Obviously, we are living through a crisis, one that can be attributed, in part, to incompetence, arrogance, excess, right-wing dogmatism, and a fervent embrace of pseudo-expertise.Well, no one in the SOCCCD can ponder that batch of boners and not immediately think “Raghu P. Mathur”!
In the spirit of our particular apocalyptic moment in history, I have reproduced an old Dissent piece from September, 2000. It presents a series of episodes concerning Our Raghu and his unique synthesis of imperiousness, excess and incompetence. He is, of course, a man of our time.
Some of the names have been changed to protect the innocent. (Such names are in green print.)
So I didn’t change Mathur’s name.
The piece is called
MATHUR DISMISSES ANOTHER CHAIR
July 1, 1997: at 7:00 a.m., interim IVC president Raghu P. Mathur holds an emergency meeting of chairs and administrators regarding his recent action of dismissing Social and Behavioral Sciences Chair Melinda Lou. Mathur had charged Lou with failing to accord him the proper respect.
At the start of the meeting, he declares that there will be no questions. Accompanying his words with vigorous finger tapping, he thunders: “You are obligated to toe the line, and toe the line you will!” A few minutes later he adds that “Disloyalty will not be tolerated!”
There is silence. Horribly, a chair squeaks. Later, Mathur has the chair taken out back and shot.
I arrive late. Hence, when Mathur completes his “address,” which takes less than ten minutes, I immediately ask him a question. Hatred flashes in his eyes. Everyone looks at me and whispers: “No questions!”
“No questions?” I ask. “How in hell can there be no questions?”
August 30, 2000: it’s a Wednesday, and I finish my 8:00 a.m. class. I’m kinda peevish because a student just complained about the classroom clock, which, he said, is “way wrong.” (Its battery has been dead for years.)
After class, I hang around the IVC administration building in order to admire the expensively framed “inspirational” posters that IVC President Raghu P. Mathur has hung there. One of ‘em shows an eagle in a tree and says: “A true leader…does not set out to be a leader, but becomes one by the quality of his actions….”
I’ve been told this sh*t cost the college $1,200.
* * * * *
At one point, over in the corner, I hear people talking about a chair. A draw closer. “A chair?” I ask. “Yeah, a chair,” they answer. One person explains that President Mathur ordered a new chair for his office and that it just now arrived in “the warehouse.”
“How strange,” I think. Hadn’t Raghu received a new set of office furniture not so very long ago? –Yeah, now I remember: he also ordered a new phone ($500) plus a sh*tload of self-improvement books and tapes ($118).
They didn’t take.
“The chair’s big and expensive,” someone says. “Real expensive.”
Hmmm.
* * * * *
A few minutes later, I’m photocopying handouts for my 11:00 class in A200. Some colleagues are hangin’ around, and I share with them what I had just heard about the president’s “expensive chair.” One colleague speculates that Raghu really does need a massive high-backed chair, owing to his “bald spot,” which, says the colleague, has grown very “large and hideous and shiny,” and which reflects a ghastly and promiscuous death ray from within A100 that regularly slices through the quad.Another colleague suggests that the President really can’t use a large chair, owing to “the curse of feet danglage.” “So I don’t buy this ‘big chair’ story for a second,” she says, sniffing.
I say: “No, it looks like Raghu’s really ordered a large chair all right. Besides, he might’ve ordered an footstool, too.” Everyone nods.
The discussion continues as we walk through a door (propped open with a chunk of wood), wander down the hall, and then enter the lounge. Unfailingly, A200’s roof leaks during rains, causing flood damage, and so, last spring, someone decided to tear out the stinking lounge carpet and replace it with soul-crushing linoleum. As a result, the lounge now has all the homeyness of Dr. G's workstation.
Prithilla and Kaffy’s office, which faces the lounge, still sports some of that stinking carpet, and it plainly displays the high-water mark of the last flood. During the Deluge, unspeakable biological specimens floated from Prithilla’s shelves down the hall to places unknown. Or so I’m told. Nobody wants to think where that stuff ended up.
* * * * *
Later, at about 12:15, I wander back to the lounge, and I find two Melinda’s, one of whom is equipped with a camera, owing, she says, to her enrollment in a photography course. Addressing the two, I say: “Hey, I heard that President Raghu P. Mathur ordered a big expensive chair and it’s over at the warehouse. Wanna help me investigate this apparent misuse of taxpayer funds?”
They do.
As we leave A200, I notice that the door to the outside has almost rusted clean through at the bottom. “I bet one of those rats we’re always seein’ could bust right through that,” I say. As we slam the door, a chunk of rust busts off. One of the Melinda's takes a snap.When we arrive at the warehouse, we can find no chair. Nevertheless, within a few minutes, we determine that the thing is being kept in the trailer next to the parking office. We head there.
As we approach the trailer park, we find several classified employees jawing outside. We ask them some questions and trade jibes. They direct us to the trailer on the left, which is marked simply “maintenance and operations.” The door is unlocked. We enter. Why not?
The trailer, which comprises a secretarial area on the left and two work areas on the right, is unoccupied, evidently. Over in the area immediately to the right, we spot a large leather chair, wrapped in clear plastic. It’s as plain as day. We step inside the room. Affixed to the chair’s clear plastic covering is an invoice, which indicates that it is a “La-Z-Boy presidential highback.” Its price: a whopping $1,085.98! I write down the information.
Covered in handsome black leather, the chair sports brass studs along its shockingly sensuous sides. Upon being touched, it undulates from side to side.
From directly behind, it looks like a horse’s ass on casters.
One of the Melinda’s starts to take pictures. We photograph the invoice with great care. “I hope you know how to use that camera,” I say to Melinda. She beams.
After a minute or so, some surly guy enters the building, and, since we got what we wanted, we simply leave.
We tell everyone we meet about the president’s new chair. People are shocked—shocked!—that Raghu would spend over a thousand dollars of taxpayer money on a chair for his office. “Doesn’t he already have a chair?” they ask. “Why would he buy such an expensive chair? Who does he think he is?”
* * * * *
Later, I run into an employee who seems preoccupied. Standing outside B100, she declares that she is “sick and tired” of the toilet paper deficit in the women’s bathrooms. I commiserate. “Yeah,” I say. “You should see the men’s bathroom over in A400. It looks like a war zone in there."
One of the Melinda’s starts to take pictures. We photograph the invoice with great care. “I hope you know how to use that camera,” I say to Melinda. She beams.
After a minute or so, some surly guy enters the building, and, since we got what we wanted, we simply leave.
We tell everyone we meet about the president’s new chair. People are shocked—shocked!—that Raghu would spend over a thousand dollars of taxpayer money on a chair for his office. “Doesn’t he already have a chair?” they ask. “Why would he buy such an expensive chair? Who does he think he is?”
* * * * *
Later, I run into an employee who seems preoccupied. Standing outside B100, she declares that she is “sick and tired” of the toilet paper deficit in the women’s bathrooms. I commiserate. “Yeah,” I say. “You should see the men’s bathroom over in A400. It looks like a war zone in there."
"On the other hand, the urinals are industrial strength. Way cool.”
THE STORY CONTINUES...
(Click on the pretty purple words.)
THE STORY CONTINUES...
(Click on the pretty purple words.)
