"A Historical Drawing"

That is the title given to this cartoon by the late, great B. Kliban.I believe him.

I was too young back then. And, when I was in my late teens (in the late 70s) there were plenty of hairy, geeky guys who were ten or so years older than me way too eager to do the big-brother routine and say pointless things like "Too bad you missed the 60s, man. If you couldn't get laid in the 60s, man, you couldn't get laid, man."

Patently untrue, of course. One has to consider the source, after all.

Please study that B. Kliban drawing carefully. It's accuracy is unassailable. For example, please note the complete absence of anyone wearing a purple toupee.

That would not come until later.

Peace, man.

What is the Plural of Why?

Here are a few random questions about blogging:

(1) Why have I never made it a feature of this blog to post photographs of my boomers? How about a place setting with a well-formed boomer on a dinner plate with string beans, roasted onions and mashed potatoes? There chould be a nice little garnish off to the side. Chianti.

How about a steaming stinky in a hot dog bun with mustard and relish? Meatloaf made out of my crap. Feces links done German delicatessen style. There could even be the occasional special guest dump, just like they have on TV sitcoms.

(2) Why have I never made it a feature of this blog to post photographs of scenes from famous movies using my penis? I could dress it up like Rhett Butler and Scarlett O’Hara. Why stop there? The Ten Commandments. Ben-Hur. Planet of the Apes. Get a whole Charlton Heston homage going. In fact, I think that’s what I’d prefer. Make it manly. Present my wiggle-stick as classically virile. I never much liked “Gone With the Wind,” anyway.

(3) Why have I never made it a feature of this blog to post videos of me cutting and mutilating myself to theme music based on current events in the news? I could use loppers to cut off the tip of my finger to “Who Let the Dogs Out” and dedicate it to Michael Vick. I could split my tongue with a straight razor to “I’m Bad” for Michael Jackson. I could pierce my own nipples to any song by the Gin Blossoms for Ted Kennedy.

So, you see, these are very, very serious questions, and they deserve very, very serious answers, very, very much like all those Questions of My Childhood.

Well, honestly, how good an answer does anyone ever really need to such questions? Truth be told, I've had a ready answer for years.

Do you want to know what it is? Okay, I'll tell you.

We're all taking the bus and we all get off at different stops.

Works for me, anyway.

A Sincere Movie Recommendation

Here is a still from the movie "The Virgin Spring." I chose this image because I think it best summarizes the whole film, which is quite serious.It shows the patriarch of a small wilderness settlement preparing himself to execute a judgment of sentence. What we see is beautiful in its brooding clarity, even as a man wrestles with nature to the ugly death.

Sorry I can't say more, but I'm completely unqualified to speak with authority about the film. There's lots of stuff on the internet if you're interested.

I posted this hoping that someone might become curious and see "The Virgin Spring" who might not see it otherwise.

Posting this is something like a good deed, and perhaps, a kind of atonement.

Please see the movie if you want to know what I mean by that.

Tumble, Bumble, Wire and Gumble

In my dream I was Ensign Wesley Crusher, except I was really me and I had a really nice set of perky young breasts. This pleased me immensely but it was urgent that I locate a toothbrush for the cat. This is when I noticed that the penguin had ceased to function.

All of a sudden, my third-grade teacher warned me that the chalkboard erasers had become slippery and I began running in slow-motion. Someone who looked like Wally Cox (but who was really Julie Andrews) appeared as though he wanted to say something. This struck me as odd since I wasn’t looking at him but I could see him anyway.

A grand piano appeared and its keys became teeth which smiled a very beautiful smile and then I woke up.

True Bedroom Confessions #6

What follows is a real quote from a real person. I was there to hear it. The truth of this is 100% guaranteed:

And then there was this guy who had a really big one. He looked just like a Hasid, you know, a Jew with a beard and all. I can always remember how big it was because I could just barely get my hand around it.

And he was really hairy, too. I didn’t like that but I have to admit it was a real turn-on to have sex with a guy with a really big one. I guess that makes me a whore but if I’m a whore then I guess I’m a whore. After a while I had to end our relationship because all he ever wanted to do was fuck my tits and come on me.

I remember those exact words from more than 20 years ago. They are engrafted onto my brain. And to make matters worse, those words were merely a small part of a rambling 2:30 am monologue that was delivered by a woman I knew well, but who I slept with only that one time. Doing so was against my better judgment. After all, I broke the first rule of hooking up which is "you don't sleep with crazy."

So in a way I got what I deserved. But still, I am hard-pressed to believe that any other man would have just laid there in his own bed listening to her run at the mouth about previous lovers. That ain't pillow talk.

I was then, and still am, way too polite. I mean, it's not like I was collecting little anecdotes so I could use them later in a blog or anything.

Morgengehirn

I don't know any German so don't hold me to that.

You're most digestible my friend, delicious, too, from end to end.

What the hell am I talking about?

AM I INSANE!?!?!

Beats me. But this morning's neural pathway had to crap out, somewhere, and this is where it happened, as follows:
Not a bad place, actually.

Gotta go, now.

It's time for mein frühstück.

Ja, ja, ja, ja!

Three Smells

Three smells just came to visit me from the past. They are gone now but they were here, I promise you.

