Chad Smith Architect LLC (CSA) purchased a refurbished HP LaserJet 4MV, a device over eight years old, whose useful features include 11x17 printing (a prerequisite for any architect) and the first ethernet-capable HP printer. The comfort of having this durable device next to me on my desk, as its fan makes white noise in my ear, is incredible. Now my Holy Trinity of production devices is complete: HP 4MV, the Blackberry 7320 (which rings through my Vonage phone), and my 17" Apple Powerbook, running AutoCad on Virtual PC.
it's incredible that this dog lost a cuteness contest. not that we remember. galahad instructed me to forget all about it, before the boat started. we're going to play on the beach! keep your silly concerns for their time. now is a different moment. yes, he actually said that. those words. then he looked around and sniffed the air for a while.
today: hair away! and the glasses can't stay on straight. but wow, we're having a ton of fun here at chad smith architect LLC.
there is one overriding exercise at the gym: looking at yourself. please refer to these writings, written almost 5 years ago to the day, if you'd like further information on the topic.
coming soon to a gym in manattan: help people notice they are looking, and at the same time extend the looking.
For everyone who said that it was irresponsible and overreacting to call a "particularly aggressive" strain of AIDS a new threat to the gay community:
separated at birth?
jake gyllenhaal as donnie darko
name begins with j
would totally write the greatest blog ever if he would just start one
indelibly unique smirk
talks in squeaky 'i'm crazy' voice
is 24 years old
is probably gay
sees bunny rabbits
good with sharp objects
likes to smash stuff when bunny instructs him
capable of bodily injury when bunny instructs him
juan of boozhy
name begins with j
writes a great blog
indelibly unique smirk
talks in squeaky 'i'm crazy' voice on rugby pitch when misses a tackle
looks 24 years old in internet profile pictures
is so totally gay
sees bunny rabbits on rugby pitch
good with sharp objects
likes to smash stuff when bunny instructs him
capable of bodily injury on rugby pitch when bunny instructs him
i am little minx. not to be confused with minx-a-tron, my alter-ego, who is a laser-guided robot 'ho.
You know me.
I take nothing seriously.
I can see a laughing face in every willow tree.
But I'd rather be the Queen at the guillotine
In a bloody insurrection.
I would rather be King when the rooks take wing
Than be losing your affection.
(this codependent moment brought to you by the Future Bible Heroes!)
I. among them
a rank festival.
back and forth.
bloody snout and neck, both the wolves and their breeders. they lick each other's snouts and necks when they get like this. they smile at each other when this happens.
they're killing normal people.
the city is old industrial and blown out. there is a sea of parking lots and small brick buildings between deserted warehouses with broken windows.
the coming and going of the breeders happens at dusk and dawn. i can never see them at night, only when it's daybreak, when they are licking, festival over for the night.
the wolves fight with people and kill them. the wolf breeders watch. they might be telling them what to do, silently.
like vampires, this animal class of people are apart from normal society.
like preying rednecks, indirect, in dress, dirty-hairy, stray blood dried on the cheek.
II. staying concealed
eventually, because i cannot watch forever, they discover me.
they notice i am not watching the fighting, but them. i am always noticed watching.
i move quickly. my feet and the air never fail me.
if i keep moving no one can get to me. i am different places.
i fly, jump, and am not bounded by gravity or time or speed.
yet i am afraid. but safe by running.
it's like work for me.
III. taking control
on the outskirts of the city, looking like the outer-outer-outer bronx, or queens, among used car lots, i see my employer's car, a large, blue, the1980 impala station wagon, slightly rusted and dusty, that he's always speeding around in.
put one foot on the hood and bend forward for a look through the windshield. it's my boss, lookng dazed and passed out. he starts to struggle to be awake when i say "oh my god" and i say his name, but he's doped or something. i can see where he's been by looking at him. the wolf trainers are on their way here and he's been kidnaped and drugged and left here for their animals.
suddenly a person is behind me, drawing near.
i skip on the hood and swing around to face her: a woman with short natty hair, in her fifties, with a vacant toothless grin, flannel work coat. she looks like a dog person, and i can tell what she's thinking.
she's thinking that i'm next.
i'm very afraid, and my throat clutches. she's doing that. but then i realize my power.
i can kill her, because i can move faster than her.
i pull out my gun and cock it and point it at her.
