July 1st, 2016
|12:38 am - Sir, in your father's day there was always a stain on the carpet|
WHAT IN THE HEY, CBBC REBOOTED DANGER MOUSE AND COUNT DUCKULA IS A RECURRING VILLAIN, DID YOU PEOPLE KNOW ABOUT THIS, HAVE YOU BEEN HOLDING OUT ON ME
ALSO EVIDENTLY HE WEARS PANTS NOW, THIS WILL TAKE SOME GETTING USED TO:
That painting behind him is of the version of Duckula that appeared in his own show in the eighties and early nineties, only with fangs. You'll note that the Count has finally color-coordinated his wardrobe, which I appreciate -- I'll admit it always bothered me just a little that he combined a red bow tie with a purple-lined cloak. He seems to now be rocking a medallion of some kind, Bela Lugosi style, too. In general, however, the two character designs are remarkably similar. Even the pose is reminiscent of Count Duckula Count Duckula:
I'm guessing this new Danger Mouse won't resurrect Igor or Nanny, which is probably just as well because who could match the teddibly, teddibly English received pronunciation of the late Jack May -- but I can't say for sure because CBBC WON'T LET ME ACCESS ITS MEDIA FROM THE STATES. GO AHEAD AND LEAVE THE EU, LIKE I EVEN CARE, BUT DO YOU HAVE TO TAKE DUCKULA WITH YOU? HAVE YOU NO DECENCY, BRITAIN, AT LONG LAST
June 27th, 2016
|12:53 pm - Brekekexit koax koax|
My birthday's on Wednesday! Long ago the sun stood still and I was born.
Have I mentioned in the last five minutes that I like Gilbert and Sullivan? I do. And I'm happy to say that although the analogy isn't perfect, they do have a song about how only ignorance will restore Britain's greatness:
When Wellington thrashed Bonaparte,
As every child can tell,
The House of Lords, throughout the war,
Did nothing in particular,
And did it very well!
Sullivan sometimes gets overshadowed by Gilbert, I think, but he was a brilliant composer -- who thought he was pissing away his talent on comic opera -- and here he gives us such a rousing patriotic tune that it makes me proud to be British even though I'm not. Even though there was a war a couple hundred years ago over this very issue, and that's why we have Independence Day next week. In fact the concept of Independence Day exists because so many countries were happy to get out of Britain's clutches, which makes Brexit supporters' use of the term pretty funny. That is so 240 years ago, guys.
June 13th, 2016
|07:26 pm - Inferior Court of California|
I should maybe have emphasized that this is not Judge Persky's home address; I wouldn't write there, even if I knew what it was. This is the address of the courthouse where he works, publicly available at the website of the Superior Court of California, County of Santa Clara. Isn't it sad, though, that it made me nervous to mail that postcard, as if I'd somehow get into trouble for voicing my opinion to a public figure? This is what living under surveillance does to people.
The postcard I used, incidentally, is one of a set I bought in Israel twenty years ago. Back then every tourist spot was full of little boys selling thirty postcards for a shekel. They would walk along the street calling out, "Shekel shekel shekel!" the way people selling double-A batteries on the subway in New York walk from car to car calling out, "One dolla one dolla one dolla!" So Persky, or some unpaid intern, will be treated to a pretty view of Jerusalem on the other side of this missive. Dome of the Rock included, which is more than Aaron Persky deserves, frankly.
June 9th, 2016
|12:46 am - Tender is the night, exchanging glances|
I just read Tender Is the Night and This Side of Paradise in rapid succession, and think I can now safely say that I don't get F. Scott Fitzgerald. Like, do you have to have lived through the Great War to understand where he's coming from? Because I get that sense from This Side of Paradise, which was his first book, but I'm getting ahead of myself, because first I read the other one even though it was written later. There's this kind of incest theme that runs all the way through Tender Is the Night, which I'll discuss further under the cut:
( Spoilers!Collapse )
So then I read This Side of Paradise, hoping it would bring things into focus, and in a way it did, because that's when I realized what makes me uncomfortable about Fitzgerald, and it's not the incest. It's that he writes like someone with narcissistic personality disorder trying to convince me that he's capable of deep feeling. A summary:
Eyeteeth: So the protagonist falls in love with this girl. Why?
