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Analog Adams

John Deering's Strange Brew hits me at just the right moment.

Digital photography is making it easy to take good pictures, and even easier to take bad ones. GIGO was never more in evidence.

I had to deal with one photo this week that had a date/time stamp on it. It wasn't even the right date.

I tell the kids (A) it's like having the tag of your underwear sticking out (current fashions make this argument of dubious impact) and (B) you don't need it with a digital picture, because the date and time are recorded as part of the record.

It's generally not hard to clone those out, depending on the background, but I hate making any in-frame alterations to a picture. I have to remind myself that the date/time stamp is not actually part of the picture and that the only time it would become an ethical issue would be if the photo itself were the subject of the article.

Incidentally, here's the ethical summary on cloning and other alterations in journalism: You can't change the picture except in ways that you might have at the time you took it. That is, you can sharpen the focus and tweak (but not alter) the lighting -- all of which your brain does when you're looking at something in person -- and you can crop the image more tightly. That's pretty much it.

The date/time stamp issue comes under this rubric: Had you scratched the negative during the developing process, you could try to remove the scratch in processing the picture, because it's not inherent. Ditto, IMHO, with a date/time stamp.

I tell the kids that this is why you take lots and lots of pictures, because, if you only take one and there's a guy in the background picking his nose, you can't just clone him out. 

The fate of the second photo that made me crazy this week remains up in the air, but is potentially more heartbreaking, because she got a terrific shot of a mountain goat on a green hillside against a gorgeous blue sky with fluffy white clouds, in absolutely sharp focus and with perfect lighting.

And processed it through one of those dumbass photo programs that reduces everything to postage stamp size so that you can share it quickly. In print, the picture would be about 3x2. 

Fortunately, the article could be held. I'm hoping she still has the raw photo on her camera and can retrieve it directly rather than through that helpful, destructive program. We'll see.

Meanwhile, let's talk about Ansel Adams and his cell phone.

Cell phone cameras are getting better and better, and it's hard for me to judge at what point the quality of the optics becomes a bigger factor than the serious intent of people who use their cell phones instead of a "real" camera. 

That is, if you're out and you see something amazing and you whip out your cell phone, you may end up with a very good pic. That's great. But, if you're headed out on a family vacation, I think taking along a for-real digital camera makes sense, if for no other reason than that the lens on a cell phone can pick up crud easily and you won't know until you download the pics and see them full-size. It's easier to check the lens on a camera. I would also argue that it's easier to line up your pic, to steady your shot, to see what you've captured.

But, hey, let the arguments begin.

Most newsrooms switched to digital a decade or more ago, which, by the way, took a lot of toxic chemicals out of the waste stream. But what you save on developing fluids and suchlike, you spend on the front end, because, at that level, a good-enough digital camera is quite a bit more expensive than a good-enough film camera. (Though reporters can be sent out with $250 cameras and produce useable pics, in good light, up close, without too much motion involved.)

I don't know what Ansel Adams paid for his cameras, but I'm sure he wasn't using a Kodak Brownie, so Deering is making a funny, not a serious comparison. It's a cartoon, remember.

However, I don't think that this is like the digital vs. analog argument in music, where a good record played on a good phonograph can have more warmth than a digital recording played on a good audio system. Or not, depending on the listener.

I think capturing light is different and that, if a good film photographer and a good digital photographer were to go head-to-head, then mix their results anonymously, it would be hard to tell which photo was taken by which method, and equally hard to say that one medium was significantly and consistently "better."

There are, of course, artists who use film and even wet-plate cameras because they want to, and that's pretty cool, but I once went to a convention of Stanley Steamer buffs and that was beyond awesome.

I don't think it means we're going to see a resurgence of steam-powered cars anytime soon.

 

Humor for those too old to get fooled again

Arlo and Janis once more taps into my life.

While I sit here praying that, as the newspaper industry implodes around me, my skill set will get me through just a couple of more years until Social Security kicks in, Arlo notes that, yeah, most of what we know seems to be fading into oblivion.

Fortunately, our generation -- or at least our little corner of it -- still has a penchant for gallows humor, or this wouldn't be funny at all.

Especially since we were apparently right when we started asking questions.

