Layovers.

Just now, on the phone:

Ryan: So Whit took off already?
Lee: Yeah, she's in Dallas on her way to Boston; I sat with her until she left. But yeah, Dallas, what an odd layover. You'd think that there'd be a flight that went from KCI to, say, LaGuardia and then on to Boston.
Ryan: At a certain point, you almost consider flying to New York and then taking the train up. Because then at least you have the piece of mind of knowing you're going, you know, north. "Hey, northeast, that's a good direction!"
Lee: "Towards New England! What a fantastic idea!"

Ryan: We had our career fair this morning.
Lee: Did you start buildin' some hurtin' bombs?
Ryan: God I wish I had said that just to create some excitement in the room.
Lee: Actually, I watched that trailer and I love the whole 'To beat this guy you need speed. You ain't got it. You have calcium deposits on most of your joints, so sparring is out. We're gonna need some, uh, raw physical strength to beat him.' And I'm just like "what?"
Ryan: *laughing* Exactly! How do they make that connection from 'calcium deposits on your joints' to 'blunt force trauma'? We're talking about the physiology of a 60-year-old man!
Lee: How about, you know, not fighting a 25-year-old!? I think that gets around the concern for calcium deposits.
Ryan: And if he can't spar, then how can he box?!
Lee: It should be fun to watch though.
Ryan: Yeah, but I keep reciting that scene to people here and they don't even respond. And I'm like "Come on!"
Lee: Rocky IV ended the Cold War; this is going to end the crisis in the Middle East!!
Ryan: *falling down from laughter*
Lee: [He's saying something really fucking funny here but in our laughter, I couldn't hear it.–Ed.] *continuing laughter* Oh, god.
Ryan: *can't stop laughing* Wow.

Ryan: Is yours a direct flight to Atlanta? Or do you have a layover in Minneapolis?
Lee: No, heh, it's direct. But Minneapolis would not be out of line, probably.
Ryan: I like a good layover in Boise when I'm headed out east, myself.
Lee: Whit was telling me about a flight her brother was taking, I guess, from Boston to the city in South Dakota [Note he said "THE city in SD", which is fucking funny.–Ed.], uh, Pierre, and he had a layover in Salt Lake City, and I think one in DC, and maybe another one.
Ryan: South Dakota is *in* the contiguous 48 states, right? I mean, I'm not imagining that?
Lee: I don't know man.

Shameless plug.

For those of you new to this "not quite a lonely poetry blog," or who just don't check out the linkie at the bottom, the smartest man alive wanted to create a blog with me, and I said fuck yea. We'd be much obliged if you read it. Trolls will be executed, according to SOP.

Things I Love, #81.

All nine minutes of my new favorite song, "Thin Blue Line" from Josh Ritter. It's about the most amazing songwriting I've ever listened to. And then I read the lyrics, and I couldn't contain myself.

At night I make plans for a city laid down
Like the hips of a girl on the spring covered ground
Spirals and capitals like the twist of a script
Streets named for heroes that could almost exist
The fruit trees of Eden and the gardens that seem
To float like the smoke from a lithium dream
Cedar trees growing in the cool of the squares
The young women walking in the portals of prayer
And the future glass buildings and the past an address
And the weddings in pollen and the wine bottomless
And all wrongs forgotten and all vengeance made right
The suffering verbs put to sleep in the night
The future descending like a bright chandelier
And the world just beginning and the guests in good cheer
In Royal City I fell into a trance
Oh it’s hell to believe there ain’t a hell of a chance

I want these motherf***ing dogs off this motherf***ing road!

This morning, in Central Park:

Cyclist: Keep that fucking dog on a leash!
Bystander: Hey buddy, not until 9am.
Cyclist: *to officer nearby* Is that true?
Officer: Yep, 9am.
Cyclist: Dogs can go without a leash until 9am?
Officer: Yeah.
Cyclist: Next time I'm running that goddamn dog over.

I won't be your last dance, just your last goodnight.

And if I never kiss her, at least I'll have her words of "I love you sweetie." And I'll know she meant it, at least for that moment.

The Best Line I've Ever Heard While Helping a Girl Walk Down a Street in New York City From One Bar to Another.

Tonight, on Amsterdam Ave:

*realizing that Ellen's knee is bleeding*
Ellen: Do you think they'll have a band-aid at the bar?
Ryan: Oh we can just get a bottle of vodka to disinfect it.
Marjorie: Yes, because we're stranded here on the Russian front.
Ryan: *doubled over in laughter*

The Last Night.

Tonight is the end of CPC|NYC06, except that it isn't. We have our final Sherry Hour, then a Special Banquet in our cafeteria. They better not think they can distract us into eating yet more chicken and rice by 'decorating' the place. Champagne, though, could do the trick.

Monday morning is the career fair, which I haven't decided yet if I'll go to because it's already awkward enough; it might be even more so for me to hand over my resumé and then be like 'Oh, but don't consider me until the end of the year.' Then Wednesday night is the reception at a house on a Upper East Side, where we've been told to wear as slinky and low-cut of clothes as we dare to because of how hot and packed the place gets. Oh, that advice is just for the women? Then I guess the Interpol outfit makes a reappearence.

The Future of Publishing.

The editor of the Guardian has been quoted as saying that the brand new presses his paper bought for their conversion to the Berliner format will be the last presses they will ever buy. That's because they know the future is online, and to demonstrate this, the coolest feature I've yet to see from a newspaper. Updated every 15min., these free, letter-sized PDFs are an incredible idea for a print publication. Now if only the rest of the industry could grasp the 'vision thing'.

B&N.

Went to the Barnes & Noble at 66th–Lincoln Center tonight to buy a couple of books to get me through the next week and the flight home, but ended up buying one and four magazines. At least now I have an excuse to be a magazine whore.

Now if I can just find one for all these damn brownies I eat.

For the record, I bought Nonzero by Robert Wright, along with the latest issues of Wired, Paper, Fast Company, and Orion.

Santa Fe.

Tonight I accepted a three-month, full-time paid design internship in the art department of Outside magazine. It will start at the beginning of September, meaning that after returning to Kansas next Thursday, 3 August, I will have about a month at home to rest before I embark on my publishing career.

