Tag Archives: The New Yorker

Hiatus Hernia

An object in motion tends to stay in motion. An object at rest tends to stay at rest.

From “Prince Variant: Seller of Collectibles”, BIUL #2 (2015).

More accurately, an object that is in motion will not change its velocity unless a force acts upon it. This is Newton’s law of motion. It applies to the average blogger thusly; if you’re having a good posting run, it will continue until some force acts upon it.

Like reality.

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Filed under Bad Influences, Don't Know Don't Care, Faint Signals, Late To The Party, Nostalgic Obsessions, Site Stuff

They Shoot Presidents, Don’t They?

Although I predicted that Donald Trump would become the 45th president of the United States, I did not vote for him. If I had, I’d be seeking help from a medical professional.

Despite being based in a hypothetical (admittedly coarse) quote, this is a terrific cover. Note the careful handling (pun intentional) of the depicted act; the woman is smiling and the finger is uncovered.

Not because I’m insane, you asshole. Because I’d be paranoid that a significant percentage of Americans want me to die in agony. And I don’t need that shit. I didn’t struggle to become who I am so that some high-school dropout could make me a statistic in a bullshit battle of “who’s the fascist”.  Continue reading

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Filed under Bad Influences, Comix Classic & Current, Don't Know Don't Care, Idiot's Delight, Uncategorized, Worst Of All

Charles Addams

In the 1960s, there were two unusual homesteads on television. One was monstrous, the other creepy and spooky. Both had excellent opening titles music.

Both had lovely type treatments and title cards, too.

Lovely type treatments and title cards, too.

The Munsters was easy to comprehend, for the most part; it was a show about a family of classic movie monsters (hence the pun). Father Herman was the great Fred Gwynne dolled up as a friendly Frankenstein’s monster; wife Lily and Grandpa were vampires. Son Eddie (Butch Patrick) was the wolf-boy, with a prominent widow’s-peak that ensured I would be humiliatingly likened to him, and daughter Marilyn was the freak, with no monstrous qualities whatsoever. They all lived in a spooky mansion on 1313 Mockingbird Lane. Who knew or cared about the genetics involved in such a lineage? Continue reading

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Filed under Comix Classic & Current, Faint Signals, Magazine Rack, Nostalgic Obsessions