I’m on a pitch-black stretch of two-lane Nebraska blacktop. Living in the city, I don’t see nights this dark anymore. It seems so unnatural. There’s a freight train chugging along on one side of me, oncoming traffic on the other. And here I am, reckless: steering with my knees, ponging between the dashed yellow lines and the ditch full of barbed wire and cornhusks, squinting up into headlights between words as I text my response to the forchest news I could possibly hear right now.
And Then I'd Like to Drink Milk Straight Out of the Cow
A secret scavenger hunt yesterday — one whose confidentiality has Sweet Pea steamed — took me to JoAnn Fabrics, where I overheard this while standing in the check-out line: "My life's dream would be to eat a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup at the factory right after they made it. Like, when it was still all warm and stuff."
Simple pleasures, I guess.
I went to five stores yesterday looking for a stupid cigarette lighter charger for my iPod and couldn't find one anywhere. I did, however, find a $1,400 television that would look so good in my living room. Anyone want to give me $1,400? Or you all could split it up; if everyone who reads this throws in $700, I'd be set.
Panda Bear's Person Pitch nabbed the top spot in Pitchfork's yearly best-of list. Predictable but not unconscionable. I dig the record, and a lot of other people seem to also, so, sure, call it the best album of 2007.
A little trivia: "Bros" lasts exactly as long as my ride to or from work and for those 12 minutes and 37 seconds I'm not concerned one bit by cabs or buses or potholes or trader jags on their cellphones. Sweetpea begs me to wear a helmet but I don't need one; Noah Lennox keeps me safe.
Obligatory disclaimer: I didn't upload this file. I only found the link. You want me to take it down? Just ask.
Yeah, But My Second Life Avatar Reads, Like, 90 Books A Day
This makes me sad. Sadder, even, than looking at the giant weird ass that was just parked in front of me as I ate my lunch. Have you ever seen an ass that was fat and flat at the same time? Like, dude's pants were a 42 waist with a balloon seat and still his ass cheeks were all droopy and floppy like bunting on a 4th of July grandstand. So gross.
The Bears are in Minnesota for MNF tonight, and I've got a little wager riding on the game: top seed in the Annual Wolta Christmas Madden Tournament. Securing that (and the good controller without the wonky circle button) probably the only chance I'll have to rebound from my dismal showing last year.
In other news: How hard did this weekend rule? Way, that's how. Saturday night, 'bout midnight, Sweetpea and I bundled ourselves up and headed out to frolic in the snowy park across the street. And frolic we did: We made snow angels, attempted a snowman, got silly on the slides, and stamped out filthy messages we hoped would eventually be discovered by the giant sheepdog and its owners across the park. Oh, gosh, it was such great fun to just be goofy and carefree with SP. That girl's a real treat.
What else? Well, this morning there was a big flatbed truck from the condo construction across the alley idling outside my window and in less than 20 seconds my kitchen was filled with the chokey blue smog of diesel exhaust. It was pretty fucking nasty, but, silver lining, I've been scheming the get out of my lease for the past three months and I think this could push my case over the edge. If not, I'm prepared to lie like a dog to untangle myself from this lease. I've got big, forch plans for my housing free agency.
They're spoiled kids from Midtown! They can barely even play! Julian only ever sings about booze and girls! I'm so over "The" bands! They don't even have the word "wolf" in their name!
I realize admitting you like the Strokes was acceptable for only about 14 minutes six years ago, but fuck it — I think the Strokes are rad. Is This Itwas released during a really forch time in my life and hearing it make me feel good. Simple as that.
Obligatory disclaimer: I didn't upload this file. I only found the link. This ain't stealing.
Working in print for the better part of 10 years, I've had my hand in the design of countless cover, feature, and column layouts. I love editorial design. Love the creative freedom it allows. Love helping the writer tell his or her story. Love putting something pretty out in the world.
On the flip side, at none of my previous or current jobs have I enjoyed separate editorial and advertising design departments, which means I've also created gobs of ads, fliers, posters, banners, buttons, billboards, and other sales and marketing tchotch. It's not terrible, but this side of the creative department doesn't appeal to me as much as editorial design for several reasons, not the least of which is the fact that I'm essentially helping to persuade people to spend more money on more shit — usually shit they don't need.
