Dear Academy of Art Students

right now i'm disappointed in you. i'm disappointed in me for siding with you.

i know what it's like to spend sleepless weeks, and thousands of dollars in [not just tuition but] course fees. the rush around finals is more detrimental than some of the hardest drugs-- especially for those of you majoring in graphic design.

but please try and use your brain.

almost every one of you wants a perfect bound book-- they're classy, wire-free, and look like a REAL BOOK. but there are some things you should know before coming into my work.


i've compiled some of those things into three rules and a lot of me bitching.

if your book is not a minimum of 1/4 inch in thickness, we cannot perfect bind it. it's not that we don't want to: it simply cannot be done. during the process of gluing your cover and spine to your book-guts, the machine is required to apply pressure to all sides of the project. most people are not interested in perfect binding a 25-page book, so the machine is not designed to do so. it makes sense when you think about it.

RULE I: do not ask us if we're "sure there isn't any way?"

i know, your professor wants the book perfect bound with NO EXCEPTION.

if your book is too thin, we can saddle stitch it, and it'll look like a standard magazine. or we can coil bind it, wire bind it, velo bind it, or even tape bind it. but we cannot perfect bind it, so do not ask us if we're sure and do not stare at us with blank eyes.

what does this mean? make sure your book is at least 45 sheets in length. 45 sheets-- not 45 pages. there is a difference and if you aren't aware of what that difference is, you should drop out of your graphic design major right now.

there are many ways around this problem. i've seen a fair amount of books with blank pages inserted throughout, or at one end. i've also seen artists reduce the dimensions of their pages so more sheets are required. they look nice when they're done with thought-- and, more importantly, they can be perfect bound.

RULE II: do not enter our store if you do not know what "crops" or "bleeds" are.

you should have crop marks on every page-- and, for perfect binding, every page should be set up as a single-page pdf, not a spread. a spread is only helpful if you plan to french-fold, or saddle-stitch your book. in those types of bindings, your first sheet is made up of your first and last page. in a perfect bound book, the pages are in order and double-sided.

also, your bleeds need to be a minimum of 1/4 inch as well or the binding will cover part of your design.

these are simple facts that will save you and me a lot of time. and i don't need to save time: i'm at work ten hours a day no matter what. but it is frustrating, and you do need to save time because you're going through finals.

help me help you.
or you could let us do the work for you and we'll tack on another $70 per hour of labor-- it all depends on how much you like eating ramen.

RULE III: do not bring in your own stock and expect us to use it.

most of the time we can't: it'll jam our printers because your stock is almost always textured. your best bet is to call the store before arriving with a ream of linen. but, even if we could use your stock, it's just a bit rude to come in with your own. if we can use it, we probably already have it and what you're doing is like going into an independent cafe with a starbucks coffee to get some sugar packets.

i didn't know most of what i just wrote before i had this job and don't expect you to know it automatically. but i ask that you treat your art as you would a job-- not as "just a school project"-- because every time an uncaring, lazy artist is seen the idea that creating art is not a REAL JOB is furthered.

you're giving artists a bad name. i work in the financial district and the majority of our customers are financial folk. they come at us with the same last-minute rush-jobs that you do-- and you're both picky as all hell-- except they know what is required of them for us to do the job. they're professional about it; they're timely in their responses, and precise with their files.

when you don't even try to take this seriously, the whole art-world looks a little bit dumber.

i know you're still a student, but please, please do your research before coming into our store and quietly degrading the name of artists.

and good luck with finals-- you're almost through it.

frustratedly,
president wishnack

p.s. this goes for you, too, california college of the arts students.

Sheet About Feet

i'm not angry at my feet-- i'm not even entirely convinced it's their fault. but of the millions of ways i've been fired, quit, or otherwise left a job, i've never imagined my feet to have much to do with it beyond transporting me through the door.


after showering, putting on clean clothes and cologne, my boss still seems to believe he can smell my feet. in fact, in his nose, they're so horrible they merit open doors and "we need to talk" PRIVATE TALKS.

my feet smell: it's true. i'm on them the entire ten-hour shift, some of which is spent running deliveries about downtown. but there is no way my boss can actually smell my feet.

"you're going to need to do something about this," he explained.

"i'm going to try," i said, "but i seriously have no idea where to start. i'm wearing clean socks, i'm showered, and i don't know what else to do. i can't smell them and no one else here can."

"i can," he said, "and it's bad. it's something that needs to be fixed, or else i won't be able to have you around here. do you follow me?"

he can't go many sentences without asking if someone follows him.