Fitzgerald: She's pretty. Like, really pretty. You can tell how pretty she is because she strings guys along and is mean to other girls. She's actually kind of evil. But pretty.
Eyeteeth: Anything else?
Fitzgerald: Well, she's rich. And she adores him, obvs.
Fitzgerald: Why what?
Eyeteeth: Why does she adore him? What's he got going on?
Fitzgerald: He's really handsome! God, do I have to draw you a map? THEY'RE BOTH PRETTY. THEY'VE BOTH BEEN EDUCATED TO BE USELESS TO SOCIETY. THEY'RE IN THE SAME ROOM. THEY FALL IN LOVE.
Eyeteeth: OK, we'll come back to that. Tell me more about how the protagonist lectures someone about socialism like some kind of Bizarro-world Ayn Rand character even though he hates poor people by his own admission despite being poor himself and has never had a job.
--This is why I ask if you had to live through World War I to understand Fitzgerald. Because he says, "This man is in love with this woman, and she is in love with him," but I get no indication from the characters of anything that looks to me like love. Is this emotional disconnect something that would make sense to me if I felt I had "grown up to find all Gods dead, all wars fought, all faiths in man shaken"; rather, would it make sense to me if I lived in a time naïve enough to believe that it had seen the worst humanity had to offer? That it had hit rock bottom? Because Dick Diver and Amory Blaine and Jay Gatsby didn't know shit about rock bottom, they didn't know that while they were obsessing over their own wasted potential that the Nazis were already accumulating power. As far as I can tell, what they do know is that it hurts when pretty girls don't like you back, and didn't we know that before all the gods died?
So seriously, what am I not getting here? It bugs the shit out of me when a writer is famous and I can't figure him out. This is like Doris Lessing all over again, man.
June 1st, 2016
|12:03 pm - Kaiju double-header (both heads have a TNR tip)|
It's taken me a long time to post these comics, but I was busy editing one of those fantasy novels where teenagers fix everything. It was pretty good, actually, and fantasy is not usually my genre. I'm glad no one needed me to fix everything when I was a teenager. "Eyeteeth, take this bow and quiver, we need you to lead the rebellion -- but could you take a shower first?"
That's the first time I remember ever dreaming about stix. I rarely dream about my writing, either, which seems odd to me, as I think about it all the time. Mostly I dream that I'm trying to navigate confusing architecture, or out in public topless.
A lot of authors -- and not just bad ones -- seem to have trouble with vocative commas, which annoys me, because they're very simple and anyone who has read enough books to write a book should use them instinctively. I should see a sentence like "Come over here Steve" only in the works of outsider novelists. But I don't! This is the kind of thing I'm defending against with my bow and quiver. Think of me as two nineteen-year-olds if that makes it easier.
May 18th, 2016
|11:19 pm - I'll put on the creepy mask|
This is something I've been thinking about since college. See, I was a freshman in 1995, and a lot of the people in my class had never had an e-mail address before. I had, but only because I went to a weird high school that assigned them to us. Anyway, thousands of people were suddenly let loose with e-mail addresses and no idea what to do with them, so suddenly I got a lot of chain e-mails. Remember chain e-mails? They used to be a thing. MICROSOFT WILL GIVE YOU FIVE DOLLARS FOR EVERY PERSON YOU FORWARD THIS TO and so on. And something I noticed was that a lot of these chain e-mails would begin with your friend saying, "I never do this, but..." And that got me to thinking about how people can do a thing and still give themselves credit for never doing a thing. And later in life I learned that this was true of people who think abortion should be outlawed -- they will get abortions and then go right out and tell people never to do what they just did, because it's wrong. I realize that the name for this is hypocrisy, but what I don't understand is how it works -- how someone can do something and still truly, honestly believe he or she is not the kind of person who does that thing. And that's something that's been bothering me ever since. I'm sending you this chain e-mail, but I never send chain e-mails. I got an abortion, but I'd never get an abortion. A friend who works for Planned Parenthood told me this joke: "Abortion is acceptable in only three cases: rape, incest, and me."
The Internet, of course, ramps everything up, including hypocrisy, so that you have people acting horrible and then getting really offended at being called horrible. Well, that's always been the case, but the Internet facilitates it.