Yeah, I've run this one before. Maybe when someone comes up with an answer, I'll stop running it. Meanwhile, when can we have our economy back?

And don't talk about the deficit. We both know (A) that it's not really the central issue and (B) that it is in large part based on all those other things that, when we ask about them, you get mad.

I wanted to watch the GOP Convention last night, mostly because, like Liza Donnelly, I'm old enough to remember when these things mattered. Liza asks, "Are Political Conventions More Than Just Expensive Infomercials?" and the answer is, well, they used to be, but, no, they're not.

And I guess Liza and Jimmy Johnson and I have to take some of the blame. Back when we were young and knew everything, we objected to conventions where last minute deals in smoke-filled rooms meant the nomination of machine candidates instead of those favored by the people, even if it required throwing entire delegate blocs out on their ears.

So the parties responded by instituting a system of more binding primaries that insured that the candidates would be chosen by the people, and then the various states moved their primaries back, back, back to give themselves more prominence and to insure that the candidates would be chosen well before anyone knew who the hell they were, and so the rest of the campaign would be spent posturing for November instead.

David Horsey had a pretty funny take on this recently. I don't feature him here very often because he explains his cartoons better than I probably would.

As Horsey suggests, Romney didn't so much "win" the nomination so much as he failed to lose it, but, as we old folks remember from one of our more iconic movies, "Sometimes nothing is a cool hand."

If that's true, this sumbitch should be treated for frostbite.

But, anyway, I tuned in the Convention last night -- which meant I had to look for it, because now that we don't have just three gatekeepers, we don't have grown-up priorities anymore -- and it really was just a glorified pep rally. Which means I'm glad we're not forced to watch it anymore because there's no there there anyway.

What was there was a panel basically coaxing talking points out of various guests and it really was, as Liza suggested, an infomercial, not just in terms of the (expected) triumphalist speeches, but in terms of the spokesmodel-pretending-to-be-a-journalist factor, too.

And then some guy spoke who basically did a stand-up in which he mocked Obama for taking too many vacations and said the only jobs he created were for golf caddies, which puzzled me because Obama has taken far fewer vacations than either George W, George HW or St. Ronald, and I wondered why anyone would even bring up the topic, given how easily the truth can be found.

So I switched it off and apparently what I missed was Ryan bringing the convention to its feet with a speech that not only skirted the facts in some predictably partisan ways, but that showed that, for all his claim to be young and hip, Ryan apparently doesn't monitor YouTube or Politico very efficiently, because he dredged up once more the lie that cunningly suggests that Obama closed the auto plant in his hometown, which was slated for closure before Obama was even the candidate and shut its doors in the last weeks of the Bush Administration.

(Obama did say in Janesville that he would fight for funding to help re-train workers and re-purpose manufacturing plants in the area, so that the factory would still be there in the future. This is not the same as promising to keep it open as it was, and, of course, it is a promise that presupposes cooperation in bipartisan support for that funding. In any case, it was already deceased and had shuffled off this mortal coil, rung down the curtain and gone to sing with the choir invisible. Ryan apologists' insistence that it was "merely shagged out" not withstanding, it would not have "voomed" if Obama had put four million volts through it.)

In any case, I'm feeling too old to cope with a world in which, like Arlo, the jobs I would have thought were viable and interesting no longer even exist.

I remember that, when I was Gene's age, my then-wife and I briefly toyed with the idea of farming and rejected it as way too labor-intensive and uncertain, given that we wanted to make enough to live on, not in any particular "comfort" but in a way that would let us pursue the things we loved and cared about.

In researching what it actually takes to run a small farm, we learned that, if you don't truly, deeply, madly love and care about farming, you'd better not try it, because you won't have time for anything else.

And the older I get, the more I value finding time for the things I truly, deeply, madly love and care about, rather than fretting over making money.

Crazies: Can't win with'em, can't win without 'em

I've mentioned that there have been way, way, way too many political cartoons showing a hurricane with some label on it bearing down on Florida, but Jim Morin uses the actual hurricane to make a political point.

That's diffo!

