“You ever look at their faces? ‘We’re pro-life.’ Don’t they look it? Don’t they just exude joie de vivre?” ~Bill Hicks
“One of the things that people don’t realize about Dad’s kind of music is, when you replace a C-sharp with a gunshot, it has to be a C-sharp gunshot or it sounds awful.“ ~Spike Jones Jr.
John Lydon (aka “Johnny Rotten”) on the Sid Vicious personality cult, excerpted from his autobiography Rotten: No Irish, No Blacks, No Dogs, ©1994:
Since I always have to have a point and purpose to everything I do, that’s why people accuse me of being calculated. But it’s the way I am. I always know my next move. I could never conjure up a death wish. This is all I have, life. I don’t know what comes next, and frankly, I’m in no rush to find out. I didn’t believe in playing the martyr just for the sheer hell of it, either. And to die over something as vaguely childish as rock ‘n’ roll is not on. Even though there’s a lot of popularity in Sid’s character, the people who buy the Sid myths, they don’t buy records. They’re wasters. That’s the drug culture thing for losers and junkies, people who bemoan their sorry lot. I’m not part of that. I never was. I’ll always go out and make sure it gets better. That’s the difference between the Sid fanatic and the Johnny Lydon Appreciation Society. Life and death! There’s nothing glorious in dying. Anyone can do it.
“It was horrible to hear Camille sobbing so. We couldn’t stand it and went out to buy beer.” ~Jack Kerouac as Sal Paradise in On The Road, ©1957
Not exactly overflowing with the milk of human kindness, are you there, Jack?
Pearls Before Swine by Stephen Pastis is on the web HERE.
I love it when a comic expands beyond the normal topics of idiots and anvils and explores some tougher issues. Even something as dark as Death is a little different when it’s coming from the mouths of a talking pig and rat.
And I also like positioning the characters behind a wall, a subtle tribute to Charles Schulz. 🙂
Via Another Day:
Não esqueço de quem me estende a mão.
Minha memória não é curta.
Apesar de eu esquecer nomes, jamais deixo passar batido o que fazem por mim.
Porque aprendi que ajudar o outro é bonito.
Mas ser grato é mais bonito ainda.
I don’t forget who reaches out to me.
My memory is not short.
Even though I forget names, I never let what they do for me go unnoticed.
Because I learned that helping others is beautiful.
But being grateful is even more beautiful.
Now that Republicans have pushed Black voters to the back of the bus and reduced the status of women to mere fetus incubators, I look for them to force gays back into the closet.
Excerpted from On The Road by Jack Kerouac, ©1957:
Dean was having his kicks; he put on a jazz record, grabbed Marylou, held her tight, and bounced against her with the beat of the music. She bounced right back. It was a real love dance. lan MacArthur came in with a huge gang. The New Year’s weekend began, and lasted three days and three nights. Great gangs got in the Hudson and swerved in the snowy New York streets from party to party. I brought Lucille and her sister to the biggest party. When Lucille saw me with Dean and Marylou her face darkened- she sensed the madness they put in me.
“I don’t like you when you’re with them.”
“Ah, it’s all right, it’s just kicks. We only live once. We’re having a good time.”
“No, it’s sad and I don’t like it.”
Every time you re-read a book, any book, you take something different away from it. As we grow, learn, and evolve, we see the world through different lenses.
This time through On The Road, I’m inclined to agree with Lucille. I’m almost overwhelmed by the selfishness and self-deception of the principle characters. They are casually misogynistic, callous and manipulative; they abuse drugs and have sex joylessly; they believe their hedonism is teaching them hidden lessons about life when in reality that’s the very thing preventing them from seeing anything other than an illusory surface.
Lucille is right. It’s sad.
And I don’t like it.
I used to be shy.
You made me sing.
I used to refuse things at table.
Now I shout for more wine.
In somber dignity, I used to sit
on my mat and pray.
Now children run through
and make faces at me.
Jack Kerouac mentioned Slim Gaillard in On The Road, so I looked him up. He’s mesmerizing: