the sans

I'm a dot

2009-07-08T18:55:00.000-07:00

It's been a busy last few months, and now I'm a dot. We're all dots. Today my dot was fairly simple. It lacked color and sheen. On Tuesday, I was metallic and iridescent. Dots can grow with time, or shrink, and they can cluster or stand alone with equal elegance. I know my dot has the opportunity to become a glorious orb, but for now, I'm swimming with the other dots.

It's comfortable to remove yourself from the pressures of being human every once in a while. As we design and create with the constant reminder that it's "for people" and should be "human centered," I'd like to ask you to create something beautiful for the sake of beauty and nothing else.

What does your dot look like today?

A new proposition.

2009-05-26T22:23:00.000-07:00

I had an excellent conversation today about an educational trend to deconstruct the traditional role of a principal into two (or more) positions: education director and chief-operating-officer. I am paraphrasing the names; the move responds to the posture that an individual should handle both the monetary and academic curricular operations. Capable individuals do exist, but they comprise a minority. It struck me as an interesting contextual application of business administration principles. As a design methodology may improve health care, for example, so too may business strengthen education.

I am skeptical, mostly due to ignorance, but I am excited. A parallel topic with which I do have experience has offered a bit of market validation: concrete. I captured this image at Fort Crístobol in Puerto Rico. The idea that recipes for hundreds of years of mortar--even those predating Portland cement--were on display was thrilling. It was a tidy example of a developmental arc incorporating the past, exploding it, and building anew with the constituents. It is exciting to think that breaking a pattern is itself a pattern, particularly when principles can remain, in the midst of varied implementation. Probably too much for a single paragraph on an (un)prophetic California Tuesday.

Pressure to be patterned?

2009-05-23T10:30:00.000-07:00

Pastel homes saddle up daringly close to one another on lines mirroring topographic contours. The three-inch gap between them makes you wonder what exists in the space in between.

Of course, this is San Francisco. Every great city has a distinct feel, but who sets that pattern? How does a pattern get initiated? Who decides to follow the tradition of those that came before?

How does a city develop its coherency? In some instances, the thread is subtle yet prominent. A recent visit to London allowed me to marvel in striping. On a street with direct view of Big Ben, a structure with an honorable place in history and in the hearts of tourists, I felt that the clock tower was only a nice background for the fantastic coherency of stripes. Through various ages and styles of masonry, construction, and metalwork, the stripes permeate and persevere. The boundary between lead actors and supporting players is blurred. I wonder what sets the pressure to be patterned.

London, April 2009

Language of patterns

2009-05-22T22:42:00.000-07:00

I watched the new Star Trek movie. Loved it for initiating another arc of tradition; that is, it made think about tradition again. The theatre audience applauded the film. Two things: people applauded and I just described a movie theatre as a "theatre". Maybe three things: I also called the movie a "movie". Love it!

Germans applaud a landing. I see a movie on Christmas Day. Italians chase a meal with walk. I am not sure if my interest is a tradition or if it is the transferability of the tradition as a concept with pattern. It is also exciting to think how few instances might constitute a pattern, or by extension, expertise. World War II pilots were "Aces" after five kills. Is that true after five (respective) post-coital cigarettes?

I had a hard time not killing an ailing squirrel outside of work today. I had a hard time accepting that the squirrel will die, bloat--possibly explode from the weekend heat, and present itself for cleaning on Tuesday; it was harder to favor the kill versus the clean. That latter pattern is much easier to accept, but I am not sure if it is right or just weak.

Picture by ede.

This side of the Ides

2009-03-28T11:20:00.000-07:00

It is hard to say how Antony would fare
in the current context, as the dogs
have slipped from favor and we are
regressing, already at war. This sooth
says that we will see the same of politics,
envy, and war. Much as men of low morals,
like Antony of course, I think we will also
rise and reach for beauty.

vacation / vocation!

2009-03-10T09:45:00.000-07:00

Task at hand: design a vacation.

Is that like paint-a-pot?
Do I show up with three of my girlfriends on a Saturday afternoon and pick out a blank cruise ship, gossip about boys while selecting amenities (buffet, band, hot tub) and then squeal in excitement when the ship does a lap around the bay?

It appears that, like many things, it's much easier to describe how I wouldn't design a vacation. Assuming anything on a cruise ship is the first data point, let's go from there. I do not want to go camping. There it is. I don't really like camping. The outside is great, but seriously, camping is exhausting. First, you have to pull all the equipment out of whatever dank place you've been storing it since the last time someone else really wanted to go camping. Then, you need to make piles to get it all together, remember what you need, and forget your headlamp. At some point in the process you need to go food shopping, buy trail mix only because it has the word trail in the title, not because it's in any way more exciting than the few chocolate chips you can pick out, and select a box of bars that will taste even dryer when you're camping than they look in the box in the store. When you finally get everything packed you usually have to drive longer than you want to in a cramped car in order to get close to a destination that may or may not require walking. The walking doesn't bother me. In fact, I prefer it to sleeping on the ground next to my car, but it means that I have to carry all the gear, the food, and the synthetic clothing that will smell bad in ten minutes if it doesn't already to a different location before I can set up and get comfortable. Upon arrival, everything that I crammed into my bag gets pulled out: poles get pegged, tarps get stretched, mats get inflated, and I get hungry. I pull out the trail mix, eat the chocolate chips, take a swig of Nalgene-flavored water that mostly dribbles down my face and sit on the ground in a pike position in my Crazy Creek chair. Now I'm camping.

My designed vacation would likely involve international travel, something that allowed me to fly a posh, foreign carrier where the flight attendants look like porcelain and tuck me in and bring me bloody marys in the morning.

In fact, yesterday I received my new, renewed passport in the mail. Passports are something that you never think will expire, and even though you are given ten years of warning about your expiration date, you always put it off until the last minute and need to pay extra to have them rush you a little book with a version of your face inside. It strikes me that the new passport is very: America. I open the book and am bombarded with eagles and flags and monuments of past presidents. Every page is America America America. I wonder who designed the new US passport?

For the sake of getting this designed vacation underway, I'll wrap this up. My Airbus A380 lands and I head to the hotel in my poofy jacket before it's time to hit the slopes. The conditions are perfect and I finish my day down by the beach, catching some sun and playing in the gentle waves before a breezy, bug-free outdoor dinner. I sleep in a clean room, maybe it has a glass bottom so I can see the fish, and wake up for another great day of snowboarding. Dear vacation, do you exist?

Arbitroliday: colon, coffee, and underwear

2009-03-01T22:37:00.000-08:00

The short month of holidays is over. I ran across two the other day: one was something I imagined in my head while thinking about the other, and it turned out to be real. Whew, that was cool. I read on notcot.org post that February sixth was Semicolon Day in Sweden; curiously the seventh was entirely dissimilar. Perhaps that is yet another slight to text, grammar, and punctuation.

In that vein I stumbled across several commiserates. Why not celebrate a new day with some new blogs? It turns out that there are people in the world beyond the Eats, Shoots and Leavesvariety who are interested in punctuation. Maybe, though, they are still all found in England. The Grammarblog is a high-tension haven for… grammar. This of course has little to do with holidays, at least directly, though the site did a fair job slighting a pizza joint with signage marginal at best. The food issue brings me back to holidays.

Trailing out of February, I acknowledged Lent earlier than is tradition. A full two weeks early this year, I continue to celebrate the Lenten season without “foods” including coffee and Coke—I exclude all derivations and permutations if at all feasible. Lent does very little for me as part of a Christian ceremony, but I do enjoy the potential for introspection in giving up, or sacrificing, something, particularly when the terms are monitored by another’s calendar. It is also exciting to celebrate something without the abundance of meals and associated glut intrinsic to other holidays: a Thanksgiving jog.

In visiting another blog the other day, I thought about the prescriptions of familiar holidays. I have no idea how to celebrate Semicolon day, other than to use them more frequently, and perhaps with vigor. I know how to celebrate Valentine’s Day on the other hand; that knowledge coupled with the evident discontinuity in application to my actual life makes it less appealing. There is an excellent offering on the blog I HATE THE EARTH to make January 21, "Kierkegaard's Day," in honor of single people everywhere. Can you imagine—JUST IMAGINE!—the challenge for the people at Hallmark in bringing a palatable selection of cards to fruition for that day? God knows what sorts of stimuli would be in hot demand in Kansas City during the crunch time.