I felt ambiguous about this after assembling it. See, I truly am less fixated on my romantic nonexistence than I used to be. But I also do have these fantasies where a man hears me nerding out about whatever and swoons into my arms. And it is a sad story about Charles Whitman. He started having these fantasies that were a lot worse than my fantasies, about climbing up into the clock tower and shooting people, and he didn't know why. He consulted a psychiatrist about it, though obviously that didn't help much. When he finally did go up into the clock tower and shoot people, he first wrote a note requesting that he be autopsied to see if there was anything in his brain causing these horrible thoughts. And sure enough there was. You don't want a glioblastoma on your amygdala, though it is fun to say. So if you start having intrusive thoughts about murdering people, please insist on a CAT scan before you act on them, OK? And then don't act on them. Things are hard enough for everyone already.
May 2nd, 2016
|01:20 pm - "Freitod" is a fun word I learned from Batty|
You may remember Geli Raubal as "that chick the Internet says used to pee on Hitler's face" because that indeed is one of the allegations that have been made about his conduct regarding Geli, that he was into gross sex with her. No one can say for sure whether he had sex of any kind with her, but it probably wouldn't have seemed that outré to him to do so, because his parents were possibly also uncle and niece and whether they were or not his mother called his father "Uncle" even after they were married. We really know frustratingly little about a relationship that may have been the most significant of Hitler's life. We don't even know if she really killed herself. It's quite possible Hitler killed her or had her killed: she died in his luxurious Munich apartment, shot in the lung with his Walther pistol. The whole thing was quite scandalous and might have derailed his political career -- might have changed the whole course of modern history.
And I feel sorry for her. Even though it seems she was fond of "Uncle Alfie" -- and why not, since he took her all kinds of fancy places and paid for her singing lessons and fawned over her, and he was a big important guy, the chancellor of Germany, and she was a teenager whose father died when she was two and whose mother worked as a housecleaner? Even if I should learn later that she was as obsessively anti-Semitic as he was, I think I'll still feel sorry for her. Because no one should be the target of an older relative's possessive romantic interest, and that goes times a million WHEN HE'S HITLER.
Incidentally, I learned while researching this stix that I can't see Hitler in photographs the way I see other people, because THAT'S HITLER AAAAA and my brain's yelling too loud to accept the information my eyes are giving it. That leads to a weird disconnect in which every picture of Hitler looks fake to me. (Compounding the problem is that most pictures you see of Hitler are fake: they're drawings, or someone playing him in a movie, or something.) Consider this picture of him and Geli. Come on, that's fake. You put a fake mustache on some guy. No, that's really for-real Adolf Hitler, and that's really Geli gazing on him with evident fondness. There are other good pictures on this page (though I don't know if the information it gives is accurate), and I react to all of them the same way: my brain yells THAT'S HITLER AAAAA and my eyes stop working.
But the important thing is that I ate a cookie yesterday and it was so leavened, you guys. Remember what I said last time about how I was going to eat something leavened? And stop thinking about Nazis? Yeah. Let's do that second thing now.
April 30th, 2016
|10:26 pm - Let my stix go|
During Passover I was editing a big nonfiction book about Nazis, which made me uncomfortable, because of the Nazis. I had to hold back my feelings with one hand while with the other I looked up stuff like how to spell "Amon Göth" and whether one should capitalize the m in "Ponary Massacre," and this type of compartmentalization is hard on the human psyche, especially when the human psyche starts asking itself whether suppressing one's feelings in order to do one's job might be the tiniest bit like the experience of actually being a Nazi. But I'm done with that book, fortunately, and now I'm obsessing over Hitler's niece Geli Raubal instead. I think I will try to draw her. Not him, though. I've drawn Günter the Vampire Nazi and I've drawn Rudolf Hess, but I don't have any inclination to draw a stix Hitler. Though the idea of a stix with an armband does have comic potential. Anyway, after that maybe I can stop thinking about Nazis and their extended families for a little while. And eat a nice chametz-y doughnut or something.
April 21st, 2016
|10:10 am - Die Sendung mit der Kafka|
In 1922 the Viennese writer and translator Franz Blei published a little book called Das große Bestiarium der modernen Literatur in which he described prominent members of the German-language literary scene, many of which were his personal friends, as animals. Kafka's entry is brief: "The Kafka is a magnificent and very rarely seen moon-blue mouse, which eats no flesh, but feeds on bitter herbs. It is a bewitching sight, for it has human eyes." I think that's lovely, and it's easy to imagine Kafka as a mouse with human eyes, isn't it? The thing about the bitter herbs is a nice threefold joke, as Kafka was of course a morbidly anxious Jewish vegetarian.
