Made in China

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shipping_industry_of_China#

The post-Cold War era has given rise to some "new" (old) demons that feed from our collective fears and paranoia about walls we can't see past, and the loss of the self through mass conformity that's reflected in our consumer tastes. Buying, at least to many Ameri-Europeans, has long been touted by advertisers and companies as a way to freely express our individuality, with the unfortunate consequence of the exact opposite, as it so often works in generational trends. Some of it is justified: without world standards for consumer goods firmly in place, every import becomes a case of "buyer beware", with sometimes strange and/or humorous results.

East Asian people of Queens have a fun and actively-thriving "New Delhi" culture we enjoy greatly, with the unforeseen consequence of serious eye infections and other health issues, as the direct result of unchecked charcoal eyemakeup imported from India freely applied as a cosmetic, without the obligatory warning label. And it isn't just overseas goods. American cosmetics have more lead and mercury in them than any of their European counterparts, even "all-natural" products that are supposedly wholesomely made from at-risk bees with their ill-made wax. It's all inter-connected.

As businesses strive to supply already-strapped families affordable toys at Christmastime, so too do they open the door to Chinese plastic goods (or kitchenware with traces of lead) that do not require mandatory testing for stocking (and re-stocking) on our discount "Big Mart" shelves, leaving the average American to presume a level of scrutiny that bests or matches the mind of an actively researching scientist, leaving the hardest hit strata of our society even more vulnerable than ever, in their quest to find better deals priced cheaply.

And some of it isn't unintentionally dangerous either. You'd have to be extremely naive or delusional not to think twice about the pairing of poorly-made Japanese air bags stuffed into German cars sent to an American marketplace with murderous results that doesn't reek of vengeance for our role in WWII. Look what we did to them for their evil actions: we writ (some would suggest) an even bigger horror upon them with an atomic bomb and severe economic sanctions that lead to more hurt, rather than the healing of so many openly infected wounds. Certainly, Oppenheimer deeply regretted the militaristic use of his atomic discoveries all of his life.

It's saturated our consciousness at a deep level, too. Director/actor/writer/producer Robert Redford did a fascinating movie about one man's struggle against the elements while at sea, comically (at first) put into mortal danger by the floating of so many shipping containers from their loosening off a massive cargo ship, now left adrift and filled with those precious Chinese imports of common American brands. And it isn't as remote or exotic as that, either. 

As a production manager and art director, part of every job I worked in publishing is the factoring of their timetables into our U.S.-based manufacturing process, as we calculated the time and cost that it takes for shipments coming off "the slow boat to China" into warehousing and delivery, in order to save our beleaguered American houses precious U.S. dollars. It wasn't always worth it. 

When time was "of the essence", we went with the more direct and timely service that American and Canadian printers can provide. As our industry factored in overseas trade on the daily, we discovered that Asian printers produced low-cost 4-color work, but not the regular typesetting of black type on paper, which ideally marks the best thinking of our American intellects conducting trade, and I like to very much think that our Ivy League at work in media do that better than anybody. Actually, I know we do.

Because our labors are transacted on moral, ethical, and aesthetic levels, in addition to solely economic ones (because we make art and design), it lead to some very interesting discussions. In my early thirties, I violated my "don't date at work" rule with a handsome printing sales rep because he was a sub-contractor to my house, and as such, not technically an in-house employee or my direct report, though one could argue that increased "bonhomie" as the result of our brief coupling would put him in an advantage over me as a managing woman with everything to lose, and it did. Briefly. Fortunately, I'm surrounded by a lot of fuck-ups, and he went on to date his Asian counterpart at his job and our young part-time receptionist, which meant I had way more "dirt" on him and his at-work dating indiscretions than he had over me.

But I learned some really interesting facts about the huge Chinese printing conglomerate he represented stateside, because our original outside-of-work meetings were just that: questions-and-answer sessions between a buying manager and her main supplier, albeit in a hip "fusion" restaurant with moody dim lighting that used the blending of Brazilian food and Japan sushi to market themselves to craze-craving New Yorkers (usually from out-of-town) hungry for the latest exotica, and this Midwestern tool definitely fit the bill. 

Turn out, his company's highly competitive pricing was the direct result of China's mass-production mindset, which utilized an offshore island as their main base of operations for international buyers of their worldwide printing concern, which further meant (and always means) that they are violating human rights somewhere in their production queue at sometime, as they always do when they use their "extreme conformity at any price" mentality that the Chinese try to market as a social system of governmental reforms meant to combat oppression and corruption. Uh, no. 

He informed me that the Chinese people at the factory worked in 24/7 shifts, and that they could implement such an extreme rotation of their staff by supplying us with a total inconsistency in their staff  (because they always change hands), combined with a brutal enforcement of mandatory shifts that are "4-months on/4-months off" work schedules, in which employees are allowed back home to the mainland to recuperate and visit with their families. Wow...that sounds intense. "I know!" he told me enthusiastically. This was the kind of stuff tourists thrived on in our town, pre-recession. "It's nuts! Sometimes monsoon season cuts them off from the mainland for awhile, which means they lose the window of opportunity to go home and see their families for holidays!" Yeah, that would be communism for you.

It kinda dulled any zest I had for producing potential card packages from our lesbian designer, who wanted to push them through our gay sales rep, that resembled so many vagina shapes in cheesy flower photographs like the rip-off Georgia O'Keefe it was. The world could definitely do without these. No need for some horrow-show factory system. He told me that they slept on cots in constant day/night shifts that left them confused, sleep deprived, careless, and almost impossible to communicate with. Every layout went through several translations from English-to-German-to-Mandarin and back, because I saw the markups from our returned card and calendar layouts. What the fuck...

After awhile, I began to openly despise their stupid-looking calendars that we made for their similar conformity-minded and mass-produced wackos, at a price they could easily afford. So much pain and heartache for nothing that becomes so much toxic landfill after it's done. When every crazy employee at that small house turned on me, in an effort to push me out the door, I was horrified to discover that I might have to punch my way out of the job by besmirching my fellow employees, which they'd already done to themselves. I don't want to do that. I don't want to be like them. "Yeah, but you may have to," said our gay sales rep to me, in our last closed-door meeting before my supposed "ousting". Fine, if that's your twisted priorities over dignity and respect. You can have all that pain and hurt. I have this.

Crazy Paprika

In light of recent developments like madness and manic depression (which turn out to be not-so-new, after all), I decided years ago to give online dating a try. I found a highly coveted piece of real estate online, from what used to be a hippie-dippie sharing site for creative types on a budget, such as myself. Why not move from buildings to boys? 
It made sense to me after a German business trip that lasted months for no good reason, during those halcyon days of riding out a desk job with people hell-bent on mutual destruction, or at least driving each other into early graves. What was the point? I bowed out of their mutual chemical destruction to seek out what lurked beneath the service, and I had a hell of a ride surfing for companions while holding off a raging office bitch from tearing through my neck completely. It's what passes for "multi-tasking" bloodsport in Manhattan business circles. No? Oh, uh, okay. You may need a few more primer courses before moving on to "Excellence".

