This is an old one, so don’t bother calling. The freezer was turned off years ago.
Metaphor or five
I’ve got to stop reading conspiracy theories. They’re starting to make me see connections where my rational mind knows no connections exist. I even did a youtube search for “Illuminati cartoons,” but after a while every cartoon that I watched started having hidden meanings. To wit, this Gene Deitch cartoon. Though it was made about 50 years ago, it’s a virtual retelling of this camping trip I went on last weekend that turned into kind of a disastrous mess with all the local townspeople wanting to kill us. I won’t go into details, but let’s just say that you can substitute megaphones for the bugle and soundcar artbikes for the horse and get a pretty accurate picture of my President’s Day weekend. And Clint Clobber? With his red longjohns, he’s obviously a stand-in for the members of E Clampus Vitus. I’d like to say I was a tenant in one of the other apartments, but I don’t think I can let myself off that easily. Please forgive us, Salvation Mountain. This won’t happen again.
Sexy super flower pop op warning
I know I haven’t posted a lot lately. I have a good reason though, I promise. A while ago I ingested this stuff that is actually legal but I don’t know why, and ever since then I’ve been hearing horns and seeing nuns and brides with glittery pasties and soldiers everywhere, and man, am I a wreck. Ladies and gentlemen, don’t ever tell you that I didn’t warn you about the majestic terror of Afri Cola:
via Coudal
It’s in the details
The oversized lost/found pet notice seems to be a trend for 2011 if the first two months are any indicator. I’m very much enjoying this one, and not just because found pet notices are happier than lost pet notices. I think what’s charming me about this notice is the expression of, “Oh no! I’m lost!” on the cat’s face along with the pencil line at the jawline that was abandoned in favor of (what I’m assuming) is a more realistic depiction of this particular cat.
Etiquette & superstition: lemon
Do you know that song “Lemon Tree”? It goes, “Lemon tree, very pretty, and the lemon flower is sweet, but the fruit of the poor lemon is impossible to eat…“. I never understood that song, because my dad could eat an entire lemon. Not like in one swallow or anything, but he could eat the whole thing. Anyway.
ETIQUETTE: It’s hard to find older etiquette tips about how to squeeze a lemon without squirting your tablemates in the eye, maybe because everybody in the past just knew how to do this sort of thing and it seemed as obvious as breathing. I have to admit that it seems obvious to me as well, so let’s talk about lemon slices in the finger bowl. Emily Post is rather precise and withering about this subject, noting that at a fancy occasion some flowers may be acceptable floating in the finger bowl water, but “A slice of lemon is never seen outside of a chop-house where eating with the fingers may necessitate the lemon in removing grease.” Ouch.
SUPERSTITION: If a girl wants to know about her future love life, she should simply take the peel of a lemon and stick it under her armpit for a day. At the end of the day, she should take the lemon peel and rub it on all four posters of her bed (girls without proper beds with posters may be out of luck here). If she is lucky in love, her future lover will appear to her in a dream that night bearing two lemons. I wasn’t able to find any information about what it means if she dreams about a future lover bearing one lemon, or three oranges, or no citrus fruit whatsoever.
Photo by Joe Shlabotnik on flickr; sorry I cropped you out of the photo, Joe.
I must know it’s you
I really don’t think this person wants to give up this dog:
They kind of gave away the sex of the dog there, but I have a feeling it’s going to be really hard for anyone to provide an adequate enough description to prove rightful ownership. Also, what’s that covered over in White-Out? “Do not forget cod and bloodtype”? “Do not forget colander bridgerip”? “Do not forge corn and javaring”? I may have to go back with my magnifying glass.
Falling behind
Oh boy; is this how the entire Year of the Rabbit is going to be? On the first day I say, “Oh, let’s talk about the new year a little later,” and before you know it, it’s the birthday of the Jade Emperor? I haven’t cleaned my house, I wasn’t especially kind to dogs, and I socialized on Red Mouth. If I were an animal, I would never qualify to make it as a zodiac symbol.
As an attempt to make up for my laziness, I have compiled a number of cartoons depicting the story of how the animals of the Chinese Zodiac were selected. There are a number of versions:
- poetic
- Rasta horse and Bootsy Collins rabbit
- Playmobil slapstick
- generic computer generated
- corporate sponsored with controversial “the cat was a jerk” viewpoint
- no, the rat was clearly the jerk
I think my favorite version is the multi-technique version by the Black Dragons, however.
Insult to injury
I had been aware of the plight of the underpaid monkey waiters in Japan before today, but I didn’t have any idea that abject humiliation was part of the equation. Kayabuki, what’s next? Monkeys as nude sushi platters?
Hunting party
I’ve lived in Los Angeles for over 23 years, but I’ve never really spent much time poking around Laurel Canyon. I don’t know why, really. I know there’s more to Laurel Canyon than just rich hippies, but I just never had the urge to explore the neighborhood until recently.
This weekend I drove around looking for Neil Young’s old “shack” up in the hills and got pretty lost. It’s a bigger area than I thought. There are a lot of roads that are marked “Private” only after you’ve followed them around for quite some time, and I kept losing my GPS signal so I couldn’t find myself on the map. I’m not sure what happened after a while, except that I’m pretty sure that at some point I wound up in France outside someone’s hunting lodge.
Wiring schematic
I really hate when cartoon characters “evolve” over time into creatures with bulbous heads, small yet chubby bodies and barely discernible personalities. I know I’m supposed to prefer these big-headed characters because they more closely resemble human babies, and I’m supposed to feel some sort of nurturing instinct toward them, but I guess I’m not wired that way. Mickey Mouse? Better as a sadistic anarchist with stick legs. Campbell’s Kids? I’d much rather hang out with the slightly dim German rolypolys rather than the rosy-cheeked extreme sports enthusiasts. Garfield? Well, he was never funny, but in the ’70s he actually resembled a cat. And what about Porky Pig? Can you actually say that his current hydrocephalic incarnation is cuter than the original model? No, no you can’t.
