Artifact vs. Relic: Mad Men Season Six Premiere

April 11, 2013 //

There are far too many sites out there, floating amongst the series of tubes sustaining the Internet that do episode-by-episode recaps really well. That is not my intended scene for a number of reasons (in no particular order): timeliness, interest, ability, desire. So I will not be rehashing anything, at least such is not my purpose here; if you have any burning questions, ask me. I’m happy to recall any details or discuss such. Communicate!

But back to aspirations of what my critique demands, some ground rules if you will: what is the point of regurgitating the same thematic ideas and notions seen elsewhere? It certainly isn’t very satisfying to say what everyone else is saying. I could easily throw something together at the conclusion of each episode aired, babbling about DEATH, CULTURE, BURT! and calling it a night. Hell, I could probably create a boilerplate and mad lib my way through (Pete’s hairline is __________).

I won’t.

When a show interests me, I’m smitten. Mad Men currently stands atop what I consider quality TV, everything that is good about storytelling lies within this odd cross section of the 1960s. And now is back for season six.

So, What of The Two-Hour Premiere?

(Um, spoilers? No kvetching if you aren’t caught up and something is revealed. I mean, really.)

I think that we, the viewers were really spoiled by how previous seasons kicked off: the wild-west excitement of Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce starting anew in that bright, white, fresh office space in season four. The notion of growth, building something of ones own loomed heavy and large. As for season five, the energetic youthfulness of Megan is easy to point towards given her birthday song and dance (and dress, eeesh) for Don, but when I think back to that party in the newlywed’s apartment, I think of the collective group present. Everyone is there; every pairing (minus Fat Betty Francis and her mother-in-law, I suppose) of consequence and no one really feels out of place. All together and…happy?

Season five was about death, sure; Lane was one of my favorite characters—and don’t forget about Miss Blankenship, she was an astronaut, after all. But it was really about fracturing that core, and we witnessed that collective separation beginning to unravel. By the end of the season, either by virtue of ambition (Peggy, Ken), unhappiness (uh, take your pick of the litter), maturation (Sally), immaturity (Megan?) or entitlement (Roger), there was a sea change across the board. How everyone deals with that inner shift seems to be where season six opens up. And hair/facial hair.

Season Six: It’s not about flash. What Megan calls a vacation is hotel experience number three for Don (lest we forget the sherbet-tainted Howard Johnson road trip or the Roman getaway courtesy Conrad Hilton), and while the location of Hawaii is exotic, his professional interest appears the most aloof compared to other excursions. He doesn’t speak for the first handful of scenes, he doesn’t doodle ideas on a napkin. He is merely present. When he finally talks on screen, he’s not really talking as Don, but from his Dick Whitman experiences in Korea.

While Don started off season five adrift at SCDP (he was in luvvv, after all), the thrill of the hunt returned in his pursuit of the Jaguar account and a desire to gain business from Dow. Where is that drive and interest? He appears lost in a sea of horrible floral print shirts and ugly sports jackets in these opening two hours, lacks his ability to exude coolness. And from such, his sense of control. His pitch to Sheridan, the hotel that sponsored his stay, echoes such; leaving Don unable to verbalize his experience. Pete proves all the more punch-able in every interaction with Don, who has no response or retort to Fivehead McSideburns (it will not prove difficult to discern which characters I like and which I loathe, if you were worried).

Is Don as we know him a relic, a figment left behind in this season? I personally fell in love with reliquaries upon learning what they were, especially during a trip to the Cloisters in NY. “Wait…so that is a piece of a person? A finger of a saint? Cool!”

It’s not so simple a distinction, though. When reduced to his mortal coil, Don is Dick Whitman, through and through—something that seems to be rising to the surface or entering conversation more and more. Don and his façade of cool is doomed to become an artifact either by force or by choice; not a piece or part of a person, but something manufactured and made by man. Which is the very thing he does for a living, mind you.

Time will tell what fragment of Don emerges triumphant, if at all. Returning to his philandering ways is probably the easiest thing, but not the best thing for someone losing their sense of self.