Anyway, my day job sucked, but that certainly wasn't anything new. 
All of the good, healthy productivity was diverted overseas by the company owners who had a much bigger stake in their home country than our U.S. game. No problem. Under a looser structure of discipline, I thrive, and if the entire company reads my e-mails through the company network, so much the better. I love publishing to a crowd, no matter how big or small. During my tenure with online denizens, I discovered a recently re-located opera singer at a downtown Brooklyn internet start-up, a celebrity chef, some requisite arty types (like actors, designers, poets, etc.), and a one very problematic Eastern European who was not-so-recently arrived. My new manic depressive acquaintance at the next desk job I scored for free online dubbed him (after just one outing with us for cocktails) "Crazy Paprika". She also said, with a few more drinks in her, that we had "showed her what real love looks like", because he picked me up after work to drive me home. Oh....

It went downhill quickly, because within a month he fell in love with me, wanted my children (I wanted a new puppy), and then pestered me into the rather trite romantic vision of a weekend spent in Vermont, probably because he saw some American movie that told him we do such things many years ago. The truth was, as handsome as my new friend is (and he is that, trust, girls, you know me by now; I don't date "common" or "ordinary"), he and I had absolutely nothing in common besides physical beauty. He had dated and impregnated an ugly older woman to get her to fund his American Dream, but after they broke up, he was stuck cleaning houses in the city and living in a cheap Hasidic neighborhood that never (NEVER) opens up to outsiders, especially obviously good-looking Goyim ones. He just didn't fit, and like his media-derived visions loosely based on me and "Pretty Woman", his actual life resembles Movieland very little, so little that it has made him madder than ever.

Sure, waiting on a line that goes around the block for toilet paper drives a person insane, but what he told me was so bat-shit, it solidified my impression that Eastern Euros are fucking crazy forever, not that I needed much more evidence. He told me tales of abuse so severe, I know that if a post-Cold War regime can slowly starve to death it's own people while watching, you're fucked unless you move, which is exactly what he did. They had to sign up for a waiting list spot for an old car that was ten years long, and that's the nice stuff. Most of it was centered around really old, out-of-date technology "for the people", while the corrupt upper tiers of Communists gorged themselves fat on Western luxuries, much like China still does today. They're corrupt, but, so what? Good and bad people exist everywhere, and if you don't like your government, you have to fight for freedom like we do.

Mad people live a life based on delusions, not reality, so when he fell head over heels in love with me, I wasn't particularly flattered. It was way too quick. Not that I doubted my prowess as a lover, because I am experienced, it was that I knew he didn't really know me at all, just the outside wrapping, which is great, but so what? Where does this go? Well, it goes downhill quick, like every other doomed romance when I'm "The Man" with the cool job, great apartment, hip clothes, and tremendous attitude, but...where does that leave you? Riding on my coattails? How is that masculine or sexy for me?! It isn't, and barring unforeseen fetishes that will most definitely NOT crop up in the future, I don't get off by strapping on a fake penis in my hetero-themed family unit. That's why my man is there, yo. Feel me? I'm the girl, you're the boy; that's how it works in traditional family structures where gender and sexuality are hetero, healthy, and normal. It just works out that way naturally.

So, we burned through it quickly, while he freaked out, panicked that his Golden Goose dreams funded by his richly gorgeous dream girl fantasy went up in smoke, because he's not all that. When he grabbed my arm in his car to prevent me from exiting (after I told him to leave me alone) after work one afternoon, I knew this particular Eastern Euro was gonna be a royal fuck up. He then stalked the crazy blond receptionist from my day job, the one with the obviously cheap clip-on hairpieces from Ricky's (they were the real duo in all this), barreling angrily down the block in her baggy beige knit poncho, as she headed towards the bar and back to Long Island on the LIRR, when she still lived there with her parents. She laughed it off, while being openly jealous that I could inspire such bunny-boiler insanity after a few short months of dating. In BipolarLand, jealously and stalking are highly coveted trophies to be bartered around like cash. Not so much for me, in my genuinely legitimate quest for love and romance.

She told me he followed her down the block right outside of the office building where we worked, laughing and saying how "lucky" I was, because she couldn't get a second date after getting drunk and putting out, so, like "wow"! Uh, okay...I backed slowly away from the reception desk to do the real work that makes a publishing company money. After he figured out that she was just as fucked up as him, because she didn't pull away in horror when he grabbed her by the arm in a clearly desperate stalking move, he moved in closer. He began following me home from work for weeks, forcing me to take different trains home (which I did, I mean, fuck, I 'm a native homeboy), which forced him to recognize that he was outplayed by the subways. He called me all night long (manics tend to stay up all night, not sure if you knew; oh you do? Yeah, me, too) to disturb my sleep, but I was locked up tight on the 4th floor of a building he couldn't get into, because there were four good, strong locks he had to get past.

When that didn't work, he escalated into deeper behaviors, like leaving my old cassette tapes that I had taken on our road trip to Vermont on my stoop with a weird note, months after we broke up. I upped the ante, too, playing the uncle-who-is-an-immigration-lawyer card (that's actually true), and then filling a restraining order with the Park Slope police, but in his illegal status, he was already a law-breaking immigrant, so I guess he figured he could do what he wanted, since no one squeezed him about blowing his Visa years ago. No one banged on his door to drag him away in the middle of the night like Eastern Bloc nations do, so what was the harm in hassling this "stuck-up American bitch"? Well, the problem is, he didn't really know what it took to be a successful transplant from another country who worked their ass off, and I did. That's how, bitch.

Once he figured out that I had a full deck of playing cards with all the leverage, he became extreme, and that's the exact sweet spot you wait for with garden variety fuck-ups, because once you break the law out loud and in front of reliable witnesses, I fucking own you. You're mine, punk! And that's exactly what happened. His last desperate stand was to shine his headlights directly onto the building I lived at, honking his horn, blinking his headlights, and calling me non-stop: this, after the Immigration card threat and the Restraining Order, words he pretended not to understand when his English suddenly got real bad, real quick. I no understand, followed by a sheepish shoulder shrug and big "poor me" eyes. Yeah, buddy. We all come from somewhere, bro. So, how did I do it? What was the final nail in his Transylvanian coffin?

Oh, girls, you know me! Mama scared him like the pretend punk he wanted to be: through the power of sheer illusion, just like his feverish media-inspired dreams. I had a leftover BB gun from my crazy redneck ex-boyfriend from Colorado, the big Scottish lad who liked to shoot squirrels from his apartment for fun and target practice, in between his big Elk hunting expeditions in the backwoods. I took that pretend .45 out from it's hiding spot, and in the shining glare from his amped-up, overly bright headlights, I held it up against the window, the clear shadow of a gun in silhouette showing up enough for even his fake-addled brain. Yeah, bitch, 'cause that's what's up. He didn't know if it was real or not, and in his Western cowboy fantasy world, it just might be. Who was he to know me better? I have the warrior-like attitude to back it up. Don't fuck with me. This is my world you livin' in, boy. Don't front, and don't forget. See you on the firing range.