"get the fuck away from him or i'll blow you away." as i hold out the gun, i feel as if i've used it thousands of times, in situations not unlike this. i've been trained to. i must have. trained by many similar experiences. knowing what they think, and knowing it's them or me. life is so rarely like that and that makes me afraid too.
but it makes me free as well, something i can't think about while holding the gun, otherwise i'll do something rash. i need all the cunning i can get. i have a license to kill, given by the need to defend myself.
i can see myself getting my boss out of there, turning down the road, cold morning sun on my face, him somehow being towed along. avoiding the wolves and people, but i'm not sure ifi should be returning to someplace after it's over or staying to fight them.
but i'm caught in their world until the alarm rings, and i do return and fight.
and like a minx, i could never be caught by any wolf in close urban quarters, because i can move fast.
Last night I heard opera singers in someone's drawing room. The evening was hosted by two board members of the an opera at their grand townhouse on the upper east side. Lots of old antiques and extremely valuable old masters paintings. Velvety wallpapers. Painted wallpaper dining room walls. Heavy curtains. But tasteful and luxurious, if a little out of central casting.
We began with drinks and tasty items all served on platters. We were all chatting at the top of the stairs, and in the adjacent drawing room. There was about one waiter for every three of us. Several others were people I'd seen at the last dinner. The director of the opera was glad to see us (he's also a big queen) and another society matron with a southern accent cornered me and we talked up a storm about the gym I am designing. Some of the society matrons who recognized me from the last dinner made a point to talk to me. I could barely remember their names, yet they had remembered every single detail they'd heard me utter and heard from my co-fiend. As I looked upon the southerner, with her studied upper east side old money accent and eerily perfect plastic surgerie'd face, I was inspired by her generous listening from our last meeting.
A little later, co-fiend and I were talking to a nonagenarian costume designer who we LOVE. She has an old-Hollywood accent. She was telling us about her experience with cocaine on Ibiza when she was young. Of course, that would be in something like the 1940s. At the last dinner, she was telling us about being a costume designer in Hollywood in the 30s.
We moved to a formal dinner for 30. I had been given a tiny envelope with my table number on it. I was informed by the lady greeting the guests that I had been seated next to the host and the artistic director of the opera. In a room full of aging wealthy donors, the director of the opera, grammy-winning mid-career opera singers, and the aforementioned costume designer, I had no idea how I got such a great seat. The host was a woman with that odd upper-society accent whose source i can never figure out. We made small talk the entire dinner, while she subtly gave orders to the help to do a thousand little things: dim the lights, bring out the next course, tell the singers we're ready, and so on. The artistic director of the opera is interesting, gay, and had been with the opera since the 1980s. Dinner was lovely, prepared by the house chef.
We adjourned to the drawing room, this time set up for a little musical performance. It was performed by two hugely talented new singers, who had apprenticed with the opera last year. They sang 6 arias to perfection. it was gorgeous, hearing opera in this old room with all these old people. For the first time I appreciated the skill and passion that opera singing demands. For the first time, I was closer than 250 feet from an opera performer. I was closer to the performers than I was when I sat onstage with Laurie Anderson last week. In the middle of the performance, I looked around at everyone enraptured by the singing. I could only think that I love New York, and my life in it.
"do you want a beer?"
i'm only eighteen. am i allowed to drink beer? a sound comes out. then sure, yeah.
quick, think of a kind of beer. budweiser? this is saint louis, after all.
"i've got miller and corona"
"you can take off your jacket if you want"
i had tossed down on the sofa's comforting white leatherette still clothed, lightly dripping, so as to convey how cool and at ease i was, not yet knowing that the best way to do this was by making myself comfortable without having to be asked to do so.
nate went into the kitchen, shuffling on whitish linoleum tiles, while i stumbled on the rug on my way to a little hardwood chair behind the sofa. it was the only one in the room. the wet october air seemed to fill this room, as if there were no glass panes in the bay window. i looked out onto the gray forsyth street; my walk here was the first time i'd walked this way. seconds passed slowly, listening to the gray rain, the mumble of the television, the shuffling in the kitchen. his appalacian accent hung in the air, company for me.
i sat down again, on the chair, just as nate brought my beer.
