Letter To A Friend -- Halloween 2008

Hey Mike-y….

I know I’m in trouble with you by now, seeing as how you’ve called me twice already this week and I’ve yet to return either call as promised. Hope this letter rectifies things a little bit…

My day started weirder than usual, what with me being the only staffer to show up for work today—

Okay, that’s not strictly true. The true part is that I arrived early as usual and was able to get into the building to clock in because our engineer was there. The other staffers scheduled for the day were both running so late for various reasons that we didn’t open on time—in fact we were almost 25 minutes late. Try to imagine the increasingly perplexed and nasty looks I was getting from patrons milling outside the doors, wondering what the f**k was going on now. They peered in at me, their faces hardening; impatient to get to the internet access computers and resume those job searches, tighten those resumes, re-apply for those benefits, surf those porn sites….if I would just come on already and unlock the damn doors. What was my problem, anyway? Couldn’t I see them all standing there? Couldn’t I see a damn clock? Why didn’t I open up the muthaf**kin’ DOOR?!! Frank, bless his heart, went out there a couple of times, to explain the situation.

Me, I was humming with happiness. Not out of disregard for the patrons, whom I really did feel kinda sorry for, most of them. And not about Miss T, who had been suffering back pain all week and hadn’t been able to take off even one day to rest and heal, either because we were (we are) too short-staffed or because there’s been too much going on—school groups and reading groups and the little trick-or-treaters today—that required her presence. She called, having decided to take part of the morning off, but when she asked to talk to Marlena to let her know, only to learn that she hadn’t yet arrived, she was forced to scuttle those plans. Her voice sounded very weary as she assured me she would be in soon.

And I wasn’t smiling about Marley, either, who was this time surely looking at some kind of “official” censure for being so tardy (again), unless, that is, this time she had a truly legitimate reason; something act-of-God and unavoidable, like the morning sun had crashed into the lake and the resultant tsunami had flooded the streets, backing up traffic for miles…

Because the thing is, Mike, I really like Marlena. So does Miss T, actually. She (Marley) is the best, most conscientious worker in the place—aside from your truly ;-)—and everybody knows it and most of us appreciate it. I hate to see her of all people getting into trouble. When I consider the work ethic (or lack thereof) of others, it just seems so damned unfair.

No, I was happy because… um. Because….

Alright, give me a minute. It will come to me.

I walked to work today. I bet you would have too, if only your job was closer to home. It was just such an incredibly gorgeous morning, bright blue skies, golden, sunny, mild temps, and the trees all along the way so beautiful, absolutely ablaze with color. An almost perfect start to whatever the hell my day was going to become.

Then when I arrive at the front doors I can tell immediately that Frank (or somebody) is there because all the lights are up; sure enough he answers my knock right away, as though he’d been waiting for me. So I clock in on time/early and get busy with the morning set-up, listening to my Natalie Goldberg-Julia Cameron tapes (an interesting and sometimes funny conversation about the writing life) as I go, and I’m, I dunno, feeling pretty good, you know?

Then it got closer to time to open and still no one—staff wise—had shown up yet. When Miss T called and cautioned me not to open (at least one senior staffer had to be on the premises per library policy) I felt elated, positively liberated. This may sound odd to you, I realize. But don’t you love it when the ordinary suddenly becomes the unusual, the unforeseen? Something unexpected was going down! Maybe we wouldn’t open until noon! Maybe we wouldn’t open at all! Then I could do with this glorious day whatever I wanted.

And even if not, so what? Even if only momentarily, it was a giddying feeling, that feeling of the routine veering off course and possibly turning into something else, good or bad, didn’t matter. In moments like that, however transitory, however fleeting, you’re reminded of all the myriad, numberless possibilities of a morning, a day, a life. Ach, this probably makes no sense to you. It doesn’t to me, completely.

But while it lasted it was a good feeling.

