First Things First

A few months ago, when I was knee-deep in my “should I or shouldn’t I” grad school crisis, Adbusters and a few other magazines simultaneously published a reprint of First Things First, a manifesto first written by Ken Garland in 1964. First Things First was a call to designers to take responsibility for the role they played in society, and not just idly contribute to the propagation of reckless consumption. It asked designers to make a distinction between design as communication and design as persuasion, and side in favor of using their skills to improve our culture rather than drown it in a deeper sea of crap.

This made a big impact on me, since it was a clear, passionate articulation of problems I’d wrestled with for years as a designer. This was the reason I’d quit or turned down more than one job rather than produce second-rate crap just because it might sell. This was the reason that one of my professors at Pratt consistently made me furious in class for wasting our energy on a project geared toward producing modular, “sell-as-much-as-possible” crap. This was the reason that I’ve never considered working in advertising. This was also the reason I loved working for public television and teaching. I really believe in design’s ability to facilitate learning and understanding, in ways that are explicit as well as implicit. I love typography and design and photography and stuff, and I want to use them for good, not evil.

Naturally, this high-falutin’ approach regularly comes into conflict with my desire to earn a living. I once had to design a kids’ book that was little more than a perverse attempt to move product by cashing in on public-domain ideas. I still cringe when I think about the time I gave telephone software support to what is apparently a cult. It’s an ongoing battle, and one where I’m not always happy with the outcome, but I think it’s worth the effort to try and stick by the ethical approach.

Wired published a great article that hit me in the same way, even though it wasn’t about my field of expertise. Why The Future Doesn’t Need Us was an examination of where the future of robotics, nanotechnology, and genetic engineering might be taking us, and whether or not they posed more of a threat than an ultimate benefit. This wasn’t a reactionary warning from a Luddite; it was written by Bill Joy from Sun, and looked at both sides of the coin. But it made the same call to scientists and engineers that First Things First made to designers: Take responsibility for the things to which you contribute. He points out that Robert Oppenheimer and the scientists of the Manhattan Project learned this lesson later than they wished they had, and that some of today’s technologies pose even greater threats than the Bomb posed.

It wouldn’t be such a bad idea for everyone to ponder the ethics of their careers, now would it? Maybe that tickle in the back of your brain, that aspect of your job that you try not to think about, is something you should think about. Maybe it’s not such a grey area after all. Maybe it’s touch of conscience.

Let’s Go to the Movies

Movies were the theme this weekend. And quite a contrast of them. Friday night, Stephen and I met up at the swanky little Chelsea gallery where our friend Abbey works, and then took off for another one of our “Teen Nights,” to go see Final Destination. We were supposed to meet up with the members of sixteen gay soccer teams after that, but apparently we missed them. Their loss.

Saturday night, after an afternoon watching all of More Tales of the City (not all it was cracked up to be) while curled up on the couch in my underwear and under a blanket, I went to go see the breathtakinlgly beautiful 70s-gay-art-porn classic, Pink Narcissus. Beforehand, after checking out the very addictive star Links site, where you can see how any two actors are connected (usually through work with veteran character actors like Shelley Winters that have made movies with almost everyone), we launched into our own Celebrity six Degrees obsession. some of our triumphs include linking Ingrid Bergman to Don Knotts, and Peter Lorre to Casper van Dien.

While we were listening to Simon’s rare vinyl copy of the soundtrack to Liquid sky (sunday’s couch-and-blanket feature), we talked about how wild it would have been to be urbane adults back in the early 80s in New York. I have a very pop-kitsch fondness for the West Coast 80s (as distilled in the classic Valley Girl), but a real fascination with the arty, New Wave, hedonistic, pre-Giuliani New York of that era. John made a good point, though: if the three of us had been around through all that, we’d surely be dead now, considering what we would have been doing to entertain ourselves. A chilling thought, but very true.

Tonight I’ll finally see All About my Mother with a couple of new hipster pals from North Williamsburg. (A neighborhood I love and loathe at the same time. Dori’s journal at Saran Warp illustrates the dilemma perfectly.)

