So for today’s long-delayed Moose post, I’m showin’ ya some regular ole street posters that a graphic designer gathered from around his neighborhood, redesigned, and then replaced in his community. He maintained the messages, but jazzed ‘em up a bit. Public art, where the medium is the message. Way cool!
Also (potentially) cool is that I have my own story about jazzy re-styled posters, as a thematic, essay-esque accompaniment to this artistic showcase. Here goes. You coming? Good.
I’ve never had any inclination to govern. But when I started going (stir-)crazy senior year, I decided to place a bid for high school office.
The action wasn’t actually fueled by leadership ambition. It certainly wasn’t “for college.” And it DEFINITELY wasn’t to enact any sort of change in our venerable educational institution.
Nay – it was for a far simpler, stupider reason: to make posters.
After years of seeing our tiled walls plastered with bad puns, bad photos, embarrassing spelling errors, and the most egregious of sloppy magic marker-ing (FOR SHAME), it one day hit me that this niche of severely unprofessional, irritatingly indulgent, rarely original, cloyingly self-promotional student marketing was not just for the select few who wanted to duke out their choices for school-event DJs (which, despite only going to one Homecoming dance for about 20 minutes—and mostly for irony!!!—I deliberated with certainty was in fact a moot point, as the mix-masters likely just siphoned mainstream school-bus-favorite Z100 and piped it out of jumbo speakers into our linoleumed cafeteria). Anyone with guts and poster board could make a run for it.
It turned out that printer paper also worked fine.
With nothing else to do after school (I may or may not have had homework, that, in quite un-Allison fashion, I may or may not have completed – recall my mention in paragraph one of going crazy), I set to work.
This was in the days before Google Image (think back – way back – to the end of the 20th century), so finding wacky pictures to adorn my silly little signs took considerably more effort. I went to actual websites (heeey, Geocities) to pick out pics of RuPaul, Little House on the Prairie, Squeaky Fromme, Hawaii Five-O, The Noozles, and The Snorks. I scanned in vintage lenticular postcards of 1960s Barbie and friends. I even made some grade-school-level quasi-abstract art in Microsoft Paint (how quaint!).
Lest you be scratching yr noggie right now over how these images might correlate to high school government, I realize I have neglected to mention what position I was running for, and it is a major plot point in this story. So, I will tell you. Random rep.
In case you did not have both the contradictory misfortune and simultaneous privilege of attending my high school, I will explain more about this unique (and, I must add, uncontested) role.
Our school government had the typical trappings: president, VP, secretary, treasurer, governor, headmistress, rat-catcher, shoeshine boy, and maybe some other super-important governmenty things? I don’t know. I never really paid attention.
Anyway, I heard it through the grapevine that, this year, they would also be upping the representation “for the people.” Once the results for the regular slots were tabulated, the newly chosen student govvies would meet up in their dedicated clubhouse (a small private room near the aforementioned linoleumed cafeteria), whip out a registry of all of the students in the class, and call out two numbers. The first proclaimed number was the page. The second, the entry on the list of that particular page. And thusly, our inaugural random rep would be appointed.
I may need to clarify that, yes, random rep really does mean a randomly selected representative. And random really does mean beyond your control. Running for this position was like lobbying to win the lotto, or asking certain sperm to help create you.
To me, this odd (and against-the-odds) scenario represented not inevitable disappointment, but guaranteed absurdity, and all without a hit to my self-esteem. I literally had nothing to lose (or—for that matter—win). For the first time in a class-wide popularity contest, rejection was not an option. I could be fearless.
In addition to the smattering of miscellaneous images (accompanied simply by the single word “random”—I don’t think I even had any mention of my name, or the notion of voting, for one “series”), some posters instead featured a variety of campaign-y slogans. Ragging on the tired, typical messaging of secretarial and treasurarial elections past (and, most likely, present and future), I alleged that voting for me for random rep “just made cents” because I was “the leading lady.”
For one, I even went so far as to adopt my own nihilistic catchphrase for the job: “Vote Allison for Random Rep – Because Your Vote Doesn’t Count.” Unfortunately, even though the principal saw how, indeed, one’s vote (or non-vote) for an un-runnable, arbitrarily-selected position bore no consequence, he still insisted I take it down, so as not to invoke apathy among the student body regarding the democratic process—or, God forbid, anarchy.
The principal wasn’t the only one who was a little puzzled. Nobody really seemed to get it. Which—on top of my being allowed to showcase bizarre imagery in conjunction with a bullshit message—was maybe the greatest coup of all.