Not only are we going to see a large amount of taxpayer money dished out by the nanny state over the next few weeks, but we're going to see a lot of Republican governors requesting help. In fact, Louisiana Governor Bobby Jindhal stayed home from the convention so he could preside over the disaster in person, skipping his chance to make a speech and further burnish his prospects.

Anyone with a lick of sense and an ounce of social consciousness recognizes that this is a perfectly proper response to disaster. You don't have to get very far into the Constitution before you hit the part where the Founding Fathers (Peace be upon them!) declare that the very purpose of the document includes promoting the general welfare of the people of the United States.

But when you are campaigning against the social contract and the concept of any government assisting in the general welfare of its people, it does muddy the waters to be simultaneously asking for a handout.

And it's hard to mouth the nonsensical but well-accepted party line that government can't create jobs while you are using government funding to hire carpenters, roofers, plumbers, electricians, road workers, bridge builders and a host of other people. Even people who think McDonnell Douglas donates its fighter jets to the Defense Department, and that the US Marines are unpaid volunteers can understand that rebuilding after a hurricane includes creating a few jobs.

Fact is, after Katrina struck, there were plenty of conservative voices saying they should let New Orleans go, don't rebuild, and that its destruction was inevitable given its location.

The problem with that is that there is Theory and there is Practice, and the pure ideological pieties of the anti-tax, anti-government crowd faded in the face of the actual, in-your-face aftermath, though not perhaps fast enough to prevent George W from appearing heartless and inept.

But he wasn't in the middle of a campaign at the moment.

Whatever Isaac has in store for the Gulf Coast, he's going to force the extreme wing of the Republican party into sharp focus, at which point the question becomes, will the rest of the party cut them loose, try to shut them up or ride out the storm, so to speak?

They've already begun to tamp down Paul Ryan, who is dutifully making his own positions and beliefs subordinate to those of the actual candidate, what's-his-name.

Unlike Sarah Palin four years ago, he's more discreet, more polished and seemingly more focused on the reason he is there. In other words, he seems more intent on winning the contest than on becoming a star, and he's willing to let pragmatism outshine ideological purity, which makes perfect sense.

The vice-president is not supposed to represent an ideology. He's supposed to smile and carry the president's spittoon. In fact, the reason Theodore Roosevelt was tapped to be McKinley's VP was because New York's Republicans wanted the firebrand reformer put in a position where his strong positions would have no chance of spoiling their game. (Good plan. Didn't work out.)

Still, even if Ryan plays the game as he should (probable), and even if the Republicans manage to stifle the crazies who got them this far (we'll see), there are already enough sound bites and quotes about self-reliance and the nanny state in existence to make the upcoming combination of hurricane recovery and presidential campaign interesting.

It may boil down to how big a factor the crazy vote is. If I were a Republican strategist, my plan would have been to stop feeding the crazies after the convention and let them kind of go on autopilot while working on the surface to make the candidates more palatable to a sane electorate.

And I think that process has been in play since the Ryan pick: "Okay, here's your poster boy. Now back off a little and let us make him into a viable mainstreamer."

Isaac may well have knocked that plan into a cocked hat. I guess we'll see.

Fasten your seat belts. We are likely to encounter some turbulence up ahead.

 

Love and loyalty

I suppose this counts as more of a "classic" than a "comic strip of the day," since it's not new. But I hadn't seen it before Mark Anderson posted a blog entry yesterday entitled "Business Cartoons You Don't Want in Your Employees' Cubicles." 

Good title. 

Confucius asked, "How can one be said truly to love who fails to make demands upon the object of his love? How can one be said truly to be loyal who hesitates to criticize the object of his loyalty?"

But I think his notion of making demands of your subordinates had to do with challenging them to do their best and not accepting slipshod work and half-hearted efforts. It did not mean demanding that they sit through endless, repetitive, moronic PowerPoint presentations:

Nor, for that matter, did his advice for subordinates to criticize their superiors mean that he wanted to encourage a system of endless, pointless bitchfests:

Anderson's headline about not wanting these cartoons posted in your employees' cubicles is delightfully open-ended, because he mostly talks about whether management would find them funny. He doesn't get into what management ought to do about it.

Now, certainly, there are different rules for what I guess you could call "closed" or "open" workplaces, the distinction being whether the public, and in particular your clientele, are going to see the aforementioned cubicles.

