The Impending War Between Serif and Sans Serif Typefaces
Things are getting ripe on the battlefield. Already the brand and style guides have been sent out and it’s shaping up to be a battle not just of morals and American values but also of line and shape and everything solid that Westerners fight for in the trenches. In subtle ways, but with alarming consequences, graphic designers are already waging their wars and fighting their own battles. From the tag lines and bold graphics on CNN and FOX (Target Iraq! – Showdown with Saddam!), to the propaganda being pumped out of Washington, it’s looking like the battle is not over land, oil, or democratic freedoms and the right to watch Joe Millionaire in peace, but rather it’s a battle over style and the correct typeface. It’s a dual to determine which typefaces are right and which ones are dead wrong.

The lines have been drawn in the dirt and the typefaces have been assigned. The USA, America, and all its heavy action words, will be set in the most noble and boldface sans serif letterforms. Iraq, Saddam, Hans Blix, and other Axis of Evil, will all be set in the most whimsical and lame serif typefaces. Whenever possible, arabic looking script type or ancient calligraphy will be used to indicate the pre-modern conditions that those rogue elements display. This is a fight after all for modernity. It’s a fight for all things straight and narrow and for pure western thought that is unhindered by bottom protrusions and old style ideas. The letterforms of a faith based democratic new world must be just and prudent in the expenditure of line and the execution of form. Abandon unsightly decoration which is the achilles heal of the simple minded and the bloodthirsty. Get friendly with Helvetica and Arial. Denounce and cast down your work mates and loved ones whenever they send you baby shower invitations set in Times, Century Schoolbook, or (shudder) Garamond. Enforce these standards with high powered weapons. Keep a small scottish dirk by the office printer, and root out terrorism at its core. You have your orders. Carry on soldier.

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Johnny Get Your Gun
Why do times of war inspire amazing graphics? I do not know. Maybe it’s cause the war machine pays such good money. But if you are a visual learner like me you need things drawn out for you. Esspecially complicated war patterns and such. Here is a diagram of Iraq’s Firepower, and another that shows the range of said firepower. I mean if Herr Bush is going to force a war on us I might as well find something to enjoy. Here is a fine illustration diagram of a sub. And totally unrelated to the war campaign, are these images from the Museum of Moist Towels. Although with all the blood that’s about to be on Bush’s hands he might need a moist towel. So strike that – it’s totally related. Ok, really not related, are these photoshoped ipods.

Faith Based Bio-Shield
Ok my favorite part of last nights State of War address from Herr Bush was his call for “Project Bio-Shield”. I imagine that the development of the project might look something like this. I know that the bush team was well aware of the fact that the FX super hit show “The Shield” followed his speech and thus planned the speech accordingly. For some reason, Project Bio-Shield invokes the idea of gigantic feminine napkins being flown over Iraq and shoved out the back of C-130 cargo planes. Someone needs to investigate to see whether Tampax is on the Pentagon Payroll.

Ride a Black Swan
I found myself driving around the city aimlessly and without purpose last night looking for something to do after I left Tracy’s Saloon just before midnight. It had been a great night so far. John Gwinn, crazed and delirious from cold sweats, two painfully sleepless nights, and a gallon of over the counter medicines had had a vision that he wouldn’t live one day past 73 and thus, as Monday was his 36 and a half birthday, his midpoint in life, he had decided to call a half-time. A time out. We all gathered to asses the situation over our favorite brands of Whiskey. After a few hours of hemming and hawing, talk of creole baseball leagues, and random lesbian climax positions, we all came to the consensus that The State of John Gwinn was strong and that his second term would be chiseled in granite.

When the party finally broke up, and the glasses were turned over on the table, I got in my motor and header for home. But with my baby dealing with family matters in Alabama this week and with no one to come home to, I found myself instead roaming around the city streets.

After driving around for awhile, I ended up where I end up most nights when I have these wicked bouts of displacement. The Record Store. Thank god for the record store that stays open till midnight. You are second on my list only to the bars that stay open later than 1PM. You are my lighthouse in troubled waters — ye’ ol’ merchant of shiny plastic circles and 180 gram vinyl.

I hadn’t anything in mind when I hit the racks last night. I was just killing time. I had no plans of purchasing anything really. It would have sufficed just to walk around and lazily finger the used CD’s that were returned on Friday of last week. I would have been content to just stare off at the Dub section or wonder at the seemingly inharmonious but beautifully crafted ‘picks’ the employees had organized on their own. Jeane recommends the new Underworld CD and some German band I’ve never heard of. Man, I bet there is a great story behind everyone of those picks. Employees give little micro reviews of all the CD’s that they recommend. When I read them, I wish instead they would write short stories about hearing the record for the first time or tell me which track on the album makes them throw furniture and which one leaves them loving wicker baskets – gaining a deeper appreciation for the craft of the thing.

I was thinking these thoughts about furniture, good songs and such when a little voice from the achieves of my gray matter punched past the Whiskey and softly whispered…Zwan. Oh yes I remembered, I wanted to get the debut Zwan record. I have a love for David Pajo’s music that is so pure that I understand anything he touches is a genuine piece of joy. You see, David was in a band called Slint. And for me, when the hour is witching and creeping on midnight, Slint is the only thing – only thing, that will do. I have learned slowly over the years that as much as I stare and chant at the little black ‘Slint’ card at the Record Store, a new record will never appears under it. It just wont. Which is ok, because David has gone on to make some other incredible music and in some cases a lot better music. The stuff he records under the moniker Papa M is the fuel that I use to power to my train.