A career that should be considerably enhanced by a meeting this morning with Luke Hayman, the creative director for New York and the winner of this year's Magazine of the Year award from the Society of Publication Designers and, one week later, the National Magazine Award for Design from the American Society of Magazine Editors, therefore conferring on him 'The Man' status (the good kind). He encouraged me to take the internship (which I was already 99.8% certain of taking) and to join the SPD as soon as possible. This. Is. Exciting.

Egosurfing.

I found out tonight that not only have I been republished by an organization I didn't know existed, but I was quoted–in Spanish!–by a blog whose author had to actually look me up and find out that I was a student at KU. Google is seriously a highlight of Western civilization.

Response.

Tonight, on the phone:

Lee: When you left Kansas, Ryan, everything really just fell apart. The heat wave, the crises at Duke TIP..
Ryan: It fell out of balance.
Lee: Exactly, the place is literally not the same without you.
Ryan: Dare I say, I disrupted the force?
Lee: Um, okay.

Lee: And I realized that this end of term report will probably be about 12 pages.
Ryan: You should do the entire thing as printouts of a Powerpoint presentation.
Lee: "This is how the hierarchy of Duke TIP Kansas handled this."
Ryan: And every third slide is an upside down smiley.
Lee: I should do the entire thing with emoticons like Jeremy last year.
Ryan: I don't know how to respond to that.
Lee: I've reduced you to one-word answers responses again, like 'Yeah' and 'Okay.'
Ryan: That should be the benchmark of all of our conversations.

Ryan: We have this job fair on Monday, which I don't have to worry about because of the Outside thing, but I'm still gonna go and hand out my resumé and meet these people.
Lee: That sounds good man.
Ryan: But I think I should use that quote from the Rocky Balboa trailer in my personal, 90sec. pitch.
Lee: Oh god.
Ryan: Like I'll hand them my resumé and then lean in and say "Let's start buildin' some hurtin' bombs!"
Lee: "So Ryan, how do you see the Columbia Publishing Course as building your career?" "I see it buildin' some hurtin' bombs!"
Ryan:I should bet people that for every recruiter I say that to, they owe me a slice of pizza.
Lee: You mean, the pizza larger than your head.
Ryan: I've actually started describing it another way. I measured it the last time I went, and then I measured the circumference of my skull, and the pizza could literally wrap around my head.
Lee: That's incredible!
Ryan: So what I want to do next time is take a sheet of tabloid sized paper and trace around it–
Lee: No, you get somebody to wrap it around your head and take a picture of it!
Ryan: Or I could just use the grease stain imprint on the paper, and anyway bring that paper back to Kansas and just unfold it and be like "Look at that you sons of bitches."
Lee: Show it to Papa Keno's and be like "That's how they do it in Fuckin' New York!"
Ryan: "And they don't slice it either; they serve that shit whole!"
Lee: God that's so huge.
Ryan: We had a guy who thought he could eat an entire jumbo pizza, of which these slices are 1/10th.
Lee: That cannot be possible.
Ryan: That's what I said, but I'd sure like to see him try.
Lee: Pull out 10 slices of pizza and say "Let's start buildin' some hurtin' bombs!"
Ryan: *literally falling down from laughter* That's going on the blog.

Ryan: It'd be really great if I had a copy of Wingman to peruse this week.
Lee: Someday, Ryan, someday it will become a reality.
Ryan: The best article idea we had, well not the best idea but the best execution, and I'll leave you with this for the evening, was about Asian fetishes.
Lee: Okay.
Ryan: The premise was a guy moving to Boston for college and soon dating only Asian women. And the tagline for the article was "Find out why this Caucasian will only put his cock in Asians."
Lee: *30 seconds of laughing* Now you've reduced me to one-word answers!
Ryan: I knew you'd appreciate that.
Lee: How do I respond!?

"Let's start buildin' some hurtin' bombs!"

Am I the only person excited about this? Yes.

I can't help it; I hear that music, set to a training montage, and I want to become a fighter too. I also want to look as fit as Sly Stallone when I'm 60 as well. Jeebus.

Vanilla.

For the past couple of years, whenever I went to an ice cream shoppe, I told people I was on a never-ending search for the most sublime vanilla known to man. That search ended tonight. And it ended in, of all places, Brooklyn.

Actually, that's not so surprising. But before I can get to Brooklyn, I have to take you through the rest of the week leading up to it. As you may have noticed down below, this week was our magazine workshop. There were far fewer hours required than the book workshop, and it was much less intense, but the frustration level was considerably higher, due to the fact that this was one project, compared to six, and we had to make it absolutely precise. Being the men's magazine group, we decided to walk the fine line between Maxim and Esquire: beyond frat boys, but still irreverent and with boobs. Thus 'Wingman' was born, with an idea towards being Men's Health, but for dating & sex. Anyway, it was never a problem to design (as you may have guessed, I was the art director; one of the few this year to complete the designer sweep for both workshops), but it was a problem to pin down the idea; Wednesday night I made six different covers–three sets of two each–that set out different visions of the magazine. Once we picked one, I was on my way. Though I battled against the Jenny McCarthy photo until the last possible moment.

The workshop ended, for me anyway, early Friday afternoon, but I didn't do anything the rest of the day beyond going to the Rec. That's because I was really deep into The Fountainhead. Now I know, I know; I've had a love-hate relationship with Ayn Rand, especially when love in this context means hate. But since I started designing in the book workshop, I could not get that book out of my head. Last weekend, when coming back from my museum trips, I stopped and bought a second copy of Fountainhead and started reading. During the week I would steal 10-30min. during meals and in the mornings to read it, and finally finished it last night. It remains one of my most favorite novels ever, and like any of her works, it will be cause for a lot of thought about what I do and why I love it so much.