I've never understood why any manager would allow the "You Want It When?" classic to be posted in view of customers or clients.

The idea that you would announce to your customers that pleasing them is not only a low priority but a concept that you find humorously unlikely just doesn't convey anything I find positive in the workplace.

But things are different in a closed system where the only people to whom you are making indiscreet declarations about your lack of loyalty and dedication are your fellow workers and, of course, your boss.

And I will confess that, at one particularly soul-killing stage of employment, I had this Calvin and Hobbes in my cubicle. (I'll also confess that it's one panel from a two-panel cartoon, but the second half trod on the punchline, so I cropped it out. Sorry, Bill.)

First of all, this is far too indirect for any of the people who were making my life miserable at the time to recognize as commentary on my job, and, second, I was shopping my resume all over by then.

And, third, my boss was equally miserable, though the two of us worked hard not to make that a frequent topic of conversation. I honestly can't remember whether this went up before or after he bailed out, but I wasn't far behind him.

I can't stand people who bitch about a situation that they aren't willing to address, and, way too often, these cartoons are posted as an alternative to taking control of your life. And my response is that you should either get a grip or STFU.

The other day at the dog park I was talking to a woman who is tired of her job, but recognizes that it pays well, the benefits are terrific and that, given the state of the economy and the fact that she has a small child to consider, she needs to stay put unless something magical appears on the horizon.

However, she's more bored than miserable and she's certainly sensible enough not to turn a vague lack of enthusiasm into an overwhelming case of soul-cancer by posting constant reminders to herself that she's not thrilled with the gig.

If the job really is killing your soul, your primary responsibility to your family is to not die young and, in the meantime, to act as a functioning parent, even if it means taking a financial hit, turning the thermostat down and drinking generic sodas. In her case, it hasn't come to that point.

And I'll admit, I was lucky: At the time I had Calvin in my cubicle, the kids were grown and gone and my mantra was "It's just me and the dogs, and they think sleeping in the park and eating out of Dumpsters would be a blast!"

But it didn't come to that. Not that time, anyway.

I kept the resumes circulating and, within a few months of my boss's abandonment of the creeping meatball, made my own way to safety, which meant a new job in which I was not only happy and appreciated, but at which I had a subordinate. And at the job after that, I wound up with even more subordinates.

So my take, as a boss, on walking past a subordinate's cubicle and seeing one of these "You're killing my soul" cartoons is twofold:

1. This person is either on the verge of pulling the rip chord or has no sense of discretion and good judgment. They are also probably helping to bring down other employees who might otherwise enjoy being there. There is no point in considering them for promotion or special assignments and, in fact, you should feel fortunate if they leave on their own and you should do absolutely nothing to encourage them to stay.

2. They could be a canary in your coal mine. Look inward. It's possible that you are guilty of killing the souls of your subordinates and don't realize it.

Not sure how useful that second point is. To end with the philosopher with whom we began, "In vain have I looked for a man capable of seeing his own faults and bringing the charge home against himself."  

 Anyway, Mark Anderson is a lot funnier than Confucius. Not sure about Frank.

 

 

 

Where bliss abides

For any strips with families, and certainly for any that feature kids in starring roles, back-to-school cartoons are one of those tiresome annual required arcs, most of which can be safely ignored, except that then you'd miss a headspinner like today's Agnes.

Much of what makes this work is that it uses the concept of back-to-school without getting tangled up in the mandatory gags. There's a huge difference between acknowledging that kids are going back to school and getting into stereotype-lockstep with those insulting Staples commercials (which I haven't seen in a while, thank goodness) in which children are depressed over the prospect of returning to the classroom while parents celebrating getting rid of the brats.

I won't pretend this is a "poll," but we asked the kids who visit a web site I work with how they felt about back to school. Ten percent chose "My life is over" and another 27 percent picked "Living for the Weekend," but the rest were split between "Summer can be kind of boring" and "There's homework but I'll have plenty of free time." And that seems about right to me.

For my part, I didn't like class all that much as a kid, but I liked being back at school where my friends were, while, when I became a parent, I missed having the kids around after they went back to school. The cliches didn't hold at either end.