But beyond my weariness and wariness of a society of consumers on overdrive or the sketchy ways advertisers take advantage of this (calculated "viral" marketing, ambiguously labeled print advertorials, et al.), advertising also bothers me simply for the fact that it costs so much to do and recoups little, beyond padding pocketbooks of already-rich corporations. 30 seconds during last year's Super Bowl cost $2.6 million (up from $1.2 in 1997 and $600,000 in '87) and it's sure to exceed that this February. Heinz is six years into a 20-year, $57 million deal to slap their name on a football stadium in Pittsburgh [What are you trying to say, Heinz? That you don't think your name is ubiquitous enough? Steeler fans need to use more ketchup? That there are no homeless shelters or women's organizations or children's services in Pittsburgh that could have used fifty million dollars?] And Michael Jackson once famously funded a $7 million music video, which is basically a marketing tool to help sell an album (or CD MP3 playlist, kids).
And what's even worse than such wasteful spending are the messages some ads present. I've got a friend who crusades against marketing campaigns that perpetuate antiquated gender roles or sexist stereotypes. One of her favorite examples: Jif Peanut Butter's slogan, "Choosy moms choose Jif." Are mothers really the only parent capable of buying groceries and preparing meals for their families? No boys allowed, sez Jif? Only in the U.S.A., it seems, as the Canadian version of the Jif website makes no such proclimation, and dads, too, are free to feed their kids peanut sweepings-flavored spread.
Then there's this TV commerical that's got me all riled:
Can you believe that?! If you're not sharing my ahj, imagine that the voiceover at the end says, "You're not a fag, so throw some diamonds at your old lady to shut her up long enough for your to watch the game. Hey, jewelry ain't cheap, but it's better than plying her with gay shit like being kind or helpful or attentive, right?" because it basically does.
It's not that I think the advertising industry is inherently evil, not on it's own, anyway. The person who wrote the Helzberg spot was probably only thinking it'd elicit a chuckle and subsequent cash register ring from the viewer, and Super Bowl ads cost what they do because Budweiser and Doritos are willing to fork over that much in order to keep their brands on the tips of the tongues of their fatass target market. So it's not advertising's fault when it gets unforch, but rather the honchos greenlighting the shit; the dustdick who thinks only women should shop for peanut butter (following an afternoon at the beauty parlor, with a pot roast in the oven, home in time to greet her breadwinning husband at the door after work with a martini and the sports section, no doubt), or the fratty meathead who insists men be macho, whether they're replacing the spark plugs in their Hemi or considering a gift for their SO.
It's not so hard: A little bit of personal and social responsibility could go a long way toward making the world we see between segments of Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader more forch. I've reconciled my own relationship with advertising — I'll risk rankling the suits in the front offices when I felt the "Jesus is the Reason for the Season" Christmas card isn't the smartest choice to mail out to the company's entire mailing list — and I feel I've struck a balance between the ads I'm helping to create, the paycheck I get from that, and the products I buy with said paycheck.
I feel good about the messages I'm sending out. Do you?
Yes, I know the archive links are fubar. No, I don't know what the deal is. Yes, I'm working to fix them. No, I don't have any idea how long that will take. Yes, it's stupid and annoying. No, I'm not going to stress over it.
Listened to this one a lot in the last week. I just love how it sounds feels. So... elliptical. And, gosh, that Will Shef sure can pen a lyric. DO check it out.
Gimel, Mothefucker! Pass Me My Ch-ch-ch-chocolate Coins.
Wow, what a fun, great, perfect weekend.
Friday kicked it off with the aforementioned suit snoop, and things went nearly exactly as I predicted (bless that Güth for her patience and forch fashion eye). The day of shopping was such a good time, despite the fact that outdoor malls in Chicago make as much sense as indoor pools in Miami, but whatevs. We shopped and shopped and ate and shopped and I met a real tiny baby wearing the raddest little tracksuit ever. I nearly shitcanned our adventure, however, after a stop at the Men's Wearhouse on Clybourn. The dude there, gruff as he was stuffy, nearly pushed me to spend my wardrobe budget on vodka and attend my remaining holiday parties in Baby Gabe's velour tracksuit. Oh, man, that guy was a dickweed. Luckily, my man Corey at Joseph A. Banks pulled me out of my retailspin with his good taste, sympathetic ear, and top-notch customer service. (Plus, the tailor there, a hunched oldtimer who didn't seem to give two shits about me but was way into suits, has me completely confident that I'll be pleased as punch when I pick up my new threads later this week.)