While the artifacts of the episode were interesting — the jar of holy water, Pfc. Dinkins lighter, the sly callback to Don’s Kodak pitch when Megan wanted to show off Hawaii photos—there were all sorts of relics of time gone by on display throughout. Burt Peterson returning the fray (where’s Freddy Rumsen? Even better — is this the season Sal emerges from the shamed darkness, especially over with Peggy at Ted Chough’s firm? ), young overstepping account executives, a pile of Roger’s ex-wives.

Speaking of Roger, I found the lack of a reaction shot after his Freudian slip of “this is my funeral!” from anyone present at the service surprising. Did no one catch it, or did no one acknowledge his words? Despite having the best one-liners, he has diminished in stature within his own firm (and social existence) with every passing season. Something worth pondering going forward.

The office setup, despite a second floor addition, didn’t feel new and have that bright optimistic feel of yesteryear. Betty remains a fat harpy.

The only piece of the episode that truly felt new and fresh, amidst a sea of relics and artifacts was Peggy. In control and in command of her ship. Able to talk from across the table to a client. Aware of sports, a change from her stated disinterest in “The Suitcase”. Open to friendships; her call with Stan was a delightful piece of character growth, given how they nakedly started off together two seasons ago. Also, the last two people we’ve seen her on the phone with were 1) her wormy ex-boyfriend (aka the kid from LOST) and…2) Duck. Consider me digitally retching over the mere thought of him resurfacing. I’m starting to watch Game of Thrones and am crossing streams here, but if Chauncey came back for vengeance dire-wolf style, I’d be cool with that.

I’m really hoping that season six isn’t about death and decline, but with so few characters looking ahead at this point, too much seems rooted in a bygone era. I don’t know how I’d feel if the show transformed into a Faulknerian Southern Gothic piece. Spanish moss doesn’t really work on Madison Avenue.

Given that the “next on” previews reveal absolutely nothing of purpose whatsoever, I’ll just look forward to the emergence of Trudy and try this again next week.

Tags Mad Men

Categories Critique, TV, Uncategorized

Love Story Misdirect

April 7, 2013 //

As The Office comes to a close, the central heart of the show (and its absence) becomes much more clear, despite so many stolen glances to reception indicating otherwise.

This is the entry in which I shift to openly writing about what I like, what I personally find interest in. Pop culture is always at the top of that list and given that I find myself sharing ideas that come to mind after a viewing but never turning that initial cluster of thought into more than just a scribble of notes for myself, I thought I would try something different.

With Mad Men returning this evening + being on the cusp of starting a new opportunity professionally, it seems like no better time than the present.

This is also the entry in which you learn that I know much more about a TV show than is probably necessary.

It’s sad to say but I feel the best descriptor of this, the final season of The Office, is cringe worthy. The sour taste of last season (Robert California, Florida…bleck!) remains in the back of my pop culture gullet and I don’t think these episodes leading up to the big finale are pallet cleansing. My faith in the writers is completely waning if not all but gone, especially as Mindy Kaling is doing interesting things elsewhere (a topic for another entry, perhaps).

No shifting of Andy’s character all over the place like a moody teenage girl, nor giving Jim professional purpose or any sentimental callbacks from seasons and eons past can set things on a satisfying conclusion, especially given the pieces and plots that are currently set in motion.

Viewers with memories greater than a goldfish and the ability to call back things like David Wallace’s ownership (for funsies, I guess) or the great mural from the start of the season should devote that grey matter elsewhere.

As the ensemble prepares for the airing of the documentary years in the making, the looming anxiety of Pam and Jim’s strained relationship –no matter how little of the episode requires such exposition (the most recent, Promos, featured an uncomfortable phone call from Scranton to Philly to show how tensions and distance remain present)–hangs heavy on each episode…and it is unnecessary.

I feel like the writers allowed the evolution of the star-crossed couple to completely envelop the show for no reason whatsoever other than it could and now prove unable to control the presence of the pair within this final story arch. You can only tap the “we need to show how in love Jim and Pam are by testing them in some prosaic way!” well so many times until its drained dry. It’s dry and no matter how things end for the tandem, I can’t sense anything satisfying on the horizon. I’m cynical in that regard.

But I don’t want more souring stuff! I want what moved me! I was first introduced to this show via my Sociology of Comedic Television course (yup) in college and can fondly remember those great milestones about people interacting with people, set in the mundane.

