Despite a lack of physical presence in the area, humans have scattered the organic landscape with an unfathomable amount of MAN MADE ranging from infrastructure to detritus. Fences, blazes, trails and roads. Gas wells and flight markers. Salt licks and a huge bowl of kibbles. Signs with rotting type. Rust etched garbage melting into the desert. 

The infrastructure maintained on the census route often performed a control function. Way finders, harnessers of resources, containers, blockades. Though aesthetically out of context the logic of their place in the landscape was incontrovertible.

Much of the detritus was straight trash, though some of it presumably had a function in the past. (i.e. There were no blatant instances of sculpture.) The harsh environment of central Wyoming continually reclaims any MAN MADE, breaking it down until even its function is eroded. Bereft of a meaningful context abstract forms begin to clutter the natural environment – an exact inversions of weeds growing through cracks in the driveway.

In the depopulated zone along Wyoming’s continental divide, MAN MADE and the organic landscape perform a continual dialectic: the attempt at one way control and the cyclic entropy thwarting it. (See diagram.)  Man fills unpopulated space with functional infrastructure and a hidden scatter of debris. Anything unmaintained is either consumed by the harsh environment or takes on a battered sculptural form. By tagging notable MAN MADE, this census aimed to heighten an aesthetic and psychogeographical awareness of our footprint in a place we rarely tread.
 

Related IS Reports: PaCT & WeDUPT

This report was originally published in Lumpen #110.

Tuesday May 04, 1886
Workingmen Arm Yourselves and Appear in Full Force! 

Broadsides are posted outside factory doors and along the blood soaked gutters of slaughterhouses throughout industrial Chicago. Printed in English and German blackletter, the flyer calls for a, “MASS-MEETING TO-NIGHT, at 7:30 o’clock, at the HAYMARKET.”

Under a light rain approximately 1,500 workers gather at The Haymarket to reassert support for a the eight-hour day. As the evenings events wind down and police order the crowd to disperse a well lobbed pipe-bomb kills beat-cop Mathias J. Degan. The Police opened fire into the crowd, and each others backs, leaving eleven dead and a hundred wounded

Spring, 1986 - Spring, 1995
The Haymarket Issue
Broadsides published under the pseudonym Hakim Bey appear on the streets of New York. The following year they are compiled with a second series of broadsheets titled “COMMUNIQUES OF THE ASSOCIATION FOR ONTOLOGICAL ANARCHY” into a book published by Autonomedia under the anti-copywrite credo of “May be freely pirated & quoted - however the author would like to be informed.”

Communique #3, “The Haymarket Issue” implores Ontological Anarchists, in the spirit of Louis Lingg - an alleged Haymarket conspirator who dynamited himself to cheat his death sentence - to, “blow up the monument inside us … When the last cop in our brain is gunned down by the last unfulfilled desire - perhaps even the landscape around us will change.”

Ontological Anarchy is derided by “establishment” left-political anarchists as hedonistic and irresponsible in its call for bypassing oppositional politics in favor of a liberated lived experience not beholden to rhetorical debate.

Wednesday July 14th, 2004
A Preview of coming attractions
Page 23A of Denver’s Rocky Mountain News runs an image from a Denver Copwatch rally on the steps of the City Hall of a man who’d been circling the rally with a whirligig mounted on a bike trailer that animates wooden cutouts of, “Police officers hitting someone on the ground.”

Saturday June 14th, 2008
Rally Against Reality
To the befuddlement of two Ukrainian masons sitting on a hoist adjacent to The Haymarket memorial in Chicago’s west Loop, PRO - a trash-can and banjo wielding classic-rock cover band - counts off the opening bars to Rush’s Working Man. IS Agent pranktivists begin blanketing the memorial and surrounding environs with a photocopy (with custom letterpress augmentation) of Hakim Bey’s The Haymarket Issue.

PRO rips into Ted Nugent’s Stranglehold. The IS agents rush to cover up The Haymarket Issue broadsheets with a screaming headline broadsheet reading “WE BEAT YOU THEN! WE’LL BEAT YOU AGAIN!” This broadsheet depicts a ‘68 Chicago cop - smoking a stogie while choking-out a college kid - juxtaposed with a current era riot-cop looking like he’s about to tee-off with his baton.

More Rally Pictures

Thursday July 10th, 2008
“Anonymous Artist Punks Recreate 68″
A month before the Democratic National Convention in Denver, a coalition of protest groups including Recreate 68 and Denver Copwatch call a press conference demanding an investigation into the threatening broadsheet they received from, “a rouge Denver cop” reading “WE BEAT YOU THEN! WE’LL BEAT YOU AGAIN!” and, “Want to ‘Recreate 68′? Think your tough HIPPY?”

The balloon of their victim-hood is deflated when Westword newspaper media-critic Michael Roberts reveals in a morning blog post that an “anonymous artist”, created the flyer as a prankish exercise in black-propaganda.

< Read the article >

(It has since been revealed that the “anonymous artist”, In a circle-jerk of news manufacturing, was given the personal addresses of his marks by an “anonymous journalist” with close ties to the artist, recipients of the broadsheet, and Michael Roberts.)

The press conference attendees, including all major Denver networks and dailies, we’re further befuddled by the appearance of a man with a copy of the flyer and a whirligig depicting two white beat-cops truncheoning a crouching brown man. The man identified himself as, “John Q. Public” and insisted that he did not make the flyer but picked it up at the Gypsy House Cafe where Recreate 68 holds its working meetings.

all pictures

Glenn Spagnuolo, dubbed SPAGZ by local media, goes so far as to discretely square off with John Q. Public to tell him, “I think you’re full of shit!”

Cop Watch’s Even Herzoff leads off with a prepared speech about police accountability in a “climate of fear” before admitting that he’d been apparently “punked” by an artist. The manicured Fox News corespondent who broke the story at five am drops her microphone and leaves in a huff.

SPAGZ, the consummate tough-guy with his waxed bald head and wrap-around shades, follows up with a string of bald-faced lies, claiming that he’d received emails he did not receive stating they said they were from Denver cops and that “I received one email that said I was their #1 target.”

(It should be noted here for the record that this agent can verify the non-veracity of SPAGZ claims, and the veracity of John Q. Publics due to intimate knowledge of “the anonymous artist”.)

In a post press conference interview John Q. Public stated that he had no idea who Mr. Spagnuolo was prior to the press conference. When told of SPAGZ’s false claims John’s response was, “That guy just nominated himself as my #1 Target.”

Thursday July 17th, 2008
BEWARE SHEEPLE! SPAGZ LIES!
At Recreate 68’s working meeting the following Thursday SPAGZ along with the core Recreate 68 organizers, Mark and Barbara Cohen and Jill Dryer, are posing for a media portrait in the grass across the street from the Gypsy House Cafe.

As SPAGZ delusions of grandeur are reaching a pitch, John. Q. Public appears in a motorcycle helmet and full leathers in front of the Gypsy House with a sign reading BEWARE SHEEPLE on one side and SPAGZ LIES on the other.

After the Recreate 68ers are done debating John, I abandon my surveillance post for a debrief. As I approach he repeats a gesture he’s been making to anyone and everyone. Extending a copy of the WE BEAT YOU THEN flyer in his right hand he asks, “Would you like a right-wing fascist propaganda flyer?” Followed by his left clutching a copy of The Haymarket Issue, “Would you like a left-wing anarchist propaganda flyer.”

Under my breath, “What did SPAGZ say?”
SPAGZ says, “Up your meds bro.”