Meanwhile, the biggest surprise was when several of my peers showed their support—not for my goofy gag, but for my alleged candidacy. “I’ll vote for you!” they’d assure me. “But you can’t,” I’d reply. “I’m not really on the ballot.” To which a number promised, “Don’t worry, I’ll write you in.”
My run for random rep was the first (but not last) time I’d throw my hat into an election, and, despite my complete disinterest in actually holding office or throwing hats, I confess that a certain campaign fever took over. By which I mean I got a giant kick seeing what (granted, benign) ridiculousness I was getting away with.
Even though my posters didn’t make any kind of positive or declarative statements about myself, I couldn’t help but get a rush when I’d pass one in the halls in between classes. It was my own subversive, hilarious (to me, at least), ego-boosting graffiti; a sort of private-but-public daily affirmation; a way of comforting my (often) loner self, as if to say, “If you can amuse yourself, kid, you’re gonna be just fine.”
Election day came and went, and, lo and behold, I did not climb aboard the civic participation train.
But a few days later, I bumped into one of our elected class officials, who offered me his sympathy for my “loss.”
Elected Class Official: I’m really sorry you didn’t get random rep. I know how much you wanted it.
Allison: No, it’s OK. I mean, it’s random. The chances of my getting picked were 1 in…300? I don’t know. I can’t do math. The point is that I was not counting on winning.
ECO: Yeah, but, you wanted to win.
Allison: Actually, and no offense to this most honorable of extracurricular distinctions that I TOTALLY respect, but, um, I kinda just wanted to…um…make posters…?
ECO: Yeah, I know, we LOVED your posters! You made so many of them—really put in an effort. We’re really sorry you weren’t picked.
After I got over thinking this kid was a stinkin’ idiot, I reviewed his statements once more. He had never shown himself to give a shit about me previously, so his contrition gave me pause.
I wondered, if he was expressing so much remorse, did this mean there had actually been a for-real discussion about selecting me? (Even though this would have very obviously gone against the sacred principle of randomness upon which the position was created—thus desecrating the very dignity and purpose of the supposedly “everyman” selection. HEATHENS. All of them. Government clearly cannot be trusted.)
I imagined all the arguments they’d volleyed back and forth when making this very important, and somewhat insane, deliberation:
- She’s crazy
- She’ll never wake up early enough for our morning meetings
- She hates this place
- She doesn’t give a shit about “the issues”
- Sometimes she exhibits halitosis from an unfortunate nasal drip
- She’s always making dirty jokes
- She’s crazy
- No, I mean, really crazy
- She gives good head
But aside from that last one (no one at my school would know this, and more importantly, if they said so, they’d be dead wrong), all of these assessments would be totally correct.
And so, unwanted power still ungraspable, I accepted defeat honorably, and without protest.
I don’t think I was the write choice anyway.
I just squealed with delight finding these scale model photographs by Michael Paul Smith.
From the man himself:
“What started out as an exercise in model building and photography, ended up as a dream-like reconstruction of the town I grew up in. It’s not an exact recreation, but it does capture the mood of my memories.
And like a dream, many of the buildings show up in different configurations throughout the photos. Or sometimes, the buildings stay put and the backgrounds change.
The buildings are 1/24th scale [ or 1/2 inch equals a foot ]. They are constructed of Gator board, styrene plastic, Sintra [ a light flexible plastic that can be carved, and painted ] plus numerous found objects; such as jewelery pieces, finishing washers and printed material.”
All of these amazing little dioramas have not been photoshopped at all! What you see is what you get, which is a lovely scene of someone’s memory. Sigh. Double sigh. I feel like Gregory Crewdson would appreciate this work.
Practically the only thing I loved about going back to school at the end of the summer was being able to get my hands on new stationery. I loved poring over the catalogues from Big W and Kmart that would get stuffed in our letter box and figuring out just how many faber castell connector pens would fit into my daggy tartan pencil case before it seemed excessive. Crayola pretty much formed my early colour distinguishable palette so to see this awesome chart makes me want to go out and buy a whole heap of textas immediately!
If you are back to school shopping, and want something neat to bribe your kids back to school without having to resort to whistles and air horns, then why not peruse our Textiles section? Lilypad Designs has some pretty sweet pencil case alternatives (which probably won’t go “missing” as easily as the Tartan ones) and for those older students who are maybe heading back to university, perhaps a new Portfolio from Portfoli-Oh or sweet new bag from Emma Coast might be up their alley?
As a child, I was a nerd. More specifically, a book nerd. And thus, as book nerds are wont to do, I read many books. Several such books included the Little House series, which my mama, one loving mother of a nerd, read along with me.