In thinking of my own arbitrary holiday, I reflected back to a comment a really cool, old woman made to me once during the purchase of a belt buckle. We were talking about the hidden marking and signatures of Indian silversmiths. I had commented on a reverse inlay pattern that was only visible on the back of a particular piece. She offered that it was something special just for the wearer, like sexy underwear. It struck me recently that an exciting arbitroliday might be, "Daring Underwear Day." It may or may not preclude foods in excess.

After a pro bono consultation with Google, I learned that a largely similar arbitroliday exists: National Underwear Day on August fifth, founded by freshpair.com. This is the US version; another iteration exists in Brazil, founded by Finissimo and celebrated February 17th. Though less refined than my original vision, the current manifestation is a bit more obvious in its implementation. Not surprisingly, there are plenty of photographs… everywhere… to help neophytes and revelers absorb the nuances. Maybe the thing to do in rising to the challenges of vagaries in a proliferation of minor holidays is to do just as the Christians and the Pagans have done for thousands of years before: combine elements of what you know and charge ahead. Therefore, this year, I will celebrate Middle Name Pride Day, by wearing a special pair of underwear while avoiding coffee and Coke, despite the day falling on a Friday during of the first full week of March, which according to Lenten tradition…

Confessions of a Recovering Evangelical

2009-02-15T15:37:00.000-08:00

I met Erika Archer at a strip mall kung fu dojo in 2002. The strip mall location didn't indicate anything about the quality of the kung fu, but it did allow for easy access to a cheap Chinese restaurant. I tried the Chinese one evening with a group of back-to-back kung fu / Chinese regulars. We each ordered our own dish and didn't share. I chose some sort of lo mein, because you're supposed to, and after receiving my food realized that it would be uncool to order anything other than Mongolian beef next time.

Armed with that information, I began to get to know Erika. She was older than me, but I couldn't figure out her exact age. She seemed too young to be married, but she was excellent at kung fu. She lived with her husband up in the mountains and came into town every day to spend time writing at coffee shops.

The kung fu crowd of 2002 was an eclectic explosion of stories. Chaka, my training partner, was a solid 200+lb. rock of a guy from Ghana. We tested the scene at the same time. We met Ben, a passionate, excitable, sometimes student who turned 21 and wore a gi well. He often sparred with Matt, a sweet but vicious black belt that wished he was a woman. Winston and his dad, Steve, were the rocks of the room. There were two Michelle's, both cooler than me, and a Veronica - actually, I should say, the Veronica. An Army sergeant, Veronica put up with no nonsense from anyone, and always had time for a good time. These characters became my life during those years, but this story is about Erika.

Eventually I found out that she was six years older than me. I knew things were interesting when I learned that she was 29 and celebrating her ten year wedding anniversary. Back in evangelical Colorado Springs, there was no dancing at weddings. To me, Erika is a peephole into a world that I barely understand. Raised in churches and banned from using Ouiji boards or roller skating with bare knees, she eventually found her own way, with full understanding of her past. Because she's a writer, I know her teenage years in fantasical detail. Her mid-30's memoir, In a Handbasket: Confessions of a Recovering Evangelical, is a great tour through church youth groups, goldfish eating courtships, and secret missions to 'save' the non-believers.

I have only lived in primarily liberal, non-secular cities. When the news bombs me with information about the Christian right voting one way or another, I always wonder how someone could fundamentally believe that evolution or homosexuality are wrong. Basic scientific fact tells us that the Earth was not formed 6000 years ago. How is it that someone can spend so much energy believing otherwise? In any event, Erika was my window into the bubble. Of course, it took her leaving that world for me to experience it, but it is as close as I have ever been. Erika is far from evangelical now. In fact, she writes for the ever-entertaining The Nervous Breakdown about topics that make me wonder if she's worried that her two kids will eventually stumble across them one day. She does disguise herself under the name Erika Rae.

I see Erika as a translator. She was (and still is) able to pull herself away from her own life enough to evaluate it, decide on its direction, and then reflect on it in the future. This skill, lost on many, allows the richness of her life to be seemingly easily transcribed. It makes me wonder what she would write about me. I can write about her because she has been able to transfer her stories and make them accessible. Is the opposite true?

Maybe I need some Mongolian beef.

Get out and get activist

2009-02-01T03:08:00.000-08:00

John Martyn is dead at age 60. I heard the news from my friend mjp6 living in NYC. On a recent trip to Rasputin, in part to support the music store industry as well as feed my own habit, I picked up a used David Gray EPwith which was a mystery CD including a cover of Martyn’s, “Go Down Easy”. Cool.

At the moment, there is a flurry of activity on YouTube with people combing through decades of sometimes bizarre and sometimes stellar (always sweaty) performances. There is a lot of reminiscent posting pared with a justified expression that Martyn was underrated and, in any event, under acknowledged: “I’m sad to know I’m hearing him now for the first time.” That is paraphrased.

In listening to “Sweet Little Mystery,” the memory of seeing Martin Sexton in concert for the first time replayed in my head. It was a show at Off Broadway in St. Louis. Sexton was supported by a great percussionist with an excellent sort of beaded shaker thing that exactly recreated the sound of a drum machine effect… weird inversion. I had been turned on to Sexton by a friend of a friend, both of whom were there with me. Great show and a great place: we ordered a pizza from the place next door and had it delivered to us at the venue. The guy walked in midway through the show and brought it to where we were sitting. Ha! My thought was that in music as with so many things, it takes the active word of mouth and in this case, the lending of an ear (and a CD) to learn something new. That venue itself was another instance word-of-mouth: the theatre manager I worked for at the time told me over and over again to see something... anything... there.

The newest issue of Outside features an interesting interview with Lance Armstrong. In the piece, he talks of his motivations and goals for coming out of retirement to participate in the next Tour de France. Given reflection on his current physical condition as well as his hiatus, his primary goal is to spread the word (i.e., effect new political and economic paradigms regarding cancer eradication). Maybe this has always been his intent, but I am happy to be hearing this now for the first time. It is also exciting (and palpably reported) that he intends to win. That sneakish intent is something I love about both John Martyn and Martin Sexton: while they are in it to play, they are serious players.

Thanks to Thalerguy and shiveringgoat for their YouTube videos.

Skip this and go listen to something by Ana Egge.

2009-01-21T23:31:00.000-08:00

The sequence goes like this: watch YouTube video of Ana Egge performing > recall an absurd comment made by John Mayer about how great it is that, “girls get out up there and bang out a few chords” (paraphrased) > try to find the source article in Acoustic Guitar by way of Google > fail > end up on the Wikipedia entry for John Mayer and find… of all things… a subcategory describing Mayer’s apparent consideration of abandoning music entirely to pursue a career in… design. Where to begin? Clearly, at the end.

Design: who knows how credible the claim is that design was even a consideration? The overall point though is that the disposition is supported by examples of signature model guitars issued by Martin and Fender. Wow. It is delightful that Mayer had the opportunity to select the wood varieties and offer up some styling cues so winningly, but the fact is that he does not design guitars: at best he specified some features when prompted by legendary makers. Oh wait! Wiki says that Mayer also has designed t-shirts and shoes. I bet that he has even designed a method for sandwich construction whereby the mayonnaise is applied to one piece of bread while mustard is craftily placed on… the other piece of bread. It is like flavor in stereo. Design? How to even begin to describe what design thinking means to a room full of designers when the word design is even casually used in the context of some dolt who stencils a shirt? Clearly at the beginning. [The entirety of the shoe issue has been abandoned for even the slightest attempt at brevity.]

There is always a hip-pocket example to counter the quick dismissal of talent: Mayer’s trivialization of women getting started in the singer-songwriter racket implicitly suggests that women cannot play the guitar like he does… which, I guess, is well. [Though, secretly I am thrilled that there are no heroines-apparent taking up his slack.] The number of brilliant women guitarists is overwhelming, to the point that consideration in light of the comment is moot. Let the mystery be, yes? Not just yet. The fact that there is even discussion of Mayer as a designer to be taken seriously brings me right back to the point of this whole thing: Ana Egge. Her talents are immense vocally, lyrically, and dexterously. The cap though is the fact that she IS a designer. The guitar that she plays is an Egge/Musser original: she made it. Her efforts did not begin and end with style choices. She built it. Further, she plays the hell out of it on a daily basis.