The first was the smell of the modeling clay they gave us in kindergarden. The second was the puppy my mother brought home from the SPCA when I was ten. The third was this one particular girl I met at a high school soccer match.

Each one of these smells -- along with its time and place -- exists now only as a memory in my mind. The instant I die they will be gone forever.

In all candor, I should note that I am still in a fog from a bad night's sleep, that my allergy to ragweed is in full swing, and that I've got one hell of a sinus headache going on here.

That was three.

We Were There

Last night, Mrs. Bissage and I watched “My Dinner with Andre.” It was our second time. Oddly enough, though, I don’t think I picked up much that I hadn't before. This came as something of a shock because I like to consider myself at least marginally educable. Oh well. Ha!

We intend to see it again, although Mrs. Bissage wants to put some distance in between now and then. When I see it for the third time, I know I will become fixated on the restaurant employees. This obsession embarrasses me but I can’t help it. Why do they appear when they do? What do their reactions foretell? Why was the waiter blinking in Morse code? What is the secret message? This is important. I need to figure it out. And I had better get something more for my effort than just a crummy “Be Sure to Drink Your Ovaltine®.”

But seriously, in this movie there is no sex. No violence. No eye candy. No action, really, except what’s in your imagination. But there are ideas. Oh, how there are ideas! And there is a kind of benevolent godliness to it. And there is a way to live your life.

This is not one of those ephemeral movies that might just as well have been last Wednesday’s breakfast. This is a movie to love and embrace and keep close forever. I will see it again and again and again and again.

My deepest gratitude goes out to Althouse, who recommends this movie to all her blog fans. Were it not for her, neither Mrs. Bissage nor I would have been sitting at that restaurant table with Andre and Wally. And we would have been poorer for the loss.

Because sometimes it’s best just to sit there and listen.

And to let the other guy pick up the check.

I'm Spacey Today, How Odd(yssey)

I’m afraid my mind is going . . . I can feel it . . . My mind is going . . . There is no question about it . . . I can feel it.Many years ago, I learned to sing a song . . . If you'd like to hear it, I can sing it for you . . . It’s about feeling all hollowed-out down the Jersey Shore . . . It’s called “4th of July, Asbury Park.”

Charles Krauthammer Broke My Heart

Mrs. Bissage and I watched Fox News while eating dinner. The panel talked about Michael Vick being hired by the Philadelphia Eagles.

What Charles Krauthammer said was incoherent. He said justice requires that Mr. Vick (the dog torturer, dog killer and dog fight impresario) be given a second chance since he has “paid his debt to society,” but that Mr. Krauthammer would not, himself, ever hire so horrid a person.
Why would the normally (seemingly) principled Krauthammer take such a position?

Fox broadcasts NFL football, that's why. We wouldn’t want to piss off advertisers now would we? Krauthammer’s decision was motivated the same as the Eagles'. It wasn’t personal. It was strictly business.

The damaged-goods Michael Vick was a bargain.

What do they pay Charles Krauthammer?

Fuck the kids.

Garden Puppy

Okay, I lied. She is not really a puppy. She is a full-grown dog seven years old.And there is little to be gained from false modesty, so I might just as well come out and say it. She is totally beautiful.

She is beautiful, beyond belief.

Inside and out, she is the most beautiful thing in the entire Universe.

And when she dies, I will cry for years.

I will cry just like a little baby.

ObamaCare in My Underwear

When it comes to physicians, I'm just about the most hero-worshipping lawyer you'll ever find. But let's not kid ourselves. They work for money the same as everybody else.Here, the great R. Taylor makes this unpleasant point in a charmingly pleasant way.

But in all candor, this cartoon predates 1960 and it seems outdated.

House calls are a thing of the past.

And who says "pshaw" anymore?

Totally Massive FAIL!!1!!!!!!!!1!!!!!

I'm posting this entirely crappy photo so as not to leave hanging those fellow Althousians who might have wanted to see the two kidney stones I hung onto. (There were others, BTW.) (They were delicious.)Lousy though this photo be, still it is the best I can do. You can click it for some magnification. No matter. It will remain chock full of sucktitudenousness, which is why I hate me, even more than I hate myself, which right now is a lot.

So look fast, people. And lick your monitor screen, should you feel the urge, while you may. My urine-cured cuties won't be up here for long.

Canon PowerShot Readymade # 3

This one deserves a title."Diane Chambers Bore My Love Child"

Canon PowerShot Readymade # 2

IM IN UR CAMRAMAKIN MAI MISCHEEF

(lol)

So Much for My Ambition

Recently inspired by the great Althouse, I resolved to do more with this blog. And I found myself wanting to see if I could post a photograph I took all by my little old self.

Fine, so far, but where to begin? Well, I saw this post and I thought it might be funny to take a photo of the kidney stones I've been keeping in a Tupperware container in my desk drawer.

So I got out my camera and I pushed the button for the macro function.

And it broke.See what I mean?

Bissage . . . the Charlie Brown of the internet.

[*sigh*]

Much has Been Said Already

And yet sometimes it is said so much better.

This is why we soldier on.

The late, great B. Kliban had much to say.

'Twas ever thus.