The Long Goodbye -- Lizzie, Part I

If this workday is going to be anything like yesterday, you can keep it. Too few workers, too many patrons, too many equipment problems.

And my damn cat is beginning to drive me crazy now. She's pooping outside her box now, not every day but once in awhile without warninig, principally on any available carpet (living room) or shag rug (bathroom, during the night, directly in front of sink--surprise!!). And her peeing is becoming a hit and miss affair as well, as often outside her litter box as in it. There's something different about the way she's squatting when she needs to void. And she's so thirsty all the time--she never used to need so much water.

She may be diabetic.

Back to the vet, if I can just find a ride.

Oh, man. I see a long, expensive road ahead of me. Back and forth vet visits. Medications. Progressively messier clean-ups. Wakeful, worried nights.

This is the part about pet care that I dread. You bring these creatures into your life and home as adorable, plump little balls of fur. You love them, care for them as best you know how. And in return they bond with you, greet you joyfully at the door each evening, learn to play with you, anticipate your moods, and by their comforting presence ease those moments of loneliness, stress and trauma. Your little buddy. And then, before you know it, you realize they're getting old and starting to get sick and you're faced with preparing for The Decision.

My World... And Welcome To It--Part II

Again—again—watched in dismay today as yet another parent walked into the branch and made a beeline for the nearest Internet access computer, leaving her preschooler pretty much to her own devices for the next hour. Or more likely two. Here we go, I sighed, and nudged at my coworker, who nodded sagely and shrugged a Gallic what are you gonna do-type shrug before turning back to the pile of library card applications in front of her. I headed for the magazine and newspaper display.

The child was a cute chatterbox in a red corduroy jumper, wide-eyed, tentatively friendly, intensely curious about everything going on around her, and generally pleased to find herself in this interesting, strangely quiet place that was crowded with more books than probably she’d ever seen in her entire young life. She wandered over to one of the paperback carousels, poking and prodding at the lower tiers, attempting to make the thing turn. Then, bored with that, she ambled up to the community information table and stood up on her tiptoes straining to get a better view of the stacks and scatterings of leaflets, flyers and shiny, colorful pamphlets. Frustrated, unable to reach even the papers closest to the table’s edge, she abruptly dropped to her hands and knees and began to crawl around under it like a little red mouse, humming softly to herself as she examined the carpet for minute, invisible…somethings. Tiny, Lilliputian somethings only she could see. I couldn't help smiling, watching her.

K-----! Come here, her mother hissed at her. Sit over there. SIT. OVER. THERE. NOW. Now stay there.

Whereupon I calmly rushed over--I know that sounds like a contradiction; it takes practice--hoping to head off disaster. Stupid woman. Was this adorable child, who could not have been more than 4, maybe 5, really expected to sit in a hard flat chair at a large bare table for the next 60 minutes-plus? With absolutely nothing whatsoever to do? What was this stupid woman thinking?

Can I bring her something to read? And maybe some coloring sheets and crayons? I whispered to the mother. I made a point of sounding sympathetic. And I was. For the child.

The mom shrugged; mumbled yeah okay.

I smiled tightly and went looking for kiddie supplies, grabbing a half dozen Sandra Boynton and Eric Carle titles from the “Toddler/New Reader” shelves on my way back. Then I sat the little girl down at one of the reading tables nearest her mother—who did not even bother to look up, nor did I expect her to—and presented her with my offerings, whispering encouragements.

And for a small period of time the little sweetie was content, happily absorbed in her coloring and drawing and “reading.” But the inevitable happened; she lost interest in both the crayons and the cardboard books, became restless, and began to fret, disconcerted at how thoroughly her mom, frowning at the computer screen inches from her face, had zoned out, seeming to forget all about her little girl. She stage-whispered to her mommy to come here and see; Mommy shushed her. She tried to show Mommy one of her coloring pictures and her mother rebuffed her at first, irritably, her gaze never quite leaving the monitor. Finally the mom sighed and pulled Baby Girl into her lap, distractedly bouncing and rocking her to settle her down—but Baby Girl would not be settled. She babbled and prattled incessantly, peppering her mother with questions which her mother ignored almost completely. Ignored, the child’s whining and whimpering increased in volume and intensity until she’d succeeded in twisting herself down and out of her mother’s loosening embrace.