Yesterday morning I woke up determined again to have a great weekend. I took off for the tip of Manhattan with umbrella in tow; it was overcast and ugly all day. I took the subway down to Chambers St., farther south than I've ever been in this city. Arriving about 30min. later, I stepped out and walked down Broadway until I reached the World Trade Center site, which I walked past with great tenderness, until I saw the street vendors with their t-shirts and their hologram pictures. Then I seethed and walked away, looking straight ahead until I crossed Vesey Bridge to the other side of West St. and the World Financial Center, which has been made into about as much of a mall as you're likely to find in NYC. The WFC sits at the north end of Battery Park City, a planned park and private development on top of the landfill from the construction of the Twin Towers back in the 70s, and it is the site of some of the newest, 'greenest' apartment buildings in New York, which you wouldn't know if you hadn't visited the Skyscraper Museum in the south end of the park (as I did). Walking along the Hudson Shore, I came around a corner and saw the Statue of Liberty standing against a grey sky. It was magnificient nonetheless.

Dodging the sudden rainshower, I walked around the area where all of the ferries and boat tours launch from, and going nuts from the sheer horror of tourist traps run amok, I headed back towards the WTC site as a wayfinding measure to get to the rest of Lower Manhattan. Deciding that I was already down here, I walked around, trying to divine my way towards Wall St. and the New York Stock Exchange. That area of Manhattan is really neat to walk through; I've never been to an old European city, but I've seen them in the movies, the narrow alleys of odd, one-way streets that start and end in the wrong places with buildings shooting up practically from the sidewalks. That's how the Financial District is; I ended up walking past the NYSE by a block, when I should've known to turn when I saw the huge gold lettering for 'Trump Building.' (Because he doesn't have enough of those in this city. Hmph.) Anyway, I walked past the Exchange and Federal Hall up the street where G-Dub (as in 'I cannot tell a lie, which means I never invaded a nation because I needed an excuse to win an election that I couldn't possibly have won otherwise.' That G-Dub) was inaugurated. By this time I was getting hungry, and set out to find a place to perhaps get some Chinese food, but pasta was a second choice. I happened to pass by a Borders, and though it contained no food, I spent a good 45min. in there anyway. I was really very hungry, and settled for spaghetti and chicken parmigiana. Full of bad pasta and tired of walking around on this crappy day, I headed back to the subway, defeated by the city yet again.

[Bonus story! Last night I went out to get some Chinese while doing laundry, and while waiting for my take-out order of orange chicken and white rice to come out, I was staring absent-mindedly out the window towards the intersection of Amsterdam Ave. and 106th St., which is a major intersection (two ways, both ways). All of a sudden I saw a taxi come through and sideswipe a huge 15-passenger van that already mostly through; the taxi came over to the side with some front bumper damage, the van had been turned 90 degrees in the intersection with damage to its left side, but the right side, when it turned, slammed into a car service sedan. The front of the restaurant flooded with the cooks from the back yelling in Chinese about what happened, but I just watched it all with bemusement while hoping this wouldn't postpone my order. I quickly got it and walked out and across the crowded intersection, between the vehicles involved; the sedan, which I hadn't seen yet, got the brunt of it, it seemed like: the entire rear of the car was obliterated. Which is now my new favorite word. Mom called while I was walking down the block, and I told her that I love a city where car crashes are themselves a spectator sport.]

Enter this morning. I woke up after 10am and after getting a good measure of food for breakfast and lunch at the market, and a Sunday New York Times, I spent about three hours in the lounge reading the paper and watching Tiger Woods win the Open Championship like the bad-ass that he is. I came up to my room to do some reading for a few hours, and then decided that if I was ever going to go to Brooklyn to see the skyline of Manhattan, this was the time to do it: it was warm, it was sunny, it was perfect. After eating another of the slices that dare not speak their name, I got on the subway and 45min. later, I emerged on Clark St. in Brooklyn Heights. Immediately, walking through the streets, I was in love. Brooklyn was everything I liked about Lawrence, but ratcheted up about a dozen notches. The tree-lined roads with few stoplights at the intersections, the brick buildings and townhouses, the cafés and bars that just appear out of nowhere, they were all amazing. My goal on this particular trip was to stay there long enough to see the skyline at night, all lit-up. To facilitate this, I set out to find the Brooklyn Ice Cream factory. In a word, unbe-fucking-lievable. The Factory sits on a pier almost under the Brooklyn Bridge, from where you can see the buildings of Lower Manhattan to the left, and the buildings of Midtown, to the right underneath the span. Add to this the bluest sky I've seen in quite some time, and I was enchanted. Enchanted enough to spend 25min. in line for ice cream. And when I got the counter, they were out of the vanilla chocolate chunk. So I took a scoop of vanilla instead.

I never thought ice cream could be as smooth, mellow and transfixing as this was. Had I not had to wait another half an hour I've gotten another scoop; damn myself for only getting *one* after all that time in line! But seriously, it was great, and I walked back up through the Heights and found the Promenade, where one can stand and overlook the same vista, but with the added bonus of Lady Liberty in your sightlines as well. It was getting to 7:30pm, but I didn't want to wait another hour to see the skyline at night, so I headed back to the subway, falling even more in love with Brooklyn with each turn onto another, not-crowded street. This, I could most definitely get used to.

It was probably 50min. back to Manhattan on the subway, but I neglected to transfer from the 2 to the 1 at Times Square; the 1 goes straight up the Upper West Side underneath Broadway and stops right at Columbia University at 116th St.; the 2 branches off at 96th St. to curve underneath Central Park and come out at 110th and CP-North. I didn't know this. I emerged from the station, and knowing it was not far to get back to Columbia (indeed, I'd be making the same trek tomorrow morning to go for a run before class), I had to decide between going ahead and coming back to the dorm, or trying to see at least some skyline at night, which I could by going to the north edge of the Reservoir to look at Midtown. My sister had called while I was on the subway, so I talked to her while I hiked it through Central Park, a little lost at some points in the dark, but promising Sheree that I would not step off the main road (absolutely not; I'm reluctant to even go into the woods in the daytime) and eventually got to the running track.

If it was my favorite spot in New York City in the daytime, then for the love of God you must see it at night. Even better, it wasn't fully nightime yet, so you get all of the lights of the buildings plus the dying sunrays of dusk illuminating the clouds, and reflecting all of it, the calm waters of the Reservoir. I'm in love with this place all over again. Now I just need a camera.

