subjects). They taught me how to be a good friend and to expect more from people. They made me appreciate flowers and school. I've kept in touch with them. We meet up every six months or so, catch up, joke around, celebrate and generally enjoy the company without trying too hard. It's easy and comfortable.

When we left Wrigley Field, we gathered up, made plans to go to a bar and hang out for a little bit longer. Then Patrick got a text message. It said something to the effect of, "It finally happened. BS is finally closed." He showed me the text and told me to remember that, "This is where we were when it finally happened." I was stunned. We all were. It was like hearing that your high school had just burned down and was being replaced with a Wal-Mart. Well, if I had liked high school more, I guess that's how it would feel.

I'm still not sure how to let the news affect me. The cursed pie-factory was the nexxus of so many friendships, though we had long-since moved past it with school, jobs, marriages, family, etc. We discovered that the restaurant had been shut down with minimal fanfare and no warning. Just some corporate dickweeds walking in, offering positions to upper management and severance checks for everyone else. Done.

I wonder what's going to happen to the building. I'm also wondering what they're going to do with all those pies...

Identity Crisis: Part Two

Since I began the new job, I've been doing some thinking. I answer to "Sam" now, but not right away. I sign emails to clients as "Sam". I get introduced to coworkers and clients as "Sam", and I have to remind myself that "Sam" is who I am in this position, which I'm not really qualified for, but that's a whole different mess.

I've had a few discussions with friends and family on the subject and have been hearing a lot of different responses:
- This is a funny situation to be in.
- I'll get used to the new name.
- I was smart to change it, for employment purposes.

All of those things are true, but I just don't know how I feel about it. I'm not upset or happy, either way. It's just a new change, and one I only partially thought through. My brother recently posted a journal entry that touched down on some of the issues I'm grappling with. Whereas he chose the route of assimilation, a path that I frequently wished I'd walked, I ultimately embraced my image as an Asian-American, and chose to cultivate my own credo on the subject. I don't regret it, nor do I envy or judge his choices anymore. But now, I find that I AM assimilating in one of the most fundamental ways. I changed my NAME. If only I could blame it on Ellis Island.

I've grown accustomed to living in a hyphenated world, but this is something entirely different. There isn't an equal splitting of values, where each entity maintains individual significance. This is a manufactured sense of self. It's not a "short" version of my name, and it's not even a nickname, because as we all learned from Sports Night (and how I wish I could have found a clip of that episode!), "you can't give YOURSELF a nickname."

The largest issue at hand is the choice I have to make. Do I continue being "Sam" in the professional world or not? It might not seem like a big deal, but if I look to the future, "Sam" may end up on a slippery slope and there's no way of going back. Or I might just end up with a split personality.

Sam I Am

I got a job! I feel like a new woman. Possibly because I changed my name. It's been about a week since I last posted anything, so here's what happened:

- As a lark, I changed my name on my resume from "Shama" to "Sam".
- I applied for about five more jobs under the new name.
- I received three responses within two days.

When I began this experiment, I didn't have any expectations and I certainly wasn't rooting for any one particular outcome, however, now that I have some results, I'd like to analyze them.

First of all, I doubt that these employers consciously or subconsciously responded for any race-related reasons. I did not change my last name, which is decidedly ethnic. Secondly, I doubt the responses had anything to do with gender. I don't have any real evidence, save for the fact that I went in for an interview as a woman and got hired as a woman. So, that leaves me with the question, "Why did Sam get responses when Shama didn't?"

The answer became clear when I was filling out my new hire paperwork and made a point to my new boss that my checks should be written out to Shama. She listened intently, glanced down at the paperwork, paused for a long while, then looked back up at me, expectantly.

"It's pronounced Shaw-muh," I said.
A look of relief swept across her face and she said, "Thanks. I'm sure I would have pronounced it wrong."

REALLY? It then occurred to me that perhaps Shama wasn't receiving any calls because potential employers simply didn't want to sound DUMB. It's true that we stay away from words we can't pronounce easily, and it is also true that the easiest path is the shortest or straightest, so maybe, just maybe, Sam provides the simplest path for an employer. There it is. Sam I am.

Identity Crisis

Update: I'm still unemployed.

It's strange to think that I'm so thoroughly unmarketable, and all the spare time not working has left me with PLENTY of time to contemplate WHY I'm still unemployed. Among the myriad of reasons (I don't have enough experience, knowledge, time, education, etc.) I began to wonder if I wasn't getting any responses because of my name.

I know this might sound silly to those who know me, but I wonder if I'm not getting any interviews because employers don't know how to pronounce my name. It's not a difficult name, but it is also one that is easy to mispronounce. Nearly a year ago, I had a conversation with a friend who has a difficult name. He told me that once he changed it to something simpler, something more conventional, he started to get interviews. At the time, I thought it was absurd.

I don't think that anymore.

I'm changing my name. Nothing drastic or permanent, but I am changing it to something more conventional. I don't know if it's going to help, but at this point, I'm willing to give it a shot. I'm trying to look at this shift as an 'experiment' of sorts. I have a hypothesis, a method and it will be easy enough to analyze the results, I'm just not sure how I'm going to gauge the success of such an experiment.