Saturday was a Chanukah féte with Ames and some of her friends. The food was great, the wine flowed, and everyone was really fun and funny and had a great time. Here's what I learned: (A.) I'm wicked good at dreidel. (B.) I'd eat caramel sufgaiyot and gourmet latkes every day if I could. (C.) Latke leftovers make for a really stellar breakfast. I wound down Sunday with the deslish latke brunch, list fun with Amy, and a little freelance and football to cap the weekend.
Back at work now with an empty inbox, several Amazon wishlists getting crossed off one by one, and the blueprints of a site I'm designing rolling around in my head. Things are good. Really good.
But Who's Going to Refill the Paper in the Fax Machine if You're Not Here?
The benefit of not taking a single day off all year is that I've accumulated enough vacation days to basically not have to work the entire month of December(TTFC). Sure, it's weird not blogging on the clock*, but I think I'll manage.
*Only joking, potential future employer. As I'm a model employee, all my blogging, personal phone calls, doctor's appointments, and restroom visits take place only during designated break periods.
Behold, Classics, one of my favorite records to have on in the office. It also makes a good Primping to Go Out soundtrack and a killer addition to your Saturday Afternoon Housecleaning Spree playlist. But I would not, say, do a puzzle or read Charles Blackstone with this playing.
[Note: I did not upload this file; I merely found it. This isn't stealing. Stealing is wrong.]
I'm shopping for a new suit this weekend and I just know how it's going to go down: nope nope looks dated nope maybe skinny euro too scratchy nope wide shoulders long hands yeah long hands iddly iddly nope eggplant? nope too short iddly frustrated nope tired hungry seriously? seriously no torso nope possibly more william burroughs nope nope simple clean nope that guy's not getting my commission nope yes but nope hopeless mopey nope over it fuck this nope nope shutting down jeans are fine whatever don't care too bad nope nope nope nope nopenopenope nope done done stew talk stew talk gentle okay fine beer cheeseburger beer recharged maybe that first one yeah felt like paul newman okay fine sure yes watch the inseam no cuffs three days fine credit card home floppy breathe beer beer beer madden beer bed.
A super huge thanks in advance to this forch little lamb for the Sisyphean task of de-iddlying she just found out she’s in for and from whom I stole this bit.
If low-res jpg logos sent by clients make you so iddly that you'll spend an afternoon recreating them in Illustrator even though they'll only be half an inch wide amongst a logo ghetto at the bottom of an ad, you should bookmark Vector Magic. It's quick, easy, and usually more accurate than Live Trace. Text sometimes comes out a little wonky, but you know your fonts so typesetting that tiny bit ain't no thang, right?
If It's So Gross, Why Do You Keep Drinking It, Dumbass?
If you were me six years ago and it was summertime in Omaha, you probably spent a few afternoons draining pitchers of Coors Light that turned into evenings of countless Wild Turkeys and even more beer. Eventually you'd find yourself at one of those sprawling apartment complexes on Blondo, scavenging the fridge of a friend of a friend of some girl your buddy kinda knows for a nightcap and something to eat. Tammy or Libby or Holly or whoever has only a Totino's party pizza — which, right then, sounded like the grandest meal anyone could ever imagine — and three and a half bottles of Smirnoff Ice, all of which you finish in minutes.
So, you're standing in a surgical-grade white kitchen with the florescent lights pulsing down on you, adding to a mixture of swill beer and whiskey you should really know better than to tempt in the first place this pale, sugary, cold-but-not-cold-tasting wine cooler junior and you start to feel it: that punchy, sunstroke feeling where you're equal parts tired, nauseous, and irritated. Or as I know it now, the taste of Glaceau's VitaminEnergy.
Have you seen this stuff? It's water... poorly flavored... and served in a can. A can! Glacéau makes three varieties of this bile and, thanks to the stash of party leftovers in the conference room, I've tried them all: tropical citrus (lemony-ish), fruit punch (grape Kool-Aid warmed in the sun), and dragonfruit (one part week-old Sprite, one part Robitussin). Oh, kids, it's bad. So bad. Stick to tapwater in an old Dasani bottle, mkay?
All Peas and Carrots is the blog of Justin Wolta, the brains behind Momma's Boy Design. Use it as your second or third most trusted source for graphic design-related musings and photos of my cat.