My ambivalence about life in New York grows and grows, but that’s a rant for another day…

Kentucky Fried China

Memories of China: I’ve been rereading Diamond Age, Neal Stephenson’s nanotechnology novel, set in the Shanghai area. One of the wackiest images that’s stayed with me from my trip to Shanghai was of a Kentucky Fried Chicken on a major street behind the shanghai Art Museum (from which we fled for a couple of hours in order to wander free around the city instead of hang out with the tour group). KFC was apparently the biggest American fast food franchise in China, and this particular branch caught my eye not only because of the wide range of chinese food also available within, but also because of the larger-than-life statue of the Colonel out front, smiling benevolently at the passersby.

This passage from Diamond Age made me smile, too:

The House of the Venerable and Inscrutable Colonel was what they called it when they were speaking Chinese. Venerable because of his goatee, white as the dogwood blossom, a badge of unimpeachable credibility in Confucian eyes. Instrutable because he had gone to his grave without divulging the secret of the Eleven Herbs and Spices. It had been the first fast-food franchise established on the Bund, many decades earlier. Judge Fang had what amounted to a private table in the corner. He had once reduced Chang to a state of catalepsis by describing an avenue in Brooklyn that was lined with fried chicken establishments for miles, all of them rip-offs of Kentucky Fried Chicken.

This reminds me something Mark and I once pondered when we went for some KFC back in our Bushwick days: When you buy spicy crispy strips, are you getting more spices, or are they swapping out some of the original eleven herbs and spices for different ones?

Teeny Tiny Town

It’s a big city, but also a tiny town. I haven’t felt coincidence closing in on me like this since I lived in Boston. It’s been quite a weekend for kookiness in that regard. At least one of those wacky coincidences was fortunate, but I’m gonna keep my mouth shut and my fingers crossed about that one. I believe in the “jinx effect.”

I figured I might find myself a little embarrassed after posting the “Cute Web Boys” list, but strangely enough it hit me from left field, rather than from the li’l cutie I expected to bring it on. I guess this is all part and parcel of being a big dork.

Not much going on, otherwise. Saw Scream 3, which was mostly OK. I had forgotten, though, how much I love Parker Posey. she is soooooooooo brilliant in her own kooky, scene-stealing way.

The new movie theaters in this town are starting to spiral out of control. They’re becoming so large and surreal and disorienting. We saw the movie at the new Loews “E Walk” megaplex in the “New” Times square. Talk about the fucking mall-ification of New York! This was like an indoor version of the Universal studios Theme Park or something. The scale is just big, like you’re an ant in someone’s house, not big and grand and breathtaking, like Grand Central Station. It’s really icky.

Chow Mine

So I’m at work in Connecticut, eating some chow mein noodles. You know, the crunchy kind that you get for free when you order Chinese take-out. I glance down at the package and see the big steaming-bowl logo that’s on the noodle factory kitty-corner from where I live. I look at the address on the cellophane and — sure enough — I’ve been eating snacks made in my neighborhood for weeks now. Kooky.

Speaking of my neighborhood, lovely East Williamsburg, I noticed a listing in Paper today (the issue with sinfully delicious Jude Law on the cover) that there’s a club near my house called Cima that does a big Body-&-Soul-esque house party on saturday nights. In East Williamsburg!

Jeez, maybe we’ll get a decent place to eat sometime soon. If there were one good café or diner in my area, I would be there ALL THE TIME.

By Grabthar’s Hammer

Never give up, never surrenderGalaxy Quest. Brilliant. Hilarious. Who knew? This was the shocker of the weekend for me. This movie was so good, and I had totally dismissed it beforehand because the trailer looked so bad, and because… Well, because Tim Allen is so Tim Allen. (Although including the Toy story movies, this now makes three flicks of his that I really like. Eeeek!) But he holds his own alongside longtime faves like Sigourney Weaver, Alan Rickman, and Tony Shalhoub. (I never hear anyone else talk about Tony Shalhoub, but he’s always really good.) And talk about special effects! Go see it, especially if you’ve ever enjoyed a moment of star Trek in any capacity whatsoever. Adam, his cool friend Laura, and I laughed our asses off, and the film even drew applause at the end, which, for a movie being viewed by a jaded NYC audience, is like getting an Oscar.

Although after geeking out by seeing science fiction and hanging out at Forbidden Planet, we were forced to retreat to Diner for a dose of the obscenely good-looking crowd and the world’s most succulent burgers.