In the world of retail sales of vintage instruments, belt buckle “rash” is an interesting phenomenon: it is the collective distress due to wear from belt buckles, keys, buttons, snaps, and the like that accumulates from the physical contact between instrument and player. Only in particular cases (e.g. celebrity instruments or VERY old instruments) does this kind of wear exist without impact on value. Admittedly, there is a certain bravado in beating up a guitar in more than one way. Patina is cool: designers and musicians agree.

The “honest” wear that I see on Mayer’s instruments I suppose is a trophy of his skill, craft, and lifestyle: hard-charging designer on the road belting out the Grammy winning Wonderbread. Sucks to your asthma,I say! I am compelled to cry foul and pull from my hip pocket video proof of something I have seen in person, as well: the skewed buckle. Aha! Now THAT is a legitimate metric of a designer. That’s right John: she BUILT her guitar; she is designerly enough to understand what that means. Now I know that there are lots of guys getting up on stage with pristine Martins buckling their belts on the hip, but it seems like the world deserves at least one good example of a woman doing the same. That is all: long, boring, and needlessly bitter based on a vaguely remembered quote from an article that cannot be located—interspersed with too many colons.

stairs and sentences

2009-01-20T21:39:00.000-08:00

Yes, today was the inauguration of Barack Obama. Sentences! Did you hear all the sentences?

In addition to everything said by everyone, especially Beyonce, I found two parts of Barack's speech to be particularly great details. First, he pronounced the town of Concord correctly. For those not in the know, it's not Con-chord. It's Con-kurd. I believe everything he said that much more because I found him credible on the details that I recognized. Very slick.

Second, the set designer of the speech did a nice job aligning Barack with the blue and red carpeted stairs when viewed on television straight on. It's a classy background that is perfectly suited for television viewers, and a functional and simple piece of infrastructure for those in attendance.

Love Letters of the Future

2009-01-12T23:43:00.000-08:00

This is a report on my books: they are sitting in a large pile that I anticipate getting larger within the next few days as some Tintin comics travel from somewhere, here. The stack includes, among others: a travel book on Scotland; The Tempest; Kingsley Amis’, Lucky Jim (no idea why that is taking so long); Slaugtherhouse Five (Homer Simpson has a brilliant interpretation of this, yes?); Thompson’s, Blankets; The Adventures of Tintin: The Black Island; and Chabon’s, The Yiddish Policeman’s Union. Really I cannot get enough: I need more. Letters to the editor, blogs, instruction sheets, liner notes, and, not lastly, magazines.

The episodic nature of magazine is one of the most compelling and satisfying things about them. Formatted, yes, but each issue has an identity: a new gamble at a satisfying meal. Right? I straddled the recent annual odometer change with two publications that cemented a beautiful year gone and offered particularly inspired direction toward the future.

The cover story of Fretboard Journal (Winter 2008) is Bill Frisell’s interview of Jim Hall. Brief introduction if necessary: Frisell is an exquisite musician and a student of Jim Hall, whose commensurate talents were shifted back in time so as to influence directly and indirectly students of guitar. The cover story itself is a nearly perfect example of the successful transfer of knowledge with the serendipitous effect of broadening the pools in which everyone swims, rather than diminishing a single source of food. Within that piece is a lovely detailing by Jason Verlinde on Gary Larson’s experience as Jim Hall’s student. Larson, creator of the quintessential single-frame comic, The Far Side, is an excellent player, and as Verlinde conveys, also a fine synthesizer of jazz. What are the odds of Larson being a guitarist capable of playing with Hall and Frisell? Evidently about the same as Woody Allen being a professional clarinetist.

Last month’s issue of National Geographic included the eerily beautiful glimpses of Mars conveyed from the Rovers and friends. John Updike authored this piece. John Updike. John Updike. He proffered a tantalizing historical account of the Mars exploration and spun it his own way to make it the fact people take conversationally. William Buckley (R.I.P.) once responded to the suggestion that he was master of words with the following paraphrase: “you know who has a good vocabulary? John Updike.” (I think that this was on the Charlie Rose Show, though I cannot recall exactly.) I would like to imagine a similar moment in history where Bo Jackson and Michael Jordan sat down to talk about who was better at playing baseball. The idea that John Updike can, not only, be an authority on astronomical proceedings, but can also shrug perceptions of expertise to deliver the goods is nothing short of amazing. This is the future and it is being offered by the past.

My thoughts upon finishing these two pieces drifted to the state of design, the state of the world, and the states of America, in particular. In one regard, it was reassuring to read of music being an unowned resource from which anyone can draw, both in difficult and easy times. More contextually, I felt validated by the power of shunning expectations in favor of charging forward in embrace and defiance of challenge. The people I know and those I know who will change their worlds can speak as easily with drawings as with songs, with bridges as with glances. It is a delightful club that can delightfully, by example, include everyone.

Catch Me if You Can

2009-01-12T23:31:00.000-08:00

Today I became a particle in the ether. I was an excited electron, put into uber-orbit.

I wrote the above line about a month ago. I was laying on an Aerobed on a hardwood floor in LoHa (Lower Harlem, for those not in the know). I had just eaten a healthy dose of good cheese and salami, played wii, and taken a shower. I reflected on my day. That morning I arrived at San Francisco International Airport, and was dropped off at the entrance to the international terminal. I wasn't flying overseas, but I rolled my suitcase through groups of foreigners dressed up to a level that Americans simply can not achieve while traveling. With no line at the check-in kiosk, I proceeded on to the Virgin America gates.

In front of me on the escalator were three people, all between the ages of 22 and 32. Each wore head to toe comfortable black, with a small red Virgin logo on their sleeve. "oooh my flight attendants are very hip and young," I thought. I descended with them and watched as they smiled and laughed at funny things I couldn't discern before they disappeared down the jetway.

I boarded the aircraft and slid into my clean, leather, aisle seat with full width under-seat storage - none of the half-width aisle seat storage you find on the major carriers these days. The entire plane is lit with colored LEDs that change in color slowly with the time of day. I felt like a musical note. Together with my fellow notes we all composed a song by someone with two almost-first names.

My seat had a mini touch screen TV that let me control its pitch and yaw. I set up playlists and figured out which shows I'd watch before we even left the ground. The TV menus had options to use email and send text messages in addition to watching programming. When I tried to select one of these features the Virgin told me that these features were still in development, and would be rolled out soon. I found this particularly compelling. What a show of confidence from the Virgin! It put itself out there and let me know that, "hey, we've got some neat stuff in the works but we're not all there yet." I appreciated the candid honesty.

Right before takeoff, the captain, one of the three young, fit people I had falsely followed down the escalator as flight attendants came out of the cockpit to do the pre-flight chit-chat. Hello young, fit aviator. He indicated that the emergency information movie would be playing shortly. I watched it: a glorious hand-drawn cartoon animation of the usual strangely diverse clip that is most definitely entitled "My Great Movie" on an iBook near you.

I ended up watching a Top Chef marathon for the entire flight. This means that the Virgin gets Bravo. Bravo! I have cable at home and they don't include Bravo. We landed at JFK a full hour early after about 4.25 hours of travel. I walked off the plane with my rock-star self and right to the baggage claim area where bags were already rolling off the conveyor belt.

Ahhh, so this is why Leo did it!

Pie engineering

2008-11-28T21:11:00.000-08:00

It's the day after Thanksgiving and instead of the food being smooshy, I'm smooshy. The window of time between thanksgiving and Christmas, it's the start of blob season. I'm intent on enjoying it. We had excellent dinner and dessert yesterday, and the leftovers keep flowing. I want to acknowledge the feat of pie engineering that emerged in the apple-cranberry pie.

I'm thankful for family, friends, health, shelter, love, opportunity, luck, clothing, good food, education, employment, warmth, winter, leaves, snow, flair, my five senses, and much more.

Deep-fried bird

2008-11-27T22:59:00.000-08:00

Finally had a deep-fried turkey.
Canola oil used in lieu of peanuts:
one guest was allergic to said legume
and its oil. The difference between
the baked and fried turkey is palpable.
While both were delicious, the reports
of exceptionally moist meat from the
latter are true. Dry meat has always
appealed to me, from the chops at
Opie's to the run of the mill
oven-baked turkey, so it is a little
difficult to be impartial. In any event
I did find myself thinking of the frying
potential, looking around for Twinkies
and Snickers bars that had not yet
been prepared. No such luck. That is
probably just as well, given the default
gluttony already afoot.

On smoosh

2008-11-26T23:08:00.001-08:00

After a day spotted with Thanksgiving food preparation, I'm left with a question: did the Pilgrims and the Native Americans play a lot of ice hockey?

