The Adventures of Mortimer and the Itinerant ‘Cellist

When I moved down to South Carolina, the idea that I would start playing ‘cello professionally again really hadn’t even crossed my mind. I mean, I did bring Mortimer (my ‘cello) in the car with me when I moved rather than leave him in the moving truck, but he always traveled with me when I moved. I settled him into the “office/music room” and got ready to start teaching.

Fall took hold and became time for that most tortured of events, the fall reception for the faculty. A note about faculty parties: they’re absolutely horrible. The whole goal is to make sure you’re seen being there so that you look like you’re trying to get along with everyone. You shake the hand of whoever is sponsoring the food and promptly start talking to the same five people that you talk with on a daily basis. Small talk is a difficult thing for faculty to manage and I’ve found that adding alcohol to a faculty member in no way improves their demeanor or social grace. They’re just mildly drunk coworkers. Dressed in my too-in-style-to-be-at-a-faculty-party suit, I wandered among the canapés and alcohol.

There was a string quartet playing in the background. Looking forward to talking shop with musicians over budget cuts with Deans or faculty politics, I walked over. We started chatting. After a little bit the first violinist asked if I played. Before I knew it, I was sitting in the ‘cellist’s chair, borrowing his ‘cello and playing along with the group. Faculty and administration looked over with surprised expressions like I had just started flying and speaking in tongues. It seems that the ‘cellist was being deployed somewhere else (he was Air Force, like much of the town) and they needed a new ‘cellist. So Mortimer came out of office and started maneuvers around a small southern town.

I really enjoyed playing ‘cello around the area. I played weddings. I played banquets. I played art openings, building inaugurations and convocations. I played for cocktail parties and often was asked to fill in music at many events. I even started playing at churches and debutante parties. I had duos, trios, quartets, quintets and any combination of instruments possible. And even better: I was getting paid!

There’s a fine art to charging people for music. Too low, and you’re work isn’t respected. Too high, and you don’t get gigs and you’re viewed as snobby. Playing for free isn’t an option. A free gig will quickly deteriorate into broken strings, speeding tickets, parking tickets and bad food. “If Jesus had meant me to play for free, ‘cello strings and re-haired bows would rain from heaven.” You can get around the pricing issue by having a “standard” rate that increases based on a variety of factors. Is it indoors or outdoors? I hate sweating, charge them more. Long gigs get charged for two or more services as the rate. There’s the annoyance tariff for people who ride you too hard. You want me to rehearse with your choir? That’s another service. You’re serving caviar? Luxurious wealthy client maintenance fee. Areas with no musician’s union actually lead to higher pricing.

Frankly, ninety percent of the people who hired me wouldn’t know chamber music from Sanskrit. They hire you because they want to look classy, or elegant or because they’re trying to keep up with society. If you don’t have live music at your wedding ceremony you might as well dress a pig in a bridesmaid dress. You’re actually selling image more than music. Occasionally, there will be a church with a music director with more sophisticated tastes. They pay even more and you might actually enjoy the music you’re playing.

I didn’t know that I would enjoy it so much or that it would become so useful. I could go to faculty parties and not even have to make conversation with any of them. I would get paid (which is certainly better than the other doomed souls). You know how I did it? I was easy. Easy to work with, easy to pay, laid-back when it came to disasters and patient with overwrought brides and their mothers. I always came early, stayed late and gave them more than what they paid for. It’s easy if you’re easy.

The Homosexual Threat in the Military

So they’re debating the “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy – as has been debated endlessly since the policy was initiated. Everyone knew then it wasn’t workable. It was a poor compromise then and often considered a “step backward” in the rights of gay and lesbian military service members. The House of Representatives has already voted to repeal the statue and we hear the most common description of the Senate: The Senate has yet to act on the legislation. That statement has become as commonplace as “The sky is blue,” or “Phelps is protesting another military funeral.” It would be a earth-shattering surprise if the Senate ever was described as “rushing to act.”

