balding angrily

This morning I got the chance to go to a press preview (sounds so official, right?) of a new exhibit of architectural models at the Nasher Sculpture Center. It’s called The Art of Architecture: Foster + Partners, and it was planned in conjunction with the eminent opening of Dallas’ new Winspear Opera House, designed by Foster + Partners.

Aside from the room dedicated to the Winspear, there were approximately twenty other architectural models of bass wood, plastic, lights, and, in one case, a working elevator. Spencer de Grey, Head of Design at Foster + Partners walked the various reporters around the exhibition space and talked about each project.

But this is all about me. It’s my website, dammit. I got the invitation through my work with The Advocate, even though The Advocate doesn’t cover Dallas’ expanding arts district—the Winspear and Nasher being key components— so I took the opportunity to shoot a whole lot of photographs of beautiful models. The Nasher doesn’t usually permit photography, so, score!

A photography teacher once told my class, “The only difference between professional photographers and you is that the professional photographers don’t show you their mistakes.” In that vein, I’m only showing you my favorites.

One note: the Nasher Sculpture Center is just an amazing indoor space for photography. Only one of these photographs required a flash. It’s always awesome to get good photographs with ambient light. I also got to play with photoshop to correct lens distortions—I made vertical lines true.

De Grey talks about one of the models in the exhibition.

 A model of The Great Court at the British Museum in London. I would like to be able to erase myself out of the reflection. I like the other reflections.

I tried to capture the eagles’ nest that the model builders had placed on this tower platform. The nest didn’t come out clearly, but I still like the tower structure against the beautiful ceiling treatment inside the Nasher.

He’s a little man doing his little job.

This is the only photo that has a flash, and I’m very proud of myself that I was able to manipulate the flash control on my camera so that it doesn’t look like a flash photo. I love macro photography; I think I need to get a macro lens.

“The whale, the whale! Up helm, up helm! Oh, all ye sweet powers of air, now hug me close! Let not Starbuck—ye fools, the jaw! the jaw! Is this the end of all my bursting prayers? all my life–long fidelities? Oh, Ahab, Ahab, lo, thy work. Steady! helmsman, steady. Nay, nay! Up helm again! He turns to meet us! Oh, his unappeasable brow drives on towards one, whose duty tells him he cannot depart. My God, stand by me now!”

“Stand not by me, but stand under me, whoever you are that will now help Stubb; for Stubb, too, sticks here. I grin at thee, thou grinning whale! Who ever helped Stubb, or kept Stubb awake, but Stubb’s own unwinking eye? And now poor Stubb goes to bed upon a mattress that is all too soft; would it were stuffed with brushwood! I grin at thee, thou grinning whale! Look ye, sun, moon, and stars! I call ye assassins of as good a fellow as ever spouted up his ghost. For all that, I would yet ring glasses with ye, would ye but hand the cup! Oh, oh! oh, oh! thou grinning whale, but there’ll be plenty of gulping soon! Why fly ye not, O Ahab! For me, off shoes and jacket to it; let Stubb die in his drawers! A most mouldy and over salted death, though;—cherries! cherries! cherries! Oh, Flask, for one red cherry ere we die!”

“Cherries? I only wish that we were where they grow. Oh, Stubb, I hope my poor mother’s drawn my part–pay ere this; if not, few coppers will now come to her, for the voyage is up.”

From the ship’s bows, nearly all the seamen now hung inactive; hammers, bits of plank, lances, and harpoons, mechanically retained in their hands, just as they had darted from their various employments; all their enchanted eyes inten upon the whale, which from side to side strangely vibrating his predestinating head, sent a broad band of overspreading semicircular foam before him as he rushed. Retribution, swift vengeance, eternal malice were in his whole aspect, and spite of all that mortal man could do, the solid white buttress of his forehead smote the ship’s starboard bow, till men and timbers reeled. Some fell flat upon their faces. Like dislodged trucks, the heads of the harpooneers aloft shook on their bull–like necks. Through the breach, they heard the waters pour, as mountain torrents down a flume.

“The ship! The hearse!—the second hearse!” cried Ahab from the boat; “its wood could only be American!”

Diving beneath the settling ship, the whale ran quivering along its keel; but turning under water, swiftly shot to the surface again, far off the other bow, but within a few yards of Ahab’s boat, where, for a time, he lay quiescent.

“I turn my body from the sun. What ho, Tashtego! let me hear thy hammer. Oh! ye three unsurrendered spires of min; thou uncracked keel; and only god–bullied hull; thou firm deck, and haughty helm, and Pole–pointed prow,—death–glorious ship! must ye then perish, and without me? Am I cut off from the last fond pride of meanest shipwrecked captains? Oh, lonely death on lonely life! Oh, now I feel my topmost greatness lies in my topmost grief. Ho, ho! from all your furthest bounds, pour ye now in, ye bold billows of my whole foregone life, and top this one piled comber of my death! Towards thee I roll, thou all–destroying but unconquering whale; to the last I grapple with thee; from hell’s heart I stab at thee; for hate’s sake I spit my last breath at thee. Sink all coffins and all hearses to one common pool! and since neither can be mine, let me then tow to pieces, while still chasing thee, though tied to thee, thou damned whale! Thus, I give up the spear!”

The harpoon was darted; the stricken whale flew forward; with igniting velocity the line ran through the groove;—ran foul. Ahab stooped to clear it; he did clear it; but the flying turn caught him round the neck, and voicelessly as Turkish mutes bowstring their victim, he was shot out of the boat, ere the crew knew he was gone. Next instant, the heavy eye–splice in the rope’s final end flew out of the stark–empty tub, knocked down an oarsman, and smiting the sea, disappeared in its depths.

Here’s another piece of fiction. Jerry and I are big fans of Miranda July, and I tried to emulate her with this one.

When Fidel Castro moved into the corner house, the big two-story, yellow-sided ranch, Derek and I rode our dirt bikes down there to have a look. Three huge moving trucks blocked traffic turning onto Sage, making neighbors go back, turn on Mesquite, Harwood, then again at the other end of Sage. The trucks were piled high with masses of blanket-wrapped furniture. As the mover’s unloaded, we hoped to see signs of a kid – a bunk bed, a bike, a basketball hoop. Heck we would’ve been happy to see a toy baby crib. But it was all serious stuff – dark wood, marble, tall mirrors.

Then we saw Fidel himself come out of the house and give some directions to some movers holding a heavy desk. He pointed, and they walked away. He shielded his eyes from the Texas summer sun and scanned the neighborhood, focusing on us hanging over the handles of our bikes.

He smiled and waved, and we waved back. Walking toward us, he called, “You kids thirsty? I got some cokes for the movers.” I’m sure Fidel sounded a lot more Cuban than that, but I can’t fake a Cuban accent. So, I can’t write one either.

Derek and I looked at each other and shrugged. “Sure!”

“Cool! I’ll bring ‘em out.” He disappeared inside his house and came back with two red cans with the familiar white swirl. Mom let me have Cokes, sure, but it was rare. And this was before kids couldn’t trust their neighbors; a new neighbor was an immediate friend.

After he gave us the Cokes, we popped the tops and took long, deep gulps. “Thank you, sir.” Derek was always the more polite one between the two of us, with his sirs and thank yous.

“Is this all for you or you got a family?”

Fidel looked around him with his hands on his hips as if to locate a wife and kids. “Nope. Just me. What about you kids? Where do you live?”

I pointed up the hill to the other end of Sage. “826. One house down from the corner. Derek lives across the street. He’s got a sister in high school. She baby sits us sometimes.”

“That so? And what’s your name?”

“I’m Alex. Everyone calls me Big Al.”

He held out his hand, and I shook it. “Nice to meet you, Big Al.” He withdrew his hand and put it back on his hip, smiling. “I’m Fidel.”

We didn’t know what to do with that; we hadn’t heard of Fidel as a name before. Derek pointed his bike toward the creek at the end of the street. “Well, we gotta go, sir. Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah. Nice to meet you.” Following Derek, I waved back at Fidel. “And thanks!”

We parked our bikes on the muddy shore of the creek, took our shoes off, and walked through the slow, cool water.

“Why do think he doesn’t have kids?” I turned to Derek. He shrugged.

“Dunno. Maybe he just hasn’t met the right woman. That’s what my mom says about my Uncle Jim. ‘Just hasn’t met the right woman.’”

A rock in the water caught my attention; it looked like a perfect throwing rock – three-sided, rounded corners, sized to sit snuggly in my palm. I picked it up and put it in my pocket.

“Yeah, but your Uncle Jim isn’t old like that guy. That guy’s got a long white beard.”

Derek shrugged again. “My dad says if I’m smart I won’t marry. Maybe he’s smart.”

I thought about that; it seemed logical. “Yeah, I bet that’s it.”

Derek gave me a sly, funny look and winked. Then he tackled me, pinning me to the mud, and wrestled the rock out of my pocket. He sprung up, and jumped around in rocky creek, throwing up huge splashes of muddy water. I got up, laughing.

“Give me back that rock!” I screamed through my laughs, and started chasing him.

He turned and yelled back, his voice bright and loud. “Gonna have to catch me!”

There has to be a better way to die than naked on your bathroom floor. Well, obviously there is. Probably 10,000 better ways. Running with the bulls. In the arms of a hot guy. Heck, I would have been happy to have died during a particularly nice wank. But naked on your bathroom floor? That tells the world that you were clumsy. You slipped and fell. Clumsy moron. Clumsy, naked moron.

Would I do it again? What do you mean would I do it again? Would I have taken a shower? Probably not. Or at least I would have watched my step getting out.

Oh! Would I live my life the same way? Of course I would have lived it differently. What a dumb question. Do you ask that of everyone that comes through here? I can’t imagine everyone’s waltzing through the gates going, “That was perfect! Wouldn’t change a thing!” And if there are those people, I don’t want to know them. In fact, you can write that on your little form there. “Does not want to be around people with no regrets.” Gah, can you imagine spending an eternity with a bunch of unbearably satisfied people? Makes me shiver.

No, please put me with the people that are just like me. You guys tortured me enough in life surrounding me with a bunch of differing opinions and different outlooks on life. It drove me crazy. All I wanted was a world where everyone agreed with me, and it seemed like at every turn someone was coming up to me and shoving their differences in my face. You know I used to fantasize about marrying another guy named Alex who looked just like me? Talked just like me? Same build? Same fashion sense? Yeah, of course you know. You’re you. But then you sent me this guy who was skinny and sweet and, well. Happy. It drove me out of my mind.

And the people he brought into my life? Chatty and friendly and nurturing and gentle? I could have done without all that, thankyouverymuch. If you’re sending me back down, please get it right.

No going back, eh? Well that’s good. Life was shit. Just as long as you put me with a bunch of me’s. And just as long as I get to have lots of sex.

I gotta say, that’s one thing you guys got right. Sex was awesome.

Sex with Jerry? It was awesome. I just said. Are you listening?

It was always a surprise. Like Easter baskets when I was a kid. I knew I was going to get treats. And I knew they would be delicious. And I knew there would be a lot of it. But I never knew EXACTLY what the treats were going to be. Sometimes there were solid chocolate bunnies. Sometimes there weren’t. Sometimes there were peanut butter eggs. Sometimes there were jellybeans. Sometimes not. Sometimes there was a totally new candy that had just come out. And sometimes there were hollow chocolate bunnies. You know, there’s something I gotta tell you. Those hollow chocolates were a real fuck you. A real donkey punch. You peel off the foil, and you see this huge bunny or Santa or whatever, and it’s HUGE, and, like, obviously full of chocolate. And you bite into it. And, like, nothing. Air. You bite into air. I hope you’re sending the inventor of hollow chocolate somewhere else because that is a mortal sin if there is such a thing.

