The Disease of Designers

The coastal cities — New York, Boston, San Francisco, LA, Seattle — have birthed a most wretched spawn, an insidious, deranged, and grotesque thing: the so-called "creative" job.

For those of you who don't know to what I refer — and if you don't, count yourself as lucky and head now for the hills — go! run! faster! — the creative is the person who makes corporations look and sound pretty. These are the people who, for money, film the ads, design the logos and websites and brochures and signs, those who write the taglines and the dialog and name shit all sorts of wacky things. In the industry — the marketing industry, that is — these are referred to as "creatives" to distinguish them from business wonks and computer engineers.

But do not be fooled by the name: there is nothing, and I mean nothing, creative about it. People who write taglines and web copy actually call themselves writers. Writers! How did they come to take possession of that mighty word? Writers, for fuck's sake, as if they were Melville or Nabokov or Borges. Those, dearies, are writers. Coming up with "Better service for your needs" is, distinctly, not fucking writing.

These people relish what they call an interesting project. That's what they'll say: "I'm working on an interesting project." "And what, prey tell, is said interesting project?" I'll ask. "Oh, we're designing a brand book for the new Nike Air Jordan." To which I have been known to respond — and which has resulted in my exile, "That's interesting? Seriously? You want interesting, read Kant's 3rd Critique. Now that's fucking interesting."

Splat.

These creatives are a class unto themselves. They dress well — not in suits, mind you, but in jeans so cool you've never heard of them; in Paul Smith glasses (they all have glasses because they sit hunched over their computers for daze on end) and Prada shoes. They drive VWs, mostly, although today they may drive a Prius. Why? Because they are all what we call liberals — they make knowing jokes about "W"; they all commiserate over the passing of this or that state proposition; they all had Obama inauguration parties — and cried. In earnest!

But not only are they the most conspicuous consumers of all sorts of shit — iPhones and iPods and gadgets and gear and cars and vacations and shit and shit and shit — but they make consumption more palatable. That is their fucking jobs — to make people not only want to buy more and more shit but to let people justify to themselves the buying of more and more shit.

It is all so fucking obvious. But these nimwits have the ultimate disease of the weak: self-righteousness. They assume what they do is so cool, so hip, and so right — yes, they claim the ethical high ground as all liberals do. It's maddening: the people who sweat their days away pushing product for the Man are sanctimonious in their morality! They imagine themselves doing good because they recycle the wrapping of all the shit they buy. It's enough to drive a man insane.

I have, on occasion, tried to point this out to these self-appointed creatives. This has proven a poor economic strategy on my part as, well, now no one will hire me.

Because, yes, I too am a creative. But I don't call myself that. I call myself what I am: a whore and a pusher. At least I used to be. Now I'm just poor and hungry.