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.

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.

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.

While I’m ripping-off more successful bloggers, I thought I’d rip-off the Grand Poobah, The Big Cheese, The Blogger Before There Were Blogs - Lore Sjöberg.  And I’m not just going to steal his format, I’m going to steal his CONTENT.  Take that, intellectual property laws!

• ass-in-face - Nothing says, “Love me unconditionally” like a winking brown-eye centimeters from your nose.  Like most cat behaviors, this one comes from your cat’s realization that you are not, at that moment, paying full attention to her.  You may be watching TV.  You may be doing a crossword puzzle.  You may be reading an article about the future of genetic science, wondering if someone’s going to invent a virus that will give you the ability to pee Mountain Dew, ‘cuz that would be really cool AND useful.  Whatever you’re doing, your cat will come to you, all affectionate-like and purring.  And you’ll think, “Aww, how sweet; she just wants a little rub.”  And she’ll nuzzle your face with her nose.  And you’ll scratch her back.  And she’ll arch her back and purr louder.  And it’ll be just adorable.  And then she’ll turn around with her tail proudly erect so that you’re involuntarily giving her a rectal exam. D
• pouncing - J & I found out last weekend that we probably have American Shorthairs.  According to Animal Planet, American Shorthairs are descendants of European Shorthairs that were brought over with the Pilgrims to rid the boats of mice.  American Shorthairs are supposedly excellent mousers.  All I know is that when I lay in the center of our bed and scratch the covers from underneath, one of our cats will LEAP over me to get to the scratching noise.  She’s like a mini-Michael Jordon with her hang-time.  Hopefully, as she gets older, she’ll start letting her tongue hang out.  And then I can set up a mini-basketball hoop on one side of the bed.  And I can buy her little kitty basketball shorts.  And she can have her own line of Nike shoes.  B+
• double eyelids - When I was I kid I used to stare at my cat for hours waiting for him to blink.  If I got to him when he was really drowsy, he would blink VERY slowly, so I could watch the inner eyelid slowly close before the outer eyelid.  It’s become a retread to say science fiction promised us rocket packs, flying cars, and teleportation by now.  You know what? They also promised us oculus doorways in spaceships.  Cats’ double eyelids are the closest we’ll get to oculus doorways, and that makes them awesome. A+
• curling in the lap - Again, you’re watching TV or writing on your blog, and your cat leaps into your lap, proceeding to knead your thigh like dough.  You stir your coffee, take a sip, and you’re just content to have a source of warmth and vibration close to your wang.  Then she curls up in a circle, and you stroke her back.  And you feel like a Don.  A+
• rum tum tugger - When I was in high school, I thought I had to love every musical, Cats included.  I bought the soundtrack and played it over-and-over, just like all my other musicals, but I did it begrudgingly.  After a few weeks of forcing myself to listen to both CDs from start to finish, I finally put “Memory” on repeat and ignored the rest.  Then my dad saw the touring show, and he said that I just HAD to see it.  That’s high praise from an ex-Marine.  Then this video started playing on VH1, and I honestly, well …  As a 15 year-old proto-gay living in Southern California, my conceptions of masculinity and femininity were wack.  I remember thinking, “Look, he’s getting all the chicks.  And he’s pretty tough.  If you offer him pheasant, he’d rather have grouse.  That’s straight-up gangsta.”  So, I started singing “The Rum Tum Tugger” around the house, and in another show of my mom’s complete obliviousness, she did nothing about it.  It wasn’t until 1995 when I saw Jeffrey that I realized that maybe, just maybe, “Cats” wasn’t all that.  Bryan Batt plays a singer/dancer who was in Cats because it was the only job he could get.  In the end - SPOILER ALERT! - his character dies; I read that as indictment of bad theater.  D

Oh. And to see a better piece on cats, go here.

…in general, and London specifically.

J & I will be going to London in February, and I’m preparing by reading The Unofficial Guide to London. Usually I don’t prepare for a trip, leaving it to Jerry. But our NYC trip turned out to be such a trial on my nerves that my doctor, after prescribing a delightful anti-anxiety medication, suggested I plan better.