So yeah, David. New Band. Zwan. Zwan, is also Billy from Smashing Pumpkins new band. The title of the Zwan CD is ‘Mary Star of the Sea’, which is named and dedicated to Mary Hansen of Stereolab who sadly is no longer with us. I went looking for the disc and after having rotten luck I bothered one of the bored employees, who casually mentioned that the record didn’t come out till midnight – which was a whole ten minutes away. The forces at work here were operating at such a high level that I didn’t even bother to think about it. I just accepted my fate and hung around till midnight when, along with about 6 other diehard 13 year olds we all marched up to the checkout at twelve-o-one with our CD/DVD enhanced Zwan discs and handed over all we had for what could be…

…so of course I like the disc. How could I not after all that. In fact, I stayed up the rest of the night and listened to it twice. Once on the hi-fi and once on headphones. I also watched the DVD and thought for a long time what my life would be like if I was a member of Zwan. In the DVD the band gets philosophical about the meaning of Zwan, and the different incarnations of Zwan. So I sat and thought a lot about that too. I told myself it’s good to still feel Zwan. Without Zwan it would be far less fun. Let us all Zwan and sleep well tonight. Adieu.

The Evidence is Clear
The roads look like hell this morning. Our Wo-bee-gon town looks like one giant ice skating rink with a cool layer of slush puppy thrown on top. From my breakfast nook, I’m watching a rusted out cream colored Bonneville arduously dovetail it’s way up 35th street. There is enough snow on the ground to muffle the sounds of street activity and morning ritual. Many are still asleep or walking around in a stunned stupor after watching the Raiders dynasty collapse before its crowning. What an awful game. Apparently it was the Raiders who missed ‘the message in a bottle’ that the best defense will annihilate a strong offense on any given sunday. Thank god for half-time shows and MTV Cribs for filling in an otherwise dull sporting event with drama and surprise. But these are the words of a bitter loser and someone who lost piles of money betting on Gannon’s arm. Hell, I think the Massilllon Tigers would have had a better shot against the ‘Bucs than Oakland did.

But really, that was just the warm up act. Now comes the Real Showdown. I’m getting ready for head coach Hans Blix to come in at 9:30 this morning and deliver hints at his world game strategy. Bush will of course counter tomorrow with some sorry state of the union, drawn from a playbook handed down from a future hall of shamer. But, from what we’ve seen from Assistant Coach Powell the U.S. game strategy is as hollow as Shania Twain’s attempts to shake off the ‘little bit country edge’ and turn pop diva. It’s a damn lie and no one will bite. I have to believe that even Coach Powell isn’t all that happy to be swimming is a pool of such shallow rhetoric. If the world demands proof and all you’ve got to say is, “The evidence is clear”, then it sounds like you’re talking down to us for not being able to recognize the clarity of the situation – or, you haven’t got a clue, and the only smoking gun is the one you happily sold Iraq back in the days before instant replay and the Carolina Panthers. So, If I have to choose between whether the Powell/Bush team is talking down to me or obfuscating the situation, I’ll choose the latter. Damn, after watching that silly bobble head special teams coach, Andrew Card use language like “Holocaust” and “Whatever means necessary” to trounce Senior Saddam, I have no choice but to start betting heavily on Blix. Now that Superbowl XXXVI is still squarely in the rearview mirror, let’s all remember to chant this week, “A Strong Defense beats a Strong Offense”.

Vice City Radio
I don’t own Playstation and I’ve never played GTA3: Vice City, but if the game is one-tenth as good as the CD compilations that are being cross-marketed with the game, then I know I am living in a cultural black hole and must advance to go by stealing both a PS2 and GTA3 the next time I raid the local Best Buy. The good men and women working in the radio/CD branch of RockStarGames have really put together some heavy compilations. I have only purchased the Latin/Cuban tinged, Espantoso!, which is an end-to-end burner of smoking latin grooves but from browsing the other comps and their track list, they all look worthwhile. V-Rock, a metal compilation, comes correct with Slayer, Anthrax and Maiden, while Wildstyle rocks Granmaster Flash, Run DMC and Afrika Bambaataa. I feel thirteen again!

Garage Doors for Peace
I wish I had a garage door and lived in a climate that would allow me to do some outdoor painting in January. Then I could add to the Garage Doors Against the War protest. It would take a stunning amount of labored detailed work, but with some fine camel hair brushes and an overhead projector I might me able to make a full rendering of the Indymedia Map of U.S. Terrorist Infrastructure. Then, I would pace around my driveway in my bathrobe shouting at persons in the neighborhood and pointing at my garage door map furiously with two straight fingers – “We are a threat to peace!!!”

The Pianist
We haven’t any snow but still everything is white. The streets are white. The sidewalks are white. Street signs, bridges, my car, other humans and their pets — all covered in a thin layer of white chalky dirt and salt. The world looks like a cold blank canvas. It’s man versus the elements here in the upper latitudes. It’s no small obstacle, when you realize that, if not dressed properly, if you forgo a glove or your capilene long underwear that you could end up a winter casualty. Cruel things can happen at 10 below naught.

It took every ounce of spirit to go see Roman Polanski’s The Pianist yesterday. And, although it took half the movie to thaw out, I’m glad I went. The Pianist is better than wearing your warmest scarf on Lake Placid. It’s better than watching an ice boat flip and roll on Lake Harriet and it’s better than surviving a fall through that thin ice patch on the Minnesota River. Better than all that. Please movie makers – make more like The Pianist. Historical. Factual. Non-sentimental. Non-glamourous. A Warriors story. Galactic acting. Adrian Brody is top notch. The cinematography of a war ravaged Warsaw is striking and unfathomable. Thank you good cinema. You are a kind and welcoming friend when the mercury drops down low.