There's a First Time for Everything

Recently I re-acquainted with a college friend of mine, Huma. We would hang out by the smoking deck (never on the smoking deck as Huma is a voracious non-smoker) and chit-chat about life and how she would have "talk sex" with the instructors.

Well, recently after hanging out it came to light that Huma had never gone bowling. Ever. In her life. After getting over the initial shock I decided I had to immediately rectify the situation. As my home town of West Seattle has one of Seattle's last awesome bowling alleys (aptly named West Seattle Bowl) I had no other choice than to invite Huma out for an awesome round of bowling.

I arrived at our designated meeting spot, the Tulley's on 4th and Union. A few minutes later Huma showed up and we were off. But, shortly before our bus arrived Huma realized that she had forgotten her socks. If there is one thing one does not want to forget when bowling it is socks.

After a quick parley we decided to catch the next bus and go to the most depressing store on the planet for some much needed sock. Ross Dress for Less is where everyone would go if the Nazis had won the war.

Huma quickly spotted a sweet pair of Liz Claybourne socks for a whopping $1.99. Then it was a waiting game. While in line we played a little game of "name everything ridiculous in the store" where we spotted such items as a polka dotted suitcase, Legally Blonde 2, and atrocious hair (the saddest nappiest white guy dreadlocks I have ever seen), along with bumble bees (in store security) and depressing people.

Then it was time to go bowling.


After renting our lane at and picking up our shoes I gave Huma a brief explanation of the game and it was time to play. I had not been bowling in a long time, and it showed. I still had the essential idea of bowling, but lacked my previous "mad skills" from when I was in a bowling league.

We started our first game, and Huma seemed to get the basic hang of the ancient art of bowling. Shortly after we started our game we were joined by a group of wee baby children who were also enjoying their first game of bowling. After seeing the bumpers Huma commented "We should have gotten those."

Part of me agreed as my first game I bowled an 85 (Huma bowled a 48, which is good for a first timer). I know, I know, for someone who is such a fan of bowling I should have done better. If it were Wii bowling my rank would have dropped. But, Huma seemed to be having a good time and the wee children, while causing us to censor ourselves, added a great deal of humor and cuteness to the ordeal.

I had some amazing bowling moments such as falling on my ass and getting a spare at the same time. While my knee was injured my pride was not. . . mostly.

The thing that was really amusing and mocking was the video monitor that would remind you of what you bowled. A kitty would run into a set of pins and knock half of them and a mocking "Open Frame" would appear. If you got a gutter ball a hot lady would give you a condescending look.

After slightly reclaiming my masculinity in the second game (scoring a cool 95) we decided to grab some food over at West 5, a slightly swank restaurant and bar, located in the Alaska Junction.
We chatted more about school, music, past relationship, and as Huma caught the 54 back to Wallingford I took a deep breath (and deeper drag of my Marb) and was glad to have reconnected with an old friend.

What next "first" will I share with someone? Today I will eat bone marrow and see Bourdain with Drew of OMSTV!

Science Fiction Will Soon Be Science Fact

After reading an interesting article about monkeys with bionic capabilities I began thinking about what this means for the human race. Where will this amazing new brain machine interface lead us? I was instantly reminded of my childhood and teenage years.


I remember playing RIFTS (buy books here) as a young lad and almost always playing as a bionic character. The only human part of my body was my brain and the parts of the digestive tract needed to keep my brain alive. The rest of me was metal and guns. The idea of being a nearly indestructible super mercenary always gave me a warm feeling.

But now, being older I know that that I am not the only one to get the warm and fuzzy feeling from big metal super soldiers. It seems to me that while the medical applications of this interesting, though still fledgling, discovery are wonderful, the military applications are somewhat terrifying.

I would like to think that the military is not already jumping down these scientist's throats trying to make the next super-soldier. But it is a possibility, no matter how far off it may seem today. We're only one or two major advances away from some crazy science fiction type shit. Although, it would be cool to see Seattle protected by Robocop. . .

101st Post!

Well folks, I broke the triple digits on the blog posts and to celebrate I will first thank all you readers out there for supporting me in everything I write. I would like to thank Drew from One More Salute to Vanity for getting me into blogging in the first place. And, finally, I would like to thank Henry Miller, Robert Heinlien and Jack Kerouac for being great inspirations to a mediocre writer.

Last night was interesting. Sort of a mini-reunion of the 2007 class of SCCC film school. I was especially glad to see Marcus Curlee, who threw the event as a fund raiser for his trip to China. Marcus and I were close in film school. We shared the same opinion of many films and often had great discussions about films we had recently seen.

We made a short film called "Pictures" that was an amazing piece, but in the process of making the film we lost sight of many things and had a falling out. Now, almost a year later to the day Marcus and I had our first real pow-wow over the events and everything else that had happened in film school. Needless to say there was many apologies, especially from yours truly, and forgiveness all around for any past transgressions. It was cathartic to say the least.

Afterwards we had an in depth discussion on "The Darjeeling Limited" Wes Anderson's most recent film. We both agreed it was a great film, but had different experiences when we saw it in theaters. He saw it opening day, so he missed "The Hotel Chevalier" which I saw preceding the film because I saw it the second week of release. We concurred that this would dramatically change the viewers experience, essentially making it a very different film.

It was good to have a talk like this again, with someone whose opinion of film I so deeply admire.

But I digress. After many a beer and good chat with people I had spent two harrowing years of my life with I was off to West Seattle. But in those few hours I received a new vitality, and have been given a boon of inspiration.

Mid-day Reflection on Lost Sleep

Life seems to be on the down swing lately. I'm unsure of what I am doing with my life. I have two jobs, but still seem to never have enough money. I'm depressed. I don't want to work on anything. I just want to exist in a state of self-loathing. I wish that I could love the people who love me properly, but I can't seem to do it right.

I couldn't sleep last night. I was up until almost 4 in the morning cleaning my room. I moved back in with my parents after living with Drew for almost a year. It is hard coming to terms with my own state of reality. I'm almost 25. That's almost 30. I have yet to finish my degree, I live with my parents and I don't have a driver's license.

I couldn't stand the room anymore. A collection of useless crap that has amassed over my 24 and a half years. Huge piles of random garbage, bits of paper with forgotten phone numbers, thousands of Marlboro Miles, a pile of rubber bands the size of K-2.

I rooted through the flotsam and jetsam of my life. There was catharsis. It is time for a new alignment in my life. I need to refocus and gain new direction. I want to be happy. I want to make films.

Like communist Russia I need a five year plan.

I dread turning 30.

Foxing Bracture

The only downside to the 21st b-day extravaganza is that I think I have a "Boxer's Fracture". Seeing as it's not a full break, but most-likely a hairline fracture I think I'll let it be. For now.

Akilah is 21!

