I’ve always wanted to be a better person.

Oh, don’t get me wrong; it’s not that I consider myself unkind, or selfish, or hateful. In fact, I pride myself on hardly ever wishing that selfish drivers or old ladies with coupons were dead.

I would just like to be REALLY good, since emanating pure and utter virtuousness would not only feel incredibly fulfilling, it would allow me to rub my moral superiority in other people’s faces.

Perhaps this is what led me to last night’s premiere of Oprah’s Lifeclass, which was – coincidentally, I’m sure – on the subject of ego.

This nightly one-hour show on the OWN network, featuring the return of America’s Spiritual Leader (and I say that with no irony – she really is, people, get with the program) is an intimate, docu-style show where Reverend Oprah offers one life lesson each episode.

“How does your ego get in your way?” was the question posed last night. Naturally, my immediate answer was, “Oh, it doesn’t, thanks for asking. My goal is to be nothing more than a deeply spiritual, highly evolved human being whose only purpose is to love and be loved…all while driving a nice car, becoming a famous author, and (courtesy of friends who buy the tickets) attending celebrity-filled benefits for good causes, the names of which I sometimes even know before I see it on the gift bags.”

As the hour progressed, and Oprah began to illustrate how insidious the ego is (by using her famous “fat wagon” episode as an example – where she lost a ton of weight and lived to regret it after she trucked it out on a Radio Flyer for the world to gag over), it began to dawn on me that perhaps my goal could use just the tiniest bit of tweaking. Perhaps my desire to be a spiritual master comes with caveats – albeit minor, insignificant-in-the-scheme-of-things caveats.

Sure, I suppose I have a small attachment to driving around in a Lexus. But come on, I spend at least 90 minutes a day in my car, and I drive the cheapest Lexus they make (essentially a Prius with a little lipstick slapped on it). If I were attached to the image a luxury car provided, I’d be driving the $80,000 convertible. Right? (Sure, I can’t even remotely afford it, but still.)

And maybe I find some sort of personal aggrandizement from having my first book in development as a TV series. But come on – we all know how difficult it is to get a series on the air, and then have it be a hit. In Los Angeles, having a TV series in development is like saying you’re “taking meetings about your screenplay”. Right?

And I guess some would say that the idea that giving to others involves drinking signature cocktails at charity events – instead of just donating money or doing any actual work – is not necessarily the most evolved form of philanthropy. But hey, I work 60 hours a week and write books on the weekends. How am I supposed to dish up food at the LA Mission – right?

Oh, and I suppose I have a minor, insignificant obsession with appearing to be a spiritual master in the first place. Apparently, real spiritual masters don’t announce this as their goal – as if anyone would know that’s what they were aiming for, otherwise. (I mean, come on, in LA, sandals and a Tibetan gong just means you’re headed to your Yoga class in the Palisades.) But isn’t wanting to appear spiritually evolved better than wanting to appear to be ball-busting, or slutty, or Republican?

Apparently, Oprah doesn’t think so. Apparently, Oprah thinks my ego is getting in my way. And I have just one thing to say about that:

See you in Lifeclass at 8:00.

I sure hope tonight’s lesson isn’t on giving up potato chips. I mean, even Gandhi had limits.

But I did some NPR interviews that you can listen to on the Media page, if you’re hard up for new material on your iPod.

www.ericpoole.net/media

The other day, my friend Tracy told me a story about her elderly dad, Ira, who, when Tracy was a toddler in the late 60’s, took up with a neighbor named Lolita (I’m not kidding) and divorced Tracy’s mother in order to marry this woman. Naturally, I was all ears at this point, since you know any story about husband stealing involving a woman named Lolita is gonna be juicy.

Shockingly, Tracy and her sisters did not especially appreciate their new stepmother. Whether it was the fact that Lolita had so effortlessly broken up their parents’ marriage (as Tracy said about Lolita’s m.o., “If you don’t have a home, wreck one”) or the fact that Lolita wanted nothing to do with her new husband’s daughters, who she sent to live with their natural mother, there wasn’t a lot of Cumbaya going on.