The dishes we made today include mashed potatoes, candied yams, harvest soup (essentially squash, and other seasonal vegetables pureed), cranberry sauce, and raspberry pie. All that's left for tomorrow is an apple pie, stuffing, and the turkey. Aside from the turkey, every other food on the list is flat out smoosh. If desired, Thanksgiving could be delilvered via osmosis.

Babies love soft foods, but us adults, we eat tough, crunchy, sharp things. Usually, meals are combinations of different flavors and textures. On Thanksgiving, I am perfectly happing putting a glob of stuffing on a small potato roll and eating it like a sandwich. There is no other day of the year when bread on bread sandwiches are appropriate.

Thanksgiving is a time for family and friends, but it's also a time for letting all the flavors run together on the plate in a Gerber mass of uniform consistency and texture. Even if you have all of your teeth, enjoy!

Think thanks

2008-11-26T23:02:00.000-08:00

breath. night. horses. cookies. coyotes. snakes. love. cartoons. books.
forgiveness. surprise. crisp. concrete. mom. dad. memory. trees. thread.
leather. water. height. dental floss. secrets. winking. cosmos. touch.
water. water. creosote. dreams. chairs. shoes. teeth. showers. owls.
mesquite. gold-bond. smile. less. everyone by name. coffee. sleep.
voices. fruition. serendipity. acceptance. guinness. sandwiches.
high school. patina. clues. waves. sweat. sex. innocence. latin. cotton.
paper. bells. skin. crying. clicking. friends. scars. mysteries. help.
roads. swimming. the sun. grace. surrender. bees. patience. cheese.
legos. movies. blond. challenge. fluency. tan. time. approach.
listening. tacos. letters. care. differentiation. guitar. bed. space.
cereal. experience. more. lingering. trust. backs. underwear. embrace.
bags. sky. bread. family. mystery. desert.

What's your post-apocalyptic vocation?

2008-11-21T08:27:00.000-08:00

Green design.
Sustainable design.
Climate change.
Design for change.
Design for impact.
etc.

It's all the buzz: "Stop THIS from happening." "Do this or THIS will happen." "We have to figure out how to convince everyone to do THIS." Everyone is talking about design for prevention.

Why don't we jump ahead, assume a mass-scale world tragedy will happen, and design for the post-apocalyptic world. After a conversation with Jean, Joe, and Andreas on Thursday, I'm convinced that the designers with real foresight will start tackling post-apocalyptic problems now.

We don't know the tragedy that will ultimately push us over the tipping point, but it's likely that one event will lead to another. Rapid sea level rise will lead to mass inland migration, shortages in food, and civil war. An earthquake through the Nevada desert (yes, there is a fault that runs right through Yucca Mountain) will lead to radioactive contamination that spreads from local areas to the greater watershed, and eventually the ocean, effectively destroying marine life much like DDT did, increasing in concentration up the food chain. Rising carbon emissions will cause a runaway greenhouse effect, warming 80% of the earth to intolerable levels, causing mass human extinction, and spawning new habitat for wildly proliferating insect populations. Maybe the magnetic poles of the Earth will swap, ie. North becomes South. It's happened continuously in Earth history, we don't know why, but the rock record tells us we're overdue for a magnetic flip. Or, our demise could come through lack of differentiation in our food. The world currently supports only twelve major crops. TWELVE. The world corn crop could fail if attacked by a resilient pest, and lack of crop diversity will cause the whole crop to fail, not just a localized area. Food shortage will lead to failure of the world economy, civil, and international strife.

No matter which way we end up pushing our planet over the brink, one thing is for certain: we'll need new jobs. Specifically, folks with jobs that fufill needs at the top of Maslow's heirarchy, the self-actualization jobs, are going to be out of work. Wedding planners, hairdressers, divorce lawyers, plastic surgeons and fashion models should start thinking ahead. Personally, I'm already trying to determine my post-apocalyptic vocation (PAV).

How will my skills transfer? Will I be a leader or a worker? Will I become nomadic, migrating with the new seasons, or will I work in an established new colony? Will I abandon Earth like those in the scarily psychic movie, Wall-E, and sit in a chair, not knowing that there are other people around me?

I re-watched Wall-E yesterday, and this time, without nature's call beckoning me away before the very end of the credits, I stayed to watch them through. Mort Grosser tipped me off over the summer that if I watched the movie to completion, the very very last thing would blow me away. It did. I'll let you watch for yourself and have your own private moment of fear, but I will say that it offers up yet another mode to drive world catastrophe.

So, what's your PAV?

Postal piracy

2008-11-20T23:06:00.000-08:00

There is a strong perception (entirely defensible, as far as I know) that Americans are essentially wimps with regard to happy endings and the cinema. Those who I know who are in the know—the people whose opinions I trust for supporting extremist posturing at cocktail parties—tell me that Chinese cinema (and fiction) relies heavily on the fact that everyone dies at the end of the story or at least walks away entirely ruined, if walking. I recently saw the British film “Happy Go Lucky”, and though that film ends delightfully, I recalled a comment my high school English teacher made summarizing Shakespeare’s work, “the only difference between the comedies and the tragedies is that at the end of a tragedy, everyone dies.” Nice point, though I cannot say where that leaves the typical disposition of film goers and filmmakers.

I know that I watch certain movies for certain reasons, and I am often affected by unexpected stories. "No Country for Old Men"comes to mind. I am curious though about the extension of the expectation of happiness beyond film. Pirates, in particular have recently risen as mysteries. I was curious about the recent hijacking of a tanker by pirates who, as cnn.com reports, headed for a known pirate haven of Eyl, Somalia. Wow! A known pirate haven. Pirates murder, rape, and steal. When was the last time a fast food restaurant selected a rapist as one of a band of merry characters selling burgers, other than today at McDonalds? Hmm, never. As much as I would like to see Barney teaming up with a murderer on an early morning broadcast to kids, or perhaps falling victim on said broadcast, shockingly the cast is relatively safe. This is a real puzzler given the fact that on a certain holiday, parents all over the place dress up kids as pirates. So cute! Not so much. I am not sure if this augments or diminishes the American disposition toward the saccharine. No we do not like rapists, murderers, or thieves, but at the drop of the hat, we will disguise our treasured toddlers in swarthy garb and call it cute. Bizarre.

In a quasi-unrelated connection, I recently came across a sheet of the commemorative Charles and Ray Eames postage stamps sitting on a counter. My first inclination was to take the money and run, but I opted to act closer to my age and ask if anyone belonged to these stamps. It turns out that the purchaser very kindly gave them to me based on my interest. I was thrilled because I have for a long time had an unchecked lust for the low-slung LCM and LCW molded plywood chairs. So sexy. In a somewhat distant past, I was part of an endeavour in which several of such chairs were permanently borrowed from a Midwestern institution of learning. My stake in the booty is still essentially buried, but I have recently confirmed directions on a map: my cut, consisting of one chair, is safely stashed in a barn deep in the woods. I am fairly pleased that, in an instinctive defense of the American disposition, the woods of which I speak are analogous to those unfolded by Dickey in his heavy, not-so-happy masterpiece.

Proud

2008-11-04T21:33:00.000-08:00

I cried. Yes we can!
I took pictures of the TV.

Thrilled.

2008-11-04T20:56:00.000-08:00

Yep, thrilled.
THRILLED!

That is grace and eloquence.
How about the capstone:
"may God bless America".
Subtle thing, but offered
as a request rather than an
imperative.

So incredible.

election - CHECK!

2008-11-04T16:51:00.000-08:00

I can't do anything. I'm too nervous. Polls are closing on the east coast. Soon the flow of results, exit polls, predictions, contradictions, voter fraud, mobs, lost ballots, and provisional circumstantiation will crowd all of my senses and I'll at least feel like I'm not doing something for a reason. Right now, I'm fiddling. This is a great time to make a to-do list - a very ornate, multi-color, well-crafted to-do list.

I wonder what Barack Obama's to-do list for today looks like? I hope he has one.

[] win election

I hope he has a special pen for checking off the check box too. If I were him, I'd spend a bit of time selecting the perfect pen to check off that box. If you're reading this, Barack, go with something permanent, maybe a Prismacolor Premier marker (broad side) in Mediterranean Blue (aka Bleu Mediterraneen). It matches the spot-on graphic language of your campaign. If you're nervous right now, make a few practice check marks while you're waiting for the results to come in.

