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Stupid real work is forcing me to postpone doing today’s comics until tomorrow at some point; however, to show that I love you, my faithful readers, I offer a couple of points of interest.

First, in a comment faithful reader Jed Dougherty pointed us in the direction of some more old-school Mary Worth art. Jed says:

If I recall correctly, [Ian] started as a caricature of the Mary Worth background artist Bill Ziegler, who was assisting on the strip in the 70s. To add insult to injury, Ziegler took over drawing the characters in the 80s and had to draw a caricature of himself as a pompous ass.

He also provides a link to a site selling some Ziegler-era MW (scroll down or search on “Mary Worth”). Here’s a taste:

Also worthy of note is this wide-ranging interview with Curtis author Ray Billingsley, sent to me by faithful reader Quacks Like A Duck. Fun facts: Billingsley’s been cartooning since he was a teenager, and at 16 was in Will Eisner’s class at the New York School of Visual Arts with Patrick McDonnell of Mutts. Also, his now-legendary balloon suicide cartoon was banned in Boston, baby.

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Curtis, 4/21/07

Congrats to Curtis for making the unpopular assertion that looks and surface appearances do matter. Although this strip doesn’t really seem to have any context to speak of (it’s not like Curtis and his dad were talking about the way those “rap” “artists” dress or anything), it’s good to see someone bucking against the PC “it’s what’s on the inside that counts” orthodoxy.

By the way, I’m pretty sure the fact that the elder Wilkins is drinking out of that prissy little teacup means that he’s on the “down low.”

Update: I can’t believe I almost let slip this opportunity to link to faithful reader Maughta’s blog, Judge a Book by its Cover. Basically, what I do to comics, she does to the covers of paperback novels.

Blondie, 4/21/07

I’ve never given a lot of thought to where exactly it is that the Bumsteads live. I guess I’ve always had the idea that it was somewhere suburban and bucolic. But now that I know that nighttime in their neighborhood is ruled by roaming, unfenced packs of hungry, semi-feral dogs, I might have to rethink some of my assumptions.

Mark Trail, 4/21/07

Wait … Mark returned to the inside of his beehive (note the freaky honeycomb wall design) and just left Dan and Sally “in the hands of” the private employees of a private company, who lack the power to detain or arrest? Does he think they’re just going to patiently wait there for their fate after the horror of being found out by the great Mark Trail?

Actually, they probably will. When Mark Trail punches you, you stay punched.

Mary Worth, 4/21/07

A few people have complained that I didn’t mention Mary Worth this week; this is because I found her dinner with Vera to be crushingly boring (yes, I realize that this is how normal people react to any arbitrarily chosen five days of this strip, but still). This opinion was solidified by the fact that Vera revealed essentially nothing, not even in her thought balloons, so I have no idea what exactly Mary’s so excited about in panel three. The only thing the introverted Ms. Shields mentioned that caught Mary’s attention was that she had a nanny as a girl, so I’m assuming that Mary now thinks that she must be rich and plans on murdering her and stealing her hidden gold.

I’m pretty sure that the dude wandering by in the hallway is Wilbur Weston, desperate for strip time, wearing a baseball hat and a fake mustache.

Crankshaft, 4/21/07

I think I might actually like Crankshaft the strip (if not Crankshaft the person) better if he actually did start clubbing people to death. With an iron bludgeon shaped like a human hand. He’d start with with people who talk out of turn during Garden Club. So watch yourself, ladies.

Unrelated Pibgorn update: Brooke McEldowney has started a LiveJournal blog which will keep you posted on the strip’s new home, once it finds one. There’s an interesting discussion of the editorial back and forth with his previous syndicate, and, in executive summary, the new Pibgorn’s gonna be filthy.

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For Better Or For Worse, 3/17/07

Oh yeah, Gerald an’ April are gonna be at home all by themselves. And they’re going to “practicing.” And I think you and I both know what they’ll be practicing. That’s right: they’ll be practicing talking like actual fifteen-year-olds, rather than robots programmed by a sixty-year-old to say things like “make some green,” “the kiddies,” and, of course, “practice.”

Beetle Bailey, 3/17/07

For those of you who don’t know, a “magnum” is a one-and-a-half liter bottle of wine or champagne, which is twice the usual size. Thus, General Halftrack is merely proposing to drink himself into a stupor so as to at least briefly obliterate from his mind the hellish reality of the marriage he hates, and is not openly contemplating some kind of murder-suicide scenario. It’s still plenty grim, though perhaps not as off-putting as his flesh-colored mustache in panel two.

Curtis, 3/17/07

Clearly there’s some kind of off-panel donkey defecation going on in the first panel of today’s Curtis, but I have to admit that I’m disturbingly fixated on Curtis’ unfinished sentence. Why do you think they call it what? What? Is there some proverb or turn of phrase or bit of folk wisdom that involves donkey poop?

Judge Parker, 3/17/07

Wow, look at the expressions of utter panic on the faces Neddy and Abbey as they grapple with the concept of having missed their stop. If rich Americans, who are clearly the best and smartest people in the world, can’t handle the complexity of public transit, how in the world do the poor foreigners who ride it consistently make it home alive? Here’s a hint, kids: the train goes both ways along its whole route. You could just get off and get back on going back the other direction until you return to your stop, and not have to wander through whatever horrifying slumscape you’ve inevitably ended up in.

If you can’t tell, I’m growing more and more contemptuous of these two with each passing moment that they manage to further botch the relatively simple task of taking the train; thus, I am now openly rooting for the sinister punk rockers, and firmly believe that our pair of innocents abroad will deserve what they get. Fortunately, the evil punks probably don’t have anything sexually deviant planned for their victims, since, despite all evidence, they apparently believe that Neddy and Abbey are men. Yes, “Ils regardent la carte,” as Mohawk Punk puts it, means “They’re looking at the map,” but the “they” is masculine; the feminine would be “elles”. I don’t mean to imply that I’m some big expert Frenchie-talker — I was in charge of parlezing the vous when we were in a remarkably punk-rocker-free Paris a few years ago, and Mrs. C. will be happy to tell you how badly that went — but the ils/elles distinction is something you literally learn in the first week of French class.

Slylock Fox, 3/17/07

The most disturbing thing about this Slylock Fox? It’s not the fact that the cow has, in a burst of unnatural strength, managed to leap across a road; nor is it the cow’s unprovoked attack on the terrified rabbit, despite the fact that two species are not traditionally antagonistic towards each other. No, it’s the heavy-lidded, unfocused expression on the cow’s face, combined with the lolling tongue. That cow is high as a kite, and I don’t just mean literally.