balding angrily

One expects that beneath little Jeffy’s pajamas, across his back, is a tatoo of William Blake’s The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed in Sun and that the dolls have broken mirrors in their eye sockets.

Srsly. That’s the first thing I thought when I saw this ad.

I spent today in a wheelchair; my company sponsored my time, giving money to a local charity. I’ll post the name of the charity when I can find it. The event is designed to make architects aware of the specific challenges of the wheelchair-bound.

I knew it was going to be difficult, in general terms. Therefore, I’ll focus on a specific.

When did we become so lazy and/or absent-minded that we need a device to close a door for us? I can think of only one place where a door closer is appropriate - at a door that closes in the event of a fire.

You might say, “But Alex, what about at shop entrances? Isn’t that a matter of security? Aren’t automatically closing and locking doors appropriate there?”

No. No they’re not. If we have become so averse to turning around to close the door behind us, we deserve to have our shit stolen. If we have trained generations of people that the door will close itself, then it is our own damn fault. If our national security is at risk because someone forgot to close the damn door, we were never really secure.

You might say, “But Alex, what about doors into bathrooms? Surely, we need to protect the public from seeing dirty bathrooms and/or male body parts.”

No. No we don’t. Again, if you can’t turn around to close a door, you deserve to have your wang looked upon. And again, if, as a society, we have become so lazy that we’re not training people to close doors, we deserve an unwelcome peepshow.

Swinging doors are cloves of garlic to a person in a wheelchair - if a person in a wheelchair is a vampire. Door closers are prickly spines on that garlic - if garlic had prickly spines. Do this. Pick up one of those hand-held counters popular with amusement park line attendants. Carry it around with you one day and click it every time you go through a swinging door. Click it twice if the door has a closer. Fuck it; forget the counter. Just count how many times you have to open a swinging door in a day.

Imagine the number you get is the amount of times you spilled hot coffee on yourself. You would be justifiably afraid of coffee. But you can’t give up coffee, and you can’t NOT spill coffee on yourself. In order to function, every day is a constant barrage of messing your shirt and burning your nipples.

By the end of the day, I feared doors. I feared leaving my cubicle to go to the bathroom. I feared my daily [walk] to Starbuck’s. I feared going to the kitchenette to get a glass of water. I preferred gas pains and a screaming bladder to negotiating the path to the bathroom. I preferred the dull boredom of my computer screen to turning around in my cramped cubicle to look out the window.

But don’t let me discourage you from doing a similar exercise, especially for charity. I’ll do it again next year if only to remind myself how the smallest things can be huge for someone else.

M. R. wrote something involving onomatopoeia. It got me to thinking.

There comes a time when little boys come to a metaphorical fork in the road, and they must choose between three metaphorical diverging paths. (Poor Robert Frost. He probably never stops spinning in his grave. I bet we could hook up his spinning bones to a turbine and produce enough electricity for a small loft apartment.) Group A chooses to play air drums along with its favorite music. Group B chooses to play air guitar along with its favorite music. Group C looks at Groups A & B with a mild hatred. I was in Group C. Duh.

As members in Group A develop their skills, they learn to play their air drums apart from music, and often they play for a member of Group C. So that this despising - elevated from mildly hating - Group C Member understands the rhythm in Group A Member’s head, Group A Member will simulate the sound of drums. This never works, and Group C Member turns from despising to loathing.

The diversity of different sound effects made by any Group A Member is only limited by imagination. My Group A friend/roommate in college said “dooooshhh” to simulate the snare drum - I think it was the snare drum; I didn’t really give him my full attention. While he was making his little noises, I was thinking of ways to break his mouth.

Dooooshhh.

Dooooshhh.

Dooooshhh.

Bum-bum-bum.

Dooooshhh-dooooshhh-dooooshhh.

That’s right. I’m realizing my roommate in college said douche a lot. Before it was cool. Actually, he was being a dork when saying douche. At least his girlfriend and I thought so. Which brings up this idea of the effect of time on the cultural reception of a given subject/phrase/word.

I think that deserves a Keanu-Whoa.

Remember when I wrote about the ThoughtPhone? Remember when Crumpet used that as an art project?

The thing is both gadgets and inner space turn me on. Whenever I come across an article about nano-technology, viruses engineered to produce nano-wires, cybernetics, and other such-like things, I read that article - assuming there are bright colors in the accompanying illustrations.

I’m convinced that in the near future there will be an implanted personal media player - a tiny chip somewhere on one’s body that one can control with thoughts - that feeds information directly to the mind. Think of it as the tiniest iPod underneath the skin. Instead of earphones, the device would excite the correct nerve endings to give a person the sensation of listening to a Brandenburg Concerto. Instead of watching a movie, the device would excite a different set of nerve endings giving a person the sensation of watching Raising Arizona. And that person would start, stop, fast forward, and reverse the movie or music with his thoughts.

I know I’m not using the correct terminology, but hopefully you get the idea. It’d be a harmless mini-Matrix that a person could turn on and off at will.*

There is a company that will soon begin marketing a $300 “brain mouse.” According to the blogs, after an hour of using the “brain mouse,” users can decrease reaction speed by 60% in a video game. It works by reading brain activity and eye movement. My ThoughtPhone and iPod Implant will be here soon.