Herewith is the sixth Seder Cat, isn't that something? Show it to the morbidly anxious Jewish vegetarian in your life, I bet you know one.
April 16th, 2016
|10:47 pm - An unnerving silver-gilt combination epergne and candelabrum|
This one was influenced by two disparate sources, Alison Bechdel's Dykes to Watch Out For and Edward Gorey's The Unstrung Harp. The former once featured a strip in which most of the tchotchkes for sale at the feminist bookstore have a Venus of Willendorf theme (Venus of Willendorf coffee mugs, Venus of Willendorf boxer shorts) as well as a strip in which one of the dykes threatens to put superglue in another's "personal lubricant dispenser," a phrase that evidently stuck in my head. And the novelist Mr. Earbrass in Gorey's book receives a gift from an admirer of "an unnerving silver-gilt combination epergne and candelabrum." I had to look up epergne, but that phrase also stuck in my head. The whole passage that contains it is wonderful: "Mr. Earbrass returned from a walk to find a large carton blocking the hall. Masses of brown paper and then tissue have reluctantly given up an unnerving silver-gilt combination epergne and candelabrum. Mr. Earbrass recollects a letter from a hitherto unknown admirer of his work, received the week before; it hinted at the early arrival of an offering that embodied, in a different but kindred form, the same high-souled aspiration that animated its recipient's books. Mr. Earbrass can only conclude that the apathy of the lower figures is due to their having been deprived of novels."
April 5th, 2016
|07:17 pm - This song was originally about a serial killer|
I have a cold sore! But I’m happy to say that no cold sore stands a chance against my three-pronged attack. One, valacyclovir aka Valtrex, a one-a-day horse pill; two, a topical unguent containing lysine, which I discovered in college seems to be super effective, preventing cold sores from even erupting when slathered on early and often; and three, just for good measure, lysine pills. I don't know if those do anything, but they don't hurt, and I like taking pills because it gives me a feeling of control. I have never understood people who say they "don't like taking pills" for headaches or whatever. Why not? They work a lot of the time, and then you don't have a headache or whatever! To my mind that's like saying, "I'm hungry, but I try to avoid eating food unless I'm really famished."
But anyway, that's last week's stix. I don't know if anyone else finds it entertaining, but I am always vastly entertained by my belligerent-American-patriot routine. And using it at authors is particularly satisfying because authors get on my nerves. They get their own characters' names and eye colors wrong, they can never employ the subjunctive correctly, they don't know which punctuation goes inside the quotes and which goes outside, they get weird crushes on particular words and phrases and use them every five pages. At the very least they need a stern talking-to.
This week's stix! I think it's similar to, though not as funny as, this one. Tell me what you think! While I finish editing an 879-page high fantasy novel.
March 22nd, 2016
|08:52 pm - Feral grown-ups|
In a class I took in college, called Human and Animal Relationships, I learned that if a puppy or kitten does not have positive human interaction within the first few weeks of its life, it will never learn to like or trust humans as a species. (Unsurprisingly, the socialization window for dogs is much larger than the socialization window for cats.) After that the animal can learn to trust individual humans, but not the idea of humans. This is an interesting idea, but I mention it here because that's exactly how I feel about children. I can like a child, but I do not like children as a species. You just have to clip my left ear and release me into the childfree colony, because I could never be a good mother. I can, however, be a good aunt, and perhaps it's for precisely the same reasons; if I were more like my sister, a very nice person who likes children, I might not be able to sell the idea that I'd be willing to eat my niece. I might also have been distressed when my nephew presented me with a corn-husk doll he'd made in school, which he'd tied by its neck to another corn husk. I was pleased, though, not just because he'd made it, but because he knows me well enough to realize I'd like it. "It's you!" he informed me, cheerfully. "No, just kidding."
