CSotD: In which I go full Andy Rooney
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I could probably use my Andy Rooney pics for nearly everything today, because I seem to be stuck in Old Fart Mode. Oh well. It's always worth the price of admission here.
For instance, On The Fastrack made me scroll back my memory bar, and I think the last time I got a Christmas bonus was 1981.
Do people still get those?
I realize they're still a thing for investment people, because it comes up in corruption trials and so forth, and certainly the top brass at the companies that didn't give me Christmas bonuses got yearly bonuses themselves. Which also felt like corruption.
Which reminds me of when a corporate VP came to visit, and we all got herded into the break room for punch and cookies and a pep talk, at the end of which someone asked him if we were finally going to get cost-of-living increases that year. He responded that we got COLAs every year and someone else told him that we hadn't had a goddam COLA in three years and he said he'd look into it.
Never heard back.
Didn't get COLAs, either.
Homer nods, Jethro doesn't correct him
I don't know whether Jerry Scott or Jim Borgman is the VW van expert, but their usual spot-on gags about Jeremy's wheels whiffed on this one.
For those who never had the pleasure, there was no real heater in the old VWs, or, at least, there was no fan. What there was, was a vent that would send air across the engine and waft it gently into the passenger compartment, so long as you happened to be moving. And, with a rear-mounted engine and the length of a van, it had plenty of time to cool back down as it wafted.
That was fine when I lived in Denver, where winter is only part-time and it never gets that cold and, besides, it's a dry cold which isn't a joke but really does cut down on the frost build-up.
However, when I moved to Northern New York where winter is a contact sport, my choices were to get a second car for winter, or a different one, and I couldn't afford to keep two cars insured and licensed.
It's the only car I've ever had that I really miss.
Though I console myself by thinking of the drawbacks in going down the road at 60 miles an hour with the only thing between you and the car ahead of you is a spare tire and a pair of cookie sheets.
But I'd do it again. God, I loved that clumsy old beast.
(In deference to the Prime Directive, I note that
the Zits guys got this one 100% right.)
Oh dear
I suppose the priest had some redemption or salvation or other kindly instinct in mind when he came up with this idea, but … well, the arc starts here.
Jump in and hang on, because I have a feeling Father Gene is gonna need more than two cookies sheets and a spare tire before this holiday season is over.
This isn't about comics …
Dave Blazek shared this letter (click to embiggen) on his Facebook page the other day, and I was pleased to see that British censors are so much like the Americans: It's important to spare the kids from profanity and sex, but you can whack off as many arms and legs in front of them as you'd like.
I've told this story before, but we took our three-year-old to see the funny movie with the coconut shells for horsies and he wound up seeing more of his mother's hand over his eyes than he did of the screen.
The payoff was that, while we weren't particularly concerned that he'd notice the oral sex as long as they were only talking about it, we didn't anticipate his going into full terror-mode a few months later when we told him the Easter Bunny was coming.
Great Moments In Parenting.
Anyway, In the interest of comic strip relevance and last minute Christmas shopping, Dave's got a new collection out. I might have a blurb in it. I wrote him one, but I don't know if he used it.
Yes, I lavish my highest praise upon books I haven't read.
… but this is about comics. Or at least it was.
Speaking of keeping talk of naughty things away from the children, I'm going to assume that the expression in the last panel of today's vintage Radio Patrol has changed meaning since 1945.
Or it might explain why you don't see as many Irish Setters as you used to.
Another offensive four-letter-word
Candorville touches on the contrast between my generation, in which we fell in love at least once a month if not several times a week, and our children's and grandchildren's generation, who seem unwilling to fall in love at all.
Granted, we were shaped first by the Gidget ideal of dating and going steady as necessary social actions, and then switched over to "love is all you need," which was supposed to be agape or at least phileos but was, predictably, more often eros.
I'll also stipulate the imbalance in roles, but that's a thornier issue, because the expression "Men of quality are not threatened by women of equality" dates back to my bachelor days, and I wasn't the only guy looking for someone with a little intestinal fortitude.
In any case, I had several relationships that lasted about six weeks, some less, and I think mostly because we lept into it without a great deal of buildup.
However, I think I'm seeing some overcorrection going on, and maybe the message of "don't let anyone take advantage of you" is being as over-emphasized for this crew as "you let the river answer that you've always been her lover" was for us.
This is just old fart speculation. I don't really know why so many young people seem afraid to make the leap.
No, Mark, not that kind of leap.
Or maybe yes, as long as it's only metaphorical.
Because, even when it hurt, it was kinda fun.
In any case, you'll never know if you don't give it a try.
Mike Peterson has posted his "Comic Strip of the Day" column every day since 2010. His opinions are his own, but we welcome comments either agreeing or in opposition.
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