Category: etc.

Most of the time we’re never aware of it. But at some level, it’s gotta be deeply disturbing to find out we’re as much a type as a person.

And by that, I don’t mean “Mac” or “PC”; I mean John Hodgman and that other guy. Mostly that other guy.
Japanese Get A Mac Commercial [apple.com/jp via notcot]

I’ve been wondering for a while now what I could get laser-etched on my MacBook that would be sustainably cool, conceptually tight, not too annoyingly arty, but that wouldn’t be a total 19th century lemur etching knockoff, you know?
I think these guys are onto something.
Boomcase/Briefbox by Epidemik Coalition [via notcot]

In the pre-opening press for his new shop, Tom Ford was in. sufferable. But it was all worth it, if only as a set up for Horacio Silva’s shopping review in the NYT:

“Sir, this area is for appointments only,” said the security guard at the base of the stairs. I told him that I wanted to arrange a time for a fitting; he told me he did not know to whom to direct me. When I suggested he try the store manager, he replied, “Let me see if he has the time for you.”
You have to laugh. An unintentionally hilarious parody of a pretentious Madison Avenue boutique, the store reeks of arriviste Anglophilic posturing dressed up as aristocratic gentlemanly refinement. For all the preopening ballyhoo about the it’s-all-about-you customization and details like buttons on trouser cuffs so that your butler can brush away the remains of the day — at last! — the reality is more akin to a luxury store in a second-tier market during the mid-’90s.

Silva gets better treatment after making an appointment–under his own byline. Remarkably, service improves. The takeaway: if you have the means to buy Ford’s new products, defintely call ahead. That’ll give Ford’s staff time to look you up and see how rich you are and adjust the simpering accordingly.
The wheel Ford is reinventing here isn’t Savile Row, but Rodeo Drive. He’s just a money- and power-worshipping egofop, a Bijan with Google.

I assembled a table from Italy the other day. From the accompanying instructions, I learned a Phillips screwdriver is called a cacciavite inglese, or English screwdriver, in Italian. [vite is screw.]
Which is odd, because Phillips was American.
I did know that in Japan, they’re called “plus” and “minus” screws, which seemed very sensible.

But for some reason, the BYU Alumni Association recently deleted their 2002 Alumni Spotlight profile of one of the most powerful and prominent BYU Cougars out there, one who “oversaw all of President Bush’s lawyer-related appointments. Last year, he assumed additional duties as a member of the White House Counsel’s office. Sampson provides legal advice to the President, helps develop policy initiatives, and ensures that the constitutional powers of the Presidency are both protected and exercised appropriately.”
Fortunately the Internet Archive has preserved a copy, and I went ahead and reprinted it below.

Continue reading “Kyle Sampson Went To BYU, Too!”

Muji has always been a luxury of a simple, affordable sort. On March 30th, Muji will open a new store in the Tokyo Midtown complex. Instead of the standard, aggressively humble, utilitarian Muji products, though, they will feature high-design, high-touch manufacture, high-quality furniture with commensurately high prices. The’re going to launch with 30 pieces of furniture and 190 home products. [I’d put up an autotranslation, but Muji’s announcement page is just one big graphic.]
Last year, Muji bought Idee, a slightly troubled maker of high-end minimalist furniture. Jean Snow, rightly, I suspect, predicts that Idee is being leveraged into this new direction. I’m keeping my eye on Jean’s flickr stream
In a related note, it seems Muji’s theme for 2007, at least in Japan, is “renovation.” There’s an essay on their site about how, in an aging Japan where the population is not increasing, yet where the paradigm of disposable newness still holds sway in the housing market, undervalued “used” buildings can make put your individualized desires for a home within reach. A nice strategy for someone who sells primarily the stuff that goes inside a home, not the homes themselves:

For instance, just switching from the notion of buying a new apartment expands the possibilities greatly. In Europe, people don’t compete by throwing up new buildings; instead they adapt, redecorate, and reuse the interiors of old buildings to fit their lifestyles. The long-lasting exterior of a building they call a “skeleton,” and the interior is called “infill.” People in Europe value and reuse the skeleton while they freely adapt the infill. They also have the view that the long-term use of architecture should only be reconsidered after 50 years of so have passed.

[adapted from an excite.jp translation]

Let’s talk houses [muji.net, japanese only]

I did something yesterday on the train I never do anymore: I read a print copy of the newspaper. I was reminded how, by scanning the page, I used to discover articles about fascinating new things, insights, or perspectives, things that I never would have taken the effort to click through on. Not that anything like that happened to me, of course; since what I picked up from the seat next to me was the Style section of the Washington Post.
In the absence of many facts, Robin Givhan, the Post’s Woman In Paris, threw her analytical hat into the ring, attempting to put fashion shows by Miu Miu, McQueen, and Theyskens into context for readers with an actively hostile, anti-fashion fashion sense:

