HALLOWEEN-TIME ALL THE TIME



Today is my favorite day of the year- Halloween. Granted, for a grown man, there are an awful lot of Draculas and Frankenstiens and sundry Wolfpeople-related objects in my home and an exorbitant number of horror movies at arm's reach that can be watched at any time, so it's arguable October 31st is really just something of an arbitrary date for me anymore.

But Halloween is more than monsters and make-up and slasher flicks. It's generally the peak of fall(the best three-weeks to live in the Midwest) and, amongst other things, it's the one time of year it's socially acceptable for dentist's offices, car dealerships, and library reading rooms around the country to adorn their coffee tables and waiting areas with mutilated body parts and corpses.

Maybe it's living in the city as opposed to a kid-filled small town, or maybe it's the fact that I'm no longer a kid myself (well... sorta) but it seems like Halloween has become less about kids and trick-or-treating, and more an excuse for adults to put on wigs, get drunk and act like assholes.

Now, a kid in a costume is adorable. Find any second grader, and have them dress up like a potato, a box of cotton swabs, or a velociraptor, and it's gonna be pretty awesome. Do the same thing to an adult, and you have... well, a jackass. Because by the time you're 20 or so, you should not have any interest in dressing up like a potato, or for that matter, any tuberous vegetable, Spiderman, Vasco Da Gamma, or Beethoven. Unless that's your job- say, you work for the Russet Gold Potato company, and your assigned task is to hand out potato-related propaganda while wearing a spud costume- there is absolutely no reason to subject yourself to the well-warranted ridicule that comes with being a grown-ass man in a potato suit.

Another thing about adults in costumes: they act like fucking assholes. When a kid is dressed like a pirate, and they act like a pirate, it's funny and cute. A kid with that fake polka-dot beard painted on in grease pencil talking like a drunken 18th century sea-faring British man? Priceless. But with adults, it's a grating, awful affair that will arouse in the more sensible among us a seemingly insurmountable urge to beat these people about the face and vital organs with a lead pipe. It doesn't matter what they're dressed as- whether some kind of Depp-related pirate, a corn cob, or a sexy pumpkin- they will find a way to take their costume source material and use it as an excuse to act it out in the most infuriating, slappable way possible. Add alcohol to the mix, and that gut instinct to set fire to the slurring, stumbly Ringo Starr standing next to you who keeps sloshing Vodka Cranberry down your front while trying to do a cute impression of one of the oft-maligned Beatle's solo records is truly justified..

Oh, and if you're an adult dressed like a pimp, a "gangsta," or any kind of piratey anything- nice try, but apparently you have been sapped of every last ounce of creativity left in your body. It's been done. And Austin Powers? Really? Still? That was like 15 years ago- give it a rest. When is that gonna die? Hopefully before I do.

I propose we give Halloween back to the kids. Because, if nothing else, the movie "Halloween" should've taught us by now that getting a babysitter for your kids on Halloween night is both a bummer, and a potential path to unadulterated slaughter.

Oh, and if another drunk grown-ass fake pirate shouts "Arr Matey!" at me, I may have to see to it that he actually NEEDS that eye patch.

Happy Halloween, ev'rbuddy!

MAKIN' THAT DOUGH- Charlie Parr's Too Much Liquor, Not Enough Gasoline

Charlie Parr is a phenomenal storyteller and guitar picker (of the Piedmont tradition) from Duluth, MN. I had the pleasure of putting together the artwork for his Independent Records Ireland debut,
Too Much Liquor, Not Enough Gasoline.

It's a sort of retrospective collecting some truly outstanding gems from Charlie's last handful of self-released records.

Charlie has an off-kilter, laid back and hugely authentic style about him that seems to be lacking in most "revivalist" traditional country blues-types going nowadays. These songs manage to sound modern while inexplicably simultaneously sounding like they could be some long forgotten gem from Blind Willie McTell or Mississippi John Hurt.