Then, pouting, she marched defiantly back to the carousel where, after some quick, furtive peeps at Mommy (who remained as oblivious as ever), she snatched Richard Wright off the “WR” rack and threw him to the floor. Then she did the same with Courtney Wright, sending Teri Woods sailing right after, and then a misplaced August Wilson, all to the amusement--and here and there the annoyance--of several patrons nearby.

And then, giddy now and balancing precariously forward on her tiny sneakered toes, Baby Girl reached high for Valerie Wilson Wesley and higher still for Alice Walker while Mommy, aroused finally from her long electronic stupor, advanced upon her daughter with murder in her eyes…

It was a long morning. A long, noisy morning.

My World... And Welcome To It--Part I

The Huffington Post is featuring a Chicago Sun-Times story about the rise of library patronage as a response to economic hard times ("Library Circulation Soars"). This is not news to me, friends....

When I was a kid, I loved public libraries. A perfect day--at least as an alternative to sitting in classrooms all morning and afternoon, staring out windows--was a day spent in the big main center downtown, floating like a visiting princess up and down its ornate, curving stairwells, and sprawling in lazy contentment in overstuffed chairs in large, sunny, elegant reading rooms. There was just no better place to be, and even the dinky little neighborhood branches were good in a pinch. I loved especially the hushed, cathedral quiet of libraries, and the feeling of sanctuary. When I wasn't actually reading I could just sit and think and dream.

But libraries are not quiet spaces any longer, at least the branch in which I work certainly is not. Thirty-five years on, the world is different, the culture is coarser, and people are anxious, more easily frustrated and often less accommodating of one another. The addition of Internet access computers in libraries has been a mixed blessing, offering patrons who can least afford the purchase of home pcs and monthly internet fees more resources for employment, health updates and educational searches. This is a good thing.

On the other hand...

Bad Moon On The Rise?

Not a good sign that these posts have been getting farther and farther apart. It's not like I've had nothing on my mind, after all.

Creeping tension as the days--just 8 days at this writing--tick down toward election day. Will Barack Obama be elected? And by what margin? Will he squeak by so narrowly that we'll be forced to revisit the Recount of 2000? What if he loses narrowly? Can we safely assume vote tampering? (how could we not?) I am trying to maintain, as I'm sure you are. It is not easy.

There is the fear factor once again at the revelation of a plot--is this for real? and should I be using the word "alleged"? --by 2 white supremacists to go on an African-American killing spree meant to culminate in an assassination attempt on Obama. According to federal authorities the would-be assassins, a 20 year-old high school dropout from Tennessee and an 18 year-old from Arkansas who met on the Internet through a shared interest in all things white power (and why are none of these details a surprise to me), were planning to target first an African-American school--though exactly which particular school apparently isn't yet known--killing 88 of its students, 14 by decapitation, or so revealed documents unsealed in a Jackson, Tenn. U.S. District Court. Why 88? And why 14 by beheading? God, I don't know. Something or other about those being magic numbers in the skinhead culture, according to the Associated Press. Yeah. Okay. Whatever. And--oh yes--according to the same report the two had been shooting at the windows of a black church (no injuries or casualties, thank goodness) in Brownsville, Tenn. on the day they were arrested.

A real class act, both of these sons of dixie.

Also (also?? did you hear what I just said?) I can't fight off the worry that, despite reported leads in all the battleground states, Obama could still lose--we could still lose--this election, undone as much by our own hubris or complacency as by GOP hanky-panky. Early voting is taking place but not, apparently, in the numbers expected or hoped for in key states; too many people seem content to chance the long lines and unexpected glitches of November 4th. I had this discussion--let's go ahead and call it a "discussion"--just this weekend with several fellow residents over the folding table in the laundry room, who smiled indulgently at my growing exasperation.

