CSotD: Transformational humor
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Let's start off with the Juxtaposition of the Day, because the alternative is to run a selection of day-after-Halloween cartoons and I do, indeed, have a lot of candy to do something with, but the prospect of Thanksgiving dinner is funnier.
And, as suggested, more scary. I'm with Ted.
I'd also add that it's probably a good thing that Thanksgiving comes well after the elections here in the US, because it would sure be a weighty gathering if it came this Thursday. (Given the floating nature of elections in a parliamentary democracy, Canada couldn't have set it up that way, so they went with the better weather option.)
But how else would you ever get to eat green bean casserole if it weren't for those family gatherings?
And if suggesting that you are permitted to simply enjoy a holiday with your immediate family is not heresy enough, let me suggest something even more upsetting to the established social order:
You can throw out the extra candy. You don't have to eat it.
And also long as we're messing with people's sense of reality, Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal reminds us that simply leaving the beet farm does not guarantee adventure, or, at least, not the kind of adventure from which you return wedded to the king's daughter.
It's not a breakthrough revelation, it's worth repeating from time to time, particularly to an audience like I've assembled, in which struggling artists are over-represented. Persistence, and even persistence with talent, is not enough. You need a coherent plan and a lot of luck, and particularly the latter.
I'll admit, however, that I really like the legend of Parsival, in which his mother keeps him sheltered from all knowledge of knights and chivalry and combat, only to have him wander away as an innocent and blunder into spectacular heroism on his own, a sort of Jethro Bodine in shining armor.
Which is the appeal of legends in which the poor lad goes off from the family beet farm and winds up marrying the king's daughter, or, in his case, finding the Grail.
Or, in modern times, picks the numbers that will get him a kabillion dollars a month for life. Equally likely.
Not sure how many kings have ever actually set things up such that their daughter could wind up married to a beet farmer's son, though Katharine Lee Bates does retell the story of the king who, because his daughter was such a complete snot, threatened to marry her off to a beggar.
(The illustration here is by Margaret Evans Price, who went on to be the artistic director at Fisher-Price toys.)
Of course, the beggar turns out to be a wonderful king in disguise, but only once the princess has been, as we might say, brought to heel.
Parsival was also noble, though he didn't know it, because the hero in these stories is generally not an actual peasant.
The good thing about the story Bates tells being that, unlike Katharine in "The Taming of the Shrew," she is not so much brought to heel in the sense of losing her independent sense of self as in the sense of learning to be more compassionate and not so much of a judgmental snob, so it's a positive change.
Though Andersen told of Blockhead Hans, an uncouth and decidedly ignoble but clever fool who, rather than transforming a princess, simply found one with a sense of humor and a disdain for snobbery and, bless her royal heart, for newspaper editors.
(This illustration — a personal favorite — is by another classic children's illustrator, H.J. Ford)
And speaking of bringing things to heel …
Existential Comics presents an examination of dog philosophy, of which you can read the rest here.
This is presented as a dialogue between Rene DeBark and David Hound, and if you catch the puns you may find some extra chuckles in it, but it's perfectly good as a conversation between dogs even if you've never read any philosophy at all.
And speaking of old stories, Piranha Club has an arc going in which Effie, as she says, wants to know what Sidney's intentions are, and perhaps she shouldn't have asked, because this is a man who is not afraid to make a commitment but it's not likely the one she was hoping for.
We'll see if the arc ends there, but, meanwhile, it reminds me of an old Irish joke which becomes more of an old Irish truth as I reach a certain age myself.
Patrick and Moira have been walking out together after dinner each evening for a very long time, and as they stand on the bridge watching the water flow beneath them on one of those evenings, she says to him, "Do you know that we've been walking out together now for 25 years?"
And he looks down at the water for a moment and says, "Is it that long? I'd have never thought it."
"Well," she says, "don't you think it's time we thought about getting married?"
And he looks down at the water for another moment, and then sighs and says, "Ah, you're right, girl. But who'd have us now?"
Now here's your moment of transformational zen:
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