balding angrily

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.

This is my third attempt at Moby Dick. The last time I got to page 150 and put it down. The problem I had in the past is no matter how much I tried to convince myself that it was going to be an adventure story, I couldn’t get past the feeling that I was pursuing an esoteric exercise.

This weekend I came across a passage I want to share. For background, Queequeg is Ishmael’s, the narrator’s, bed-mate. As Ishmael describes him, he is a huge, unrefined “cannibal” with a barrel chest. Contrast this with Ishmael, who comes off as refined to the point that he struck me as a prig in the first ten chapters. Ishmael calls them bosom friends, and while sleeping, Queequeg inadvertently hugs him like a wife. I’m not going to get hung-up on whether Queequeg and Ishmael are lovers because that’s not interesting to me. It’s better for me to picture a skinny guy being nightly, affectionately assaulted by a lunk.

Upon opening my eyes then, and coming out of my own pleasant and self-created darkness into the imposed and coarse outer gloom of the unilluminated twelve-o’clock-at-night, I experienced a disagreeable revulsion. Nor did I at all object to the hint from Queequeg that perhaps it were best to strike a light…

I read the passage to Jerry, and he didn’t believe that Queequeg farted. He thought (and still thinks) I’m projecting.

I read this passage to my teacher after class and said, “Queequg farted, didn’t he?” He gave me an uncomfortable smile. I told him by explaining what I just told you why this was funny to me. “I can just imagine the kinds of foods they’re eating…half-rotted fish, lots of fat, no clean fiber…that must’ve been one really smelly fart.”

He smiled uncomfortably again and said, “Melville’s wanting you to see how these two cultures are mixing. These two guys are literally in bed together. One can barely speak English and has no problem letting one fly in bed where Ishmael would never think of it…isn’t even comfortable sleeping with another man, let alone one that farts and worships idols. What comment might Melville be making about cultural differences?”

The question that’s been bugging me the last couple of days is this. If you read Moby Dick in high school or college, wouldn’t it increase your enjoyment of this dry classic if the teacher read this passage and opened up a discussion to the class of whether or not Queequeg farted? Yes, we can discuss the symbolism of two people from different cultures sleeping in the same bed. But wouldn’t it be more relatable if these literary figures became more human by tooting every once in a while? I know I would have read a lot more Melville if my teacher in high school had highlighted like passages in Billy Budd.

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’m taking an American Literature class. It’s a community college course, lasts only 11 weeks, and the readings for it are easy enough. The teacher is my age and somewhat frustrating in that he is easily derailed by off-topic lobs thrown by a New York Geriatric that sits in the back.

I’ll call him Professor X because it makes me think that he might have super powers.

Professor X: So, Jefferson and Hamilton had this contentious relationship…they still wanted a Union, but they wanted it in different ways.
NY Geriatric: Why did Hamilton get his head on the $10 bill and Jefferson’s on a nickel?
Professor X: …
Class: …
NY Geriatric: I guess that shows who won THAT fight.
Professor X: Actually, they came to a compromise…
NY Geriatric: I guess they were never married.
Professor X: …
NY Geriatric: They would’ve learned to compromise.
Professor X: This is off the subject, but you know that Jefferson actually had quite a few relationships…
NY Geriatric: Did he have a dog?
Me: If you don’t shut the fuck up, I’m going to beat you with your dentures.

So, besides class, I’m still in a funk about the Aptitude Testing. I feel upside-down…both trapped and with too many possibilities. When I think about scenarios to get out of my situation, my mind races, and I lose sleep. I’m impatient with myself for being so flimsy and frozen.

So, yeah. I’m already sick of Gillespie.

I spent the last two days in small offices at small desks learning what makes me tick. Before I invest a lot of money in re-educating myself for a change in career, I wanted to spend some time and a smaller amount of money understanding my suitability to different professions. My worst fear is that I would spend 2-3 years in school and many thousands of dollars only to learn that I don’t like teaching…or whichever profession I choose.

This two-day experience was designed to learn my aptitudes - my inherent strengths, those things that, if used in my job, would give me a sense of worthiness. That’s the theory anyway.

Not that I doubt that theory. It’s just that it’s a theory, and one of the things I found out about myself is that I don’t do abstract analysis. In other words, ephemeral, non-structure-based concepts elude me. I excel at structural analysis. In other words, my bag is pulling apart concrete concepts based on things that can be seen and touched, 3D things. Not that I need to see something, but I can easily imagine a 3D, touchable, structured thing. I’ll get to why that pisses me off at the end.