I’ve told Jerry many, many, many times that if I become paralyzed or otherwise bedridden, it will be his duty to keep me up-to-the-minute in music consuming technology. I want an iPod Implant in my comatose body. I want to be fed a steady stream of classical music, electronic music, and music created by whichever manufactured pop icon is popular at the time. You can talk to me while I’m comatose, but more often than not I’ll probably be ignoring you in favor of my iPod Implant.

*I’m not convinced that an immersive, interactive environment is something I would like. I’m cool with only sights and sounds.

Finally! An opportunity to exploit the youth in my life. My sister-in-law recently granted her daughter (my niece) the ability to text. They have controls over her texting schedule and content, but my niece took full advantage of her new abilities over the weekend. I sat next her a little bit and looked over her shoulder.

It’s old hat to bemoan the illiteracy of youth; so, I won’t go there. I’m fascinated and a little excited at the prospect that they are creating a language. After reading some letters by Thomas Jefferson, I have to acknowledge that we have changed English over the past 250 years. I see texting shorthand as just a continuation of that. In other words, it is my burden to learn what “k y r u so drty” means; it’s not their burden to conform to my outdated concepts of grammar, spelling, and punctuation.

Anyway, she texted me this morning.

Spunky Youth: Am i ur fav
Me: Favorite what? Human? Female? Child under 14? Dark-haired wanderer? And under what criteria are you wanting to be judged? Textual? Hyper-textual? Contextual? Spiritual?
Spunky Youth: Huh
Me: You’re the one who asked if you were my favorite. I’m just trying to ascertain the parameters before I render my verdict.
Spunky Youth: Oh i mean ur favorite person sence im so lovly
Me: You are very lovely; I’ll give you that. However. Connecting your inherent loveliness to some judgment of your overall quality as a human? That’s an incredibly troublesome jump in logic.
Spunky Youth: Huh please dont use big words with me
Me: No big words? Hm. Can’t do that. But I do have to go to work. Ask your mom or dad or teacher what I said.
Spunky Youth: K byese bye
Me: Good day, young lady. Make sure it is a glorious day full of vim and verve.
Spunky Youth: um back 2 u

It was a nice way to start the week.

I like this line from Mary Schmich’s “Wear Sunscreen,” later turned into Baz Luhrman’s “Everybody’s Free (To Wear Sunscreen)”:

Don’t worry about the future. Or worry, but know that worrying is as affective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindside you at 4 pm on some idle Tuesday.

I’m rarely able to follow this advice about not worrying, but Mary knows this. Since I graduated college, the worries that blindside me come in the middle of the night. At one time I had a problem with anxiety attacks; I seem to have outgrown those, but I’m still open to 3 am internal wake-up calls. I’m at peace with my worrying nature, but it makes for some sleepless nights that affect Jerry.

Last night was one of those nights, and because it was Friday night I felt free to burden Jerry with my depressed, verbal hand-wringings. I’m worried about my career path as usual. You know that I’m unhappy in architecture, but I’ve been successful enough in stifling my unhappiness or looking on the brighter side so that I can go to work and function. The unhappiness came back, but after a workout and a desk cleaning, I’m feeling better this morning.

Anyway, I’ve also figured out that I’m incredibly swayed by caffeine; my body chemistry is fucked. I can avoid exercise for a week, have a café mocha at 7:00, and my body will go into a full scale revolution.

*another random reference

That’s it. Go back to your regularly scheduled programming.

Oh fine. It’s the dreads and the looking up from beneath the brow. The serial killer smile is like a comfy blanket next to those Children of Men braids.

This weekend was all about embracing my inner teenage girl. From Friday night to now, I’ve been plugged into Ultra HD Full Frontal Fashion: New York Fashion Week. It’s nothing but runway shows, one after another. I’ve been trying to pin down “the look” - what will be hip in fall, but it looks like all the designers are all over the map. There’s a distinct 70s, hippy bent to a lot of designers’ lines, but right now I’m looking at a very sleek, timeless line.

I should say that I believe that there are people in the fashion world who truly do have a deep, heartfelt, profound attachment to fashion. I also believe it’s a field that deserves serious study, and that there are people out there who know a great deal about it. However, these people don’t do themselves any favors when they respond to the question, “Tell us about this season. What is the look?” They say, “Oh, this season it’s all about beauty. A woman wants to look beautiful, and this season the designers are giving them that.”

Wow. Thanks. All along I was thinking that designers wanted women to look ugly.

As I type this Donna Karan is showing her line. I fucking love runway. There are times when I really want to be a woman. Trust me; there is no way in God’s green earth that I’ll snip-snip my privates. I love my penis way too much. I really have no desire to do drag. I know I’d make a very ugly woman, and it’s just too much trouble.

However, if I had been born a woman, I would be a clothes horse.

Today I finished ttyl by Lauren Myracle. It’s a throwaway story of three fifteen year-olds, told all in ims. I finished it in four hours. I put down Moby Dick again.

Yesterday I watched Casablanca for the first time, and tonight I plan on looking through the annual Hollywood issue of Vanity Fair.

When Jerry gets home, I think we’ll have a facial party and paint our toenails.

Jerry and I bought each other a new camera for Christmas, and I’d like to share some of the new pictures. I’ve been driving him crazy because he unwittingly becomes my subject.

This is by far my favorite. We have this great diffused light that comes in our windows in the mornings. He looks so angelic here.

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Again this is some of that morning light with some cropping. Because it’s cropped from a much larger picture, there’s some detail missing. I really wish his eyelashes were in sharp focus.

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This is the Bank of America building with our Christmas tree refleted in the window.