What do you get when you mix booze, co-workers, and red-neck assholes? Akilah's 21st birthday party.

On the 19th after getting off work me, the boss lady, and one of the supervisors went out to meet Akilah (of Lyon Rouge fame) in Federal Way. For those of you who are unfamiliar with Fed-Way it is like the inside of a Wal-Mart. Only an entire city.

So, setting my own prejudices aside I agreed to go and we ventured down south (insert various cunnilingus jokes here). We met Akilah at a bar and pizza joint called "The Rock." It reminded me of a U-District bar, but filled with hillbillies. After the initial culture shock I settled down and bought some booze.

At last call (which at this place is 11:40 p.m.) I bought a Long Island and two shots of Tequila. I figured the birthday girl needed a drink that rhymed with her name. Having sucked down our respective drinks it was time for another bar.

We headed down the street to the only bar in Federal Way to be open until 2:00 and proceded to drink some more. The bar was mediocre, but cheap, and there was some semblance of Karaoke, so I made the best out of it and had a good time.

As I walked up the stairs to the Karaoke stage I saw none-other than A-ron Thompson, of Federal Way and his room-mate Joey (not to be confused with another Joe who will be mentioned shortly). We exchanged some male greetings along the lines of "What the fuck are you doing here!?" and shared a man embrace.

After singing "Touch Me" by the Doors, and nailing it, I decided to go have a smoke with the birthday girl. As we were chatting one of her friends friends decided to get a little fresh with Akilah. Normally, when I see a woman "fondled" against her will, I react rather rashly. Akilah, however, handled the situation and all seemed well.

Pulling me aside she said "Don't worry about it, I told him to stop, you can let it go." And I did. We continued to drink, and I even had a chat about classic rock with the White-Trash offender, whose name for blog purposes will be "Joe-py Grope-y."

After a fairly sociable chat with the Groper-ton Akilah and I sang a bit of Al Green and went to have another smoke.

That is when our cheese-ass white-trash friend decided to have another go at "showing Akilah a good time." Having already been more polite than any woman should be in said situation Akilah asked me to kindly "save her."

I put my body in betwixt the offender and offendee and calmly said "Look man, she's already asked you not to touch her, and she already has a boyfriend, so why don't you leave her alone." Our good friend Joe-py replied "You tryin' ta touch me son? I will fuck you up."

I wanted to punch this skinny dweeb in the nuts and stomp on his chest, but my therapist says I should try to resolve disputes with words. So I did. "Look, dude, I don't want to fight you, I just want you to leave my friend Akilah alone."

"I will fuck you up son!" he said to me with a vile stench on his breath "I will beat your mother fucking ass." At this point Akilah grabbed me by the arm and led me away. "Thanks," I said to Akilah, "I was about to punch that guy in the dick."

Meanwhile, my two compatriots A-ron and Joey had seen this unpleasant gentleman get into my face and did not like it one bit. Joey walked up to Mr. Grope-y and explained to him that he should not treat either Akilah or me in such a manner. Grope-y had another idea. A fist to Joey's face.

I used to fight. A lot. I would fight anyone who pissed me off. I fought my friends, sometimes for fun, but also sometimes out of anger. I have won, and lost, many fights, but I have been trying my best to stay "fight free" as violence only begets violence. Another nugget of wisdom from my therapist, which was in this case, true.

This rather unpleasant hillbilly had the audacity to start a fight with not only one of my friends, but a friend of the birthday girl. As he grappled with Joey I moved at his back and started to pummel him with my fists. While this was happening A-ron also came into the fight, with his own swings.

The bouncer was in there fairly quickly, and I immediately got back in the bar. After a long discussion with the bouncer Joey, Grope-y, and A-ron where officially bounced. When the rather large bouncer, J-Rock, came back in he said to me "You got out of there quick and listened to me, thats why you can stay."

"Really?" I said with astonishment. "Yeah. You was just helping out your boy. I'd a let him stay too but he was runnin' his mouth at me. You was calm." So, with a mixture of adrenaline, awe, and booze I closed out my tab and finished my beer.

"Preebz." Akilah said, "I didn't want a fight on my birthday, but that was gangster." I smiled and thought about the end of "It's A Wonderful Life" I felt like Clarence had gotten his wings.

In hindsight I realized that, my own desire to not get in a fight does not always pan out. Sometimes, you see your friend get hit, and you react. It's an instinct thing. I stayed out of a fight, because I knew that there would be no good coming from it, and then that fight found a way to wrangle me in.

Was it the right thing to do? If I hadn't jumped in how would I feel about it? I would feel bad. Whether that is a good thing or not, I don't know. I know that as a male of the species there are certain things that we have a drive to do. We have a drive to hunt and kill to provide food. We have a drive to keep our mates safe. We have a drive to fight each other, for dominance or what ever other bullshit evolution wanted us to fight for. Not in our sweet, art loving, philosophical outer cortex, but in that iddy biddy reptile brain. The brain that is all fight or flight. Sometimes, we can't fight off 100,000 years of evolution. Then again. . . sometimes I don't want to.

Fucking Hell

Last week sucked. This week is turning out to be okay. Last night was awesome. More on that one latter. Gotta go poop.

Of Late Night Evenings and Inablility to Sleep. Part 3

I can't seem to sleep. It's not even that late, but it is late for me now. My life has been reorganized due to my new-ish job. I wonder if I am doing a good job. I wish that I could talk about it, write about it, tell people anything. I can't. Contract and confidentiality blah blah blah. I'm too honest to break something like that.

I remember getting Drew to break her agreements of the sort, just to hear what she was doing at work. I promised her I would tell no one, and I did exactly that.

I feel old, or at least some semblance of old. I'm almost 25. That's halfway to 50. This though terrifies me. I feel like I should be getting married or starting a family or some bullshit along those lines. I still feel like a kid.

The scariest thing is seeing people my age who do have kids. So many of them have all the joy sucked out of their lives. "I'd go out tonight. . ." they say with that pathetic glazed over look "but I have to get home to my kids." I can barely take care of a pet, let alone another human being.

I understand why my father spent so much time being there for me. It was the right time for him to have children. He was 36 when I was born. He's old now, I guess, but with so much love of life still in him. The hard part is seeing him when yet another one of his friends die of cancer, or suicide, or heart attack. . . it keeps on going. Life, I guess, but more than that death.

I'm 24 and my two preoccupations in life are sex and death. At least it is some real life shit I worry about, not fashion or architecture, but the continuation of life and it's inevitable end.

More Music Videos. . .

Having re-found YouTube and all it's glory I would like to share with you some interesting videos of music I like.



(Jeff Mangum from Neutral Milk Hotel)

and. . .



(Paul Simon "Boy in the Bubble" music video. . . or as I like to call it "Some Freaky Deeky Weird Shit")

and finally. . .