"i do," i said as i reached for my audio recorder, "are you saying you'll fire me if my feet keep smelling?"

"just get it fixed."

i definitely would've expected my lack of mathematic skill, or cigarette-smoking to have been the problem sooner than my feet.

"don't take this personally," he continued, "i've kicked women out of my bed because i didn't like the way they smelled."

"oh," i said, unsure of what exactly i was supposed to do with the new information.

"but look into solutions tonight."

when i first started this job, i would secretly document conversations between customers, employees, and my boss with the intention of highlighting his lack of soul. but as time passed, i realized he isn't soulless-- rather severely OCD. he would go berserk if his pen went missing, even if other pens were nearby. he needed HIS PEN.

he wears rubber gloves at home to avoid germs, and that's just how things need to be in his life. everyone's got their thang.

but he's aware that he's not the best conversationalist as a result, and that's why i have the job. he's actually stopped me to say, "sometimes, when i listen to you talk, you make me wet." which is disturbing not only because he said my sentences sexually arouse him, but also because he referred to himself as having a vagina.

the point is, my feet have become the enemy of his nose and i have no idea how to solve the problem. i'm slightly worried because of two important facts:

1. he is quick to fire people.
2. no one else can smell my feet.

no amount of charm is going to save me here. i'm going to play beautiful classical music for my toes tonight. and tomorrow, i'll double-shower, wear new socks (not just clean, but new), and boots rather than converse. i'll have shampooed hair, a cologned body, chapsticked lips, and brushed teeth.

and if my boss can still manage to sniff out my feet from 5' 9" above, and through my scentacular wall of protection, more than ever i will be convinced he is a machine.

and i will be the guy who gets fired because his feet might have smelled.

Come Git Some

after a great while of post-less days, fingers find themselves pointing at whatever they can. some blame my job: saying, "you're working too much again-- it's only a matter of time before you quit again." and others ramble about how i've entered a relationship, citing my half-hearted promise to irene.

and a loud few fingers just call me lazy. but those fingers are middle fingers anyway.

A LOT HAS HAPPENED.



street-scores, garbage, & other goodies.
as someone who habitually writes online-- and has been since middle school-- it's difficult to disappear and then try to reemerge randomly. it's a lot like sex after a severe dry-spell: the return is mostly awkward, filled with unexplainable stumbling moments, and a great big boom only before a horrible attempt at explaining why the whole thing was so short and jerky.

blog-pause aside, work is going swimmingly and tuxedo-free, and i really am IN A RELATIONSHIP. we met on the most romantic place known to humankind: this blog. though, technically, we met inside an abandoned pool-locker where we'll probably get married and start a family.

i just took a vacation from this blog. at times, writing here can be very stressful-- but by no means will i ever stop. if you think i'm mentally unstable now, you'd never want to meet me without a pen. but i needed a break.

just know i was still thinking about you and i want you inside me.




















sorry. it's been a while since i've written a post. i think i just got too excited. that doesn't normally happen: i'm usually much more eloquent.

Spider Vs. Ant, President Vs. Internet

i'm an avid fan of blank versus blank videos; i love watching monkeys toy with tigers, and sharks fight birds-- it reminds me of the time DC comics teamed up with marvel and quicksilver raced the flash.

and yesterday, [non-roommate] travis told me about spider vs. ant.

the video was said to contain a spider and an ant, believe it or not, and they were to fight to the death. perfectly typical, and shot with a macro lens.

i would've skipped it in the same way i would skip seeing prince williams get married, but there was something about the way travis described the battle. he was being vague. i met travis in an improv class while we were both studying film and i've always had a firm respect for travis' taste. i know when he's being vague i'm entering the zone of "you have to see it yourself and i don't want to ruin the experience by giving you too much information."

so, i googled it.

and it was nowhere. youtube said it had been deleted, and vimeo said it might come back sometime, but probably not. reddit, metacafe, and all the rest couldn't locate it either. all that remained were broken links, scattered comments, and apologetic video sites.

it was gone.

in fact, it was worse than gone. the only remaining evidence of its existence was a ripped version, in which a shotty editor had added the theme song from the fight between dr. spock and captain kirk. it included awkward dialogue and made the entire thing theatrical to the point of ruining the experience.

i refused to share that video with you.

but, today, i found the original: re-uploaded-- this time with a watermark to ensure proper credit.

so do enjoy. because, OMG, it has a surprise ending.

