hello design pigs. i got my new copy of design within reach the other day, and oh look: frank gehry’s designed something that comes in under 2.1 million, but is just as ugly. fantastico!

okay, i kid. but dwr is having a field-fucking-day with the gushy press release factory, breathlessly chirping that “gehry has distilled his forty-year career” into this chair. but the quote from gehry, “the design of furniture, unlike architecture, is quick nourishment,” actually makes it sound like he’s really just kinda happy to have a project take less than ten years to complete. is that the sound of a distillation of a forty-year career? fuck, no. that’s the sound of some kid with a new crayon scribbling all over the walls. and you know what? i don’t care how well practised gehry is, that’s one ugly chair.

hey, you know what really gets me hot? a gorgeous colombian man with a quick wit and and an ass so round it makes you cry. but that’s not what we’re here to talk about. we’re here to talk about type: it appears there’s a new foundry on the scene, although the typographer’s been working for a while. lord only knows why he chose to call his company mac rhino fonts, but you know what? fuck it. his type’s hot.

be sure check out oxtail, which is so annie-get-your-gun cute i could just scream. i’ll be buying his work soon. for now, there’s a few freebies laying around, and they’re not shabby at all. have a fiesta.

ohmigod, frank gehry: would you fucking stop already? you’re not a furniture designer. enough with the under-articulated work. these pieces simply look unresolved, like you didn’t know what to do with a human-scaled form. why do these obejcts not confront their user like your buildings do? augh!

see also: gehry made an oops.

okay, so jason salavon? who i previously said was being totally hot and talented? yeah, he emailed me the other day and said he’s made new work. so i check it out and it’s feelthy. i love it. sneak preview (called “form study #1”) here.

so this is kinda weird: john downer, who’s a fantastic typographer, apparently totally fucking hates steven heller and has for a long time. and whee: he loses his shit entirely. in public. no rebuttal (or whatever) from heller. i doubt we’ll get one, either. he’s fairly calm. boooooring.

so su and i have gone and done it again, this time for john waters. sit with little remy, our obnoxious little brother from new yorkish, won’t you?

you know, people, i have nothing against copious use of product in your coif. but could someone tell me what the fuck is going on with twenty-first century hair?

in order of ohmigod factor, smallest to highest:

standard fauxhawk, extra pink. not so shocking, just really, really outré. he was even wearing the standard issue “oh, this old thing i’ve had it since 1981” model of oxford shirt. i so know your game, child.

i wish this image had come out clearly. you’re missing the tiny pimpstache and gold hoop earrings. it’s the two different decades plus good ol’ middle school testosterone can-do i love about this one.

dude. cockatiel. you’re fucking awesome.

people. couple of things.

if you’re really tall and zoftig, it’s probably an insane idea to show up in public wearing an a-line black tent with a crinoline underneath and your hair in pigtails. it makes you look like a huge crazy baby jane. like i think you’re going to serve me a rat, you’re that scary.

also, if everything you wear has to be this whole big thing, like this mess (below) who’s in a rainbow brite-branded dress, oversized japanese platforms, legwarmers with hearts on the kneecaps, and a rainbow of pipe-cleaner extensions…have the decency not to look insecure when you walk through a huge crowd. ‘kay? you’re a target to begin with and now look where you are: on some mean queer’s website.

also, this is my friend salma. we do not fuck with salma because she’s like four feet tall and is the fiercest thing in stacks. and, hello, she promotes the best fucking abstract electro shows in the entire midwest. no lie.

and even better, she carries this bag! and she’s like four feet tall! is that not the hottest thing, and could you not scream and pinch her gorgeous little cheeks for this bag? could you not die? oh god.

who is this markotic kid, why am i in his links list and why is someone with a 29” waist even trying to relate to me?

most importantly, why is he misspelling my name?

were you one of those concerned citizens who wrote in “what the hell was pk doing when he took those big meanie pictures on saturday?” yeah? okay, fine: su and i were at the renegade crafts fair in wicker park (the actual park, not around the neighborhood, which is good because nobody wants to run into josh hartnett’s blank stare, like ever).

we added to our collection from the bird machine, stationery from i’m smitten, and leather jewelry from jill killjoy.

the fair kinda seems populated by the type of kids who might pay a lot of attention to vice magazine, which is where my crappy photography came in. a lot the art was disappointingly noncommittal—you know, kicky beaded things and restructured clothing that has this “urban outfitters, mass order me!” thing going on. it was very “consumers not shopping for a change.”

but every once in a while, there’s an artist whose concepts just smack me between the eyes. this year’s favorite was i’m smitten. their eerie, wistful animal and angel children are just magical, and very affordably priced. actually, to be honest, i thought they undercharged for the level of conceptual quality they were selling. go buy some of their pretties then concoct reasons to actually write a letter rather than emailing someone.

cliff evanson has passed away.

cliff is survived by his loving wife ann, three stepchildren, rick valicenti (linda), barbara valicenti (bill soltesz) and bill (noni) valicenti. and four grandchildren, lyndon, derrek, sonny and evan valicenti.

a few thoughts from my own experiences with cliff:

when cliff and i first met, i was fresh off the plane from tennessee and deeply lacking in any sort of tact. cliff, at the other end of his life, had just returned to chicago from the south. he was relaxing into his own version of retirement.

at the time, i was immature, insecure in my own skill as an artist, unskilled as a social creature, and almost unwilling to be a man.

cliff was, above all, gracious. even when i was a platinum blonde kid flying my freak flag high at age 24, cliff treated me with aplomb, generosity, and gave me a first peek at gentility which i’d never seen from anyone before. cliff was never anything less than warm. he never made a noise about any of my many quirks, as men tend to do. cliff did what a civilized gentleman would: he accepted, he welcomed, and he engaged.

cliff, you have all my respect for the life you lived and the exemplary family you helped raise. cheers to you.

you know, i think i’ve decided once and for all that being rock trash was a heck of a lot more fun before there was hot topic.

years ago, if you wore a torn black t-shirt with a revolting cocks logo on it, it meant you went to the show, bought or stole the shirt, put it on, got trashed, ended up in a deserted railroad yard blowing some guy who turned out to be not quite as single as initially portrayed which you found out upon being dragged headfirst up a flight of stairs by his alleged boyfriend. on the way up, you probably caught your shirt on a nail, which explained all the goddamned blood, then got your punk ass thrown on the dancefloor in front of all your friends, where you finally had the sense to get angry and kick the shit out of someone—anything within a ten foot radius, really—probably the wrong person, but when luc van acker was banging on something called an anti-tank guitar onstage it kinda set the stage for some indescriminate hatin’, you know what i mean?

nowadays if you wear a torn black t-shirt with a revolting cocks logo on it, all it means is that you bought a torn revolting cocks t-shirt at the mall with the fifteen bucks your mom gave you. you pussy.

when i was younger, i was a moe tolerant pk. i didn’t believe in outing peple at all. i believed that a closet was a private, persnal space.

now that i’m older and less tolerant of emotional baggage, closeted individuals over 30 (and that’s decidedly pushing the limits of my patience) draw bucketfuls of ire. especially folks like this lying, hypocritical jackass.

people, grow up.

while i’m very proud to be the designer behind the hot blogger (that would be the one in the lacy underthing) in the cover story of this week’s new york times magazine, i gotta tell you:

1) we’re redesigning. soon. sorry.
2) miss ana marie cox looks so fucking hot in that picture that nobody at gawker recognized her and had to be told to blog it. seriously.