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Luann, 12/8/08

So, the last time I ranted about the overarchingly gross “sexiness” in Luann, a commentor claimed that, because I’m obviously a horny male type, I was primarily angered by the strip’s refusal to reward Brad with sexual access to Toni (and Gunther with the same to Luann). Obviously I have not been getting my point across, as nothing could be further from the truth; in fact, there are few things that I would find more distasteful, on both an aesthetic and an emotional level, than the prospect of Brad having sex.

Here’s what drives me batty about this strip’s treatment of romantic relationships: everything’s all presented to us as if its something that’s supposed to make us all hot and bothered, and yet it’s not erotically charged at all, both because of the need to stay within the strict bounds of newspaper strip acceptable content rules and because of the extreme hamhandedness of it all. The fact that it all reinforces the whole “Women are mysterious and manipulative and men are doomed to be trapped forever in their sexual thrall” thing just adds some extra ick.

I’d dearly love nothing more than to stop thinking about the sexual lives of the characters in Luann, but it seems like every other storyline in the strip is entirely about their sexual lives, veiled by this layer of propriety that’s all the more baffling considering how blatant the winking and nudging is. The result is that it’s like a dirty joke told by an ten year old, today’s example being a prime example. “Hey, Toni, I was just thinking about you because … melons! Ha ha! Get it? Because they look like… you know! Ha!” Christ.

I had an epiphany the other day, actually, that what it all most reminds me of is the classic SNL “Tales of Ribaldry” sketch, in which Jon Lovitz plays a regency-era fop who gets hilariously worked up by hints at sex but becomes outraged when actual sex starts occurring — and whaddya know, thanks the magic of the Internet, you can actually stream those old sketches from NBC, totally legally, so here’s one for those of you too young/old/classy to remember:

Anyway, this has been a mostly unfunny rant, and I promise not to revisit the subject again unless I have something amusing to say about it. I was mostly excited that “Tales of Ribaldry” was actually available online, and had to express my displeasure about the melons. Melons! Seriously. Melons.

Gil Thorp, 12/8/08

Wait … what? Is this a new Gil Thorp storyline, all of the sudden? I’m sure Ashley Aiello and her box of NUT BOY (“It’s Nutty!” is what I hope that says on that box) will be very interesting and all, but usually at the end of football season we at least get some sort of acknowledgement of the team’s annual failure to win a championship of any sort. I won’t honestly miss Gil rubbing the back of his massive, square head ruefully while attempting to cast the blame on someone else, I suppose, but I do demand narrative satisfaction on the conclusion of the Marty Moon gets fired and replaced by punk kids arc. That mysterious, shadowy figure in the first panel had better be Marty, despondant and prepared to buy every bottle of anything even vaguely intoxicating that the 24-7 SwiftiMart stocks, including NyQuil and lighter fluid.

Dick Tracy, 12/8/08

Whenever Dick Tracy says “Time to pick up the pieces,” the “pieces” in question are the mutilated body parts of his enemies, obviously.

Apartment 3-G, 12/8/08

Margo literally does not know what Detective Collins is talking about, because the only bit of drug terminology known to her or any of her acquaintances is “dope.”

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Dick Tracy, 12/3/08

Since I’m in a vaguely good mood today, let me say something nice about the art in Dick Tracy: The art in Dick Tracy is really pretty good. Today’s strip strikes me as a particularly fine example of how Locher uses blacks and whites to very striking effect — no endless slathers of zip-a-tone here! I love the shocked face of Braces’ henchwoman in panel three quite a lot — it looks like a print, or a woodcut, and I think it could stand alone as a sort of minor pop art masterpiece.

Of course, all this visual appeal is deployed in the service of violence and insanity. At long last, we learn today why villain-of-the-month Braces has braces — so that his dismembered robot could electrocute him through them, obviously. Remember, no Dick Tracy storyline can end until somebody dies in agony.

Gil Thorp, 12/3/08

Speaking of violence and insanity, check out panel three of today’s Gil Thorp. You can try to tell me that we’re seeing the Mudlarks put a short running play into action to get that first down, but if that’s the case, why isn’t number 22 holding the ball? Why does the Valley Tech player in the middle of the panel look like he’s about to shiv someone, and why is the Milford player just to right of him clawing one of his opponents’ eyes out? No, it’s clear that this game has completely collapsed into an anarchic brawl. Assistant Coach Kaz (recongizable by his now-almost-sedate earrings), with his well-known propensity for savagery, cannot be counted on to put a stop to this madness; indeed, his defensive corps (whom he has reduced to mindless obedience by refusing to acknowledge them as individuals) will soon run onto the field to join in the melee.

Crock, 12/3/08

Yes, I’m sure the US tax authorities are very interested in auditing the income of a French military officer, stationed in North Africa.

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Mark Trail, 11/14/08

Let’s imagine that you just started reading Mark Trail, say, nine days ago. Now, this supposition puts us firmly in the realm of the thought experiment, because nobody has “started” reading Mark Trail anytime in the last few decades, obviously, print is dying and the strip is coasting on nostalgia and will keep being drawn until its last reader dies, in 2019, but imagine that you started reading it nine days ago. You would say to yourself, “Good Lord, this strip is insanely action packed, with all the punching!” And then you’d be hooked, and willing to sit through eight to eleven months of mangled syntax and giant mutant animals and questionable ecological science and horribly misguided sexual advances and Mark’s eerie, soulless grin waiting for the next punch. But if you started reading this strip, say, twenty-three days ago, you would have inevitably given up on it before we got to this awesome Mark-Rabbit battle of fists.

What I’m trying to say is that this strip needs MORE PUNCHING, which will allow it to grow its audience and, eventually, be the only strip left in your daily paper (which, due to repeated cutbacks, will be only eight pages long, and will feature Mark Trail, obituaries, baseball box scores, and a single tire ad). BUT: will more Mark Trail punching diminish the awesomeness of each individual punch? Discuss.

Mark and Rabbit sure are striking iconic poses in the final panel, what with Mark’s fist swung up in a classic uppercut and his shirt collar mussed with exertion, and Rabbit’s hat flying off his now senseless head. It would be better if the two of them were even remotely near one another.

Dick Tracy, 11/14/08

Now, if you had just started reading Dick Tracy nine days ago, you’d think, “Gee! In this strip, robots both perpetrate and absorb all the violence! This must mean that actual humans never suffer any harm here.” And you would be so, so wrong. The only question is how Braces will be horribly dismembered; in true ironic fashion, it will involve his own robot, somehow, but it remains to be seen how many of his limbs will still be attached to his torso by the time he finally expires.

I admit to being charmed by “U R NEXT, POLICE PERSON!” Has Brute Force’s vocabulary chip been programmed to be carefully gender neutral, or can he simply not distinguish between the he-fleshling and she-fleshing varieties?

Apartment 3-G, 11/14/08

There are two reasons to love Lu Ann’s sassy Bea Arthur lookalike cousin Blaze: (1) he’s sassy, and (2) he mysteriously doesn’t look exactly like every other youngish male type in Apartment 3-G’s New York City. Today, we learn the reason for (2): instead, he looks exactly every other youngish male type in Apartment 3-G’s world outside New York City.