Dirt Weed

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blunt_%28cannabis_cigar%29

Years ago, after the publishing industry went bust and employers quickly set-up weirdly convoluted political climates to drive out the healthier and more expensive employees by using their cheaper and more deranged ones to do their dirty work (hidden behind a thinly-veiled agenda that was never really very cloudy or unclear, except if you had to prove it in a court of law,) my bubble burst by design, because I beat the "big boys" at their own game. 

Rich white men have always used money and the threat of impoverishment to silence those carefully observant, high-performing employees who are better than their own kids at the family business, knowing that most single women in New York City are one paycheck away from homelessness. It's a total dick way to "win", which is the point of Evil, Inc: a place where we don't do business fairly (the real company motto), but tricky knife-in-the-back games are part of what makes dysfunctional business go. Healthy people tend to share the wealth, as well as the free dispersal of information, which sucks if you can only win by rigging the game to your advantage illegally.

After that, I was on the move from place to place. At first I stayed locally, finding temporary friendship with a troubled man I met at the public library (I could tell he knew who I was behind his badly done "actor-y" facade), but times were desperate, which was the whole point behind that hurt, too. See? "If you would have just played the game, Marie, your entire family wouldn't have turned their backs on you (no one wants to see you anymore without money and help to give out freely), because you talked openly about what you saw at work." Of course, that sick family was my responsibility, too, and if I don't help sick people whenever they want it, there's abuse to be had. I should have learned my lesson years ago. I'd heard the bullshit speech thousands of times before.

Except, really healthy, brilliantly powerful women don't work that way. That's why we run this world you live in. And so, I didn't cave. There's was nothing left for me to give, anyway: no work, clothes, housing, food, rent, healthcare...all of that goes away when you speak up against injustice, whether it's at home or at work, which is exactly why I did it. I couldn't live like that anymore. It was intolerable, the injustices I've seen, like the fact that the entire Housing Court of Brooklyn, New York is currently funded by black women on layaway, hard-working women who don't want their children homeless for Christmas. The U.S. Marshall (a nice white guy from Long Island) explained to me that they are way better now, because they don't toss your stuff on the street like they used to anymore! He looked at me like he wanted consolation then, right when I had none to give.

After getting "thrown out of the inn" during Christmastime (so to speak), I lived by my native New York wits. The very woman who had illegally harassed every worker at the shop I blew the whistle on, the same one who had once bragged to me about her "street smarts" (a total joke when you face living on the streets, which is exactly what I did), while that crazy bitch went on believing that sucking dick would save her life. It didn't (spoiler alert). It did, however, buy her what she thought was enough valuable time to plot my destruction (Girl Power!), and get herself canned, too. After all, I knew it was about money. That's all it ever was, not the fact that I noticed (and documented) each and every illegal occurrence that happened there, which is why I faced off without counsel one of the company's nephews with legal experience, who asked me to hand over my notebooks to him about the situation, which I flatly refused. I still have them, dear readers.

The Neuyorican guy I met from around the way did 'hood business with me: he wanted access to my soon-to-be-gone Park Slope digs so he could use the kitchen because he was working in food service, and I wanted to get into his tenement building from 'round that way, so I could save up some money for another rental apartment. We struck a deal: I would sleep on his floor (which I did), while me and some guy named Jose cleaned the room next to his so I could move in, which is exactly what I did. I worked as a lead cover designer for some broke crooked indie outfit that was yet another spoiled Jewish kid's response to his father's valid foothold in the business, to come home at night to a bipolar guy weaning off his meds through the copious use of weed, giving him a harsh hacking cough that did not abate with time.

He seemed amazed and paralyzed by my Acadian energy. How could I work all day and then work some more at night? Where did it come from? He came from Brownsville*, a place so bad, that the main source of income is living with crazy and Welfare, which is what he did when the kitchen jobs went away. You see, my friend was "too good" to start at the bottom of the kitchen hierarchy by washing dishes. It was so obvious that he didn't want to work, even his teenage dope dealer told him so. Imagine that? Gettin' schooled by some hood rat, but that's how it went down, for real. We went over there on one really cold winter night to meet esse comin' out his mother's nice town-home apartment that's across the street from a public school playground, to meet me and Cotto on the sidewalk. At first, my friend told me to wait on the corner, but as he stood there pacing back and forth, nervously smoking his menthol cigarette, he got bored (he's manic bipolar), so he started talking loudly to me some feet away.

At that point, I was like, why not just walk up to him, when some fly kid with his "phresh" gear came bounding down the staircase to the stoop. He wore a matching bright red hat to go with his ghetto hoodie and red sneaks. Typical. He started laughing when he saw my man there speaking with me, because we looked like a broke-ass version of "Beauty and the Beast", presenting quite the pic on some slow cool weeknight in the 'hood. He made small talk with Cotto during the exchange of a dime bag for money, when my friend let him know that he wasn't happy at his current gig because he was a "real chef" (this, from an ex-con who was forced to choose a cooking program as part of his rehab in the joint), by also explaining that he never really wanted to be a chef (he sucked at it, lighting up a tea towel I gave him one night at the stove during his very brief tenure as a personal chef in my kitchen), and that washing dishes was beneath him.

The kid looked at him laughing, and to me, which I played politically correct by staying silent, to deliver one hell of a line: "Yeah, but you gotta start somewhere, though", a line his own mama must have said to him a million times when he crossed over her doorway down to the streets, buying his flashy gear and bragging about it by sporting it up and down the block, a hastily tossed up sneaker on a phone wire serving as his calling card to area schoolkids. That fuck-up from Brownsville just got schooled by his more successful teenage dope dealer, man! It was unbelievable and also totally Brooklyn, all the way down to this kid's shiny new kicks. Only in New York, you know, bro? Only in New York can a punk kid beat out a grown man without even trying, or leaving his mama's house. That's the warped view of success from around the way, and those are the people I come from. Don't you ever try to can con me again, yo. I know you.


* https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brownsville,_Brooklyn

Express Yourself

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Edward_Hopper_Summer_Interior.jpg

Given the surplus of most advertising budgets in this country (which speaks highly about Capitalism's importance within this society, and what our true priorities really are), it's no surprise that the average American thinks "shopping" equals "fun holiday vacation". It is, in fact, what my disordered aunt tried to sell to me as damaged goods for my entire young life, in her constant bid to have a co-dependent partner with her during her disillusioned mall-based fantasies; a meeting of a certain key demographic with one's core audience, if ever there was. 