Protect Ya Neck!

My Sweater is Way Cooler than Your Sweater

I love Argyle almost to a fault.

Pretentious?

I was talking to a barista at the Online Coffee Company about blogging when I was met with this response: "What would I ever read a live journal or a blog? I think that it is pretentious to say your life is any more interesting that anyone else's. What's so important about you?" Then she followed it by the good old fall back "No offense."

Admittiedly there was some offense taken, and I think for good reason.

1) My life is more interesting than most people's lives because I am in constant need of stimulation. . . and I'm crazy.

2) A good blog is well written and contains more than journal entries of the blogger's life. It should contain observations about life, music, and art (depending on subject matter of said blog.) In this case a blog is read for it's literary merit.

3) A "Live Journal" while being a kind of blog is not a blog. It is a Live Journal. Maybe I'm being pretentious when I say that, but I feel that most people (bloggers) will agree with me.

4) You're a bitch. JOKES. . . Kind-of.

I just said to her "My life is waaaaaay more interesting." And left it at that. If you know me, you know I'm right.

Take One

I feel sad. The lack of intuition and abundace of booze is getting to me. I've finished Naked Lunch. I feel apathetic about the whole ordeal. I read Anthem by Ayn Rand. I'm happy and surprised that Ayn Rand does not get flagged as an improper spelling. Makes me feel like things aren't so bad.

Don't start me trying now. Cause I'm all over it Angeles.

I don't think I'll ever be satisfied. I feel as though my secret wishes are too dark, too destructive. I don't know whether or not I'm glad to meet you.

I guess Either. . .

While looking for a decent video of "Lost and Found" by Elliott Smith, I found this incredibly depressing video shot in front of the wall on the cover of Figure 8.


As well as this awesome Elliott Smith video for "Angeles." Enjoy being Emo.



AND as I final side note, doesn't Elliott Smith look like Geoffry Rush?

Hanging Around in the Lost and Found

Last night at work, while going for a smoke and showing off my Eagle Scout card, I realized that I had lost my ID. Needless to say I flipped my neurotic shit.

Waves of paranoia washed over me. "What if someone steals my identity?" I thought. After scouring my office, the bathroom, and calling every department in the hotel I calmed down. "If its not here, I must have dropped it at a coffee shop or cafe." I reassured myself.

But then, a whole new set of worries grabbed me. What would I do without an ID? I would be unable to go to bars or liquor stores. I would be caught in the throws of sobriety, a very sobering thought indeed! "At least there is always the Maja." I was fighting back worry.

Furthermore, I had no idea how I would replace said ID. What would I need? What if "they" would not reissue me an ID? This post 9/11 world is a pretty crazy place, after all. How would I survive without my happiness fuel?

I called my mom. What else is there to do when one is in need of expert calming? I chatted with her for a bit and described the situation. She agreed that it was frustrating, and that I would need to search the last places I was prior to going to the DMV.

I got off work, and for a while forgot the whole problem. Reading Ray Bradbury's Martian Chronicles helped keep my mind away from my worries while riding the bus home. I felt my panic and paranoia creep back on the walk home from my bus stop, but as I went to sleep I resolved to search high and low (Seattle's Best Coffee and Specialty's Cafe) for my missing Identification.

After work this morning I went downtown. I wanted to kill some time so I wasted time at the Online Coffee Company and then at a Lark in the Morning, a wonderfully esoteric music shoppe.

I used the old "in the market for a new guitar" line and played for an hour and chatted up the clerk (mostly folk music.) After playing about half the guitars in the joint I set off to (hopefully) reclaim my lost ID.

I set back out through the market and being hungry ate some extremely spicy Texas Style Chili that just about gave me a panic attack. Then, feeling the need to waste a little more time, wandered the market for a bit.

No longer able to delay the dreaded inveitable I set off for SBC. I steeped inside and stood at the counter. For TEN minutes. I stood there for ten minutes watching the baristas chat and pretend I was not there.

This increased my chili induced panic. Was I there? Was I just a vapor or a brume? Had I died and continued about my business unaware of my own death? Thankfully, no. Feeling my glare one of the baristas came up to help me. It was Christa, a mousy-bookwormish barista with whom I spoke about books on my occasional visits to Seattle's Best Coffee.

"Can I get a drink started for you?" she asked, smiling.
"Do you have a lost and found?" I asked in return.
"Do we have a . . . lost and. . . " a light clicked. "Oh!" she exclaimed, "You're IAN!" I was both worried and elated at this minor fame.
"Yeah, I'm Ian."
"I have something for you." I prayed it was not a severed head.
"What is it?" a silly question, because I knew immediately what it was.
"This." She handed me a piece of paper with my ID taped to it. There were various phrases written on the sheet. "Help! I'm lost!" A speach bubble said. In another person's handwritting it said "REGULAR. He will be back."

"Thanks," I said feeling much better having attained my lost ID.
"So. . . do you want a drink in celebration!" Christa made me a coffee smoothie and I was on my way. Next stop West Seattle.

Steve Martin is not Leslie Nielson

While riding the lovely 49 bus up to Capitol Hill to get some Pho, the Vietnamese noodle soup which is the main fuel for yours truly, I heard some interesting conversation that a mother and her two daughters were having.

I love America. It is the only place you can get such wonderful gems as these.

DAUGHTER: (pointing at American Apparel) See mom, the 80's are coming back.
MOM: It's so horrible that the 80's are coming back. . . those. . . those were my high school years.

and

MOM: Area 51. Thats where they keep them alien spaceships. If you go there they kill you. I think it's by Reno.

and the true gem:

DAUGHTER: Naked Gun is such a funny movie, it's got that one guy. . .
MOM: Leslie Nielson?
DAUGHTER: No. . .
MOM: O.J. Simpson?
DAUGHTER: NO! That one guy. . . from Cheaper By the Dozen. STEVE MARTIN!
MOM: Oh, that's right.

I just want the record set straight. Leslie Nielson is not Steve Martin. Leslie Nielson wishes he were half as cool as Steve Martin.



Side Note: "Groovin'" is playing on the radio now. . . Life would be exstasy. You and me and Leslie (Nielson) Groovin'

My Bum is on The Swedish

While walking down the north end of Broadway, up by Swedish Hospital I saw a camera crew filming a man standing at the hospital's sign. He was rubbing his butt against it. As I approached I saw that it was none other than Tom Fucking Green of MTV and film fame. I smiled at him as I was walking by and he started to talk to me.

TOM: Excuse me sir, Do you remember me?

ME: Yeah. I remember you.

TOM: I'm rubbing my bum on things. I did it ten years ago. It was really popular. Do you remember it?

ME: Yeah, it was really funny back then.