Thursday July 24th, 2008
I Don’t Give A Fuck about the First Amendment!
John Q. Public waits until Recreate 68 is safely ensconced in the basement of the Gypsy House and sets up on the corner in a floppy hat, flip-flops, and t-shirt with the WE BEAT YOU THEN broadside screen printed on it.

John now has an air-horn and multiple signs mounted on ring binders allowing him to flip through a series; SPAGZ LIES, honk for the puppets, PUPPETS MAKE PUPPETS, honk for the first amendment, honk for the disabled. Motorists pass and honk. John blows his air horn - repeatedly.

One of the cafe proprietors, an authentic Gypsy, comes out and unleashes a barrage of blush-inducing explicatives followed by what sounds like a native-tounge curse.

SPAGZ and Jill Dryer come out. John extends a WE BEAT YOU THEN shirt, “Glenn, I made you this t-shirt to remember me by.”

“I’ll take that t-shirt and shove it up your ass!!” Then getting in close, “The group (Recreate 68) doesn’t advocate violence but I do.”

Jill, a demure looking feather-weight forty year old, chimes in with, “I’m calling the fucking COPS!” SPAGZ stalks back inside, Jill waits indignantly on her cell.

John tries to explain to Jill that he’s merely trying to exercise his First Ammendmen…

She snaps, “I DON’T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT THE FIRST AMENDMENT!!!!”

Two Denver Police cruisers roll up. Jill, who had taken refuge in the foyer of the cafe runs out, “I’m the one who called you! This man is threatening us! He’s blowing his horn and making threats.”

The officer looks at John in his flip-flops and rolls his eyes. “What are you doing and why are you doing it?”

“I’m disrupting the working meeting of Recreate 68, just like their planning on disrupting the working meeting of the Democratic Party.”

“OK. Stay on this side of the street and don’t blow off the air-horn. Those are only to be used in the event of a boating accident. Ma’am,” he turns to Jill, “He is on public property exercising his first amendment rights. There’s no violation here.”

Unfazed by the hypocrisy of protestors calling them to harass someone who’s opinion is different than their own, the cops roll out.

Thursday July 31rst, 2008
I’m a media whore!
Recreate 68 gathers in the park across from the State Capitol. Ostensibly they’ve moved their meetings to get people used to the space where their holding their rallys. The sequestering of John Q. Public onto a distant corner, out of earshot from his now increasingly confident first amendment rant is only a fringe benefit.

SPAGZ, possessor of the sole folding-chair, goes over the agenda with a media microphone four feet away. Other members of the media are out photographing their DNC quota and the 68ers are glowing. Jill put a lot of thought into her outfit; a form fitting jean-skirt, strapless black top, sandals and hair in pigtails. Classy but proletarian.

A teenager walks by carrying an Obama shirt. “Hey, anyone here for OBAMA?” His exuberant inquiry is met with literal hisses and an anonymous “Keep walking!”

“You could try being a little NICER!” now incensed, “You get a lot farther with honey than with vinegar!”

Returning to the agenda SPAGZ interrupts himself and points at me, “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

“Peter Bergman, Lumpen Magazine Chicago.”

Jill excitedly cranes her neck to see me behind her, “I’ve read Lumpen magazine! Are these pictures going to be in Lumpen Magazine!? Will you let us know if their published by emailing info@recreate68.org??”

Across the park, John is trading a WE BEAT YOU THEN t-shirt and a Haymarket Issue broadsheet for the kid’s Obama t-shirt.

Thursday August 7th, 2008
Your Living Bill of Rights
John changes it up with a drive by. The sign is on a shoulder strap. The whirligig is mounted on a bike trailer holding a car battery and a Fisher Price record player spinning an thrift-store album titled “Your Living Bill of Rights”. He rolls by the working meeting at four miles an hour mad-dogging SPAGZ.

Thursday August 21rst, 2008
The Barnacle Protestor
The current issue of Westword contains a “Guide to Protestation Nation.” Author Jared Jacang-Meyer and Illustrator Nate Stone caricature ALL the protestors converging on Denver for the DNC; The Nostalgic Hippie, The Angry Hillaryite, The Upper-Middle-Class Radical, The Street Theatre Wierdo, and holding a sign that reads “SPAGZ LIES” is a drawing of a floppy hat wearing, whirligig wielding, unhinged figure dubbed “The Barnacle Protestor“.

SPAGZ and crew have a lot of business to cover in their final working meeting prior to the DNC. Unfortunately for them John, taxonomied as The Barnacle Protestor, has been emboldened by his sudden celebrity status and is four feet away from SPAGZ delivering his now polished first-amendment screed through a mega-phone.

The Barnacle Protestor has added two professionally printed signs to his quiver. One depicts SPAGZ giving the thumbs up with reading, “SPAGZ Sayz, Up your meds bro, I’ll take that t-shirt and shove it up your ass, I think you’re full of shit, (and) Recreate 68 doesn’t advocate violence but I do.” The second is a blow up of an incriminating surveillance photo of Jill, The Barnacle Protestor, and a cop reading, “Jill Sayz I DON’T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT THE FIRST AMENDMENT!”

Media, now in full saturation, is zeroing in on The Barnacle Protestor. He’s a better photo op than SPAGZ on his folding-throne. The meeting clearly can’t commence over the din of John’s mega-phone. SPAGZ facing the inevitable, approaches him, flips through the signs with sick fascination, and attempts to engage John in a “debate” that quickly devolves into a talk-off between SPAGZ trying to merely comprehend what’s happening and The Barnacle Protestor first amendment speechifying while passing out of right-wing fascist and left-wing anarchist propaganda flyers.

In an effort to prove there’s one reasonable person left in town, a lady from the Recreate 68 approaches The Barnacle Protestor, nudges Glenn aside, sticks out her hand and declares, “I don’t agree with you, but I support your right to be here. I appreciate what your saying and I want to shake your hand.”

Photo: Elisha Mustoe
–

A day by day account of John Q. Publics protester grudge match and
competition for the limelight during the DNC can be read on the following:

Covering the media covering the media covering the 
protesters protesting the protesters at the DNC
is Democratic National Convention 2008
coverage for Blog of Lumpen

Sunday August 24th, 2008
Day of the Protest Permits

Monday August 25th, 2008
Right Makes Might

Tuesday August 26th, 2008
Send in the clowns

By the time you read this
Final Communiques

Dear Glenn and Jill,

Per Jill’s request I’m writing to notify you that a picture I took with your consent is in Lumpen Magazine.

By now you may have put 3 and 3 together and realized that in addition to covering the DNC for Lumpen in an observational capacity, I have also been unethically “manufacturing news” since early June when I sent you the WE BEAT YOU THEN WELL BEAT YOU AGAIN flyer.

I am not the man known as The Barnacle Protestor who picketed you personally. I did not put him up to his activities - I merely documented them.

On a personal note, eschewing the misinformation and trash-talk that goes with our respective jobs (politics and “art”) I would like to apologize for making what I now realize was an in-poor-taste personal threat. I have a hand written formal apology for you. I can mail it or courier it to a location of your choosing.

Until the infocsalypse,

Peter Miles Regenold Bergman

–
Dear Mr. Hakim Bey

Per your request I’m writing to inform you that I photocopied (with custom letterpressed augmentation) your broadside titled The Haymarket Issue. The photocopy was distributed along with a second flyer (see enclosed) in both Denver Colorado and Chicago Illinois. Also enclosed you will find a CD with images documenting the distribution, a printed out email, two issues of Denver’s Westword Newspaper, and the current issue of Lumpen Magazine. You can also read further documentation related to the distribution by accessing the Blog of Lumpen, clicking on the August tab and accessing posts #1 - #5 of Covering the media covering the media covering the protestors protesting the protesters at the DNC.