I came back to Broadway along 97th St., and then walked the 18 blocks back up to Columbia where I've been typing this for literally the past hour. I've downed a thing of Gatorade and some fruit to balance all of the stuff I've eaten this weekend. Like I said, tomorrow morning is my return to Central Park; I think we have Victor Navasky, the former editor/publisher and now the owner of the Nation, at 10am. That should be interesting. I'm gonna try to come up with an Ayn Rand-themed question.

Covers.

Contents.

Features.

From the Department of Duh.

Capitalism is at its most glorious when it is at its most inefficient, overproductive, wasteful, and absurd.
–Momus, Wired Tech Podcast

On how much Central Park totally rocks.

Way more than I could possibly describe here. I spent over an hour running through it today, and was just amazed by the scope of it. With 58 miles of jogging paths, you could run there every day and never take the same route twice. Last week it was the Reservoir running track with the skyline of Manhattan; today it was running north up trails I didn't know, gaining in elevation when I thought there couldn't be anymore elevation left, until I came out at the Observatory, overlooking the Great Lawn, the Delacorte Theater (Shakespeare in the Park) and 5th Avenue on one of those fucking gorgeous Sunday mornings that make you realize that as long as there is Central Park, there is always a reason to live here.

Explode.

Tonight on the phone:

Ryan: But that was only the second most absurd thing to happen this week. The first was the exploding building in New York City.
Lee: Yeah I heard about that.
Ryan: What really took it to the next level though was that the New York Times was using 'blew up' in their descriptions. Like 'Doctor so-and-so, who has been in a coma since his townhouse blew up this week, succumbed to his injuries today.'
Lee: Because in that situation you wouldn't use 'exploded' or 'burnt down.'
Ryan: We're the paper of record, and we record this building as having 'blew up.'

Ryan: And I had that argument with the guy in the headquarters of Condé Nast and I was like "Wait, how did I get into this?"
Lee: "What happened!?!"
Ryan: I literally was walking back to the subway thinking "One step in any other direction, to any other group of people, and that never would've happened."
Lee: This doesn't sound like the kind of guy who you will persuade or calm down anytime soon.
Ryan: That'd be a hell of a lunchroom conversation though, if we talked again.
Lee: "Hey, remember that night last week when you acted like a complete jackass? Me too!"

Lee: We did do the jello snarfle, but there was waay too much jello. They used the black bowls from the cafeteria, and it was just–
Ryan: Wait, the black bowls as in the big plastic ones? As in, the ones we used to eat our pasta from?
Lee: Yeah man.
Ryan: You're snarfling jello out of salad bowls.
Lee: I looked at them and just thought "You cannot be serious."
Ryan: So eighteen hours later when the kids finally came down from having sugar flowing through their brain cavity...this is like our plan for having the kids eat their dozen Krispie Kremes last year from the Royals game–
Lee: And just letting them run around until they puke. That would've been awesome.

The Day of the Three Museums.

I don't want to walk anymore today. I'll go find some lo mein somewhere tonight for dinner, but other than that, my legs have checked out.

Instead of going to Central Park this morning for a run, I slept in until 9am. Deciding against just dicking around until I could go to the Rec at noon, I chose instead to get breakfast and head out to the Cooper-Hewitt. I got there just before 11am and spent probably no more than 20min. inside; it sucked. Art is not design, so why the entire second floor was devoted to landscape paintings is still beyond me. There was only one display I liked, and that was modern utensil design. But they did have a nice selection of typography books in the shop.

Leaving there, I walked down to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, as it's along 5th Avenue and it's free for Columbia students. I took a good hour and a half in the exhibits and probably covered, at most, an eighth of the Met; it's hyooge. And that was by walking at a brisk pace through most of that. At first I thought it would be a bore, with all of the classical and ancient stuff; that kind of stuff has just never interested me. But then I got to the Modern Art, and boy was that fun. Picasso makes me so happy. I heart Stuart Davis. de Kooning and Rothko are simply wonders to behold. Miró freaks me out. Modigliani is probably my new favorite painter. And Peter Bonnard, a Frenchman I had never heard of before, can suck it. Seriously, I got to the point where I could recognize his style before I even saw his name, and every time I just felt this intense loathing bubbling up inside me to where I wanted to scream 'Goddamn it, I just want to burn you, you son of a bitch!' Art rocks.

Seeking to capitalize on this experience, I walked the rest of the way down 5th to Midtown to go back to MoMA, as I found out yesterday from a classmate that with our Columbia cards we can get in there for free too. Nearly hunched over, exhausted and with a sore lower back from traversing half of Manhattan by foot, I nonetheless made my way through the floors and exhibits I didn't make it to last week. The paintings were very nice, but I'm still not getting the sculpture. The Dada special exhibit was somewhat interesting, but I don't think a movement that was meant to showcase the absurdity of humanity can be properly presented in a manner that is itself not absurd. For example, they could've had the exhibit exactly set up like it is, but with all of the lights out, so that you couldn't see it. That would be Dada at its finest. There was also a special project from Herzog & de Mueron, architects who were given free reign to collect and comment on the Museum's works. The centerpiece was an auditorium of wooden benches in the middle of a darkened room, with slots in the walls on three sides so you could look in at mid-20th century products like chairs and such. The benches, though, existed to help you watch the 16 flat screen TVs mounted on the ceiling; I counted one showing Goodfellas, one with Deer Hunter, two showing Apocalypse Now at different points in the movie, and at least half were showing porn films of varying age, quality and subject matter. Hmm, I guess that's modern?

So maybe I don't really get art. Which is why I'm a designer at heart; I like things to have purpose and reason for existence. There is a problem, and through proper application of taste, creativity and logic, the problem is solved. Though the gallery that showed the evolution of Cubism by Picasso was sweet, and I think Rothko made a pretty good decision to leave behind the whole portrait thing.

One last thing: for any young homeless people who happen to be reading this blog, please please please do not walk up and down a subway car, begging for money while carrying a Starbucks cup. I don't care if it is just water inside, it's just not a good visual. Again, the designer's mindset is kicking in here. Have a great day, all.

Still can't sleep.

Of course it's mostly because Peter Kaplan may have changed my life tonight. But I'm also trying to come up with a new name for my magazine idea.