If changing my name does indeed work, then I will find employment and a whole new level of disappointment. If it doesn't work, then I'm just going to have to start selling fruit on the streets. Fresh lemons anyone?

one, two, three for the money

i need a job. i need a job so badly right now. the first of the month has come and gone, and so has the last of my cash. damn rent. i did my taxes the other night, hoping that my return would be enough to sustain me for a short while. my wallet has flies coming out of it. just like in the cartoons.

i'm tempted to go back to waitressing, but i think i might kill myself if i did that again. what happened to my useful skills? why won't anyone hire me to do something AND pay me for it? ugh. frustrated. worried.

working for peanuts

work? oh, i forgot to tell you. i got a job, but it doesn't pay me. at least, not with money. i get paid in gratitude.
not from them. i'm the grateful one. i'm grateful for the chance to prove that i CAN, in fact, be a productive member of society.

which is, of course, why i'm posting this entry instead of doing the work i need to be doing.

so, when i actually am being productive, it's in an office, where i write for a magazine. that's as detailed as i'm going to get, for now. i'm still slightly afraid that they're going to find out that i'm a talentless hack and have no business in theirs. i'm also afraid that they're going to call my friends and family and everyone i've ever met and invite them to publicly ridicule me while i get fired from my non-paying job in a painfully embarassing way, possibly involving a giant letter "F" painted on my shirt in wite-out. the "F" is for fraud.

it's a slightly different version of a recurring nightmare, but that's for my therapist, not the blogosphere. unless someone would care to discuss it with me for free, that is. i am, after all, working for peanuts and pencil shavings, and who doesn't love peanuts?
oh yes, and gratitude. i'm working for gratitude, and despite my fears, i am very grateful.

i'm at work. i suppose i ought to do some.

Laws of Probability

i'm not very good at math, but i've been considering this:

Karmic Mass x Velocity of Chance = ?

it equals a giant sinkhole on Montrose Avenue directly in front of the job i just quit, effectively shutting down the business for an undetermined amount of time. i'm happy to know that nobody got hurt and the busted water main is only a major inconvenience rather than a tragedy. i'm also amazed to realize that i would have been out of work at this time, regardless.

i've always believed that if things ever got too bad in my life, i could always look forward to something equally good, basing this belief on probability. a sort of Yin/Yang-convoluted-hopeless-optimism approach, if you will. like i said, i'm no mathematician, and perhaps i have no business trying to make sense out of cosmic forces, let alone break them down in mathematical terms, but what i'm trying to understand is HOW this sort of thing happens.

one of my dearest friends just moved to Chicago (finally) about a week ago. he's a good man. he does good things for people all the time. his karma is damn near the platinum limit. however, he just went through one of the most horrendously unfortunate weeks imaginable. starting with the day he moved in ( -2 degree weather) to his (unfinished) apartment that had no heat. and then the lights went out. powerless (literally), he continued living out his life, without a trace of bitterness. and then his car got towed and impounded. really? honestly, Fate, what did he do to piss you off? well, he nobly went about his life, moving forward with a shrug and a crooked smile. and then, when we all thought the worst was over and he had nothing but good fortune to look forward to, some random drunk totaled his car.

i'm beginning to wonder if it's really all just a crapshoot, and it doesn't matter how good or bad your karma is. either that, or my buddy is about to win the lottery. that'd be awesome.

Giving Up The Ghost

I quit another dead-end waitressing job recently. I won't go into the ugly details, mostly because the "how" and "why" of my resignation are boring and inconsequential for anyone, save myself and ex-employer. No, what I'm concerned with is the aftermath.

There's something strange that happens after a person has been somewhere, been with someone, done something or lost something that has always been there. It's part disorientation, part longing and part masochistic obsession with what once was. The closest parallel I can draw is that of the phantom limb syndrome. Medical dictionaries describe it as: "The perception of sensations, usually including pain, in an arm or leg after the limb has been amputated. The brain still gets messages from the nerves that originally carried impulses from the missing limb."

I've been waitressing for nearly ten years, and now, in the aftermath, I find myself missing the mind-numbing ease of serving food and drink to strangers. I went out for lunch today, with a friend. I anticipated our server's questions, answering them before they were asked. I felt a curious resentment as I watched her move around the dining room, conversing with her customers, clearing empty plates and collecting billfolds. I observed her patterns, like a scientist, trying to gauge her mood while knowing how I would feel, if I had been in her position. I actually felt envy.

I understand that a person's job isn't definitive of who they are, yet there is something to be said for those who do their jobs well, and damnit, I was a good waitress. I feel like I lost something integral to who I am. Nothing as dramatic as an arm or leg or pinky toe, but something solid nonetheless.

I'm giving up the ghost. I'm forgetting the phantom limb that never should have existed. At this moment, I am envisioning my "career" (snort) as a waitress as a massive tentacle that was attached to my head; superfluous, ugly, ridiculous and barely useful. I am cutting off that phantom limb. And now, I'm selling it to a restaurant that will chop it up, steam it, and serve it with a side of pickled seaweed sauce. Hell, as long as I'm not serving it, someone else can choke it down.