Thank you for your anti-copywrite designation and the subsequent inspiration,

IS agent m[i]le[s] & IS agent John Q. Public

This report was originally published on a tri-fold display 
at Sociometry Fair 2008 in Chicago.   

After a winter snow storm this IS special agent and suburban bus commuter found IS-self standing ankle deep in slushy brown snow-plow spray, unable to sit on the likewise fetid bus bench. I thought to is-self, “Why don’t they shovel off this bus stop!?”

After several minutes of cold contemplation (the #20 bus isn’t always on-time on snowy days), I wondered, “Who are THEY?” I use the stop, why should I expect someone else to take care of it? The RTD provided a great service - driving me downtown on a fairly reasonable schedule for $1.75. I realized it was unreasonable to expect them to also come shovel my bus stop for the same rate.

So, I procured what in the art industry we call “In Advance of a Broken Arm” and took it upon myself to clear off the stop after each storm - to the benefit of myself and the dozen or so of my neighbors who used the stop.

See all before and after photos

After several storms it occurred to me that I could officially adopt the bus stop. I began to look around at other bus stops for comparables. Adopted bus stops are unceremoniously adorned with a 6 inch square white placard with

ADOPTED BY:
(Your Name Here)

That is apparently where it stopped. Officially adopted stops weren’t shoveled. In fact they looked no better than my stop. I contacted RTD with an inquirey and received the following RE:

Miles,

First I need you to know that this is a voluntary program only so there is no pay for this. The way the program works is we provide the trash can, bags for the can and a 12 X 12 sign that is attached to the pole and in exchange for doing this we ask that you take the full bag out of the trash can and throw it away with the rest of your trash. You have the choice of either wanting a can or not and we will provide bags either way. You will need to sign an agreement form that states what I just did above and allows you to tell us what you would like on your sign. After we receive the signed agreement form then we will install a can if requested, drop off bags and make up a sign with your information on it. A bus stop is only the stops that have a pole or a pole and a bench but not the enclosed ones which are called shelters and are already maintained. I hope this information helps you. If you need any further information, have questions please feel free to write me at my email address or you can call me at 303-299-6365.

Thanks,
Monica Thomas, RTD-Adopt-A-Stop Program Coordinator

My stop doesn’t have the trash issue endemic to stops in commercial areas. The issue was snow removal and maintenence. It occurred to me that by utilizing the IS guerilla public service technique, I could anonymously commandeer the bus stop and, as a consequence, be unencumbered by any formal commitment or rules of engagement.

After deciding to commandeer the bus stop my level of commitment to its aesthetic value became more intense. I removed the abandoned dirty green JOBS box to both facilitate thorough snow removal and improve the look of the stop.

I had grown to like living in suburban Lakewood partly due to driving past the “Welcome to Lakewood” sign on 26th and Wadsworth. The Lakewood slogan, “We Are Building an Inclusive Community”, really spoke to me. On a recent trip south on Wadsworth I was dismayed to see that someone had amateurishly defaced the sign in a poorly thought-out guerilla modification.

In response I decided to put my graphic arts skills to use and dramatically improve the look of the stop by replacing the ugly RE-MAX advertisement with a guerilla, yet sincere, Lakewood promotional advertisement.

With the new advertisement and the addition of a couple flower bowls my bus stop is now dramatically spruced up and ready for spring. By commandeering, rather than adopting, the stop I’ve been able to actually improve the location rather than taking ownership over the stop in name only.

This report was originally published on a tri-fold display
at Sociometry Fair 2008 in Chicago.   

From a First Laugh in 1958 to a Last Laugh in 2008

It was 1958 and the race was on…After the Sputnik launches in 1957, the U.S. was desperate to create mathematicians and scientists. In Social Studies lessons, we saw our first pictures of them. They wore white shirts and ties to work, or funny glasses and long, white coats. They had plastic pocket protectors to hold different colors of pencils and leaky ballpoint pens.

They were Pencil Necks.

They did something mysterious. It wasn’t a real job like our dads had-building cars or driving trains. And they looked funny (geeky?), so it was fun making fun of them.

Change was afoot. In 1958, the National Defense Education Act established the first federal student loan program. In 1961, President John F. Kennedy asked that all U.S. schoolteachers encourage able students to pursue mathematics and science.

I was one of a dozen eighth graders in a church-run school. We filled the leftmost two columns in the room; seventh graders occupied the rightmost three columns. I was sitting there, third from the back in the inside column. It was time for math class, but instead of immediately going over yesterday’s homework, the teacher made an announcement. “The President of the United States has asked all teachers in the country to encourage students to study math and science. If you are good at math or science you can get a good job when you grow up and it will help the country. There is such a big need for math and science people that even girls can now be mathematicians or scientists.” What a concept. I liked math and was good at it.

Yes, I was a little geeky even back in 8th grade. But you can see from my nice hairdo and plaid dress that I was trying to be pretty like my popular sisters. (And no, my nose isn’t quite that big. School photographers weren’t always clever then.)

When I registered for 9th grade in the big public school, I was one of many students who were put into an accelerated math program. We lived in a small city of blue-collar families, but now even kids like us were being encouraged to go to college.

What kind of work would we do, we wondered? We’d be pencil necks, someone said. What’s that? Well, they aren’t regular pencil pushers that do desk jobs, but they do use pencils and do math or science. Who wants to be a pencil neck? No one. But we’d take the assigned class and see how hard it is.

The greasers were calling us pencil necks. We fought back by saying “We were going to college.” So in the early 1960s, the pencil-neck insult morphed into Joe College for most of us. But we were still teenagers, so the socially inept intellectuals were still called misfits or retards (a term we did not apply to mentally retarded people).

We were Joe College misfits.

My parents talked a lot about getting an education so you can get a better job. My dad worked two jobs and my mom managed the house and five kids, and eventually took on a part-time job too. In 1965, the federal student loan guarantee program began, guaranteeing loans provided by banks and non-profit lenders. With a scholarship and a loan, going to college was now really possible. A lot of parents in my community must have talked like mine. 75% of the kids in my high school went to colleges or universities.

Other university students didn’t make fun of us. Some were hippies and others radicals but being smart was not cause for scorn. I was only verbally attacked once, but it was by a math professor for having the nerve to take a place in his class, instead of majoring in early elementary education. It made me realize I was the only girl in that class, and maybe I should major in biology after all.

There were challenges for both boys and girls but still great numbers of former-laboring-class Joe Colleges entered the work force in the 1970’s-and started repaying student loans. The name-calling changed. Now we were called things like

Engineer, Teacher, Biologist.

The New Age of the 60’s and early 70’s gave way to the Disco Era. By the early 1980’s we were hearing a lot about Yuppies. The spotlight was on being young upwardly mobile professionals on Wall Street or in business. There was a surge of these successful women and men. Science and math types were relegated to second class in popular culture. They were becoming heavily involved with computers, which not many people could understand. So they were called

weirdos, nerds, dorks or just rejects.

But secretly, many of those successful, young business people were the ones who knew something about computers too.

By the late 80’s, talk about computers was commonplace but computers were not. Computer Science and Engineering were hot universities degrees. But programmers were still weirdos, too compulsive about those machines and languages.