Spider attack from Ahmet Ozkan on Vimeo.

let this be a lesson in life.

Dear Typographic Graffiti Artists

please do something about this incomplete sentence. it's been this way since i moved to the city in 2006 and it's boring.


consider the security camera half the challenge. finish the sentence. add an illustration. blow your h. excite the damn wall. it's on 3rd and stillman in the soma.

thanks,
president wishnack

p.s. don't drop the ball on these sorts of blatant opportunities. like that one togo's advertisement.

Eyeglasses for Africa

there's something strange about the wealthy vacationer who visits the slums of another country and paints great paintings of the horrible life. they get INSPIRED by it all. so they transform the suffering citizens into artwork to be sold for thousands of dollars back in america. and they look caring and deep and wonderful. and the sufferers continue to suffer. that's always bothered me as much as it's confused me.

and while running a delivery to one of our biggest clients, i stumbled across this odd charity:


it insta-boggled my mind, so i had to google it.

why is this important? according to the do something website,

Because when I met people in TZ, it was so sad that they had no money to buy glasses. I couldn't imagine not being able to see the sunset, see the blackboard, see the flowers, or your family--just because you had no money.My project is called Eyeglasses for Africa, and it was started to collect used glasses and deliver them to Africa.

i've never been to africa because i've simply never had the money to go on overseas vacations. but despite that, i feel like this red shoebox is not a lot more than a grand mixture of noble and naive.

like when crocs sent 100,000 of pairs of their ridiculous pool-shoes to japan, and japan was like, "wtf, guys. we just had a tsunami, please don't make things worse for us."

sending anything to any country is nice. everyone can use a hand, here and there. but if i were to name five things africa might want sent from america, eyeglasses would not make the list.

in fact, my list would be as follows:

1. money
2. food
3. medicine and/or first aid kits
4. efficient power generators
5. kiera knightley

it is entirely possible there's a serious EYEGLASSES SHORTAGE PANDEMIC that i'm oblivious to. after all, i've never been to africa, and charity stats say 75 entire people have been helped by Eyeglasses for Africa.

i just don't get it. i'm going to start my own charity, and it's going to be way more helpful.

i haven't figured out just what it is. but there's a good chance it'll have to do with poop. because everything does.

An Alcoholic Romance

from the kitchen of president wishnack.

Most Untriumphant

this is worst than the time hunter s. thompson shot himself to death and the time i got stung in the testicles. this is like if both those events happened at the same time: like bang! and sting! overlapping. plus tears.

didn't you read my letter, mr. reeves?

i wish you the worst.

The Condom Conundrum

they were located with the mouthwash and first aid, just behind tins of altoids: four kinds of trojans, and the notorious magnums. i was hoping there would only be one choice and it would be regular. as someone who only started using condoms in the recent years, i don't know much about that sort of shopping.


all i know is you don't get to try them on in-store.

i've always banked on someone else already having them, or a friend being near enough that i could send a sloppy text requesting one to be delivered IMMEDIATELY.

i've never bought condoms myself and it's so much more difficult than choosing ice cream flavors.

of the five, magnums would've been a good joke but the potential consequences wouldn't be worth the possible half-laughs. a part of me has always wondered if there is even a difference between magnums and regular condoms outside of their names-- or if they're the same size and named to inflate male egos. but i doubt it. so my parts in a magnum would be like a lima bean in a potato sack.

trojan's non-lubricated condoms were the next to be eliminated on account of how horrible the inside of a dry condom must feel. like getting a blowjob from a dead snake. plus, the pack was covered in dust and that is just never a good sign.

ultra-thin seemed to be advertising a fun way to accidentally have a baby, ultra-ribbed made me wonder if it would be so ribbed that she might think she was being molested by a small güiro, and trojan's her pleasure just kept reminding me of the scene in wayne's world where garth pokes through rob lowe's penthouse.

it was like trying to pick a halloween costume for my penis, and i wasn't sure what he wanted to be. i wasn't even sure he wanted to dress up, i think he just wanted the treats.

i couldn't stare at the row of condoms any longer. i had to ask barry for advice.

"get ultra-thin!" he said without much thinking.

"really?" i asked, "it just seems like it'll break and i'll wind up with a kid."

"nooooo," he assured me.

"but," i said, "you just had a kid."

we debated for a while-- mostly agreeing against non-lubricated and magnum. but the situation wasn't a whole lot better. instead of standing alone, awkwardly scrutinizing various condoms, i was doing so with a paper-thin chinese man.