If you haven't heard him, I highly suggest doing so, especially if you're at all a fan of country blues or classic folk singer-songwriters of the John Prine/Dave Van Ronk/Kristofferson ilk. Or, hell- just a fan of really fucking good music.

Check out his website:

www.charlieparr.com

Buy a record or two- you'll be damn glad you did. Should he find his way in your town, you'll never find a better reason to get yourself out of the house and watch a master of the form at work.

This record is available from Independent Records Ireland:

www.independentrecords.ie

These are lo-res files, so they're a titch blurry, but you don't mind that now do ya?

It looks a lot better when you order yer own copy and see it in person.

Bottoms up...


Booklet cover:

Inside booklet:

CD face:

CD tray back:

HIGHWAY TO THE DANGER ZONE

As summer, the (theoretical) season for leisure and relaxation, comes to a close around here, I've come to realize more fully just how utterly taboo a good number of our accepted forms of warm weather entertainments in this country would be in most other parts of the world.

For example... the air show; a time-honored tradition in the cities and suburbs of our fair country since the post-war era. Last month, as the Air & Water show set up shop here on Chicago's lake front, millions (yes millions) of hard working middle class Americans packed up picnic baskets, grabbed the kiddies and the lawn chairs and headed down to hunt out the perfect spot to spend a Sunday afternoon celebrating the end of summer by watching military war craft normally used in carpet bombings and air raids gracefully swoop and twirl around for their entertainment.

Every year it's the same situation: you're going about your business, heading to work or grabbing a sandwich on your lunch break, when super-sonic F-15 Bombers screech over head, bringing everyone on the sidewalk to a halt, hand blocking panicked faces as an unearthly sound-barrier-shattering roar pierces the city. The collective memory kicks in, and fear-grimaces melt into smiles as all remember the air and water show taking place over the weekend. Gotta get out and see that one, kids!

In a country where, moreover, we're fat & happy (or at least fat), screeching war planes dredge up fond memories of summers gone by spent listening to classic rock blasting out of decrepit speakers, knocking back a slurpee and a big soft pretzel while watching death ships perform aerial acrobatics. In innumerable other countries, screeching warplanes send the masses scattering, eliciting fear of being completely obliterated by a cruise missile, which, to be fair, is really the appropriate reaction.

Of course, there are a litany of other forms wholesome American summer funstuffs that really drive home the myriad reasons why other countries aren't always so crazy about us.

Eating contests, anyone?

Giant, mutant vegetables at the County Fair?

Grand Funk Railroad?

Welcome, Fall, I embrace you.... your hay rack rides, haunted houses and apple bobs aren't nearly as middle finger-y to the rest of the world.

ENTER: THE BATMAN

New business, old business...

For the handful of you checking this site with some regularity, I apologize for my lengthy (and getting lengthier) pauses without any new partially informed rants (and pictures!)

Shockingly, I've been picking up some freelance work recently, which has greatly hampered my comic strip and panel production. Kind of a good problem to have, honestly.

But never-you-fear... said freelance work as well as some new strips and ruminations will be thrown up here (literally) in the coming weeks...

...I'll wait while you get new pants...

Back? Great.

So here's a little story, entirely true, published in the most recent issue of Roctober magazine (#47 for those of you wanting to Collect 'Em All...)

Jake Austin does an excellent job mining the music (and comic) vaults to put out Roctober as he's able- they have a new anthology of comic and musical musings being prepared for a major publisher as we speak, but in the meantime, you can see what they're up to and fill your back-issue stash or pick up a T-Shirt at www.roctober.com . Patronize your indie businesses, folks, because they're becoming further and farther between.

So...without further to do... here's the "Batman" story from this month's Roctober.

AMERICA: WHERE YOU CAN BEAT YOUR TROUBLES TO DEATH WITH A SHOVEL...

This from WKYC out of Cleveland, OH...



