What Would Charles Nelson Reilly Do?

Surprise, I'm back.

Man, what a month...

First of all, my boss was just promoted to A/V Director at the St. Regis, a new hotel being built near the Moscone Center, and, while I expected the possibility of a change following my Advance to Management training, I had no idea this was going to happen. Suddenly, I was being interviewed for the Director position at my hotel. To be honest, I didn't expect to (and, in fact, didn't) get the job. I knew that my property was considered a step up for people who were already Directors at smaller hotels. Still, it was a great ego boost. The job ended up going to a nice guy from New Orleans who got wiped out in Hurricane Katrina, and who couldn't be happy about that?

Meanwhile, as I mentioned previously, I've had a hell of a time getting the classes I wanted at SFSU. I never got responses to my emails (except from one instructor who said he wasn't going to be teaching the class after all.) "Lydia the Tattooed Secretary" in the Creative Writing Office treated me as an object of suspicion when I asked where the instructors' offices were located, so I decided I might as well become one, and roamed the hallways on three floors looking for them.

I found two: William Christmas (teaching the required English Lit course, "Age of Wit,") and Matthew Davison ("Craft of Fiction.") Christmas was responsive about my plight (and I avoided the instant death-trap of making any comments about his name, despite the taunting of my twisted, obsessive/compulsive brain, which silently and repeatedly chanted, "Merry Lawrence, Mr. Christmas!") He made me no promises, but he penciled me in as the first name on his "double secret waiting list."

During my second "sortie," I located Mr. Davison's office, and found three other people waiting. Fortunately they turned out to be Graduate students (no competition there), and I later discovered they were actually Teaching Assistants for "Craft of Fiction." I made polite small talk as we waited, trying my best not to look desperately old and bald, and trying not to think about the fact that the hottie with the spiky blonde buzz-cut and the pierced tongue was probably four-years-old when I graduated High School.

Davison arrives, which immediately sets off my gaydar. Not Charles Nelson Reilly gay, more like David Sedaris with social skills. He's about my age, with the same close-cropped-acceptance-of-encroaching-baldness haircut, very casual, no professorial affectations. I make my quick spiel and let him go. Again, no promises, but I feel I've made a good first impression.

The other two classes ("Fundamentals of Creative Reading" and "Business of Creative Writing") are not so easy. I cannot locate the instructors - they appear to be part-timers or fill-ins with no marked offices, so I can't make a personal connection pre-class. I just have to show up.

It does not look good. The classes I want are loaded beyond capacity with the official registered students, the official waiting-list people, and several gate-crashers like me. We're in the chairs, leaning against the walls, sitting on the floor. There are, in fact, enough people to justify another class for each course. You may well ask, "Does the University give a crap?" and I would have to say, "Mmmmm... No." Actually, it's more like, "Fuck you! Why not try 'Modern Greek Writers?' Lots of seats open in that course."

My attitude about school has turned 180-degrees from what it was 15 years ago. Back then everything seemed to get handed to me, and I had no idea what to do with myself or all the opportunities available to me. Now I know what I want, I have the resolve to succeed in it, and it's as hard as it can possibly be.

Each instructor takes his own approach to the situation. Christmas (Age of Wit) knows his class is a required course for several majors, and encourages us to stick it out. Davison's class (Craft of Fiction) is really crammed. He's one of those teachers that students seem to thrive under: funny, demanding, and passionate. He cajoles people to leave, discourages, offers alternatives. No one's buying. Finally he says he can let us hang on for three weeks (at which point the class will be breaking up into small discussion groups), and if the class size doesn't drop by that time, there's nothing he can do.

I go to all the classes (twice the amount I will actually be taking). I buy all the books. I do all the homework, even though I will most likely not even get credit. Meanwhile, I obviously can't be working double shifts during this time, so I'm losing a lot of income in the process.

Around the second week of this I get admitted into "Art of Wit." Mr. Christmas gives me a little sticker with a super secret code that allows me to add his class online, and I feel like I've just found one of Wonka's Golden Tickets. Unfortunately, two of my other classes look like hopeless cases.

"Business of Creative Writing" turns out to be a combination of both the Undergrad and Graduate versions of the course, and is crammed like a clown car. Not even a remote chance. "Fundamentals of Creative Reading" is also a bust. This teacher is either brand new (with only one class for the semester), or a complete burn-out, and she is going by the book - if you're not on the official waiting list, beat it. Although this screws up my entire "full time" scenario, and the amount of financial aid I'm supposed to get, in this case I am actually relieved. Her delivery is 100% dull and lifeless - no passion about writing here... Her conceptual theme for the entire semester is "Literature as escapism." "What does it mean to escape?" Man, she must have really dug deep for that one. Okay, sour grapes, but come on.

"Craft of Fiction" is the one that's really killing me. I'm reading and critiquing Pushcart Prize stories, trying to absorb chapters in another book on craft, and am having to come up with two pages of original material each week. I'm actually loving it - what's killing me is the suspense. Finally, after extending us into the fourth week, Davison tells us refugees that he can't go any longer. He needs to break up the class into groups. He offers to let us sit in on the first round, which is nice, but I'm depressed as hell. Several people leave. I decide to stay, rubbing salt in my wounds by actively participating in the critiques. It's fun, dammit.

The next day I get an email from Davison, telling me a spot opened up and I'm in. Yay! So, I end up with two classes out of four, drop everything else, return a bunch of books, and I'm happy. Except for the fact that I just learned Davison, who I had hoped was at least a peer, is only 35 years-old. Jesus Fucking Christ.