Idiom Savant

And Don't Even Get Me Started On Puppies And Sunshine

I guess it says something about my character that when I learned about the Free Hugs Guy, I instantly and reflexively tried to think of some way to mock him.

Apparently, this is a fellow named Juan Mann (which I bet isn't even his real name -- he's showing the world that Juan Mann can make a difference!) who hangs out at Pitt Street Mall in Sydney, Australia, with a big sign reading "FREE HUGS."  The video, set to a mall-emo soundtrack, shows him getting hassled by the fuzz after dispensing a few hugs... and then the miracle happens.  He gets, like, a couple thousand signatures on a petition, and then, I guess, the king of Australia or whoever finally allows Mr. Mann and his minions to hug the fuck out of passersby.

See?  This is what I mean.  A guy just wants to hug the nice people, and this is my reaction.  I feel like Scrooge flailing away with his walking stick at a bunch of Cockney urchins singing Christmas carols.  Why must I find fault in Mr. Mann's motives?  Why must I suspect that he probably smells kind of weird?  Why must I imagine his confederates picking the pockets of all the blissed-out hug recipients?

Why do I fear joy?

While I'm admitting how much it apparently pisses me off to see other people happy, I might as well confess that I was always faintly irritated by the Weaver Street Dancing Guy, Bruce Thomas.  I'd see him out there, dancing in the middle of the lawn, with no music or anything playing, and I'd be all, like, What's wrong with that guy?  What does he think he's doing?  My irritation, of course, makes about as much sense as Carr Mill Mall's decision to ban his dancing -- which is to say, not much sense at all.  Although, obviously, the Carr Mill people have every right to decide what can and can't happen on their private property, regardless of how insanely stupid that decision may be.  (I guess they've decided it's okay for him to dance when there's actual music occurring on the lawn.)  Maybe in his dancing I sensed a reproach, a condemnation of my refusal to dance freely to the music only I can hear.

Which is, of course, completely unfair to Mr. Thomas.  He's not reproaching me; he's just dancing.  I'm reproaching myself. 

This whole thing does, however, remind me of how much I hate clowns.

See, there is only one acceptable reaction to a clown -- unrestrained glee.  And if you do not laugh at the clown, there is obviously something very wrong with you.  You are a mean, bad person.  (Unlike my reaction to the Dancing Guy, this is not just in my own head -- this is a very real prejudice, and is in fact the presupposition around which Robin Williams has based his entire latter-day film persona [c.f. Patch Adams].) The presence of a clown creates a binary universe, which does not allow for the fact that I may just not find the clown to be very fucking funny.

Okay, maybe not all clowns are this way.  But by and large, clowns are just bullies who want your laughter instead of your fear.

So.  All that said, I've got nothing against hugs.  I don't hug strangers very often, though, and never without seriously weighing the consequences beforehand.  And if you're a clown, I'm not going to hug you.  Sorry.  That's just how I roll.

John Roderick Is A Towel-Hogging Dick

The Long Winters are as awesome live as they are on record -- at least, they were awesome when I saw them this past Saturday night.  I mostly love the Long Winters because they are a great band with amazing songs and lyrics (e.g., "But she never says 'I love you'/ Til I say 'I love you'/ Like we're exchanging hostages;" "Twice you burned your life's work/ Once to start a new life/ And once just to start a fire;" "It never rains enough to cool my fever/ All it does is rain;" "You can't play nursemaid and be the crazy patient;" "Are you still training for the big race/ By hoping the runners will die?"), but also because I'm so completely out of touch with modern music that maybe on some level I've decided to latch on to this band as my token hip, contemporary thing to like.

Also, singer and songwriter John Roderick is a funny sonofabitch, with between-song banter that I wish I could remember better.  Commenting on the heat in the club, he said (I'm paraphrasing), "It may be hot in here now, but we're gonna turn it up!  'Cause that's the kind of band we are, with our twee-ass Northwestern indie-pop."   And after he finally located a towel onstage with which to wipe himself down, he goofed on not sharing it with the rest of the band, commenting on rumors going around the Internet about him being a bastard and difficult to work with.  He wanted to keep those rumors going.  "So, if there are any bloggers in the audience," he said, "I'd appreciate it if you'd blog about what a towel-hogging dick I am."

I'm sure I can't have been the only blogger in the audience.  I probably wasn't even the only blogger within arms' reach of myself.  If I had swung a dead cat in there, I surely would have hit at least a dozen other bloggers.  So we'll see how quick we can get this meme out there.

John Roderick: talented musician, insightful songwriter, expressive vocalist -- and towel-hogging dick.

I will probably regret for the rest of my miserable life the fact that I didn't stay until the end.  But my back was in horrifically intense pain that night; I could barely stand up.  Of course, I started feeling better as soon as I got home.  This is probably also John Roderick's fault.  Because he is a bastard.

And, hey, check it out: there's a documentary about the band in the works!