Now frankly, not being in the military (though having worked on military bases as an educator) it’s really not my issue. It’s not my issue in the sense that the direct impact of the change wouldn’t be felt by me or my immediate circle of friends. But the analysis and the process of this debate is so insane that I can’t help but spend some time making fun of it.

Overall, the argument is that if you integrate gays and lesbians that it will affect combat readiness. The counterargument is that it’s worked in almost every other military in the Western world. There won’t be trust because the hormonal, uncontrollable sex machines that are gays and lesbians would immediately sexually assault the first person they saw. My brother had a dog like that, Agnew. He was usually crated because the second his hormonal self was released he would attempt to mate with the first thing he saw. It made for interesting anecdotes and family stories. Somehow, I suspect the military has screened out in the enlistment process people with uncontrollable hormonal urges.

What if a gay or lesbian sees another member of the military – I shudder to think – nekkid? How this is different from everyone constantly comparing themselves to everyone else has eluded me. Admit it, every time you think “what does he/she see in him/her?” you’re comparing. I also find that there’s obviously a lot of deluded people who overestimate their attractiveness. No, you’re not irresistible. Parts is parts. This seems someone irrelevant when you realize that about 14,000 members of the military have been discharged for being gay or lesbian. They’re already there, and have been since the very beginning. Are heterosexuals more afraid that gays and lesbians will find them attractive – or even worse, beneath notice?

Oh, and then there’s the domestic partner issue. Opponents of the repeal argue that they wouldn’t know what to do with the spouses/significant others of gay or lesbian service members. One, you probably handle them and their benefits the same way you do everyone else – it’s not like they have different organs. Two, you ignore the benefits issue like just about every state and public institution.

No, I’m not pleading for the repeal. People hate change, and I know that. When the forces were integrated, it would end combat readiness. When women could be soldiers, the forces would collapse. When women ended up on the front lines, in whatever capacity, the world would end. As of yet, I haven’t seen any of these fears materialize.

I hear DADT died again. They’ll try to resurrect it like some sort of legislative Lazarus a few more times before the finally get it together. I don’t know how the judicial system keeps track of all the lawsuits. The fact remains, however, that if someone is strong and brave enough to serve so that I can blather on in a blog with immunity, I think we should let them.

The Case of the Unfortunately Placed Special Event

When I was working at the Center for Peace and Conflict studies at Wayne State University, the task of organizing a “major” event devolved to me while I was acting more like an administrative assistant than a research assistant. The Max Mark Memorial Peace Lecture honors a person who has made significant contributions to the promotion of peace in the world.

When that lofty event dropped into my lap, they had already reserved the space. It was a “conference” center located in the middle of the Wayne State campus. Beautifully sheathed in marble, its pseudo-neo-gothic arches and clerestory windows stuck out like a sugar cube. Having seen the space before, I had to admit they could’ve done a lot worse on the reservation.

Well, until the day of the event that is.

I showed up a few hours early to make sure the decorations, catering, lighting, placement and all the other elements were set. Taking a break, I went out front to smoke a cigarette. I started noticing a lot of men in leather, spandex and vinyl walking in and out with fetish-inspired decorations. Their flower arrangements were large glass globes with white flowers floating beneath a small leather sling and candle. Yes, I said a leather sling. It also had chains. It was quite elegant in a how-can-I-make-obscene-floral-arrangements sort of way.

At least curious, and even more concerned, I asked one of the leather daddies if they were having an event, was it in the conference center and what was the event.

“Mr. Gay Michigan Fantasy Leather Night,” the leather daddy told me.

I rolled my eyes and asked “Where in the building?”

“Oh, we have the first floor and the basement.”

“So you’ll all be running around in the atrium?”

“Yep.”

I decided to have another cigarette and think about how I was going to reconcile the presence of blue-haired peaceniks and black-leathered sex gargoyles in a single building. As I go back upstairs, my boss appears.

I said, “Uhm, there might be a problem with tonight’s event.”

Looking alarmed he asked “What problem?”

“I’m thinking the leather crowd running around in the atrium might be a distraction from the award.”