I would've posted the idea down below, but the thing is that I accidently saved over it when I did a subsequent assignment while still in Lawrence; the only copy of it that remains is what Kaplan had in front of him tonight. We will get them back this weekend, upon which I'll promptly retype and save again. But I'll give you the basic gist.

The magazine was to be based upon one that I used to follow avidly for, like, the three issues that it existed. Starting out as Racquet, it was a tennis magazine that rarely did the kind of athlete bios and slam-pow! features like Tennis does today; instead, it was a more relaxed and refined magazine that focused on the leisure and participation side of the game. Indeed, my best memoy is of a piece by a man recalling his summers playing tennis on the Maine coast. It was the kind of literature that one rarely saw in a sports magazine then, and almost never sees now. Racquet then changed after I subscribed and relaunched as TSL, or The Sporting Life, and sought to expand to such activities as flyfishing and driving. I remember one issue coming in the mail, and then no more.

So my idea was to take this magazine and relaunch it with an even broader base, but with the same spirit intact: to be not a sports magazine, but a sporting magazine. To again highlight and enhance the participatory nature of athletics and the outdoors, while also reclaiming sports from the likes of ESPN, SI and the 24-hour media that is trying to desperately to put the same fans they claim to be "watching out for" in the seats to watch the players that are suspected of steroid use or negotiating contracts with built-in trade clauses. As such, my magazine would try to feature athletes from international and alternative sports, but that is not the main draw; neither is the product or style guides that would bring an aspect of Outside and GQ into the fold. No, the draw of the magazine is in making sport–as a pastime, as a pursuit, as an ideal–back into a literary form. Our readers may get SI, but they're also reading Esquire as well as Play and the New York Times Magazine. They want their passion for their particular athletic activity, whether for fun or competition, on the weekend or a vacaction, to be reflected by fine writing. They want to know about new fitness trends, but without the 'Get your six-pack abs while having sex 78 times a week!' attitude of Men's Health. They want reviews of golf resorts, but also want to know about other leisurely or athletic activities in the area. And they could care less about Terrell Owens. Seriously.

Originally I wanted to re-use The Sporting Life, but that's almost too old-school; there's 1950s, and then there's 1950s. On the last possible morning before I sent the assignment in I changed it to Glorious, which undoubtedly sucks but I loved the way it sounded and looked; I could see it in Gotham Ultra all across the top of the cover, with an amazing photo of a tennis player on a rooftop court in Manhattan. But even Kaplan said it was 'feminine', while this magazine would be very much masculine. So I need a new name. I've Googled 'Pursuit' or 'Pursuits', and found no magazines; I also did a Yahoo! directory search and didn't find any by just that name. I'll probably spend the next hour in bed thinking about this, so don't be surprised if I keep posting after waking up my computer with the latest entry, which I'll delete just as soon as I wake up in the morning. God I love publishing!

Is it a coincidence?

That the movies that make you most glad to be alive seem to star Gael Garciá Bernal?

Peter Kaplan said he would subscribe to my magazine in an instant.

He's only America's foremost expert in magazines and media. Too bad the magazine doesn't exist.

Kaplan, the editor of the New York Observer and an authority on media in all of its forms, came to speak to us tonight as one last primer before we begin our magazine workshop this weekend. I knew he'd be talking about the history and mission of magazines (which he did in superb fashion), but I didn't know he had also read our magazine ideas. He wanted to call out the better ideas in front of class, for those students to explain their ideas and then he would say why they had potential. Now, the guy who was brought in expressly to discuss our ideas, which happened the other day, pretty much dismissed ours, and never mentioned mine at all.

Tonight, after about six others, Kaplan called my name. I stood up and tried, a couple of times, to explain my magazine idea. I say a couple of times because he kept stopping me and telling me that I wrote it down better than I was saying it out loud. Eventually he stopped me for good and read what I wrote. He then proceeded to explain why he loved it: because it had enthusiasm. Because it was about being a participant in sports again, after years of being spectators (which is what ESPN plays into almost exclusively). Because it was about having that same passion for athletic pursuits that we imagine our fathers having. Because the articles practically assign themselves, and you can do the kind of literature that writers will line up for. Because the photography and art could be magnificient. And, as a bonus, because it has one hell of an advertiser base.

Over and over again, he told us that the inherent existence of a magazine is in its editors; they are the blood that flows through the idea of the publication. Through their committment to a certain and distinct worldview, they bring catharsis to society through constantly challenging and bonding, seducing and nailing the magazine's readers. This was the message he wanted us to have, going into our workshops, where he dares us to make a magazine, not based on cold calculations of finance, but on our sensibilities and interests, indeed on our 'own best instincts.' "You have to beguile the reader with something that matters, and create a staff that knows they live in service to an idea. Anything you do less than that is dead."

Afterwards, I went up to shake his hand and have a quick word. He quickly smiled when I stepped up and said that I should absolutely take this idea and however possible, make it happen for real. He asked where I was from, and I said Kansas. He goes "Where in Kansas?"
"Lawrence."
"Oh, I know what they did there."
"Well, I wrote a paper on it. The Union fire, right?"
"Yeah. Where did you go to school?"
"The University there."
"Did you like it?"
"Very much so."
"Are you moving to New York?"
"Um, I will if I have to?"
"Are you a writer? If you write, you should keep doing it because this was good."
"Actually, I want to be a designer. Do design and editing."
"(with a surprised, inquiring look on his face) Really? (picking up newspaper) Well if you're in New York and you get stuck, email me, if we're still around."
"(with a surprised, embarassed look on my face) Thank you, and I will. And seriously, tell Bobby DeNiro to commit already."
"He hasn't yet!"

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what I like to call one hell of an evening. Tomorrow morning is running in Central Park, followed by my customary croissant and orange juice, and then a trip to the Cooper-Hewitt. And then a nap, because there's no possible way I'm gonna be able to sleep tonight.

Disausted.

Seriously, the most absurd evening I've ever experienced. We sat in a most interesting lecture this afternoon with the online editors from American Express Publishing (Travel + Leisure!!!), but we didn't care because everybody wanted to get out and start getting ready for our big night out. It did not disappoint.