Euclid woman charged with beating fawn to death
Posted By: Kim Wendel Posted: 7/7/2009 7:09:52 PM WWW.WYKC.COM

EUCLID -- Resident Dorothy Richardson, 76, said she was defending herself when she beat to death a 25-pound fawn that was crouched in her flower bed, then stuffed the fawn's body in a cardboard box and put it out on trash day.

A widow, she said she has been defending her garden against deer for years and this time took a shovel and beat the fawn until it died.

She said the fawn's eyes contacted hers, like he was going to jump and bite her head off.

Euclid City Councilman Christopher Gruber says Richardson told him something different.

Gruber says Richardson said she hit it once and, according to her, it screamed and she hit it two more times, then she said that what she wanted to do was put it at the end of the yard so the other deer know not to mess with her.

Gruber is now a witness in the animal abuse case against Richardson. If convicted, she faces up to 60 days in jail and a $1,000 fine.
© 2009 WKYC-TV




Wow. Seriously...what the hell?

I mean... a shark, sure. A bear cub...eh...OK...they at least have sharp teeth and eat meat. A stray dog- still extreme to beat the life out of it with a shovel, but I can see how a stupid person might be of the belief that there's some kind of threat involved. I can even see beating the neighbor's jerk-ass kid to death simply for him being a jerk-ass kid and you being a miserable old woman. But a baby deer? Honestly?

Hasn't she ever seen Bambi? I mean, he wasn't bringing shit to a fight.

Outside of a dove- the eternal symbol for peace, a rabbit- the eternal symbol for magicians, or maybe a butterfly- the eternal symbol for weak-ass wussies, I can't think of an animal more synonymous with gentleness and harmlessness than the deer- let alone its babies(topsoil erosion and crop-eating aside.)

It is horrifying to me that the general public can be this ignorant and hell-bent on "protectin' thar propurtee..." as to beat a baby deer to death with a SHOVEL in front of their neighbors...and THEN to LEAVE ITS LIFELESS BABY DEER BODY AT THE END OF THE DRIVEWAY TO "WARN" OTHER DEER! I have to think that was more to warn away neighbors.

Y'know that guy a few years ago who suffocated to death in elephant shit after giving one an enema and standing right behind it? Not as ignorant as this woman.

What if this lady was your mom? Imagine getting the phone call that your mom will either face a 1,000 fine or two months in jail for beating a baby deer to death with a shovel. There's no way Social Security's gonna cover that one, and good luck finding a Hallmark card to fit the moment. But then, imagine the kind of insane, fucked up shit her kids must have been spoon fed as a baby humans. She probably tried beating her kids to death with a shovel, too, so she could lay their lifeless bodies at the foot of her womb to warn it from getting pregnant again.

But what about the deer? I'm a little befuddled that it just stood there and allowed this old woman to beat it to death. Don't deer startle easy and frolic away at the sound of a twig snapping in the distance?

So was it deaf? Was it just stupid? Did it have some kind of weird baby deer death wish? Maybe it just deserved it. I mean- let's face it; just in general terms, if you are a mammal of any size or strength at all, it's pretty difficult to be beaten to death by an old woman, shovel or no.

Maybe he was ready to start some shit... She'd been startin' up some cheese with his relatives- he didn't like the way she was looking at him. Maybe he should have brought a folding chair. Now that's a headline I want to read: "Baby Deer Beats Ignorant Old Woman To Death With Folding Chair."

As I read article after article, day after day, about gun nuts brandishing automatic weapons and sporting tri-cornered hats at Obama's rather mundane, non-threatening town hall meetings about health care, I can't help but feel there's a similar thread there.

The difference is- I'm thinkin' Obama's remembered his folding chair.

THE EARTH MOVES UNDER MY FEET...

Most of what I think about is a colossal waste of time... of course, if you've ever seen this website before, you already know that.