"fuck it," i said, "i'm going to just get a pack of each."

of course, as me and my team of colorful condoms were being rung up, a thirty-something woman walked in and stared. i'm still not sure why the experience was so embarrassing beyond that i'd never experienced it before-- but it definitely felt odd.

"also a fifth of jameson," i told barry.

the woman kept staring and i absolutely could not read her thoughts. i was tempted to tell her the whiskey and condoms were for a friend, but she finally spoke.

"you know those two don't mix well."

"well played," i laughed.

but we'll see about that, lady. we'll see.

Dear SF Zoo

i'm just like everyone else: i'll visit the zoo and have an absolute blast while hypocritically mumbling This and That about how very UNETHICAL it is to keep wild animals captive. i'll preach about the sun on polar bears and the cages around birds. and i will secretly hope to see a lion maul the shit out of a small child.

everyone is that way at the zoo.

but with all that said, i'm legitimately bothered by your rhino.

i'm pretty sure my first reaction to this rhino was, "what the fuck", and i'm pretty sure a young girl heard that reaction. but i'm also pretty sure she was having the same reaction inside her head. with different words.

where is his god damn horn?

if i were to make an entirely unscientific [research-free] guess, i would say you sawed if off because the rhino is the size of a mid-sized vehicle and you've already had one or two animals attack your trainers and teenage guests.

but, according to the handy-dandy rhino-placard, this is not the case!


i want to just make sure i got this right:

• it's normal behavior for a rhino to rub his horn flat in the wild.
• you guys keep trimming it to... help it grow.

i know those are just bullet-points, but have i missed something? or did you trick me into reading thirty seconds worth of bullshit? i may not be a master of rhinoceros knowledge, but i am certainly not a dewy-eyed fool.

it was my understanding that rhinos rub their horns on trees and boulders to keep them sharp. but i would love if one of your zoologists could explain to me why a rhino might want to rub his horn flat considering it is one of his only means of offensive attack-- besides the ability to spray liquid poop twenty feet with impeccable aim.

look, i had a great time-- i'm being honest. but be straight with me-- i can take it-- why is the rhino missing his horn?

thank you in advance,
president wishnack

p.s. the owl-feeding was fucking awesome.

but you might want to consider moving it out of the Children's Zoo section.

Drunk Pelicans Don't Use Glasses

the greedy tiles of my kitchen floor get together with Gravity and snatch my whiskey glasses time after time-- my drunken hands are never much of an aide-- and the apartment is growing to be where goodwill glasses go to die.

at the peak of it all, there were six whiskey glasses and a good selection of eclectic coffee mugs.

i've only lost one mug. it was something to do with hot liquid and a cold mug-- an un-caffeinated mind cannot be expected to comprehend the delicacies of chemistry at 6:30 in the morning. but that was just one mug. the rest are alive and well-- they're a resilient breed.

but my whiskey glasses are a gentle bunch.

the first glass to go was particularly upsetting because it was my favorite. and because travis' favorite went moments after. in one foul swipe, allison knocked both glasses to their embarrassing deaths. they kissed those cursed kitchen-tiles only for a second before exploding into an immediate disappointing collection of unusable glass.

and the wasted whiskey spread across the floor, wondering what to do with its new freedom.

i brought a new whiskey glass home from whiskyfest shortly after.

but that glass had an even more humiliating death.

it was confiscated at the hyde out. there is nothing classy about arriving at a local bar with your own whiskey on the rocks-- especially if you try to justify it as a "road-whiskey". i never went back to grab that glass, and probably never will.

travis had also abandoned a glass that same week: a crown royal glass left with an upstairs neighbor, and never seen again.

then one glass was crushed in a collapsing pile of unwashed dishes. we lost our champagne flutes to that lazy disaster.

i'm not sure how the very last glass broke-- i came home to it, and travis' goodwill invitation-- but without explanation. when i saw it broken i was more upset to see one of the last ancestors go than i was worried about how i'd drink. it was sort of like finding out my favorite bubbler had been broken well after i'd stopped smoking weed-- something about it is still depressing.

the average life expectancy of our glasses seems to be shorter than a robot chicken episode. i've seen cocaine last longer than some of our whiskey glasses.

some would call this A SIGN-- perhaps a chaotic nudge to quit drinking whiskey entirely. but i opted to buy two new glasses from goodwill.

of course one of the two broke on the way home-- which some would call ANOTHER SIGN.

but i still have one left.

