IDA KNOW!

As anyone who's read my earlier rants about such vital concerns as the neighborhood grocery store or obscure political conspiracies would know, I'm not the kind to fixate. Well, at least until I flip through the paper to the comics, where the nefarious Family Circus (to quote the movie Go) "is just sitting there in the corner, waiting to suck."

Friends have called the cartoon's treacley, octogenerian author, one Mr. Bil (that's with one "l") Keane, the "anti-Toner" -- perhaps the highest complement I have ever been paid.

But I digress. My favorite Web site for many years was the Dysfunctional Family Circus, which let the well-balanced, emotionally healthy populace of the Web rewrite the cartoon's captions -- with predictable results, right down to the spelling ("daddy i poopd on the flor"). But as the Internet was transformed into the strip mall it is today, the lawyers shut it down with equally predictable speed, leaving concerned citizens like myself to digest the following cartoon alone:

Let's stop for a moment to consider this tableau. Bil looks like he hasn't slept in days (the black-and-white version that ran in the paper shows a nice growth of stubble). Judging by the stains on his clothing, he appears to have awoken in a pool of his own essence. He's holding a crumpled bag, which appears to conceal a bottle or other cylindrical object.

Questions... questions. Why are he and Dolly (yes, I know the random kids' names) wandering out of an alley? Did Thel, awakening from her own herion-induced stupor in an empty bed, send her daughter downtown to check the dumpsters for Bil's naked corpse? And who is this mystery Mrs. Clarke, and why exactly does Dolly want her to meet her father?

The mind boggles. Maybe there's more to Mr. Keane’s "art" than initially meets the eye. After all, art imitates life, and in life there are no easy answers. We've all awoken in a pile of our own sick (metaphorically speaking, of course), and we all have our Mrs. Clarkes that we'd rather not see in our moments of weakness.

Or then again, maybe Bil's just a really crappy artist.

WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE?

So I get a roll of film developed, and while flipping through the pictures, I come across one I didn't recall taking (probably because I, in fact, didn't take it in the first place):

Good times! (Obviously, I need to get out more.)

Suffice it to say I don't know how these people are or where they live, but I suspect we're not looking at the latest charity fete at the Guggenheim.

But as always, I digress. I checked the back of the two errant prints, and sure enough, they came from someone else's roll. Which means they probably got an errant print or two of mine. And what would they think of my stunning photography (these days, mostly blurry pictures of toddlers)?

I think the reaction of the woman in the picture probably says it all.

SCARF FACE

Time for another update from our favorite neighborhood grocery. You may remember my earlier rantings about the life-size cutout of a friendly neighborhood pharmacist that was beheaded, taped back together and ultimately pushed to the back of the store.

Well, he's back. Back with a vengeance, in fact, front and center near the "best-sellers" rack (whose contents suggest that the best-sellers list comes not from The New York Times, but the Weekly World News).

Sure, the cutout still looks like it was the recipient of a Columbian necktie (which, come to think of it, must be the dramatic end nebbish pharmacists the world over dream for, like accountants who secretly dream of going to an audit armed with ninja-style throwing stars). But in an effort to soften the effect, or at least not frighten small children, a thoughtful store employee placed a tasteful lepoard-print scarf over the badly-taped trach job. So, as the kids today like to say, it's all good.

WHATSUNDAY?

So I'm looking through my planner the other day, and I notice a couple of holidays I've never heard of before -- Whitsunday and Whitmonday.

At first, I thought maybe it was one of those wacky Canadian holidays, or one of those random bank holidays they like to take in countries with long dole lines. But since I subscribe religiously to Reader's Digest and all it's fun right-wing theories (plus the College Chuckles are a laff riot), I know it Pays to Increase My Word Power (tm).

So it's off to Google to search for Whitsunday; I get mostly links for some resort in Australia. So I start looking for Whitmonday and get the following helpful definition:

The day after Whitsunday.

And who says that dictionary editors have no sense of humor?

PS. I finally found out that Whitsunday is apparently the same thing as Pentecost. If it makes it easier to remember, just think of it as the day before Whitmonday.