balding angrily

Let me tell you something about the past, about bringing high school into the present. The past doesn’t change, and when we look at it too hard, we revert back. We assume the roles we played in it.

I was in a group that rewarded cleverness. We tried to out-do each other with our vocabularies. We talked about our favorite words like others talked about TV. We stressed words like eschew as a way to both let the others know we knew the word and let each other know how silly (but not really) we were for using it in conversation. Back then it made us insufferable, but that bent or weakness for cleverness or self-conscious irony continues in my writing and conversation. I’ve given up trying to not be clever or ironic. I love clever.

I was also not as smart as the other people in our group. This didn’t matter to them, but it mattered to me. I’m sickly competitive that way. I always felt like I had to prove to my friends that I could be as literate as them. When passing notes between classes, I felt inferior to them - that I didn’t put my words together as well as them - that I hadn’t been simple enough.

More than that, I yearned for their approval and seethed when I felt I didn’t get it. That also continues. Hopefully, I successfully masquerade that as shtick.

Getting in contact with those people has brought all that back, and I’m once again paranoid that the English major, the author, the one of us who read 5 books a week is judging me. Yes, I know she isn’t. Yes, I know she’s way moved on, that she has a life divorced from the past.

Fucking high school. I loved it, and it did a number on me - in a good way.

I tried to track down an old high school friend last week, and last night she called me back. We chitty-chatted for 2 hours, laughing mostly. Her voice was good to hear. It hasn’t changed in the fifteen or so years since the last time I talked to her, and we cracked the same dumb jokes.

Unlike most of my other friends who went to mainstream schools after high school, she went to Humboldt State University, way the fuck in the northernmost part of California. It’s in Arcata, which is supposedly the pot capital of California. (I didn’t ask her if she was a pot-head, but I wanted to.) I visited her there a long time ago, and it’s beautiful country. And it suits her. She’s an outdoors-y type. She has a couple of horses, and she rides them on the beach. She’d been the one in our group to hate new technology, so it wasn’t a surprise when she told me she doesn’t have a computer.

As you know, I have a deep attachment to my past, especially my high school years, so it was great talking to her. Also, she told me about two other friends, siblings, with whom we went to high school. The one can be found here, and her brother can be found here. Give them some web-love by clicking. Thems is good people.

Gimme-gimme _more. Gimme _more. Gimme-gimme _MORE.

Say what you want about this week’s Britney/VMA/Chris Crocker hubub; her robots can create an insidious brain-worm. Given this particular one is tied to a moment of infamy, I say she’s already made her comeback.

Chicago is…

It’s New York City without the people spitting on you. It’s my new favorite city. We stayed near Rush and State, the center of the hip-and-cool-party-people night-life. The weather was beautiful. Birds were singing, police gave out candy instead of tickets, and pan-handlers smelled like flowers. When we got back, I was ready to pack everything and move up there.

We had a waiter that told racist jokes. We had a cabby that got all scrunchy when we wanted to pay with a credit card. We had a tour guide that took us aside and told us in a hushed voice all the latest hot gossip about Frank Lloyd Wright. Jen-An regaled us with poop stories. Owen didn’t know how to lay on the beach and waste away. He got flustered and had to “do something.” I met some fellow Filmspotters, and ate a Mediterranean mound of chicken wrapped in phyllo. We got in-room massages in which I learned that my hands and forearms are the most intimate places on my body a person can touch.

And we ate Riesens along with lots and lots of other good foods.

Jen-An, Owen, Jerry and I went to Chicago last week. The highlight of my time in Chicago was fulfilling a lifelong dream of mine. Family Guy stole my dream and made it a parody, so you may already know where this is going. I wanted to sit in front of Georges Seurat’s masterwork at The Art Institute and listen to The Dream Academy.

In Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, I identified with Cameron. I never wanted to be Ferris. I wanted to be - and be with - Cameron. He wasn’t my first movie crush, but he was important. The scene where the camera switches between Cameron’s eyes and those of the little girl in Sunday Afternoon on the Isle of La Grande Jatte was powerful for 14-year old me. I understood the longing in that exchange.

A little later, I started exploring Sondheim and rented the PBS performance of Mandy Patinkin in Sunday in the Park with George. I didn’t know it was about Georges Seurat’s famous painting until the end of Act I or that it was a multi-Tony-nominated musical; I thought I was making a discovery. The story is about the character of Seurat who isolates himself in pursuit of his art. That’s what I got out of it anyway.

Again, there’s that theme of loneliness with this painting. As a lonely little fella, I connected with this painting.

It’s breath-taking in person, and I nearly cried sitting there looking at it. I feel like Seurat painted it just for me, and I’m sure I’m not the only one. I’m sure I’m not the only one who feels like that scene is Ferris Bueller’s Day Off was filmed just for me. Or that “Sunday,” the song from Sunday in the Park with George, was written just for me. Or that Seth MacFarlane and Co. wrote the parody in Family Guy just for me.

I’m sure that these things are loved by many, many, many people. How Eleanor Rigby of us.

I came home today to a delightful package from one of my far-away friends. You’ll remember my request. Winrit remembered anyway.

I’ll catch everyone up on our trip to Chicago, but let this tide you over.

God, I love my little Nun Monster.

The teaser: Have you heard about the fire? No, not that one.

Monday, Jerry and I left our apartment together on our way to the underground garage. There are a pair of doors on our end of the hall that stay open with magnetic hold open devices. These magnets disengage in case of fire, allowing the doors to automatically close. This isolates our part of the building giving us a smoke-free escape. The doors do not lock closed, so they do not cut off our or anyone else’s hypothetical escape.

Balding Angrily: providing your fire and life safety lessons since 2006.

Our building is built in a very old part of town; some iteration of the building has been around since 1910. In the last 5 years they remodeled it for lofts. They did a spot-on job, but our electricity still has to travel through the ancient infrastructure that plagues this part of town. Consequently, we frequently have outages and surges and other creepy goings-on that cause our elevators to mysteriously stop working and our alarms to sound.

The first time we heard our fire alarm, we were sound asleep and we made our way sluggishly in the direction of the fire exit. After the fifth time, we just looked at the red box on the wall, asking each other, “Do you think we should do anything?” I held my shoes in my lazy-wristed hands and assumed a sneer until it went off.

I got way down the daisy-covered path on that one. Back to Monday. We came out of our apartment, and the double doors were closed. We hadn’t heard a fire alarm, so we assumed it was another one of those creepy instances of our building assuming a personality. As I reached to push open the door, Jerry jokingly said, “Wait! You’re supposed to feel the door first! Only after you know it’s safe are you supposed to open it!” I ignored him and went through; it was fine.

In the late afternoon, Owen called me at work and said, “Don’t worry. You’re place isn’t burnt down.” He tends to start off phone conversations with these kind of non-sequiters. If someone isn’t looking at me quizzically when the four of us are out, they’re looking at him quizzically; we share that tangerine-trees-and-marmalade-skies thought process of free association.

He explained that he was driving around our apartment and saw what the news termed a “column of smoke” near downtown. He checked to see it wasn’t our building and called me. Nice guy, right? Yeah, he is. Jen-An lucked out because she’s not half as nice.

After many hours I came home, and from our window you could see the warehouse that was on fire. It was still burning this morning, and I’m not convinced it’s out right now. In a sick way, I’m kind of sad that I can’t see the flames anymore. It was kind of fun to look out and shake my head at the thought of the smoke adding to Gore’s Gasses^TM.

Given that our electrical infrastructure is shoddy - given that Jerry and I are now immune to the alarm after so many false ones - given that the warehouses in our area are lighting up like Roman candles - given that our building is likely haunted - given that both Jerry and I have left the iron plugged in and on - given that we both get distracted by burly firemen - given all these things we are doomed to die of something fire related. And we don’t even have any kiddos to fight over our vast fortune when we do.

At Balding Angrily, we get lots of letters asking us to mention them on the show. Kids, the best way to get mentioned is to give me things or tell me you were thinking of me in some way.

So a month ago, Angela (winrit) gave me a mixtape. It’s Latin-infused. She’s a ballroom dancer, and apparently that’s given her a taste in Portuguese sambas. Or mambos. Or whatever they are.

Shortly after, Jon sent me Finding Nemo and the book to Company, a couple of things that were on my Amazon wishlist. I read through Company that very night, and I watched Finding Nemo on my iPod on a slow day at work. Shh. Don’t tell anyone.

I knew of a fella on the boards that had a handsome pup as his avatar, but I didn’t know Jon before I got the package. Thanks, Jon.

Jen-An and Owen gave me a photo of Cyndi Lauper with a trombone with my face taped over hers. That was, um, disturbing. Very, very disturbing. I acted strangely insulted, and then Jen-An said, “Oh please. We all know that you like when someone goes out of the their way to make something for you.” Yeah. I had to admit that it was very sweet. She also called me a puppy, a bulldog puppy. Then she did an imitation of a puppy with a grumpy face, stomping around with a harumph. I hate her.

Finally, Lynch just sent me a song I’ve never heard and called it the unofficial Balding Angrily theme song. He said that whenever this song is on the radio, he thinks of Balding Angrily. Please, people. Don’t think of Balding Angrily while you’re driving. It makes me think that you don’t have a life. If you’re driving around thinking of these degraded ramblings, you really, really need to seek help.

The song is Mika’s “Grace Kelly.” I can’t upload it because Wordpress is forbidding it. If I can I’ll write down the lyrics. The singer sounds like Freddy Mercury, and he’s singing about how he can be anything you want him to be if you just love him. I can see that as being perfect for Balding Angrily.

-Update-

Lynch posted the YouTube of the video for “Grace Kelly” on Watch This Vid.

I wanted to conclude the Cols talk for the time being, even though she may come up in future stories.

She and Jerry had a running joke about her dad who passed away about a year or two before I met her. They always referred to him as “her/my dead daddy.” She never, ever got upset about this. She loved gallows humor or humor that crossed the boundaries of good taste. To give you an example, even though she was a practicing Catholic, she had a whole collection of sacrilegious nun dolls including a nun puppet with boxing gloves.

So we knew immediately after her death that she would approve of any laughter at the expense of her passing. Upon such a joke, someone in her huge group of left behind friends would say, “Cols is laughing her ass off right now.”

After four months, I wrote an email to Jerry to sell him on some architectural services. It was not sincere, as I was (as always) frustrated with my job. A little background: Jen-An is Jerry’s boss, and she had just moved out of her office. Jerry moved into it. This is my email to him:

I can’t talk to you right now unless it’s business related. As I have been made aware that I am lacking in my marketing abilities, I must ask you if the Human Resources Department of XYZ is looking for any interiors or architectural services.

Reliant Architects is a full-service architectural firm with an emphasis on the CLIENT. Say a head director in your department is moving to another office leaving her office to an undeserving underling. That undeserving underling will need to know how to use his new office effectively and efficiently.

We at Reliant Architects can and will meet your space planning needs.

Let’s suppose that there has been a recent tragic passing of a loved one. She will be greatly missed. She was an inspiration to all that met her. She has left a hole in the hearts of those closest to her.

She has also left a nice bit of office space for her department with which to contend. That valuable real estate, under the sensitive hands of Reliant Architects can be turned into USEFUL space for her department.

We at Reliant Architects understand your grief, and we also understand that there’s no use crying when a 10 x 15 area is up for grabs. We’ll get in there and turn it into something so spectacular that you’ll forget you even had a friend.

Reliant Architects IS Service.

Jerry forwarded the email to Jen-An; they laughed their asses off, and four years later, Jen-An sent it back to me. I had forgotten what exactly I’d written.

Here’s stuff I done got for mah birfday.

Red-Haired Mom is a wonderful woman if a bit loopy. She sent a big box of stuff to Jen-An and Owen to deliver to me instead of just sending it to me. She wanted me to be presented with stuff, instead of getting a brown box in the mail. Here’s the bag that they shouldered into the restaurant. You can see I started unwrapping stuff before I thought to take the picture:

Here’s all the stuff in the bag. It’s hard to see in this picture, but the Garfield on the far left is wearing a baby hat. I presume that Red-Haired Mom included it in the package assuming that it’s mine. It is just as likely that it belonged to my brother or sister, and she stuffed it into the package with an attitude of, “Meh. He’ll never know the differnence.” She also included in the package a large file of pictures from when I was living with her. I haven’t opened the package yet because I haven’t had much time:

You might recognize the stuff from this picture as I’m getting ready for my senior prom. Though it pains me to admit it, here is photographic proof that a senior in high school had Garfield stuffed animals displayed prominantly in his bedroom. My mom never sat me down and said, “Alex, you’re weird. Please stop being so weird.” I blame her for the way I am now:

My dear sweetness gave me a ring. I lost my wedding ring maybe six months after our wedding. I took it off at the gym while working out, and I left it in the locker when I left. I immediately realized my mistake, but by the time I called the gym and got back there, it was gone. Jerry was diligent and found the exact same ring and got me a replacement. His ring also has a knot motif but is a bit more traditional. We liked the idea of having rings tied in theme if not in aesthetic.

Yargh!!! I’m going to get you with my stubby fingers and hairy knuckles:

Crump done give me a book I asked for. She said she liked the title because her name comes up as “cannoli” when she uses spell-check. Someone please go buy some art from her. She’s the nicest person I’ve never met. Jerry’s sister and brother-in-law gave me this kick-ass DC Comics book. I’m not sure what the 365 pages signify. Am I supposed to read it in a year like one of those bibles? That’s too much pressure, and I’m not going to take life-lessons from this book. Probably:

Finally, Jen-An and Owen gave me “Blackbird” sheet music, a small jewelry jar with the lyrics to “Blackbird” on it, and a small hand-colored piece of art with a web link on it. All of Jen-An’s family are artists. She did this. I haven’t gone to the link yet. I’ll let you. “Blackbird” was one of the songs that was at Jerry and my wedding. It was really the only thing we knew we wanted before we decided on anything else. Funnily we hadn’t really paid attention to the lyrics and were scared that it wouldn’t work. After sitting down one night and listening, we were relieved. What’s not pictured is some more art that Jen-An did to personalize the sheet music. She made the cover a kind of birthday card. Because she and Owen signed it with their real names, I didn’t photograph it even though I really want to show you her awesometude.

Ma and Pa Jerry and Dad and Blonde Mom also got me wonderful things that I will put to nefarious uses, but unfortunately they’re not very photogenic.

Finally, just because I’m not above pandering to get an “Awwww,” here’s a kitty with some kitties (”im on ur cowchez, maken beeleev”):

Crump is doing some crazy-cool things with print-making. She even used a bit of my rambling about meta in one of her pieces.

In the coming days I hope to post some pics of all the loot I garnered for my birthday. I also want to post an email I sent to Jerry some months after Cols’ passing. I think it shows our relationship accurately, much better than I could describe it to you. You’ll have to wait, though.

Work + sinus drainage is kicking my butt right now. Feeling under the weather on your birthday sucks.