The Importance of the Cartoon Medium or Cartoons Rock!

            I think it may be difficult for me to express in a convincing manner why cartoons will always be the best form of television ever. Many who know me have laughed derisively when I answer the question “What are you doing?” with “Watching cartoons.”  Some even go so far as to say “Oh, you and your cartoons.” As if this is a defect of mine they choose to lovingly tolerate. Whereas, I believe I am very tolerant of their lack of understanding of the absolute, innate superiority of the cartoon art form.  Like any available medium, one may see bad examples and good examples of how to employ it. But, when a cartoon is good,  its worth is beyond measure.

Now, it would be a mistake to assume that I am referring to the quality of the drawing in any given cartoon as an indication of its worth. While some cartoons do contain excellent artwork in terms of scenery and whatnot, this is not the means by which I measure greatness. It is all about content as well as full and total exploitation of the medium.  Even the most surreal situation comedy ever produced is shackled to the mundane world by physical limitations. (And don’t bother me with that CGI crap as it is the lame-ass cousin of animation.) In the world of cartoons, all such limitations disappear. A character may be flooded out of town on a rising tide of over-populating rabbits with no loss of continuity. The number of times a duck can receive a direct shotgun blast to the face and still be able to deliver snarky remarks is limitless. Cartoons can take us to outer space with no expensive sets or costumes and all visited atmospheres are breathable. Also, no alien life form yet met is smarter than the cleverest earth rabbit which is a very comforting illusion.

Another important aspect of the medium of cartoons is its function as a safe outlet for aggression and violent tendencies. I have been watching cartoons regularly since childhood and have never been in a physical altercation and have always been a supporter of non-violent conflict resolution. Observing violence done to cartoon people, cats, mice, rabbits, ducks, and squirrels has not resulted in a lifetime of aggressive physical acts on my part. Rather, I have been allowed to laugh at the trials and tribulations of these cartoon creatures and, thusly, laugh away all my desires to indulge in like actions. Maybe a wider proliferation of cartoons would mark a decrease in the wider proliferation of armaments. It is possible that repeatedly watching a coyote get blown to smithereens by his own bombs and dynamite could bring about lasting peace.  (Are you listening United Nations?)

I would like to make a brief foray into the matter of cartoons and gender roles. I have nothing but admiration for the flexibility and plasticity of traditional gender roles in the cartoon genre. It is just another way in which cartoons break free of the limitations of our day to day lives. I challenge almost anyone to transcend our traditional gender boundaries with the ease shown by our cartoon creations. Isn’t this repeated theme indicative of our own desires to break free of the status quo? I have heard a lot of hullabaloo concerning the sexuality of a certain sea-dwelling, pants-wearing, yellow sponge – not that sexuality should be lumped in with gender roles – but in this instance, it appears that the two are being confused. I would beg to refer one back to an earlier example of gender rule-breaking; Bugs Bunny. Bugs was and is the master of slipping with ease and grace between the male/female roles. Never, in my experience, have I heard anyone refer to Bugs as “gay” or “homosexual”. His ability to change roles at will is accepted, revered, and admired. (As well as his ability to be alluring in harem pants and a skimpy top.) So rather than fear the apprehended sexuality of a cartoon sponge, we should celebrate the lessons to be learned about the assumed concreteness of current gender roles.

            Lastly, and I believe most importantly, cartoons rock! They make me laugh my butt off. I could watch ‘em all day long. Screw “Two and a Half Men” and all that other prime-time dross. Give me cartoons every time and you’ll never hear me complain. Just keep making ‘em! You’ll always have me for an audience.



Public Pajama Wearing

In a world filled with alarming trends, I find one in particular to be not alarming at all and simply annoying. So, that is where I prefer to keep my focus. I speak of course of the frequency with which women of today wear pajamas outside of the house. There are very few public places that are immune from the invasion of the pajama wearing type. I have viewed them at the grocery store and the gas station. I have seen them waiting for the bus and strolling along the boulevards. Where was the line and when did we cross it? I understand the temptation to do a 1:00 AM ice cream run in ones fleece pants and Eeyore t-shirt but, to date, I have never presented myself before the shrine of Ben and Jerry without a bra on and real shoes. I wonder if what is missing for these pajama people are simply some key facts.