Anyway that’s what sex was like. An Easter basket. Pretty damn familiar and predictable but just enough variation to keep it exciting.

Oh, I see what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to get me to say that I loved Jerry because of his differences. I put it to you that I would have loved him more had he been just like me.

No, no, no. The sex would have been BETTER.

Nah, ignore what I said before. Comparing sex to an Easter basket? That’s retarded. Believe me, the sex would have been better if he was just like me.

We’re done? That’s cool. Just point me to my area full of me’s, and I’ll be outta your hair.

But you just said no one goes back.

I thought you guys weren’t allowed to lie. Like that was a rule or something.

Fine. But don’t expect me to like it. And don’t expect me to be singing your praises down there. I’ll remember this. Mark my words.

Hey-hey, look! I’m writing things!

I was thinking of writing this on The Advocate Blog, but figured it would get too personal-blog-like. (I got feedback for my last post that it was too personal-blog-like.)

So, last night I went to my writers’ group, and we talked about writing and stories and things. A piece that I’ve been working on was on the chopping block. People seemed to like it. They seemed to have a little bit of a problem with a section that got to exposition-y, so I’ll probably whittle it down. I think the section is still important to give background on a character. Plus I’m learning more-and-more that, while the people in my group yell “EXPOSITION IS DEATH!!!!!” I have read many, many, many published books with plenty of long, expository* sections.

Then we went to a wine bar afterwards which was dimly lit with comfy chairs and heavy wood benches. The bar looked onto a forecourt through floor-to-ceiling windows, and people were dancing the tango in that forecourt - three couples to be exact. A couple of women, and two male-female couples in their forties or fifties dressed to impress.

I pointed to the dance class, and said to my fellow writers, “Look at that. That needs to go in someone’s story.”

Fellow writer:  Why?

Me: It’s interesting. Look. There’s two women dancing together. Don’t you want to know their story? Are they lesbians? Or did the male of one of the couples fail to show?

Fellow writer: But where’s the conflict?

Me: There IS no conflict. Or if there’s conflict, it’s that those people are doing a frigging tango lesson in a tiny courtyard under yellow light, while we’re in here listening to Aretha Franklin. I think that’s an interesting juxtaposition. It’s a cool contrast.

Fellow writer: There’s got to be CONFLICT!!!!

Me: But no. There really doesn’t.

This set off a whole discussion of CONFLICT!!!! According to my fellow writers, “An author lives or dies by conflict.” I’m kinda getting sick of hearing what a story HAS to be. Or what an author HAS to be.

So there you go; there’s your conflict: I disagree. As usual.

*Expository sounds like suppository. Heh-heh.

Or tweets that are very old, but still fresh as the day they were born.