By the mid 1990’s personal computers were commonplace in businesses, universities, and research labs. Lots of people had them in their homes too. Now the public wanted to know things that weirdo, nerds, and dorks knew. Insults weren’t helpful.

So they became geeks.

It was a new idea. The geeks had discussions about the definitions of nerds, dorks, and geeks. Early insulters had not made such fine distinctions. Frankly, none of those labels was satisfactory to the geeks themselves. Someone in our crowd decided that we should name ourselves.

So we became tech-weenies.

The weenie thing never appealed to me personally, as a label for myself. But I was too busy trying to make a living and doing really interesting work in aerospace to energize too many brain cells on it.

By the beginning of the 21st Century, computers were everywhere-ovens, machines, watches, and miniature tools for exploring inside blood vessels. Everyone who could afford one had a desktop computer at home or a laptop, maybe both. Even artists! Even factory workers! Being knowledgeable about computers was WAY COOL. Popular culture decided

we were lovable GEEKS.

Maybe geeks dress funny, and are sometimes social noobs-but isn’t that cute. They understand computers, and maybe math or physics or science. Even business managers, artists, musicians, and high-school fast food clerks can now be GEEKS. Wow, such fun!

By 2008, there are TV shows glamorizing GEEKS. They poke fun at social ineptness. But most of those geeks have good jobs or have the potential for making a good living. There are magazines and catalogs catering to all varieties of geeks. At the same time, too many non-geeks-both young and old-are losing out by being downsized when their jobs move across the world.

So in 2008, those baby boomers who survived being called
pencil necks,
Joe College,
retards,
rejects,
misfits,
weirdos,
nerds,
dorks,
tech-weenies,
to finally become geeks
are now getting the last laugh. No longer are we the brunts of jokes and insults. Now we can do the laughing about being “the mother of all geeks” as well as grandmothers literally of new-generation geeks. Hordes of new geeks are replacing the first-generation geeks who are heading into retirement. It’s not too late. And geeks are in every field now. You too can become one of the now

HONORED GEEKS!

We are now having a last laugh, not the last laugh, and certainly not yet the last gasp for boomer geeks.

–
Submitted by Agent Annette DeMay, June 2008

Download the Geek Humor Attachment Pack of word docs and jpegs for inter-office spamming!

This report was originally published on coneyislandshortcakes.com
and on a tri-fold display at Sociometry Fair 2008 in Chicago.   

Theorists of architecture, sociology, and psychogeography have struggled endlessly over the question of social space and how it might be dismantled. Ideally, the most effective tools for analyzing social space would illuminate an otherwise invisible network of human relationships, dissolving social anxiety and fostering creativity in its place. During the course of one summer, and to the delight of countless Coney Island locals and visitors, these tools briefly assumed the form of strawberries and shortcake. Our very first shortcake stand was planned innocently enough as a DIY excursion into the real Coney Island- we decided that in order to rediscover the materiality of a place so thickly enshrouded in myth, it was necessary to become part of the very mechanisms that kept it alive. As a result, we not only witnessed the unraveling of Coney Island’s social and economic networks but the logic of our own project as well. Suddenly the questions we had assumed to understand became far more complex. “What’s more American than Strawberry Shortcake at Coney Island?” Well, was it ever that American in the first place?

When it comes to absorbing history, memories, and the emotions associated with change and restructuring, Coney Island is particularly spongy. Each public land battle, bulldozed amusement, or threat of luxury condo takeover seems only to enhance the romantic residue on the surface of this historic place. Some visitors are drawn to the struggle in order to protest its fading glory, while others excitedly await its transition into ghost town status, enjoying frequent mid-winter visits. George C. Tilyou, the creator of Coney Island’s ill-fated Steeplechase Park, was prescient in mobilizing interests in loss and the passing of time to the advantage of the park. On the morning following the Steeplechase’s demise, Tilyou ended his solemn announcement with a sarcastic yet very relevant line: “Admission to the burning ruins — Ten cents.” For those passing through, Coney Island will always be a site of dramatic struggle, a magical place that is consistently fighting off it’s own erasure. However, we wanted to look beneath these memories and myths, to station ourselves among the lived everyday experiences of Coney Island. Originally aiming to find a familiar social network and economy that would render the park a little more readable, we eventually found something even more inspiring.

What we hoped to discover with this project was the transparent and original essence of Coney Island, something that we vaguely assumed to be harnessed to the American Experience (and Strawberry Shortcake, of course). Yet we quickly realized that this kind of experience had been effaced long ago, leaving a space in which culture is less rigidly defined. It almost seemed as if, upon closer inspection, the park never really had a specific origin, much like the Strawberry Shortcake itself. Is it really American or did we just put these two ingredients together? Regardless, Coney Island began to reveal itself as an accepting atmosphere- an amazing transition from the unreal caricature that it became over time. The results were enormous. Few visitors recognized the dessert as something American, and many were entirely unfamiliar with its appearance (”So, wait, it’s ice cream, right?”). Instead, the defining characteristic was a casual curiosity. While an unlikely place to discover social models to which we might aspire, Coney Island and it’s local amusement community provided a very diverse and playful social network. In our photos, the great diversity of Shortcake customers with whom we interacted are all linked together by this suddenly less familiar, strangely humorous, and remarkably uniting dessert.

This report was originally published on a tri-fold display
at Sociometry Fair 2008 in Chicago.   

New technologies promise revolution. They liberate us from the tediousness of work. They even liberate us from the tediousness of play.

Take toys for example. These days, it’s common for toys to require batteries, a power cord or even a tank of gas. Such toys prepare children for a life with machines and devices designed to give their bodies increasingly less to do.

The Legway is a response to the relentless revolution of sedentary obesity imposed by technology. Like the famous Segway personal transporter, the Legway provides users with enhanced mobility and an official posture. Yet it is 100% advanced-technology-free. It uses leg power instead of battery power.

This counter-revolutionary new invention has been put to trial use at the New Children’s Museum in San Diego. Look for it soon at a children’s museum near you.

Or make your own! A sheet of plywood, four wheelbarrow wheels, a caster, a few hardware items and some basic woodworking abilities are all that is required.

- Roman de Salvo 

This report was originally published on 2 tri-fold displays at Sociometry Fair 2008 in Chicago.  

WeDUPT 2004 : RESEARCH

WeDUPT 2008 : ACTIVATION

Four Years after conducting the above preliminary research, is agents activated WeDUPT in a radically changed environment.

WeDUPT All Images 

The entrance to WeDUPT has since been closed to sanctioned users (leash-walkers, outfit-bikers, stroller-joggers). To access the trail register and guide one must start by transgressing a barrier between sanctioned and unsanctioned use of the corridor. The necessity of hikers to cross a literal and metaphoric threshold at the outset of their journey is a seeming victory in the effort to raise awareness of, and increase habitat for, unsanctioned users.

Generally however, the interim four years have seen a wholesale assault on unsanctioned use habitat. A vast tract of section four, The Preserve, was clear cut to make way for sanctioned users. This encroachment cuts deep into an area that in 2004 was ideal habitat for hobos and served as the gateway to a large and now threatened encampment.

before and after 2004 left : 2008 right

West Denver gentrification, flood control infrastructure development and construction in the corridor on a west suburbs light-rail line all highlighted the need for incorporation of WeDUPT.

A trail register, trail guides, and breakaway fiberglass trail markers and a corresponding iconographic decal system were professionally manufactured. Decals deploy a standard slash no-slash system of Forest Service trail markers but incorporate icons appropriate to an urban environment; a tag, a crapping dog, a wino, a cop.

