Me: Some people do. But for many, I think it’s beside the point.
Mimi: Huh. (Then silence, which brings us right back to canonical response number one.)
29-December 2002
well, what do you talk about?
Husband: New Smithsonian’s on the table. Seems they finally made a decision.
Wife: About what?
Husband: Well, y’know how it used to be just Village and Caecilia –
Village for text and Caecilia for captions. And then they put
Helvetica on the cover that month, and then Relay, and then
Hoefler Text. Really screwed around....
Wife: Well, what are they using now?
Husband: Been completely Hoeflerized. Or make that Hoefler-Frere-Jonesed.
Here – the new AD proclaims, “I am a fan of classic, clean typefaces,”
but he doesn’t mention them or their designers by name. Typical.
Wife: Hoeflerized...? Is that a bad thing?
Husband. Good God, look at this.
Once again – fake small caps and no ligatures....
What’s so frickin’ hard about ligatures?
Wife: That's your business, dear. But again, this
“Hoeflerization” – is this a bad thing?
Husband: Well...not in the case of the
sans – Gotham. Apparently a distinctly “American”
face. When Tobias spoke at the Walker, he talked
about wandering around New York City and taking
pictures of signage, and then basing a face on
the letters he saw. He said it was like birdwatching,
and then Jonathan added, “but less geeky.”
Wife: Hmmm...maybe more geeky. But what about the
other font? Why isn’t it American? Anyway, there is no
“American style” of typography yet, is there?
Husband: It’s just sooo European....
Wife: Well isn’t Hoefler American? That should be close enough....
Husband: They’re using Hoefler Text, which looks kinda like a cross between
Caslon and Janson. Or Kis – I guess we’re supposed to be calling
it Kis. “Commerce has no conscience,” after all.
Wife: Thanks Bob. So why isn’t that appropriate for Smithsonian?
Husband: Shouldn’t Smithsonian in this new millennium be forward-thinking,
forward-looking? Why regress to a European, 18th century look? Why couldn’t
they have called Font Bureau and just ordered up something new like everyone
else seems to do?
Wife: But isn’t Smithsonian about the American heritage, which essentially
began in the 18th century? And isn’t it often about the world’s heritage?
What could be more appropriate for Smithsonian in the new millennium
than a relatively new typeface by a young American designer? Besides,
James Smithson was of European heritage – I don’t know much about his
motives and methods, but The Smithsonian is a museum of America in
all of its times and forms in the context of the rest of the world.
I can understand your point, but I don’t see how it’s a bad choice.
If Hoefler developed a typeface that captures the essence of Smithson’s
original intent, then jeez, quit bitchin’ about it and go with it.
(Flipping thru magazine) I mean, look, it’s beautiful. Lately, the
articles have been kinda sucky, though. They should be writing
pieces on the sort of thing Martha is writing about.
Husband: You mean like, “The integral role of matching blue
enamelware in the explorations of Lewis and Clark,” brought to
you by the Hoefler Type Foundry and Smithsonian?
Wife: Don’t be an ass. That’s not what I meant and you know it.
Husband: Good thing we get both magazines....
27-December 2002
bandolino angel...
Her name, oddly enough, was Michelle.
Pretty name for a pretty French girl...the name of a young,
blonde Homecoming Queen in the American 1980s, perhaps...but not for her.
Michelle was no one’s queen, and her high school days – if
indeed she had any – came two decades earlier.
She was punctual and predictable. Each morning, as the front
gate of the shoe store was lifted, Michelle materialized, feet first.
Once-black shoes, reinforced with electrical tape, then loose,
torn nylons, then cherry-red polyester pants. Tightly folded hands,
a shirt that matched pants in hue and fabric, and didn't quite
cover her vigorously rocking torso. Her wide, tense smile in the
middle of a round face, framed by peppery, greasy hair.
Gate fully open, Michelle fully revealed, she gave me a ceremonious
nod, rose from her bench, and began to pace. Normally ten laps
across the main floor of Calhoun Square. A surprisingly sprightly,
proud, erect gait for a borderline obese woman in her mid 40s.
Walk completed, she entered the store, and I began the ritual.
