The estimable Mike Miller—who handles all programming- and IT-related matters around here—seems to think “Weird Al” Yankovic and I are kindred spirits. Can’t imagine why.
The estimable Mike Miller—who handles all programming- and IT-related matters around here—seems to think “Weird Al” Yankovic and I are kindred spirits. Can’t imagine why.
In the fall of 1988, we designed our very first annual report for Avista. It was noteworthy for at least three reasons. One, it was the first project we ever produced for what was then known as the Washington Water Power Company. Two, it was the first major print project for our newly formed firm, Anderson Mraz Design—which officially began doing business on January 1, 1988. And three, it was the year that, midway through the design process, WWP decided to call it the 100-year anniversary annual report, since it was mailed out in early 1989. Recalling this project makes me feel a little like—dare I say it?—an industry veteran.
Congratulations to Avista for 125 years of service. We’re pleased to have worked with them on countless projects for 25 of those years.
“What I was hearing didn’t sound like it came from someone of this generation, even of this century. I was in a mild and amused state of shock, and all I remember thinking was this: Listen to how this gentleman talks because you will never hear anything like it ever again.”
Read the fascinating story about Brazil’s Confederados—the descendants of Confederate Americans who settled near São Paulo following the Civil War—over at Narratively.
One of American music’s singular voices has been silenced: I just got an email announcing the death this morning of the great bassist and composer Charlie Haden. One of my favorite albums of all time—in any genre—is the one he made with Pat Metheny in 1997 called Beyond the Missouri Sky. Here’s “Waltz for Ruth” from that album.
“I learned at a very young age that music teaches you about life,” Haden wrote in his acceptance speech when he was inducted into the National Endowment for the Arts 2012 class of Jazz Masters. “When you’re in the midst of improvisation, there is no yesterday and no tomorrow—there is just the moment that you are in. In that beautiful moment, you experience your true insignificance to the rest of the universe. It is then, and only then, that you can experience your true significance.”
Writing in Cultural Amnesia: Necessary Memories from History and the Arts, the great Clive James points out that, “as Kingsley Amis acutely noted, the person who uses ‘disinterested’ for ‘uninterested’ is unlikely to see your article complaining about the point, because the person has never been much of a reader anyway.”
What? They’re not synonyms?
The first definition of disinterested in my copy of The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language (fourth ed.) reads “Free of bias and self-interest; impartial”; “Not interested; indifferent” reads the second. A note in the text, however, mentions that 89 percent of the dictionary’s usage panel rejected the second definition back in 1988, only a slight decrease from the 93 percent who disapproved in 1980. An online search reveals that the number was 88 percent in 2001 and 86 percent in 2013.
Experts agree: they’re not synonyms. So what gives? I wish I knew. For now, I’m sticking with my go-to source in all matters related to English, who writes, “A bored person is uninterested. Do not confuse this word with the much rarer ‘disinterested,’ which means ‘objective, neutral.'” That’s good enough for me.
This is one of those ideas you wish you’d come up with yourself—simple and seemingly obvious, yet brilliantly creative. I hate these guys.
This is the wheelhouse of the Columbia Princess, the ferry that provides service across Lake Roosevelt between Gifford and Inchelium. I suppose, then, that it’s not technically a “Spokane scene.” But it’s a short drive away, so I’m counting it.
Thanks to everyone that attended the helveticka open house this past Friday! We enjoyed a wonderful turn out with clients, collaborators, friends, and family. The music was fantastic, the food excellent, and the beverages endless. The outdoor tents proved to be invaluable. And I hear the new helveticka space isn’t so bad, either. In case you missed it, just give me a call to arrange a personal tour.
photo by Photo Ramsey
There’s a great scene in the theatrical release of Wayne’s World in which Wayne, trying out a new guitar at a music shop, plays the intro to Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven.” No sooner does he get through the first couple of notes when a store employee puts the kibosh on it, pointing to a sign on the wall that reads “No Stairway to Heaven.” Anyone who’s ever picked up a guitar will understand.
The problem is, on international, home video, and television versions of the film, Wayne doesn’t actually play “Stairway to Heaven.” Because of “disputes in obtaining rights to the first five notes of the song”—according to IMDB—something else entirely is dubbed in, and the joke predictably falls flat. See for yourself:
The point to all this? Willard’s Wormholes makes the compelling case that Led Zeppelin has a whole lotta chutzpah:
“Led Zeppelin’s many incidents of copyright infringement are legendary. There are those who have called it outright theft, and have sworn in a court of law that Led Zeppelin (primarily Jimmy Page and Robert Plant) have repeatedly taken credit for writing music that wasn’t their’s to take credit for. And, many of those cases have been vindicated.”