The morning after instal, this agent arrived at the trail-marker for section three prior to 9am. Scores of eager citizens were out vigorously clearing brush! A Parks and Rec crew with a mulcher truck was ingesting it. When approached a young couple explained,

is: “Are you all volunteering or something?”
both: “Yes!”
is: “Why clear all this brush?”
he: “They found a BODY in here! Or something… That’s what I heard.”
she: “Its National Trails Day!”

The trail marker for section three remained in place, lightly buried into soft soil. Citizens swarmed around it vigorously manicuring the park. An adjacent crew, in keeping with WeDUPT’s strict no tagging zone in section three, was painting out graffiti in hunter green - perfectly matched to WeDUPT’s marker. 

Back at section one, a small cadre of Hispanic teens were walking along the flood diversion trench passing a joint. As they came across this agent making an entry into the trail register, all pointed at the detourned green newspaper box. Sputtered laughs and “oh shits” were punctuated with a flash of the hand, center fingers crossed - “WEST SIDE!”

At the start of section two a breakaway group of citizens, multicultural tweens with an adult chaperone, walked along the creek banks with trash bags picking up litter. A Hispanic girl in painted on pants looked at the trail marker for section two and proudly poked her friend, “Look! West Side!”

CONCLUSION:

One could argue that the lack of citizen reaction to the marker in section three pointed to a failure. They didn’t see the marker because its aesthetic blended too closely into what was expected in the space. Unlike the tags the section three sign did not read as unsanctioned art. The section one trail register, however, was clearly communicative as unsanctioned as acknowledged by the West Side teens and their stoned camaraderie.

This leads is to believe that the context in which the signs are encountered by the individual frames their legitimacy. The section three trail marker decals conformed to preliminary research showing the area is not advisable for unsanctioned use due to its open terrain and adjacent playgrounds. Citizens engaged in sanctioned use (busy-bodied-volunteerism) encountered a sign reinforcing their agenda; no camping, no drinking, no tagging, no dog crap! In section one the unsanctioned teens recognized a subversive nature in the signs and respond in kind. They saw it as a tag and gave it a shout out. The girl in section two also was drawn to the west side emblem but due to her sanctioned use of the space saw it with a non-ironic sense of civic pride.

The section one trail register was the first item to disappear. Section three’s trail marker followed shortly. Section two lasted a couple weeks. The Preserve’s trail marker lasted over a month. Six months later all trace of WeDUPT is gone. Its hard to say if the signs were removed by Parks and Rec or by unsanctioned art collectors.

The signs transcendental ability to serve as a guide to sanctioned and unsanctioned users in the corridor proves that these two groups can coexist in the space without the need to threaten vital unsanctioned use habitat.

To maintain awareness of this issue is plans a second annual instal and trail walk for National Trails Day 2009.

Follow this column for details.

This report was originally published on a tri-fold display
 at Sociometry Fair 2008 in Chicago.  

IS Agent Peter M. Regenold Bergman TESTIMONIAL:

Bill Gardner comes and goes. My friend Toby, whom I’ve know since 3rd grade, introduced us. He told me a friend of his introduced Bill to him at a Cincinnati Reds game - in Cincinnati.

Bill showed up in Denver five or six years ago. He came to our bar-b-ques, IS events, Toby & Kim’s wedding - always on the bus. Jess & I moved away to Chicago in the Summer of 2005, and apparently Bill did too. He called Toby one day out of the blue to tell him he was moving back to Cincinatti. He gave Jim, who was living in our garage at the time, a mini-fridge. But then he moved back to Denver…

He showed up in Chicago one night. We had some Thai food and he left on public transportation.

At some point a theory developed that Bill was an actual agent, as in government…. He knew A LOT about politics and government machinations. He was really down on the Bush/Chaney/Rumsfeld thing. Bill was the Democratic Party bloc captain during the Bush/Kerry deal. He was always photocopying articles about national security. Despite being kind of an active political type, and totally left, Bill was no hippy. Jim and I always tried to get him to get high, but he’d never go for it. And he was clean-cut. He worked for some “office out-sourcing” place.

We never met anyone else Bill knew. Just Toby, and Toby’s wife Kim, who I went to Junior High with and is my wife Jess’s best friend and, Jim, who we all grew up with, and Jim’s girlfriend Mary who is my wife’s little sister.

No one ever went to Bill’s apartment or saw where he lived. No one knew too much about where he worked. We did meet one guy he worked with when we went out one night (see picture — Bill’s on the left.)

We moved back to Denver after a couple of years. Bill was in LA pursuing a career “in the film industry.” He sent me some buttons and a post-card from the Echo Park Film center. That really tripped me out because this IS agent Paolo Divanzo, who I was friends with in San Diego, one of the original IS posse, runs the place. The postcard was a crowd shot. I was looking for Paolo. I thought he might be this guy in the front row but only if he had gone bald.

Jess and I bought a house in Lakewood Colorado in Fall of 2007. I sent out an email invitation to the people on my address book. Imagine my surprise when Dick Cheney showed up! It was Bill, in a navy suit and mask.!? He had a white sedan “rental car”… “In from LA…”

We had a little occasion to talk out by the pool. Bill said he was working “in the film industry” and was looking at a transfer to the Southern Philippines. Apparently there is a lot of film production work there, but all Bill talked about was Abu Saief the southern Pilipino Muslim extremist group that kidnaps westerners for ransom. I told him how tripped out I was by that Echo Park film center deal, and how I knew the dude that ran it. Bill had a kind of nonchalant reaction. Like it was old news or something.

Anyway, Bills a good guy, a little mysterious. We want to go visit him in Cebu in the Philippines. I was a little concerned about the kidnapping deal though. He sent a picture of the “film production” place he works at. I guess he lives there too. He said its like a resort but also like a fortress.

Or maybe he’ll just show up next time we bar-b-que. “In from South East Asia…”
 

IS Agent Toby Saum TESTIMONIAL:

Summer 2000:

I met Bill Gardner in the summer of 2000 in Cincinnati. A good friend I’d made in Boston introduced us at a Memorial Day BBQ. I met several other interesting individuals that indicated they’d attended private
high school with Bill G. I was new to the city and was excited that they said they’d call me sometime…

I was sans their contact info and was a little disappointed to not hear from them. Three weeks later I receive a call.

Bill: “Hey Toby, this is Bill. Bill Gardner. You know, from the
Memorial Day BBQ.”

Toby: “Hey yeah. Great to hear from you. What’s shakin’?”

Bill: “What are you doing right now?”

Toby: “Nothing”

Bill: “Wanna go to the Reds game?”

Toby: “Sure. When?”

Bill: “Now. We’re on our way over to pick you up!”

Toby: “Fantastic!”

They arrived, we drove to Riverfront. Long story short we ended up sitting in the first four seat (read: front row) directly behind home plate vs. the Rockies. I called my mother on my brand new cellular telephone and told her to turn on the TV. I waved to her from behind the plate and “introduced” her to my new friend.

I moved in July of 2001 and cannot account for any of Bill’s activities until he arrived in Denver.
 

Summer 2005:

T: “Hello.”

B: “Hey it’s Bill. What are you doing?”

T: “Nothing, what’s up?”

B: “Like to drop by and chat with you about a couple things.”

T: “OK.”

Bill comes to the condo in Capitol Hill. Proceeds to tell me that he’s moving back to Cincinnati. “Wow,” I said. “When.”

