balding angrily

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.

Or tweets that are very old, but still fresh as the day they were born.

• Claiming all the cinnamon-sugar pita chips for my own consumption. Priding myself on my Columbus-like resolution.
• Organizing a sit-in. Of one. On my couch. We’re protesting the lack of good television by forcing ourselves to watch bad television.
• I’d be a Luddite if it meant “one who enjoys preludes.” Otherwise I’m all for technological advances. I guess I’m a lapsed Luddite.
• Every time I passed a reflective window yesterday I said to Jerry, “I can’t believe how cute I look.” He rolled his eyes, and I felt loved.
• Toys ‘R Us was depressing. Plastic clamshell packages strewn about under dead fluorescent lights. This is how the apocalypse will look.
• Plane WC fun: push the flap at the bottom of the toilet down solely with the pressure of your pee-stream.
• I promised my big intenstines that The Annual Holiday Gorge would be over soon. But foodstuffs linger in the company kitchen. Beckoning.
• Is there an internationally-synchronized scale to determine the rankness of a fart? Is this something the NIST should be working on?
• Die, Kenny G. Die. Die. Die. Die. Die. Die.
• Lick ‘n Stick Architecture: Not to be confused with an Arts ‘n Crafts Bungalow, a Jack ‘n Jill Bathroom, or a Slap ‘n Tickle Georgian.
• The 80s made me gay: Automan, Airwolf, Manimal, Wonder Woman. How is an innocent boy supposed to fight those influences?
• I resolve to use “pissfarting” in conversation today.
• Going through archives, doing some routine maintenance. Came across a folder named “unsuccessful proj.” How refreshingly honest.
• Thinking about Channing Tatum as Duke in G.I. Joe. Memories of pulling down Duke’s pants when I was a tyke just turned molestery.
• You know what else is a good word? Whittle. There aren’t enough pleasant, carefree words that mean “taking a knife to something.”
• Assault of the Day: A woman with a deep voice and a brusk manner, while passing me in an entry vestibule, said at me, “Good door.”
• I presume she was talking about the door she just passed through because I wasn’t wearing a door on my person at the time.
• Just had a debate with myself whether to go with the English spelling of program. Then Twitter’s character limit made the decision for me.
• World Wildlife Fund needs to change their acronym. Keep thinking Noah Wylie’s trying to save yelling, sweaty men in neon, not Polar Bears.
• I’m chewing on nine pieces of Dentyne Spicy Cinnamon. I call it Wad-O-Headsweat.
• Sometimes I play with my mag-safe plug with my fingers right next the metal. I’m hoping I’ll get a shock. Or that my laptop will explode.

I just got a “Yeah, about that…” call from the editor at The Advocate. Remember the piece that I said I had worked so hard on? The one that I said I was so proud of? It’s not going to run. Now they want me to write an opinion piece about all my research. It’s going from a 3,000-word article down to a 500-word column.

I can’t tell you how disappointed I am. Not devastated, but really, really disheartened. What was the point of ALL that research?

GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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.

So, it’s been a few weeks!  How ARE you?!

…

Oh, you know me. Always going and doing.

…

Skiing? Yeah. Yeah, that was fun.  Actually, it was snowboarding, but you know, you say tomato…

…

Did I TELL you?! I busted my head WIDE open. Brains everywhere.

…

No, not really, but a bearded, skiing hippy named Scott dragged me down the mountain in rickshaw/coffin situation.

…

And I had to remember the number 13. Look, Scott! I still remember it!  And I had to walk on my tiptoes forward and on my heels back.  Then the doctor tickled different parts of my body, like the arch of my foot and the webbing of my fingers. Very sexual and inappropriate for a doctor. But he was cute, so…you know.

…

I DID get caught in the airport on the way back.  WHO are you getting your information from?! Have you been talking to my niece? She IS a tattletale, that one.

…

Well, I’m just going to ignore the story of international intrigue that you just told, so I can tell mine.

…

I knew you’d understand.  You’re good people that way.

…

Twenty-six hours from the time we arrived at the airport until the time we left.

…

No, it was actually kind of fun.  We got to know our fellow passengers.

…

Well, no, we didn’t really.  We pretty much just talked about them and made snarky observations about them.  But it FELT like we got to know them.

…

The airline set us up.  I didn’t think they did that anymore.  I thought that was a relic of 70s, but apparently they still set stranded passengers up.  We stayed the night in a hotel on the airline…that is, the airline paid for our room.  Wouldn’t a hotel on an airline be funny?

…

I know. I KNOW! I AM funny.

…

ANYway, yeah. They set us up.  I ate nachos.  And sat in a bar full of tough-looking men. It was a bit like the bar scene in The Accused.  Jerry and I were afraid to look at each other sideways for fear of getting our asses kicked.

…

Oh, well. Okay. Go talk to Sandra. Nice talking to you.  Or should I say AT you. Ha Ha!

…

Yes, Yes. I am VERY funny.

…

Bye!

…

Now where IS that deLICious crab dip everyone’s talking about?

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.

Stealing from a fellow blogger because I’m too lazy to come up with anything original: Recent Tweets.

• Standing on principal; she’s kinda lumpy. <– If Larry Hagman was a snarky tweeter.
• I’d like some Cafe Press-er to design a T that says, “If you fart near me, I’ll point at you and scream like a body snatcher.”
• Trying to think of an occasion to use “guvnah” outside of my usual chimney sweeping duties.
• Craving a happiness that can only come from electronic consumer goods.
• In “I can’t believe people actually think I’m a grown-up” news, the AIA is flying me to Salt Lake City for a meeting. Suckers.
• I wonder if they’d still be sending me if they knew I was listening to the Beauty and the Beast soundtrack while tweeting.
• Chilly figertips and gloomy, Dallas skies are asking me to skip the gym for an evening of watching HGTV in footie pajamas.
• Suzanne Whang does not hold my best interests to her bosom.
• Ever dwelled on hating someone while playing Tetris? Turns out you can’t bludgeon blocks into ill-fitting holes.
• Hangnails: Nature’s gift to the world’s meeting-trapped masochists.
• Bowel movements are fun!
• I must have a sign on my back that says, “Please fart near me.” Or elliptical trainers somehow activate the fart gland.
• Given the hue of the faces of local TV personalities as seen through HD, I propose that Jeff Koons create a sculpture called “Neon Tangerine Newscaster.”

If you don’t know what Twitter or tweeting is, I can’t help you.