I'm glad, incidentally, that no one at his school chose to interpret the fact that he'd created a corn-husk gallows as evidence that Aglet is emotionally disturbed. A high school math teacher of mine decided on zero evidence that I was suicidal, which I have never been, and sent me to the school psychiatrist, and that was before Columbine. Maybe it would have been a different story if he'd equipped his corn-husk doll with a gun, though I gather this project was part of a history lesson about American settlers and they had guns, after all. Still, all my high school math teacher saw was that I'd written the word death in my notebook, and that wasn't even me being emo, that was me quoting the part of Catch-22 where Yossarian is making up his own rules for censoring his fellow soldiers' letters. "Death to all modifiers" was what I had written, because I was a fourteen-year-old grammarian and found the idea of being so passionate about a part of speech simultaneously funny and understandable. I didn't know at the time that I would grow up to be a copy editor and get paid for, among other things, killing modifiers (though if you'd told me so at the time I wouldn't have been surprised); I knew only that my dumb math teacher, who was also a rather hateful person generally, and for whom I felt an irritating combination of pity and dislike, had been dumb enough to think I was "obsessed with death" (I believe this was her actual phrase) based on the occurrence of a single word in my notebook. I regret that I can't remember her name or I'd try to figure out what became of her, the weirdo.
I'm reading Alice Miller at the moment, but even before that I knew that children -- who most of the time appear to be paying no attention to anything you do or say -- are very sensitive to the personalities of the adults around them. (I've been in therapy for fifteen years, after all, and that's the kind of thing you talk about in therapy.) I don't doubt that my niece and nephew recognize that I am fundamentally different from almost all the adults they interact with, in that I'm not a kid person. It's possible that they find this refreshingly novel. Occasionally Aglet will mention it, as in, "Do you think you'll ever get married or have kids? Probably not, right?" In response to that specific question I told him that I have no desire for children of my own but that I would like to get married. He expressed skepticism that this would occur. I'm like forty or a hundred or something like that, you're stuck being single if you're not married by whatever absurd theoretical age I've attained. Or maybe I'm not giving him enough credit, maybe he's taking into account the fact that I have not had a partner of any kind in his lifetime and has therefore, not unreasonably, I suppose, pegged me specifically as not the marrying kind. After all, in his experience adults mostly come in pairs (parents) or small groups (teachers). To him and his sister I'm perhaps this weird other thing. But if they do indeed think of me that way, they're hardly the first.
March 14th, 2016
|09:27 am - Loves me like a rock|
Now, of course "tallest person ever" is shorthand; what is generally meant by that phrase is "tallest person ever for whom there is indisputable evidence." It's certainly possible that someone in human history, someone more distant from us than Mr. Wadlow, who was born in 1918, when science existed and things could be described as indisputable in a way that we accept as indisputable in 2016, got to be taller than 8'11.1". Certainly many people have claimed, or have been claimed, to be taller than that. Sideshow performers were regularly billed as much taller than they actually were, like ten feet tall, which sounds ludicrous until you look at a family picture of the Wadlows:
(Click through for lots more pictures and info about Robert Wadlow.)
My mind is inclined to reject that image even though it's just a photograph. If I were to see Robert in person, without the nongiant people around him for scale, you could slap any number on him and I'd be inclined to believe it. He's eight feet tall, he's ten feet tall, he's twelve feet tall -- whatever height he is, it's too great for my mind to accept from way down here, so sure, why not?
Robert Wadlow was seven feet tall when he was my nephew's age and his parents got lots of offers to exhibit him as a freak, which they turned down. Robert didn't like the idea either, and when during the Great Depression he finally agreed to appear in the Barnum and Bailey Circus, he did so only on the conditions that he'd appear in the center ring, not the sideshow, wearing an ordinary suit (to the extent, of course, that any of his suits were ordinary). His long-term plan was to go to law school. When he died, at only twenty-two, his parents had his ten-foot steel coffin sealed under concrete so no one could dig up his body in order to exhibit his skeleton. (The second-tallest person ever, John Rogan, was also buried under concrete. Their families may have been thinking of poor Charles Byrne, an eighteenth-century Irish giant reportedly so obsessed with the idea that doctors would hack open his corpse that he ordered himself buried at sea in a lead-lined coffin -- but all to no avail, as a doctor bought the corpse and boiled it to get at the skeleton, which I believe is still on display at the Royal College of Surgeons, despite some public pressure to belatedly respect Byrne's wishes.) I don't think physically unusual people who choose to exhibit themselves for money are in any way inferior to those who don't, but I like that Robert's parents enforced his wishes not to be a sideshow attraction when he was no longer able to. Love can take many forms, and sometimes love is a really thick layer of concrete.