B: “As soon as I’m done talking to you.”

T: “Well, shit. Good travels brother. Let’s hook when we can…”

Did Bill really go back to Cincinnati? I don’t know that I have any outside confirmation.

Fall 2006 (exact date unclear)

T: “Hello.”

B: “Hey Toby Bill. How you doing?”

T: “Hey Bill, great to hear from you. What happening with you?”

B: “Wondered if you wanted to get together for a couple drinks. Catch up.”

T: “Love to. You coming to town in the near term?”

B: “Yeah well, I live here now.”

T: “What ?!? Since when?”

B: “Oh, about three months now.”

T: “And you’re just calling now? Where in the heck are you living?”

B: “The 1500 block of Grant.”

He was calling to my residence on the 1100 block of Grant…

I received about 3 days notice that Bill was moving to LA. We took him for Cuban food on his last day. I did actually see where Bill was living. A nice efficiency. Bill donated some nice wicker patio furniture and an unopened bottle of Bombay Safire to my cause. Upon my return from work the following afternoon I noticed that Bill had donated an rolling office chair. It is on this chair I sit as I reflect upon my friend
Bill Gardner…

Highly intelligent, informed, always has something interesting to say, charming, and always smiling. Always happy to have occasion to see him. Perhaps he’ll pop in this afternoon?!?! As to where he really is, or what he’s really doing? Who’s to say? Not me.
 

IS Agent Kimberly Saum TESTIMONIAL:

You must add the part about the fairwell party prior to you moving to CHI. BG showed up on a bike with a cooler of beers. HE dropped off the Cooler and beer., left and came back later to reclaim the cooler. First of all how did he ride a bike with a cooler of beers and second where did he go after he dropped off the beer. Thirdly, why leave then return for the cooler.

Another mysterious happening is the blender he gave T and I for our wedding gift. It showed up wrapped outside our back door one Sunday morning. He left it there but when. And why not ring the door bell?
 

IS Agent Jim Hanson TESTIMONIAL:

I don’t remember the first time I met Mr. Bill Gardner, though I am sure it was at a bar-be-que hosted by Pete and Jess. My apologies for not remembering as I was probably three sheets to the wind, loaded, blotto, wasted, baked…. I do remember learning of the circumstances that led to Bill meeting Toby, then Pete and the rest of us. I initially wrote it off as being ” a small world coincidence”, but now I am not so sure…Bill called me out of the blue one afternoon in 2005, saying he had been “cleaning out his office in Denver” and wanted to give me a dorm style mini fridge. A couch or office furniture I could understand, but a freshly cleaned dorm style mini fridge? It was then I started having my suspicions of Bill, I mean really, who gives away a perfectly good dorm style mini fridge?

Mary, Bill and I went to a rock show at the Larimer Lounge shortly thereafter… that was the last I saw of him.

Fast forward to 2007. Pete and Jess move back to Denver, I am living in a garage in Laramie, Wy. and Bill’s whereabouts are unknown, working in his “film industry” job. Pete invited me to his ” We’ve moved back to Denver!” party-be-que. Food is eaten, drinks are had, good times partying with old friends in a new home. Too early to be late, but too late to be fashionable, a knock on the door…. who should it be? Mr. Bill Gardner, suited, in a Dick Chaney mask! Whoo hoo let the festivities begin, this must be a party if Bill flies in from parts unknown to grace us with his pesence, so good to see him. Things get a little fuzzy… drinking, smoking, talking, drinking….Next thing I know, it’s like 1:30 in the morning and I am looking for a warm garage to pass out in. Bill is still hanging, as personable as ever and he says to me ” Handsome Jim Hanson.” That’s it, “handsome Jim Hanson.”, over and over, as if he is placing it in memory… “handsome Jim Hanson, handsome Jim Hanson….” Well, how did Bill know that “handsome Jim Hanson” was the nickname given to me by Pete’s sister Jill like 20 years ago? Or that handsomejimhanson@hotmail.com is my e-mail account I have had for years? Bill never e-mailed me, or hasn’t since. Yet he knew! The next morning, after Mr. Gardner left for parts unknown, I expressed my suspicion of Mr. Gardner being an agent, to my suprise, Jess had formulated the very same suspicion as I! Small world coincidence? Hmmm……One thing is sure, I hope to see Bill again and if he is indeed an agent, I hope that he continues to raise my suspicions yet never spills the beans.
 

INSTITUTE OF SOCIOMETRY CONCLUSION: It’s hard to draw much of a conclusion about Station Agent Bill G… He may be a fairly straight-laced guy, taking advantage of the expanding global economy, keeping up on current affairs, and taking an active role in his American civic life.

There is little evidence to indicate that IS would be the target of any type of undercover infiltration. IS does indeed embroil IS-self in radical seditious activity. IS feels however, that in the post-911 climate, Yippie inspired domestic pranktavist squads seem less of a threat to American power than dirty bomb toting jihadis. Perhaps Nixon era “rat-squad” infiltration of protest groups by government agents has given way to foreign assignments in hot-spots of Muslim extremist activity - places like the southern Phillipines.

Qwest Vex was originally reported by The Westword and misappropriated by The Egotist. is originally published this report on a tri-fold display at Sociometry Fair 2008 in Chicago along with the video at the bottom by agent Vin Comparetto.

On Monday May 19, 8:50 am, a crack-squadron of 13 agents of the international pranktivist collective Institute of Sociometry (IS) donated an unsolicited “minimalist sculpture” comprised of 576 phone books to the Qwest corporate headquarters at 1801 California Street in the form of a giant phone book. The donated minimalist sculpture “reflected its architectural surroundings and provided an ergonomically designed, functional apparatus for employees to interact with while sitting and enjoying their lunch break.”

In the course of a year, a typical Denver Metro household will receive each of the following: a 2.5 inch thick White Dex, a 2.5 inch thick Yellow Dex, possibly a 1.5 inch thick Yellow Dex A-L, a 1.5 inch thick Yellow Dex M-Z, a smaller format Dex Plus. Also, depending on demographics, the household may receive a combined (white and yellow) suburban directory or Dex En Espanol.

IS agents spent six months amassing 23 separate varieties of phone books in Denver and the west suburbs. These publications had been either left unclaimed for at least one month at apartment or office buildings, or were used by customers for a year and thrown out with the arrival of the 2008 book. Six variants were published by Yellow Pages, Yellow Book, or Venison. Twenty two variants were published by Dex, a division of publisher RR Donnely, which has a contract with the telecommunications company to produce and deliver the phone book.

Prior to assembling the sculpture in the Qwest corporate plaza, IS agents were instructed by squadron leaders to “avoid eye contact with bystanders at all times” and to answer all inquiries from the company’s security with the phrase “I’m just supposed to drop these off.” When the IS squadron began briskly piling the books in front of the Qwest building, they were indeed approached by security and had the following off-script exchange:

Qwest: (sheepishly) So how you guys doing?
IS: (tersely) Alright.
Qwest: So uh… what’s the plan this morning? You guys when your done are you going to clean out everything?
IS: (lying) Uh hugh…
Qwest: That’s fine…

At this point the Qwest personnel walked away with their hands in their pockets, going so far as to actually kick a pebble in a gesture of defeat.

 
Photo agent Rhy Jouett   

After the IS sculptors completed their work and melted away into the Monday morning pedestrian traffic, a man identifying himself as public relations personnel exited from the building and immediately sought out our IS agent who was posing as an “independent photographer.” The agent was asked if he was “from the paper.” When queried, Qwest public relations told our agent that they would surely recycle the books.

