Without warning, typographers have suddenly learned deception and bullshit.
Matias Duarte and the Google complex snow gullible journos that the unremarkable and undifferentiable (also unreadable) Grotesk sansserif Roboto is the first custom font for user interfaces or that spending a year and a half to update a single typeface is somehow unusual.
FontShop sells out to Monotype for no obvious or defensible reason. Despite not also being Mormons, this makes now-perilously-employed FontShop mandarins touchy enough to suppress my aperçu “FontFont Has Never Been More Independent and Has Always Been at War with Eastasia.” So much for the brotherhood of type.
(I find it coïncidental that Spiekermann’s [“quasi‑”] retirement from the entire industry occurred days before that takeover was announced. This could explain why the kind and generous mentor, who was kind and generous to me and my designer friend at ATypI Vancouver but is essentially impossible to contact, ignored a postal letter I sent as a last resort.)
I’m keeping track of older gay men who kill themselves because nobody else is.
As usual I schlepped 50 minutes to borrow the library’s copy of Eye, only to discover it was a “Food Special Issue,” hence bereft of any novelty or interest whatsoever.
No review. Eye is a fraud.
I did, however, note that Louise Fili gets star treatment in this issue, in an echt-Eye hagiographic profile that only once mentions she is Steven Heller’s wife.
If obscure, criminally unsung designers are to accrue the recognition they deserve, I see no alternative. If not Eye – who?
Obama ended his speech with a challenge to our community to expand its agenda into a broadly progressive one, looking beyond our own fight for equality to the issues that continue to hold back far too many Americans – social-justice issues like poverty, racial and gender discrimination, immigration, and health care. It’s as if he’d just read Urvashi Vaid’s Irresistible Revolution
It’s as if Staley just failed to read the truth about Irresistible Revolution.
with its frustration at our narrow focus on marriage equality. Vaid has often seemed like a lonely voice among our LGBT leaders as she’s yearned for a more substantive agenda with race, class, and gender at its foundation, knowing that it would produce greater and more meaningful change for a larger number of people.
Especially champagne socialists. I know Staley once worked on Wall Street, but has he ever earned a half-million for half a year’s work? Vaid has.
I have written elsewhere about DV8 Physical Theatre, a foundational experience of mine. I call it an experience even though for years all I ever did was watch DV8 on TV. Later I saw a production of theirs, MSM, in Montreal in 1993, and Enter Achilles here in 1997 (as I saw after I wrote this).
I feel almost embarrassed about my strong memories of 1990s cultural touchstones. I imagine a withering glance from my old friend de l’époque, the one who bugged out to Vancouver and whom I obviously still miss and take seriously, and, I realize now, require the approval of. I imagine being told to stop living in the past. But he’d only tell me that because he’s more embittered or discouraged or disaffected than I am. Living in the past is what you do when you’re our age. And of course I feel sad there’s someone who’s worse off than me on those axes.
I had a terrible Sunday and for some reason I looked up DV8. I saw that Dead Dreams of Monochrome Men is available – and not in seriously worse quality than the original, either. (The library has it. The bravest teenagers ever to enroll in art school condensed Dead Dreams and performed it themselves.) But there was also a samizdat posting of The Cost of Living, whole and in parts. And, just as I first saw Dead Dreams of Monochrome Men by chance and it was a foundational experience, I saw this snippet by chance and the same thing happened.
I remember dancing in gay bars
In fact I dearly remember dancing in gay bars. I especially remember another old friend and I complimenting each other on our dancing. This would have been when we were very young and before his boyfriend was murdered. And I guess before the life went out of us and queer began its genocide program against gay. Dance at your revolution, about architecture, etc. – no, thanks. That part of me has been killed. I can’t even tell you that without writerly references.
As a writer since childhood it has taken me a lifetime to understand people with natural grace and physical gifts and the ability to move and what I am missing. The difference is you can teach an athlete to read. One of my ginger athlete friends (naturally I have amassed a stable) tells me a lot of athletes really aren’t that smart. Smart eldergays whose smarts are all in the mind secretly would love to swap lives with these guys.
Do gay intellectuals make up for it by engaging in sex? Nope. As 26-YEARS OLD COCKSUCKER LERNERT FROM AMSTERDAM put it in Butt, nothing’s worse than a gay intellectual with a big dick.
I learned a lot about this distinction from Camille Paglia, a professor of English who teaches artists and accepts paintings and dance pieces as responses to literature. What a great idea. (And that’s another ’90s reference, one I can’t actually back up.) Paglia also said Madonna thinks with her body.
Here we have the transition from stony-cold life of the mind to actual life in three short minutes (at 15:00 in the original). Watch for the voguing, then the smile.
This thing still brings tears to my eyes. Who says a dance film can’t have its own set piece set to a set of Cher’s “Believe”? Only Lloyd Newson would do that.
I just gave you 550 words explaining how words are inadequate and are not really “life.” And it took me a month to put them together. I’m having a lot of terrible Sundays.