Zane Aza Studios
Just another WordPress.com weblogArchive for June, 2009
Bodoni Rides Blackletter Rock
Authors Note: I originally wrote this story as a comment on Digg.com. Someone dugg it and resubmitted a screenshot of the story for posterity. It eventually reached the front page, probably peaking my writing career in the process.
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The sun was setting just past the x-height of the horizon. Bodoni had been pressing on since daybreak, tracking was getting narrower, and he knew his bounty lay over the next hill. The bitter grit of ampersand was coating his throat, and he was thirsty for a resolution. At the top of the hill he looked out. All of Rosewood lay below him.
A pica jumped out from behind a bush, startling him.
“A bit jumpy, ain’t ya Serif?” Bodoni turned to see Helvetica standing behind him, gun in hand.
“So we finally get to meet face to face.” Bodoni had seen this type before. The rigid lines and smooth angles. Yea, Helvetica was easy to read, but so common he left no impression. The kind of man that lives a hard life, taken for granted. Growing up, he was probably cast away by the ladies in favor of new money, someone from a family like the Futura’s or Univers’s. That made him a real angry sort, and Bodoni could tell he was overcompensating by avoiding any contrast in his appearance. Yes, Bodoni would have found Helvetica’s story comic, sans the gun in his hand.
The two men locked eyes, measuring each other up. “We have rules in these here parts. You can’t just run around opening up the lead on any type you want.”
“I didn’t do it, Serif.” Helvetica gritted his teeth. Someone was going to see a bullet before the sun sets.
“Why don’t you come along quietly? No reason to make a big display out of this.” It was a bold face lie, but Bodoni needed him off guard.
“That won’t be happening. I got a large family to feed. You take me in and I won’t get a trial of fair design. And with what you’ve accused me of, no lawyer would take my case.”
“I don’t intend to take you in. You’ve been sentenced to the death, and I am here to watch you bleed.”
“I did not shoot Schoolbook, and I’ll be damned if you’re going to put my face on the murder!”
Bodoni knew he could not match Helvetica for speed. He was a legend, but at the end of the day still the same old character. No, despite his popularity Hevetica would have to die if there was to be prosperity for the Bodoni family. Guilty or not, for too long the Helvetica’s had run rampant in these parts. It made it hard for another man to find a purpose. Bodoni would have to open up first. Someone was going to take a bullet, and he couldn’t leave Arial as a widow, not now. Killing Helvetica was right, justified.
The Serif pulled out his revolver quick as an em dash and squeezed the trigger. He missed wide, letting out a cursive as he dropped to his left. Helvetica fell to his knees and drew fast. Bodoni took a bullet in the neck and fell backwards. He rasped for breath, reaching for the gun that lay just a few points too far from his hands.
Helvetica stared down at him, pity in his eyes. “It didn’t have to be this way. I may have shot you Serif, but I did not shoot your Century.”
The Magic of White
Fucking brilliant. The only words that mean anything to a creative. “Fucking,” because it is edgy and cool and the English word that adds the most emphasis to anything. You can be in Vegas. Or you can be in fuckin’ Vegas! The level of deviancy is ramped up exponentially by by seven letters and the hushed farts of conservative America. Creatives flock to the term, because we can say it at the office when other professionals can’t. We just don’t give a fuck about things like social decorum. The word is a part of us, as much as a bezier curve or proper leading.
To know a creative, is to be vastly familiar with the intricacies of the word. No matter what you say about our work, if you use the f-word you’re making us content. It means something about it got a reaction, which is all we really want in the end. Yea, art can be all for ourselves, but it only works if it gets someone excited enough to fuck it. (Figuratively, don’t actual fornicate with our canvases, you sick fuck.)
“Fucking” can go before a lot terms. Stupid, crazy, lame, bitch; it’s a long list. But if you want to find that word really makes a creative feel good, you use brilliant. “Smart” means it solved the problem efficiently and intelligently. Garner yourself a “cool” and you made a design that probably has a trendy trick under its hood. A “sweet” is almost an insult. Especially with a “pretty” in use accordingly; “pretty fucking sweet.” It has a colloquial tint draped over it, relaxing the sentiment and showing genuine surprise at your work. Taken for what it really infers, it indicates your observer is surprised to the creative pull something worth while out of their ass. (Thanks, fucker.)
The closest you’ll get to “fucking brilliant” is “fucking sublime.” This indicates a creative blew your mind with their work. They should feel good. But this comment comes with a heavy cost. The work is just too awesome. It takes whatever you are working on to a completely different stratosphere. Either no one has the competency (sublime creative included) to pull it off the right way, or the client won’t pay for it. It’s an Idea so good it takes a shit in a box just to know what it is like to be confined inside of one. So forget those Ideas. They look great in a portfolio, but won’t get a pixel width beyond the office.
Nope. The only properly paid respect is “Fucking Brilliant.”
There is no other measure of success. Live by it. Brilliant is everything. It is smart, but it is solving the problem. It is cool, because outthinking yourself is hip. It is pretty sweet, as it makes others envious of you (and thus defensive of their own shortcomings). And it is fucking sublime. An Idea so good, it breaks through and still gets billed. Why? Because the creative is just that damned good at his job.
