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Speaking of Boxing

­Around here, we do words as well as we can. And sometimes we do them pretty well, though we try not to brag about it (pun intended). Yet for all our wit and repartee, it’s unlikely, in any event, that we could have out-quipped Muhammed Ali – also known as the “Louisville Lip.”

Ali passed away a little over a year ago. He was only 74. One of the greatest athletes of the 20th century, he also had a way with words that few athletes (or design firms) have ever been able to rival. Ali was known for hurling insults and boasts at lightning speed, shutting reporters down in the first round, and mincing his opponents at press.

Here are some of his memorable quotes, all of them reasons to have avoided going toe-to-toe with the legend in a battle of wits.

 

On boxing and life:

“If you even dream of beating me you’d better wake up and apologize.”

“I’m not the greatest. I’m the double greatest. Not only do I knock ’em out, I pick the round. I’m the boldest, the prettiest, the most superior, most scientific, most skillfullest fighter in the ring today.”

“It isn’t the mountains ahead to climb that wear you out; it’s the pebble in your shoe.”

“I should be a postage stamp. That’s the only way I’ll get licked.”

“It’s just a job. Grass grows, birds fly, waves pound the sand. I beat people up.”

“Impossible is just a big word thrown around by small men who find it easier to live in the world they’ve been given than to explore the power they have to change it. Impossible is not a fact. It’s an opinion. Impossible is not a declaration. It’s a dare. Impossible is potential. Impossible is temporary. Impossible is nothing.”

 

Before fighting Sonny Liston in 1964, he even wrote a poem:

“…now Clay swings with a right, what a beautiful swing
And raises the bear straight out of the ring;
Liston is rising and the ref wears a frown
For he can’t start counting ’til Liston comes down;
Now Liston disappears from view, the crowd is getting frantic
But our radar stations have picked him up somewhere over the Atlantic;
Who would have thought when they came to the fight
That they’d witness the launching of a human satellite?
Yes the crowd did not dream when they laid down their money
That they would see a total eclipse of the Sonny.”

 

Leading up to and following “The Rumble in the Jungle,” his 1974 fight against George Foreman:

“Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee. His hands can’t hit what his eyes can’t see. Now you see me, now you don’t. George thinks he will, but I know he won’t.”

“I done something new for this fight. I wrestled with an alligator. I tussled with a whale. I handcuffed lightning, I thrown thunder in jail. Only last week I murdered a rock, injured a stone, hospitalized a brick. I’m so mean I make medicine sick.”

“Champions aren’t made in the gyms. Champions are made from something they have deep inside them: a desire, a dream, a vision. They have to have last-minute stamina, they have to be a little faster, they have to have the skill and the will. But the will must be stronger than the skill.”

“I’m so fast that last night I turned off the light switch in my hotel room and got into bed before the room was dark.”

 

“The Thrilla in Manilla,” 1975,  his third and final bout with Joe Frazier:

“I saw your wife. You’re not as dumb as you look.” 

“It will be a killer and a chiller and a thriller, when I get the gorilla in Manilla.”

 

Later in life:

“People say I talk so slow today. That’s no surprise. I calculated I’ve taken 29,000 punches. But I earned $57m and I saved half of it. So I took a few hard knocks. Do you know how many black men are killed every year by guns and knives without a penny to their names? I may talk slow, but my mind is OK.”

“What I suffered physically was worth what I’ve accomplished in life. A man who is not courageous enough to take risks will never accomplish anything in life.”

“I’m not afraid of dying. I have faith; I do everything I can to live my life right; and I believe that dying will bring me closer to God.”

“Live every day like it’s your last, because someday you’re going to be right.”

Badassery

When it comes to focus areas, designers have a lot of choices: layout, typography, web design, and more. Some are good at one; fewer at many. But to be able to add illustration to your “I’m great at this” toolkit—I mean real, honest, soul- and style-baring illustration—that, to me, is the unicorn talent to beat all others.

Like this dribbble tab, which has been open in my browser for more than three weeks now. I’m obsessed. Andy J. Miller is rocking my world with his bright, spot-on designs that pair with his SoundCloud episodes.

Check all three links out. You will not be disappointed.

Need a Hand with Your Words?

So while I was taking a break from being awesome today, I completed the Chicago Style Workout 17: Hyphens, Part 1 quiz. My result?

It wasn’t until after I clicked “Submit,” however, that I noticed this:

Advanced editors might tackle the questions cold; learners can study paragraph 7.85, section 1, of the Manual before answering the questions.

Huh. Guess that means I’m “advanced.”