Day of Destiny!

2008-11-04T10:43:00.000-08:00

I voted. Obama - Biden. NO on 4. NO on 8.

I'm scared. Here we are at Stanford University, and the voting process is unclear, clunky, and slow. There are at least 3 precincts that vote at the same location (Grad Community Center) on campus, but when we arrived at 7:45 am there was one line wrapping around the building. Having experienced a 2 hour wait to vote during the democratic primary, we knew to look for a shorter line for our specific precinct. We found it, and then still waited about a half hour to make it to the front of the line. I spoke with a lawyer that was there to ensure that the voting was proceeding without trouble. He was trying to help sort out the mess with the different precincts.

Finally, I received my ballot, but all the booths were full, so I had to prop up a shield on a table while I voted. Tell me, how is it acceptable that the process of selecting a choice on the ballot is unclear? Given two pieces of a chunky black arrow, would you know to draw a thin line in between the chunks of the arrow to make a selection? Come on! It is not acceptable that I had to read the instructions as to how to fill out my ballot. For such a critical decision with so much at stake, the ballot needs to be intuitive and mistake proof. I'm disappointed.

Patriotic PEZ

2008-11-04T08:56:00.000-08:00

On this historic day, I broke down and bought a Democratic donkey PEZ dispenser: they were half off, as were the elephants. It is bizarre to me that PEZ is an acronym for a *SINGLE* word in German: Pfefferminz, meaning "peppermint". What better way to celebrate an election than with a German-derived, Chinese-manufactured candy dispenser celebrating American Democracy? I cannot think of a single one... other than voting. Go vote.

the things they carried

2008-10-28T21:59:00.000-07:00

In the lobby of my building, across from the elevators in an alcove that could only exist because of an architectural mistake, is a zone unofficially recognized as the "free stuff area." Have something you don't want? Drop it in the free stuff area. See something you like on the mottled blue and maroon carpeting? Grab it - it's free.

Almost everyone in the building subscribes to this free exchange of goods. I once scored a pair of bright orange Volkl skis, sans bindings. They worked great as dust collectors for a year and then I put them back down in the free stuff area for the next person. Over the past couple years I have contributed various kitchen appliances, a rug, and a bunch of VHS movies. The VHS movies were snatched up real fast, but every other day or so the movie "Dazed and Confused" kept reappearing. This happened six or seven times and I never could muster the energy to bend down and check, but I fear that while the cover said "Dazed and Confused," the actual tape might have been an early-90's era home movie. It's a good thing I don't have my one side short one side long hair style anymore. I wouldn't want someone to have recognized my from my on-screen appearance.

Every once in a while someone doesn't realize that they shouldn't store things they actually want in the free stuff area. About six months ago Ty came bounding upstairs with a set of brand new golf clubs. Fantastic find! Good things go fast. Unfortunately, he noticed later in the day that there was a large number of nice items in the area again. He tracked down the owners to find out that they were not donating all of their favorite things, they were instead moving out. The golf clubs were returned and a big sign put up: "if you took something from here on Tuesday it wasn't free - we were just moving out!" Soon, it got exciting. Multiple different ink shades appeared under the original note yelling at the miscreants that they should know better than to put their personal items in the free stuff area. "This is the free stuff area, you should know that!" "You're supposed to only put FREE things here." "Idiot!"

Personally, the free stuff area is a dream come true for me. The items that someone chooses to leave for others are amazingly telling. Essentially, I get to imagine the lives of others entirely based on the items they leave behind.

Of course, I am endlessly entertained imagining the reasoning going on in someone's head as they decide to place a 1/4 full gallon vat of sweet relish on the floor in a warm hallway, but lately my interest has moved beyond simple fascination. I have become more and more aware of the trails we leave behind as we move through our day. When I'm present in a space, someone can see me. I take up a certain amount of area. When I leave, what do I leave behind? An artifact? A feeling? A whoosh of air? If you could connect the dots on a trail of what I've left behind, what would you make of me?

As a high school senior I took a class entitled, "Uncovering Lexington's History." Lexington, Massachusetts is a town brimming with history: Paul Revere's ride, "shot heard 'round the world," WWII watch towers, largest mass arrest in US history (Vietnam war), and the list goes on. The class was brand new and was essentially a single research project. We were allowed access to the Historical Society Archives. Complete with white gloves and climate controlled rooms I paged through documents, letters, mementos, eyeglasses, and trinkets left behind by people in the 1700s. This was a primary source lover's oasis, a more authentic version of the items left around in the free stuff area.

When I entered college I fully intended to be a historian. I loved putting together the puzzle pieces that unfolded stories based on limited pieces of information. I left college as a geologist, attempting to unlock the mystery behind the interaction of glacier and its bed by analyzing micro-scale deposits called siltskins that essentially look like cuordoroy pants-textured silt cemented to a bedrock surface.

Now that I'm a designer, what trails am I leaving?

Could you decipher the projects I built during my first year in the design program if you found this pile of my receipts? Yesterday, I accidentally flushed a thin red Sharpee down the toilet. Well, I admit that I accidentally dropped it in, but after an evaluation of the industrial plumbing I decided it would flush. In any event, if someone finds it fifty years from now wherever it gets deposited, what would they think about me? Would they know I feel bad about it?

If I could choose the artifacts I leave behind, what would they be? If I had to go to war tomorrow, what would I carry? How would Tim O'Brien tell my story?

I fletch therefore I vote!

2008-10-26T18:09:00.000-07:00

I voted today, by mail. Even though I see the signs around on lawns, left and right, the bulk of the issues beyond the Presidential race completely escaped me. Doing the legwork to make an even marginally informed decision took better than two hours today. On this wondrous occasion I would like to thank all those people and resources that made my hopefully correctly completed ballot count: the googles, friends via email, the sample ballot sent to me weeks ago, and candidates with websites. Most of all, I offer thanks to the League of Women Voters. Damn! They really put together a tight package, linking to everything that counts and clarifies. There are still a couple of mysteries, that even with some serious thought, I could not fully decipher (e.g., Proposition 7). While I happily wear the sticker, I am still concerned that in this age, my ability to construct an arrow with a thin shaft of blue or black (not red!) will determine the impact of my voice. Actually, I am more concerned about those who are more inclined to launch, rather than draw, arrows.

Double Vision

2008-10-09T00:49:00.000-07:00

I was sitting at LAX once, having just taken a shower; you can schedule showers in the Admiral’s Club there. This was quite a kick because the shower alone was bigger than my entire apartment at the time, I was actually covered in mud from working that day, and I was in fact not a member of the Admiral’s Club.

Once clean, I was sitting, trying to read 'The Dead' from Joyce’s The Dubliners while being continually distracted by this guy and his valet who were both sitting across from me. The pair were tended by “Special Personnel” who tend to such pairs in LA, only in LA. This guy was dressed in a white suit of another era and possibly another dimension. His valet was handling their drinks.

With nothing better to do, I eavesdropped to decode who was this man—deciphering celebrity identities has only recently been overtaken in popularity by Sudoku. I wrote down all sorts of notes in the margins of 'The Dead', ultimately abandoning the story all together. I heard, “Sony,” “Arista,” and “Aerosmith.” Once home, I hit HotBot and uncovered the identity: John Kalodner:John Kalodner. That bit of punctuation is no mistake: he ran with it after Foreigner credited him as such on the seminal album, Double Vision. Kalodner is (was—retired) an A&R guy and huge career builder for many bands, mostly including those that are hard on my point-of-view. His vibe was intriguing as was his embrace of punctuation: an active move toward calling out your own doppelganger.

Friends have told me many times that I have stunt doubles. I have been thrown out of a Wal-Mart in Flagstaff for looking like a guy who apparently had a history of nail theft at that location. Once, only once, I saw a guy who I thought looked like me. It was a weird deal… kind of like seeing a picture of yourself asleep: who took that picture? Odd.

The poet, Rives, spoke today at the Liu Lecture Series at Stanford: it was an experience as close to meeting my own doppelganger as I have ever encountered. We do not really look alike, and professionally, we slightly are misaligned. Yet, the works that I saw were spot on with justifications, motivations, explanations, and fascinations as those I have. It was a very strange experience in getting to know myself as friends turned to me with eyes asking if I was seeing this. Possibly they were checking to see if I was in fact sitting in the audience while presenting to… myself. I have to admit: I frequently feel that way. When you become interested in the obliterations of Japanese postal workers stationed in Manchuria, China in the late 1800s, this is the sort of thing you have to expect. Ditto with braille text messages in bottles. But, no longer! Rives dropped a bomb at the dead center of the paradigm shift from Design to design. His associative exposition and experience of craft, crafted an experience exposing associations inseparable between art and design. Sing it Leonard, sing it Jeff: Hallelujah! Today I awoke to find myself and to see myself validated, pared with a lovely burrito at lunch, too.