But none of this pontificating and projecting has much bearing on Agnes, whose existence is so surreal as to start off the chart and go in random directions from there.

I think I feel about Agnes the way other people feel about "Zippy the Pinhead" or "Hark! A Vagrant!" neither of which I quite get. That is, I understand what they're saying, I catch the references, but it doesn't resonate for me, and they are all strips where, if it doesn't resonate, it ain't happenin', but, if it does, it's as blissful as an abode with Plumtree's Potted Meat.

What the three strips have in common is that they feature references that, much of the time, are amusing enough to be pleasurable but then, more often than chance would dictate, offer up a nugget that is fabulous.

I suspect, however, that it is a rare person who finds equal fabulosity in the gems of each of those three strips. Not a value judgment, simply an observation.

In this case, the gem is the "well, of course" epiphany that these little girls, insightful as they are in their own universe, are utterly indifferent to the pop culture references of another generation, even one that has barely reached maturity itself.

Not "hostile" to them, and not even engaged enough to be "puzzled" by them, but, rather, completely untouched and indifferent to them. 

Trout is only mildly curious about sorting out which of the loveable mop-tops was Bailey. It does not matter to her in the least, except maybe as a sort of $100-level Jeopardy question. I give Agnes credit for even knowing who the "Power Rangers" were, except that it's likely that the lunchbox -- excuse me, the "lunch loader" -- has the words "Power Rangers" written on it.

And I have always adored the way Agnes and Trout accept the economic limits of their world. It reminds me of a story my grandfather told of being a young fellow not much older than these two, and lying on his back in the yard of friend in turn-of-the-century Ironwood, Michigan, a not-so-fashionable mining town on the Upper Peninsula, looking up at the sky and talking about the future.

He said something about growing up and leaving, and his friend asked, in some astonishment, "You'd leave this?"

My grandfather said he raised his head and looked around at the nearly grass-less red iron dirt of the yard, and back at the house, paint-free from the constant scouring of wind-swept sand, and said, "Yes."

Similarly, Agnes plans to get out one day, but Trout is more not so much "resigned to her fate" as simply comfortable with what she's been given, and, if she's more practical than Agnes, she's also less ambitious, the difference between "more practical" and "less ambitious" being, in the majority of cases, a distinction without a difference.

And yet, for all her impatience with the limitations of her reality, Agnes loves her grandmother and accepts that yard sale items are part of life, and that your grandmother isn't expected to quite get what it is you know and care about.

So anyway.

So, anyway, while there are some cartoonists who would probably do better crafting comics for Agnes's grandmother than they would writing them for her or for Trout, there are also those who aren't aiming for either demographic, and that's fine, too.

I doubt, for instance, that Agnes, Trout or Grandma would have a clue about today's "That Is Priceless," but it made me giggle.

 

 

Separate Lives

Brad Diller's salute to marital empathy and engagement in Funday Morning struck me at the right moment. 

I've been streaming Netflix while doing dishes recently, and, in particular, the "American Experience" series on presidents. Apparently, finding a spouse who even knows what you do for a living, much less gives a rat's patootie about it -- or about any of your other interests, activities and personal needs -- is pretty uncommon and could perhaps be a barrier to greatness.

And it also appears to be one area in which gender equality has truly been achieved.

Poor Harry Truman was devoted to Bess, but she wouldn't even live in Washington, leaving him to serve his terms in the Senate and the White House essentially alone, writing lovelorn notes to her and sending them back to Missouri. Every once in awhile, he'd rise to a level of anger, disappointment, loneliness and sorrow sufficient to motivate him to write her a note expressing how much he needed her support, but those letters were found in his papers, unmailed.

And his predecessor, FDR, married his brilliant, witty and devoted but physically unattractive and socially insecure cousin Eleanor and, as soon as he began amassing a little street cred in DC, essentially abandoned her in favor of open affairs with more attractive aides.

How different history might have been if orthodontia had been more advanced a century ago!

And then last night, with the Texans and the Saints tied -- TIED! -- the dog got up off the couch and went to lie down in the bedroom. Okay, it was 10:30, but still.

Man's best friend my ass. I might just as well be married.