Which brings us to the whole point of this exercise. You may not need a professional to write your copy, but you’re definitely gonna want one to proof it. Here at helveticka, we’re fast, we’re thorough, and we’re…advanced. Give us a call.

Miscellany

Why anyone would need “Ten Ways to Organize Your Bookshelf” is beyond me, since there is only one correct way to do so: first, separate the fiction from the non-, then sort each by genre, then arrange alphabetically by author, then organize chronologically by publication date. Duh.

Tonopah, Nevada’s creepy Clown Motel is for sale. “Oh, I’m going to miss the clowns,” says the owner. “I’m going to come back. I’m going to come back and visit my clowns.”

The metaphysics of the hangover: “The light did him harm, but not as much as looking at things did; he resolved, having done it once, never to move his eyeballs again. A dusty thudding in his head made the scene before him beat like a pulse. His mouth had been used as a latrine by some small creature of the night, and then as its mausoleum. During the night, too, he’d somehow been on a cross-country run and then been expertly beaten up by secret police. He felt bad.”

This, folks, is some seriously good advice: “Kill your notifications. Yes, really. Turn them all off.”

Tardigrades are tough. They can go decades without food or water, endure temperatures from absolute zero to 300º Fahrenheit, and withstand the vacuum of space as easily as the pressure at the bottom of the Marianas Trench. And radiation? They laugh at it. The only way to kill ’em, it seems, is to boil the oceans. Which will happen in, oh…seven billion years or so.

All in a Day’s Work

CK, Linda, and I just returned from a fact-finding mission in northern Colorado: How does the city of Greeley turn Rocky Mountain snowmelt into the best-tasting water in North America?

Turns out it’s thanks to guys like John Thornhill (left), water resources operations manager at Greeley, and Randy Gustafson (right), water resources administrator. And though we kind of knew that already, we feigned ignorance so that the two of them would take us on a field trip.

That’s how we ended up eating lunch on the front porch of a remote cabin with this view of Peterson Lake—at roughly 9,500 feet in elevation and just a stone’s throw from Rocky Mountain National Park. And how we learned a thing or two about water management, prior appropriation, what it means when someone has a “call on the river,” transbasin diversions, and what the heck a natural conveyance is.

Now, it’s not often that all three of us feel like the dumb kids in the room (usually it’s just me). But being around Randy and John, well…let’s just say that these guys are a great asset to the city. Congratulations on the award, fellas, and thanks for a great time.

This Year’s Vacation Rocked

One of the side benefits of this job (apart from the piles of cash and the constant attention from the ladies) is that you get to learn about all kinds of interesting things.

Like, say, rocks.

Working on CWU’s geologic timeline gave me a new appreciation for nature’s puzzle pieces—so much so that, on a vacation ostensibly about seeing the American West from two-lane highways, we went out of our way to take a gander at Petrified Forest National Park…

…Craters of the Moon…

…and, of course, Grand Canyon.

And it was amazing. All of it. Here are some more photos, if you’re so inclined.

On Dominance and Submission

As I mentioned in yesterday’s post, I recently returned from an epic road trip that took the missus and me everywhere from lonely byways in the heart of the Great Plains to the unrestrained hedonism of the Las Vegas Strip. But no matter where we happened to be, there was always one thing we could count on: people taking selfies.

I’m not entirely sure why, by I find the practice to be one of the most obnoxious developments of the Digital Age. Is it narcissism that drives people to take a selfie at the South Rim of the Grand Canyon? Or is it simply an example of herd mentality? Perhaps both.

But that’s not all. According to Dr. David Ludden at Psychology Today, people use selfies to, depending on their intended audience, create a certain impression:

Just like other animals, humans also equate size with dominance and submission. The priest stands at the altar before a kneeling congregation. The orator struts upon a dais before a seated audience. And the king sits on his raised throne before his prostrate subjects. These are all ancient practices, but there’s also a modern ritual in which people try to manage other people’s impressions of how tall they are—the selfie!

And it turns out that this “impression management” actually works. Read the whole article.

On the Road

Just got back from a two-week vacation—a rambling road trip covering more than 5,300 miles across a dozen states, mostly on two-lane highways. (The trip itself is immortalized on Instagram under #superepicmegaroadtrip, if you’re interested.)

Anyway, one of the highlights was meeting my aunt for the first time. She has a little farm on the Rio Grande near Dixon, New Mexico: fruits and vegetables, chickens, dairy goats. After getting to know her a little bit—like learning that she lived in a teepee for a couple of years—it occurred to me that she was something of a hippie. Which I dutifully reported, of course.

“Not a hippie,” she said as she looked at me over the top of her glasses. “I was a beatnik.”

“So,” I replied. “A hippie before it was cool.”