Fact: Despite the word “pants” being included in the term “pajama pants”, they are not to be considered actual pants. Items that could be considered covered by the word “pants” would be more along the lines of trousers, jeans, capris, or, possibly, culottes. When we consider the term “pajama pants”, it is important to note that “pajama” serves as an adjective describing the type of pants in question. Pajamas are a type of clothing which is worn while sleeping. Hence, “pajama pants” does not refer to clothing one wears to go visit Aunt Louise at the nursing home.

Fact: No female over the age of seven looks attractive or even cute in pajama pants, regardless of that female’s size or shape. I receive the impression at times that certain women believe it is adorable to appear in public wearing fuzzy pants emblazoned with a repeated Tinkerbell pattern. Untrue. Furthermore, beyond a certain age, a woman should refrain from attempting to look cute or adorable and focus on being viewed as confident and competent. Or at least smoking hot and dead sexy.

Fact: Slippers are not designed to withstand the elements. If you listen to your grandmother talk, you may even hear them referred to as “house slippers”. Many of the modern slippers are very fuzzy in design and may even have more in common with a stuffed animal than an actual shoe. In choosing to wear slippers of this type out into the world, one is polluting their plushiness with grime, bacteria, and other unpleasant elements. Slippers of the indicated variety are particularly adept at absorbing and retaining all the nasty stuff one finds in a gas station parking lot.

Fact: The set of circumstances in which nipples are attractive is limited. I may be making assumptions on this one but I am not afraid to call it a fact anyway. [Corrections provided by my male readers on this subject will be politely ignored.] I am in no way denying the value of nipples in certain contexts. Nevertheless, when one is at the drugstore picking up feminine hygiene products, there should be no nipples in evidence. Your average t-shirt depicting a unhappy looking kitten embellished with the phrase “I am NOT a morning person” is not an appropriate showcase for the nipple.

            I hope I have assisted those who possess any misconceptions concerning when and where to sport ones pajamas. If you require further clarification on the subject, I refer you to that grandmother who still says “house slippers”.