This dull gear-up to an end with a presumed thud makes me yearn for what made the show so great. I can name my favorite episodes and will watch them if on in syndication without question: The Dundies, Dinner Party, Casino Night, Survivor Man, The Job.

No surprise, there is a lot of Pam and Jim in that quick off the top of my head list and the more I look back at their humble beginnings, I really don’t feel like they best summarize what worked best when all cylinders were firing.

Ok then, if forced into twitter-sized quarters, how would I break down what series is about at its core loveliness?

Michael Scott loved his people in the office; they provided his sense of family and he wanted them happy.

And then he met Holly.

Ah ha! And herein lies the problem: Pam and Jim veered outside with their love story, never really brought it back within the confines of the office. Michael left, and the show was no longer anchored.

Having a kid on a TV show—especially a sitcom– always proves problematic, seeing as you have to bring said tot up every once in awhile. PB and J could have been portrayed and grown as a couple leaning on each other instead of merely being together, such as bonding with one another as fellow salespeople (which was only addressed once with the emphasis placed on them being a family, not colleagues) but were reduced to mere desk mates.

Jim didn’t have to head over to reception after the end of the Michael Scott Paper Company (the boldest move of any character throughout the series, it should be mentioned), he and Pam got to gaze at one another from mere feet away and nothing more was expected from them. All that buildup, tension and care lead to…nothing.

But Michael Scott, thrown at the audience with a clueless decorum and a particular sense of humor that teetered more towards uncomfortable early on, never wavered in his desires or goals. He wanted his people to like him and to be considered a friend (the previous regional manager didn’t agree with Michaels hopes on how to be treated as the top dog, and look what happened to Ed Truck). Unlike Pam’s art school stint, he finished Threat Level Midnight.

His early relationships were also uncomfortable to watch, such as pasting his face on his girlfriend’s ex-husband in an old photo for his own holiday card or how Jan constantly used him as a doormat. But within the office, he eventually found his equal in the replacement HR representative Holly Flax. Despite Holly getting reassigned to a different branch after the couple is discovered by corporate management, Michael still holds out for hope on the two of them reconciling one day.

Spoiler: they eventually do.

(Skip to 5:55. My lack of posting and not knowing short cuts proves dire.)

The sheer brilliance of Michael’s eventual proposal to Holly (which is also a great scene given how they laugh despite the imperfections of a “perfect” proposal) isn’t how it mirrors Pam and Jim’s rainy engagement but how important Michael’s sense of family and home, the office itself, played a role in the journey he and Holly took, but was front and center when he asked her to marry him.

There was nothing more Michael could have received from what served as his home and his family, and he got to leave on his terms.

As Pam states after she gets to say goodbye and serves as the last point of contact with Michael at the airport, “he’s just really excited to get home and see Holly.”

The sense of connectivity and the emotional importance of what The Office meant left with Michael because he cared so much within the walls in a way no one else could replicate, no matter how hard Andy initially tried to be liked or conversely, how weird Robert California or wacky Nellie proved to be.

It would be an ideal conclusion if Pam finds that she can step outside her comfort zone and join Jim outside of Dunder Mifflin but I don’t know if that’s the direction the show will take.

But I’m hopeful that the true heart of the show gets one last scene in the finale in which Michael is watching the documentary as it airs, showing the story of his family unfold to his satisfaction.

Tags The Office

Categories Critique, TV

“Oh, you again.”

September 20, 2012 //

That brief moment, that (not even) split second in which you realize the reflection in the mirror isn’t what you were expecting to see. That odd piece of my day is what brings me back here in a semi-drugged (DayQuil + Decongestant) state. I won’t wax long. This is a fairly vain topic.

I hate drying my hair in the summer. A completely pointless exercise in appearance and a waste of my precious morning time, so I feel (and rather strongly at that). Combined with the excessive heat of this fading summer of 2012, I have to admit I rarely did such. Who wants to intentionally stand beneath an instrument of hot, while it’s hot out, whilst in a hot apartment? Not I. I’d let my locks air dry on the 15-18 minute drive into work, and surprisingly it would leave me (depending on the air that morning) with 85-90% dried hair, wavy and curly for a terribly unpleasant day above a factory in a corner cubicle.