“Leather crowd? I wear a leather cap sometimes.”

“I don’t think that counts,” I said, smiling.

“Do you know any of the people?”

“No—oh wait a minute – Heya Tom! How goes it? No, I don’t know any of them.”

There was a glass catwalk that connected the room we were having the cocktail hour in and the room that was reserved for the banquet. I told my boss that we would line up all of the members of the center along each side of the catwalk, thoroughly blocking the view of the atrium below. We politely but firmly herd the peaceniks over the catwalk, hopefully none the wiser for the more “vivid” event going on below.

So far, the plan had worked. Later in the evening, a sweet, obviously ocular-challenged grandmotherly figure asked to be helped down the stairs. My student assistant an I gently escort her down the flight of marble stairs.

“Young man,” she said her wispy sweet voice, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Why are all these men in uniform running around downstairs?”

Crap. Think quickly, Eric. “Oh, didn’t you know, dear—it’s the Detroit Area Policeman’s Ball.”

She smiles radiantly, “I feel so safe now.”

My student assistant begins to gurgle and shoots back up the stairs trying to stifle her hysterical laughter. I walk her to the door and decide that I needed a cigarette and a drink. Outside, several of Detroit’s proudest leather community are smoking cigarettes. A latecomer to the party walks up, looking confused. A confused look on a guy dressed head to toe in leather is a remarkable thing—it really doesn’t say “dominant.”

He asked, “Could someone explain why the little old woman in the parking lot thanked me for protecting and serving?”

I laughed until I cried. Then I thought “Two drinks. Definitely two,” and walked inside.

The Secretary Diaries: Unreal Estate Management

My last assignment in Boston, given to me as a sort of apology for the other crazy placements was at a real estate management company. By this point I was experienced, often jaded and really looking forward to moving to Detroit for graduate school. Yes, I said looking forward to Detroit. After this assignment, I figured Detroit would be a breeze. The beautiful old former wharf building was managed by one site manager, a leasing manager, one office manager, two building engineers, two porters (read: custodial) and one part-time, temporary secretary: me. I assure you that I wasn’t the only odd character in the bunch.

The building manager was described as “moody at best, bitchy at worst” by the office manager, the building engineers and the porters. The leasing manager really said nothing about anyone. When she presented herself she was sure to assert her authority and eminence. I quickly realized that she yelled a lot, tended to pass the blame and had an attention to detail that applied to everyone but herself. She changed her name to a more gender neutral one to avoid any possibility of femininity in the office. I nicknamed her “Genderless” in my head.

There were many fun introductions to communication at the management company that day. First walks in a dignified member of the Boston Brahmin class. Looking at me like clotted milk in her tea, she introduced herself – by first name, initial and last name. “And who are you?” she asked.

Running with it I smoothly responded, “Eric A. Hauser. It’s a pleasure to meet you Ms. First Name Middle Initial Last Name.”

“Do you enjoy temping,” she asked with a bored hooded look down her nose.

“It’s something to do in between degree programs.”

“Oh! How nice for you, you’re getting your associate’s,” she said with amused tolerance.

“No.”

“Your Bachelor’s?”

“No.”

She sniffed. “Some sort of . . . trade degree?”

“No, my doctorate. Yes I’m overqualified for your job. Is there anything else I can do for you Ms. First Name Middle Initial Last Name?”

A major part of the communication process at the Unreal Estate Management Company was understanding which expletive when with the leasing manager and which one went with the building manager. The building engineer called that first day. Please excuse the utterly inappropriate terms--I didn't use them, I'm just quoting.

“Is the bitch there?”

I replied smoothly, “No, I’m sorry, Genderless is out of the office right now can I take a message or transfer you to her voicemail?”

“How about the cunt?”

“No, I’m sorry, Ms. First Name Middle Initial Last Name is also unavailable. Is there something I can help you with?”

It was only after I hung up that I realized how quickly I had gone with the flow. It soon became a game between me and the engineers on who would break first. I started giving facetious answers.