Her late best friend filled up her mother's Bronx town-home with her hoarding disorder to live in a tiny rental, choosing instead to die from a bad surgery done cheaply, and one we all warned her about, so much so, that it was actually a form of assisted suicide. All she had to do was go through the contents of her own home to find the money for the top cancer hospital in the country, which is in New York and a subway ride away. Their hobby that began as a conduit to creative expression over any real discernible talents hardened with time, effort, and near-constant practice into a brain disorder so bad, it has become synonymous with heroin usage and alcoholism, with one of the lowest cure rates in all of psychotherapy.

Shopping has become so prevalent within our society that even our supposed higher institutions of learning devote entire curricula to it. You can degree in "Shopping 101", which is thinly disguised behind marketing and sales, but not by much. Asian/Asian-American preferences for goods and shiny objects are so well-known, that Manhattan's F.I.T. actively recruits makers of widgets and experts in object lure, touted as "Toy Design", a weird variant of Industrial Design marketing solely for children, and "Merchandising", which is typically a female who seeks to buy for stores. Oh, you can dress it up in holiday wrapping, but that's essentially the gig: score with a major supplier like Macy's, and that's the ticket into your shopper's paradise. In reality, it is a hellhole of a Christmas experience, like sweating with thousands of fat middle Americans who seek the ubiquitous brown paper bag, rubbing elbows with Mid-westerners who are too lazy to go uptown for Tiffany's better blue one.

And those are the high achievers in this particular sport: majoring in the big city retailers, minoring in the outer circles while awaiting your call-up to New York City, as a symbol of your advanced pocketbook pride. How glamorous! Shopping in "The City"! It's a rather sad and provincial characteristic naive out-of-towners have, wide-eyed with their recent fix, but "Shopaholics" (cutesy marketing term, don't you think?) are not new to me, as evidenced by my own family and their crippling dysfunctional patterns. Feel sad? Buy food! Instant fix. Feeling bored? Graze at the mall, until your identity reaches out to you in the form of some useless tchotchke with no real value, except the one the purchaser breathes into it, instead of loving the human they're with. "What's love got to do with it?" Exactly.

I worked with a typical Eurasian model at the city outpost for a rich German family, and within a week, she let me know we all had big targets on our backs (because she "made it" by working here at some company I'd never heard of before, until I interviewed for the job), and that she was "too cool for school"; meaning she was so inept, she actually failed out of a SUNY school known for "Fashionistas" who loooove to spend their rich Japanese daddy's money. Très chic, n'est-ce pas? It touts "worldly" in a bottle, like the trendy Eau de Parfum du jour, but unlike their skinny frames hidden underneath overly (but artfully) designed clothing, carefully nipped and ticked to disguise their boyish frames, talent wasn't something my viciously bitchy co-worker knew how to shop for. Not well, at least.

Oh, she positioned herself as the "Queen of Greeting Cards", based on her brief tenure at Boston's art museum gift shop, and it was enough to get her the cheap gig in the city, which (on the surface, if you squinted hard enough) passed for a somewhat respectable firm, if you overlooked it's inception as the NYC outpost designed to amuse the short handsome rich German playboy who is the second son to a family that crowned the older brother as the sober C.E.O., because they like the nobility that money can by. That, and the strength of the German Mark before Europe's unification process. Unfortunately for her and the rather pedestrian German-American guy (Hi, Harald) who managed the U.S. product line, I knew all about Deutsch Bank's tactics from my ferociously financial brother, who did his apprenticeship on their sweatshop trading floors, no veal pen divisions included. I know, because I visited my brother at the company when he worked there, to see it for myself. A little short on trust with American financiers and infamous Wall Street trade, I suppose.

Ditto with their group manager as it was with his head shopper. He shorted out when I presented him with numbers on purchasing a reconditioned color printer (why not squeeze the locals when you're an overseas firm, right?), asking me to flow the numbers into columns based on his type of accounting software, because he lacked the ability to comprehend numbers if they were presented outside of the casing he was used to. That's a serious kind of dyslexia, so I asked him again via em-mail. He responded dreadfully. Yes, please. For me? Oh. I guess when you have all the German money in the world backing you, you don't need to master reading and writing early on like I did (for publishing in New York, in English). When I told my brother about his peculiar behavior at a family holiday, he huffed derisively and said, "Yeah. That's classic for a typical 'Deutsch Bank' accountant". Indeed it was, because that's exactly where this manager began his career.

I guess that's why I sit here typing to you on a public library's company for pennies a week (for your great success), and why my brother lives in a very large (and rather well-appointed, or so I'm told) home in one of the rich, hilly, horse country towns of New Jersey; because me and my brother do a heck of a lot more in business than shopping and bean-counting (Hello again, Harald. Still living in New Jersey? How's work?) Everything I needed to know in business, I already knew, and do you know what, my dear followers? Because I wasn't a programmed, brain-washed tool like they were (and still are), in the exact same illiterate ways, they never saw me coming. Herr, Fuhrer! 

That, and the fact that the Edward Hopper Foundation (a famous Hudson River Valley painter with his home museum right here in Rockland County, within the town of Nyack's borders), does not sell the licensing rights to most of his work, as was mandated by his will. We are (and will remain) staunchly: by the people, and for the people. Always. Because there's nothing to buy-and-sell here, ami.  Snap! I'll bet you didn't see that one coming at you, did you?

 http://www.edwardhopperhouse.org/

 

The Real Girl

Lately we've seen a lot of anti-social behavior publicized in the news, problems so ridiculously obvious that the people in HR once again failed to properly address employees behaving in highly atypical and aberrant ways, in full view of people with cameras and many other trusted employees. Not that I've ever trusted or relied on some HR wonk to screen anyone for me, let alone choose which pencil I might use at my desk. First, they make jack shit as pay (because it's essentially a useless job), and second, they typically favor the mentally ill employee in any given situation, because (and here's the fun part), a lot of Human Resource workers have generic "Psych" degrees from nameless schools, places where they yearned to understand their own broken brain, and now yours on the job. They can't get a job with their degree upon graduation, and now neither can you, in petty retaliation for their many problems.

It was so bad at the end of my corporate career, that I pre-screened every possible job lead I had by asking a series of industry-related questions over the phone first, before I wasted my time commuting to some wacky interview at my own expense. If I got weirdly paranoid stonewalling from a 20-nothing kook who is power-tripping over my possible career future on the other end of the line, (because as a female business leader, I can't have that in the workflow) I simply didn't waste my time pursuing it further. Why would I? 

I don't need anyone to ask me questions. I ask them, and then I teach YOU what to do about it the next time it happens. That's why my salary is much higher than yours, and you hate that, too. Plus, I have this rock star portfolio of infamous and well-known book cover designs that you need an Ivy degree and tons of real world experience to interpret correctly. Why would I waste my time with someone who has absolutely no experience in publishing? It would be like my mom (back in the day) submitting to some lame (and very easy for her) Pipette exam timed by a pencil-neck geek with a bad attitude who failed out of some joke two-year community college. 