 

Seems like old times

Pat Bagley notes the plight of a soldier in a war with no direction and that calls upon no American to sacrifice except him.

The only thing we learn from history is that we learn nothing from history. I'm really sorry, guys. Wish I had more to offer than "You're not the first."

In 1985 -- before the story of the war had been co-opted by chickenhawks -- I performed at a gathering of Vietnam vets and antiwar activists to mark the 10th anniversary of the fall of Saigon.

I played "I Feel Like I'm Fixin' to Die Rag," to which the vets sang along happily, and the Australian song, "I Was Only 19," which, being pretty much unknown to US audiences, touched many of them deeply. (See below)

I also had this song on my play list but skipped over it in deference to several ARVN vets in the room. We should remember that it doesnt apply to all Afghans, either.

But it is a fair assessment of both situations, and it's a god damned shame to see it become relevant again. (And I mean "god damned" in the absolutely most literal sense.)

 

The pilot's playing poker in the cockpit of the plane
The casualties are rising like the dropping of the rain
And a mountain of machinery will fall before a man
When you're white boots marching in a yellow land

It's written in the ashes of the village towns we've burned
It's written in the empty beds of fathers unreturned
And the chocolate in the children's eyes will never understand
When you're white boots marching in a yellow land

Red blow the bugles of the dawn
Morning has arrived you must be gone
And the lost patrol chase their chartered souls
Like old whores following tired armies

Train them well, the men who will be fighting by your side
And never turn your back if the battle turns the tide
For the colors of a civil war are louder than command
When you're white boots marching in a yellow land

Blow them from the forests and burn them from your sight
Tie their hands behind their backs and question through the night
But when the firing squad is ready they'll be spitting where they stand
At the white boots marching in a yellow land

Red blow the bugles of the dawn
Morning has arrived you must be gone
And the lost patrol chase their chartered souls
Like old whores following tired armies

The comic and the beauty queen are dancing on the stage
Raw recruits are lining up like coffins in a cage
Oh, we're fighting in a war we lost before the war began
We're the white boots marching in a yellow land

                          -- Phil Ochs, 1968

 

Legitimate commentary

Todd Akin's remarks on "legitimate rape" provided the kind of moment you know will spawn a thousand editorial cartoons. I wanted to give it a few days to swirl, because it didn't seem like the sort of cartooning prompt that was going to produce good work in a short period.

And, true enough, the first few cartoons to hit merely pointed out that it was a damn stupid thing to say. Not a lot of nuance you can put on that observation, but I liked how Malc McGookin framed the implications of Akin's tilted reality:

I can't find a website for Malc, but here's an amusing and worthwhile 2006 interview, and you can find him and friend him on Facebook, which is where I picked up this cartoon as part of an ongoing stream of mordant Aussie wit and thoughtful commentary.

The scramble of Republicans to disassociate themselves from Akin's comment provoked cartoons even from conservative artists, who seem at such moments more likely to either hide under their drawing boards or else to draw cartoons pointing out that liberals are talking about such-and-such a GOP failing despite the obvious greater priority of such-and-such a Democratic failing.

But they did step up this time, if only to cast Akin as a pariah without much evaluation of the reason why.

There were, from both sides of the aisle, a couple of cartoons depicting a pregnant elephant wanting to abort Akin, and then, with the apparent convergence of the GOP convention and Tropical Storm Isaac in Florida, several showing the storm as "abortion" or "reproductive rights" or whatever. 

Scott Stantis rose above the rest with this one, which even features a delightful comb-over and an absolutely wonderful pair of cargo shorts:

 

The rest of the "here comes a hurricane" cartoons were pretty non-descript.  A lot of cartoonists avoid looking at each other's work for fear of being influenced, but most of the Akin cartoons might as well have been traced on a lightbox, because there really were only four or five takes on it and they came from a mountain of cartoonists.

But one factor that bred a little bit of actual analysis, as the Republicans ran away from him, was that they did so amid a cloud of non-apology-apologies, which I found quite interesting. It became clear that they were disassociating themselves from his remarks without quite disassociating themselves from his position.