“I’m sorry, she’s out getting her broom fixed.”

“I’m afraid she got wet and melted for the day, could you try tomorrow or did you want her voicemail?”

“She’s in conference with her flying monkeys. I’ll have her get back to you as soon as she’s finished.”

Not that I really felt that negatively about Genderless, really, but I wanted to fit in.

The fact that I was the temp didn’t stop the managers from going on vacation for a week and leaving me in charge of a multi-million dollar building a week later. I asked if they really wanted to leave the building in the hands of someone who wasn’t really on their payroll. They shrugged then I shrugged and then I called my agency for a raise. It was probably the smoothest week the building had ever had.

Genderless had me print out manually 500 invitations to an “Ice Cream Social” to celebrate the first full year of their management of the building. I designed it, passed it through Genderless for approval and got to work—only to realize the date was wrong. Knowing she’d try to blame me, I came up with a solution and went to her office. “Isn’t it amazing that you, your boss and me didn’t catch this error? I’ve got a solution, though if you’re okay with it.” The office manager was amazed that I hadn’t gotten a lecture.

As the day approached for the Ice Cream Social, we were told we could dress casually during the event when we served the ice cream. Each of us got a t-shirt memorializing the event. The day of the event, however, Genderless told us to put the t-shirts over our business clothes. So much for loosening up. When the event finished the rest of the staff had a glass of champagne in the office to celebrate. I wasn’t offered any. Genderless asked for the t-shirt back. I took it off and dropped it in her hand. Everyone else was allowed to keep theirs—but again, I’m just the temp. She looked at me and asked why I wasn’t going to launder it before I gave it back to her.

“I’m not responsible for cleaning your uniforms. Have a great night and enjoy your champagne,” I said as I walked out the door.

Suffice it to say, I counted the minutes until the end of the assignment. It also made clear why the last three temps had left their first day at lunch and not come back. I probably still have the record – six weeks, two days, six hours and five minutes.

Adventures in College Teaching: Speeches I wish I had never heard.

Over the 15 years I spent in the college classroom, most of the classes involved some sort of speech, group presentation or, more accurately, an attempt. In the beginning of every class section, I tell my students that there’s a bar below which so few people go that they’re likely to be able to exceed that minor requirement with ease.

However, some students have managed it. Every couple terms I had the joy of adding to the list. I’ve had ridiculous topics, ridiculous visual aids and even more ridiculous delivery. I think some of the students are actually trying to go below the bar.

It’s started at Emerson College. Body modification had just started being “cool” among the outcast set. The little goth poets would pierce each other with reckless abandon. A student started by saying “I’m going to talk about the history of piercing, how to maintain your piercing and finally, show you a video of one of my personal piercings being done. I have my tongue, my nipples and my labia pierced.” Oh crap. 2 out of 3 chances for an erogenous zone. The class held its collective breath until she announced that her video was on her tongue piercing. The relief was palpable.

Of course, the suffering Goth poets also wanted to talk about – you guessed it – their poetry. They talked about poetry slams, poetry books and if we were particularly unfortunate , their own poetry. I hated that. I had to pretend to find their poetry relevant and moving. It rarely was. But one poem sticks out in my head for its sheer horror.

Blood/Dripping down the wall/So red/Splat goes the spider.

I didn’t know whether to call the exterminator or an asylum. I figured if Douglas Adams had heard about this poet, he would’ve added another one to the list above Vogons.

It didn’t stop when I changed institutions, though. When I was at Wayne State University in Detroit the occasional speech slipped below the bar.

“The Most Beautiful Girl in the World” was one of the first contestants in the “Worst Speech I’ve Ever Heard” hall of fame. She pulled a tattered People magazine out of her back pocket, said she was going to talk about the 50 most gorgeous men in the and the most beautiful girl in the world. She then proceeded to talk about 7 of the men in the tattered, dated magazine. When she talked about the men, she gave graphic images of what she wanted to do to each of the men. The prostitutes in Detroit blushed collectively at her descriptions. I remained unmoved. She really wasn't all that creative. Then she announced “And the most beautiful girl in the world is me! I’m the most beautiful girl in the world!” I actually said "Thank you for stealing seven minutes of my life," as a comment.

