It's April 15, which means little on weekends and less on Patriots Day, but taxes and Easter are sharing the comics pages today and you still can't do better on the subject of taxes than this Shoe from 1979.
An opinion that has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I'm a writer of opinions.
And speaking of personal prejudices, the fact that I was raised Catholic often informs my appreciation of Heart of the City, and I remember Good Friday services as being deeply penitent and very, very long.
I wasn't necessarily able to distinguish "penitent" from "morbid," but I was sure able to understand "very, very long," though, as a tiny youngster required to kneel up straight in the pew for three hours, I did not realize how much worse it was to be an adolescent altar boy walking the Stations with the priest.
Those frequent photos of young GIs and palace guards fainting in military formations? Altar boys did that, too, only nobody ever took pictures of it.
Anybody who had whipped out a camera in church on Good Friday would have been flashed straight to Hell before you could say "Have mercy on us."
The emphasis on Christ's sacrifice pervaded Catholic culture beyond Holy Week, and Pat Oliphant captured the penitent/morbid Catholic thingie back in 2004, when Mel Gibson brought his arch-conservative RC viewpoint to the big screen in The Passion of the Christ, which was criticized in a relatively positive review as "the New Testament rendered as a snuff film."
Pervasive, yes: As that critic writes,
(T)his is a hero's narrative and here, as in the director's other films, heroism amounts to little more than a willingness to absorb violence, embrace it even.
Heart is lucky: Mrs. Angelini and Mel Gibson and I grew up in the world of Sister Dolorosa, and were carefully taught that faith requires suffering and if you don't have some, boy jayzuz, I'll give yez plenty.
I'm not sure there was intended to be a direct theological connection between having to kneel through three hours of Good Friday guilt and chocolate bunnies on Easter Sunday, but, as Heart notes, at least there was a happy ending.
Though, when it comes to that, not only was Advent a lot more fun than Lent, but the payoff was also way better.
And if my young experience weren't confusing enough, I had two great-aunts who were teaching nuns and were extraordinarily bright and kind and remembered warmly by their students. By contrast, my long-dead first grade teacher was still a legend of sadism in the teacher's lounge at St. Mary's a half-century later, not that anybody had bothered to intervene at the time.
Holidays/Holy Days, as Dean suggests, can be pretty weird.
Meanwhile, back in the friendly skies ...
I think the United thing has pretty much played out, but I like Drew Sheneman's take.
People are saying, "I'll never fly United again!" but there just aren't that many choices these days, thanks to the mergers and monopolistic Wall Streetism that has become normal.
Perhaps it's because I mostly fly on business, but I find myself choosing flights by when they leave and whether the layovers make the connections possible and when they arrive and then I factor in ticket price, and only rarely -- perhaps never -- do I pay any attention to what's painted on the side of the plane.
The days of prefering Frontier over Continental or Eastern over TWA are long gone, and, as Sheneman suggests, they can pretty much do whatever they want.
We're about one more merger away from this:
However, Bill Day managed to get one final good topical gag out of it:
Don't worry: It's not like stupid things won't keep happening.
Speaking of flying
Once again, a comic speaks to me personally: Today's Medium Large explains why I will never, ever move again.
I've got a three-room apartment, utilities included and a good landlady, for $675 a month. My retirement plan, we being of roughly the same age, is to die before she does. I live in perpetual fear that she and her husband will decide to sell out and head for Arizona or Florida, but they're both natives, so it's thankfully not too likely.
Of course, given his supersonic flying ability, Clark could commute the Daily Planet gig from Ma and Pa Kent's farm, but then Lois would wonder where he lived and why he never brings her over to his apartment to test his X-ray vision on her garments.
And speaking of the difficulty of maintaining a secret identity, while I suppose maybe the leading paper in Metropolis pays well as journalism goes, most young reporters have to have roommates, and that rich sonofabitch Bruce Wayne doesn't worry about money, so who you gonna partner up with?
"If you see all my clothes hanging on the doorknob, don't open it."
Let him climb the rigging like his pappy used to do:
I always assumed that Popeye's calves were as overdeveloped as his forearms, but this vintage Thimble Theater from November 3, 1930, shows that -- duh -- sailors wear bell-bottom trousers.
Which I knew, but hadn't applied to this particular sailor.
Castor Oyl had better lock up his daughter.
And also this:
A final example of comics that hit personally: I just got through yet one more massive quarrel with the printer and am still trying to deal with the random joys of Windows 10, so today's Carpe Diem got not only a laff but earned you all a second video treat:
(There. And I hope that makes up for my having posted this yesterday.)