Here are some highlights to the testing:

• I picked up tiny paper clip-sized pins from a tray and put them in small holes.
• I picked up the same pins and transferred them from one set of holes into another set of holes using a tweezer while a woman with a stopwatch observed, making me feel like a trained monkey.
• I arranged on a dry-erase board little hexagon tiles with words like “cow, milk, farm, eco-system, natural resource, wheat, grain” written on them while the same woman with a stopwatch observed. With my arms, bent at a simian angle, moving rapidly in front of me, and hunched over the dry-erase board, I looked like a trained monkey.
• I held a board with a tiny hole in it at arms-length and pulled it to my face while concentrating on another board held by the same woman with the stopwatch. Her board had an X on it, and I had to keep my eye on the center of the X while she held the board at different areas on her body. At one point she held the X over her crotch.
• I was given the question, “If you woke up one day to find that you didn’t have to ever sleep again and that neither did anyone else, what would you do with your time? What would you encourage other people to do?” I had to think up as many ideas as I could in a short amount of time. Since I was writing fast and coming up with ideas off the top of my head, one of my ideas was, “Wear pink underwear - the kind with little frills.” Then I got embarrassed and wrote, “Not because I’m a sicko or anything - just because, you know, I have all this time. Why not try something new?”

From these and other tests, the woman with the stopwatch determined that I excel at structural analysis, that I’m an excellent brainstormer, and that I catch on to patterns quickly.

She suggested that if I teach, I should teach higher education or prep school kids. She seemed to think that I would get very impatient in a classroom with children that didn’t get a concept fast enough. She said that I’d be great one-on-one with a kid that wasn’t getting a concept, but not a whole group of kids.

And I suck at moving pins from one set of holes to another set of holes. I can understand this - what with my fat, hairy fingers and all.

The list of possible professions in which I would use all my aptitudes was long, but this structural analysis thing seemed to be really important. Also, I need a combination of working by myself and with other people. And when I am doing something routine, my ideaphoria, or brainstorming, aptitude kicks in and my mind starts to wander. I’m a daydreamer.

Given all this and more, apparently I make a perfect architect. Fuck you, Stopwatch Lady.

Though Gillespie’s adventures so far pretty much follow what you know of what I think of my job, I should say that work has actually become much, much better. I’m working with a guy who I really like, and he’s done a great job of making me feel valuable.

It’s easy for me to imagine Gillespie’s dull drudgery of a day. Hell if I know how to turn it into anything engaging.

He felt the cartilage in his ankle, twisted under the opposite butt cheek, threaten to pop. With a hiss he straightened his legs and came up from beneath the desk where he was checking his cell phone charger. His phone had been acting wonky and the stickers were starting to peel from the hard plastic buttons. He wondered if he could slip out unnoticed and buy another cell phone.

He decided against it.

He stood, looked over his cube walls, turned around, looked at his plant, and sat down in his chair with the faded upholstery with a sigh. He passed the remaining hour in five-minute bits that stretched to busting in which he imagined the blood pumping through his brain catching on a fatty deposit and killing him. Or worse, paralyzing the left side of his face.

When the computer clock hit 4:55pm, he hit the Start-Shut Down button. Without waiting for it to complete its shut down, he walked purposefully to his car, mentally preparing himself for an evening with his parents.

The following is an experiment. I gave myself a title and then started writing what came to mind. I’m not sure if I’ll continue or not. I don’t have a story outline or any clue where it might go. These kinds of things are usually disastrous when read in one sitting, but they can be fun if read episodically as written.

*******************************************

Gillepsie heard the concerned question of the office manager, “Have you seen him at all today?”

He remained under his desk thinking, I could stay here. There’s only an hour left. Who would miss me? Dana might, but she’s always concerned. Greg might, but he’s at a meeting the rest of the day.

For the last month, Gillespie had been half-consciously trying to get fired. Between spending half-hours in the bathroom, sitting on the toilet with his head in his hands; walking to Starbuck’s via the newsstand via the pet store via the stationary store; lobbing under-the-breath insults at Greg, his account manager; stealing co-workers Lean Pockets and Push-Pops; having hour-long phone calls with his therapist in an open office where anyone could hear the details of his mostly masturbatory home-life; and wearing corduroy just-below-the-balls shorts on Casual Fridays, he knew/didn’t know that his time at PMK was limited.

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.