Rain Walk Poems

Weather Girl

Changeable days and reflections

I’m cloudy

I’m sunny

I’m gray

I shine

Splashing my way through my day

Like a duck in a puddle

I’m washable

I dry out quickly

And I look a little cleaner

Every time it rains

It makes me shoot up like a weed

Sprout flowers

And send out tendrils everywhere

It curls my hair

So maybe I don’t care if people call me moody

Stormy

Crybaby

I feel the world through each and every turn

Every revolution is charted in my heart

And I breathe the way the world breathes

And I cry the way the world cries

And I smile each and every day

Ignored Advice

Don’t walk in the dark

It’s fraught with peril

Don’t walk in the rain

You’ll catch a cold

Don’t live in your life

You’ll wind up dead

Don’t act for yourself

You’ll make a mistake

Stay cocooned, coddled, protected

Stay in bed

Under the covers

Safe

Let things happen

To other people

And watch them on TV

You may feel restless

A little bit bored

But it will be painless

Don’t smile at a stranger

He will follow you home

Don’t kiss that boy

You’ll catch a disease

Don’t wish for what’s better

It will all end in tears

If you live in your life

You’ll just end up mangled

And fearful

And sad

If you live in your life

You’ll just end up tangled

And tearful

And mad

Or

If you live in your life

Take long walks in the rain

Make decisions

Have big dreams

Kiss boys and just smile

You still wind up safe at home

With a head full of joy

Too Sweet

Gingerbread gets eaten

Icing just melts away

Architecture too sweet for this day

Forms its own cavities

And falls into decay

Leaving gaps in the railings

A sore spot in my eye

And a desire for endless cans

Of rich enamel paints

In aquamarine and passion pink

To paint the ladies

With former glory

Til they outshine the bungalows and ranch style homes

That crowd against their delicate shoulders

And make them feel so small and unloved

Unwanted

Dilapidated

Decayed

Fill in the cracks

Lacquer the nails

Capture the glow

Of a ridiculously optimistic era

Where bright colors and frills

Were meant to last forever



Animals I Need

The first on the list of animals I need is, clearly, a giraffe. I honestly do not know how I have lived without one so far. A giraffe is an absolute necessity for the backyard and my over all happiness. I do not want to make it seem as if I would view him or her as decorative or a mere possession. I would lavish my giraffe with love and praise. Nevertheless, I find that while I do not have trees in my yard, I always end up dealing with leaves from the neighbors’ deciduous denizens. A giraffe would solve this problem nicely. It could easily lean across the fence and denude the trees over the course of the summer so that I would have a leaf free yard come fall. Also, who doesn’t want to see a giraffe peering over the roof at them after a hard day at work? I do understand that giraffes require a warm environment all year long. I would need to make friends with someone who has an exceptionally tall greenhouse for the winter months. Piece of cake!

And no house is truly a home without an elephant. Why an elephant you say? Well, because elephants are so. . . so. . . elephanty. Who else could trumpet such an excellent greeting to the rising sun? It makes roosters seem ridiculous and redundant. Also, my yard has always been rather lumpy and prone to forming hillocks. An elephant would transform my yard into a perfectly level surface and get rid of all that pesky grass I hate mowing. In addition, I could probably start a booming manure business. I am certain that elephant dung would grow magnificent tomatoes! And last but not least, it is very soothing to talk out your problems with an elephant while leaning against his broad reassuring bulk.

Certainly, I require an ocelot and a kinkajou. They would have to stay indoors in a specially created arbor area. Not only are their names fun to say but their glowing eyes would be very disconcerting to any nefarious nighttime intruders who happened to get past the elephant and giraffe. And the hippopotamus. Didn’t I mention the hippopotamus? He would have his own moat that circled the house. And though, hippos are adorable, they are also fierce defenders of hearth and home. Plus, I wouldn’t have to worry too much about hippo upkeep as they come with those handy, little grooming birds. As for the ocelot and the kinkajou, they tend to keep to the trees which limits wear and tear on the floors. They also add an exotic flair to the décor of any home.



I require a prairie dog town to run along the front of my property. Their alarmed barking can serve to alert the hippo and others to danger. Also, it is very entertaining to watch them pop in and out of those little holes. Prairie dogs just happen to rate very high on the cuteness scale in general and more so when they are making remarks to one another about the state of things in the neighborhood. Some may be drawn to meerkats for their communication skills and commune style living but I prefer the more patriotic prairie dog. Besides, meerkats always look like they’re up to something.

Last but not least, I need a wombat, solely for the purpose of introducing him to my friends. “And this is my wombat, Bruce.” But, I suppose what I really need is a much larger house and an unlimited income. Until then, I suppose I will just have to be satisfied with cats.

Not Cool

I would really like to be cool. I spend time trying to determine which aspects of my personality qualify me for coolness and which detract from that qualification. It presents difficulties. I can never be entirely sure that my determinations are correct. Considering something cool or uncool can be very subjective. So, one can add to my apprehension about my overall cool status the fear that I am not interpreting the data correctly.

For example, I happen to think that liking a lot of BBC shows is cool while someone else may view this same information as "weird" or "boring". And immediately, we come up against the crux of the matter. Who is the final arbiter of cool? Is it Justin Bieber? Must I think in each instance - would Justin find this cool? Or is Dan Rather the authority? Which would significantly alter the interpretation. It is a quandary.

Furthermore, I have to factor in my age in terms of my ability to identify coolness. Am I working from an outmoded set of data? What was considered unimpeachably cool when I was fourteen is not necessarily going to make the grade by today's standards. Obviously, I have the wherewithal to recognize that fads of those bygone days would not retain their coolness. I won't walk out of the door tomorrow with a row of Swatch watches on each arm, sporting a pair of parachute pants, and expect to be hailed as the epitome of cool. But, is The Cure still cool? They've got to be somehow. I mean, Robert Smith. Cool.

