Man Martin's Blog, page 97

What Spy vs Spy Taught Me About Writing

When I was in the first grade, I had difficulty reading.  Mother asked me why, and I said, "I don't care about those people."  The people in question were Dick and Jane, who, in one memorable episode, run.  Run, Dick, run, run!  Look!  See Dick run!  I was more intrigued - not much more - by the drawings.  The artist rendered the shadow of Dick's lower lip with a line, and whenever the action in Dick and Jane flagged, I practiced drawing faces with that same line under the lip. 

Since Dick and Jane weren't getting the job done, Mother taught me to read using Mad Magazine and Peanuts comics.  I later learned to love Peanuts, identifying with hard-beset Linus, but my first love was Mad, especially Don Martin, Antonio Prohias, and Sergio Aragones.  I was fascinated by the gorgeous drawings of Mort Drucker's movie parodies, but there was too much writing for me to read, and I wasn't familiar with the movies or the actors.  The cartoon I especially loved, because it had no words at all, was Spy vs Spy.  

I didn't know the Cold War from a Cold Cut, but what kid doesn't think violence is a laugh-riot?  Spy vs Spy was responsible for filling my visual imagination with handguns, daggers and bowling-ball-shaped bombs with little white fuses. 

Above all else, the cartoon was about design.  Even the name - Spy vs Spy - just look at it typed on the page.  The name looks cool.  Even if you couldn't read a lick, even if you were a Martian just arrived on earth who had no sense of written communication, you'd somehow know, just from the shapes and contrasts of the letters, this had to do with unceasing conflict between two precisely matched forces.  

I thought the bird-like characters were chess pieces; we had a Stanton chess set, and I thought the bishops' mitres were faces, pointing upward with bulbous noses and mouths slightly agape.  In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if Prohias had been inspired by the look of black and white bishops because his point was that the Black Spy and White Spy were completely interchangable.  Even as a kid, I got that.  

There wasn't one you rooted for, neither was more noble or more evil than the other.  And that was what was so fascinating about the strip.  

In the top panel, Prohias always had a gag in which one of the spies overcame the other - the White Spy's hand, for example, sticking in Black Spy's kitchen window, upending a skull-and-cross-bone labeled bottle, letting a single teardrop of poison fall into a coffee cup.  In the following adventure - which had nothing to do with the top panel, by the way, even if we saw the Black Spy eviscerated in the opening panel, he was fresh and raring to go in the next one, (The spies were more resilent than Indian Rubber.  They could be stabbed, shot, blown to bits, and be back in the next issue as good as new.)  the White Spy would seem to have the upper hand, hatching a new plan to foil the Black Spy, or practicing his Judo chops, or whatever, but then, in the last panel, the Black Spy would turn it around on him, and - ha, ha! - the White Spy would go down (sometimes quite literally) in flames.  

Usually, the expression on the losing spy in the last panel - assuming he wasn't atomized by a bomb or cannonball - was neither shock nor horror, but red-faced embarrassment (the cartoons were in black and white, but you could tell when they were blushing) that he'd been so caught out by his rival.  If the White Spy won the encounter in the top panel, he'd lose in the main cartoon, and if the White Spy lost in one issue, he'd be sure to come out on top in the next one.  

Prohias signed the strip in a series of dots and dashes spelling his name in Morse Code.  I never figured that part out, but I did realize the strip itself was a code, each episode fulfilling a set of rules by which the Spy vs Spy world was governed.  This is why I was not so far wrong thinking they were chess pieces; their world was a space strictly, even mathematically, of alternating black and white.  

That Black Spy would win in one episode and White Spy in the next, was not a matter of fairness, so much as proportionality. When it comes to writing a musical fugue - I know nothing about writing fugues, but bear with me here - there's a set of notes or a theme that is repeated with variations until the end, a highly logical and rule-bound system of variations.  As I've admitted, I don't know anything about writing fugues, but this is what Prohias taught me - not the reversal of fortune essential to narrative, although that too - but the logic of art, the power of a creator to fashion a set of arbitrary rules, and then abide by them, improvising in the details with combinations of daggers, bottles of poison, and round black bombs with little white fuses.