March 12th, 2016
|01:56 pm - No, I haven't forgotten about you|
I was in California to see my nephew in his school musical! He had the lead and was very good, which I told him, and also very handsome, which I did not tell him. Before that, I was working very hard:
This is something I really do recommend, as the entire Unreal Tournament soundtrack is good for working to, especially my favorite track, "Foregone Destruction" (from the Facing Worlds level in outer space). I liked the game itself, too -- I've never been very into video games, but I found running around a maze nailing people with projectile razors very enjoyable. And the music does make anything you're doing seem very dramatic, especially if, like me in that comic, you're reading about US foreign policy in Asia and you've gotten up to one of the parts about North Korea.
I finished that book in the air on the way to California, but then there was the book about bonefishing in the Bahamas, which I had to edit between performances of Aglet's musical and games of Chutes and Ladders that I was roused from slumber at seven in the morning to play with him and six-year-old Luna, and articles my client at the UN was firing at me like projectile razors and demanding back within hours. This left me limited time to craft the next comic:
In summary, my nephew is beautiful and talented but needs to work on saying, "Deez nuts" like 98 percent less.
February 22nd, 2016
|01:43 pm - Stix infernal|
One of the ways that my two cats are like a classic comedy duo is that Nineveh is almost totally silent whereas Kaiju regularly wanders the apartment wailing like a woman for her demon lover. At first this distressed me, because it seemed he was in distress, but now that we've lived together for a while I've learned to regard his yowling as a kind of very noticeable verbal tic with (in most instances) no innate significance. It wasn't until I was reminded of this quote from Shakespeare that it occurred to me he might be practicing witchcraft, or trying to. Only his top half is brinded, which may be the witchcraft equivalent of having a Jewish father and a gentile mother and not being taken seriously by anyone, even demons. Like Buer, the other handsome fellow in panel three, as depicted in the 1863 Dictionnaire Infernal by Louis le Breton, a French artist who mostly drew boats and sensible things like that. Buer can teach you botany and logic, if you manage to summon him, and while I'm sure he'd scare the daylights out of me if I ever saw him in person, I think most of you would agree that Breton's depiction is a little goofy. Do you suppose he moves around by rolling like a wheel? That would make an awful noise on my hardwood floors.
I am, as I've mentioned before, fascinated by mysticism and pseudoscience and the sovereign citizen movement and all that stuff that involves elaborate systems of rules based on no facts whatever. There's something so pure and compelling to me about imagination arranged in the shape of reality. Demonology is great for this, with the bonus of totally rad illustrations like Breton's. His demons mostly look as if they'd rather be somewhere else, which seems fitting to me, for demons. Like Stolas here, who's trying to remember if he left the oven on:
Nineveh, of course, is half of a black cat, being a tuxedo. Maybe together she and Kaiju could summon something.
February 15th, 2016
|12:49 pm - Nougat center!|
The most fantastical thing about this comic is that I mention the term shortstop to Batty without defining it. I 100 percent guarantee that Batty does not know what a shortstop is.
February 8th, 2016
|06:03 pm - Bellyfeel|
From the people who brought you The Round Persuasion and who are actually just one person, I. The first one is the one that gets me most. People who are not fat seem to have this bizarre notion that we just haven't noticed, that if we knew we were fat we would have made it stop by now. Like when you see someone with the tag still on his pants. Hey, there's a tag on your pants! And then he takes it off and acts embarrassed and we all go about our business. That must be what people who are not fat think will happen when they point out to us that we're fat, that we will act embarrassed and somehow cause our bodies to become inoffensive ON THE SPOT. Because otherwise DON'T WE KNOW THAT WE'LL DIE. IN THE NEXT FIVE MINUTES. I HAD AN AUNT ONCE WHO BECAME FAT AND FIVE MINUTES LATER SHE DIED. I'm told that people often do something similar, jocularly, when they see someone riding a unicycle: they tell you that half your bike is missing. I can't object to that because it is kind of funny. A popular way of dealing with this, evidently, to the extent that anything unicyclists do can be called popular, is to look down and act surprised. Jesus, who took the other wheel? I recommend that we of the round persuasion do the same. Jesus, who put this eighty pounds on my ass? How long has that been there? Wow, thanks for giving me that heads up!
