Folks, I know I’m terribly remiss in posting in a very important time in comics history (the swans! the swans!) but I’m under a mound of real-world work that isn’t getting any smaller. Posts in the beginning of this week may be sporadic and consolidory. Apologies in advance and thanks for your patience.
Blondie, 7/14/05
So Blondie’s 75th anniversary continuity-thon is in full desperately clumsy swing, illustrating via its stumbly awkward weirdness why the strip does not generally tackle multi-day story arcs. Today’s strip intrigues me though. I’m assuming “Raphael” is either Blondie’s gay hairdresser or a Ninja Turtle who does hair styling as a sideline. The notion of a new ‘do for Blondie is also interesting. Will it be as shocking as Ma Family Circus’ sensible bob was in its day?
But I have to admit that what really caught my eye was this: in panels two and three, Blondie is sitting with her back to us and partly obscured by the sofa, and yet we can still see one of her breasts. And how many 75-year-olds can we say that about?
By the way, my jury service has come to an end. The case did not fit, so we had to acquit. Then the city gave me $30 for my trouble. Woo-hoo!
For Better Or For Worse, 7/13/05
(Folks, it’s come to my attention that the scheming lawyers over at Mt. Foob are little quick on the trigger when it comes to the cease and desist letters aimed at the Webhosts of those who reproduce the strips without approval. So if you haven’t read the strip yet, click here to open it in a new window.)
Ah, youth! I remember my eighth grade graduation. I think that it involved my grandparents taking me out for ice cream. It certainly did not involve my older sister driving me around while I made out with my girlfriend in the back seat. (Not that this is a “kids today are all roadside” rant. I know for a fact that some of my junior high classmates participated in post-graduation making out. I just wasn’t one of them. I was barely in a position to do post-graduation making out in high school.)
Of course, the guy I feel really sorry for is poor ol’ Duncan. His band goes down in an inferno of clashing tweenage egos, and he doesn’t even have the arms of some 12-year-old gig to fall into for consolation. Instead, he’s just got forty-five minutes of painful, stilted conversation with Elizabeth ahead of him. Maybe he’ll make up some more Canadian jive-talk to describe the depths of the awkwardness. Your life’s in your hands, dude.
Oh, and by the way, you are reading a blog post written by … juror #8! The judge says the case won’t last more than a couple days, though, so I’m not too stressed. I think it would be interesting to blog my jury experiences as they happen, except that that would be totally illegal. Still, I’ll dish what dirt I can, once its over.