Photo by Autumn de Wilde

The School Of Hard Equinox

So.  Fall officially begins shortly after midnight tonight (04:03 UTC, 12:03 am EDT).  And, of course, the high tomorrow will be near 87°F where I live.

Let's take a moment to discuss some of the pros and cons of fall, shall we?

PRO:

• Summer is over.  I realize that this fact also serves as a "con" for many, especially those still in grade school, who shouldn't be reading this anyway because of all the swears I use.  But I've come to realize over the years that I'm just not a summer kind of guy.  Not for me the go-get-'em, sun-worshippin', outdoorsy, half-naked Juicy Fruit lifestyle.  I'm basically a big cranky hairy sweaty guy with a bad back and weird knees.  I will be happy when the temperature outdoors is lower than body temperature and humidity is less than 8000 percent.
• On the day Daylight Saving Time ends, we get an extra hour.  I always get a kick out of that, although I have yet to think of something really interesting to do during that hour. 
• Autumn is the season in which my birthday happens.  This was a bigger deal when I was younger.  (See CON, below.)
• The new season of TV starts.  Actually, is this even true anymore?  I have no sense of the ebb and flow of normal television these days, since I don't get cable and can usually only pull in PBS with my rabbit ears.  I know that the new season of "History Detectives" has already come and gone.

CON:

• Leaves.  I wasn't sure whether this was a pro or a con, actually.  Leaves are pretty, sure, and piles of them are fun to jump into (if you're sure there's not a rusty farm implement or nest of snakes in the pile, that is), and burning leaves smell good, although I think it's illegal to burn them around here nowadays.  But you've got to rake them up, or at least hire an undocumented worker to come over and blow them around.  I mean, I don't have to, since I live in an apartment.  But enough institutional memory of raking leaves remains to equate leaves with a big pain in the ass in my mind.  Also: yeah, they're pretty, but I always feel like they're prettier elsewhere, and if I really want to fully enjoy the leaves, I'd have to go to the mountains, and then you have to time it right so that you're there on the peak weekend or whatever and the whole thing just makes me tired.
• Autumn is the season in which my birthday happens.  I'm getting to be a little ambivalent about birthdays, I guess.  Not all that thrilled about getting older, and I don't get as many guaranteed presents as I did back in the days that my parents were legally required to buy them for me.  Actually, this cartoon sums up part of how I feel.  Thank you, Web cartoon, for making it unnecessary for me to fully plumb my emotions!
• Next summer is just that much closer.  Oh, Jesus, no.

Anything I missed?

See You In The Funny Papers, And/Or In Hell

First of all, I wanted to make sure you were all aware of this:

This, as you might have guessed, is a sequence of "Mary Worth" strips acted out as a series of staged tableaux.  The black and white photography and eerie soundtrack further confirm what I've suspected all along: that "Mary Worth" takes place within a bleak, existential hellscape where joy is alien and reason is scorned.  Also note how the actors take pains to pose in a way that fully exposes the shitty artwork in the original strips.

The rest of the series is even better.  I make bold to say that you will not regret having watched it.

I read the funnies every day, and yet I would hardly ever describe them as "funny."  This isn't because I'm a hateful, fallow husk of a man with no capacity for love or joy -- or, rather, this isn't just because of that.  It's because comic strips just aren't that funny.  Does anybody think they are anymore?  Does anyone find themselves chuckling softly to themselves over something they saw in "Crankshaft" that morning?  Does anybody snort coffee out of their nose after reading "Dinette Set"?  Has anybody felt their life's burden slightly lifted after spending some time with "Fred Basset"?  No, no, and no.

Granted, turning out six black-and-white and one big color strip a week is bound to be harder than it looks.  I certainly couldn't do it.  Also, of course, there are occasional bright spots -- God forbid I say anything bad about "Calvin and Hobbes" or "Bloom County."  (Don't talk to me about "Outland" or "Opus," though, because they are not good.)  And every once in a while, you get a comic strip that lucks into the national zeitgeist, like "Doonesbury" did in the '70s (hard as it is to believe now, "Doonesbury" was once culturally relevant) and "Dilbert," God help us, did in the early '90s.

The soap opera strips, like Ms. Worth and "Judge Parker" and "Rex Morgan" -- well, they're not supposed to be funny.  And I guess the realities of the medium demand a... shall we say, deliberate pace, but damn it takes a long time for anything to happen in those strips.  Just a few months ago, "Judge Parker" wrapped up a sequence of strips that had appeared over the better part of a year; the action within those strips was supposed to have happened within one day.

Anyway, there's nothing I can say about the comics that hasn't been said more trenchantly at The Comics Curmudgeon or any of the other links you'll find in the sidebar under "The Funnies, Criticized."

I will say this, though: The gals in "9 Chickweed Lane" are mighty handsome.  Mm-hmmm.

Confidential To Jack In Chicago

Congratulations on getting born!  Well done, my friend.

Remind me sometime to tell you some embarrassing stories about your mom.