We had to leave here by 4:30pm to get down to headquarters in Times Square in time for the party, but half of the guys in the course (which means seven of us) were ready to go by 4:10, so we took off. I was clad in my 'Interpol' clothes: my black/red pinstriped suit pants, black textured shirt, black with silver belt, and silver tie. Thankfully I never got hot during the entire evening (girls at the party would exclaim that they were hot and I'm like 'Um, I'm looking at and down your dress. There's not enough there to make you start sweating.' But I digress), so I was able to keep my calm composure (which proved most necessary later). We got to Conde Nast and entered the party lounge, where black-suited waiters and waitresses really did pass around fantastic food (the most tender steak skewers you can imagine) and the two open bars contributed to lots of stumbling on the way back uptown. We toured the new Frank Gehry-designed cafeteria, and had the chance to take armfuls of free magazines on the way out.

The party itself was fun; I stood and listened to various Conde Nast execs talk about their path to the towering heights of magazine journalism, but I missed the VP/Creative Director for CN, who was like the one person I actually would've liked to talk to. Several girls in our course came up and said 'Ohmigod, I just shook hands with Anna Wintour! And she was nice!' A colleague and I have been tasked with designing the thank you card to CN, and I took pictures throughout the proceedings, but despite the first-hand account of Anna's personality, I was still afraid of taking a picture of her for the collage. Oh well.

Anyway, we had to leave by quarter after seven to come back and listen to what was easily the most entertaining lecture of the course: Mickey Boardman of Paper. He. Was. Fabulous. In every sense of the word that you dare to think of. He took us through his favorite covers of the 22-year old magazine, and dished out a LOT of gossip about working with celebrities in cover shoots. He was a dream to talk to afterwards too. I've collected more business cards in one day than in my entire life up to now. I absolutely must get some sleep now, but I need to stay up and think of ways to email my resume to these guys.

Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. At the end of the party, I got into a near-shouting match with a fellow classmate over whether capitalism can actually help save the world (I was on the pro-side; don't laugh) with a guy who believes that all capitalists are to blame for the current destruction of the planet. I don't mind fervent discussion; I do mind when you can't get through a single sentence without the other guy sticking his face in yours to tell you what you were 'actually' saying. I even walked away from him at one point and he followed me. I've studied Marx and I've read more Ayn Rand than anybody should ever have to; I'm not gonna be lectured by some goddamn philosophy major by what I really mean by 'my own self-interest.' Buying organic food isn't capitalist? Fuck you.

Camp Conde Nast.

The magazine behemoth is hosting a cocktail party for us this afternoon. There will be a hyooge banner across the lobby welcoming us CPCers, and then upstairs in the reception area, two bars and the finest hors d'oeuvres we may ever try will be fueling 100 students schmoozing with the editors of GQ, Vogue, Glamour, Self, the New Yorker, Vanity Fair, Details, Wired, etc. I mean, it's not like we're doing it just for fun; it's practically a class requirement at this point. After all, career fair is in two and a half weeks.

More than cute.

I just downloaded my first album on my MacBook tonight, and I'm getting even greater vibes than I got when I bought Panic! At the Disco. Cute Is What We Aim For has the same spirit in their song names and lyrics and their pop sound, but on a much more refined note. It sounds both restrained, and yet more expansive then Panic!; comparatively, Panic! feels like they rely on gimmicks, while Cute focuses on a straight-up, fun, yet biting tone. They're like Saves the Day but without the underlying darkness. Whatever the case, to use Mischa's words, I approve. Oh most definitely.

ETA: I also just bought Reinterpretations by the Shanghai Restoration Project. I am going to have some damn good music to design to next week during the magazine workshop.

Unprofessional.

Last night, on the phone:

Lee: I was in the office the other day when you called, and Michelle got quite a hoot out of it.
Ryan: She told me she was still at work and couldn't talk, and I'm like 'Come on. I'm quite certain this is not the most unprofessional thing to happen there this week.'
Lee: Yeah, I can't see us getting in trouble for it.
Ryan: 'Uh-oh! A personal phone call with 20min. left in the work week! Shut down Duke TIP Kansas!'
Lee: 'We're moving it to K-State!'
Ryan: Holy shit that's funny.

Forza Italia! (pt. 2)

So Italy came through, as I, um, predicted. Yeah, I totally did. Though I hate hate hate penalty kicks to decide a match, let alone the championship of the world. It's just so unsatisfying. But I loved this Italian team, and I think the cursed Frenchmen are a bunch of a brutes. Seriously, head butting someone in the chest?

I got up a little after 7am this morning and headed out towards Central Park for a good run. I ran up the Great Hill along West Dr., going south until I pulled off onto a sidewalk past the tennis courts. Then I realized I was at the running track for the Jackie Onassis Reservoir. Oh. My. Gosh. It's my new favorite place in Manhattan. The reservoir stretches across a good quarter or so of the park, and at the north edge, the skyline of New York is arrayed before you, with the grand apartment buildings of 5th Ave. and Central Park West guiding your eyes to the whole of Midtown, Hell's Kitchen, and Gramercy. I loved the view so much I took a second lap, and then came back to watch the Wimbledon final.

After the first set I felt very sleepy, so I came back up to my room and listened to the BBC feed while resting (I love a good 10am nap). I watched the final set with Kristina who is way super cool, and then set out to find a barbershop to follow through on my decision of last night. It felt so good to get rid of all that stuff and get back down to my 1/8th of an inch; I need to remember that my hair looks much better as a Wimbledon court, not a fairway rough.

I got some juice and a big cookie to hold me over until lunch, which I was going to eat with some classmates while watching the World Cup final. When I found out they were going to the other side of the isle, I said that I was going to be fine right here. I got a crappy beef burrito across the street, which barely lasted through regulation, let alone overtime and penalty kicks.

Afterwards came the highlight of my weekend (MoMA excepted). I went down the street to Le Monde, a "student-priced" brasserie, in the words of the Not for Tourists guide (I actually found the restaurant on my own the first week I was here, and then looked it up later). For $28 it may not sound all that spectacular for a burger and frites with a beer, and some vanilla ice cream for dessert, but it was truly sublime. I can't wait to go back next weekend for a true brunch.