She worked hard to stay under the bar with her next speech, where she argued that a house was better than an apartment because you could ride your bicycle. The incredible logic underlying this pronouncement was not lost on the audience.

The trend continued with a wonderful speech about nutrition and exercise. Still working on her visual aid when I walked into the room, she presented us a crayon-drawn board with three bicycle wheels that we should interpret as pie charts. The fact that they were merely lists of information pretending to be a graph we should politely ignore. We also were careful to avoid noticing she spell weight loss “weigt los.” The most profound statement was that fried chicken was an excellent weight loss choice. Had I been in the South at the time, I might have even considered the argument. We weren’t.

“Boxers vs. Briefs” started my list of things not to do in working with visual aids. I discovered that there were students willing to strip naked to demonstrate their points. Live weapons were added shortly after to a newly created forbidden list.

When I moved to my first “real” academic position, I joyfully listened to more “speeches that should never have been made.” I heard about pagans, pronounced ever-so-carefully as “pajans” with particularly attention paid to the Wiccan attachment to “secret bloody rituals.” The joy of cooking was often replaced by the joy of burning in demonstration speeches. I had maps that strangely misplaced the entire Middle East. Another speech that mentioned “offing” the president was quickly stopped when I informed the student that free speech really didn’t cover treason.

Eventually, I started a list of speeches that really shouldn’t be done. The students hated it because they had to be imaginative. However, I decided that if I had seen one more condom-covered banana I was going to commit fruiticide. I put sex on the list when I realized that 99% of students can’t get through the speech without giggling , blushing or fainting. I knew if I heard one more biography speech on Madame C.J. Walker, Abraham Lincoln, MLK, JFK or Magic Johnson I was going to build a time machine and break the grandfather paradox.

In my second “real” academic position, I thought maybe I had broken the curse. No, I hadn’t. “Street guns and their black market prices,” came with a felonious picture of the orator shirtless, underage and holding a pistol. Truly, it was a treat, delivered in a faux-street patois that would’ve been convincing had the Caucasian student not been from a suburb of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania (the gang capital of the world, I was assured.)

I moved on again and got ready to add to the cursed speech list. The one that comes most clearly to mind is the wonder that was the “Pirates vs. Ninja” speech. Arguing one side and then the other, the debate was which group could beat the other and the conditions under which this possible. Some of the motivational speeches managed to leave us all equally cold and bored.

There were many speeches over the years. Honestly, many of them were interesting, informative, well-delivered and well-structured. And yet the ones that fell beneath the bar always seem to be the most fascinating.

Bully Pulpit

It’s stretched from news to the web and now it’s in your favorite reality shows. It’s bullying. It’s made it into the 21^st century and the collective consciousness of the media. Students committing suicide over what was said or shown about them on the Internet. Students committing suicide after endless verbal taunts, harassment and vandalism. We even had an Assistant Attorney General in Michigan recently fired because of his constant cyberbullying attacks against a student body president.

Researchers used to argue that the Internet was not capable of carrying significant social or psychological content. It was merely a tool (and an inferior one at that) that people would use to be more direct and less connected. It took years for the communication, linguistic, sociology and psychology fields to even begin to admit that there was a possibility that the content could be psychologically significant. Trust me, I did the research. I even wrote a dissertation about it.

Well, I guess the naysayers are “stick a fork in it” done. Could they have imagined that people would actually commit suicide because of Myspace, Facebook, LinkedIn, AOL, Yahoo or any of the other ways to talk to other people on the Internet? Probably not.

Frankly, I knew what the Internet was capable of when Al Gore and I invented it, or at least used it at its more humble, less flashy beginnings. Engineering and science geeks have been marrying off of Zorkish multi-user domains since the late eighties. I’ve even attended some of the geek weddings. So that people’s worst natures (as well as their best) can come out (excusing the pun) isn’t much of a surprise to me.