I have to assume it has a lot to do with being one of the first wave of the cable TV generation- the first where popular folk heroes weren't Daniel Boone or Johnny Appleseed, but were instead Sgt. Slaughter and The Hamburgler, and instead of idolizing astronauts or the president, we spent time sitting in front of the TV, thinking it would be pretty cool to grow up and be a mutant tortoise who fights ninjas.

So- as an after affect of the brain-sludge I found filling my information-collecting apparatus as a child, I now find that much of my readily accessible knowledge is absolutely and utterly worthless. In fact, most of it was probably originally dreamed up to sell something to somebody... that is, after all, what "pop culture" IS when you get right down to it, isn't it?

As I wander the streets with little aim in particular aside from eventually being at my apartment, I occasionally catch myself thinking about these useless, trivial things.

Meanwhile, on a half-glance at the sidewalk, I have to stop for a second and think of the hundreds (perhaps thousands) of tiny fleeing bugs and creatures I'm inadvertently squashing the life out of as I dopily lope along trying to remember the name of the guy that was on both Bonanza and Battlestar Galactice (it was Lorne Greene. I have his country record!) Refocusing on this for a moment makes me realize how absolutely ridiculous and unfair "life," in all its forms, is. Tiny, harmless bugs go about their short lives with few purposes, but they're damned dedicated to them- collecting and eating food, building intricate dwellings and having sex with other bugs... um... that's kind of it for most of them. Meanwhile, we humans thunder around without a care in the world, undoubtedly destroying countless tiny civilizations on our way to go buy a Jamba Juice because, hell, we thought it sounded good after sitting on the couch watching "Maude" reruns all afternoon.

Humans have all the power in the world. We have the capacity to beat the life out of most of the other creatures on the planet to death. Those we can't pummel, we've been endowed with the ability invent elaborate contraptions to kill them so we can hang their heads in our trophy rooms, devour their bodies, or just because 'fuck 'em. And yet, when finding oneself all wrapped up in the endless layers of bullshit we've created to keep ourselves fat, happy, and entertained, it's easy to forget that, like those little bugs, our main purposes are the same- nourishment, shelter, and procreation.

Suddenly, everything seems like it'll be OK. After all, you should be smiling: You're a human being! You can choose HOW you want to waste your life instead of being a small, nearly unseeable bug smashed to death under the proverbial boot heel of a guy absent mindedly walking down to Ace Hardware to buy a bathtub stopper.

TAKE IT LIKE A MAN-GOAT

I hate being hot.

But I don't mean like regular kinda hot, I mean like flaming, sticky sweaty, pit-soaked hot. That absolutely god-awful feeling of having every last molecule of moisture squoze from your red, irritated body.

But perhaps more than oppressively humid, swamp-ball heat, I have a strong dislike for the people that seem thoroughly unphased by it. It's as though they are lizards, happily baking themselves on a sandstone outcropping, rollerblading around the city in tiny, upsetting stretchy shorts and those god awful muscle shirts that are held on with two thin straps of poly-cotton. As I slowly lope around, as thoroughly soaked with my own juices as if I had just fallen off a ship, or were in the midst of being hickory-pit roasted, sweat pouring directly into my eyes from the exertion of doing little more than just pointing my body in a certain direction and continuing to pilot it that way, these people are out running, doing jumping jacks, or lifting pallets of bricks up over their heads, looking at me with a face that says "You god damn baby. It's just heat! Enjoy this life while you can, you sad giant man." This, of course, stirs up a stew of emotions in my giant god damn man-baby, human-hating self.

So every summer, I trudge around sweating my balls off in a state of unimaginable discomfort, while the attractive people of the world swish and swirl past me, laughing or looking scornful, enjoying their svelt, athletic selves, while I sweat profusely (mainly from my head) imagining the beer I will be drinking as soon as I'm back in the safety of my own air conditioned home (it's worth every penny.)

But... you know what else is hot, comfortable, attractive people? Hell. Hell is hot.

I will do everything in my power to live a better life from here on out. 'Cause I'm willing to bet Heaven is air conditioned all the time, and nobody has to pick up the check.