• Claiming all the cinnamon-sugar pita chips for my own consumption. Priding myself on my Columbus-like resolution.
• Organizing a sit-in. Of one. On my couch. We’re protesting the lack of good television by forcing ourselves to watch bad television.
• I’d be a Luddite if it meant “one who enjoys preludes.” Otherwise I’m all for technological advances. I guess I’m a lapsed Luddite.
• Every time I passed a reflective window yesterday I said to Jerry, “I can’t believe how cute I look.” He rolled his eyes, and I felt loved.
• Toys ‘R Us was depressing. Plastic clamshell packages strewn about under dead fluorescent lights. This is how the apocalypse will look.
• Plane WC fun: push the flap at the bottom of the toilet down solely with the pressure of your pee-stream.
• I promised my big intenstines that The Annual Holiday Gorge would be over soon. But foodstuffs linger in the company kitchen. Beckoning.
• Is there an internationally-synchronized scale to determine the rankness of a fart? Is this something the NIST should be working on?
• Die, Kenny G. Die. Die. Die. Die. Die. Die.
• Lick ‘n Stick Architecture: Not to be confused with an Arts ‘n Crafts Bungalow, a Jack ‘n Jill Bathroom, or a Slap ‘n Tickle Georgian.
• The 80s made me gay: Automan, Airwolf, Manimal, Wonder Woman. How is an innocent boy supposed to fight those influences?
• I resolve to use “pissfarting” in conversation today.
• Going through archives, doing some routine maintenance. Came across a folder named “unsuccessful proj.” How refreshingly honest.
• Thinking about Channing Tatum as Duke in G.I. Joe. Memories of pulling down Duke’s pants when I was a tyke just turned molestery.
• You know what else is a good word? Whittle. There aren’t enough pleasant, carefree words that mean “taking a knife to something.”
• Assault of the Day: A woman with a deep voice and a brusk manner, while passing me in an entry vestibule, said at me, “Good door.”
• I presume she was talking about the door she just passed through because I wasn’t wearing a door on my person at the time.
• Just had a debate with myself whether to go with the English spelling of program. Then Twitter’s character limit made the decision for me.
• World Wildlife Fund needs to change their acronym. Keep thinking Noah Wylie’s trying to save yelling, sweaty men in neon, not Polar Bears.
• I’m chewing on nine pieces of Dentyne Spicy Cinnamon. I call it Wad-O-Headsweat.
• Sometimes I play with my mag-safe plug with my fingers right next the metal. I’m hoping I’ll get a shock. Or that my laptop will explode.

I just got a “Yeah, about that…” call from the editor at The Advocate. Remember the piece that I said I had worked so hard on? The one that I said I was so proud of? It’s not going to run. Now they want me to write an opinion piece about all my research. It’s going from a 3,000-word article down to a 500-word column.

I can’t tell you how disappointed I am. Not devastated, but really, really disheartened. What was the point of ALL that research?

GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

As you can tell, the updates for my blog have started to dwindle. Yeah, it may be a cop-out to say I’m busy, but it’s the truth. And I’m busy doing stuff that I find exciting. So I guess I can at least update you on those small things that are keeping me from you, my beloved fan. (Do I really still have any of those?)

The Advocate Magazine - On the three days I’m not at my job in architecture, I’m interning at a local magazine. I just finished my first article for them that will get published in March. The article tells a few stories about a specific intersection that’s getting a lot of attention locally. Whole Foods is building a new store at this intersection which is really the center of this particular community. I’m really proud of my work on the article, and I’m looking forward to seeing it published.

Right now I’m working on a couple of photograph-heavy pieces for the magazine’s annual design issue. I’m interviewing some architects and trying to line up some photo-shoots of remodeled bathrooms. These are a nice break from the intensive research I had to do for the other article.

Working Out/Maintaining Health - Again, it seems silly to write about this, but I do spend a lot of time in the gym. That takes me away from you, dear reader. And instead of being apologetic about it, I might as well admit to it and be proud of what I’ve accomplished. Since early 2007 I’ve taken 20 pounds off, and it just feels really, really great. I like looking at myself in the mirror now. And I feel good, up, happy. All those things that lead to boring writing.

Editing the YAF Connection - In Salt Lake City, at our end-of-year meeting, I received a lot of strokes from my colleagues on the work I did last year for the YAF Connection. They said that I greatly exceeded expectations, and that I was a valuable asset to the group. These things gathered together validate that I’m not making a mistake by pursuing this “writing” thing.

Miscellanea - Jerry and I have been going to a lot of open houses; we’re feeling out the Dallas real estate market, finding out what our money can buy. When we decide to buy, we’ll be educated.

Tonight Jerry and I are hosting our open house at our loft. Every month our building picks a floor, and the tenants on that floor open up their lofts if they want. The rest of the building comes to the open lofts and judges them. Jerry’s been working himself into a lather to make sure that we win “best loft.” I don’t think we will, or maybe it’s more correct to say that I don’t care a whole lot. I just hope people enjoy our loft.