What's the point? Would you try to teach a donkey rocket science? Well, would you? I'm waiting for your answer to my bullshit clipboard series of odd questions that I hide from you (like a very fucked up and purely verbal Rorschach test), while impatiently tapping my fingers on a table to give you the uncomfortable feeling that is ME, the know-nothing HR girl, who is the big-time designer and not you. Huh. That's odd. Isn't it?

After I get through them as the main obstacle to me potentially doing business with a company in the future, it's the key people I see every day. I never use an HR wonk, or hire talent through them, or use them to screen freelancer portfolios, or type email's to one of them, or talk to an HR employee on the phone, or even speak with one of them at the company Christmas party, because they are nothing to us. I make books. You don't. Therefore, you are not actually part of my real world work. You are a business expense that we (as a company) do not need, because you are useless. That's why you give "Creatives" so much attitude: the clock is ticking on your boring office job, which is funded by this girl right here. That's right: you are being phased out of this business, and not me. End of discussion.

It's sort of the office equivalent of me pretending that you sitting there next to a blow-up sex doll during lunchtime in the company's cafeteria is the same thing as my hot relationship with this gorgeous, interesting, and very educated man in the real world: you see us in the hallway or elevator, stare at us like we're sideshow freaks, then spend your time sitting in your office on the company's IM network, gossiping about how cool/smart/fun/pretty we are, but right after you ignore that 10th email I sent you sitting in your Inbox, the same one that your supervisor, the department head, and the VP of Design/Production received from me about that guy from Production Editorial who twitches in his cubicle all day long (on a good day) violently cursing to himself, or the editor who openly lives out of his office space and eats off of a hot plate that sits right next to a pile of papers (which the sick Art Director ignores, because she's on Valium for her clinical depression) because he hoards so badly, he can no longer live in his apartment.

Yeah. It's kinda like that. It's kind of like me noting that you are a violently anti-social, highly medicated, viciously paranoid psychopath (in full view of a bunch of low-paid, drugged out zombies who are used to doing excruciatingly dull, compulsively repetitive tasks like robot drones by the company higher ups, the Board of Director, and the ever-important shareholders), every single day of my life, telling anyone who will listen in a thousand different ways, and who do nothing at all about it but ignore it, hoping the problem goes away. You did nothing. You did absolutely nothing about it.

http://www.foxnews.com/us/2015/08/26/active-shooter-reportedly-attacks-tv-crew-in-virginia/

Spoils of War

http://voc.tv/1jOnjUT

I watch and read a lot of content that isn't specifically designed for me, nor catered to my particular demographic, because it's part of my job to stay au courant of pop culture trends. Like my former job description as an Art Director in Adult Trade book cover design ("You can't judge a book by its' cover" for the umpteenth time. Haha...yes, you can, and you certainly should. That's why we invest so much into it upfront as our most important marketing material: to create enough visual interest on a bookshelf for you to pick it up and want to explore further, because we actually really fucking care about the books we make. But I digress, shit-heel...), people think my job is one thing over the actual reality of it: to be an expert who accurately judges and assesses any type of creative content, in whatever form it takes, in any language or country, on any device, for any audience. 

It's actually a lot harder than it sounds or looks, because you're big hit bestseller may, in reality, be a totally trite and highly repetitive piece of derivative shit for me; one that's almost exclusively driven by slavishly current marketing trends, which is a really bad sign in creative businesses, because if you can't come up with original ideas consistently, you're done. It means some asshole middle manager who is a big nobody has sapped your talent and then gets the pathetic joy of discarding you like you're a used car battery, which is the worst thing that can happen to any artist. You are no longer relevant culturally because you've lost your platform.

With that in mind, I always try to let my friends at the library know what I'm checking out as part of my job, and what I really like, because part of their job as librarians (who are some of the most important people in our audience to market to) is knowing my preferences and suggesting materials to me as recommendations, then talk to me intelligently about it (but really, you, not me, because I already know). We publish almost exclusively to libraries at times, in special Library Editions; maybe large print books for the blind or vision-impaired, or perhaps books designed to handle the rougher climate of a public library's bookshelf by using tougher binding materials manufactured just for them. They know me and my audience here, because I've published books just for them at certain times, or oversaw it as a supervisor at some point in time in my long career.

That's why I read the "Twihard" series to my great displeasure: because my weirdo aunt who is emotionally stuck at 14, due to the severity of her mental disabilities and impairments, desperately wants me to believe that I am just like her, through this obviously fake Christmas "gift" (because hoarders use objects to express their feelings for people....ugh): I'm permanently stuck on stupid with some "hot" vamps involved, just like her. Uh, great. It's a series, right? And so I read the entire series as part of my professional follow-though routine, and because it also became a wildly popular movie series of some of the worst tripe I've even seen marketed to teens, which really pisses me off. And the books really suck, too. Bad writing.

So, when I check out some white men war movies, it's always attached with the caveat that this content may or may not be marketed for me, which is fine, because I'm a grown up, and we might also have the added bonus of making fun of some really bad art at the check-out counter, because librarians are people, too! I digest way too much content that is throwaway junk, but that's no different than any other day for me: it's for you, kid, and not for me. Mommy has very few needs. And so it happened that I saw a string of war movies recently, representing different types of people (loosely drawn from the facts), in the form of wacky expensive movie fiction, which is problematic for a realist like me. If it's tied to actual human beings who exist(ed), then great; my job just got easier by cutting out the rich white man to go directly to the source. Moms also don't need puppet shows that are stand-ins for real people, kids!

"Unbroken" was about some small town guinea who was picked on for being Italian (yeah, me, too), which got him angry enough for his brother to use as an energy in the white man Olympics, in front of Nazi's who yearned to be the purest whitest people ever....uh oh, Dago Boy is in real trouble. And then he is: all of his fancy Olympian skills become fodder for some mentally ill jerk-off who wants to channel his homoerotic energy into breaking an American Olympian cleaning up shit in a Japanese prison camp. Tough guinea wins (we usually do), but he never gets the apology he wants by the mad rich Jap who heads for the hills in embarrassment after the war. Boohoo, bro. No guts, no glory. We women know boys find war games really fucking fun. Would you want to grind sawdust into the scant remains of the flour that you have on ration, while your children starve slowly in front of you? No?! And that was one of the easier WWII scenarios women had, back in the day. You don't want to know about the rest: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Unbroken_%28film%29.

"Lone Survivor" is better: this tough muthafuckin' white boy (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marcus_Luttrell) pulls through champion-style, too, but with a broken back and a new foreign friend. I like that he manages to rise above the spoils of a typical war by bonding with the villagers who hid him from the enemy, because they realize that the nasty war tribes around them are totally fucking nuts, regardless of nationality, and they would just as easily kill them as that broke-back white boy, because they're right. People are driven mad by war, because video games with real targets (like pregnant women and their nursing children) are really fucking hard to kill, even if you know that they are human smart bombs sent to rip you to shreds. Do you want want to be the person flicking the switch to that electric chair, you monster? (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monster%27s_Ball)

I know I'm a great warrior who would totally fucking kill you in a knock-down, drag-out battle to the death for survival, but it's a rare thing to have a fair fight, when the righteous wins over evil. What do you do when the sands shift under your feet? Or, how can I be a good guy when I just blew the head off of a defenseless woman? That's the kind of thing that stays with you, man, and sometimes it kills you back at home, where another type of war rages: the one that plays inside your shell-shocked and highly concussed skull, which is what this white boy played in this fucking war movie about how war may turn even your new war friend into a foe, in a heartbeat: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_Sniper.