Real People & Stuff

i like the following videos because they're serious.

they're both long, but i recommend watching them in their entirety. i also recommend all sociology professors show these videos to their students and have them write a COMPARE AND CONTRAST essay.

oh, and send them to me, please.

my favorite part is exactly between 05:29 and 05:43.

my favorite part is exactly between 01:48 and 02:16.

i was surprised, in my research, that there were no puppy review video blogs on youtube. in fact, the only thing close to it was a six year old reviewing his clown action figure while mumbling [what i think were] racist remarks.

anyway, i think there is some very valuable STUFF in both of those videos-- especially when seen together.

intoxicated poop segment: part cx

introduced to me by cynthia-- who once had a brilliant tumblr, but claimed no one read it-- comes poop makes me laugh.

another thing i'm surprised i didn't come up with first, but can respect regardless.


they say they've, "got your pooped-your pants, almost pooped-your pants, farting, sharting and all other funny poop stories" holding credibility with categories like Celebrity Poop, Near Miss, Public Poop, and even the very classy Sharts.

i've never had a very embarrassing relationship with poop-- rather an odd one that involves swallowing marbles, or backpacking-induced giardiasis-- but i'd be a liar to say i don't enjoy reading stories about other people struggling to find a toilet.

poop makes me laugh, it does. so peruse their site, but submit to mine. eh? eh? ok then.

Mount Tampants & it All

maybe the curse is never knowing quite how to express what an amazing time i had. i'll throw at you two or three half-coded sentences about vague happenings and hope you feel it. but it hardly works.

have you ever felt like the universe is thanking you while quietly apologizing for all of the times it was outwardly a dick? if you have, you know it's hard to write out.

if you haven't, i salute you. but i will not promise it will ever happen. i promised someone i'd stop making promises, so you'll have to excuse me.

just know it's amazing. it feels like discovering a super power; like writing in cursive only to discover your elegant words taste just like ice cream.

brittany and i went to mt. tampalamaipamsiaisas. and i think, perhaps, i'll give you the pictorial jist instead of my usual run-on sentences with all too many semi-colons, invented hyphenated words, and commas were they don't belong,

i did, of course, manage to get my standard STALKER SHOT of brittany. that's practically a must considering the whole bit about the world wide web, abandoned swimming pool locker rooms, and other such secluded meetings.

note: smoking cigarettes may cause Suck at Stairs.


snakes were rumored, but we only saw banana slugs.

banana slugs are to forests as giraffes are to zoos: you haven't really been to either if you don't come back with a picture of one. and there's something childish and awkward about the two of them. banana slugs are like great lazy loogies, sneaking their way past the feet of overlooking hikers-- only noticed by the spectacular few who might be looking for another $20 bill amidst the woods; only visible to the bug-lovers, and The Fanatics of Gross.

that slug and i had one sensual moment-- a woodsy photoshoot. i think he might write about it on his blog.


while the plan was to trek up the mountain, we arrived at the top by means of accident and google instructions. so we climbed down before climbing up. in some ways, it was a better choice because we were thrown directly into the thrill of scaling ladders past waterfalls and moss-covered bridges, before beginning the lung n' leg challenging climb up.

i want to say we were both convinced we had no idea where we were at times. we'd traveled through forests of redwoods and into thick spindly tim burtonesque woods with no direct understanding of where it might lead. but neither of us were going to say, "we're lost" because it was an adventure and we had water, beef jerky, and each other to keep us entertained.

at the top i thought it was possible i'd taken too many mushrooms years ago and simply died. that perhaps everything from 2006 and on had just been some strangely pleasant dream. past the rolling hills, san francisco looked like a gigantic playground with its pointy tower and red bridge poking about. and the epic red-tailed hawk, soaring by, laughing at the doomed field mice below.

and in the middle of it all, i was hanging out with my new amazing friend from the internet. i thought about brittany's initial comment on my blog. i had no idea what a huge door that comment was, and i'm still without the capability to express how happy i am that past-me responded to her note.

i'm convinced i have outlandishly unfair Luck. when my Bad Luck is bad, it's badder than bad, and when it's good, you'll simply never believe it happened.

in that way, maybe it is actually kind of fair.

the end

5 Quasi-Uselessful Thoughts

during the month of march, i started keeping a list of "daily discoveries". but because i was rarely discovering something worth ink, the list transformed into a series of realizations and opinions. and then it transformed into... death, and one drawing of a whiskey glass with sad ice, before it ultimately was never updated again.

both ways, here are some clips.


well, i hope you all learned something.