February 1st, 2016
|09:35 am - wotthehell wotthehell|
I have seen men complain that women on dating sites often say they are looking for a "partner in crime." I can understand how seeing the same phrase over and over can become wearisome. Men (and maybe women too) on dating sites often claim they are living life to the fullest. I have no idea what that means. But I try not to be too judgmental about this kind of thing because communicating with other human beings is difficult. It's not like communicating with Kaiju when I'm lying on my bed with my computer in front of me, because he spreads himself over my forearms at such times, between my face and the keyboard, and then it is very easy to communicate with him via scritching his belly or merely inclining my face downward so that it rests directly on his flank. He communicates meanwhile by purring lustily and doing that toe-flex thing that is a vestige of kneading behavior and means he is SO HAPPY OH MY GOD.
Speaking of dating and people being impossible, yesterday's mention of Kafka's belief that he was ugly and that girls probably wouldn't want to do him for free made me think of archy and mehitabel, specifically the passage in which the cockroach archy recalls what he looked like in his previous incarnation as a human vers libre poet (it was the crime of being a vers libre poet that caused him to be reborn as a cockroach):
some vers libre poets are beautiful
but i was not
i had a little blond mustache
that every one thought was a mistake
and yet since i have died
i have thought of that
it hung over a mouth
that i found it difficult to keep closed
because of adenoidal trouble
but it would have been better
if i could have kept it closed
because the teeth within
were out of alignment
and were odd sizes
this destroyed my acoustics
as you might say
my chin was nothing much
and knew it
and timidly shrank
receding from the battle of life
my eyes were all right
but my eyebrows
were scarcely noticeable
i suppose though that if
i had had noticeable eyebrows
they would have been wrong
Don Marquis, archy's author, started writing about him in 1916, the year after Kafka published The Metamorphosis, but the first English translation of the story wasn't published until the thirties, and it seems unlikely that Marquis was influenced by it. I think he and Kafka just both saw the inherent poetic potential of the cockroach.
January 31st, 2016
|01:51 pm - It was all an excuse to draw a dung beetle in a bowler hat|
Kafka's relationship with his parents will never not be hilarious to me. Dude was maybe the single most influential writer of the twentieth century, but he felt physically ill when he saw his parents' rumpled bedclothes because they reminded him that his parents had sex sometimes. No wonder this guy couldn't get it together to get married. Perhaps surprisingly, Franz liked to have sex himself, but he did it decently, at brothels. Not at all surprisingly, he liked brothels because he figured he was hideous. Judge for yourself:
Lookit these two great big nerds! Kafka was a leggy cuss, wasn't he? Personally I don't think he was hideous, but I go for the skinny, pasty Ashkenazi type. (It's true that his ears stuck out like jug handles, but that's a minor issue.) And if you had to construct a mental image of the Famous Anxious Writer's Literary Executor, you might come up with something very like Max Brod there, mightn't you? Sitting up straighter than Kafka, smiling more easily than Kafka, more robust and definitely hairier than Kafka, his shins and collarbones contained respectably within his flesh rather than straining at his skin as his best pal's are. Which of these two great big nerds will live long enough to have to get the hell out of Nazi-dominated Europe, and, having done so, die an old man? There's no question. That's the moustache of a survivor.
January 18th, 2016
|10:11 am - No chickens were harmed in the making of these stix|
To prove that I still like you, even though I sometimes let these double up, here's an exclusive something or other, a piece of writing that is, an experiment in letting Emma narrate. You remember Emma, maybe? She's Maisie's mother who lives in the attic.
( Well, how would a lobotomized person narrate?Collapse )
You know, speaking of people who do awful things to other people, and let's please do, I want to talk about Gilles de Rais aka "That fifteenth-century French nobleman who used to sexually assault children and then murder them for lols" and YES I know his name off the top of my head. Rather, let's not talk about him, let's talk about those people who answer the OkCupid question "Do you want your partner to be kinkier than you?" with "Not possible." First of all, once again, thank you, sexual revolution, for allowing me to be born into a world in which the pursuit of sexual novelty is a highly publicized competition and liking the part of sex that consists of actually having sex makes me "vanilla." But more to the point, if it's really not possible for someone to be kinkier than you, I am definitely not dating you and it's not because I'm vanilla but because you should be in prison. This is where Gilles de Rais figures in. He might have had trouble finding a date kinkier than himself. I'm going to take a wild leap here, however, and assume that you, OkCupid guy, just think it would be cool to do two chicks at once.