The funny thing is the reactions to this “new” form of torment, particularly when negativity was built into ARPANET. When things got too bad in a chat room or site, you did the ultimate conversation-stopper: Ctrl-Alt-Del. You left the program. Why sit there and continue to take abuse? But masochistic teens and tweens, riveted to their digital umbilicals seem unable to break the connection. Of course, many times these are also the same people who post pictures that get the negative attention in the first place.

The content is driven by the fact that people are using digital cameras, smart phones and other electronic umbilicals to regurgitate every little detail of their life on some social networking site. I don’t care what you had for lunch, unless it’s poisonous. I believe you can’t have Twitter without “Twit.” If you didn’t put all of that out there, there wouldn’t be much to talk about. Public lives mean that there’s a chance that there will be public ridicule. Going low profile is one way to avoid the problem. Oscar Wilde said noted that no one gossips about someone’s secret virtues. It’s as true now, isn’t it?

"Just because they said it, doesn't mean it's true." I put that sign on my front door so that I saw it every time I went to teach. Frankly, even if it is true does it really matter? It's not going to represent the entire story. It's a snapshot. There's always a context, and most often it's entirely removed from anything you see or hear. Everything is taken out of context when it seems for fun, effective or evil to do so.

So now people have started paying attention once it crossed the geek threshold into “mainstream” society. So has suicide. Does anyone else remember the movie Heathers? I particularly remember the line by the “granola” guidance counselor who said, “Whether or not to commit suicide is one of the most important decisions a teenager can make.” It’s the holidays, so how about A Christmas Story? Remember the bully that regularly tormented the neighborhood? Did they call social services or have a vigil? No, they moved on with their lives.

I have to admit I’m being sort of callous. I’ve watched too many hysterics about what’s happening to the children. And the resilient little buggers still make it to adulthood. To cover it like it’s the newest of the new is a sad commentary on how long it was ignored in the first place. The fact that gay youth have a high suicide rate has been a steady statistic since the records started getting kept decades ago.

Maybe the rest of you need to get a bit callous. Teach children, adults and your companion animals that the Internet isn’t a truth machine. It’s a content machine. Lies can be typed in as easily as truths. There are whole sites devoted to “Photoshop-ing” images. With the right equipment I can make anyone look like anything. Don’t buy into it. Cyber-gossip is just gossip gone digital. Did you believe in Bat Boy? Or that Jimmy Carter was cavorting with aliens? Weekly World News argued that point many times. So read the content and think about whether or not it may actually have any relationship to reality. What? Think about what we perceive? I know that sounds heretical, but it actually does work.

I believe in good self-esteem, I really do. But isn't the strongest sense of self developed when it's tested? Every individual comes to that point where they think or say "No. I'm not what you make me out to be." They say children are mean. Of course they are, the little monsters. I also cynically believe that adults may be less mean, but have more resources to express it. Do you have a bully at work, or your gym, or your community group or religious expression building? You do and you try to ignore and work around them when you can. Should children be kept from exposure to things that are likely to follow them forever?

I'm reminded of why my mom didn't teach my brother how to cook. "He kept burning himself on the electric elements--he didn't know that they were hot," she said. So he didn't learn to cook until he was 37. As a side note, I learned to cook at age 5. I had no difficulty determining that stoves were hot. In the interest of full disclosure, I would note that my brother's tested IQ is 5 points higher than mine. Mom reminds me of this every time I roll my eyes about this issue. How many times do you think he would've burned himself before he figured it out? Maybe once, maybe even twice. Then he would have learned. Did insulating him (not excusing the pun) actually help him? It's practically gospel that we learn more from pain than happiness.

I do feel bad about what happens to people. I'm not that mean. But I also believe that people need to learn, grow and experience life. It won't always be comfortable. We can't prevent that, nor should we. If we concentrate on giving people the tools to deal with bullies won't that fix the problem more effectively than legislating or hiding? I tend to think so.