balding angrily

Aside from trying to stay focused at work, there has been a brewing development in the household over the last 6 months. Most of my thoughts have been aimed toward it, but I can’t yet let it out of the bag.

But I can share two news items, one minor and the other a little more major than the midpoint between minor and major. The minor item is that my literature class is over. I can start reading whatever I want again.

The item that is a little more major than the midpoint between minor and major is that I’ve been selected to be the YAF (Young Architects Forum) Communications Editor for the AIA. I haven’t been given the complete details of what will be expected of me. What I do know is I’ll be responsible for producing 6 bi-monthly issues of a newsletter and on-line content. Or editing content that’s given to me. I’m not sure. It’s a paid gig, and in a way I can say I’m in journalism now…I think.

To apply for the position, I had to send in some writing samples and collect some letters of recommendation. The fact that I was chosen gives me a sense that I might be able to make a living with this writing thing. Or it gives me a big boost of confidence. Or both. I’m looking at journalism schools right now, but I can’t talk too much more about that because of the aforementioned gag rule currently in effect.

I’m dying to know if I was the only applicant. That would suck.

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.

‘Member when I said I had a difficult conversation with my superiors? Part of that discussion was about an article I wrote for Columns, the Dallas AIA newsletter. The uppers weren’t exactly pleased. They felt that with the name of my firm so prominently displayed under my article, people would think that my firm is a sweatshop. (I removed the name of the firm from the file above.) That implication honestly never crossed my mind, and most architectural firms are sweatshops. Whether mine is or not I can’t say as I’m not in an objective place right now.

Most everyone who approached me personally told me they really liked it. Only one person that talked to me personally expressed concern with the content. Now I’m getting feedback from the architectural community at large about my article. This feedback comes to me through the editor and is negative. So far the positive feedback versus negative breakdown has broken along an expected line. The uppers don’t like it, and my peers do.

Here’s some asinine feedback:

Innuendos supportive of homosexuality as a life style and egocentric ranting appear to me to fall outside of a range of subject matter appropriate to the type of publication, which I understand “Columns” to be.

I really can’t justify such bigotry with a reply. Here’s some better thought-out feedback:

Twisted perception of Fountainhead aside, the article by Alex seems more than just a little naïve and annoyingly bitter – which came across as a personal rant on his soap box about what must have been some bad leadership in his seemingly limited personal history in the profession.

I know there have been young people in the profession who have felt beaten down by the boss man as long as the profession has existed. Occasionally those people grow up to be the next generation’s lousy bosses – but more often than not, they grow increasingly bitter and wash-out or change professions.

…

While provocative for sure, personal rants and bitterness should be saved for internet blogs and spirited drunken happy hours – not Columns.

Yes, sir, I will own “bitter rant”. I take that criticism and acknowledge I may not be the most mature writer. But, sir, that I’m bitter and feel beaten down by the boss does not obviate the possibility or likelihood that there are plenty of bosses - architects - doing a lot of beating.

I just re-read the Cols post after a friend who knew Cols called it bittersweet. I really tried hard to take all the bitterness out of it.

When writing about a real-life situation that made me laugh or smile, it’s a real struggle to get you, the reader, to feel the humor, to get you to smile. See, I don’t hold with the “Aw, I guess you just had to be there” philosophy. I think it’s a failure of the writer if they can’t put their readers in a given situation.

On the other hand, I can’t hold a gun to your head and say, “Laugh, dammit! That’s funny shit!” I don’t have that kind of control, and I have to just let you come to a story on your own terms. And if you don’t laugh, that’s cool. Hopefully, you’ve still enjoyed the story. So I’m at peace with that struggle. I won’t stop struggling to make you smile, but I’ll never be hurt if you don’t.

Having said all that, I’m always surprised when I get a laugh at something I wrote because invariably its not at a place where I intended one. It’s when I turn a phrase that I didn’t even realize I was turning that Jerry goes, “that’s some funny shit right there.” And yes, Jerry is always my test-subject. God bless him.

That’s enough naval-gazing for now. We’ll be back to our regularly scheduled program on Monday, unless someone forwards me another unicorn video this weekend.

Yesterday I talked to a guy in my office about a possible path to get into professional writing. This same guy is the editor of Columns, the monthly newsletter of the Dallas chapter of the American Institute of Architects (AIA). A month ago I submitted a piece to him for publication; he liked it and will publish it in the coming months. I’ll keep you abreast.

He suggested that I write a few more pieces and submit them to the editor of the newsletter for the Texas Society of Architects (TSA), and then work my way up through there. I am having some difficulty thinking of subjects for these kinds of pieces.

You people know my strengths and weaknesses. I’m strong when writing about my personal experiences, and less so when writing about more abstract, big picture issues. It is my thought that I will have to bring in these big picture issues in a piece for the TSA. I’m positive that I do not want to write an architectural criticism. I can write about my experience with a building, but not an objective criticism. (Is there such a thing?)

I’m opening it up for discussion in the comments. Any and all ideas are welcome and valid, but I reserve the right to mock you.

Remember when I told you I had a small surprise? It’s out now.

Adam Kempenhausen and Sam Val Kilmer let me write this week’s Dope Sheet. Like I said, I was honored, and humbled now that I see all the mistakes.

Take a look; I write about Lisa Kudrow and cute guys.

From Dictionary.com:
mi·as·ma [mahy-az-muh, mee-]-noun, plural -mas, -ma·ta

1. noxious exhalations from putrescent organic matter; poisonous effluvia or germs polluting the atmosphere.
2. a dangerous, foreboding, or deathlike influence or atmosphere.

Good King Mortimer fell to his death from the parapet into the moat of his crumbling castle. The black water burped a miasma over the splash.

Tabloid reporters watched for the slip of a celebrity with drooling tongues out and wagging. When no slip came, they pulled whispers from the miasma over Hollywood to feed the masses.

Jerry ate a pizza with roasted cloves of garlic and Canadian bacon. That night before falling asleep, he tittered and his sleeping cat woke and ran away from where she was tucked against his ass. Alex, his partner, covered his face so the miasma from Jerry’s side of the bed wouldn’t infect his body. “Your insides are rotting inside your body, you sick, sick, repulsive human being.” Alex said to Jerry.

Alex rolled over in the middle of the night to hug Jerry and was startled from his stupor as the miasma from Jerry’s mouth hit him full force in the face. He quickly rolled back over.

On a plane over the Atlantic, Alex sat in his sweat caused by a lack of sleep and nerves. After five hours, a rough atmosphere of miasma lingered two feet from his skin, choking his fellow passengers and his loving partner.

I took the day off yesterday because I spent some time writing something I feel honored to have been asked to write. I can’t say much more, as I want it to be a surprise when (and if) it comes out.

Speaking of writing outside of Balding Angrily, in case you missed it, M. Robert posted my update on his site on Monday. There was a lot of confusion because I wrote as if I were him. Sorry if you didn’t get that.