Yo. It’s, erm, 2008. Back at school, trying to wrap it all up and get it out the fucking door — “it” being the entirety of my graduate education, of course. You can sort of see what it looks like here; at the moment, there are a billion little unraveling minutiae to be dealt with: bureaucratic, social, financial, emotional, physiological… and of course my struggle to contend with all of them is wonderfully enriched by the overbearing fact that the genesis of each of these dumb little things, originally, was a fuck-up or oversight on my part. Like forgetting to fill out a super-important form, or sleeping through my alarm when I had an important meeting… Blech. It sucks. The whole mess simply will not die quietly, much like a zombie, or the Cloverfield monster. It’s been a rough two months or so.

See why I’ve been keeping my blog-mouth shut?? So. Anyway I will spare you the worst of the retarded gripes. But so, what I have for you is this: last night, I had to do a bunch of writing excercises, and to distract myself late at night, I concocted the following design-music-cosmology system. I’ll dish up more stuff soon, now that classes have started again and I am therefore less droolingly antisocial. Fuck yes.

…

So. LET:

architecture = 80’s pop-rock,
graphic design = hip hop,

THEN:

type design = turntablism,
interior architecture = late 80’s alt-rock,
(… e.g. Atelier van Lieshout = The Pixies)
book design = the Wu-Tang Clan,
poster design = Tupac,
news/editorial design = Biggie,
web design = 50 Cent,
info design = the Ultramagnetic MC’s,
letterpress poster art = Snoop Dogg,

THEREFORE:

Design*Sponge = Russell Simmons.

AND:

urban design and urban planning = 90’s crybaby alt-rock,
contemporary art = American Idol,
furniture design = jazz,
textile design = The cross-genre continuum consisting of everyone ever cited or otherwise referenced by LCD Soundsystem, Mr. Murphy et al and his close associates, and all those who will come after them and rip them off,
apparel design = electroclash.

SO THEN:

package design = the Fugees,
contemporary calligraphy = the Digable Planets,
Felice Varini = Autechre,
exhibit design = Licensed to Ill by the Beastie Boys,

BUT THEN, LET:

structural engineers = rock drummers,
(… e.g. Cecil Balmond = Lars Ulrich, etc)
CAD = MIDI,
O-CAD = MAX/MSP,
BIM and parametric systems = Ableton Live,

THEREFORE:

Frank Gehry = the Postal Service,

AND:

Hektor = Atom and his Package.

FURTHERMORE:

critical theory = reggae,

THEN:

digital ethnography = Shaggy,
contemporary video art = Buju (or maybe Anthony B),
net.art (quote-unquote) = Bob Marley,
architectural theory = Rusted Root (or Dave Matthews, or maybe even 311, or some shit like that),
media theory = Hootie and the Blowfish,
Fluxus = the T-Connection (circa the reign of Kool Herc).

AND THEN:

motion graphics = the Black-Eyed Peas,
just video and film editing = just Fergie,
database design = the Game,
web-nerd non-design stuff = the rest of G-Unit in general,

THUS IT FOLLOWS:

industrial design = delta blues,
magazine design = Octagon-era Kool Keith,
contemporary painting = Will Smith,
contemporary sculpture = Eminem,
Bio-art = Rihanna.

IN CONCLUSION:

DADA = Run-DMC,
surrealism = Check Your Head by the Beastie Boys,
Andy Warhol = Robert Smith,
Marcel Duchamp = Kraftwerk,
Le Corbusier = Paul McCartney,
Robert Moses = John Lennon,
Jane Jacobs = Yoko Ono,
Robert Irwin = Sun-Ra,
Robert Venturi = Led Zeppelin,
Tibor Kalman = Sean Combs,
Benjamin Franklin = Elvis Presley.

The title here is true, and this is a true story. I used to love nooling around with electronics. It didn’t matter what, as long as it was “electronics”, and “noodling”. This was when I was between, like, 6 and 12 years of age, mostly. I would gather junk TVs and stereos in my basement “workshop” and dissect them. I didn’t really know what I was doing; the best I could do was make funny noise come out of speakers, or make the lights light up on some component thing. I found old telephones especially entertaining, because of the easy-to-decode colored wiring and such.