Kalodner’s website discusses his suits at length and in color: white. It is even noted what his undergarments are on any given day of the week. As an observationalist, a brilliant word I have stolen from Rives, I noted that on the day in question in the lounge at LAX, John appeared to be wearing boxer shorts, though his website dossier would purport otherwise. I alerted the webmistress of the disparity. She later replied that she got that comment with some regularity though in fact the confusion was due to the trouser lining showing through white suit cloth. Ha! At the time I felt odd to be among those who noticed. Today it feels brilliant.

10,000 flushes

2008-10-08T23:06:00.000-07:00

Often times, I'll be walking around somewhere, and I'll see someone and think, "if I were (somewhere else) that would be (person I know)."

The association is often triggered by a gesture, gait, posture, or hairstyle. Sometimes, I even sit down in a public area and decide to 'assign' someone I know to everyone I can see. I create a world around me filled with people I know (but don't really know). It's great! I get to see them interact with each other in strange ways and ignore people they should acknowledge. I watch them make uncharacteristic purchases and laugh nervously. Sooner or later, my fantasy world dissolves into reality and I emerge invigorated on the other side.

This evening, I experienced a version of this fantasy with a whole new twist. I sat in the front row of the first David H. Liu Memorial Lecture in Design of the quarter and experienced Rives for the first time, and for the millionth time. As it turns out, Rives is my friend Scott (aka :srw: - you know him) exactly. Rives gave a design talk loaded with a free association of his path from paper engineer to multimedia artist, to spoken word poet, to observer of everything, to TV host living out the same free association fantasy that started the whole thing. Scott,
if you don't
know him, writes
emails like this. With
lines that allude
to a poem enough
so that you wonder
if they are meant
to be a poem and
then eventually you decide that
they must be so
you spend longer than
you should
composing your response.

The arc of connections between Rives and Scott is strong enough that multiple people noticed and pointed it out, including Scott, who happened to be sitting in the second row behind me and two seats to the left. I sat through the talk wondering if some sort of neat vortex would envelop the room as two soul mates oscillated on the same wavelength in such close proximity.

The whole experience made me wonder who my personality match would be. Who do people think of when they think of me? Do people ever get reminded of me when I'm not around?

The magical evening had more in store. Post-lecture, I stood with Scott and two other great friends, Jean and Capra, and we did a quick debrief about the latest in our lives. Capra told some stories of her recent trip to Amsterdam and highlighted, for me, two separate hotel bathroom experiences she'd had. One hotel bathroom had strange tubes that smelled of pee, and the other involved a stay on a houseboat that left something to be desired. Then Jean, one of the best if not the best synthesizer I know, said, "I think of you every time I'm in a public bathroom." Amazing! People associate me with public bathrooms. It all started when I put this

up in the women's bathroom last year. People that don't wash their hands after visiting the bathroom gross me out, and I wanted to call them out on it. Excitingly, the installation and meaning behind it have followed me since. I'll take it where I can get it. I might not ever experience the Scott-Rives vortex, but there's a chance that every day someone somewhere makes their own little vortex, washes their hands, and thinks of me. I love you all.

Reflection, Day 9

2008-10-07T01:08:00.000-07:00

This is the second to last day in the time of Reflection. For that opportunity, I thank my great, great grandmother Rosenthal. Being part of such a club often affords an opportunity for reminiscing, maybe among old friends or simply peers. At a wedding in my hometown this past weekend, I had suspected an opportunity for just that, but collective nostalgia was not particularly viable given that most of the people I know from the era appropriate for the draw of guests were not in fact invited, or at least did not attend. It occurred to me then, that as an activity, reflecting seems to be a sort of edgy version of reminiscing, where the past is placed somewhere forward—launched—with a trajectory: an unexpected bounce.

Several years ago, I saw a baseball game played at Disch-Falk Field in Austin. There is something unexpected and shocking about that field: it is covered with Astroturf. Possibly that does not seem shocking (and it is pretty cool to actually use “Astroturf” given the close proximity to Houston), but the fact is that the field is outdoors and there is no shortage of full-time grass staff at UT; in contrast, the field at Texas Memorial Stadium is better tended than most any thing, anywhere, and it is most certainly real grass. Further, the shade of green is the sort that raises questions.

I had questions that day, after the game, and for the first time in probably a couple of years, I reached out to a friend of mine from high school—from the same era as the bride in said wedding—to investigate the field and get a player’s perspective. This guy was scouted by several pro teams, played serious college baseball, and ultimately chose instead to play for Harvard. The correspondence was via email. What I received read in the unique voice of my friend—someone I admired for countless reasons—and matter-of-factly addressed the baseball issues, followed up with anticipatory discussion of plans for a return visit home. I learned that two days after that email was sent, Josh died in an automobile collision while working, as he had been, in Eritrea on projects of aquaculture research.

One of the benefits of artificial turf is the consistency of ball bounces—truer hops. I played lacrosse in high school and consistently marveled at the physically impossible trajectories a white Brine ball could follow. I played on grass and never really made the connection with turf surface until learning of the baseball analog. Upon reflection, I am a bit surprised and somewhat disappointed at my ignorance.

I remember driving to north Austin to buy cigarettes the night I heard Josh had died. I remember seeing, as I had thousands of times before, a fairly provincial church on the way. The great part of that church was the tiny yellow neon cross on the roof-ridge: at night the juxtapositions of scale and seriousness spinout what might seem a fairly decent place to the ironic. I remember thinking that telephone poles really had amazing power, with an unearthly sort of animation, unexpected even of living trees.

I have enjoyed an aphorism despite outwardly disapproving of aphorisms: predictability is the enemy. Only recently has it occurred to me that remembering, reminiscing, and reflecting are all different. I had expectations of this wedding trip: decadent times slathered with nostalgia, but have been unexpectedly shocked by the lively trajectory of reflection, divergent from the slow orbit of reminiscence. As a result, I find I am without prediction: unprepared, but willing.

exposing expertise

2008-10-05T12:25:00.000-07:00

"Hi, how's it going?"
"Not bad, thanks. So, what type of work do you do?"
"I'm an expert welder."
"Wow, great. I will come to you with all of my metallurgical needs."

insert fine line here

"Hi, how's it going?"
"Not bad, thanks. So what type of work do you do?"
"I'm an expert maverick."
"Whatever, chump."

The fine line raises two different issues.
1. Hard skills vs. soft skills
2. Reaching and claiming expert status

Welding is a hard skill. If a welder claims to me that she is an expert, I assume that she has reached a certain level of measurable achievement in her craft.

Mavericism - is it even a skill? Note: It's not even a word. When Sarah Palin tells me that her team is the maverick team (and a team of mavericks, and has been a maverick, and that senate maverick, and maverick is us) does she think that saying it aloud makes it true? I am much more critical on claims of expertise in soft skills than hard skills. They're harder to measure and evaluate, and even tougher to demonstrate.

With both hard and soft skills, how do you ever know that you've reached expert status? With hard skills you might take an exam or fulfill a certain number of hours as a practitioner of your art and then be granted a piece of paper with artfully arranged ink that qualifies you as an expert. But, more often than not, whether through practice, talent, or experience, you are an expert whether or not the national governing body deems it so. Sure, someone out there in the world is better than you, but sometimes it's nice to let the humility fly away.

A few days ago the opportunity arose for me to test out claims of expertise. A colleague was walking around our work area looking for a squash partner. He moved around the room asking a bunch of different people, many of whom are frequent squash players. I have never played squash with any of these people but know that some are pretty solid players and others are newer to the sport. I know that the colleague that was looking for a partner was advanced beginner level, maybe intermediate. When he got to me and asked if I wanted to play, I responded with, "You don't want to play with me because I'm quite excellent at squash."

This caught him and the others off guard. They all thought I was joking and tried to get me to admit to a ruse. In fact, I am quite good at squash, but I'm not sure that anyone believed me.

Revealing skills to others is strangely exposing. The line between bragging and truth is weak without an additional party to substantiate. In the spirit of exposure, I offer you this:

I am an expert at spitting small objects. Give me a watermelon seed and I will spit it farther than you. Ask me to hit a target with a cherry pit and I will land it closer than you.