Now, these aren't chicks, they're hens. It's a hen party!
Don't worry, though, I'm pretty sure that even in my dream nothing bad was actually happening to a chicken. Proper English usage is very important to me, as you know, but I would put it aside in an instant to help out a chicken in distress.
January 7th, 2016
|02:48 pm - C-beams glittering in the dark|
Surely this deserves to be celebrated in some way. How come people aren't getting as het up about it as about the Back to the Future II date?
December 31st, 2015
|09:49 pm - Happy New Year, Small Peculiarteers!|
Don't you? Watch for them tonight!
December 25th, 2015
|12:27 am - Hat trick!|
Merry Christmas (which isn't Chanukkah)!
December 16th, 2015
|05:04 pm - Flawless victory (for the Second Temple, after being defiled by the sacrifice of pigs)|
Two Chanukkah chomikks! I defy Google Chrome's red dashed line, that's how my family has always spelled Chanukkah and you can't make me adopt a more widely used spelling! Besides, Merriam-Webster lists it as an acceptable variant, and everyone knows the Jews control publishing, so Merriam-Webster probably knows what it's talking about here.
Of course you, my loyal readers, know that I already have a menorah, because I drew it last year. It was made in Israel, which probably means it was a gift from my aunt Lois who lived there, and is fairly utilitarian, ornamented only with a depiction of the six-branched Second Temple menorah that started it all. This menorah-in-menorah thing, like a picture-in-picture feature on a TV, intrigued me as a child, when all the Teeths (including my gentile mother) used to gather around the menorah (or chanukkiya if you want to be especially pedantic) and bet on which candle would last the longest. This isn't an official activity, but I don't think it's forbidden either, and anyway gambling is condoned on Chanukkah and betting on candles is way better than playing dreidel. For one thing it gets more challenging as the holiday goes on: after the third night it became possible that none of us would win. I guess that means the menorah won, and isn't that the point of Chanukkah?
November 30th, 2015
|05:54 pm - "He's a small big" is how Kaiju was initially described to me|
No, I didn't forget about you. It's just that I had family all over me last week. This wasn't a bad thing as far as I was concerned, but the boy cat, Kaiju, was made apprehensive by the presence of human children. It occurred to me that he might never have interacted with or even seen a human child before -- they probably didn't have many in the feral cat colony -- and he seemed torn between his natural friendliness and a fear of these small, loud replicas of human beings that I think was also natural and very understandable. So he would approach a child with his tail held high (a sign of confidence and good cheer, as I explained to my nephew) and shove his face in the child's direction, only to back away when his overture provoked a friendly response.
My niece was particularly taken with my cats, and was fascinated by my application of medicated transdermal gel to the ears of the girl cat, Nineveh. I don't know why this medication must be applied to the bare skin, but so it is, and the only convenient skin on a cat is inside her ears. Nin isn't crazy about being medicated in this way, but for the most part accepts it with the same stoicism with which she accepted the sudden presence of children.
Anyway, this got me thinking about cat ears, a rich subject of contemplation:
The ear gel is but one of three medications prescribed to Nineveh by a fancy-pants cat dermatologist I had to wait two months to take her to see for her persistent itchiness. He grasped her firmly, pushed her fur this way and that, and pronounced that she had miliary dermatitis, currently of unknown etiology but still treatable with ear gel, tuna-flavored interferon, and antipruritic tablets. After three weeks of sneaking up on her with medicated lotion on one knuckle, I think she is still overgrooming, and she is still scratching under her chin, but I think she may be doing these things less. Of course, it's also possible I'm lying to myself. But it seems the thin patches of fur on her sides are getting less thin, fuzzing with new growth.
As for ear anatomy, Nineveh has modest lynx tipping, and Kaiju has none, even on his whole ear. His left ear is clipped, a memento of the feral colony, and for whatever reason his is no dainty tip but a jagged seam indicating the removal of a good centimeter of ear. Perhaps the person wielding the scissors was tired from a long day of fixing ferals, or perhaps she just wanted to make sure his TNR status was plainly visible. What such a genial marshmallow was doing in a feral colony is likewise a mystery; he was obviously treated kindly by humans as a young cat, and learned to trust them -- at least the adult ones -- but shit happens.