(Originally posted in 2012)

Ecclesiastes for the 21st Century

To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.  A time to text, and a time to refrain from texting.  A time to browse the internet, and a time you may not browse.  A time to friend people on Facebook, and a time to unfriend them.  A time for Pilates, and a time for Rocky Road Ice-Cream.  A time to send emails, and a time to check emails.  A time to google yourself, and a time to google others.  A time to refinance, and a time not to.  A time to fold, and a time to go "all in."  A time for a cappuccino, and a time for just a plain cafe americano.  A time for Dancing with the Stars, and a time for Shark Tank.  A time for networking, and a time not to network.  A time for hybrids and a time for hummers.  A time for Wii, and a time for Nintendo.  A time for global warming and a time for more global warming.  A time for Polar Bears and a time for Polar Bears, but only in the zoo.  A time for safe sex and a time for no sex.  A time for tatoos and a time for HepB.  A time for Spring Break and a time for HepB.  A time for margaritas and a time for ibuprofin.  A time for Pay-Per-View, and a time to download from Netflix.  A time for NASCAR, and a time for NFL.  A time for Merlot and a time for Zin.  A time for Country and a time for Western.  A time to vote, and a time not to vote and just tell people you're sick of the whole mess, and they all stink, and besides, what's the point.  A time for taxes and a time for death.

(Originally posted in 2012)

Losing Things

I knew if I found them, I would
glow briefly as a hero
in my wife's eyes.Let me say at the outset, that if you could make a career of losing things, I would be highly paid, for I am an expert.  Yesterday morning, I mislaid glasses that I had been wearing scant minutes ago.  Even Nancy confessed admiration.  I did find the glasses, but in the interval have mislaid them again.  I am wearing Nancy's glasses as I type this.

Oddly enough, at home, I am never without my glasses, not because I never mislay them, but precisely because I do mislay them, so thoroughly and so ubiquitously, the wherever I look, my eye will fall on a pair I've set aside.  Basically my system is to lose so much stuff, that anywhere I search, I'm bound to find something.

I worry about myself sometimes.

Yesterday at the beach, Nancy lost her hat.  You might question her judgement wearing a hat into the ocean, but she has done so many times.  But yesterday, a wave swept it off her head.  We expected to find it floating in the surf nearby, but no.  As far as I can make out, it fell directly under the curve of cresting wave, was pounded to the bottom, then dragged out by the undertow.  

This was a very nice hat - not that it was encrusted with valuable jewels - but it was functional and attractive and Nancy had never seen another quite like it.

I had on a swim mask and searched diligently underwater, not really expecting to find it - the Atlantic off the Florida coast is as clear as clam chowder - but knowing that if I did find it, I would glow briefly as a hero in my wife's eyes.

We finally gave up the search and went back to put away our assorted beach paraphernalia - chairs, umbrella, etcetera - it was the end of the day, and the loss of Nancy's good hat cast a pall over us.  We had to hurry because the tide had come in to a goodish extent and was even now lapping at the feet of our beach chairs.

And then, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but Nancy's hat!  

The conclusion of the story is more remarkable than it appears - our beach stuff was about a hundred feet from where she lost the hat, and we'd already looked for it without success for fifteen minutes, when a helpful wave deposited it right as our feet as we were packing up.

Thank you, mighty Poseidon!

There's a wonderful experience in finding something that has been lost; we prize it more dearly for having contemplated life without it.  Not that you have to be an Expert at Losing Things as I am, but I feel sorry for someone who never loses anything ever.  How would you know the delight of finding it again?

Packing

Packing Implies CompressionI write this from the sunny clime of Jacksonville beach, from a balcony overlooking the mighty Atlantic, whose waves roll in and roll out, as they have with timeless patience, beating the shore with a calming shush and rush, and have thus beaten since long before I was born, or humans walked the earth, and will continue to la-dee-dah-dah-doo-dah-dah and you can fill in the rest yourself.

Yesterday in the AM, Nancy and I completed our packing and set off from Atlanta.  Packing is an interesting word for what we did.  "To pack" implies compression, that the quantity and dimensions of things have been constrained by a limited volume of space.

