balding angrily

Jerry planned the best. birthday. ever. He warned me in advance to keep the day open, so I did.

Here are the events of the day, in theoretical order:

• Woke up. Made my own breakfast because Jerry loves his squishy pillow and cannot be moved in the morning.
• Made my morning coffee and poked him with a stick.
• Finished reading the announcements over the p.a. “Congratulations to Mrs. Claudia’s class for their win in the Tri-County Flame Throwing Competition. They took home the Golden Singed Eyebrow.”
• Threw a cat on Jerry.
• When he woke up, he brought me my presents: lovely Bodum coffee mugs, saucers, and the news that we would be spending the night in a historic Dallas hotel that I’ve loved since I moved here.
• Worked out. Checked into the hotel.
• Saw Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of Who-the-Hell-Thought-Shia-LaBeouf-Could-Pull-Off-a-Marlon-Brando-Impression?* on an overstuffed loveseat, under a thick blanket, with our feet propped on an ottoman. Ate Junior Mints and Tangerine/Lime Soda. (Not a good combination by the way. Unless you thrill to alternately puckering and feeling your teeth vibrate.)
• Napped.
• Napped some more.
• Flipped through the Garden & Gun magazine that was provided for us in our lovely suite. At first I was all, “Wuh?” Then I was all, “This I gotta see. How does a magazine manage to combine these two seemingly disparate hobbies?” Then I was all, “I fucking hate the south.” Then I saw Jessica Simpson on the cover of D Magazine, and I was all, “Oo! Jessica Simpson!”
• Went to an awesome dinner that featured muddled cucumber, a waiter with too many hand gestures (I’m all for a good wave of the hand in the direction of a drink menu. I’m not in favor of every sentence being accompanied by florish of the wrist.), a short rib dish that I thought would be something else, an upside-down key-lime pie with candied lime zest, and cheese.
• Watched Family Guy.
• Slept.

There may or may not have been shennanigans during any or all of the above, but I’m not telling specifically when or where those shennanigans may or may not have been. As I said, it was the best. birthday.ever. Yay, Jerry!

*Can someone tell Spielberg or Lucas that, in 2008, motorcycle drag is associated more with Tom of Finland than The Wild One?

Today is my first day of unemployment, and I swear - I SWEAR - I will not let this feeling of bliss and contentment lull me into unending weeks of drinking coffee and watching movies. I WILL find purpose. I WILL!!! This is the beginning of a WHOLE NEW ME!!! I am free. I am not subject to the almighty paycheck, the almighty health insurance policy. My bonds are broken! The shackles are loosed!

I’m going to watch Speed Racer and get a Starbucks.

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.