Sunday we’re pulling hosting duties for my family. Over the holidays we didn’t connect with them, so this is to make up for that. I’ll be cooking two recipes, one from our new favorite Food TV personality, Ina Garten.

That’s about it. I can’t promise more frequent updates because, like I said, I’m enjoying the work that’s keeping me away from the blog. Plus I’m pretty proud of the posts I HAVE been putting up. Lately, I’m thinking that I’d rather have fewer quality posts than more frequent “blah” posts. Lately, anyway. Except for this one. This one’s shit.

If you run, bike, swim, you know that there is a point at which all that extra adrenaline gives you a great feeling. If you’re outside, the light looks more beautiful, the colors more vibrant, all the smells – even the fertilizer – smell better. If you’re inside, your fellow gym rats look better; you want to bone more of them than when you started.

I had been on the elliptical for twenty minutes, working at my peak heart rate for about fifteen minutes, and I glanced at a distant TV. Vanna White was doing a jig on Wheel of Fortune, and I looked away. Then, I thought, “Wait, what?” and I looked back.

She wasn’t doing a jig; she was stuttering mid-step.  See, there was a glitch in the satellite feed or whatever; the image was jogging back-and-forth over the same millisecond. For all you analog folks, it was like a record-skip, but twenty times faster. Vanna’s leg only moved about six inches through her stride. And it was a wide shot, so she was doing it backed by that giant glittering, sequined set. It was like watching a line dance as imagined by William Gibson.

I couldn’t look away; I just stared at Vanna endlessly repeating that instant of her life.

There’s another thing that happens when you’re heart rate soars. Time seems to go soooooo sloooooow. Because your mind is being told that your body is moving fast, it thinks that the rest of the world should move fast. So Vanna’s stutter-step seemed like it lasted for ten minutes. And I watched and watched, probably with drool running down my chin.

It would be nice to think that I had a cosmological/metaphysical breakthrough. Like, “Omigod. Aren’t we ALL repeating the same instant of our lives in alternate universes?” Or, “What if I’ve transcended and I’m now watching the world as The Observer?” Or, “Isn’t that just a metaphor for Vanna’s whole career: arrested letter-turn?”

Nope. I thought, “Whoa. Cool.”

And THAT’S why it’s called a runner’s high; sometimes, if you’re lucky, working out is like dropping a hit of acid.

• midline rhyming
• alliteration galore
• never-ending upbeat-to-downbeat syncopation
• Euro-Robo Britney at her Euro-Robotiest
• It hits me in my hips.  When I’m driving and I have it cranked up, it’s 1995. I’m 23, it’s Saturday night, and I’m on my way to J.R.’s. I’m blaring “No More I Love Yous.” I’m ordering a 7&7 because that’s manly. I’m driving drunk. I’m dancing. I’m dizzy from strobing lights. I’m being rubbed by strangers. I’m scared. I’m hopeful. I’m taking some guy home. I’m following some guy home. I’m believing it means something. I’m wearing my pride rings. I’m wearing a tight shirt. I’m showing off my chest. I’m brushing a guy’s hand. I’m talking. I’m confident. I’m shy. I’m perturbed. I’m over it. I’m excited. I’m meeting someone new. I’m the gayest I ever was and the gayest I ever will be. I’m handing out condoms. I’m running my hand through a guy’s hair, looking for the seam of his toupee. I’m crying because someone didn’t call me back. I’m not calling back. I’m buying condoms at Target. I’m lying to family. I’m ashamed and not. I’m riding on a gay pride float. I’m throwing candy and condoms to children. I’m speeding. I’m getting pulled over and openly cursing the cop because he interrupted my trick. I’m walking from bar to bar. I’m hanging my head. I’m stealing glances at the go-go boys. I’m watching the videos on the TVs. I’m trying to look disinterested. I am disinterested, but I’m so hungry. I’m yearning. I’m going home alone. I’m yelling at a stranger that blew me off. I’m ignoring people I know. It’s dark, and I’m driving.