For a three-day trip, mind you, Nancy and I each brought our own suitcase, plus a computer bag apiece - each with a laptop and an Ipad, plus a coffee-maker, beach chairs, and beach umbrella, a sand-screw for planting the umbrella, a beach bag, another thermal beach bag for carrying drinks, snorkles, masks, sunglasses, hats, a cooler, and - I know I'm leaving something out, but I darned if I'll go take inventory to tell you what it was.

Oh, wait, I just remembered.  Nancy's pocketbook, which itself doubles as a substantial piece of luggage.

The best thing about hauling such a plethora of stuff to a three-day getaway is the soothing prospect of getting to unpack it all when you get home and putting it away for your next trip.  What jolly times we shall have, sunburned and weary, unloading all our sandy gear from the Rav and hauling it to the basement.  What fond memories it will bring back - "Remember putting this cooler in here?  It didn't seem so heavy last time."  

Oh, well, we're Americans, and that's just the way we do.

Meantime, it is a pleasant day here, and the ocean rolls with its immortal shush and rush. 

Keeping Chickens off the Patio

One of the problems associated with raising chickens in suburbia is keeping them off the patio.  Nancy and I, I forgot to mention, have two Rhode Island Reds, delightful birds in every way, who provide eggs for the table and fertilizer for the garden, but who love nothing better than to stroll on up to the patio and feast on Nancy’s potted begonias and poop on the patio deck.  

Chicken poop, it turns out, has a unique chemical property that when it comes in contact with any concrete or masonry-type substance, such as a patio deck, instantly anneals itself to the surface with an epoxy-like bond that would defy a NASA scientist to scrub off.  

For a while I kept a squirt gun on the patio, and when the chickens approached, would shoot at them.  But the water gun was pretty low caliber, more of a water derringer, actually, and it did little to dissuade the birds.  They may have actually enjoyed the challenge, a challenge.  A little spice of danger to season the begonias.  Anyway, after failed attempts with the squirt-derringer, I decided to bring out the Big Guns. 

The big guns in this case being a “Scare Crow,” a sprinkler with a motion detector that goes off whenever something approaches.  I set it up on the steps leading to the patio.  And waited.  Sure enough, within a few minutes the sprinkler went off, there was a frantic clucking, and I saw my hens achieve the maximum lift-off of their chicken ability and head back down the yard.  Mission accomplished.  The only teensy drawback is that the Scarcecrow doesn’t have a specific setting for “chicken” vs "human being" but fires indiscriminately at any motion.  Squirrels, birds, me.  This means effectively the patio is off limits for me as well.  However, I hope this is only a temporary measure. 

I once saw in a fair a chicken in a glass box who for a dime would play you a game of tic-tac-toe.  I do not think the chicken knew she was playing tic-tac-toe, and I have no idea how good a player she was; I use this example purely to show chickens can be trained.  In the fullness of time, I trust, my chickens can learn to stay of the patio.  And the Scarecrow is a very effective teacher.  In the meantime, however, the patio is a no-man’s-land as well as a no-chicken’s-land.  The begonias have it all to themselves.

(Originally Posted April, 2012)

What I Learned at Hambidge

You might think they want to hear about this.
They don't.If readers of this blog - either one of you - are curious about my silence for the last two weeks, it is because I've been at the Hambidge Artists' retreat in Rabun County, Georgia.

Basically, the deal was this: I'd wake up each morning in my solitary cabin, scramble an egg, and write until noon.  Then I'd make a sandwich, take a nap, then write until four.  At that point, I might go for a walk or just hang out until suppertime, when I'd sit around the table with a bunch of other creative types who'd been alone all day doing pretty much the same thing I had, although in their case it might involve fashioning strange and beautiful ceramic pieces or making moonscapes on the floor with powdered kaolin.  

Right now, you're saying to yourself, "Where do I sign up?"

The main thing I learned from Hambidge is that when you come back from a really wonderful, even transformative experience, the less you say about it, the better.  Your nearest and dearest, though they love you as the flowers do the sun, do not want to hear about it.  They do not want to know that while they were home dealing with laundry and the dog's ear infection, you were having a great time.  They do not want to know that it was such a great time, you sort of dreaded coming back home. 

You would think this would be just the sort of thing that would delight them - exactly what a great time it was, and how you wish it had been longer, and how you can't wait to go back.  And yet they do not want to hear this.  If you tell them, they will greet you with stony-eyed looks.  I share this as a public service.