But I’m no longer above a factory for my working hours. I left on my own terms in August and it was the most empowering thing I’ve done in ages. I have a handful of small projects going on currently and I couldn’t be happier. Well, save the visit from the common cold, who has rendered me useless the past 36 or so hours. But I washed and dried my hair this cool Thursday morning, attempting to force myself into having a normal day (it didn’t work, my head is rather foggy still. And falling asleep in jeans still is one of my all-time great peeves).

The purpose of this typing is thus: about an hour or so after I finished preparing myself for the day, I took notice of how I looked in the mirror and was taken aback. My hair, sleek, flipping out as it hits my shoulders. I look really fair—like, more so than normal. I really took pause upon seeing myself, feeling like the age and tiredness of my face floated out of focus and I was staring at a younger version of myself (which isn’t necessarily a good thing).

Perhaps this is my face of fall; easily could be, as it seems some sort of allergy hits me every every other year around this time. I just wasn’t ready to accept such, with the foggy mind and all. Maybe that isn’t all of it, especially as the 10-year high school reunion emails come with more frequency. Read into that what you will, I am in no mood to pull out meaning.

I actually was thinking about this blog earlier in the day as I was wrapping my mind around the foundation of a short story I’m toying with. I do that again (much to my surprise), that writing thing. Just haven’t posted anything here—yet. I’m planning out a tidying up of sorts so as to tie in all my different digital spaces. I’m looking forward to posting things again with greater frequency. Most importantly, I feel no urge (and perhaps that is the Dayquil haze guiding me) to post this link out anywhere—no social networks or twitter feeds or anything. Makes it more fun, I think.

Categories self reflection

I Nom The Culinary Creative

April 27, 2012 //

When it comes to my wheelhouse of visual-based affairs, I have always felt its just one of those things you either have or don’t. Everyone has a different eye and means of seeing the world, and one of the few things I’m confident about is having that ability of creative visualization when I look at…stuff. (You are welcome to disagree, but that isn’t really the purpose of my attempt to recap my evening last night, so…sod off, for now. We’ll have that conversation later.) Stuff? Really, the best I can come up with. Apparently words aren’t my strong suit with such an extended blog-based absence. Stick with me. Please.

Cooking has been something I’ve often approached with a level of technical cautiousness, feeling like I don’t “have it” because really, food is important! Nothing sucks worse than making a mess out of a meal, especially dinner. Everything is in your hands, and if it sucks, you could have done something differently, either a different/easier, low-risk low-reward approach, or order takeout. I felt awesome upon successfully completing a cheesecake for Easter a few weeks back and my family knowing I MADE IT, and it was good! No, it was awesome. Mmm. Conversely, I couldn’t have been angrier with my sister over Christmas when she felt the need to disregard my instructions towards a dish I brought and ruined it, turning it into a greasy confluence of crap. It hurt that what I had done and wanted to share was ruined and there sat a poor, non-existent reflection of my efforts, just because someone wanted to feel part of something she herself was unable to do. What an asshole.

I’m getting back into a groove of having structure and obtaining balance within my day again now that I have been in the 9-to-5 (actually earlier than that, but no matter) grind for over a month now. Dinner is the final act after nonsensical performances by those on the Green Line pandering for attention or worse, anything transpiring with the special people in ClampLand (another topic for another day, cloaked in anonymity) or my feeble attempts at feeling healthy and fit (hey, don’t I have a different blog for that dribble? Be gone from here!). It’s nice to sit down with my gent (I really need a better means of reference for him), shove food in my gullet, and cap off my day feeling satisfied. Hopefully with fewer parentheses involved.

But back to that slight lack of confidence in the kitchen. I know its roots well, but I’ll explain it backwards. I can chalk up what cooking abilities I have to being that curious kid in the shopping cart and eating any sample that was offered my way in the grocery store and spending time in the kitchen with my mom as she cooked and prepared things (Things: an improvement from stuff). In sum, she’s ridiculously talented when it comes to cooking anything across the spectrum (to which some who may or may not read this can attest to). Baking, roasting, grilling, pastries; don’t matter. It will be amazing and she will claim she fucked it up but rarely has. I asked for a thanksgiving dinner feast for my…12^th or 13^th birthday (its in summertime) and yeah, I got it. And now you are pondering if you can do the same for your upcoming birthday…do it. Highly recommended.