Now I'm in for the night; I'm supposed to be doing a homework assignment tonight, but there are a lot of us who never got the assignment on Friday (which should have been expected, considering that everybody couldn't wait to get out of that building after being stuck there for an entire week). I'll just read and listen to the internet radio station from P.S.1, a MoMA-sponsored museum/center in Queens; they play great techno-lounge music, and I hear the museum is fantastic. Just another listing for another weekend.

Meh.

Forget this whole 'hair' thing. I'm gonna try to find a barber tomorrow. After what should be spectacular finals at Wimbledon and the World Cup, of course.

The problem with this city.

I've only been here for three weeks, but I think I've got this one nailed down: too many restaurants. Seriously, when any given block in this city has, by my estimate, approximately 15,000 places to get food, then where am I supposed to eat?

I woke up this morning with a renewed drive to turn this into Ultimate New York Weekend. I should've stuck with Friday. I went out to get a croissant and an orange juice, then walked across Morningside Park (which is really very cool) to the C train at 116th, which I took down to 23rd, in Chelsea. I wanted to go to the Center for Book Arts and look at their exhibits, but I went west when I should've gone east. Forty minutes later I entered the CBA, and walked out within five minutes, thoroughly disappointed with their concept of a 'book.' Going back to 7th Ave., I got on the 1 train at 28th to Times Square, then transfered to the N and took it to Lexington and 59th. I thought I could salvage the morning by stopping by Serendipity, where Tiffany had told me about the frozen hot chocolate. Unfortunately, you can't get it to go, and the waiting list was stretched out to the street. Trying to remain undaunted, I pressed on towards my ultimate goal for the day: the United Nations headquarters. I entered the main building and realized that MoMA has more of a security presence than the UN (and maybe there's a good reason for that). Deciding against a guided tour, I bopped around the gift and book shoppes before leaving to come back to 53rd so that I could at least have the option of going back through MoMA to see the floors that I didn't look at last night. I was getting very tired, as I was in my tenth hour of exploring New York City in the last 24 hours, and, after realizing that the Museum of Arts and Design across the street was primarily furniture and interior design, decided to scrap my Ultimate Weekend. I went back to 49th and Broadway, caught the 1 back up to 110th where I got out and tried to pick one place to finally eat some lunch; had to settle for a slice of cheese pizza that I could bring back to the dorm with me.

I'm going to rest and watch Germany:Portugal this afternoon, and then decide if I should go for a run tonight or tomorrow morning. With all of the walking I've done, I'm content to wait until tomorrow; I'm not planning on much this evening anyway. New York, you won this round.

On the superficiality of politics and the meaning of design, or: What I want to be when I grow up, pt. 2.

I've just finished reading The Cheese Monkeys by Chip Kidd, the assistant art director and an editor-at-large at Knopf, and I must say that it has been as insightful as it was frightening. Insightful in that it gave voice to things I had known only intuitively, and frightening in the scope of what I don't know. You know, the kinds of things that one would, say, learn in art school? But that's crap, because I worked this week with two top tier professionals in book design and they didn't get a degree in design. Their talent is of course undeniable, and in the words of Mr. Kidd himself, makes all the difference in the world. Do I have it? Did I ever? Or was I just always fooling myself and everybody around me?

Last night I had trouble sleeping because I kept critiquing my book covers. All week I've heard praise, along with a few tweaks, and listened to our resource people be quite generous in telling me that my covers were 'lovely' and 'beautiful', and that they wouldn't say that I had talent if they didn't mean it. But over and over in my mind I kept saying 'But I'm not good yet! I can't be! Yes, they look nice. But do they look inspired?' For that, friends, is my goal. To reach the sublime, to capture the essence, so that upon glancing at the cover, or the spread, or the whatever, one's only thought is

"Of course."

I'm a rather humble guy when it comes to this stuff (indeed, I felt extremely embarassed whenever somebody started talking about my covers: 'Talk to the sales or editorial or publicity people; they actually worked this week! I just dicked around in a design lab until I felt like it was presentable!') but I don't think I'm out of line to say that as far as the technical stuff is concerned, I'm getting it down pretty good. All of my picked-up typographic knowledge (ascenders and descenders; x-heights; the difference between the Didot/Bodoni families and, oh, say, Garamond perhaps?) served me well, and my thorough knowledge of InDesign and PhotoShop allowed me to transfer exactly what was in my mind onto the screen, and then to the page.

But that's the problem. I knew what I was capable of doing, or what I brought to the table and out of the technology at hand. I still don't know whether I felt myself reaching for an idea because I knew that I could take something from a lesser branch and through the magic/curse of desktop publishing, still be able to create a work of suitable design. (Though each cover does have a great idea behind it, esp. 'Devil's Chord' and 'Pin Factory.') There's a reason why Sara Eisenmann (who hired Chip Kidd at Knopf!) has been said to say that CPC students who come in with little or no design background usually do better at the covers. It's not hard to understand: they don't know what's possible yet. They don't know what the programs are and aren't capable of doing; they're not thinking in terms of kerning or halftone screens; the purity of the mind can allow for a greater reach of ideas. When they asked me how to curve text into a circle or a wavy line, I had to express my apologies, for I never did that before, and thus did not know; though I had always wanted to learn, I never took the time to explore those possibilities. I knew what I done before, and that was enough. It cannot be anymore.

You can take all of this for what you will; it is after midnight and I've yet to get a full night of sleep during this most intense week of my life. As for the title? I've yet to read a single daily newspaper or read more than a few stories from the NYTimes.com that wasn't World Cup or Book/Arts-related since I arrived in NYC. And I'm not freaking out. In fact, I'm somewhat relieved to know that the world can continue on without my spending three hours a day on political blogs. Spend enough time talking about a fake book on the Republican Revolution and you realize that it's all crap anyway; the conservative/liberal dichotomy, the perceived 'traditional values' or 'progressive wave', and the 'It's 900 days until Bush is out, and then everything will be well again!' No it won't! The problem isn't Bush. It's never been Bush. It's the system that allowed him to become president. It's the system that says that two parties are enough, thank you very much. It's the system that encourages a flag-burning amendment to come to the floor every fucking year and keeps the words 'minimum wage' from even being uttered within earshot of Congress. I realize I'm ranting here, and the point isn't that this is a thunderbolt from the great blue; it's that I'm done. Not with the ship of state, mind you; I'll still keep up on the goings-on, and chit-chat and vote accordingly. But as far as the game is concerned, put me on the bench, coach; it's not fun anymore, and I'll be damned if I'm going to do something that isn't fun.

