Everything is horrible. We’ll talk about it over the weekend, which is to say, “Tragedy tomorrow, comedy tonight.”
But we’ll start with a Public Service Announcement from the Other Coast (Creators), with a combination of a caution and a suggestion.
A dog for Christmas sounds like a lovely idea, but Christmas can be chaotic and a new dog — puppy or adult — doesn’t need to come into a strange place that is in upheaval. You might do better to gift wrap a leash and maybe a book on dog training, but hold off on the dog itself until things have simmered down a bit.
This also gives the gift-recipient a chance to participate in the selection of the individual dog (or cat or ferret or jellyfish or whatever) rather than being presented with your best guess.
It’s a long term commitment which doesn’t need much of a twist to fit the old phrase “Marry in haste, repent at leisure.” Take your time, and, if you haven’t had many dogs in your life, bring along a friend who has.
Bill Whitehead gave me a flashback to my first bachelorhood with this Free Range (Creators). My off-campus living room had a couch and a comfy chair, and I’d invite a first date to make herself comfortable while I hung up our coats.
If she sat in the chair, the message was delivered, though, looking back, there was a time or two when not everyone was clear on what choosing what the couch portended. Youth may be wasted on the young, but neither insight nor subtlety are.
My second bachelorhood, in my mid-30s, offered far less potential for misunderstandings. Probably should have skipped straight to that one.
This looks like an established domestic scene, but it reminds me that most of my adult first dates began with a shared coffee or meal in a public place, and, by then, we both had enough mileage to spot what wasn’t gonna work before we got very far into things.
I gather this woman is thrilled to have found someone who doesn’t mansplain anything, which makes up for him also not being apt to shave, comb his hair or wear a shirt that doesn’t look like it’s on Day Five.
There’s a lid for every pot, and, after awhile, you don’t have to try them all before finding one.
An interesting touch in this Moderately Confused (AMS): The gray hair suggests a grandmother and granddaughter pairing, which adds more credibility to the concept. Current parents are digital natives and don’t likely have much memory of film and printed photos.
Grandparents, and great-grandparents like myself, are more of a mixed bag. I had a number of photo albums, but took out the pics and scanned them. I’ve still got a shoebox full of photos and sometimes think I should scan some of them, but, really, they’re mostly ones that didn’t make the cut in the first place.
But I’m sure many in my generation are still strictly analog, at least for anything more than 20 years old.
It does make me nervous to see young folks with all their memories on a phone. I hope she’s got everything backed up somewhere that she controls and can count on. Life seems to be becoming awfully ephemeral.
There are a number of places to take today’s Daddy’s Home (Creators). First of all, it’s good that he isn’t one of those sad little kids who live entirely on chicken tenders and Spaghetti-Os, even if he’s not in the mood for a green curry.
But there’s also the fact — beyond the pedantic fact that Mexico is on the North American continent — that there’s a large portion of the United States in which the culinary ancestors of enchiladas and burritos were local food back before coming of the Conquistadors, never mind the coming of the gabachos.
I’m going to pretend that he goes to a school in which American History is not taught as “the virus that spread from Plymouth Rock.”
I can’t relate to this Wallace the Brave (AMS), because the microphone for our school’s PA system was inside the principal’s office and there was no chance of working your way back there undetected.
Though the system at Camp Lord O’ The Flies was in its own little building, and it might have been possible to sneak in there at 4 am, crank up the volume and put on Surfin’ Bird. And nearly the whole two minutes and 24 seconds might have played if someone had thought to lock the head counselor’s cabin next door.
Given how the neighbors felt about announcements and bugle calls during the day, the phone calls and apologies that surely ensued made it worth losing a record and a padlock, never mind the giggles from inside the compound.
Beware the risen little people.
Cornered (AMS) raises a gripe I’ve griped here before, but that’s no reason not to bring it up again.
I’ve been thinking that, while there are some parking spots designated for compact cars, we need another category, but I can’t come up with an acceptable term, because I’m sure signs saying “Normal Car Parking Only” would offend those who drive monster trucks and bulbous SUVs.
But there should be some way to keep the suburban war wagons from parking in the last spot before an intersection, because people in normal cars can’t see past them to spot oncoming traffic.
I remember back in the days of drive-in theaters, being told that we had to park our Wagoneer in the back row with the campers so we wouldn’t block anyone’s view of the screen.
British cartoonist Tony Husband died suddenly a few weeks ago, to the grief of his fans and of the many colleagues for whom he was a mentor and inspiration. His son has done a good job of keeping everyone in the loop and of posting some of Husband’s sketches on line, and his works will not likely disappear.
While we wait for the collected works, the Professional Cartoonists Organisation polled members for their favorites and posted them here, in a fitting tribute that will make you laugh and wish there could be even more.