She learned traditional Ukrainian dishes and baking from my grandmother, an equally skilled maven in the kitchen, though sadly all I can remember cooking with her is strawberry Jell-O in a bright blue bowl with a white interior. My sense of wariness when it comes to cooking is really due to feeling like I can’t compare to what those before me do and did with such grace, small doses of profanity and ease. I struggle with a protein/starch/veggie meal of simplistic means whilst in my head I know my mom used to make about eight different things so everyone was happy at the dinner table? It’s silly but it’s a tough act to follow and that hangs over me during my attempts and quest towards culinary bliss.

I try and best such by going back to my strongest efforts time and time again, improving taste and outcome though what suffers is the expanse of the pallet. That curiosity of tastes offered to me from the confines of the shopping cart is long gone and I really have wanted to re-claim such exploration. The last time I felt adventurous is trying oysters for the first time (wasn’t a fan but I’d try them again prepared in a different fashion) and that dates back to a trip in 2007.

Such an adventurous opportunity came to fruition in the form of a tasting menu excursion with some lovely company last night. I thought it was most curious that it was set in motion, reservation made by one who has been perpetually described as a totally picky eater but fair dues to him for being less indecisive than myself.

I’m not saying where I went, that’s not my deal. It’s shameless self-promotion, which I hate (ooooo, look where I went out to and with the internet you can guess how much was spent on dinner! I fancy feasted and you DIDN’T therefore I am better than your Subway dinner HAHAHAH). Furthermore, I didn’t want this typed effort to be a play-by-play of my first nine-course experience because:

1 – I can’t completely recall everything I had

2 – I couldn’t hear across the table in regards to what the chef said was in each dish and I dislike incomplete descriptions

3 – wine and being an old, tired person clouds things and

4 – when push comes to shove, I can’t do the foodie thing.

I didn’t take photos, my dining party only realized we should jot down our course-by-course over a third (or was it fourth? Shrug) of the way through the meal and honestly, I don’t know if it was the ideal initial foray into such a world as there is nothing in my memory banks to compare it to.

There was some fascinating tastes I’d never had, like duck, a singular quail egg ravioli or experiencing salmon roe, individually squishing them with my tongue into my hard palate and releasing the flavor. I burned my tongue earlier in the day with some scalding hot chocolate, and this morning woke up with the taste of passion fruit, which had been served in hard gelatin form, imprinted in my taste buds. Weird sensation.

And I finally had Horchata, which was wonderful and presumably has nothing to do with the flowing fountains of murky stuff awaiting customers at Taco Burrito King.

Not everything did it for me, particularly the two different fish options. Which kind of sucks as I love fish. When other offerings were really deconstructed and flavor was totally optimal, the salmon didn’t have that pizzazz, which was a touch of a let down.

A funny aside: the restaurant was small (I think there are only 26 seats) and the bathroom is off the kitchen, which one must walk through to access. As I was walking through, I realized that the head chef was speaking to me when he said “How are things?” It was an awkward moment of delay and hesitation as I was thrown that he was talking to me (he wasn’t facing me) so I stumbled through a response of “Uh, uh…good!” I must not have sounded convincing.

“Good? That’s all? We fucking suck…”

Oh god. I stumbled up the half step into the WC and felt mortified that I unintentionally offended the guy, whilst feeling violated in a way. I didn’t go back there to chat, sir! I was on a mission! Even if he spit in the rest of my meal, it was still swell.

As I began reflecting on tastes, textures and the like, it certainly revived my interests in exploring new ventures in the grocery store. The thing that stuck with me the most (aside from the burnt tongue) though was the power of the smell. Like the way some people blow on everything the moment before they eat it (even cold things like ice cream), because of where I was seated, my plate arrived before everyone had such. So, I leaned in and breathed in everything. I think it has something to do in the shift from being highly solitary to constant interaction with people in transit or in the office because every smell (especially the men who don’t know when to cease cologne application…) seems amplified tenfold. Did I really grow that acclimated to the scent of me, cat x 2 and stuffy apartment? That is depressing!

All in all, it was fun doing something new.