Lolita and Ira remained married, and they’re now elderly and infirmed. A few years ago, Lolita talked Ira into turning over complete control of his money to her, apparently realizing that if anything happened to Ira, and the girls got involved, she’d be wintering in a Kenmore box.

Last year, Tracy and her sisters decided that their dad and “that woman” (as Tracy lovingly refers to her) could no longer live on their own. Because Ira and Lolita live in another country and will not move to the U.S. where the girls live, Tracy found a lovely nursing home there, and Ira dutifully prepared for this change of life.

Lolita, however, was having none of it. She declared that the home they had selected was a “s***hole” and that if she was going into assisted living, it would be at the facility of  her choosing. She found another, much more expensive home and announced to Ira that THIS would be where they were going.

Ira is a non-confrontational man. Which might explain how he ended up with a woman like Lolita in the first place. But for the first time in his life, he stood up to her, and simply said, “Go wherever you want. I’m going to the home Tracy picked.”

And go, he did. Alone.

Lolita was incensed. They have never spoken since. And curiously, Ira has been blissfully happy in the retirement home.

Then, recently, their longtime maid (who adored Ira) came to visit him, hat in hand. “I owe you an apology,” she said. “I’ve been harboring a secret, and it’s killing me.” she then told Ira a story.

Once Lolita got control of the money, she secretly put it into an account in the maid’s name. It wasn’t a loving gesture intended to reward the maid for her many years of service; it was to insure that, if anything happened to Lolita, Ira would never get a penny of it back.

Shortly thereafter, Tracy came to visit Ira. He’s 91 now, nearly blind and barely able to walk, but not too old, apparently, to learn a life lesson.

“It took me 45 years,” he said softly to Tracy as he squeezed her hand wistfully, “to finally see the truth.” He looked up at her with rheumy eyes. “I’ve gotta start picking better women.”

I’ve been flying back and forth to St. Louis one weekend a month because my mother is sick. As if this weren’t  enough cause for glamour envy on your part, I fly as a non-priority passenger, made abundantly clear by the nonstop parade of First Class, Platinum, Executive Platinum, and Mile High club members who board before me.

I can accept that because in a normal year I only fly every couple of months and not always on the same carrier, I am the kind of passenger airlines equate to rice cakes and expired pop tarts: lacking in any real taste or value and something for which you’re grateful only when the s*** hits the fan.

What I can’t accept is being treated like actual, hang-a-bell-around-my-neck cattle.

As I waited at the gate in St. Louis for my flight home, everything was proceeding in typical, reasonably orderly fashion. Then suddenly, as the cleaning crew exited the jetway and we were about to begin boarding, the gate agent decided to make an announcement.

Now, this in itself would not generally be a cause for stress among an entire group of travelers. But this wasn’t just any gate agent. Either hard of hearing or oblivious to the fact that there were other human beings milling about in the terminal who were not on flight 27, he picked up the intercom mic and began to talk – at the exact same time as two other agents at nearby gates were also making boarding announcements.

The din was unbelievable, and unintelligible. Surely he’ll stop, I thought, once he pauses to suck in air and realizes that he is talking over two other people who are currently addressing their motley hordes. It was, after all, virtually impossible not to notice.

But our agent remained blissfully oblivious. As he plowed ahead, unfazed, the passengers all began to glance around wildly at one another, searching for the one flier upon whose forehead a transcription of the gate agent’s directives might appear, like some sort of human Times Square jumbotron.

When that didn’t work, the entire group of 200 lurched forward, EN MASSE, trying to get close enough to read his lips or discern patterns from the wind escaping his mouth. The lurch was sudden, fast and threatening, like a post-Super Bowl riot or a flash mob of terrorists wearing flip-flops and “I’m Not a Gynecologist, But I’ll Take a Look” t-shirts. Our gate agent, who had clearly seen this sort of thing before when he made these announcements (but hadn’t quite put two and two together) held up his hand as if to halt an unruly group of kindergarteners.  