And--oh, what the fresh hell???--are we now at war in Syria? Because the news reports I'm watching tonight sure seem to be suggesting that...

George W. Bush. You just never want to stop slapping him. (I may be repeating myself)

November, Part II

I am so depressed.

The general consensus seems to be that Obama won last night's debate. If substance means anything anymore I think he did too. But guys, 19 days. So much can happen in 19 days. Everything can happen in 19 days, including the unthinkable, the untenable. Ask Al Gore.

So fucking depressed.

November

They’re gonna kill him. You know they’re gonna get him—these white folks ain't gonna let no black man be President of their country—girl, puh-lease!

There’s one line in the ethics report from the Alaskan State Legislature, the bi-partisan (partial) censure of Governor Sarah Palin for abuse of power regarding her attempted ousting of her former brother-in-law as a state trooper, one sentence that offers Palin (and of course, McCain) a tiny ray of hope--you just know Rick Davis and company are going to leap on it and ride it for all its worth every freaking day 'til election day to put as positive a spin on this otherwise unpleasant news as possible--and I can't at this moment remember what that single line is, because...

...because I am still slowly shaking my head at the televised images of a flustered John McCain trying to calm down these angry, ignorant numbskulls--his beloved base--yelling death-to-the-infidel type insults about Obama The Terrorist Candidate (aka Obama The Terrorist Sympathizer Candidate), insults McCain himself—with mindless, eager assists from Governor Palin—has been stoking and fueling and encouraging with his bizarre, relentless, obsessive linking of Obama to William Ayers, a former 60's radical whose acts of political terror were committed when Barack Obama was all of 8 years old.

There's McCain smilingly handing his mike to a young man whose wife is expecting a child next spring, a guy who tells the senator and the audience that he is "scared" at the prospect of raising his child in an Obama (He means "Osama"--but you all got that, right?) America; there's the disheveled-looking, barely coherent woman who takes the mike to call Obama "an Arab," and there’s McCain, who right up to that moment had been smiling and nodding his head, again having to abruptly change course and "correct" yet another poor, misinformed soul. No, no, no—there’s no reason for you to be scared of an Obama Presidency; No, ma’am, no, he is not an Arab; no. And the crowd—his base—actually boos him as he labors to assure them that Obama is really a loving family man and decent guy, honest!

And as I watch all this, taking it all in, my thoughts drift back to when Barack Obama first announced his candidacy, and my friends and family and I watched in wonder as day by day his presidential campaign electrified the country, turning into first a national then global movement until finally one of my co-worker friends--who to my steadily growing annoyance had been ceaselessly shaking her head in cynical disbelief--finally said to me "Oh, girl, please. You know what's gonna happen. They're gonna get him. They're gonna do him like they did Dr. King, and Malcolm, and Medgar—they’re not gonna let no black man be President of this country! They will kill him first, you know they will!"

I’d wanted to smack that woman, right on the spot, in part because her faintly amused cynicism kept reminding me uncomfortably of my own doubts about Barack Obama's qualifications and readiness for that toughest and most exalted of jobs. What is wrong with black people, I remember thinking irritably. Do we have to be so damn negative all the time, so ready to dismiss each other’s—and our own—aspirations, hopes, excellence, dreams? Are we are own dream-killers? Why are we always so afraid to embrace the best in ourselves, and so expectant of the worst in others?

I switch the channel from MSNBC to CNN to CBS to PBS to ABC News to BBC America World News, and my friend’s bitter warnings swirl in my head as I listen to the cries and catcalls at the Republican rallies:
“I just don’t trust him!”
“He’s not one of us!”
“He’s not even American!”
“Not like us!”
"I've been reading up on him--"
“Traitor!”
“Terrorist!”
“Off with his head!”
“Bomb Obama!”