TOM: So now I'm taking a trip down memory lane. (While rubbing his ass on the Swedish sign) My Bum is on the Swedish.


Then he came over and we had a little chat. He seems like a nice guy. One thing I did not know about Tom Green is that he is a fucking giant. He must be 6'6" or 6'7" at least. I felt short standing next to him.

Tired as fuck

Good night folks!

Sick and Tired.

Literally. My throat is swollen and hurts, and I only got about 5 hours of sleep last night. So, to help myself get better I had a lovely medium bowl of Pho over at Than Brothers in West Seattle. At least I don't have strep throat. Yeah.

I am slightly worried about cancer. . .

Mad Libs, Portland, and William S. Burroughs

Drew and I went to Portland this weekend for her birthday celebration. Bon Anniversaire, mon trou sexuel! We had a quite wonderful time in the land of ports. First off, we stayed at the Red Lion at the River. Kinda far outside Portland but the schwank bar and restaurant "Shenanigans" had paper-mache looking statues of the Blues Brothers, so I knew instantly it was a hit. photo by Drew

We toured the city a-la MAX light rail, and hit up a lovely restaurant called Lovely Hula Hands, named after a 1944 film.

I whole heartily reccomend it to anyone in the Portland area. Drew and I had the Deviled Eggs, Burgers, and Ice Cream. Holy shit. The Deviled Eggs tasted heavenly. The Burgers were juicy and possessed a rich meatiness one craves when eating a burger and that is rarely satisfied. The Mint in the ice cream was so fresh it tasted leafy and earthy while still possessing everything mint ice cream should be.

After that we went to the "Crow Bar" and met Whitney, one of Drew's friends, and her pseudo beau and Portland Chef extrodinarre Morgan. We listened to awesome music, such as "Excuse Me if I Break My Own Heart Tonight." by Whiskeytown and I drank Old Crow.

The next morning we ate at "Shenanigans," and because of this missed our train. Drew suggested we make Lemon Drops out of Lemons (as life was giving her vodka) and saw "Baby Mama" the new Tina "retardedly hot" Fey and Amy "I'd pole her" Pohler movie. (Side note: Mac Book Pro does not recognize "retardedly" as an adverb. Thankfully Mad Libs does.)

It was decent, I would say more of a renter, but I am glad I supported Fey's career in what little way I can. The plot was a bit predictable, but Steve Martin, Greg Kinnear, and Sigourney Weaver helped lift the film when it started to sag. All in all a good way to waste time waiting for the next train.

After this we headed to Borders for some old fashioned book finding. I bought a Mad Libs (40th anniversary no less) and Naked Lunch by William S. Burroughs. The Mad Libs helped to keep the train ride interesting with such lines as "When passing a Dinosaur on the right be sure and blow your Cheetah." I know I always make sure to blow my cheetah, especially when passing pesky dinosaurs.

That being said, let me move onto my final topic of the post: Naked Lunch.
I remember being a young man, of no more than 14 or 15, and growing up in an artistically permissive household, had both the joy and terror of seeing the film "Naked Lunch" starring Robocop. The film is both intriguing and completely incomprehensible. I spoke about the film with my father who told me of the novel, and it's vast exspance of surrealism and confusion. I was interested, but this interest would not be satiated for another ten years.

Now, ten years later I am reading Naked Lunch. All I can say is "Holy Shit, what the fuck is going on?" Being about halfway through the rampant drug addled homosexual fantasies of Burroughs I feel that this book is important. It is the "Great Measure." The great measure of what to never, ever, ever, ever, ever, write again.

Setting all silliness aside, my opinion of the book is still in the air. The writing is intriguing and it somehow sticks in your brain, like "a bad hurt for junk." Only time will tell if I can kick. . .

Drew is 24!

Drew had her birthday and after a wonderful dinner at Ye Olde Spaghetti Factory we ended up celebrating at the Havana, a sweaty meat market up on Capitol Hill across from Vita and the Cha Cha. Here are some photo's that she took of our adventures, which end at the Pike Street Fish Fry, a new joint where "Frites" used to be and is now owned by the awesome Michael Hebberoy.




photos by Drew (and 1 by my long arm)

Literature and how it gets that way.

I have been visiting (and in some cases re-visiting) classical literature. I feel as though I've found some cyclopean wealth of knowledge that has been lost to the vast majority of unwashed miscreants that make up my generation. I find the last fact a tragedy.

These massive works of literature, which many contain the essence of human spirit, are forced upon us as young and hormonal teens. It is during this time when the American teenager, or at least a vast majority of American teenagers, finds education repugnant. I find it fascinating that this is the time when many of us will read the classics of literature.

When we think of novels like "Siddartha" or "The Metamorphosis" we think of high school English class and the sheer boredom it evoked. And while I did enjoy these novels, I don't feel I could possibly have grasped the full breadth and depth of these novels.

I would go so far as to say that many of us would learn as little as possible, the bare minimum to eke by, and then discard this knowledge like a burnt matchstick. In looking back I do remember reading these novels, but not much more than that. It was "Siddartha" alone that had any inkling of standing out in my mind. Funny, that it is the same book that started my return to literature of the classical variety.

That being said, I would like to briefly mention two books recently read by this humble blogger.

1) Dharma Bums by Jack Kerouac. (I spelled his last name right the first try!)

and

2) The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka.

Both are amazing pieces of literature for different reason, and both I would recommend. What is next on Ian's reading list? "On the Road" by Kerouac, "Naked Lunch" by William S. Burroughs and "Pulp" by Buckowski. Americana, here I come.

Hell and why it sucks. . . fiction

I'm in hell. The seventh level of it. The worst part of hell is seeing your friends. In hell you can't say "Hi" or chat about relationships or work. In hell you can't even commiserate about being in hell. You're just there. Suffering. I wish I could say there was a good thing about hell, but there isn't. Not one Goddamn thing.

Those who aren't in hell might say "it is what it is." But its worse. Its hell. Fire? Yup, we've got it. Agony? Here in hell, there is agony to spare But the worst part of hell is not the fire, the burning, the agony or the constant rape of your soul. Its the boredom. That's the worst part of hell. I would even go so far as to say hell is the worst place I've ever been. Hell or Tijuana.

Why'd I end up in hell, you might ask? I don't know. The irony is, I don't even believe in hell. I still don't. I keep hoping this is some sick joke, and I will wake up at some point. But I haven't. Maybe this is just the longest dream I have ever had. I don't know. All I know is for countless hours I have been humiliated, abused, scorched and tortured for no good reason.

I guess that's the worst part of hell. Besides the Jim Morrison want-to-bes; the fact that there is no good reason for all of this is the worst part. Whatever. God is a faggot.

Maybe that's why I'm here. Because I think that God is a bitch. His plan only makes sense to weird Christians. That feeling. . . feeling bad about masturbation. . . I would have killed myself if I had that feeling. . . if I had felt bad about a stroke session.