• “Don’t tell anyone that their accent is “cute.” It is you who has the accent, and it is not considered remotely cute by the British.” What if I talk like Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins the whole time? What if I openly mock them and accompany anything I say with a chimney-sweeping jig? Will they find that cute?
• Queen Elizabeth I had her cousin, Mary, Queen of Scots executed and buried. After Elizabeth’s reign, Mary’s body was exhumed and placed in Westminster Abbey, not far from the body of Elizabeth. No this is not REALLY interesting unless you picture Mary, Queen of Scots as a fourteen-foot tall puppet with gangly arms. My knowledge of British history is tainted by Monty Python, and their Pantomime Queen is one of the more enduring images in my head.
• Along the slow transfer of power from the monarchy to parliament in British government is an episode where “monarchist Cavaliers were defeated by Puritan Roundheads.” I’ve never understood why political parties choose for themselves unflattering images: Roundheads, donkeys, elephants, know-nothings. Or if they didn’t choose the image for themselves, why did they stick with the images someone else gave them? But then again, I despise politics, so maybe I’m not meant to know.
• “Don’t expect people to introduce you to others. One can spend an entire evening with a group of people who introduce neither themselves nor their friends to you. This is not bad manners; rather, it has something to do with the don’t-be-pushy rule that prevails at most gatherings. Introductions can only be undertaken by the correct factotum, and nobody will know who that might be, so they keep quiet (as may the correct factotum, not wanting to look self-important).” It’s no wonder Yanks are perceived as elephantine bores if introducing oneself is considered presumptuous. We must look like mountain men with puffed-up chests to them. That’s why I want to be as slender and aerodynamic as I can when we go to London. I want to be wispy, starved like a sliver of soap.
• Knightsbridge is “famous for having the most consonants in a row in any English word.” I did not know that. And because I did not know that I assume that The Unofficial Guide is lying to me.
• In order to quickly adjust to the time change, travelers are advised, “On the plane, drink lots and lots of water, but no alcohol, and eat sparingly. Sleeping on the plane is not always an option, but do try.” Well, that makes sense. Sleeping’s not an option because you’re running to the bathroom to void your bladder AND you’re clawing at your empty belly like a Dickensian waif.

It’s an astoundingly beautiful day in Dallas. The air is crisp, and the sky is blue with wispy clouds. My cat is tenderizing my thigh to tell me that she loves me. The other cat is yawning and stretching her arm as if to say, “Hey, it’s cool. I’m cool. We’re all cool, yeah?” I think this is what heaven will be like, but without the nagging voice at the back of my head telling me that I need to DO something: Write! Get dressed! Brush your teeth! Go to the gym!

Meh. It’s too beautiful out to DO something. Seriously though, I have an article to write, and I’ve been putting it off for too long. It only has to be 2,000 words, and I can crank that out.

Jerry’s been in Uruguay since Sunday, and I’ve missed him terribly. However, it’s been really nice to have the apartment totally to myself. He ought to have taken lots of pretty pictures. If he didn’t, he’s gonna get a stern talkin’ to.

Even though its old news, I have to blah, blah, blah about the economy.  Last Friday, while I was away from the office, we laid off a few people.  I found out when I called in, and the receptionist was crying; she had just been given the bad news.  When I came into the office on Monday, I was told that I should cut my hours.  (If you’ll remember, I work part-time, hourly.)  I also found out who else was let go.  One of the girls is someone that is in the U.S. on a work visa.  If she can’t maintain employment, it’s possible that she would have to move back to her birth country.  This girl’s a friend of mine; she’s bubbly, cute, and bright.  I think Monday was the first time that I didn’t see a smile on her face.

Throughout Monday and yesterday, I kept thinking about her, trying to think of ways I could help her out.  I was able to get the name of an immigration lawyer, but my friend is a junior-level employee.  She can’t afford a high-priced lawyer.  Then I gave her the name of a head-hunter, the only one I knew, but the market in Dallas is WAY down.  All I’m hearing from friends in the profession is, “Yeah, we let some people go.”

At her request, I called a past employer, a three-man operation seemingly immune to past economic downturns, to see if they had any need for a drafter.  The three-man operation had become a two-man operation, in part because of the slow-down.

My hope is that in two years, I’ll be able to look back at this period and say, “Aw, what was I worried about?”  But goddamn.  It’s pretty fucking scary. Immediately after 9/11, when I was witness to layoffs, I always had the sense that there were still jobs out there.  In other words, I wasn’t too worried about getting the shaft; I always felt that I’d be able to find a job.  This time, it doesn’t feel that way.  Now I see my bright, bubbly friend, a person that NEEDS to work at the risk of deportation, a person that is a good, hard worker, and I see that the future ain’t so bright.