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November, 2005
Apartment 3-G, 11/30/05
Yeah, why is she so down? Maybe it’s because she’s headed out to work, churning out awful press releases, pimping no-talent actors and playwrights, glossing over the crimes of evil multinational corporations — you know, the sort of things that keep New York, the greatest city in the world, humming, and all for a salary that isn’t going to keep a girl in Kate Spade and Jimmy Choo like she deserves. Meanwhile, the two of you, who have selfishly chosen high-paying, zero-stress jobs in the nursing and elementary-school-art fields, get to enjoy a leisurely breakfast over the paper, relaxing in your deeply dowdy but no doubt warm and comfortable robes.
Honestly, it’s like being white, unscrupulous, and upwardly mobile doesn’t mean anything anymore.
I thought that the chatter in the comments this morning had prepared me for the harrowing sight of Mark Trail’s muscular but nippleless torso. I was wrong. Hoo boy was I wrong. No one had mentioned that there was something deeply freaky about his face as well. Is that a shadow cast by his sunken, heroin-addict-style cheekbones, or is he just wearing black rouge? Whatever the case, he joins Dagwood Bumstead in the no-nips hall of fame:
Also, is anyone else as unsettled by the current teenage-jewel-theives-in-fetish-masks plot in the Phantom as I am?
Yeah, I didn’t think so.
Jeez, our power was restored this afternoon, but there was deep server wonkiness this evening that almost forced me to put off a new post yet another day. Thank goodness it got resolved just in time for me to put up a loopy, two-o’clock-in-the-morning, caffeine-fueled post. I feel like I’m seeing transparent divorce birds bumping see-through uglies in midair or something.
Mark Trail, 11/28/05
I was convinced that we were going to be forced to endure the Most Boring Mark Trail Plotline Ever™, which seemed destined to go something like this: “Hey, it’s an incredibly rare bird!” “Let’s call in an expert to verify it!” “No, that’s not the bird you’re looking for.” “Oh, well, thanks anyway!” But just in time to stave off this disastrously dull denouement arrives this clan of inbred, overall-clad bumpkins, determined to shake things up by striking back at the Northeastern liberal elite the only way they know how: by kidnapping an innocent dog. Perhaps the long, snooze-inducing buildup is Elrod’s little way of telling us that, despite Mark Trail’s ostensible nature-focused narrative purpose, actual nature is actually boring, and we should be thankful when the strip returns to its true calling, which is to say: fisticuffs in which our attractive, square-jawed hero defeats ugly people. You better watch yourself, there, no-neck: Mark Trail doesn’t take kindly to dognappers. You’re much more likely to get a knuckle sandwich than the “over a thousand bucks” you’re dreaming about.
By the way, the phrase “Pa, please don’t steal any more pets!” is going on a craptacular item that you can buy with good money soon. Mark my words.
Blondie, 11/29/05
You know what I like best about today’s Blondie? It’s the fact that the punchline depends on a homonym, so it’s only obvious in word balloon form. I’d like to imagine that Baldo McMustache here continues to stare blankly at the sleeping Dagwood, wondering desperately if there was a season of American Idol that he missed or something (”Isn’t he too old for the show anyway? My God, is that Bo Bice with his hair cut short?”). Meanwhile, Mr. Dithers looks back and forth between the idiot and the narcoleptic and wonders again about just how his HR minions make their decisions.
So, see, I was planning on doing a post today, and was just about getting around to doing it to, before the mysterious catastrophic power failure that just hit our house. I tap these words out by the ghostly light of the laptop, but I must conserve what little electricity we have! So, um, apologies. Tomorrow really, hopefully, or else I’ll have bigger problems than just a non-updated blog.
Um, I had really planned to do posts during Thanksgiving week, really I did … but … too much turkey … too … sleepy … anyway. New posts again starting Monday. In the meantime, enjoy my podcast! Really, enjoy it! I insist.
I try very hard to keep up with the “new media” trends that were all the rage approximately eight to ten months ago. Having mastered this whole “blogging” thing, I’m now ready to make the leap to podcasts. Blank Label Comics is an independent comics artists collective which produces hilarious and amusing weekly podcast interviews with Internet cartooning luminaries, and they were nice enough to make me their latest audio conquest. So, if you enjoy my writing but always wondered how pinched and nasal my voice sounds, be sure to check out the interview with me. I talk with Dave Kellett (creator of Sheldon) and Kristofer Straub (creator of Starslip Crisis) about blogging, soap opera strips, the state of the modern funny pages, and crystal meth. Quite a lot about crystal meth, actually. Don’t miss it!
Nothing really inspired me on Sunday … so how about three quickies from today?
Gil Thorp, 11/21/05
Dear Gil Thorp: All is forgiven. Retroactively and in advance. All of it — the bad hair, crappy art, Brent “Rap Dog” — all of the pain has been washed away by this beautiful moment. It may be that the weeks of the Brick House storyline have entirely existed to set up the exchange in panel three here. If that’s the case, I will testify in a court of law that it has not been time wasted.
The Middletons, 11/21/05
Sweet Christ, The Middletons, what sort of sick sadist are you? To portray these noble birds responding to that call for freedom and life that beats within the heart of every living being, making a desperate bid to escape, only to find the gutted, skinned, and cooked corpses of their unfortunate fellows? Oh, the horror! THE HORROR!
Seriously, though, I’m sure looking forward to Thanksgiving this Thursday, ’cause I like me some gravy and some turkey skin. Mmmm… skin. Sorry fellas!
Rex Morgan, M.D., 11/21/05
More proof: you can send a man to med school, but you can’t make him care.