So but yeah. I had a friend named Ara Kenian. He was my first nerd buddy, in retrospect; he would come over and we’d rewire things together. He was much better at that stuff than I was (I think he eventually went to MIT for engineering, or somesuch) and we’d have a lot of fun, because he’d try to establish some legit project for us to work on, and I would fuck it up egregiously, and so we’d degenerate into nonsensical babble, which I guess is what you do when you are a poorly socialized nerd child, as we both most definately were. Yeah.

Here, in fact, is an example of how nerdy I was at the time: when I got my allowance, I would take it to the local hardware store, and buy needlenose pliers, or cable TV connectors, or shit like that. Not candy, or whatever it was that you normal 8-year-olds blew your allowance on. I bought electronic parts. That’s how I usually put it: parts. As in, Mom, I cleaned up my whole room, can I go to Mass Hardware and get some parts now, pleeeaase?? It was kind of ridiculous.

If I was a really really good kid, and did everything I was supposed to, and I was really lucky, I would get a trip to the dumpsters behind the Sony service center. That was a special treat for me, maybe once every two months I’d get to go.

But yeah, so at one point I got an oscilloscope. Oscilloscopes like the one I am talking about looked like this:

… I am sure that these days, you go and get some $40 USB dongle thing, and then pow, your computer can do everything an old-skool oscilloscope could do, AND MORE. But in those days, oscilloscopes were still pretty much the shit. You could literally SEE what was going on in your wires, basically, and this was the missing piece of the puzzle for me to actually do some sort of actual electronics stuff. I was very excited.

But what happened was this: the next time I was at Mass Hardware blowing my allowance on parts, I ran into an apparently like-minded individual. I struck up some sort of conversation with this guy, Joe, who appeared to be my age, and who was also there with his mom, on a quest for parts. At least, he appeared to be my age, but he kept saying that he was 15, even though he was my height, which was short for an 8-year-old I think. So we were talking about parts and electronics and other such shit, and I mentioned (no doubt with pride) that I had an oscilloscope.

It was shortly after this that he invitied me to his house, which was coincedentally located not two blocks away from my house. He was charming and friendly, but most importantly, he said I could come and take as many parts from his basement workshop.

After somehow winning my mom over to this idea, I went over to Joe’s. I was, quite frankly bowled over: while my parents had confined my workshop to a small corner of our basement, Joe had clearly taken over the entirety of his, much to the audiable chagrin of his mom. Joe, in fact, was constantly quibbling with her, and would occasionally use his parts as weapons: he had constructed a bunch of ridiculously overpowered amplifiers, whose sole employ seemed to be the squelching of his mom’s aggrivated comments. So we tromped around through the basement, through canyons formed of shelves of parts, past workbenches covered with floral masses of wires, and under enormous subwoofers hung from the raw joists in the cieling with spare wires. And Joe had a big paper bag, into which he would throw all manner of interesting parts.

“Vacuum tubes? Sure, have a bunch!”

“You want this power supply? Here, have a power supply. It’s brand new, works, yeah. Take it!”

“Here, I can give you these phone bells. Oh, you like phone parts? I have more of them in this box. Go ahead!”

It was my dream come true. It did not bother me that Joe would occasionally put down his boxes of parts, and grab around me for a hug, saying things like “It’s great to have met you, buddy pal.” Nor did I find his mom’s squalking protests at all amiss; after all, we both giggled when the speaker noise overpowered her. But I do remember him saying, about a third of the way through, “So I’ll bring these over, and trade you for the oscilloscope, right, buddy?” And although that was a big deal, definately, I assumed that I had promised him such, and I nodded enthusiastically.

And that’s what happened. He came over, and left me with the parts, and asbsconded with my oscilloscope. After he left, I realized that the trade was hardly equitable, and that he had clearly got the better part of the deal. But that was okay, even, right? I mean, he was my new friend, and I’d get to play with the oscilloscope over at his workplace, just like he could play with my all my phone stuff and my nonsensically reconfigured tape decks. Right?

But so: Two days later, Joe rang my doorbell unexpectedly. He didn’t say much. I let him in, and he went right down to my basement workshop. He packed up most of the parts he’d left me with, including the power supply and the totally awesome vacuum tubes, and left without saying goodbye.