Not so glamorous anymore, is it? These actors don't go home to nurse you through the after-effects of your war-induced illness, bro. I do that for you, people in social services do that for you, but this fucking celebrity gets to breeze through a photo op at the local VA, drop a check, and he is gone, gone, gone, girl. Then, the really bad movie starts to play in your head, once again...where will Hollywood be? Nowhere in sight. That's the true spoils of any given war; money you don't get and will never see, while you heart-breakingly watch (by yourself) your son or daughter struggle through yet another series of tremors that the Veteran's supposed benefits package just ran out on, and G-d forbid that they get their hands on that kitchen knife before you do. Who will be there in that room with you? 

Here's a wild guess: it won't be a Bradley Cooper type of actor. The man who helps you pick up the pieces later on will be your real friends, family, neighbors, and community activists. That's who you owe, and that's who I work for everyday, because that's who I am: your friendly fucking neighborhood war hero. But, like, so not with the actual PTSD that's so dramatic on camera, dude. That's, like, totally not cool, you know? Pay me, yo! I'll throw you a real party, man, with no weird gold statues that don't mean jack-shit, either. I promise ;)

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Category:Iraq_War_films

Jimmy O.D.

Years ago, I worked for a small Jewish family business in trouble. The two kids hated the business of publishing, which they tried to use for their "creative" endeavors, like screenwriting and music. It didn't work for them, because publishing is about books. And so, I was left with two spoiled "Manhattanites" who'd been told all their lives that they were gifted from their parents. Into this mess, I was charged with righting the ship of one of their Barnes and Noble imprints. It had been ditched into the gutter for being "crass" in comparison to the other Classic series of copyright-free works, which was a total joke. 

The bargain books were face-out on the shelf in every store in the nation, a fact that had become a traveling game for me. In each town, I'd look for my name on the jackets of titles I worked on, and wherever I went in America, there I was in book form, too. Because I broke my ass for two years to put it back into shape, I had a lot of pull in the company (and the industry), which gave me the power to make some tricky decisions, especially uncomfortable ones that included their family who drew income but produced no revenue. Their single daughter would sweep in from London to treat me like a Kinko's kid making copies for her, because she wanted to brag about her designer apartment that just got a write-up. Did I want to see it? They had tons of people in their lives like that, but such was the era of housewife decorators and artsy stay-at-home moms. You know the type.

When I finally conflicted artfully well with their small son over IT support (it'd been a handy weapon from Day 1 of my time), I knew I carried the whole history of desktop publishing and Mac computers with me. My enemy camp kept making petty remarks about Apple's business tactics and the inherent snobbery designers had about their corporate-sponsored trophy computers, neither of which I disputed. I pointed that out in several meetings with the enemy camp; a row of rich white men on one side, with me and my cowardly deaf mute designer on the other. She always backed out of speaking up in meetings by citing her deafness, which usually worked at stalling the machine, but not for me, because I have a deaf father. And so, when they finally realized that shutting out design and technology had dearly cost them their business edge, the son surprisingly decided it was time to finally pursue that music career full time, by touring and cutting a self-made CD, another type of business he knew I had under my belt, too.

Enter the scene one dramatic and showy character named Jimmy. The company admin gave him "advice" within my earshot about how to work me over as a client, by giving him "tips" like appealing to my Irish side and being charming, Yeah, Mick. Fooking do that. I liked Jimmy, as I typically do with my kind. He was smart, gifted, quick, and good with the older crowd who feared computers like they were boxes sent form Hell to deliberately torture them. Because he was older than me, he knew how to mock and demonize technology so that the older rich guy would cough up the dough. After all, Jimmy was a trained actor, as well as an IT guy, professional musician, lapsed Catholic, martial artist, and newly graduated fine artist.

He showed me pictures he took of his beautiful wife and classically Celtic sons: a striking "Black Irish" clan with bright blue eyes, fair skin, red lips, and dark dark hair. Yeah, I know. The boys were into Mohawk hair designs and boxing poses, which slayed me, but I wanted him to play me like a fiddle to get us what we needed, and he knew I knew the game cold. On one warm St. Pat's evening, I took the publisher's intern nephew on a long walk with me that spanned from the East 30's all the way down to Stone Street, to hear him play. It was loud brash standards (which embarrassed him a bit), but I could tell he was good. I wanted to show him support in lieu of his recent divorce, a shock that rocked him to the core.

I didn't know how bad it was until he showed up at the job with a bagel and hysteric tears, which frightened me. I told him about my own brief brush up with a marriage I'd been suckered into, but I realized it was much worse for him. His wife had done herself up buff at the gym while he worked and played around, which couldn't have meant he spent much time at home, and the kind he did was questionable at best. You don't cry onto your client's keyboard without a really bad heartache, because I paid him every penny he was worth. 

When he broke down in front of me, I knew I could either save him or lose him in that very moment. And so I did what anyone like me would do: when he bitched about his weight gain, I caught his darting red eyes, locked in on him, and told him the truth flat-out. He was in danger of something a lot more serious than a brief spat with gluttony, and he knew what I meant, because he bowed his head down for a moment. I left to get coffee in the company kitchen, and let him collect himself. By the time I came back, he'd put on a brave front with a sheepish grin. He knew I'd never fire him, but he'd embarrassed himself at work, and that was a lapse I knew he didn't do often, because I worked under the same threats as he.

After St. Patrick's Day, I only saw him once. The struggling family outfit finally let me go to "clean house", after they'd tried to use every political card they had against me. He'd done me a right turn by getting me an interview at his day job. I wasn't suited for it as a lowbrow market and I knew it, but it was good PR for me, because it let the industry know I was shopping around. I heard him gossip to the art director of a splashy photo mag there that she'd seen my portfolio with CD's. He asked her quietly: "How did it look?". She said she caught one minor error about a tiny line of 5 point copyright info placed too close to the donut whole on one disc layout (I did all my own layouts and production), but that my music creds were solid and true. I did have a famous musician or two in my book, complete with logos, booklets, cases, and all. "Shit", he said under his breath. I could see them out of the corner of my eye in his office from my vantage point in the conference room, him at his desk with her standing over him. 

The interview was over, and the next time I heard anything about Jimmy was on Facebook, because he committed suicide that winter by taking a handful of sleeping pills while home alone in Woodstock, packing up his stuff during his first Christmas alone and without his family. He'd been gracious enough to post us a good-bye photo on Facebook, with a caption below his last self-portrait that read about how tired he was, and that was the last of it. Forever.