It has got to be cool to wear black the majority of the time. Cool, right? Not unimaginative or lacking in vision. Tattoos. Definitely cool. Definitely? Piercings? How on earth can I possibly find an accurate system by which to measure this elusive quality? I guess it really doesn't matter anyway. I have been informed by the highest authority - a teenage girl- that calling someone or something "cool" is only done when being sarcastic. The term "cool" is no longer cool. I am so screwed. 



Cool Guy On a Moped

I saw a really cool guy on a moped today. Cigarette hanging out of his mouth, rockin' a freebie t-shirt - the best! And I started thinking to myself, why am I so disdainful of folks on scooters? I just automatically associate them with DUIs or other losses of driving privileges. I never think that the individual has consciously chosen that mode of transport as a sound fiscal alternative in these times of rising gas prices and economic turmoil. I must admit to being even more critical of moped riders who travel in tandem. I cannot even explain what this is indicative of or why I possess this bias. I only know that my thoughts are some thing along the lines of "Would you look at that?" - and not in the way you think it when viewing some handy new gadget for opening stubborn jars. More in the way you would think it when you see someone you never liked and she has gotten really fat. Almost triumphant and certainly superior. Not nicely.

Now, if I lived in some hip European city like Amsterdam, for example, I believe I would have a wholly different attitude towards those of the scooter-driving ilk. The narrow, hectic streets would be anathema to all but the most compact of cars. There is something dashing about the image of a young man with a silken scarf flung about his neck driving a shiny Vespa through Venice or Heidelberg. Mopeds are perfectly adapted to the environment and have an ability to leave the old world charm of any city intact. There is nothing about viewing a moped in these kind of circumstances that would leave me anything but pleased. The ancient stone walls and cobbled streets absorb and muffle the buzzing motor sound into insignificance. Perfect.

Maybe the next time I see someone on  a moped - or a small scooter gang- I'll think twice before condemning them wholesale. I might even think - Hey, look at that forward thinking individual traveling so far ahead of the trend. It may remain difficult as long as I keep one moped related image in mind:

A heavy-set gentleman with a stubbly bald head, weaving in and out of traffic to circumnavigate a light. Obligatory cigarette hanging out of his mouth and, best of all, a Guitar Hero guitar strapped troubadour- style across his back. Hallelujah!

Eat Your Heart Out Hallmark!

Thoughts On a Critique of the Word "And" in My Poetry

And this is how I write a poem

And this is how I express myself

And this is how I sing a song

And this is how I kiss you off

And the word "and"

Is a great word

It connects people, places,

And things

Adds them together

Joins one to another

Mom and Pop

Mac and cheese

Life and death

"And" merges the opposites

Black and white

Night and day

And there's a thin line, my friend

Between love and hate

Just try and write

About two people

And never connect them

Tangle their threads

With a knot-shaped "and"

And while you're at it

Try to talk

About you and me

Minus the connection

Then there's just you

And just me

And that's just the way I like it

[If my critic had been more attentive he would have noticed my excessive use of the words "little" and "blood". Ha!]

Bouquet

If you want flowers

I'll go pick you some

But don't expect me to write them

With delicate little petals

Wrapped in charming little rhymes

Tied up with a big alliterative bow

No
I'll write you buckets of slime
Odes to blood lust and sex
I'll draw pictures of my fears
So vivid and real
That they'll become your own
I'll write the last will and testament
Of every battered dream
I've ever had
I'll describe every cut
Every abrasion
Every trip
Every fall
I'll paint the bruises on my ego
Write revolutions on the wall
But I won't write a love poem
Not even one
Not ever
At all
I'll pick you flowers
I'll buy you chocolates
I'll hold your hand
But no love poems
Not ever
At all

Nothing to Offer

Know a boy who listened to Tori Amos
'Cause he thought it would net him more pussy
Know a girl who wore thigh highs and short skirts
'Cause she thought it would showcase her talents
He's miserable
She's miserable
And no one is fallin' in love
They're just falling
Falling down
Falling over
Tripping on their own loneliness
Where it clutters the floor of every room
They walk through
Where it blocks every road
They turn down
With broken toes
And achy hearts
They look everywhere for love
Gas stations
Libraries
Churches
Love isn't lurking anywhere
They leave breadcrumbs behind them
Hoping love will find them
Like hungry little birds
Searching for what they have
Which is nothing
They have nothing
They've done nothing
Been nothing
But looking for love
And now have
Nothing to fall in love with

[This last one is not a recent poem but it sure is fun!]