The bummer to the weekend was discovering that I’ve almost completely forgotten how to drive since I last got behind the wheel at Thanksgiving. I’ll be the first to admit that I react really badly when I have to do things that I don’t know how to do well, and this driving thing is throwing all those issues right into my face. Hopefully, I’ll get the hang of it a little better before my road test in two weeks. Clear the roads! At least I understand why people don’t want to drive in Manhattan, though. At one point this morning I had to dodge a speeding cab, a clueless bicycist, a jay-walking pedestrian, and a freaking pigeon as I turned onto a “quiet” side street. Fuck that! I can’t wait to drive through the desert or something.

That is all.

Life in the Future

The future is now. But I don’t have a flying car, and I don’t seem to be living in a pod-home on the moon with cool, minimalist, Eames-like furniture. I think I would be laughed at if I went out in a silver unitard. Thankfully, though, I am not taking my meals in pill form.

I think 2000 will be most notable for all the crushed expectations that people will abandon. A lot of people are going to have to get used to the unexciting reality that this is just another damn year, not the dawn of something new and fabulous, or new and apocalyptic. sure, I would love to see some massive transformation take place in global society during the new year, but I’m not holding my breath.

I want to find all those people who promised Li’l Danny his moon-pod, though, and give them a piece of my mind.

As far as news goes, not much. It was great having guests all weekend, although my plumbing problems (my friend Jen dropped a bar of soap into my toilet while flushing last week) detracted from the urbane sophistication of it all. I doubt Noel Coward ever had to snake the potty in front of his guests.

Back from the Tumult

Back at last after a tumultuous few days. I’m feeling a little exhausted, and my throat feels a little scratchy. If I have strep throat again, I may as well shoot myself, ‘cuz I just don’t have time to deal. I’ve already ignored my long list of things to do by going to Baltimore and Washington last week. It wasn’t all frivolous, though: I went to the Miles 33 User’s Group Meeting out by the glamorous BWI Airport, and then down to Washington, D.C., for a visit with Jim and Frank on Friday and then a party and Kris and Casey‘s on saturday. Whoo! What a whirlwind!

Speaking of whirlwinds, I had the kookiest evening Thursday at Hurricane’s, the bar/dance club attached to the BWI Airport sheraton. Not only did I find myself at a trashy, packed airport bar in the middle of nowhere with former and possibly-future co-workers, but it was also ladies night at the club. As you can imagine, that made the whole thing even classier. But, just when we’d hit a good jaded-urbanites-dishing-the-townies groove, an assortment of cast members from The Real World and Road Rules walked in. No camera crews, no fanfare, just the sudden appearance of Jason, Kameelah, Kalle, Norman, and Matt (if I identified them all properly). Freaky.

Twee Li’l Moby

That Moby — what a kooky, wee little pixie he is. He’s the sweetest, littlest pop star on earth until he starts playing and singing, at which point he becomes this hyperactive, screaming animal with veins popping out of his head. It makes for a good show, but I still don’t think I have any need to buy one of his albums. Check your local listings once the new seasion of Sessions begins: my pals Mark, Tom, Steven, Alex, and I got seats in the front row, so we’ll be on your TV.

One warning if you ever go to a taping for Sessions: Don’t be intimidated by the blonde bitch who seats the audience. she’s a pain in the butt, and you have to pay attention to you or you’ll get a crummy seat, but you just have to remember that she’s got a sucky, high-stress job. And someone’s probably screaming at her through her headset the whole time.

Freebies

Have I mentioned how much I love Sessions at West 54th Street? It’s great show to watch – one more reason to support public television, I say. It’s much greater, though, to be able to live where they tape. Last season I got to see great live performances by David Byrne and the Balanescu Quartet, Lyle Lovett, and the Afro-Cuba All-Stars. Even though I couldn’t use my tickets this season for Cibo Matto, Los Lobos, or Marianne Faithful, I am going to see Cesaria Evora today, and I scored tickets for Moby on Monday. And it’s free!

UPDATE! Cesaria Evora is so captivating! She’s so dignified and lovely, and her voice is just wonderful — rich and haunting. It frustrated me, though, to be surrounded by so much Portuguese again. I can never manage to translate enough to keep myself from getting frustrated at my lack of comprehension. Natalie Merchant, who sat in front of us, seemed less troubled by it all.