So now I'm here. The Pit. Eternal Damnation. It's not the worse place I could be. I guess. I feel like there are worse places. The DMV. There is a place worse than hell. Maybe not. I would say so.

Maybe I'm full of cheerful optimism. But how could I be? I'm in Hell. . .

PEACE

Little Beauties (or Crazy Parents).

After a wonderful day at the Seattle Aquarium with Akilah (my co-worker) I got over to Drew's to veg out before our party.

And what better way to veg out? Watch Vh1 of course! Right now I am watching "Little Beauties. . . " a show about beauty pageants for little girls. The first thing that the parents always say when interviewed "We're really normal people. I'm a (insert normal profession here) and they're a (some sort of bat shit thing). Example: "We're really normal people. I'm a teacher, and she's a snake milker." Hmmmm.

Anyways, these people parade their young daughters (4-8 year old young) around in whore-ish outfits and tell them the importance of money in America. One of the popular items for these little beauty queens are called "flippers." These devices hide the child's trailer park teeth.

The second thing that is common practice for these kids is to get spray tans. . . Don't spray tans lead to skin cancer? Do you really want to have your children covered in dye and chemicals? Well, I guess these people want to make money.

The final bat shit thing is the swim suit competition, where the song "Little Stripper Baby." Was being played. You know what, America? You are fucking crazy. Stop sexualizing these little girls.

This is exactly what I think is wrong with this country. Little girls are taught by their parents to only care about being "beautiful" and tragically "sexy." So, before I rant on and on about everything that is fucked up I will just say "ciao".

. . . Well, at least these people's craziness affords me entertainment.

Books Books Books

I have been reading an incredible amount lately, which makes me very pleased. Before I read "Job" and "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance" I had fallen off the reading bandwagon. Not that I didn't love to read, but rather I found myself less interested in reading. Why? One might ask?

The answer is simply: I don't know. Maybe I felt listless, or maybe I was disinterested in life. Whatever the case was that disinterest in reading or life has gone. Not only has it left, but it has been replaced with a voraciousness. The need to consume book after book, to read and to indulge myself in the act of reading.

It feels good. Really good.

So, as I do from time to time I will recommend two books I have read recently. The first is "Peter Camenzind" by Herman Hesse.

Hesse's first novel is a "bohemian" tale of love and beauty, and one man's struggle with his life. From small town in the Swiss Alps to the madness of turn of the century Zürich the hero, Peter, falls in love with many beautiful women. The problem is: Peter is both cantankerous and shy. Though he falls in love, it is always unrequited.

The novel is both amazing and rather short (at 140 pages-ish). I read it after having revisited Hesse's "Siddartha" and I have to say it rivals Siddartha in both beauty of language and story-telling ability. I say read it.
The second novel I will recommend to all you lovely readers is "World War Z" by Max Brooks. "Z" (as I will call it from now on) is a fictional account of a zombie war fought in modern times. It is essentially an oral account of the survivors taken as interviews.

For anyone who is a fan of the Zombie genre "Z" is a must read. The care that Brooks takes to the genre is astounding. Not since Romero's "Night of the Living Dead" has so much care been taken in the sculpting of a zombie genre piece. Brooks captures the reality of Zombies, the essence of what makes them terrifying and fascinating.

For those of you who are not a fan of the Zombie genre? I would still say read this book. If you like excellent story telling and writing, you will like this book. Read it, you won't regret it.

Sorry for the delay

I realize I have not been up on the posting, but as I said I had a crazy week a bit ago and am getting everything together. But, if this cheers you up there will be a rad awesome short story/ personal essay on a quite interesting topic. Peace out.

Quick Update

So I will have the last week or so back-posted probably tomorrow. . .

In other news I picked up "Stand Still like the Hummingbird" a wonderful collection of Henry Miller's short essays on life, writing, painting, art, money, and more. I recommend it for all you Miller fans out there.

TTFN

A Few Things To Note

1)I have not posted in a few days due to a Prebo family crisis that shall remain un-named at this current juncture.

2)The line work on my half sleeve is done and pictures will be posted soon.

3)My love for you is like a truck, Berserker.

4)I will have a bunch of back posts up soon to fill you all in on my trials and tribulations.

Good Night, Folks

Lakota Sioux and the Problem of the Government

A few months ago the Lakota Sioux seceded from the United States and claimed all treaties null and void. I am happy for the Sioux, as so many tribes have been treated poorly for the past 2 centuries, but I am worried that this could end up being another "Wounded Knee." Only this time the technology is more advanced and there is live news feeds.

So far it looks as though nothing has happened to the Sioux who have seceded. Maybe the government is scared. Or, maybe I just can't find the newest news about the situation. Keep me updated and correct me if any of this information is wrong. I don't think it is, as I have been doing research, but I thought I would through that out.

One More Quick Note:

Quick Note

Me as Pop-Art.


Me as an Orc or Goblin.

Me right now.

Zen and the Art of Finally Reading a New Age Book

I finally picked up "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance" and I have to say so far it is good.

I always had the idea that the book would be some sort of "New Age" Zen Buddhist Jack-Me-Off-To-Death bullshit novel that people read because Oprah recommended it to them. I thought it would be a book full of stupid maxims about life that idiots could pass off as philosophy. Turns out I was wrong. At least I've been wrong for the first half of the book.

So far the book centers around two things: The journey a man, his son, and two of his friends take across the US on motorcycles; and secondly the nature of reason and the dilemma of modern man.

Robert Pirsig has a style not unlike Kerouac, but without the sex and run-on sentences. His writing is cleaver, and never dull, though many times deeply introspective. The characters don't so much develop (aside from the main character) as blunder through the vastness of the American Great Plains with fear and trepidation.

I will keep you updated on my progress and give you a final ascertation of the novel. But, right now I believe it will keep getting better. Only reading it will tell.

A Word From an Expert

Quick Note

After finishing Job I would say "Read this fucking book as quick as possible." Inventive, imaginative, and spectacularily written are only a few things I could say about this book. If you know me, I just might lend you a copy. Or buy you one.

Job: A Comedy of Justice

For the past few months I have not read very many novels, books, magazines, or anything besides emails and the Sunday comics. Usually, at these most desperate times of literary lacking, I pick up a novel that I have been meaning to read for a considerably long time. I am near finished with the book "Job: A Comedy of Justice" by Robert Heinlein, which is one of these books; a book that gets me back in the swing of reading.