You know they’re gonna get him, girl. You know they will.

October Mornings -- A Memory

Well, here it comes. Winter's onset. It's not officially Autumn yet, yet I was kept awake almost all night long by howling, shrieking winds (poor stray creatures!), and this morning I'm watching a stone gray sky turn chalky white like when the clouds are filling with snow, and I am slamming the windows against the chill. A good day to stay inside, if only I could.

About this time five years ago I was unemployed. I saw the end coming but what with one discouraging thing and another felt too tired and depressed to rescue myself in time. The Day of Reckoning arrived and I cleaned out my desk, turned in my access badge and said my farewells, promising coworker-friends I'd keep in touch knowing full well I would do no such thing. I boarded the Metra train home and settled back in my seat feeling... I don't remember exactly. A blur of things. Worried, certainly, about what was to come. Relieved mostly, even cautiously happy, to finally be free of the place I'd been in, free of morning anxiety as I'd shower and dress and attempt breakfast trying and failing not to brood and ruminate in anticipation of the day ahead, the office, the people, the work I felt increasingly bored and overwhelmed by.

So I was unemployed and the mornings I'd once dreaded were now mine to do with what I wished. I could stay up late now and sleep in. I could rise as early as always luxuriating in the knowledge that I was getting up for myself instead of to appease some faceless, soulless corporate entity's timeclock. I could shop or travel--except that without a steady income I really hadn't the money for such pleasures.... or I could hibernate for the winter, like animals, like the bears, which is what I most wanted to do anyway, and nurse my wounds. (You don't want me here? Well, I don't want to be here either. I don't like you anymore. I don't even know you anymore.) I could sit in my new pajamas on the loveseat I'd parked closest to my windows, my favorite robe--a Christmas gift the previous year from an ex-friend-- wrapped around me, my bare feet curled up underneath me, the book I'd been trying for weeks to find the time to read open in my lap, and breathe, and meditate, and think things I hadn't time for before. I would gaze out at the changing landscape and quietly marvel at all the trees going from their uniform green to blazing bursts of reds, yellows and golds, smiling sympathetically at middle-schoolers with backpacks trudging and scufflling dejectedly through mounds of curling, withering leaves as their harried parents (or people who looked like parents) rushed to catch express buses and frantically hail taxis.

The world was passing me by and I was grateful for that. In the moment, I was just fine with that.

October Monday, Early Afternoon

Quiet, blessedly. And cloudy.

I'm watching a rather grainy VHS copy of Joseph Losey's 1975 film The Romantic Englishwoman, starring Glenda Jackson, Michael Caine and Helmut Berger. When this concludes I will flip the switch to DVD (cleaner sound and picture) and begin John Schlesinger's elegiac Sunday, Bloody Sunday, also starring Jackson and the great Peter Finch--the great, late Peter Finch, who died more or less on the eve of his 1977 Best Actor Academy Award win for Sidney Lumet's Network. I think it was Lumet who directed. Wasn't it? If not it should have been.

How I miss the cinema of the seventies. I remember that time just well enough to know not to romanticize it too much--there was a fair amount of schlock--there is every era--but so many good and great movies were being made then that it's come to feel like a cinematic Golden Age. Independents, young turks, and the masters of European cinema that inspired them were either still in their prime or just hitting stride, creating new language and new rules and releasing modern masterworks like The Last Picture Show, The Godfather Parts I&II, A Woman Under the Influence, Dog Day Afternoon, Nashville, Pat Garrett And Billy The Kid, The Conformist, The Conversation, Amarcord, Jaws, Fear Eats The Soul, Scenes From A Marriage, Days of Heaven and My Brilliant Career. Even the living monuments like Hitchcock still had a trick or two up the sleeve with Frenzy and Family Plot. Movie-going was absolutely necessary back then; you felt that cinematically anything could happen.