…Ah, such an ending. Would you like to know about the clamping force of a 6’’ one-handed bar clamp instead? Didn’t think so.

I have some rust to shake off, some dust to wipe off in this realm, which I’ll do something with…maybe. Hopefully.

Categories consume

Molding & Shaping The Future…From the Pieces Of Our Past

March 1, 2012 //

After a month away, my charming gent returned from a work trip and I finally had someone to watch TV alongside; my feline duo tend to fall asleep in front of the television so it might be an understatement to say their conversation is lacking.

I bring this up, because eventually the following ad came on, unveiling a new pick up service from Walgreens:

I see this and think, “brilliant!” to which Mike responds that this notion of the store gathering your list of goods is actually how grocery stores originally functioned. The Internet confirms such, hmmm. I guess I didn’t play as much Oregon Trail as he did as a youth.

And then this morning, courtesy Jezebel, I see an article detailing a partnership between an architecture firm and everyone’s favorite Swedish import, IKEA: pre-fabricated homes are now on the table, but don’t have as many nearly as many (or any) umlauts in the name as I would like.

My first thought: this had to be inevitable. Partnerships make the world go round, IKEA needs to evolve, too…they provide a total slew of goods every home needs (and really doesn’t, but we can’t HELP it), why not make the house, too? As a kid, I always scoured through every Sunday pullout ad, including Menards, which often times featured pre-fab homes alongside strange facts and quotes in the inner fold of the flier (I can’t be the only one who recalls this).

Then, my second thought was courtesy of being a child of the always-exciting suburb of Downers Grove (it appears the town is slogan-less! I find this momentarily upsetting, for some reason): “wait…Sears did this a long time ago!” In the obligatory social studies section covering town history in third grade, it was revealed that Downers Grove had a notably large collection of turn of the 20^th century Sears pre-fab homes (if it makes the tourism site, it has to be true!). I don’t recall actually seeing any on the field trip, but I will always remember Pierce Downer is buried in someone’s backyard.

It all gets me thinking about what other services are being dusted off and essentially repackaged for modern consumption. I know in the good old Land o’ Lincoln, the construction of new homes has, like in most places, taken a nose dive, so I can’t imagine one bed/one bath IKEA homes are going to be popping up at every suburban or urban street corner any time soon. But I can easily see utilizing this service for fringe interests (vacation property comes to mind) as an alternative to those aforementioned Menards options.

On a smaller scale, akin to Walgreens re-vamped pick up service or to an extent, Peapod’s grocery delivery service; I recall in college during my medical sociology course, discussing of concierge medical services, a return to the days when doctors would make house calls.

While presumption would assume such an option would be only for elite clientele who dislike aged Highlight magazines stacked in waiting rooms, personalizing care has a place for all, and is perhaps indicative of a shifting medical model. But that’s a conversation for another day.

So where is this all leading? Is everything cyclical in the market, can once dead options from the days of yore be rebranded and emerge triumphant? Or is there an inevitable point when functionality becomes nostalgic and forever remains a fringe interest of/for few.

As you can imagine, the idea came up on occasion in my New Media studies, especially on a smaller, personal scale in regards to digitization. Film is a solid example: can you recall the last time you had photos processed? I know there is a 35mm roll still in my old Pentax automatic camera somewhere in my closet, and I couldn’t even venture a guess as to when I last touched it.

But by the same token, I loved every moment of my photography class in high school. Interest in aperture didn’t really do it for me. The entire process of developing film was kinda sexy and exciting. There was a total sense of ownership and control of the tangible process that Photoshop doesn’t really provide. If only photo paper wasn’t so damn expensive. I’m sure that it will always be an available medium through our lifetime; it just may become a bit more difficult to find the necessary tools.

I think it works both ways, though. I speak again from Chicagoland experience, but anyone who spent any of his or her youth at the Brookfield Zoo or the Museum of Science and Industry has made one of these:

Yup, the Mold-A-Rama. You may know that smell or can recall the systematically noisy process required after inserting your money, the warmth of the creation that was fashioned just for you and that momentary joy of carrying it with glee until the plastic trinket made little sense once you reached the gift shop and wanted a stuffed animal and a mild tantrum may have been on display. Either way.