And I knew then that I would NEVAR SEE HIM, OR MY OSCILLOSCOPE, AGAIN!!!! (sob)

So there you have it: a midget stole my oscilloscope. I think Ara came over after that, and we laughed it off and built something baroque and nonfunctional out of the leftovers. And then I forgot about the entire episode until like a year ago, when I somehow drunkenly recounted this story for some friends, and my pal Jed shouted, “A midget stole your oscilloscope!” And so. I don’t mind using the offensive term “midget” vis a vis this guy, because he is a dirty thief and a manipulator of children. Yeah!

I took out my tongue ring, and quit smoking. I made a list of people with whom I no longer wish to communicate, and deleted their entries from my fone. I made another list of people for whom my love is disproportionaltely greater than the amount of time I spend talking to them, and vowed to rectify this disparity. I started working in Merce’s studio again, and with relish. I wrote some code for them that does not viscerally disgust me. I have been using a bunch of 4GL/mainframe/non-RDBMS techniques for all this (hence the entry title), the mere fact of which is enough to make me laugh out loud. I am also a gigantic nerd, for the record.

I started to start a company/studio/collective with two of my dearest friends, and I am very excited about this. I started to do a website for a friend of mine, for which I have already designed a typeface, which of course is far from perfect (or even “decent” or “readable”, really, at this point), but is thus far super fucking entertaining. I also started to do a book for another of my dear friends, like of her artwork, and it’s a supreme pleasure to make a book of someone else’s shit, vis a vis my own, let me fucking tell you.

I went to the infamous Glass House, by the late Mr. Johnson. I took many pictures, and watched the Cunningham dancers dance. I missed my mom for all this, but less in a mopey way and more in a corner-of-your-mouth-smile you’d-love-to-see-this sort of way, which wasn’t 100% terrible, I am glad to report.

I am generally doing pretty fucking well, I should say.

I like working in places that are not explicitly design studios, because then I start to do wierd shit, because I have to impovise with the materials I have on hand (a condition which has, historically, yielded hillarious results). I have yet to get internet in my house, so I have been making do with coffee spots and royally crappy stolen wifi, which is similarly good because it stems the torrent of inbound distractions. I am at Supercore right now, in fact, and it’s beyond fantastic, despite the fact that they plugged all of their electrical outlets up with silly putty, or someshit, thus forcing wifi freeloaders like myself to cling desperately to the last dregs of our laptop batteries.

In a nutshell.

-fish

Hi! Back at my mom’s house. The semester almost killed me, it had be against the wall and my energy bar was down to a mere 3%, but I have returned and I am roughly ten thousand times more powerful as a result. Ditto all my friends; it was true trial by fire for reals.

But anyway yeah, I got some sleep at my mom’s and whatnot; I’m headed to New York for the requisite New Years’ nonsense. I keep meaning to synopsize it all meaningfully here, writing little summaries in my head while I walk around here getting coffee and feeding the cats, etcetera, but I can’t remember any of it. So until I get my shit together, here’s my rework of “losing my edge” from like a year and a half ago, and now it’s dedicated to all those entering Doug Scott’s “History of Graphic Design” class this spring. Fuck yes. Happy chanukkah, motherfuckers!

-fish

yeah I’m losing my edge
I’m losing my edge
the kids
are coming up from behind

I’m losing my edge
I’m losing my edge
to the kids
from yale
and from sciarch

but I was there

I was there in 1898
I was there at the first punchcutting of aksidenz-grotesk

I’m losing my edge
I’m losing my edge
to the kids
whose footsteps I hear
when they pin up their work

I’m losing my edge
to the internet seekers
who can tell me
every draftsman
from every good firm
from 1962 to 1978

I’m losing my edge
I’m losing my edge
to all the kids
in tokyo and berlin
to the art school brooklynites
with little moleskines
and borrowed nostalgia for unbuilt saint petersburg

I’m losing my edge
I’m losing my edge

but I was there

I was there
I was there

I’m losing my edge
I’m losing my edge

I can hear the footsteps
every night at the computer

but I was there
I was there in 1975 at the first publication of the push pin graphic
I was working on the kerning, with much patience
I was there when martin venezky started up his first firm
I said “don’t do it that way, you’ll never make a dime”
I was there
I was the first guy showing lot/ek
to the deconstructivists
I showed ‘em at cooper union
everybody thought it was crazy
we all know, I was there