Here is Michael Caine in Romantic Englishwoman. He looks great in this movie. This is post-Alfie, post-Ipcress Files, post-Gambit. Here he's older, successful, sophisticated and (still) cynical; this was his Get Carter, Sleuth and The Man Who Would Be King period. In Romantic Englishwoman he plays a wealthy, chauvinistic novelist, an insecure, self-regarding prick who loves his wife--a wry, restless Jackson--but is so fearful of losing her to a handsome gigolo she meets by chance during a solo getaway--the German heartthrob Berger--that he effectively goads her into an extramarital affair.

And Jackson....Glenda May Jackson. Words fail me. She is now a politician--a Member of Parliament (Labour Party) since 1992--and Britain's political gain has been every movie-lover's loss. As an actress Glenda Jackson was such a force of nature--there's never been anyone remotely like her and likely won't be again. She was unique; passionate and iron-willed before such strength was considered a virtue; brazen, brainy, and a sexual powerhouse. In Women In Love she was the mythical Free Woman come to defiant, indomitable life, in The Music Lovers (both directed by Ken Russell, whom she greatly admired) she is a ferocious avenging angel. Yet she could be marvelously funny, giving wonderful, wittily feminist performances opposite George Segal in 1973's A Touch of Class and Walter Matthau in 1978's House Calls. It figures that she played Elizabeth I, not once but twice, in 1971's Mary Queen of Scots opposite Vanessa Redgrave (another strong, independent lady of British cinema and theatre) and again that same year in Elizabeth R, a beautifully produced mini-series presented in 1972 to American audiences on PBS's Masterpiece Theatre.

I miss seeing movies and television, I miss movies and television productions being made, with Glenda Jackson in them.

For Michael M.

It’s too bad I’m broke because it appears to be a good day for walking—crisp and sunny—I thought to stroll around Hyde Park, and maybe find a café to park in to read or write (or both) for a few hours. It’s harder to do those things at home, with the distraction of the television, the stereo, the family, the pet, the phone, and what have you. Some days it’s impossible. Most days it feels impossible.

One thing I guess I’ll be doing this afternoon is going back online to barackobama.com to continue my participation in the “Neighbor to Neighbor” volunteer effort I began yesterday afternoon. Bill M. sent me an email yesterday urging me to join—actually what it appears he sent was an “e-blast” and I’m on his listing—that’s how I got involved.

If you’re at all interested (What..? What do you mean “No, thank you”??) go to barackobama.com and you’ll see the “Neighbor to Neighbor” volunteer information where you can choose to donate money to the Obama-Biden campaign, or volunteer online to phone people in your state or a neighboring state (the system will generate names and phone numbers plus a script you can follow to make it easier to know what to say) or you can opt to canvass your area door to door—the software even provides flyers you can print up to take with you if you want to distribute them around.

I’m not comfortable with the idea of walking around this neighborhood knocking on strange doors, so I chose to work the phones. I called 50 people yesterday, Mike. I was a little nervous at first, worried about the reception I’d receive (“You’re WHO? Who is this REALLY? How you get my number? Why you callin’ here? Goddam it, don’t call this number again!!”), but it turned out not to be so difficult at all. The reason was because each of these individuals were already acknowledged Obama supporters, having either donated money or signed a petition or done something to indicate their interest in getting involved in some way. What I was phoning to learn was whether they were still interested in volunteering, and if yes what their availability and level of involvement would be. The script included five simple questions that the person could answer Yes, No or Maybe to, with me clicking on the appropriate radio button to record their responses. After that I thanked them for their time and clicked on the Save tab at the bottom of the page to transmit the information to Obama headquarters and move on to the next name on the list.

There were some awkward moments—a few people were wary at first but when they realized I just wanted to ask a few quick questions that they could respond to simply they relaxed, and some folks became downright chatty. (One very friendly lady asked me several questions I couldn’t knowledgably answer; I rescued myself by directing her to the Obama website for more information.) In cases where I encountered voice mails I left a message since the script included that option if you aren’t able to talk to an actual person. Other options were:

Wrong Number
Not Home
Refused To Talk To Me
Spoke A Foreign Language, and
Deceased.