I happily made this dolphin not too long ago (on my birthday last year at Brookfield) as I am always giddy to see the machines still present in working order in those same spaces that they were in my childhood mind. The Internet tells me that there are individuals who repair the machines, that machines sell for a pretty penny (14k seems to be a happy number floating about) and a cult-level of interest places the molds in a collector strata of kitschyness.

I loved the anticipation of the mold coming together, being filled then separating to reveal the finished beasty. As kids, I feel like there wasn’t much access to how things are build, especially something one would end up with. The Mold-A-Rama slightly filled that curious void.

So when I first learned of Maker Bot, I couldn’t help but instantly love the idea and want one for myself.

Lo, the process of tangible creation right in your very own home for a reasonable cost (so I think, I’ve never really priced out 3D printers). How awesome.

But finally and with considerable misfortune, not everything has the potential to evolve and withstand time.

Consider it an odd tangent, but can you recall back to before cell phones were anything more than a phone, in a time when there was a need for self-reliability, and not Siri on the road and more likely than not there was a map or two in the family car?

Did you ever not have an Atlas somewhere in the station wagon or minivan?

I loved flipping through the US Atlas before I was anywhere close to driving. To me, it was never about finding your way (though I was always a fairly solid navigator when required) but about exploring and learning what was out there…state mottos and land size were present in the top margin of the page, learning the interstate numbers became a self-created game and especially the various attractions of note in every nook and cranny of the country.

I got my car in 2002 but somewhere in the depths of my cluttered trunk is a coverless atlas that had a great run throughout my driving adventures in college. Google maps can tell me where to go really easily on my phone, especially now that I can talk and get nearly instant directions, but that sense of page-flipping exploration isn’t really captured as I expand my view on the screen. I can search the web for anything and everything an atlas had, but to me it doesn’t provide that same sense of exploration and wonder.

Of course, the level of sentimentality attached really cannot be ignored. I have the same thoughts towards microfiche (going to the library with my dad was exciting!), or helping my Grama out with the first version of a wordprocessor in our home. I’ll even throw in the clacking noise of a typewriter, mainly so I can include this snibbit for funsies:

Now I hope that as things move forward and evolve, that component of curiosity and exploration in creation —be it thought-based or in a tangible object–remains, even if formats and services shift into a digital and different sort of interactive option. But if they don’t…will that emotional option come back in vogue eventually, repurposed and repacked as the next new thing? I’d pay for that.

Categories Uncategorized

Onward.

January 4, 2012 //

I’ve put off creating a meaningful place for real world content for far too long.

I’ve had a blog I’ve often neglected for quite some time, setting it up back when it was called Blogger. It’s been a confused space, drifting back-and-forth between being a place for me to kvetch about my goings on…and my running exploits. The spring of 2011 solidified it as a place for running and ReRun shall stay such.

(Third paragraph that will start with I. Hate that, too self-centered. This is a means of avoiding such, at least visually within the composition.) I created (and have recently redesigned *knuckles to shoulder, rub back-and-forth*) my online portfolio a few years back and I realized I wanted a considerable amount of the site to remain static. So, where does everything else go?

Everything will go here. I want this to be a space for creative material/process/inspiration/working out issues/etc. And ironically, it was recently reignited/inspired by the post that wasnt/never will be in full splendor, but here is a component of it, all the same.

This was the Christmas tree I put up for our recently concluded holiday season.

I say was as my feline duo recently discovered the joy of running at a wall and snatching paper ribbon held in place by sticky tack. It’s to my advantage they they both are lazy and fat, having only taken down the majority of the bottom of my creation.

I’m not upset with them in the slightest. I AM upset at this one <points at self>, seeing as I documented the entire process visually on my phone as I put it up. A phone that (of COURSE) froze and shut down, requiring a very nice young chap at the Apple store to restore my 3G, meaning all my photos were lost. Curses! Lesson learned, back up your phone more frequently.

So here, on the fourth on January, is something made back in early December. Spiffy, eh?

I loved coming up with it while wandering through a craft store and really wanted to show it off, showing off my thought process and the ideation that took place in MY head. Isn’t that what being a creator, in any medium, is about?

That question is going to come up a lot, me thinks. But for now, I press forward…whilst sitting and letting my cats do the dirty work of taking the tree down for me.

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