Prada excels in merging creativity and logic, a rare ability in the fashion industry. The most exuberantly imaginative designers are often the least reasonable. They don’t care if a woman can’t sit in a dress as long as those giant mirrored discs on her rear end look “fierce.”
…
At Hermes on Saturday, the collection from Jean Paul Gaultier emerged as a blur of luxurious materials: crocodile, cashmere, glove leather. The theme was biker chic, but it really could have been anything at all so long as the house’s handbags — Birkins and Kellys — were prominently featured. The ready-to-wear at Hermes serves as a mise-en-scene for the handbags. The clothes are beautiful but not especially memorable. They don’t define an Hermes ready-to-wear aesthetic; they simply imply wealth.
Contrast that with the ready-to-wear collection at Louis Vuitton. It, too, is a brand defined by its handbags. But while Hermes bags are about longevity and the idea that a woman might pass one down to her daughter, the Louis Vuitton brand is focused on trends. It is an absurdly expensive disposable fashion.
The clothes at Vuitton are fashion-conscious. A wearer may not necessarily feel rich, but she’ll feel hip. They are unveiled with blaring fanfare. The grandeur of the show is in marked contrast with the availability of the collection, which is generally limited to flagship Vuitton boutiques. But the point is not to sell the clothes, but to sell Louis Vuitton as a fashion brand. Subliminal message: Go buy a bag. Or two. Or five.

And even so, Miuccia got off better than John Cage. Here’s a review of a recent all-Cage concert at the National Gallery:

Cage’s work often transcends gimmickry through unmistakably musical rhythmic drive highlighted by prominent percussion. The dancelike “Amores” came across as ideal music for a love scene. Percussionists Thomas Jones, William Richards and guest Michael Zell drummed softly with their hands and effectively conveyed a gentle but vital intimacy. They brought virility to the jungle sounds of “Third Construction,” using cowbells and conches with equal abandon.
“Nocturne” featured poignant performances by Johnson and violinist Lina Bahn.
Throughout, the Contemporary Music Forum displayed uncommon scope and sensitivity and brought out the best of an important and still underappreciated composer.

From the Jan. 07 issue of Esquire: What I’ve Learned — Producer Rick Rubin [Johnny Cash, some other stuff]:

Here we were in Mr. Chow’s, and literally, it was like World War III had broken out. And when I really thought about it, this person causing it wasn’t famous for anything that you could really put your finger on. It was an interesting comment on our society

via kottke]

Something noticed last week: No, Warranties are not “boring,” Princess. When I went to buy my new coffee grinder recently, I was comparing two grinders, different brands, similar prices, and I wanted to see the warrantee information, right? This is the logical next step, it’s smart shopping, it’s informed consumption. Style is somewhat important, function-wise they are all about the same, color’s rather limited, but the consumer-report-ish side of things, that’s what guides this smart shopper. Until I realize–and have to chuckle–I no longer have to bother myself about warranties because any product warrantee I find is going to last longer than I do. Shit. If a salesperson starts to explain service protection plans, Apple Care, x-years and just-so-many miles to go, I no longer pay any attention. Back in the grocery store, I shake my head at this, and then grab the grinder in the color I like best and get the hell out.

So on the phone, my mom goes, “Oh, did you know Scott Swaner?” “Yeah.” “Dead. Pancreatic cancer. 38.” Of course, I knew his age. We were punks in high school together. Slamming to Black Flag and Madness punks, not “move your Honda, punk!” punks, that is. Being smart was not really an attribute highly prized among our beer bonging, basement concert-going SLC Punk contingent, so Scott–and to a lesser extent, I–toned it down a bit, but you could always tell his synapses were firing a hundred times faster than anyone else’s, so it shouldn’t have surprised me to hear he got his PhD from Harvard in Korean literature and was a star professor and a poet.
No, what surprises me, even though I’ve had a front row seat to the rough, short pancreatic ride, is the utter lack of surprise, just the opposite. Yes, it’s extremely disconcerting that cancer took someone I went to school with, a friend, even [though it was really just temporary, situational friendship, like, you know, prison, only our prison was just the same excruciatingly conservative, affluent high school, and instead of orange jumpsuits, we wore torn, white t-shirts–and Polo].
Pancreatic cancer is its own thing; it rarely, if ever, leaves you guessing about the outcome, and yet it usually gives you a finite, yet manageable window–some months, a year, maybe–in which to wrap things up. The kind of stuff you’d call “living,” if only living were actually Living instead of the cheap substitute we too often put up with. It’s like a whole life in microcosm. That whole “live every day as if it were your last” thing. In fact, if it weren’t for the never-ending pain, sounds like a great way to all-but guarantee the conscientious human a guilt- and regret-free exit strategy. [OK, not at 38.]
Scott began keeping a blog of his final act. I’m only a couple of months in so far, and it’s fascinating and confounding mechanism for getting to know someone again whom I haven’t known or seen for 25 years. I’d say I felt like an interloper, but his writing makes it clear that he’s very aware of his different audiences–his exasperatingly Mormon family, friends and students from his life out of Utah–and his comments about comment volume and hit rates, and referrer logs now strike me as hilarious. [Pretend you have six months to live. Do you a) finish your book of poems, or b) refresh your stats one more time?] Until I imagine the reality and comfort that connectivity and communication could be in a situation like that.
Scott’s writing is ascerbic–the dude’s idea of consolation is to quote Gravity’s Rainbow?–and it has a bit of the impatient, maybe-anger I remember, but it’s also very heartfelt. Though he tries to stay true to his belief system–though to his parents’ regret, no doubt, he traded in Joseph Smith, et al for Bataille–it sounds clear to me that there are no hermeneuticists in foxholes, at least not in this one. Scott read and wrote poetry and literature for its ability to bare and touch the human soul, even if he tried to stay skeptical of their existence. I kind of wish we’d kept in touch.
Do Not Go Gentle — Poetry & Cancer, Life & Death [blogspot]
Scott H. Swaner [sltrib.com]