From the get-go, Laura Ingalls Wilder had us hooked, regaling us with touching family tales set in America’s developing heartland. All was going swimmingly, until we stumbled upon Farmer Boy.
Not only was the content objectionable (”No!” I remember my mother shrieking. “First, you ice, and THEN you apply heat — not heat first!” [Though, in fairness, looking back, it WAS summer, and in days pre-Frigidaire, being THE 1860'S AND ALL.]), it was downright boring.
For weeks we tried to plow forward, stubborn and insistent upon just. getting. though. this. cursed. book. Over time, Farmer Boy became in-house vernacular for something so unbearably monotonous it brought on the snoozles.
Needless to say, we didn’t make it. But despite never finishing it, we could not bring ourselves to remove the (much-beloved, may I add) flat plastic neon yellow googly-eyed snake bookmark that nestled within the tedium, marking the spot where we simply gave up. We were too strong, too proud; prairie women were we, through and through.
Thinking it all over, I believe that one of the secrets to Farmer Boy’s abysmal failure (for us, at least) was the absence of chickery (no Laura, Mary, and Carrie — aka the Girls Gone Wilder). And then, most glaringly, the lack of details on domestic dwellings.
For all the horehound candy in the world, I could not tell you the plot of On the Banks of Plum Creek. But I can recall being enraptured with the dirt dugout the family lived in, until Pa built a proper above ground house for the gang. It sounded so cozy, so bunnicular; truly fantastic. Screw the restored Victorian house I was growing up in, with its six bathrooms, antiques-laden parlors, original stained glass picture windows, and optimal sled-trail backyard. Just dig me a hole in a hill and I’d be in heaven.
As can be gathered from the images featured in this here blog, some lucky besterds finally have that chance. Coming atcha straight from Vals, Switzerland (what, you haven’t heard of it? Guess you’re not one of its 1,049 inhabitants) is the chicest rabbit hole this side of Alice’s golden afternoon. (Leave it to the Swiss to put holes in things and make ‘em great…)
And so, I must ask you: Would you like one mountainside manor of your very own? START DIGGING.
Love,
Allison
The past few years, I started to grow my hair out. Now I’m quite attached to it, all however many inches it is (am I supposed to measure it?), and fear for even the teeniest bit of its removal. So my haircut this past Saturday was sort of a big deal.
While my hairdresser was sudsing my mop pre-snip, we had the standard Q&A exchange: How often did I wash my hair? (Every 4 days.) Did I want conditioner? (Yes, please.) Did I blow dry it? (I try.)
And then, the money question: Did I wish to continue growing it long?
“I think so…” I replied with hesitancy. I was fully prepared to be shut down. I was still reeling from last summer, when my mother told me the Rapunzel look wasn’t working. That smarted. And this woman was a hair care professional. The stakes were much higher. (For one thing, she was wielding scissors.)
But, she didn’t shut me down. Instead, she wanted me to grow it long — really long. Like just above the butt-hump long. Longer, actually, than I’d like. Way longer. So long that, save place-of-employment dress codes, I mightn’t need upper-body clothing coverage from July through September. That I might start dreaming as Alanis Morissette. Or Cranston.
But I wouldn’t be alone. I’d be joining two of her other clients — her special clients. Her show-pony clients. Her *STAR* clients.
“They both have hair down to [pointing at a spot far down on her back] here. And it’s healthy! And it looks beautiful! And they STAND OUT!” She was getting excited, and fairly animated. A little crazed, even.
Then I entered her orbit. Did I want to stand out? Those two other girls were blonde. Did I want to join them, but as a dark-haired addition? WAS I IN?
Her spiel entranced me. I felt like I had been selected for inclusion in a glamorous girl group, like the Carrie Nations. And if we got a redhead — imagine the possibilities! (It may also have been the first time I was asked to be a part of something? But we don’t have to get into that right now.)
The other thought that sprung to mind was: this was my moment. Brunettes represent! Barbie and Skipper were on the move. They had it goin’ on. Was Midge ready to step up and join them?
In the end, the whole discussion was inconsequential. I was going for a haircut, after all. Guess what? My hair got shorter. Will I grow my hair out longer than it was before Saturday’s splicing? Only time can tell.
In the meanwhile, and following up on the Mattel tip, check out these Barbies all done up like Lady Gaga. Righteous! Tiny styling rules.
By the way, I’m Allison, the newest Moose blogger. I was born in NYC and now reside in Boston, Mass. I suppose I enjoy the Eastern seaboard, but I am also very excited to be virtually “here” at Moose HQ in Australia. Till next time…