Doggonit, Joe, now that there is straight talk.

Is it possible to speak a salad?

2008-09-20T18:21:00.000-07:00

I am comfortable saying butterfly in four languages: papillon, farfalla, mariposa, and… butterfly. [Crowd cheers] I learned the Italian word, farfalla, last. While muttering it to myself as memorization technique, it occurred to me how the word is anonomopeaic in each of those languages. Try it: whisper each of the words softly and see if you can place the wing motions of the insect. I was pretty shocked. I cannot say whether this trend holds true for any other languages—my best guess is that Russian will be an instant counterexample, but I am still surprised.

It is hard to identify a favorite word: they all have a role and are all pretty interesting. The bit on "Inside the Actors Studio" where James Lipton asks a celebrity her favorite curse word is excellent, maybe because of the experience in hearing and seeing a word, if only partly, in context. I admit that I find it incredibly satisfying to deliver the line with a blank face: shut the fuck up. It is hard to keep serious after delivery. The multi-tiered significance of a word in the context of language seems to have a parallel with the sense of smell and its ability to overstep into adjacent senses. Diane Ackerman has a really interesting discussion of this in her book.

Naming things, such as cars, boats, et cetera, has never really interested me. The whole butterfly thing, though, made me reconsider that position. I found that I could identify at least one instance where I did have a name, or at least an association, for something without realizing it. About ten years ago, I drove to San Antonio to see a friend who was there giving a presentation on primate behavior. When traveling, I like to find and explore music stores. I stopped into Alamo Music downtown and came across a Taylor Leo Kottke 12-string guitar. Other than seeing Kottke play one himself, I had never encountered one in person. (As an aside, I was at a show in Columbia, Missouri where said guitar was stolen between the end of the show and the encore). The one at Alamo was great. I left it there and made it late to meet my friend. I ended up driving back to San Antonio the next day to buy the instrument. Willie Nelson named his guitar Trigger; my guitar named itself “lechuga”. At least that is how it occurs to me. I am not exactly sure how the tactile experience of playing a 12-string translates to lettuce, but it does. It could be the number of strings being similar to a section cut of an Iceberg head or possibly the sensation of muting chords that seems like chopping through said head. In my mind there is also a very “clean” sensation in playing that particular guitar that reminds me both of eating a salad, as well as audibly pronouncing the word: leh-choo-guh—saying “lettuce” has a similar, though less pronounced effect. I love that guitar for many reasons, one of which is its capacity for saving me from the bother of convention in deciding a name; I wish other things, such as meals, would take similar initiative in removing me from the decision-making process.

racism, backpacks, and a Tuesday afternoon

2008-09-18T23:23:00.001-07:00

Dear Library, Dear Library

2008-09-09T14:14:00.000-07:00

I walked by the Palo Alto public library today and in the front window they have a hardware store-type sign that says: "Yes, We're Open!" in neon orange on black.

My first thought was that the sign was utterly inappropriate for an institution as grand as a library, albeit a local branch. I love everything that libraries seem to stand for: massive amounts of knowledge, the exaltation of all learning, the preservation of physically life-sized tomes that require the use of gloved hands and climate-controlled rooms. In fact, the biggest downside of Tim Berners-Lee's great contribution to the world is the obsolescence of microfilm and mi crofiche. I miss picking out a film reel of the 1979 Boston Globe, carefully winding it into the massive machine, placing my face in front of the viewfinder, and the subsequent feeling of swimming through the newspaper at whatever pace I felt appropriate. Spin the wheel on the microfilm and see what gem you land on...it puts Google's "I'm feeling lucky" to shame.

Coincidentally, this past Christmas eve I sat across the aisle from Tim Berners-Lee at church. Being a proper Unitarian celebration, we spent the entire time singing Christmas carols. I don't know him, but my mom knows his wife, which is generally the way of most connections and enough to sneak a few glances. I was struck by the vigor with which he sang the carols, full of gusto and facial expression. What a bizarre reality: the man that essentially enabled the internet sings an enthusiastic Noel in a church across the street from the library that taught me to love microfilm.

In any event, as I pondered what might make a better "Yes, We're Open!" sign for the library this morning, it occurred to me that maybe local libraries are now exactly like mom and pop hardware stores. They both have regular customers, many with wrinkles, that come in to browse regularly. They're safe places where you can ask for help from someone who couldn't want to help you more. They have specific smells. Finally, and sadly, they're usually overlooked for bigger, shinier, pricier, and often more incompetent versions.

I think if John Prine was sitting across the aisle from me right now he'd likely have a song about the graying of the local public library. It wouldn't go like this, but if it went like this, it'd go like this:

To the tune of Dear Abby

Dear Library, Dear Library,
You're not open late.
You have some free parking
and an RFID gate.
I love new book smell
but you don't have it there.
Won't you serve me a coffee, won't you blend me a pear.
Signed, Jamba-lover

Jamba-lover, Jamba-lover,
You have no complaint.
You drink what they tell you,
and you eat what they ate.
So forget about box stores,
forget cell phone calls.
Won't you come read a novel,
won't you bypass the mall?
Signed, Dear Library.

Dear library, Dear Library,
You are full of misfits.
People hang there for hours,
and no shower is legit.
I like to read books,
but you don't allow food.
Can't I just use the internet, can't I do it in the nude?
Signed, Naked Reader

Naked Reader, Naked Reader
You have no complaint.
You piss away hours
on Hulu for jaint.
My librarians all tell me
they're not used at all.
Won't you close online Boggle,
won't you help slow our fall?
Signed, Dear Library.

Who is Joe Biden?

2008-09-04T23:32:00.000-07:00

Where is Joe Merchant? Both are mysteries. I turned to Jimmy Buffett to answer the latter, looking toward Warren Buffet for the former. Warren could only offer a song, so there is still some doubt in both counts. It is a funny thing living in a state where your vote might actually count: you should probably try to learn something about the candidates. I regret not having people around me on both sides of the fence politically. It made for interesting conversation, as well as a chance to learn something amidst the crossfire.

Biden’s website does little to stir my emotions other than to make me think of Hallmark or American Greetings cards of the highly cursive variety. The copy on the site covers a spectrum from bland to poor. How is it possible that someone in the public eye, someone with a knack for crafting winning legislation can front such banality? Aha! Sweet Wikipedia, the source of potentially incorrect information, steer me toward controversy! In 1988, according to said source, Biden plagiarized a bit of melodrama from a speech by British Labour Party Leader, Kinnock. Hard to fault him for culling the tones of a Briton, but no citation is a poor citation. In engineering shorthand: NG. What’s that Wiki? Oh, he plagiarized in law school as well? Was the incident brought before any sort of Honor Committee? No. The incident was dismissed and the course grade ultimately dropped. From the outside this seems reasonable based on Biden’s claim of ignorance at referencing etiquette, but in fact, no, it is not reasonable. The fact is that university systems are plagued today by mechanics that make truly actioned responses entirely impossible; faculty are burdened by the very notion of reporting violations for fear of initiating processes lengthy as their own tenures rather than those of the students in question. So, again, Biden: NG.

In stepping back a bit, I am further displeased by this potential lack of academic integrity based on yet another piece of linguistic evidence (this time free of the Wikipedia wellspring): the naming of Biden’s legislation. Consider two examples: the Violence Against Women Act (VAWA) and the College Affordability and Creating Chances for Educational Success for Students (ACCESS) Act. The first seems to be an excellent piece of legislation, but in my immediate mind, I cannot offer a more inappropriate misnomer, coupled with an acronym that makes me wonder if VAGA or VULVA was only narrowly defeated just before press time. As for the latter, again, I have to raise issue at being a slave to the acronym. If this is the manifestation of original thought, perhaps we would be better off having a ghostwriter. Maybe John Updike has some spare time.

What do I like about Biden? The answer is certainly not his moldy history with original published thought. Alaska is a much better place than Delaware, though George Thorogood does put on a good show with his Destroyers. No, the one thing that might have me convinced despite the apparent history of misplacing the thoughts of others is his surprising willingness in lending a hand to local businessmen, even in rival states.

That is the sort of thing that we need now. Harry Doyle, I support you for Office.

Yoga. Roar.