I first purchased the book in one of my Heinlein kicks, about 3 or 4 years ago. I read a vast majority of the books that I had bought (Starship Troopers, Stranger in a Strange Land, Double Star, Red Planet, Assignment Eternity, Farnham's Freehold, Friday, Time Enough For Love, and The Cat Who Walks Through Wall to name a few{Heinlein wrote at least 50 books}), but every time I went to pick up Job, I could not do it. I would look at the cover for hours, I would read the blurb, I would get so far as to read the publication information and about the author. But, no matter how much I tried, I would not read the book.

I am happy to say, with about 50 pages to go, it is one of Heinlein's finest novels. It is both funny and cathardic; it is joyous and sad. It is a novel that addresses religion, taboos and human's preconcieved notions about life. In many ways these are common themes for Heinlein;s later works, including Friday and Time Enough For Love, but there is somethings else that sets this book apart.

One reason being the main character is an Evangelical Christian Preacher from another dimension. The second is because the book centers around Armageddeon (see also: The Rapture, Ragnarok, Judgement Day) or at least the ever present threat of the end. But more than that the book is about love and sex and everything that makes life so wonderful to live.

So, in conclusion, read this book and/or anything written by Robert A. Heinlein. Trust me.

P.S. if you read "Stranger in a Strange Land" (probably his best book) read the "Unexpurgated Version" with the forward by his wife. It has 60,000 more words than the first publication, and each one of them count.

Work, Work, Work

I have been working too hard lately. Not that I mind it that much, but I am beginning to feel a bit burned out. Between Mainstay, The Red Lion, and SCCtv I have next to no time for myself. Furthermore, I am trying to make a documentary and continue writing films. AND on top of that I am hoping I will be able to work on "The Warren Report" T.V. show again.

So, what does a guy have to do to get everything done? There is the Maxim "there are 24 usable hours in a day." But a guy has to sleep, right? The answer being yes, and no. I try to sleep and catch up with it as much as I can, but to work like I have been these past few weeks it means a major sacrifice in the sleep department.

I don't feel too bad about loosing sleep, though. I mean I am groggy and tired a lot, but it was the same way for me in film school. I am more productive if I am getting no sleep. How does that work? I don't know. It just does. One of my instructors in film school was also an insomniac like me. What did she do with her abundant creativity and lack of sleep? Direct the film "Sweet Crude," a documentary on the oil crisis in the Niger delta. I only hope I can produce at least one film that requires that much devotion and is that meaningful.

I guess time will tell.

More Poetry

Sewer
Last night I dreamed I was sick, viens cut
no blood poured out
each wound was full of my blood
clotted like chocolate meat
I pulled and pushed and spurted
the sickly clot from my vien
it burst from my shoulder
the pain and waste
shooting forth and
I felt as though I were dying
the vien broke and I tried
to fix it
like a bad spice my father
would make on Christmas tree lights
I feared for my life, and felt
the cold grip of death
as I woke in fridgid sweat


Milling about
The Flim-Flam Man
with his bowler hat
addorned with pheasent feather
shouted mighty successes
at mediocre masses
of hopeful authors


Drawn Unto You
i bleed for you
my dear; my darling
like the love of a
paper birch
my life spilling out
through every crack
in my bark

i need for you
my dear; my darling
with the need of a
withdrawl ridden junkie
guts and bile spilling
to show every ounce
of my ache

i want for you
my dear; my darling
like the want of a
teenage boy
my body's needs
throbbing through every inch
of my soul

i die for you
my dear; my darling
like we die to each other
everyday
and each time you are
sweet stranger
of my heart


Seems lately I've been bitten by the poetry bug. Good news for me, bad news for poetry. Hope you enjoyed. Peace out.

My So Called Life

Okay, Okay, if you were anyone during the 90's (and I know I was) you partook in the wonderfulness that is My So Called Life. This evening after kickin' it with Poot (for his B-day) I went over to Drew's abode and watched said Prime Time program.

I believe it was made by the same folks that did 30 Something. In all honesty it was a good thing to do. I loved My So Called Life not only because I identified with the whole youth culture thing, but also because it captured the American family.

This leads me on to a further point: where is the American family today? What is it? Most parents these days get a divorce, and in all honesty if the show went on any further I believe the parents (Angela's) would have gotten a divorce. But that is beside the point.

The point is that My So Called Life was a show that tapped into the Zeitgeist of a generation. But not only did it tap into that it touched the parental culture as well. How do I know this? The shows my family would watch together were "The Wonder Years", "Real World" (specifically San Fransisco{Pedro, saddness!}), and "My So Called Life."

All these shows tapped into something. It tapped into the joys and fears of all of us. It tapped into the fears and joys of our parents; it tapped into the fears and joys of ourselves as kids. It grabbed you by the guts.

I was young for the show. I think I must have been 11 or maybe 13 when the first (and last) season of "My So Called Life" aired, but it touched me. As a "fringe" person my whole life I needed something like this show that said "Hey, its okay to be the weird kid on campus. Its okay to be confused about sex and life because that is what is actually normal." It helped form my opinions of being young and about girls (I totally would have hooked up with Rayanne.)

But, in the end, it was just another T.V. show, right? Or was it? I believe that the show "failed" because it was too real. It hit to close to home. And all the "flyover state, middle American peeps (idiots) could not handle the truth of the world." Life is hard and fucked up. People get fucked up, kids do drugs, kids are gay, and nothing is as you want it to be. So, that's life, right? Take it or leave it. And that is what is fucked up America in the first place. Americans can't take life.

I was lucky because I had hippies for parents. They wanted me to learn about life. They wanted me to watch the right films and shows. I watched "The Graduate," and "Easy Rider," I watched "Jaws" with my father and "When Harry Met Sally" with my mom; I was exposed to what film and art should be. Maybe I'm wrong, but whatever. My So Called Life was still a great show.

Last Day of February First Day of Rock

Alright folk, it being the 29th of February and therefore a leap year, I thought I would blog about some bullshit and generally make an ass out of myself. But, dear readers, what do I blog about? Well, I guess for now I will just give you one of my many awesome updates.

First of all, I have beaten Halo 2 in about 4 days of play, and lost much sleep in the process. Last night I kicked it with my buddy Alex, who I haven't seen in at least 8 or 9 months. We played more Halo 2 and generally killed Brute, Flood, and Covenant alike.

Secondly, I enjoy my new job immensly. Because of said job, I plan on getting my driver's liscence (finally) so that I can work more. I have another shoot for SCCtv coming up and am stoked about that as well.

Lastly, I am awesome. That is all for now.

Outro.

Poetry on the Bus part 2

Two Haikus and one Free Verse:

Day Job
In the morning time
I catch two busses to go
To a job I love

Night Job
In the evening
I catch one bus to go
To a job I hate

No Name # 63
7:10am at the corner
of 3rd and Jefferson
Thick, black clad Adidas
woman shambles by
My chariot lurches
and continues onward
the faces I see change
from Monday to Monday
but I am the same

7:12am at the corner
of 3rd and Main St
an out of service
Community Transit
purrs to a stop
I am reminded of
early morning coffees
outside Amazon offices
with her.