Bandolinos. Sensible, two-inch pumps, size nine. Red...of course.
Though I had shoes in hand, she invariably went to the shelf,
pointed, and giggled softly, “Those.”
Shoes on both feet, back and forth, back and forth across
the carpet. And then she handed them back without a word,
and I’d thank her for coming in.
This went on for the better part of a year. Michelle rocking,
pacing, trying on the red Bandolinos. And as she got more
comfortable with me, she requested additional pairs, never
extending her monologue past “those.” Sometimes five or ten
pairs in a sitting. I never minded, though. Her toenails were
easily the longest I had ever seen; her body odor was, at times,
unbearable; she undoubtedly suffered from schizophrenia. But
she, unlike so many of my patrons, was constant in her softness
and pleasantness.
Some of my best patrons, you see, were also my rudest. One, upon
finding she could not return a pair of worn, year-old open-toes,
actually called mall security on me. From my phone. Another
hurled a stiletto at me from across the store just to get my
attention. And a third – the wife of a prominent, Minneapolis
attorney – had me hold her poodle (a fashion accessory, no
doubt) while she tried on the metallics of the season.
But Michelle and I had a relationship of mutual respect.
She knew that I would bring out the shoes and place them
on her feet, and I knew that she would always be gracious
and thankful in return.
Rumor had it she lived in a halfway house three blocks south of
the mall. She was undoubtedly without work, but she must have
had some source of income. I’d see her occasionally downing a
can of Coke or devouring a Baby Ruth. But the unchanged shirt,
pants, and shoes she wore summer and winter told me that there
must not have been much in the bank.
Twelve months in, retail was taking its toll; the commissions were
nice, but the work served no more purpose than to get me through
college, and so I gave notice. I had landed a research position
at the U of M that would teach me something useful as well as
provide income. It wouldn’t hurt my graduate school chances, either.
So I quit selling shoes, knowing I’d soon miss the crowds of beautiful
people with money, the smells of the restaurants, and the stores to
visit and patronize on break. Half vacant now, the mall was much different, then.
About a week before I left, the unthinkable happened. Michelle and I
did the customary Bandolino dance, but this time, instead of asking
to see another pair or leaving, she walked to the counter, smiling
wider than usual. Coins of every denomination, along with a few
crumpled bills, were pulled from her pockets. Over the course of
ten minutes I counted as she watched attentively. The shoes cost
$55, and she had the exact amount. She wore them home.
It was THE story for the rest of that Saturday. “Can you fucking
believe it? She actually bought them.” A great victory had been
won – for her of course; for me and my coworkers as well.
I wasn’t at all surprised when she returned the very next day, set
the shoes back on the counter, and shook her head. It wasn’t
policy to give cash back on returns; I did. It wasn’t policy
to take back obviously worn shoes; I did. Michelle couldn’t
afford them, and it would have been wrong for me to do anything else.
She was far from pretty, young, or
queenly; she was anything but a commission-generating customer.
She was but one of thousands of de-institutionalized schizophrenics
whom life and law had dealt a poor hand. Yet she was a sweet
distraction who, paradoxically, brought sanity to my often
insane, retail-riddled world.
What gave rise to Michelle’s demeanor? Was it conscious
action on her part, or was it just delivered blindly from
deep within her brain? It didn’t really matter. The point
is not her “goodness.” Rather, it is simply that she existed.
She struck me, during my tenure at the shoe store, as the epitome of a
walking paradox. But was she? She had the same wants as the sea of wealthy
shoppers who kept my store afloat. And in the end, she
bought shoes, just like my best customers; and in the end, she returned
shoes, just like my best customers.
Michelle wanted to be them – the proud, who spent
money, who spent their time in Calhoun Square, who wore red.
And so she was.
16-December 2002
nine for the year, randomly
1 Decomposed Subsonic - Gradients
Deep deutsch house; the transcendent Etoile bleue, with vocals
by Olivia Steyaert, makes you smile and moves your body.
2 Swayzak - Dirty dancing
Paraphrasing F Scott Fitzgerald, the very cool are different
from you and me; Make up your mind is their current theme song.
3 Various - Disco not disco 2
White horse and Problemes d'amour back to back...? You tell me.