“No,” she said, a little more firmly. “A beatnik.”

Which is all just a roundabout way of bringing your attention to this story. It’s not only a fascinating—and maddening—look at the “hipster millennial scapegoats of their time,” but also a tastefully designed reading experience. Hats off to the Washington Post for a great article, and for doing something truly interesting and engaging with the medium.

Another Dose of Nostalgia

Last week (6.26), Courtney shared with us this link, taking us to a world that many have forgotten. This week, I’ll share with you a bit of information I found out…SEGA has released some of their original games for free. And according to the website they will release a new one every month. As an added bonus, they aren’t discriminating against a mobile platform, it’s available for both Android and iOS. So hop on the app store, search for SEGA, and download your favorite. From Sonic to Crazy Taxi to Kid Chameleon to Comix Zone to Altered Beast, there’s so many to choose from.

Clearly productivity around the office is slowly dwindling.

A Nice Walk in the Woods

“It’s a nice walk in the woods” he said, “no problem for beginners.”

And so we set off. 5 Girl Scouts. 16 people total.

6 hours later the last group made it back to camp.

I think I need to adjust my difficulty rating system when asking Aaron about trail hikes.

I’m lucky my Girl Scout parents like me.

Look Left, Then Look Right

When you find something this cool on the internet, you share it.

1. Click on this link
2. Pick a video that most intrigues you
3. Once it begins to play, click drag on the video left or right
4. Enjoy

Things I Saw Downtown, Walking On My Lunch Break

Beside the meter

­the lady fishes for her keys,

legs painted Pantone 163.

 

Within the underpass,

city sleepers spoon the passing traffic;

catch the faint whiff of­­ –­ well, I’d rather not say.

 

Meanwhile,

 

High above the street

on sidewalks blue, rests a solitary figure

amid faint curls of smoke.

Monday Monsters

While enjoying my coffee this morning I found this and it made me smile. And then it made me sentimental as hell. Now, after a deep-dive Google session, I’m playing this. Happy Monday, all.

monster

 

 

 

Where It All Began

My first professional job, a part-time gig around 1980, was with a local design firm called Spilker Baker & Associates. Jim Spilker and Don Baker had met in design school at Spokane Falls Community College a few years earlier.

We worked out of the first floor of a house at 724 West Shannon. It’s…a little different from our studio today:

8-Stairs@2x7-Upstairs@2x6-Offices@2x5-Sitting-Area@2x4-Interior-Wall@2x3-Lobby@2x1-Exterior-2@2x2-Exterior-1@2x

While I was at Spilker Baker for less than a year before moving on to an advertising agency, I’ve remained friends with Don ever since, and we continue to maintain a long-standing collaborative relationship.

The Sad State of Musical Criticism in 2017

Remember how last week I alerted you to Kalefa Sanneh’s New Yorker article on progressive rock? Now Forbes is getting in on the action. The key difference between the two pieces, though, is that Sanneh’s is worth reading—and it’s not just because the author of the Forbes piece, Rob Salkowitz, admits to being a “prog-hating Clash fan” (apparently you can’t, like me, be a fan of both prog and the Clash).

No, it’s because Salkowitz feels compelled to call into question the humanity of prog fans. No, for reals.

First, he asserts that prog bands (“aging, fat white guys living a rich lifestyle”) are “lightly regarded outside of a hard core of mostly male fans who self-identify as the nerds of the music world.” Then he wonders about “the appeal of this particular brand of indulgent, over-intellectualized music to male listeners of a certain bent.”

A certain bent? What could he possibly mean? Oh…of course. We’re racists!

Prog is “the whitest of white-boy music,” he writes, that “played in the segregation of album rock radio in the 1970s.”

Whereas Top 40 was inherently colorblind, playing James Brown, the Beatles, Motown and Bob Dylan as long as it was popular, the FM stations that championed prog rock, hard rock and heavy metal in the 1970s started systematically excluding black artists. [Note: How many black prog rock, hard rock, and heavy metal bands were there in the 1970s? Exactly.] That led to a massive division between R&B, soul and other “urban” (African-American) styles and what’s become known as “classic rock” for white kids in the suburbs – a casually racist state of affairs that persisted until the crossover of hip hop in the late 80s and lingers on to this day.

Huh. Who knew? And here I thought I liked King Crimson on accounta it’s musically interesting. Didn’t know I hated “African-American” styles. Guess I’d better get rid of all those CDs by Sun Ra, Miles Davis, Ornette Coleman, Charles Mingus, Herbie Hancock, Taj Mahal, Freddie Hubbard, Wadada Leo Smith, Isaac Hayes, McCoy Tyner…

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