"i was watching the game. who do you think is going to win?"
quick, think of the name of the saint louis football team. shit. i don't know. i don't really follow football. then why are you here? i came to hear him talk, talk about poetry and feeling small even though he injures fellows on the rugby field once a week. why can't you move? drink slower.
he sat down on the sofa, put a leg out over the coffee table. his six-foot-two frame, toughened by years of rugby and women and drink, seemed to become a part of the beat-up furniture when he rested his limbs on their far reaches. it was his domain, and he slowly put each hand, foot, arm, thigh where it belonged. it was a long couch, and the only place i could comfortably sit, without his comfortable embrace, was at the far end; his arm was stretched over the middle.
"oh. we can watch baseball if you want"
i want to see your chest without your shirt. football's okay.
i want to marry you.
i sat at the far end of the couch. if i could only move a few inches toward him, if we could only do this differently.
"nate, grab me an mgd, willya?"
"yeah. want a dry shirt?"
"already got it."
i don't know why i make myself write all this down, like i don't have enough shit to do today.
opened my eyes from sleeping this morning, well i thought it was morning, cuz i looked at the clock and it was 12:30 and i said OH SHIT then i thought OH SHIT I FELL ASLEEP!! because i didn't want to wake the kid in my bed up. i was supposed pick up tony at noon and wasn't planning on sleeping with my john but i guess i fell asleep. god, i NEVER fall asleep with them. these kids, i mean i'm a good looking guy, muscular, got a little hair on my chest that shows when i wear the wifebeater, nice dick that shows through my green cargos when i go commando, and i look good for guys looking for italian beefy puerto rican hairy new york yankee fan, but lately have been getting a lot of calls because of the bits of gray in my hair and beard, guys who are 28 and have a shitload of cash and want an older guy. like this one today.
his apartment was on 32nd and eighth, so i was close to mandy's apartment. i ran down eighth. fuck, i thought, if i'm late again, she'll kick my ass and never let me see him again. i'm so tired of that bitch because she yells at him so much about me. i got to 22nd street, hung a left, and buzzed. a few seconds and i hear her yelling something to tony about me and yelling fuck him and all that. banging doors, and he comes down the stairs. he never really looks at me except at my chest, i guess he's shorter but he doesn't look up anyway, and opened the door and said hi dad.
i asked him what he wanted to do and he said he needed to go to cvs for some shit for that bitch his mom (he didnt say it like that, but she is a bitch) and that he had to meet his friends at one. this made me mad as fuck, so i told him "well let's get this over with because i've got a lot of shit to do today too". he was kind of mad at me because i said that and so he didn't say much so i just started walking to cvs up the avenue. if he's going to play games with his dad because he was late, he'll get what he gives. he learns that shit from his mom.
he kind of asked me if i was okay, like he always does when he's sorry about doing shit like that, and he wants to know why i was late. but i wasn't going to tell him that i was late because of a job with some kid twice his age and he'd freak if i told him the guy liked my big dick up his ass and all that, so i didn't say much to that, just let's get this over with because i've got to get going too. i think he knows that i do guys for money, but he never has asked me about it.
we went to cvs and got the shit for his mom. god how could i ever have fucked her? i mean, i guess looks good and everything, but she turned out to be such a pain in the ass. i wouldn't let tony stay with her at all if i didn't have too, and i know if i take him now he'll end up like me. but she won't be hurt at all to see him go, just pissed because she can't be all up in mine if he's not around with her.
i get kind of weird about tony because he's growing up to look like me, because he's a guy, but he looks a lot like his mom. he'll be taller than his old man, he isnt now, and he's a thin gawky kid. he doesn't have chest hair like i did when i was that age, and he's got darker hair and eyes than me. he looks more like a puerto rican kid than i did, my hair being more reddish and my eyes green and light.
i paid for the stuff and told him to carry the bag. he picked it up, and we walked back down eighth. he kind of looked at me in the corner of his eye, and i kind of kept looking back at him, thinking about if he looked more like his mom or he was just a late bloomer, or if he was into women or guys, he never talked about that either. i said goodbye to him at the street, i punched his shoulder a little, he punched mine and left. then i looked at my watch it was 12:48. then i looked around.
ps all work in this domain is copyright chad the minx.