Goddessness

Tear your heart out
And throw it at my feet
I'm a Goddess
It's mine anyway
I want burnt offerings
I want blood sacrifice
I want
Ev-ree-thing
I want the sweat of your brow
I want the fruit of your loins
And any other biblical allusions
You have hanging around
I want the harvest in the Fall
I want the flowers in the Spring
I want it all
I want
Ev-ree-thing
Give me your first born son
Give me your last red cent
Give me all that you have
All that I want
And then
Give
Me
Some
More
Build me pyramids
Build me temples
Mold me statues
Paint me murals
Make graven images
And a made-for-TV movie
About my life
Worship at my feet
Weep at my altar
I am a Goddess
I will not be trifled with
I will not repeat myself
Do it all
Do it now
Or at least by next Tuesday
I have a doctor's appointment

Giggling is Nasty

Giggling is a nasty habit. Though enjoyable for the person engaged in it, it generally strikes fear -or at least discomfort- in the hearts of others. There is some thing about the very nature of giggling that leaves the hearer with the impression that it is at his or her expense. Especially as one covers the mouth when giggling. Ask any teenage boy how he feels about a group of giggling female contemporaries and watch a look of horror pass over his face.

Imagine you are standing in the magazine section of your local superstore - just reaching out to select a copy of your favorite stamp collecting periodical - and behind you there is a staccato burst of giggling. You quickly pull your hand back and assume a confused expression as if you were accidentally reaching for the wrong item. You are afraid that the giggling was directed at you and expressed disdain for those who display an interest in stamp collecting.

Suppose you have just stepped up to the counter and asked the barrista to prepare you a half-caf, triple mocha latte with soy milk and your ears are assaulted by a volley of giggles. Immediately, in a gruff voice, you add a large extra-bold black coffee with double caffeine to your order in a manner that indicates that the first part of your request was for your frail grandmother.

Giggling is unkind. It is thoughtless and inconsiderate. So, why can't I refrain from doing it when the patron in front of me at the grocery store is buying petroleum jelly and a large cucumber?

Bad Poetry Written in a Coffee Shop

Bad Poetry Example 1
Squirrels belong in cages
To power my round 'n' round thoughts
And make my nightmares nutty
To branch out my crazy
And swing from the tips
Of synapses
Already on the verge of breaking
Squirrels might stash acorns and
Nuggets of wisdom
That alone I would never acquire
Or just chew through the wires
That have hooked my pain center
Right up to my heart
And leave me giddy with relief and delight
Let me pursue ideas like squirrels do
Run at it
Run away
Run at it
Stop
Run in a circle
Run straight up the tree

Bad Poetry Example 2
The walls are naked
It takes time to notice
An absence
An empty spot
On the walls

The heart is empty
It takes time to stop noticing
An absence
A missing beat
In the heart

Bad Poetry Example 3
She desperately wants him
To hold her hand
To connect
Make contact
His arms are tight-folded against his chest
No release
No touch
No contact
Breaking
Some thing's breaking
Communication
Continuity
Heart
Her smile becomes more fragile
More brittle
More undone
He leans back in his chair
Increasing the distance
Decreasing the warmth
Icing the air
Something is dying
Expiring
Gasping for breath
She tries to resuscitate
He watches it die

When I Grow Up

When I grow up I want to be a homicide detective. I would be great at it! I'm intelligent. I can spot lies. People want to tell me things. I would be a kickass interrogator. I can see me now. Wearing a sensible but flattering pant suit, asking all the hard questions, getting confessions when no one else can, finding that elusive lead. But, wait, it's not like I can just walk in and get a job as a homicide detective, right ?! I would have to start as a regular patrol officer and work my way up over YEARS. Also, let's face it, I cry at the drop of a hat. I would cry at every family notification, half the crime scenes, and probably in the middle of a hardass interrogation.

Sooooooo, when I grow up I want to be . . .