Indeed, within ten minutes a small army of Qwest maintenance employees immediately emerged from the towering edifice with large janitorial bins adorned with freshly laser-printed recycle symbols scotch-taped on them. They swiftly disassembled the sculpture and scurried back into the building. IS officially condemns the callous removal of their donated minimalist sculpture. It points to a flagrant disregard for even the basest level of art appreciation!

Watch a time-lapse of the incident!  

Video agent Vin Comparetto 

But while unanticipated by IS, Qwest’s actions indicate a desire to be a responsible corporate citizen by encouraging the use of their plaza as a convenient, centrally located, recycling depository for unwanted phone books.

This incidence was originally activated at Sociometry Fair 2008 in Chicago. These Puerto Rican cheerleaders can spot a photo op!

See more Mascot clips

Agent Brothergeek travels to museums and art events throughout the nation to offer his mascot services pro-bono. Once on location, a mascot costume is constructed with scrounged materiel from neighborhood thrift shops and dumpsters. The shamen-like transformative nature of the costume allows museum attendees and staff to cheerily engage with the off-the-street wack job in the get-up!

The Museum Mascot took a detour through low-culture at Sociometry Fair 2008. A quad-fold display (aka cardboard box) was adorned with brochure dispensers, flyers and is schwag from the FREE table. In addition to hangin’ on the otherwise gang controlled corner in front of The Fair, the Mascot handed out Sociometry Fair materials at Millennium Park and the Puerto Rico Day parade! 

See more images from agent cyberhobo

This report was originally published on a tri-fold display at Sociometry Fair 2008 in Chicago. These American Beer enthusiasts are clearly beguiled.

The common urban road draws a parallel line, subdividing the order of passageway into a strip for pedestrians and the central space for vehicles. In some countries and cities, more lines are drawn to indicate a section strictly for bicycles. Segmented into their respective areas, government representatives, cohorts of minions, designers, intellectuals and pikeys all march onward, like a swarm of ants, to their destinations-whether it may be Downing Street or the town center shopping mall in Basingstoke.

So it was a couple of months ago in London, where I happened to be asking around what people thought of American beer. Don’t ask why, I study fine art and therefore get away with the most impromptu of market research antics. Amongst the plethora of quirky responses, here is my favorite:

“Same as what I think of all generalizations.”

A rather sweeping comment for someone on such a rampant opposition to ‘generalizing’, I sit and wonder whether this particular specimen is opposed to politically incorrect stereotyping, or simply all generalizations, which is the ultimate oxymoron if you ask me. Perhaps a fellow American national offended by my earnest pigeonholing of their (our) identity?

I always wondered about those queasy smiles that people flash when I make an overt reference to generalizing groups of people. Oh, those emos. The Sloanes. And how can we forget those lovely head-to-toe TOPSHOP girls who, I imagine, are secretly sniffing around in the new Primark on Oxford Street? Or better, how many times do we admit to hearing a distinctly Vicky Pollard conversation between the stalls in ASDA, wondering if they are in fact from Croydon?

Perhaps the result of a religiously liberal, PC-infested education that lionizes one’s individuality that is now permanently embedded in the psyche those of my generation (I was in my early teens when the Backstreet Boys wanted it thaat-ah way). However, I would suggest this phenomenon of subcultural unification is what the effect of globalization ironically entails; as I could easily find the exact same pair of striped American Apparel leggings on a pair of Chicagoan, Londoner, and Tokyoite legs, taxonomy has reached a new level as a parallelogram, swarms of subcultures clustering around a set of stereotypes, orbiting a distinctly paralleled connection. It is a system of taxonomy vis-à-vis Michel Foucault’s “laughter that shattered…all the familiar landmarks of my thought” (Routeledge, p. xvi), in which he introduces The Order of Things. Now of course my version is a petty reconstruction of an order of specific urban dwellers, but I imagine it is as righteous as an animal that is ordered according to “(m) having just broken the water pitcher”.

I often find myself around and about Brick Lane at lunchtime, for example, as I happen to be working nearby. Obviously, I tend to notice the types that I frequently encounter myself, and hence I present the reader with two species that never fail to amuse me:

Specimen a
Specimen a is a student of the arts. They are caught wearing skinny jeans and fluorescent Converse shoes, outgrown hair wrapped in a scruffy headband. The vintage shirt, I presume, was purchased at Beyond Retro on Cheshire Street. The first years in university are often found around 93 Feet East on Brick Lane, the older ones crossing the street into the Vibe Bar for a dash of Bengali Hip Hop. An interior designer, a fine artist, an illustrator perhaps; in any case the species are regulars at private views in the Old Street and/or Bethnal Green area, aspiring to the day that they themselves will one day be the star of the show. They sip their smoothies and talk of Damien Hirst’s new elaborately garnished skull. One evening I met a particular specimen a: chatting away across a bar, she told me she makes paintings with her menstrual blood. She insisted that she was not a feminist, and invited my friend and I to a squat party on Vyner Street.

Try swapping cities with Tokyo, and find them at a gig in Shimo-kitazawa or a gallery opening in Yoyogi, with their bundled orange hair and Vivienne Westwood socks; or alternatively, spot them at an underground café in Kichijoji with their French roasts. Ask them whether they attend Suido-bata prep school or Bunsai Art College, and if they’re planning to study abroad in the near future. Chicago? Take the blue line up to Damen, I would suggest looking in the Earwax café or any given bar in the area. Just make sure not to confuse an SAIC student with a Columbia College student (as thou shalt not confuse a Goldsmiths with a St. Martins student in London), it tends to infuriate them. By the way, do they happen to live in a shared house in Pilsen by any chance?

Specimen x
Specimen x is a species often found stalking the pubs around Liverpool Street station, raising their pints of Stella Artois to the end of another hard day of work. Meet them at an amateur comedy night in Leicester Square, they tend to be the ones heckling the poor comedians off the stage into their lamentable cloud of misery. Dressed in pinstripe suits, cropped haircuts and somewhat battered leather shoes, perhaps they are workers in finance, juggling sums of money beyond the commoner’s imagination. They tend to be the ones I find coming up to me at a pub in Bloomsbury on a Wednesday night, making some vulgar remarks on my accent (re-electing Bush was not my idea, thank you).

One can easily see the equivalent Tokyoite in Shinjuku, or O-saki perhaps, bowing heads to a raised chu-jokki of draught Asahi Super Dry. The difference being, their vulgar remarks tend to concentrate on one’s breast size. And they favor baseball instead of football. I once met a Chicagoan specimen x near a Rush Street bar/club with screens airing basketball games, bottle of Miller Lite in hand; how they have an apartment on the Gold Coast, how they own a Cadillac, how they work at a big building somewhere in the Loop.

Somehow in my mind specimen x is a secret poet. They would scramble together strings of thought into a carefully constructed text, reiterating its melodic self once voiced. They are the ones that secretly reveal themselves on the odd train journey on a Saturday morning, reciting their poetry to a curious stranger, never to be seen again once the train comes to a full stop. Behind the grim faces they flash on a morning tube ride, could there be a romantic lurking somewhere in there?

I like speculating whether specimen a could be a closet rationalist. Unlike their I-like-to-quote-Hal-Foster postmodernist colleagues, a storm of logical thinking bubbles within specimen a, only finding its way out in a fury at a drunken night when nobody else is really listening? Could they be questioning who they really are, despairing at the idea that two plus two may not actually equal five?