And Kevin Siers nailed that critical factor:

 

There were also a number of cartoonists who went after the men-dictating-to-women aspect of things, which, by the way, has this ironic twist: If Akin is persuaded to drop out of the race at this stage, the GOP county committees in Missouri that will choose his replacement are required by their own charter to consist of one man and one woman.

Granted, that "one woman" -- being a Missouri Republican -- is probably not likely to be mistaken for Bella Abzug or Angela Davis, but it's a nod to parity that other political parties might want to emulate.

Anyway, the cartoons on women's rights were, again, predictable and kinda preachy.

However, John Cole managed to transform a pair of relevant shapes into something that inspires me to quote Shelly Duval's rock critic character from "Annie Hall":

The only word for this is transplendent... it's transplendent!

They inhaled

It's not uncommon for a comic strip to reveal its lead time by riffing on a specific event.

But the only conclusion to be drawn from today's comics page is that somebody left a huge tank of silly uncorked a few weeks ago and cartoonists inhaled the fumes in large numbers. Most of these don't inspire a lot of ponderous commentary (you're welcome), but they certainly inspired a giggle.

Maybe I'm the one who's been inhaling something. Anyway ...

Okay, I'm a sucker for bathos. I also think that Donna  Lewis has a wicked way of simultaneously celebrating and skewering egocentricity.  Today's Reply All was a sweet distaff take on the "guys sucking their guts in at the beach" gags.

And, having promised to keep the commentary low, I will instead send you to this very funny but not entirely joking discussion of women and shoes. I can't tell quite where Donna Lewis stands on the topic of Carrie Bradshaw, but I'm pretty sure her character, Lizzie, stands there in something fabulous.

 

Meanwhile, over at the Duplex, Glenn McCoy proves that the right spin can make a slightly shopworn gag brand-new and sparkly. Applied to "I read a study about smoking" or "I read a study about eating fats," the "stop reading" conclusion is, well, meh.

But the wasting time element completely redeems it. Don't throw anything out. You just never know.

It also helps the gag that most of us have been forced to sit through "make a list" and "recite your goals" lectures at various business luncheons or conventions, in which some insufferable over-age National Honor Society veteran tells us how obsessive-compulsive tightass behavior is the key to success.

A graphic emerged on Facebook the other day that divided successful and unsuccessful people by their traits. On the successful side were things like "making lists" and "maintaining a Day Planner," while, on the unsuccessful side were things like "enjoying life" and "having sex."

Or something like that. I probably should have filed it properly so I could refer back to it in the future as needed. (badaboom)

 

Anyone want to bet that the Argyle Sweater's Scott Hilburn maybe lives on the East Coast? Well, wherever he lives, the sudden switch from fantasy people to real siblings caught me completely by surprise and put me on the floor.

Yes, I'm sure it helps if you're a football fan. Preferably from, oh, Houston, Tennessee or maybe Jacksonville. But niche humor has its place and, yes, Denver fans, this will still be funny in January.

 

This Reality Check is just really stupid. Except that I'm laughing. Probably because stupid works really well, as long as it's really stupid.

Also -- like the fourth panel of the Argyle Sweater -- the gag comes completely out of left field. The next cartoonist who riffs on John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt won't get nearly the same laff. 

But it sure worked today.

 

Here, Ken Catalino takes a shot at the whining Republicans who refuse to admit that, yes, successful industries are built from public investments in infrastructure, utilities and services, and who are, at this very moment, planning to whimper and sulk over the concept at their upcoming convention.  (Heard a great new term for this, by the way: "poutrage.")

We all know that no "Leminade" stand owner in history has ever bought his own lemons and sugar, or the pitcher they were mixed in, or the ice, or the paper cups, and that obtaining the wood for the stand didn't involve scraping up your allowance and going to Home Depot. Nor do they pay rent for the lawn space on property for which somebody else is paying the bank.

And yet seven-year-olds throughout recorded history have proudly sat at the curbside, not just feeling that they "built this themselves" but with no intention of paying back Mommy and Daddy for the lemons, sugar, paper cups, etc. before pocketing the proceeds.

This is a hilarious send-up of the childish attitude of plutocrats who refuse to acknowledge their debt to the public!

(Did I mention that I also really enjoy sarcasm?)

And, finally today ...

