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Archive: Mary Worth

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Sunday throwaways

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Panels from Blondie, 3/14/10

Sunday’s Blondie as a whole, in which Dagwood chases (or is chased by?) a tiny owl that may or may not be a figment of his imagination through his own house is itself a worthwhile bit of fine entertaining madness. Still, I have to say that the two throwaway panels on their own constitute a delightfully weird bit of art that deserves to be showcased in isolation. Dagwood’s just trotting along, presumably from the couch to the refrigerator, or from bed to the bath, hands in pockets, when he gets WHOO’d at. I love that his immediate reaction is not fear or panic at this unfamiliar sound, but just a mere and casual “what?” as if he could work this whole thing out if only he could hear it better.

Panel from Mary Worth, 3/14/10

Mary Worth’s epigraphical madness continues, as she’s moved beyond indie rock darlings like Leonard Cohen and Daniel Johnston to late 19th/early 20th century radical Emma Goldman.

SEPARATED AT BIRTH???

If it turns out that all of Mary’s seemingly petty meddling has been part of a long-term plan to further the cause of anarcho-syndicalist revolution, I for one will be very impressed.

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Tuesday quickies

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Gasoline Alley, 3/9/10

In order to keep their iron grip on their last remaining pool of paying customers — old people — newspapers are spreading the lie that consuming print media sates your hunger because it supplies you with nutrients as well as information. You should totally be spending your money on the paper rather than cat food, seniors!

Mary Worth, 3/9/10

“I mean, she didn’t love you so much that she wasn’t sleeping with other people, but, uh, free spirit, yeah. Plus I imagine that her career as a Minnie Pearl impersonator was really taking off then, so she couldn’t afford to settle down.”

Crankshaft, 3/9/10

And that’s when Pan and Jeff knew for sure that Crankshaft’s rambling diatribe over dinner the previous week, in which the old man had vowed to “track down and murder each and every one of those mouse-eared bastards while they sleep,” was no idle boast. The police couldn’t stop him. The army couldn’t stop him. They would have to take care of this themselves.

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Portrait of an addict

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Mary Worth, 3/8/10

When I was a kid, some Buffalo Bills star or other had been suspended for failing a drug test, and I remember having a conversation with my father (who was then the director of an alcoholism clinic) about why someone would endanger their very lucrative career for an occasional high. He explained, in a formulation that has always stuck with me, the addict’s trajectory: first using drugs makes you feel good, then you need drugs to feel good, then you need drugs to not feel bad.

This statement really jumped into my mind today when watching the suddenly diminished Clan Weston hash out the aftermath of Kurt’s duplicity over yet another sandwich-based meal. These white-bread-and-baloney-and-mayonnaise sandwiches ought to be a comfort to Wilbur and Dawn in these trying days; but Wilbur is just shoving his in the general direction of his mouth without even giving it a glance, let alone pausing to savor the subtle interplay of flavors. He’s like a junkie in some abandoned rowhouse, shooting up because of his raw need and long ago forgetting the transcendent high that got him hooked in the first place, and his sandwich requirements have just become a semi-conscious undercurrent in his life now. He probably doesn’t even realize that he’s got a second sandwich all queued up on this dinner plate ready to go once the current one has been devoured. Did he even bother to put condiments on that one?

The really sad part of this scene is Dawn, who’s only of college age, and yet seems equally blasé about sandwich use. She appears to be using her sandwich as a prop for gesticulation, just waving it around for a bit until she’s ready to cram it down her gullet with as little chewing as possible. She learned it from watching you, Dad. She learned it from watching you.

Family Circus, 3/8/10

Many victims of repeated trauma eventually form a sort of bond with their oppressors; in hostage situations, this is called Stockholm Syndrome. Thus, after repeated exposure to Jeffy’s naked ass, I seem to have become inured to disgust and indeed experienced brief amusement at today’s Family Circus panel. Most experts agree that a swift and merciful death would be for the best.