There you go, another entry in "Preebz's Poetry on the Bus." Hope you enjoyed it.

Note To All

Get a French Press.

The Unberible Tightness of Ian

I have been tracking lately, and one of the exercises I have been doing with Lil' Poot is laying down "lines." Essentially we go out to a wooded area (in this case the West Duwamish Greenbelt) and lay down a long set of tracks through an area. After this we come back on a later date to follow the tracks. So far Poot has been pretty successful in finding the lines I have left, with the exception of about two spots that threw him off.

I am still no where near where I want to be in my tracking skills, but I have seen noticeable improvement in my skills. One of the things that has helped me considerably is laying a track and then coming back after a time (a day, two days etc.) to see how the track has aged. It is interesting to see how time and weather affect each track in each terrain differently.

In other news I was in the Maha up on the hill and started chatting with this dude about wilderness and tracking. It turns out that he is an avid nature person and quite familiar with the Duwamish Greenbelt. After a chat I found out he also plays guitar, so when I have more free time we're going to jam and check out nature.

Later on that same night Thompson, a former employee of the Lion Rouge, met me at the Maha. After one drink and an appetizer he was hooked. Then we went back to his crib and drank some Joose, a highly alchoholic Malt beverage which is surprisingly tasty. Suffice to say I got a bit boozy and punched a hole in his bedroom door Jackass style.

After this I went and kicked it with his awesome neighbors, some 19 year old kids who love music. We jammed with me sining and playing guitar and this guy Tyler on electric piano. Then we had a dance party and listened to early Tom Waits. After a while the cops showed up and told us to keep it down. It now being 3 in the morning I decided to get home before I caused anymore trouble.

The next day I met up with Thompson to pay for his door. . . I'm not entirely irresponsible after all.

One Pot, Two Pot, Three Pot, Four

I finally had the chance to enjoy one of Seattle's finer dining establishments called "One Pot." One Pot can be best described as "a comunal dining expierience." What does this mean to the average person? Basically, you sit around a huge dinner table with friends and strangers. Then, you eat, drink, and be merry. The food is usually crafted by one of the many fine chefs we find here in the Northwest.

The most recent event was held under the Mo Bar next to Neumos. The decor was brick walls and pipes. The music being played, everything from mo-town to Beirut, from Elliot Smith to Ella Fitzgerald. The food was simple and elegant, from the pork and lamb meatballs in a simple tomato sauce, to the raw milk cheese, to the delectable braise rabbit.

I missed out on much of the table side festivities as I was running plate after plate from the partially remodled kitchen to the downstairs VIP room. But, what I caught, I liked. As I cleared the tables of the plates, grabing some sweet morsels that were left I chatted with Seattle restauranteurs. "Have a glass of wine" one offered which started a long conversation on what lacked in the Seattle food community and the finer parts of Pinot Noir.

The creater, Michael Hebberoy, is what I would most accurately coin as "Awesome-tastic." He is a visionary, and it seems his battle cry is "Kill the Restaurant." While cleaning up after the event we chatted about the finer points of dumpster diving and about cleaning someone else's plate (this was brought on when I lovingly picked a large hunk of exquisite rabbit that had been half eaten from one of the dirty plates and said "How could anyone waste this awesome rabbit?" and then promptly shoved it in my mouth). "I've worked in the restuarant business since I was thirteen. If someone sent back half a steak, I'd be like 'Hey! That's good steak!' and later on when I got older all the wait staff would get grossed out, but I didn't care. It was still a good steak." It turns out we are avid fans of both culinary practices.

Being from Portland Hebberoy has some of the Northwest Sensibilities, but with a joi de vivre that can only come from that big-little city. In many ways Portland is much more of a major metropolitan area than Seattle could ever dream of. Sure, we have the people and the economy, but Portland has something that Seattle has lost: Heart. Portland lives for culture, food, art and music; in Seattle it is our weekend, our hobby, but not our soul. From the public tranist that functions to the late night donut spots, Portland is a 24 hour city, and its proud heratige of counter-culture lives in the viens of Hebberoy.

Love him or not, he is a man on a quest to change the way the world looks at the table, at community, and at gastronomy. Whatever Michael has in store for Seattle and One Pot I will be looking forward to with big eyes and an empty stomach. . . and maybe a few drinks in me.

Quick Update

I watched Ghost Rider. It sucks. . . but I still kinda liked it. But only a little.

Prose before Hos, or Poetry before Ho-etry

After I got of work over at where ever it is I work (not telling you, suckers) I found myself both bored and on the bus. And what, pray tell, is the cure for boredom? Herpes. (Jokes)! It's writting shitty poetry on the bus! So with out any further ado, here are two poems I wrote, which will begin a new "Ian's Poetry on the bus" thing which I will probably never do again. (Okay, with some further ado.)

NO NAME #74
Two by two these long steel snakes
swim by the window
of the number 55
flashes of irredescent color
-the shape and rhythem of letters
handstyles, and names
going home, again
to ancient household of mother and father
going home, again
like whipped and beaten pup
tail between legs
-faint smell of urine on my face
going home, again
in hopes of leaving
again


Waves of Concrete and Gallons of

I feel the pressure against my bowels
And bladder
Each bump of metal grating
Creating more force inside me
Five stops, four stops, three stops
The great hulking behemoth pauses
And snakes a turn around the corner
Five stops, four stops, three stops, two stops
I bite down hard and taste iron,
This is only temporary relief. . .
Four stops, three stops, two stops, one
Now, feet beating hard on wet concrete
Hot iron pushing in my guts
Each step rings cacophony in my body
Each step one less to take
The pace quickens, moves
More frantic
My body’s water
And earth
Screaming for escape
And home.

So, there you go. Some poetry before your ho-etry. Peace out and all that bullshit.

Meditations on Myself

The past week has been both trying and wonderful. I find myself completely and utterly in love with my new job as a job coach. I would tell you all more, but I am bound to confidentiality, suffice to say I am for the first time in my life doing something I really feel matters. Let me rephrase, for the first time I have a job that is to do something that really matters.

In the past I worked on many wonderful projects for the community because I was a boyscout. Some people may think it is a silly organization, and I personally disagree with its views on homosexuality in scouts, but there are many good things about it.

My first forrays into the wild Northwest National Forrests were with the boyscouts. I learned how to identify plants and animals, made my body more physically fit through activities and campouts and eventially gave much back to the community through service projects and finally my own Eagle Scout award.

After boyscouts I gave all this up. I was in College, I was dating, I turned 21 and had many nights of drunken debauchery. I played music with my friends until the wee hours of the morning. I "spent the night" at girl's houses I just met, and partook in many other odious acts of vandilism and self-destruction.