You’re laughing now, aren’t you. I certainly did--I couldn't help chuckling as I was preparing to dial the first number, having a sudden image in my head of someone so determined to avoid talking to me that they resorted to each of the above options, including the last.

You could also make the selection “I Am Uncomfortable Calling This Person” (Stop laughing!) but you had to explain why. There was also a space for typing in any remarks you might want to add; I used this a few times.

The “Leave a Message” option created the expectation that I would be calling these folks again, either today or tomorrow (which is what I anticipated having to do), but I later discovered that whenever I selected “Leave a Message” the system automatically removed those names and numbers from my list making follow-up impossible. (Eventually I e-mailed the help desk suggesting this was a glitch that should be fixed; they replied by thanking me for the heads-up and assuring me that the deleted names are always handed off to another volunteer for follow-up)

Also, unexpectedly, several of the people I left messages to called me back—since I was calling from home, my name and phone number popped up on their caller IDs—and one person even interrupted my dinner! (“Uh, hi? Is this Lorraine? Is this a good time to talk..?”) Since at this point I had logged off the website and no longer had the script in front of me, I had to scramble trying to remember what to ask, jotting down their answers on a pad on my desk. (I later emailed the help desk again with the person’s information)

There were three—or was it four—instances where someone answered, a spouse, a baby-sitter, whoever, who asked me to call again; today I’ll go back into the website and do so to finish up. (Don’t know if I want another 50 names, however... oh, what the hell. It's for the cause.)

As I type this I’m watching the Fox movie channel’s letterbox edition broadcast of the 1966 spy thriller The Quiller Memorandum, a good movie that gets better each time I see it. Remember this film? It boasted a terrific international cast, including Alec Guinness, Max von Sydow, George Sanders, and, as The American Hero Who Saves The Day, a young George Segal in possibly his best wise-guy role as the beleaguered U.S. spy sent by Sanders and Guinness to root out Nazis in the “new” Germany. Beautiful Senta Berger (Whatever happened to her?) plays the love interest who may not be as innocent as she seems. And Guinness gives off a vibe here like he’s playing “A Homosexual.” Sort of queeny, sniffy. Coming on to Segal, subtly, and Segal knows it which makes it easy for him to dismiss Guinness. Since Alec Guinness was gay in real life and George Segal, so far as we know, is not, you watch this scene wondering how much of that dynamic was real. (The regal, arrogant Sanders, who was once married to Zsa Zsa Gabor, was also queer--not in this movie I don’t think but in real life.)

Segal, an actor who was good to look at but not distractingly pretty like, say, Redford (whom he worked with in 1972’s comic heist movie The Hot Rock) excelled in roles like this—resourceful, everyday, workaday guys who through a series of circumstances land in the shit and sometimes prevail, sometimes don't. There’s a movie he made around this time—perhaps in the same year?—with Eva Marie Saint, in which he played a philandering husband who tries to hang onto both his wife and his mistress, if I’m remembering it right. It’s never shown anymore and I don’t know if it’s available on VHS or DVD at all. I’d love to see it again. I think the name of it is Loving; must make a note to do an Amazon search for it.

Paul Newman could also have played Quiller, of course, and was probably offered the role first before it made its way to George Segal. As I say, I like Segal just fine in this movie, his work is solid, but part of me can't help but wish Newman had signed on for it. What did he release in '66, anyway? The Secret War of Harry Frigg? (Nope, that was '68.) He should have played Quiller.

But maybe Newman felt he'd played this world-weary wisecracking hero character before, or some variation of it, in Harper or Torn Curtain or even The Prize. How is it possible that Paul Newman--not just a wonderful actor and one of the great male beauties of the Silver Screen, but a humanitarian and philanthropist, a man with strong socio-political convictions--is gone?