A question to Mac heads out there: I’m thinking of getting a new machine, and I want to hear how/what people have decided: I want a new laptop, that will run Final Cut Pro, obviously, but that’s easy and portable enough to take on the plane and train regularly.
I can’t decide between the 13″ black MacBook and the 15″ MacBook Pro.[1] On paper, the performance seems nearly identical, as if it’s only the screen size that differs. Frankly, I don’t feel like such a size queen that I have to have the bigger screen, but is the 13″ really just too small to run FCP effectively? What about combining it with a bigger monitor at home?
And now the real question: does the MacBook scream “cheap,” while the black MacBook screams “I paid $150 to look like a Thinkpad, but I won’t pay $400 for a much better computer!” Or does the MacBook Pro scream “I’ll buy anything Jobs tells me too, the bigger the better!”
John Hodgman is proving to be of little help on this matter.
[1] The white MacBook seems cheap to me, and a little girly [pace everyone], and the 17″ Pro just seems unwieldly. So, like an SAT question, you can eliminate A and D immediately.

I was just working with a John Cage recording on in the background which included his reading of excerpts from his journals. It included Cage telling this story, and it made me want to see what “going out of Holland backwards” meant, so I Googled it.
I still don’t know what it means, but when Cage told the story, he was the smoker, and instead of “wife,” he said “Merce Cunningham”:

In 1959 my wife and I toured Northern France and the Low Countries by traveling the intricate inland waterways – the canals that pervade this part of Europe. As we were leaving Belgium and entering The Netherlands, the fog became so thick that instead of our barge docking at a customs station, to expedite matters, customs officials came aboard the barge.
The passengers formed into several lines, and one by one were questioned. My wife was in one line and I in another. My wife was a smoker and I was not. However, I was taking five cartons of cigarettes into Northern Europe for her, and she had that number herself.
We were traveling through Holland to Luxembourg, and back through Belgium to France. The customs of all those countries varied with regard to cigarettes, For instance, you could at that time take five cartons per person into Belgium, but only two per person into Holland.
When I got to my customs officer, all of this was clear to both of us. Out of the goodness of his heart, he was reluctant to deprive me of my three extra cartons or to charge the heavy duty on them, but he found it difficult to find an excuse for letting me off.
Finally, he said, “Are you going to go out of Holland backwards?”
I said, “Yes.”
He was overjoyed. Then he said, “You can keep all the cigarettes. Have a good trip.”
I left the line and noticed that my wife had just reached her customs officer and was having some trouble about the extra cartons. So I went over and told the officer that my wife was going out of Holland backwards. He was delighted, saying, “Oh, in that case there’s no problem at all.”

Non Sequitars [sp] [rememory.com]
John Cage Featured on KPFA’s Ode To Gravity Series (December 12, 1987) [archive.org]

Speaking of the 80’s, that was the last time I remember cracking open a copy of Interview Magazine. Judging from the excruciatingly tired art and pop culture names peppering this quiz given to prospective Interview employees, I guess I haven’t missed anything.
Plus, they spelled Philip Taafe, Polly Mellen, Sofia Coppola, and Steven Hawkin wrong.
Interview Pop Culture Test [tsg via gawker]

Or, as I prefer to call it, “Let Us Now Praise Famous Men Andrew Hultkrans Would Like To Get Closer To.”

Inspired by Jason’s recent cross-country burger-thon, I’m in the middle of a back-to-back In ‘N Out/Shake Shack smackdown attack myself. [Tomorrow’s the ‘Shack.]
What would make the taste test a lot easier: an In ‘N Out Mobile Unit. Whaddya know, there is such a thing, and it was spotted last week among the other vehicular rarities at the 2006 Banks Gearhead Invitational car show. Stunning. I’m no Mister Hoopty, but I consider myself a car nut, and yet I’d never heard of such a ride.
I confess, I’m already leery of the test, though; at two visits in Las Vegas, the In ‘N Out fries were a lot spongier and less flavorful than I remembered. And even if they would drive this far, the In ‘N Out Mobile would be of no help; they don’t serve fries, only chips. Very strange.
Image: 2006 Banks Gearhead Invitational [postive ape index via hooptyrides]
“The “Minimum Charge” of $2,350.00 entitles you to 2 hours of service time”: In ‘N Out Burger Mobile Unit Agreement [pdf, in-n-out.com]
Shake Shack vs In ‘N Out Smackdown [kottke]