I was there

I’ve never been wrong
I used to work at phaidon
I saw everything before everyone
I was there at weimar with johannes itten
I was there at the GSD during great debate between christopher alexander and peter eisenman
I woke up face on the keyboard after final GSAPP crits in 1997

but I’m losing my edge
to bettter looking people
with better ideas
and more talent
who are actually really really nice

I’m losing my edge

I heard you have a bookshelf with every good book
every great poster by tschischold
all the modernist hits
all of the archigram maquettes
I heard you have a test print of every mike cina poster on epson semimatte
I heard you have an autographed copy of every koolhaas book from 75, 89, 98
I heard you have an online scan archive of every good art nouveau lithograph
and another flat file from de stijl

I hear you are buying a drafting table
and a bone folder
and throwing your computer out the window
because you want to make something real
you want to make a gehry coffetable book

I hear that you and your firm have sold your CAD workstations and bought powerbooks
I hear that you and your firm have sold your powerbooks and bought CAD workstations

I hear that everybody that you know is more relevant that everybody that I know

max bill, griffo, jenson, OMA, louis sullivan, HHR, milt glaiser, cecil balmond and arup, SOM, kusama, bonnard, gordon matta-clark, widen and kennedy, superbad, didot, ogilvy, paul rand, richard neutra, agfa monotype, josef albers, herzog and demuron, skolos/wedell, bucky fuller, taki 183, jeremy bernstien, john maeda, banksy, bodoni, richard meier, jessica helfland, designers republic, dave eggers, moholy-nagy, mies van der rohe (LESS IS MORE!), rafael vinoly, sanford kwinter, fontshop, LARS MUELLER PUBLISHERS!! gregor schneider, mutabor, mariko mori, die gestalen verlag
font bureau
art deco
karel martens
karel martens
karel martens
karel martens

we all know what you really want
we all know what you really want
we all know what you really want
we all know what you really want
we all know what you really want
we all know what you really want
we all know what you really want
we all know what you really want
we all know what you really want
we all know what you really want
we all know what you really want
we all know what you really want
we all know what you really want
we all know what you really want
we all know what you really want
we all know what you really want

what is that?

Been rather crazy lately, with the finishing of work and the preparing to leave New York for Providence, blech. Read a lot of books lately: that new ill-designed Houellebecq, that depressing but intriguing Murakami bit about the Tokyo gas attack, some old Salinger and Bukowski and other such shit. Mostly pleasantly untheoretical, in anticipation of school again I guess. I started the Superstudio Middelburg Lectures book but I got annoyed with the footnote typography and threw it across the room, and then drank whiskey.

The shit I did for Merce Cunningham ended up being pretty good, I think, which is a rare thing for me to say, cuz usually my own work does not thrill me, especially this sort of work, which was mostly code. I sort of hate writing code with all of my heart, really, but it pays the bills so I do it, which of course makes me feel like a dirty whore. C’est la guerre, no? Yeah.

The trouble, really, is that my social circle is composed mainly of people who do not write code. This is sort of by design, really, cuz nothing is retardeder than a bunch of geeks sitting around talking about code. It gets very old very quickly. Shit was particularly bad in Troy, where we were all geeks of one stripe or another, and I recall that at one party at Kevin’s, we made the rule that there would be no computer talk after midnight, and it was a good rule, indeed.

So but still I have the urge to shoot off my mouth about code, now and again. So what I am going to do is put a bunch of code talk in the “extended entry” portion of this “blog article”, yes, and if you are so inclined you can click the little link and read all about that nonsense, so it’s not all up in your face. How’s that? I think that’s good. Yes.

Anyway. In non-code news, I am going to the beach tomorrow with my friends for labor day. This particular beach is in Amagansett, which is a good place to go because you can avoid sounding like an utter douche and saying “oh yes I’m going to the Hamptons”, because you’re not, technically speaking. Anyway it’s not like that anyway, we stay at a total 70’s-vintage beach house owned by Anna’s parents, not some twatterrific mansion. So yeah. Fuck yeah!

-fish