The sun is gone, too and it’s starting to rain. Maybe it’s just as well I didn’t go out today. More later.

For Michael T

Hiya. Not sure how far I'll get with this letter since I'm typing during a quiet moment at the job but we shall see......

This is a birthday letter, which admittedly is not the same as a birthday gift, but is almost as good if you're, you know, flexible about it. :-) When precisely is your birthday, by the way? I haven't missed it, have I? (Say no, Mike. Lie if you have to.)

I'd like to get you an actual gift but I'm not sure what you'd like, and since you're not 9 anymore I don't want to wing it and just pick anything. Is there a DVD or two that you'd like to have, or perhaps some blank discs and labels? Email me--or call--and I'll see what I can do.

Ordinarily I'd be on my way home now since my schedule has changed due to the recent departure of another staffer (more about that when I see you, if you're interested in hearing). Now I work 9 to 1 on Saturdays, except that I let myself get talked into working all day today since we're short-staffed again. (We're always short-staffed here.)

I was thinking about you yesterday. That must have been what started me humming "Love Me Do" and "You've Got To Hide Your Love Away" while I was shelving and straightening; thinking of Beatle songs always reminds me of you. I'm always reminded of when we were all kids and Joey and me were staying with your family back in the day. You were the British Invasion expert back then, and when you found out I liked the Beatles too took it upon yourself to educate me about all things Fab Four. You played all your records for me, taught me the lyrics. It meant so much.

Oh, Grow A Pair, Both of You!

So Ifill asks both Palin and Biden if they support gay rights and as expected Palin does her smiley-face bullshit tap dance, alluding to gay friends and family members (Really? Who exactly?) and making sure to say the word "tolerance" 60 times just to assure us all that she’s, ya know, a nice, reasonable person with no hard feelings towards the gays, honest. She and John McCain would never dream of standing in the way of some same-sex person with one of those contracts wanting to visit his or her hospitalized partner, or stuff like that.

When Ifill asks Palin if she supports gay marriage, however, Palin stands still and says no. She says, smiling sympathetically all the while, that she’s gonna be a straight shooter about this and come right on out and admit that her understanding of marriage is the traditional “one man and one woman” arrangement. So no, she (and John McCain) does not support gay marriage, no.

Well, no surprise there. And I give Governor Moose-shooter some credit—on the marriage issue, anyway—for not waffling around about it, for just saying what she really thinks about gays and marriage. No word of course on what those gay friends and family members of hers (Are you here? Are you sure you’re queer?) think about that.

But it’s Biden who depresses and disturbs me the most when, in one moment he makes firmly and unequivocally clear his and Barack Obama’s support of LGBT people having all of the same protections and rights as heterosexual people (Yaaaay!!!! Right on!!), and then in the next declaring he and Senator Obama absolutely do NOT support gay marriage, at all, period (Uh…what??).

Now, I can’t say that I’m shocked by the distinction Biden seemed to be making. Shocked, no; perplexed, yes, continually—gays are just like everyone else and civil unions are right and just but marriage is… out of bounds? (To-MAY-to, to-MAH-to! Get over it, already!) And it’s been suggested to me that, in a close election in a country as sexually backward, hypocritical and perennially ambivalent about gays as these United States, for Senators Obama and Biden to distance themselves from the gay marriage question is actually a politically smart (if craven) move. Once in office, I have been assured, surely both men—or the younger Obama at least—will come to recognize and eventually acknowledge not just the justice but the inevitability of LGBT people being allowed to legally marry—and not just in one or two states where the decision could be overturned.

Okay, maybe. But ya know, I grow so weary of these supposedly progressive politicians always counting on the LGBT community to help them win their elections even as they continually keep us at arms length on the most fundamental issues of our lives.

So memo to Senators Obama and Biden: Grow a pair and get on with it already!