A ninja.  I look amazing in black and those little slippers are probably really comfortable. I would secretly infiltrate the most secure compound, incapacitate all the henchmen, and take out the evil gang boss without making a sound. I would get to have all those cool throwing stars and other silent weapons in my special sash 'o' secret pockets. Awesome. But wait, it takes a lifetime of self-discipline to become a ninja. All that training with monks in isolated, mountain temples. I don't even have the discipline to resist a pint of Ben and Jerry's ice cream.  As for moving silently, I kind of have a stompy walk. Really, I should have started working on this when I was orphaned at the age of six- if I had been orphaned at the age of six- which I wasn't.

So, when I grow up I want to be . . .

A pirate. And not one of those modern day, diesel powered pirates but the good old-fashioned, swash-buckling, ship-sailing kind. I'll need the boots that come way up then fold down and a big coat with shiny buttons. And, of course, the shirt with the lacy collar and cuffs. I will be an expert swordswoman and the scourge of the seven seas. I will have a remote tropical island to hide all my booty and I will give no quarter (whatever that means). Nevertheless, I will be a gentlewoman pirate. I will treat all hostages with gentility and keep them in the finest cabin. I will . . I will . . I will probably not be a pirate, will I? I have never piloted a boat bigger than a dinghy and I'd probably get seasick. I'd most likely stab myself in the foot with a rapier. And when it comes to making people walk the plank, I'd be right back to the whole crying thing. Fine.

When I grow up, I want to be old and have stuff.





The Way

The way the sun selects trees to showcase as it sets.

The way the color green means a hundred thousand different leaves.

The way the edge of a lily has frills like it is going to a fancy dress party.

The way squirrels run with great purpose in one direction only to stop and go the other way.

The way a smile begins in the eyes.

The way a cat can curl into the smallest possible space.

The way the world speaks to me through my eyes as well as my ears.

The way a dragonfly flashes iridescent signals to the sky.

The way the wind dances a leaf in a circle and no one gets dizzy.

The way bumblebees fly as if they just learned how.

The way clouds never cease to amaze me.

The way music reaches a place in me untouchable by any other means.

The way a butterfly pauses with wings spread for admiration and adulation.

The way sunlight makes flashing mirrors out of water.

The way a child sings a song created fresh with each following note.

The way a swing makes my stomach feel.

The way coffee tastes.

The way paint on canvas can spark my mind.

The way distant suns become twinkling stars for me.

The way each and every molecule is so perfectly crafted.



The Notyear Of The Yard

This was going to be the year of the yard. The summer of the garden. For the first time in the eight years I have lived in my house, I was going to act like a home owner. All the "volunteer" trees were going to disappear from the fence line and all the weeds from the cracks in the driveway. I was going to have a real flower bed and rein in the runaway mint plant. Notice the use of tense here. All these things were going to happen and I was going to do them.
Well, the summer is going, going, gone and it's still a jungle out there. I've managed to remove some of those invasive trees a time or two. I've weeded the flowerbed here and there and put in day lilies and hosta. I've given the mint plant a stern talking to on occasion. But, still the term "landscaping" does not spring to mind when I look at my yard.
Thank God, the lilies and hosta are hardy plants otherwise they would be dead from dehydration by now. I know they're in the bed somewhere between all the weeds and wild grasses. My lilac bush is surrounded by a threatening gang of fierce saplings but holding fast. And my irises just ignore the mint plant and hope it will go away.
One of the more tenacious incursions in my flowerbed has been a viney climber and crawler. . No matter how many times I believed that I had traced it to its source, I'd catch it climbing once again. I tried cursing it, ignoring it, ripping it out afresh. It was vicious, persistent, and clearly unstoppable.
I noticed the damn thing the other day. It had climbed and twined its way around the pole of a double hook bird feeder I had placed in the bed in a fit of optimism. It had managed to scale a full five feet into the air. I took a good look at my nemesis and was amazed. It had blossomed! Small, purple, trumpet-shaped flowers covered the vine; in appearance like a wild morning glory. It was no invader. No encroacher. It was a gift. A beautiful addition to my forlorn garden. Simple, unasked for, and precious. Wow!