For Jimmy 

 http://www.silive.com/obituaries/index.ssf/2011/01/james_odonnell_55.html

Plastic

This year I got some beautiful stuff for Christmas, like floral bouquets, 
a wedding announcement from my dear cousin and his longtime girlfriend that's lovingly designed to be a two-sided keepsake ornament shaped as a pretty snowflake, and some cold hard cash (what any young publisher really needs), along with the usual tepid crap, like plastic cards.

What disturbs me most about it are the gaping vulnerabilities savvy companies use to exploit the mass consumer, and they do so with impunity. Here's a great example: on a recent shopping trip, I thought I expertly calculated my gift card usage down to cents, and I was right. In exchange for my shopping prowess, here's what I got back from my friendly neighborhood (and totally red-faced, embarrassed) cashier:

Wow....the a**hole is strong on this card!

That's right, the cheapskate asshole who designed this program for a local supermarket chain will not allow cashiers give back a mere .$36 in coinage to the consumer, you know, in case I went power drunk with my excess riches. Uh, thanks. And so, the average consumer gets tricked into giving cold hard cash to a faceless conglomerate instead putting it where it belongs: in the gift recipients' pocket. Not convinced by mere words? OK, let's do the math together.

For example: one very busy, successful store in my town (I actually LOVE it) sells about 1,000 of these cards in racks by each check out line, and after they're used, they each have a remaining $.36 on them. That's $360.00 profit for them, barring manufacturing costs for printing the card, and distribution to stores. Next up, 10,000 cards in my home county are sold throughout the holiday season. That's $3,600.00 for the company, and not you, the consumer, or your "loved one", and I am being generous with the amounts. Most folks leave a lot more on these types of cards, because it's too much of a pain in the ass to use up the $1 to $2 that's left on them. 

Feel me on this one? Good. I'm trusting that you understand the dynamic here, right? Great! Don't do it again. Bad shopper!  You're actually feeding an industry of crooks. Live and learn, folks, and then let's move forward together, conceptually-speaking. That's all is is.
Thank you.

Here's your homework: http://www.dailyfinance.com/2012/04/20/new-laws-mean-unused-gift-card-money-wont-be-a-gift-to-stores/ 

And: http://www.qualitylogoproducts.com/blog/secret-of-gift-cards-plastic-into-profit/ 

The Gift

Early morning delivery.

On Christmas Eve Day, I opened the door early morning to what I first thought was a Christmas present, then I thought it was a freebie sample that I ordered online, but when I bent down to pick it up, I saw the label. Oh. It's from a small indie publisher that I designed for in the past, a rich kid imprint paid for by his also-rich daddy, a guy who cashed out by selling his imprint years ago. They probably use the son's company as a tax shelter for the earnings from that sale, which renders their product indifferent, like so many widgets that exist only to serve their obscured financial purpose, not worth the paper they're printed on. And so the gift was actually my own work mailed back to me in bound book form, certainly not a new experience for me. How...well, not a gift.

I quickly took a look at the work I did for them on the cheap, unsurprised by its' poor quality. One book had been case stamped on the spine incorrectly (upside down, actually; a major production error that's a firing offense in major league houses), which I noticed by removing the jacket I designed, because I always inspect books for their quality. The other book contains some inane drivel about an arrogant British wanker who hates the yoga retreat he's attending, and (surprise, surprise), probably has epiphanies later on down the road, read: further along in the book. Ho hum. A real pager turner, not worth my time. It's not exactly prize-winning stuff, but that's the whole point; they position themselves deliberately on the bottom of the pile, to mine the marketing niche as low-end producers, probably wanting to escape notice so The Tax Man doesn't come a-calling. Huh. I know that game, too.

It's embarrassing, but people do this kind of stuff ALL the time. Every day, actually. They take a real vocation and turn it to shit, then piss and moan about the cost, which is exactly what they did to me when I worked for them. It was beneath me, and by them time they shamefacedly told me they were flat broke, (the first and only time their "publisher" deigned to speak to me in person), and besides, like, they could totally use my desk space for one of his six or seven pretty boy "assistants" (nudge, nudge, wink, wink), I think they thought they were lashing out at me for being a major talent who stooped to their level for shekels because they had me in a vulnerable position financially, which is about as far from the truth as we are from the sun; another light that will forever fail to reach them, because they just don't get it on every level, and that includes way existentially, man.

As they continue to play their petty games with one another at their inept labors today, I couldn't help but reflect on my time there, in the early morning light, Christmas Eve morning, looking at these books that could have been so beautiful, and I thought that when they had the real deal right beneath their gazes, they refused to see true worth. They took the hefty gifts I gave them, and they turned their backs on them, because they know they aren't worth the price of the ticket. I thought about how sad that was for them, but that they were no longer my flock to tend to. They are now someone else's poor problem.

I wish you peace on this 26th day in December during our continued Christmas season, as we recall the journey of The Three Magi who came bearing gifts for our Lord and Savior, a baby born lowly in a manger, because His parents were turned away from the inn at Bethlehem, and Amen for that: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Biblical_Magi.

More cheap, shoddy goods, just in time for Christmas! How thoughtful.

Contract-Free Living

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Contract 

Like most Americans, I suffered from the effects of economic fallout in the usual ways: creative firing strategies at the office designed to hide layoffs with phony blame-filled situations so as to avoid expensive wrongful termination suits, actual money mismanagement from poor business, and extremely bad planning. You know, the usual stuff when times get hard and people get shifty and desperate. You want to see humans at their worst? Restrict resources, then watch people go ape-shit scrambling after a few bucks. It's vile nasty stuff, but such is the part of human nature that a money town like "Gotham" attracts, not least of which are it's shark-y natives, which is nothing new to a girl like me. You should meet my family.

Suffice to say, I was thrust back into an extremely low budget lifestyle, those dreaded waters where many try to swim and just as many fail. I'm a great swimmer, though, so for those times when I drop down,  I'm never fully inept or incompetent; such are the strengths of my naturally inherited gifts. But it does take me to some funky places with some very sharp contours, and more on that later. Be careful out there, y'all!

So, what's a gifted artist and writer with expert publishing skills to do? You're reading one of my "hobbies" on my "free" time right now. But other than this, I get serious about adhering to a disciplined lifestyle, which includes keeping a running ledger of expenses deducted from a set amount I have on hand that I saved. And that's it, my big secret about how I do it: basic working class know-how, without any weirdo shit. No drug running, no guns, no thieving, no stealing, no begging, no bartering that's loosely called "dating", or any other immoral behavior of any kind, in any way, shape, or form. It's all above-the-board, totally legit living. No hooker stuff happening!