Let others write their screeds, and I'll even respond occasionally, but I've got enough on my plate with this design business. And if I work really really hard, and spend more money on formal classes, and catch a few breaks, then maybe I'll actually get into a position where I can spend the better portion of my life racking my brain and body over a sketchpad and a cinema display. Ideas, when given expression on a page, or a sign, or a façade, have more power than we can possibly know. They are the very essence of meaning, and inevitably, invariably, bring us up to the ranks of the inspired.

Ultimate New York Friday.

7am Run in Riverside Park.
8:20am Breakfast in the J-School.
9am Final copy-edit for the prospectus of Hudson University Press.
10:50am Final printing of HUP catalog, designed by yours truly.
11am Magazine orientation meeting.
12pm Prospectus complete and ready for submission.
1pm Walk into Columbia University Security to report that my iPod nano has been stolen from the desk in my room sometime in the past week.
2pm Emerge in Union Square Park at 23rd St., spend next 15min. or so finding my way to the Strand Bookstore.
3:15pm Leave Strand, head south on Broadway towards SoHo.
3:30pm Get to Spring St., find the bakery I've been wanting to try for years to purchase a croissant (my new favorite breakfast food!), a brownie, and a cup of Earl Grey.
4pm Emerge in Rockefeller Center at 49th to find a place to sit down and eat my treats. Walk away thoroughly unimpressed by both the locale and the food.
4:15pm Get in line for Target Ticket Free Friday at the Museum of Modern Art on 53rd.
4:30pm Get in the building.
4:40pm Get through the checkroom.
5pm Leave behind the actual museum to check out the bookstore.
5:30pm Exit MoMA after looking at half the exhibits (with resolve to come back at a later date and see the rest), check out the Design Store across the street.
6pm Enter Niketown at 57th and 5th. Consider buying a Netherlands ballcap; realize I never look in good in ballcaps. Consider buying a NY Niketown t-shirt; realize that I can no longer wear anything larger than a small without looking like a loser.
6:30pm Leave Niketown, and with weary legs, push on to 59th and Columbus Circle to come back to Columbia. An already full train is forced to disembark all of its passengers due to mechanical failures, and what seems like half of humanity packs itself into the next one, with me in the middle.
6:55pm Exit at 110th and Cathedral Parkway, go down the block to a walk-in Chinese place (which I have been craving all week).
7:15pm Satisfy craving for General Tso's Chicken back in the dorm while I regale all who will listen about my iPod travesty. Proceed to make everybody both hungry for real (read: non-Columbia) food and paranoid about leaving valuables in our locked dorm rooms.
8:35pm Still unsure of my plans for the rest of the night; seriously considering just reading, but worried about others having fun without me. Being in New York City, I really need to get to used to this feeling to preserve my sanity.

He must be stopped.

Is it me or is this man getting an inordinate amount of press lately?

No. 6.

Colophon: Artwork found at this website. Type is Gotham Extra Light, from H&F-J, and Didot (standard).

No. 5.

Colophon: Artwork found somewhere on the internet (I know, I'm getting worse at this). Type is Jenson, Onyx, Bulmer, Runic, and Poplar. Colors are Pantone 292 and 294.

No. 4.

Colophon: Can't remember where exactly the images came from; it took me two days to find them. Typeface is Flood.

No. 3.

Colophon: Image via Wikipedia. Typefaces are Bodoni, Latin, and Cyclone, which is from Hoefler & Frere-Jones.

No. 2.

Colophon: Image by myself. Typefaces are Adobe Garamond and Didot.

No. 1.

Colphon: This is a fake book cover; this is not in print, nor is it for any commercial or promotional use whatsoever except in a course project. Image from Express Train. Typefaces are Gotham and Cyclone, and are from Hoefler & Frere-Jones.

By the way.

I made my first trip to Central Park yesterday on my little field trip to the Museum of the City of New York. I of course got lost, and spent a good 40 min. traversing the park before getting to 5th Ave. The trip itself was a bust; I found no good artwork at that museum (but I did get in for free!) or at the Museum of El Barrio. But I got to see a bit of the Park and that's always a good thing.

The most ridiculous night ever.

Until tomorrow night. Seriously, fuck publishing.

I can get away with saying that after 1am in the morning.

Intensity.

This is my first wireless posting ever, thanks to my lovely MacBook. I'm writing this from the World Room of the Graduate School of Journalism, where the Pulitzer Prizes are awarded every year, and which serves, since Friday night through this Saturday, as headquarters for the Hudson University Press ("Jerry Orbach is our dean!"). This workshop is absolutely intense, but only for everybody else; they're all dealing with numbers and math and editing press releases and stuff like that. I just design six covers, and on this, the second day of workshop, I already have two pretty much locked in. I'll try to post them later in the week when they get finalized, but let's just say, these are most definitely portfolio material.

The most beloved cover so far is the one that nobody thought I could pull off. For a book titled The Devil's Chord, I wanted to stay away from satanic imagery and instead show the devil at play. I thought it would be great also to stay away from stock photography (which sucks when pulled off the internet) and do my own. I went out and found some faux parchment paper and hand-drew this tritonal chord onto it, and after three attempts, I managed to set it on fire, get it into position where the flame starts to engulf the staff and notes with one hand, and aim the camera with my other hand to take the photo (without my fingers in the frame), all the while it started raining. With absolutely no editing to the image, it became the cover, and has met universal acclaim. My other cover, a black & white subway photo I found on the internet, has also received lots of compliments due to the (of course) selection of typeface, and the way I balanced text in the tonal areas of the image. I'm working with a couple of legends in the business, and I can't wait to get started in the morning and start researching our other titles. As Dean Orbach would say, "Kick-ass."

Holy. Shit.

This workshop is gonna be insane. ETA: I never changed the time settings on here; it's still on Central Time, so everything I post is really one hour later. Thus I was talking about getting done with the first night of workshop at 1:45am after sitting in a conference room for six hours coming up with book ideas. Natch.–10:20am