2008-08-27T09:07:00.000-07:00

Last week I attended a Bikram (hot) yoga class for the first time. I have been to yoga classes in the past, but I’m not super bendy. In any event, I found myself in a 2000 degree room on a mat with a towel as I coaxed my body into one position after another. About twenty minutes into the class I became extremely nauseated. In retrospect, an egg sandwich on a bagel and cup of coffee probably wasn’t the best way to hydrate beforehand, but I have none of the self-control that would have prevented breakfast.

As the nausea escalated, I decided to take a break and lay on the floor on my back in a ‘pose’ called Shavasana. After a few minutes on the ground I rejoined the class for a pose or two and then needed to get back on the floor. It was at this point that the teacher announced, “feel free to lay in Shavasana if you need to.” Great, thanks. One pose later I’m back down and the affirmation becomes, “there’s no shame for lying in Shavasana.” Seriously, I’m the only person on the ground. I struggle back up only to be struck back down by the urge to ralph and then, loud and clear, “we don’t place any judgment on people in Shavasana.”

At this point I began to wonder if anyone had ever protested yoga. Is it even possible? In a world that's increasingly apathetic and non-responsive to the true tragedies occurring constantly, is there someone out there that has the energy to protest yoga? Gone are the days of the grand protest song.

If anyone would have the gall to protest yoga it would be Captain Moron.

Alas, I did not find any specific yoga protest songs, but I uncovered evidence of Christians protesting yoga in Canada.

Before you lose faith in Shavasana and humanity, remember that protest singers of today are not entirely extinct.

Jack Johnson's Bubbly Toes?

2008-08-26T22:53:00.000-07:00

It seems surprisingly difficult to take anything but strange pictures of toes. I am uncertain if it is purely the subject that is the matter or the consideration of the subject that matters. Maybe like building a perfect cube for a carpenter, so too is composing a glamorous toe shot for a photographer.

Someone suggested to me the other day that the behavior of toes (and possibly by extension, feet) is essentially a dossier of a person: Feetbook, but populated with undeniable facts rather than wit-quips filling Facebook. It was an interesting thought possibly prompted by the fact that amidst the conversation I was making fists with my toes.

“Fists with your toes…” mused John McClane in Die Hard. Wow! In considering the importance of feet, I was shocked at just how much of a role feet played in driving the action of Die Hard (not the sequels). Fists with your toes covered the marital back-story and set the stage for the barefoot high jinks throughout the film. Had the Aryan terrorist (ah! what a concept!) feet larger than McClane’s younger sister, the audience might have been spared one of the most uncomfortable movie moments extant: the removal of glass shards at the bathroom sink. I liked Die Hard quite a bit, but not until now did I feel the that possibly the credits should have included feet playing themselves.

Attention to feet led me to two fantastic instances of foot assessment: one British and the other metaphysical. That may be faulty parallelism, though maybe not. Foot reader Jane Sheehan has extensively published regarding her abilities to evaluate people’s lives by way of their feet. This SPECTACULAR clip on YouTube shows her skills at work in a mall. I would otherwise consider it to be as reliable as phrenology or possibly astrology, but my Facebook horoscope has been shockingly precise lately.

The latter instance is a foot reading service by the Mudrashram Institute of Spiritual Studies. Many of the spiritual services are available with little to no personal contact, rather by photographic submission alone. I am inclined to send the picture of my toes and find out what my feet have to say. Actually, I will do this as soon as I get some more film and hit a 7-Eleven for a money order.

Context and a side of hash

2008-08-17T23:03:00.000-07:00

Yesterday it occurred to me that one of the
things that text messaging has so winningly
accomplished is to squelch the impudence of
telephone communication. Letters are written,
hidden, and revealed with a pace that seems,
at the very least, more measured than a call.
Plus, you can pore over text long after transmission,
without the trappings of behaviors to merit impeachment.

In a lean toward reduced functionality, I was quite
taken with this super phone that I originally noticed
on notcot. Secretly I hoped it was actually just a
stick and that the stick would somehow explode
the phone phenomenon inwardly, paradoxically
introducing the latest fad in wood technology to
salivating puds everywhere: the 3G shingle.
Not so: it has a screen.

Just the same, as I was sitting around, going over
some unanswered emailings, a text arrived, so concise
that the Swiss guy across the street was likely
stirred by a karmic wind, and for the moment
and the moments subsequent, I continued to
embrace the sort of behavior that on occasion
has me otflmfao.

Geosense

2008-08-14T20:37:00.000-07:00

When I was in grade school, I loved breaking open the plastic wrap on the newest National Geographic Magazine and taking a big whiff of the ink-laden brick. I did the cursory flip-book flutter of the block of pages while holding the magazine binder-side up, ensuring that the included map would fall into my hand. I'd read the map title and proceed with the unfolding. Each map was always two-sided; the area geography lived on one side of the map and the cultural, political or environmental information slurpee took up the opposing face. I could spend hours reading both, but I'd usually end up mesmerized by the geographic face, yet disappointed that the map retained the crease marks of square folding.

As I'm no longer in a place to redo my second place finish in the Estabrook School round of the National Geographic Geography Bee, I no longer receive the National Geographic Magazine. However, yesterday I flipped to the NatGeo television channel during an Olympic lull. I'm sure that the program was interesting, but I was struck most by the lack of sensory experience. The magazine is obviously visual, but it's also tactile (the plastic tear and the page flutter), makes a great sound during that flutter, and has the potent fresh magazine smell. Can the television or internet ever deliver a comparable range of sense titillation? Is there a digital medium that delivers anything close to this expected serendipity?

Out of season

2008-08-07T09:08:00.000-07:00

It smells good. It's firm, slightly soft, and fits nicely in your palm. You bring the peach to your mouth and take a generous mouthful. What follows might be a moment of sheer bliss, but it has the potential to be an utterly disappointing chalky, oatmeal-consistency blob of tasteless smoosh. If you've had even one great peach in your life, you know the peach potential. A sub-par peach is a let-down.

It's peach season in California right now, and the fruit is tasty. I've had a few bites of peach perfection over the last week and I'm still riding the high. However, if I fill up on fruit and instead choose another staple, say pizza, I'm out of luck. There is no pizza season on the Peninsula. Yes, I can get a slice of limp something at Pizza My Heart, or a brick of stomach ache at Patxi's, but I've had good pizza before, and, in the same way I know a bad peach, I know bad pizza.

Instead of diving into a pizza debate, I'll leave you with a challenge.
1. Go to your 'good' pizza joint.
2. Order a cheese or margarita pizza.
3. Do not apply extra hot pepper flakes or Parmesan when your pie arrives.
4. Enjoy.

If you were successful with (4), yay, you have good pizza. If your pie was bland, and in need of more toppings, you lose. Pizza, like the peach, is a bottom-up food. Would you put a pound of chicken cacciatore on top of a sandy peach and call it a good peach?

The OlympXXX

2008-08-05T18:51:00.000-07:00

The Olympics begin on the eighth. Delight: it is one of the few times that the anachronistic takes center stage. Yet, the political posture of the world suggests that, as much as anything, sport is war rather than a vehicle for camaraderie amidst fair play. I think of New Zealand’s All Blacks with their haka; I reflect for a moment on Escobar’s fluke goal and subsequent murder related to World Cup play in 1994. These are fairly straightforward games: a ball, a goal, and populated factions. Sounds much like two flanks, a field, and some bullets. Maybe Manassas would be appropriate for the next round. No, rugby is not an Olympic sport (anymore), but soccer is, and the collective sentiment is still relevant.

For me, the games of mastery of apparatus or terrain always stand out as noblest: running, swimming, javelin, hammer throw. I am not discounting team sports, but I find great interest in translating competitive ambition toward an apolitical challenge, rather than fostering animosity among individuals and nations. This is tough, in that I would love to see lacrosse and croquet fielded again. Just the same, as a spectator, I feel the pressure of nationalistic fervor as medals are counted, or discounted, in both team and individual games.

Preceding these Olympic games was the somewhat less acknowledged X Games 14. In this, the Year of the Rat and dawning age of do-it-yourself, I feel great hope and admiration for those athletes who have taken to the streets and perhaps the parking lots of idle stadia to find a game and a place. Seeing people on skateboards, taking flights off stairs, makes me think that the effort in forcing an environment for play diminishes some of the perceived Olympic spirit. Despite Joni Mitchell’s feeling to the contrary, maybe the parking lot is a minor solution or at least a place of common ground. I can imagine that just as the unsettled here take to rails and curbs in the shadow of signs to the contrary, so too may others in Beijing and around the world.