Yeah, but, how exactly do I do it? Well, it takes thought and a lot of experience. When I couldn't afford a pricey "smart" phone anymore, I converted the device into a smaller version of an iPad that I still use today as a music player, calendar, camera, to-do list, and public Wi-Fi enabled Internet surfer, which can also serve as a desktop publishing device in a pinch (with very tiny type: good thing I have excellent vision). That's savvy companies pay big $$ for. I'm also not some gadget addict who "has to" have the latest electronics in order to feel relevant or hip, simply because I do not use tools for purely ego-driven satisfaction. In other words, I'm  woman about it, and not some big whiny baby. I couldn't survive thinking that way.

Next, I got a cheap no-contract phone that I load with minutes as I need them, which pretty much guarantees that I never go over budget, and that I have a built-in mechanism to control the length of my conversations. Since I pay for each and every minute, I am quite aware of time passing by. Try it sometime; it works. It's "Pay-as-you-go" for the 21st century, without getting locked into a loaded contract that gives a company undue power over me, my life, and my finances, by building in hard-to-find features that allow lawyers to operate hand-in-glove with banks, making your accounts vulnerable to anyone who has the time and resources to drain it, at their say-so. Uh uh. I don't think so. Why should you be penalized by a phone company for dropping a pricey plan because you lost your job?! Makes no sense.

Next up, that all-powerful feelgood medium, The Holy TV Set, of such prominence to society that's it's placed in the center of our biggest rooms. I had an ex who was so addicted to t.v., he "had to" have one with cable, (and my old, pre-flat screen era t.v. with basic free t.v. would not do) so he forced one on me by saying it was my "Christmas" present, like an avid bowler who buys a bowling ball for his wife as an "anniversary" gift. When he turned violent on me, crashing uninvited in a drunken stupor on my couch that I came home to after a very long, hard, backstabbing day at work, he asked me to decide quickly which of his purchased items in my home he preferred I trash, in response to my break-up with him and subsequent ousting from my life and my apartment. I chose the big air conditioner he also couldn't "live" without, over his Almighty T.V., and that's what he kicked in.

But he is not like me, and he never will be. When I can't afford cable, I just go without, like I did in college, or when I'm in a tight spot financially. Feeling strapped because of the latest HD t.v.? Get a digital antenna with a digital signal converter, and now you're watching basic t.v. channels for free, just like me. No bills, no contracts, and no expensively lawyered-up financial devices to get what's left of your money that you need to buy food. You can do the same thing with Internet usage. Buy a low cost Wi-Fi enabled device, put bandwidth on it as you need or can afford, and voila: you're surfing the net without Big Brother watching you. You're welcome :)

Want to see the latest DVD movie release? Check it out for free from your local library, just like I do. My library is also a community center with timed Internet access from a bank of public computers, free yoga and Tai Chi lessons, free blood pressure readings every month, periodic blood drives, story time for kids, arts and crafts for them, too, art openings....you name it. They're always adding on stuff. There's no need for all this static over things and objects. These things do not own you; they are not more important to you than your fellow humans, so break free from these chains that bind you unnecessarily, because I want you to live in peace, my brothers and sisters. Amen to you.

Type: Movies, Mad Men, and Lemonade Stands

The "Mysterious Mr. Moto", in an American kind of Chinese.

Today's post is a set of shots I've been collecting over the past few weeks, so I decided to post them in one, big, fat, font post. Yay! 
The first example comes to you via the Movies! channel, courtesy of the classic movie Mysterious Mr. Moto (1938), with Peter Lorre. I'm a sucker for cheesy pseudo-Asian fonts, especially authentically retro ones like these, redolent of a white guy made up in poorly drawn Chinese eye makeup; it fools no one. A fine specimen of typecasting gone wrong, and cultural appropriation. Please to enjoy!

Uh oh. "Devil's Island". That sounds bad, in a good way.

The map is cartography perfection, though. Nothing wrong or off here. A gorgeous movie opener, overall.

Good advice!

The next type sample comes off the back of a coupon I clipped, now expired, and then flipped over to reveal this gem of a tagline from your friendly neighborhood advertiser. Sage advice, indeed.

Organic is just good all around, type included.

This fontography sample came to me from the fridge one fine morning, friendly and inviting, with the perfect cheerful "Good Morning, Sunshine!" message facing me from the back of a hastily placed half and half carton sitting on the top shelf. It really is a beautiful piece of typesetting, a complete type block set right, and it's interesting, too. That's how you do "inviting" and "pretty" with black display type: it's a gorgeous piece of work on it's own that also fits the artwork just so. The former (M)ad Man in me is pleased. I'm not alone in my cause for good, healthy products, and you can see that the designer cared enough to take the time to craft a package the consumer can enjoy and also feel proud of, through an organic purchase that can feel unjustly costly at times. Nice job!

Classic Americana: the homemade lemonade stand sign, now discarded on the sidewalk, like a kid's dreams about money and enterprise

Like a children's toy abandoned in a yard, this discarded lemonade sign I saw on the sidewalk one afternoon took me back to my own childhood in the country, boringly slow and stingy when it came to money and Scout badges. We never earned enough to justify the time we spent on our pursuit, because there's one car every hour or so on Hudson Valley back roads, which is a good lesson in of itself. It served me and my brother's well when we entered the supposedly hallowed and sacred halls of Big Business in the Big Apple, which is actually our second home, thanks to our very own "Mad Man", our Dad (shhh...don't tell anyone our big "secret"). We don't waste time, because time is a commodity you can't buy or get back once it's gone, like your health. Clever, right?

The infamous Saul Bass, in movies now and forever.

I grabbed my fine, photo-taking device when this famous Saul Bass opener flashed across the t.v. screen, again from the classic movie channel. It's simply one of the best graphics I've ever seen in my life, and you should see it very, very soon. Google Anatomy of a Murder, and be dazzled. It's a humbling piece of art because it really is perfect: on posters and packaging, as motion art, as a set of static images, and a shining example of the power a great graphic has: simple and unforgettable.

"Bye bye", translated into jazz hands and Oscar worthy graphics.

Many a graphic design student feels awe seeing it for the first time, which is why I'm so glad I was technically an Illustration major while at R.I.S.D.: "flawless" can be so very daunting to a youngster taking it all in, trying to learn and keep up at the same time you're desperate to figure it all out: how can I be an artist? What is my style? Will I ever be capable of doing something like that? Dare I hope and dream, even with hours of studio time and practice? What about all that money spent? IS it (and am I) worth it?! We didn't know what awaited us in the world or how it comes together for us as designers, thinkers, intellectuals, and dreamers, and that's a scarier prospect than any business meeting could ever be, on any given day of the week.

The oft-avoided bestseller (for obvious reasons), but the book is set well.

Finally, here's a nicely done chapter opener, something I don't often do as a book designer and art director, because covers are huge, colorful and expensive marketing pieces that take up most of my time, but I appreciate their quiet strength when I see them just the same. When I do find myself in a position that affords me the time to typeset a page that goes with my cover design, I relish it for the synchronicity I so often don't find in business, because of the conflicting production schedules we have in trade publishing. Sigh....oh, well.

Design is hope made visible.

 That's it for now. See ya next time. Y'all come back now, ya here?