If Italo Calvino can paint a portrait of Venice from a multitude of invisible cities, I wonder whether I could possibly conclude that I am constructing a figure of a single creature. But our vision is skewed with the anonymous mass of uniformed people, and these caricatures that I draw represent the combats between the so-called Same and Other-but oh well, I find these guys entertaining whichever way. Nobody is an exact blueprint of a stereotype, but the ordered observation certainly echoes from somewhere.

—
copywritte 2007 Renée O’Drobinak
www.reneeodrobinak.com

This report was originally published on a tri-fold display at
Sociometry Fair 2008 in Chicago. This vegan gutter punk is feeling it.

North then south, north then south, surrounded by so many people, yet very alone. This is my reality. I have a long commute, about an hour and 25 minutes one way during peak traffic hours, which is of course, when I need to travel. When I first began commuting this 75 mile stretch of highway, I was relaxed and enjoyed my “quiet time”, my time to reflect on deep subjects. But the longer I commuted the more I began relying on other forms of entertainment like radio talk shows, my ipod, bird watching. But, as with many things, doing things alone can get old, and sharing your experiences with others can make the experience that much more enjoyable.

See all zombie drivers images

With time, I came to the realization that I really was not alone. No. I was surrounded by people. Many times they were just tens of feet from me. But there was a problem. Not only were we separated from each other by the structure of the vehicles we occupied, but there was a certain inattention to the human aspect of each other. As I passed another person, I would not think of them as another person, but rather, a car. I understood that I was apart of a community, a culture, but that this community operates in near ignorance of the humanity of itself. It was rare to see communication within the community members, and when it did occur, it was not complex language, but was in the form of rudimentary light signals or the occasional hand gesture. Something needed to be done.

I began some intense research into the behavior of drivers as well as into the art of communication. In my research I found that The Transportation Research Institute, in Haifa, Israel, has determined that “Each driver is influenced by the collective behavior of other drivers. At the same time, each driver is also part of this collective, and thus influences others.” They also determined that “a small shift in the behavior of [a] few might be amplified or snowball to a much larger effect resulting in a changed traffic environment or a modified culture of driving.” Here I was hit with the feeling of grandeur. Here is the reason I have been made to commute. I was going to change the driving culture.

I started with advice from the manual by Don Gabor: How to Start a Conversation and Make Friends, the revised and updated version. I immediately applied the first of his techniques for nonverbal communication. -Smile- As I made my way north at 6:30 am, I smiled the biggest smile I could (no easy task at that time of day). I continued to smile for nearly 20 miles before I decided that I was not really effecting anyone because no one was looking at me. I determined it must be a visibility problem. I needed a sign. Here’s where I stumbled. There is something about a sign that encourages people to look at it. If I made a sign, people would probably look at it. That meant people would look at me. I was not very comfortable with this. I stalled with the excuse that I really didn’t know what to put on the sign. But in the end I resolved to step out of my comfortable anonymity and proudly display an “I’m Smiling” sign.

Attempt #1: 05/27/08: 6:30 am
I was not excited about my sign. It was not a sign that would make people look and say to themselves, “well, there is an extraordinary intelligent woman!” I felt more like it would be “Lovely, another whackjob on the road.” I failed to put up my sign.

Attempt#2: 05/28/08: 6:30 am
I had decided I was just fine being a wuss, and I didn’t even bring the sign with me. But, I felt guilty half way to Denver and started looking at all the people that seemed to hold this power over me, making me so self-conscious. Who were these people that put so much trepidation into my glorious plan of commuter culture change? Did I know them? Would they call someone and make fun of me? How would I even know and why did I care?

Attempt#3: 05/29/08: 6:30 am
Success. I pulled out of my driveway with the sign installed. I was a little anxious through my neighborhood and into my little section of town where people I know might spot me. But I settled down once I hit the interstate. It was more amusing than embarrassing. Right off the bat I was surprised how few people actually looked. I pulled into the left lane for optimal visibility. I saw people eyeing me suspiciously, or trying to act like nothing was different, like when you are looking at someone with food in their teeth. It was disappointing that no one smiled in return. It would seem that most commuters are not in a friendly mood first thing in the morning. I would try at a different time.

Attempt#4: 05/30/08: 11:00 am
I was heading north of Denver today and my car was loaded with luggage and various paraphernalia. The car was a little heavier and I was not in a hurry so I stayed in the middle lane, only occasionally using the left lane to pass. After passing a minivan being driven by a older woman and receiving a quick glance from her, I realized that other cars were not passing me. There were 10-12 cars stacked behind me in my lane and the right lane. I slowed down a bit to see if they would pass. The right lane crept up but just sat slightly behind me. After several more seconds the car furthest back in my lane pulled into the left lane and sped up. Normally a car would quickly overtake me and continue on. But this car slowed down next to me. I turned and looked with the biggest grin on my face. He was looking, but I couldn’t see his expression. I kept grinning. Finally he sped up and past me. After he past a few more followed suit, passing me very slowly. I continued to smile and other drivers continued to be very cautious when passing me. And still no one returned the smile. I understood that my sign was working opposite of its intended purpose. I was not being seen as a friendly driver. I was being seen as a possible threat that required either careful scrutiny, or complete disregard so as not to agitate me. But overall, most drivers did not acknowledge me at all. Perhaps they were just too oblivious to their surroundings to even notice. There were like a pack of zombie drivers. Lifeless and indifferent. Maybe I needed a bigger sign. Maybe I needed my sign to be more personal, something like “I’m smiling at you” or “It’s nice to drive I-25 with you.” Then again maybe my sign just needs a little more time. Maybe my fellow commuters are shy and just take a bit to warm up.

Backstory: Life’s a Joke : chapters I & II 

This report was originally published on a tri-fold display at Sociometry Fair 2008 in Chicago. These teenage Bridgeport chicanas were drawn to his display like moths to a bright light.

Agent Vurmin is a screen-printer by trade. In 1995 he taught is how to make stickers in his garage. As detailed in chapter I, we’re holding a first run “I’ve Been Institutionalized” bumper sticker to present to agent Vurmin upon his release from prison in 2023. In the interim, is tries to smuggle graphic art to agent Vurmin through the mail. 

As detailed in section 3138 of the California Code of Regulations Title 15. Crime Prevention and Corrections manual regarding mail, “all incoming packages and mail addresed to an inmate will be opened and inspected… to prevent the introduction of contraband. In some cases “contraband” is obvious. When Agent Vurmin hand drew all the is agent birthday cards in 2006 they were sent out with a small file/shank in a handsome plastic sleeve custom imprinted with Get Out of Jail *FREE*. That would be an item warranting  confiscation. So agent Vurmin did not receive a gift in the mail. What’s a little more subtle is the need to remove the staples from agent Vurmin’s birth day card so he can’t straighten them, embed them in an eraser and shank a guard in the eye.

Books can only be sent from the bookstore. Inmates can receive pictures in the mail, but only up to 10 and no Poloroids (their rigidity apparently leads to shanking.) Stickers, agent Vurmin’s most cherished accouterment of the civilian world, are expressly prohibited. Once applied to the surface of envelopes stickers magically transform from contraband to packaging and typically slide through.

Unfortunately the piece pictured here didn’t make it to agent Vurmin. The mail was returned with “No Stickers” scrawled across from it. In the type of paradox generated by the pursuit of bureaucracy over logic, these 8×10 glossies of agent Vurmin’s returned mail caused no concern and now decorate his concrete cube.