“What on earth are you saying?!” one woman screamed.

“I don’t speak gobbledygook!” an older man hollered.

As if a member of a secret Synchronized Gate Announcement consortium, he ignored the cries and calmly concluded his directives. He replaced the intercom mic on its clip and began accepting passengers of a variety that we could, only from previous experience, assume were First Class and Those Whose S*** Doesn’t Stink (to this airline).

Such was not the case, however, for, after several minutes, he called – now loudly and clear as a bell, free from the interference of other gate announcements – Group THREE. “Where on earth were Groups ONE and TWO?” several dozen of us demanded. He ignored the angry complaints of Group One passengers, many of whom (including me) had paid $29 for the privilege of boarding at a time when there was still guaranteed to be overhead bin space, and simply smiled serenely.

Groups One and Two immediately bum-rushed the gate and there was a lot of hair pulling and crying, and several threats of the “You better hope you’re not sitting in front of me” variety. Our gate agent ignored the goings-on and focused his attention on scanning boarding passes, albeit with a lackluster attention to details, since one person who ended up on the plane was supposed to be going to San Francisco and had to be removed.

Onboard, passengers attempted to pound their carry-on’s into already full overhead bins and demanded that the flight attendants do something about “that moron at the gate”…who I can only imagine was now sitting in the frequent flyer executive lounge, sipping a martini, enjoying several stolen bags of peanuts and chuckling at the stupid cows who can’t figure out how to get on a plane.

I suppose I can’t blame him. Working for an airline these days is probably just about as grim as flying them. You gotta get your jollies where you can.

A good friend of mine is Chilean. This is, of course, tres exotique, and by all measures should score me impressive brownie points for my magnanimous tolerance of ridiculous foreign cultures.

Oh, don’t get me wrong – Chile is, by all accounts, a beautiful and welcoming country with much to offer in terms of art, history and folklore. And they have some tasty cheap wine. But it is also a country where someone who gets a facelift – and is rendered brain dead by a careless anesthesiologist – doesn’t even get free parking out of the deal.

Yes, this actually happened to a relative of my Chilean friend. The woman in question lived for 20 years as a vegetable until she died – with nary a dollar of support (or an apology) from the doctor or hospital in question.

Aside from the irony of looking fabulous as she drooled, this is a perfect illustration of the kind of thing that can happen in countries where the laws that protect consumers and patients are written on the back of an empanada.

Trust me, I’m no fan of lawsuits – I remember seeing a Phil Donahue episode in the 80’s where a couple sued for $5 million in emotional distress after discovering what they thought was a condom in a loaf of Wonder Bread. (It was the tip of a rubber glove, something every member of the TV audience  wanted to jam up their butts at that point.)

And I do believe that awards should be capped.  There was a comedian who said, “I wish somebody would have told me that I could work really hard in school for 16 or 18 years and then make $30,000 for the rest of my life…or spill hot coffee on my cooch.”

But until countries like Chile institute a litany of laws that protect people from stupid, careless or unscrupulous individuals like that anesthesiologist, I will continue to consider them ridiculous.

Fortunately, we live in the United States, the greatest nation on earth, where that kind of thing could never happen.

Well, of course, there was that banking crisis thingy.

And the BP oil spill.

Oh, and the tobacco industry advertising to kids.

True, there was Worldcom.

And Enron.

And Halliburton overcharging in Iraq.

Sure, there was Roche Pharmaceutical withholding an AIDS drug to countries that couldn’t pay enough.

And Goldman Sachs betting against the mortgage backed securities it was selling.

And Bernie Madoff.

But God bless America!

I hear Chile is lovely this time of year. I wonder if I could sell ceviche from a cart?