But I always missed the feeling that scouting gave me. Yet, I never allowed myself the time. Recently, I have taken up tracking and wilderness skills with much vigor. I find myself identifying plants such as Oregon Grape, Salal, the White Pine, and the Yew Tree. I look for signs of animals, such as tracks, hairs and scats. I watch the sky for birds of prey. I think longingly about lashing.

Now, with the new job I have I am again providing service to people who need it. I am helping the community again. And more importantly I am making a difference in one person's life. And in all honesty, that person is making a difference in my life as well.

And I find that after all this time it turns out I am still a good person. Sometimes it is nice to go back to the old ways. Maybe I'm just being Post-Modern in my own life, or maybe I am actually the person the people who love me tell me I am.

If you cry then I'll cry. . .

I was watching one of my favorite shows today, American Chopper, and as usual the episode was a brilliant cross section of what is awesome and aweful about America. If you are unfamiliar with the show, let me fill you in. A father and son work together to build crazy themed "choppers" (custom motorcycles that have a longer than normal rake) and get into fights and generally cause havok. While all this is happening the fat and lazy younger brother Mikey tries to bring hilarity and mirth to all to ease the tension of the two anger factories, Paul Sr. and Paul Jr.

In recent episodes the two Pauls have been getting along much better and generally having a good time working on bikes, such as the "My Name is Earl" bike for the NBC show of the same name and the University of Michigan Wolverines bike for a children's hospital charity.

The show has grown in budget and sucess as the bike builders have grown in sucess, built and destroyed shops, built bigger, better bikes, and blown up and/or destroyed as much as possible. It even seemed the two of them had been getting along better and set aside thier father-son infighting.

This episode took a step back to earlier days. Paul Sr. and Jr. had probably one of their worst fights in show history (trust me I have seen every episode) and I was both entertained and worried. It seemed as though it would leed to father-son fist-e-cuffs.

I think much of my curiosity in the show comes from the relationship I have with my father, and the similarities that our relationship has to the relationship of the Tutles. It worries me that my father and I have had so many explosive fights, and maybe this show has given me refuge, somewhere to go where I can comiserate and maybe have a laugh at something that isn't so far from home (pun intended).

In this particular episode the two Pauls fight wasn't about the shop or who has better ideas in bike building it is about the universal theme that boys grow into men and must "fight" for respect from thier fathers. Do all men go through this? I doubt it. But when you pair two strong minded and creative individuals together, they can butt heads.

At the end of the fight the two predominantly stoic men embrassed each other crying and told each other they were sorry. I have to admit, I shed a tear. Not because of these two men fighting, but for the times my father and I have not been as able to forgive each other.

And now, having moved back into my parents basement I find myself caught in that struggle again, but now with a stronger idea of who and am and a greater sense of independence. I no longer feel the need to justify my life to my father. I no longer feel like a faliure at life. I no longer feel I need to prove anything. If it hasn't already been proved it never will be.

Two Things

So I have two things of note for today, Sunday February 10th 2008: The first being I have made a concerned effort to continue my streak of creativity, and the second being I have a new job as of an hour ago.

Let me start with the first. I have been working on a script, at least the outline of a script, for a very personal story. I decided to take the advice of the lovely and talented Drew over at OMSTV and write out the story as a personal narrative. The writing is going well, and will continue to do so later today while I "work" at the Red Lion. All I can say is "It is good to be creating again."

Second I just had an interview for a new job for yours truly. Essentially I would be job training with someone else to help them learn their job. While this may be a little outside my comfort zone I look at it as both a challenge and a bright new opportunity to make cash money.

So with that I look forward to the upcoming weeks working more and creating more as well. Tomorrow I wake up at 5:30 and go to work!

Typeface, and the dilema of art in the Modern (or Post-Modern?) world.

Last night I watched the film "Helvetica" which is a documentary on the type face Helvetica. I'd like to give you an example, but blogger does not offer Helvetica as one of it's fonts. It does have ARIAL (arial) which is essentially a knock-off of Helvetica.

The film is both interesting and superbly crafted. The interviews are informative, the shots are both cinematic and contain a sence of uniformity, which is where the type face Helvetica came from. It was made durning the Modernist movement, which focused on functionality. It is clean and functional, which is very much in the vien of Modernism. This film spurred a long discussion with Drew and I on art, Modernism, and Post-Modernism.

This got me thinking. Many people say we are now in Post-Post-Modernism, while others contest we are still in Post-Modernism. Which is true? If you think about it Post-Post-Modernism would just be a throwback to Modernism, right? And the truth of the matters in some ways a lot of design and art has gone back to the roots of Modernism. Be it conformity to specific rules, use of white space, or the idea that text (Helvetica) should be clean and clear; the text should not show the emphasis, the ad/art/design should show the emphasis.

Some still contest that we are in Post-Modernism, that having progressed this far with art and technology we can only build upon the ideology of Post-Modernism. Drew brought up an interesting argument about Post-Modernism in film. Looking at a director like Michele Gondry one could make the argument he is a Post-Modern director. He acknowledges the intellegence of the audience and our synicism towards the world, but asks us to suspend disbelief and step into a world that is both magical and very "home-made" ("The Science of Sleep" and "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" both do this). This understanding of irony as well as the look at what is magical and beautiful in the world really embodies the ideology of Post-Modernism. The other film she used as an example of this outlook, this embodiment of Post-Modernism in film, is "Singing in the Rain."

On the surface "Singing in the Rain" and "The Science of Sleep" are two very different films, but there is a kindred spirit to both. These films accept life's injustice and irony but also ask the viewer to look at the world for what is wonderful and magical. These films ask us to suspend the pessimism and synicism of our everyday lives and cherish what we have and what is really important.

But I digress.

Look at the world that you live in. Whether it be Seattle, New York, Stockholm, London, or Copenhaagen, look at the text that surrounds you. How much of it is Helvetica? You would be surprised to see that this little Modernist type face is everywhere and on everything. Your tax forms and W-2s are in Helvetica. "Washington" on the Washington state liscence plate is in Helvetica. Ads, signs, nutrition facts, logos (ARCO, Olympus, American Airlines) all are Helvetica.

For myself I am still trying to suss out what this means in my life. Maybe the Post-Modern foundation I have built my ideology on has slightly crumbled. Maybe it is the fact that I am getting older and that the cold hand of death looms closer everyday. Or, could it be the fact that I have been stagnant and now am awakening to the creative in myself again? I don't know. What I do know is that we are surrounded. Like the Force of the Star Wars saga, Helvetica "Surrounds us, penetrates us and binds us to the Galaxy." Or at least our own little corner of the Galaxy. But it is up to you, in this Post, or Post-Post, or Post Post-Post Modern world, to decide what it means for yourself.