Do take the time to check it out, if only to see the 25 fantastic—and cringe-inducing—”Zeppelin Took My Blues Away” trading cards.
First, they came for the fish…
The opportunity to write a headline like this comes only once in a lifetime.
Step one: eliminate the Jews. Step two: reanimate some prehistoric cows. Step three: enjoy world domination.
Um…
“For a short while it looked more like a Star Wars battle,” said man who witnessed horrific Shrewsbury sheep lasering.
Regular readers know that I like to point out proofing errors from time to time. It’s not necessarily to gloat, but rather to point out that, every once in a while, even the pros miss something. (Are you reading this, CK?)
This one, though, is a biggie. And since it comes from a private, hoity-toity, fancy-pants university with an $8 billion endowment, well…schadenfreude is a perfectly reasonable response.
Apropos of nothing, really, here’s a little something from the journal of Princess Alexandrina Victoria Hanover, dated June 20, 1837:
“I was awoke at six o’clock by Mamma, who told me that the Archbishop of Canterbury and Lord Conyngham were here, and wished to see me. I got out of bed and went into my sitting-room (only in my dressing-gown), and alone, and saw them. Lord Conyngham then acquainted me that my poor uncle the King, was no more, and had expired at twelve minutes past two this morning, and consequently that I am Queen….
“Since it has pleased Providence to place me in this station, I shall do my utmost to fulfil my duty towards my country; I am very young and perhaps in many, though not in all things, inexperienced, but I am sure, that very few have more real good will and more real desire to do what is fit and right than I have.”
Victoria was 18 at the time of her accession to Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland. In 1876, she added “Empress of India” to her business card, and ruled until her death in 1901.
It always gets a bit dicey for me when, meeting someone for the first time, I’m asked what I do for a living. The answer isn’t as easy as it sounds, because I first have to qualify my response by describing the sort of work we do here at helveticka. Once that’s established, I try to explain where I fit in.
“So,” my interlocutor will say. “You’re in advertising.”
“No…not really,” I’ll reply. “It’s more…”
“Technical writer?”
“Not so much. I’m…”
“Have I ever read anything you’ve written?”
“Doubt it. The thing is…”
“But you write stuff.”
“Yeah. It’s just that…”
“And you get paid for that?”
“Well, yes. You see…”
But by then it’s too late. Look, I get it: It’s hard to imagine how, in a just society, a guy like me could make a living banging out words on a laptop. I don’t make the rules, though. I simply take advantage of them.
Which brings me to the point of this post. Even if I can’t adequately explain what it is I do for a living, I can now—courtesy of McSweeney’s—offer a glimpse into what it’s like.
Been spending a lot of time in Pomeroy, a little town on Highway 12 midway between Dayton and Clarkston. Like countless other farming communities scattered across southeastern Washington, Pomeroy is a microcosm of rural America; a place where hard work is its own reward, where just about everyone is related in some way, and where the commandment to love your neighbor is taken as seriously as it ought to be. It’s also where I went to high school.
In the summer of 1983, Wilbur Gingerich, who farmed in the Falling Springs area just outside of town, hired me to drive truck for that year’s harvest. This is the road we drivers—there were three of us—took on the way to Central Ferry, the Snake River grain elevators where we dumped tens of thousands of pounds of wheat and barley every day. Apart from the anomalous windmills off in the distance, this photo could very well have been taken that summer.
Driving New York Gulch Road again 31 years later, it’s easy to imagine that some things in this world will never change. But just as you’re about to believe in the possibility, you round a corner and you see those damn windmills. And you’re reminded that, in fact, it’s too late: everything has already changed.
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more.
Today, I have the honor of attending my daughter’s college graduation. Haley Anderson is receiving her Bachelor of Design from the University of Washington’s Visual Communication Design program.
Of course her mom and I are very proud of her. It’s not an easy path to a design degree at any four-year institution. And it’s great that she finished her education on time and all. But to be honest, not having to underwrite her college expenses anymore is cause for real celebration!
Now, if we can just get our youngest daughter to finish college in four years. Hannah, are you reading this? Hannah…?