Someone asked me if I had a Twitter account. And it wasn't the first time.

Unlike the chap in today's Bizarro, I actually do, but I've never used it much because, well, I've never felt the need to tweet anything relevant.

The site updates every morning, usually no later than 8 a.m. Eastern (US) Time. Has now for two and a half years. So, um, what's to say? Come on by, or set an RSS feed. We're open for business.

But, what the hell, it doesn't take much effort to say so. For your daily dose of "Here I am again!," plus a handy link, set your Twitterometer to @ComicStripOTD.

Mahalo!

The invisible hand delivers a bitch-slap

Dana Summers comes up with a cartoon now that I would have condemned back in May, when Facebook stock prices launched a raft of "Faceplant" cartoons that pretty much missed the point in favor of the pun.

You may recall that, when Facebook launched their IPO, it didn't live up to the hype, in part because of a computer glitch, but largely because, well, it was hype. Sometimes the hype pays off, sometimes it doesn't. 

This time, it didn't.

Now, as the stock tumbles some more, the news people are going right back into full astonished coverage mode.

I'm not going to go through the whole IPOs-and-media-hype rant today, because, for one thing, I think I did a rather exquisite job on the topic back in May, which I encourage you to read.

And, for another, I've got an early morning dental appointment to have a filling replaced, which is going to be a lot more fun than dwelling on the unhinged foolishness of the stock market or the people who cover it.

So, rather than rehashing all that, let's try to look at what the current downturn actually says.

There is a small element of change in coverage, which has expanded from simply marveling over the fact that Facebook doesn't seem to have as much value as it was supposed to and is also encompassing the failure of Groupon and some other virtual ventures.

But it's still being covered as "Wall Street doesn't love the Internet" rather than "Here are some business ventures that sure didn't pan out."

Groupon is failing because Groupon is, well, if not a scam, certainly a lousy deal for companies. There have been several articles about it that use the term "loan shark" to explain how, even when it works, it doesn't work.

That it doesn't work online is somewhat irrelevant, however: If it were one of those discount coupon books that get sold by schools and sports teams as fundraisers, its innovative, self-serving element would still keep it from working.

By contrast, for Facebook, unlike Groupon, the merchants who pay the freight charges are easier to bring in and, since they should not be as dependent on raising actual traffic, are likely slower to decide it's a bad deal for them.

That is, the Groupon model requires people not just to participate but -- since the merchant loses huge piles of money on the deal -- to return often enough as full-price customers to first pay off that cost and then to create profit.

Which ain't gonna happen, since a lot of people only come because of the insane discount being offered on something they would never pay full price for.

But a Facebook ad, like any other ad, has a task of raising awareness in addition to the immediate goal of getting a certain number of people to take action right now.

Back when I was in TV advertising, people were purchasing a new car every five years, which meant that most car ads were "wasted" in the sense that 80 percent of the audience wasn't even marginally in the market for a car that year.

But, then, when they did decide to buy a car, the brand preference had been implanted. And that was the point of the advertising.

I don't think Facebook has that same ability to implant preference, and neither does GM, which pulled $10 million from Facebook, an action which, in turn, panicked everyone else which, in turn, is part of why Facebook stock has fallen. 

Another part of the fall in Facebook stock is that employees who got stock in the IPO were not permitted to sell it until now, and, with that restriction over, some of them are now selling their stock, which, naturally, does a little supply-and-demand tap dance on its price.

What's it all mean?

Well, it all means that nothing has changed and that all this innovation in business models is nothing but fresh paint on the same old building.

A chart came out on Facebook the other day about who owns what, showing that most of the supposedly niche-y little organic companies are actually owned by Kelloggs or Monsanto or whoever. Since the last of those charts that I looked into proved to be absurdly inaccurate, I won't hunt up and repost this one, but there is this to be said:

Whether it is a small purveyor of hemp-based Fair Market granola bars or an innovative hipster on-line social site, the fact that the entrepreneur wears a hoodie or a Peruvian dork hat or both says nothing about the spiritual purity of the venture, nor does it suggest that even a genuinely idealistic company won't eventually sell out to the traditional market.

At which point any investor who thought this was going to be different is left in a position that most certainly is not.

The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which.