4 DJ Hell - Electronicbody-housemusic
Mix of the year. Double CD
that digs deep: multiple tracks by
Front 242 and the underrated Nitzer Ebb on the one, and the
best of Underground Resistance and Metro Area on the other.
5 The Flaming Lips - Yoshimi battles the pink robots
On everyone’s list and should be; camped out in my player for a
month. Gorgeous; our generation’s Rumours (in the best sense)?
6 Timo Maas - Loud
Kelis and MC Chickaboo over incredible trance. Help me,
Manga, and Shifter are standouts.
7 Various - Soundtrack: 24 hour party people
Reminisce and reenjoy the title track and Voodoo ray;
Here to stay is a pleasant if somewhat banal surprise.
8 Various - Digital disco
Buy; any one of Data 80’s Baby I can forgive, Mathias Schaffhauser’s
Musik ohne bass, or Metro Area’s Miura is worth the price.
9 ATB - Dedicated
Sanitized trance from Mr Tanneberger. Current retro single:
You’re not alone. Favorite: Halcyon.
13-December 2002
words on...music?
The first was a $100 Casio two-octave monophonic. The second –
another Casio – took one-second samples and provided four pads on which
to play them. But these were toys, and therefore I could not be
taken seriously.
Any attempt at “seriously” meant synthesizers, drum machines,
effects processors, and lots of cables to MIDI everything together.
Which meant a huge investment of time and money.
I began to shop where Jimmy Jam, Terry Lewis, and even
Prince shopped; I listened to an interminable stream of
sales pitches; I pressed the keys on just about everything.
Thus, the third was a Roland Juno-106: Rows of knobs and
levers – even something called a “bender” – could be
configured to produce phat analog sounds. Very acid
house, although I didn’t know it at the time. An Ensoniq
SQ-80, along with said drum and reverb boxes, completed
the picture.
The mixer. Um, actually, no. No mixer. My strategy curiously
channeled $3000 worth of equipment into a $59 Panasonic stereo.
Adapter into adapter into plug and onto cassette tape for posterity.
I recorded hundreds of “songs” in my
bedroom studio from 1989–1992. Here is one;
here is another.
11-December 2002
so where’d he go?
I want things.
And I want them when I want them. Which is usually now.
My desire to live for the moment – for instant gratification –
somehow keeps me from attaining my long-term goals, one of which
was to organize this poorly tailored fat man of a blog.
See, I took this little test at work; the results showed me to be a
creator. So of course, that’s what I am. Not an advancer, not a
refiner, not an executor. I just get the ball moving; let someone else guide its path.
Children live for the moment, too. They’re just not into
maintenance. They create, and they absorb; that’s their job, really.
They build and draw, and then demolish and erase moments later.
They see and hear everything, even when they appear to be asleep.
They soak in, and oh yes, they spit back out. Needless to say, I’ve
had to curb my language more than a bit for fear of my son dropping an
exclamatory “Goddammit!” during Sunday School.
Little sponges that attract sights, sounds, and...germs, too. Those who
ascribe to the tabula rasa theory may be interested to find that it
holds for the toddlerian immune system as well. Children catch – and
transmit – all viruses and bacterial infections. In the last month,
I have contracted – from my son and daughter – two colds, the stomach
flu, and pinkeye. Remember pinkeye? During the night, your eyes become
glued – snotted – shut, and during the day you simply appear to have
smoked massive, bad geef.
Not well, and hence, no posts.
But on the comeback trail, I decided to do something about
maintenance. The site was hard to read and navigate –
poor leading among other things – and for the longest time,
I could not get myself to read anything on cascading style
sheets (CSS). But there is a point between sick and well at
which your consciousness is best applied in reading. So I
read a little here, and copied a little there. All the while,
the voice of Stephen Coles (which I have never actually heard),
who kindly suggested that I look into CSS, was spurring me on.
And then I wrote a little external file, cleaned up the html a
slight bit, and now we have leading as well as links to each post.
I feel some embarrassment in reporting that maintenance feels
good. But I’d still rather have had someone just do it for me when I wasn’t looking...
09-December 2002
todas las palabras...
Posts spanning June–November
here.
08-December 2002
« November