And that is what I learned from Hambidge.

The Apocalypse of Paulie Betenbaugh

The Revelation which the Malthusian Overlord gave unto Paulie Betenbaugh which must shortly come to pass. Blessed is he that readeth, and they that hear the words of this prophecy and not just call it bullshit like usual.  

I, Paulie, who was in Mrs. Othmar's detention for drawing pictures of death-stars during Social Studies, did hear a great voice, as of a trumpet, saying I am Knorman, Overlord of Malthusians, what thou seest writest in thy spiral-bound notebook and send it to the Seven Jocks who sit together at lunch, and especially to Jenny Pritchett, that she may hear.

And I turned to see that voice that spake, and saw seven light-sabers and in the midst of them one like a man, except his eyes were, like, completely whited out, and he was bald all over, but with nails sticking out, like the guy in Hell-Raiser, and his tongue was an actual snake, and there was other stuff that was even creepier, and I would write it down, except it was too creepy for you.  And, seeing, I fell at his feet as if I were dead because the whole thing was so creepy, but the Overlord said, FEAR NOT,
For the judgment of the Overlord is not upon thee, but upon the Seven Jocks especially for pantsing you in gym class and also Ms Othmar and to Jenny Pritchett that she may see and repent.

And I looked up, and out of the East, there came Seven Fiery Cockatrices, the Seven Jocks probably think is some kind of rooster, but is really a dragon, and totally bad-ass.  And one cockatrice was named Bad-ass, and one was named Doom, and one was named Hrothgar the Unholy, and one was named Decapitator, and one didn't have a name because he was too horrible even to name, and one was named Galaxian, and one was named Nameless.

And the cockatrices flew and spread havoc, which was the name of the Eighth Cockatrice that joined them late because he had something.  And a person, who shall not be named, but the secret of his identity may be guessed, for his number is 66, and he is the second-string quarterback, he said, "Holy shit," for he knew his hour was upon him.  For, an unbeliever, he had said Paulie did not have a girlfriend in Canada and there was no such person, even though Paulie had told everyone, and she is totally hot.

And from the mouth of one Cockatrice shot fire, and from another nails, and another hot oil that stuck to you - only it burned like crazy and you couldn't get it off, no matter what - and another had death-rays coming out of its eyes, and another would just bite off your head and for a second the rest of your body would quiver and sort of walk around like it still didn't know what had happened, and another could make itself invisible any time it wanted, and the other one or two were even worse than that, but it shall not be revealed what they did, so that it might be a Surprise.

And all who pantsed Paulie were laid waste, and all who laughed, and all who witnessed, and none were spared.

Except Jennie Pritchett, that she might see and repent.

Another Reason I Never Made It as a Cartoonist

Bend Others to Your Will in One Easy Lesson

People ask me all the time, "How do you bend others to your will?  What is your amazing secret?"

Now it can be told.  I have this incredible power to get others to do my bidding without even asking.

For example, say I want a bowl of ice-cream.  To a person lacking my incredible powers, obtaining this would require the tedium of actually asking someone for it, or worse yet, fixing it themselves.  Ha-ha, it is to laugh.  For me, getting a bowl of ice-cream is simplicity itself.  I will say to Nancy, "Do we have any ice-cream?"  And within mere moments - presto!  Ice-cream.

I vary my technique, of course; sometimes I will say, "Do you think ice-cream would go good with this?" or even, "Would you like some ice-cream?"

Notice, that in each of these situations, I do not actually ask for ice-cream, and yet the result is precisely the same.  Nancy fixes a bowl for me.

I began harnessing this incredible power even as a child.  I could ask complete strangers, "Do you have a watch?" and they would tell me the time without my even having to ask.  When we were dating, I would say to Nancy in a restaurant, "Are you going to finish that?" and without being asked, she would give me the rest of her french-fries or Parmesan as the case may be.

If you wish to develop these powers in yourself, there will come a critical test which you must pass or you will remain forever an ordinary mortal.  When you say, "Do we have any ice-cream," your wife (I am assuming here you are either a man or a lesbian) will say something to the effect of, "The ice-cream is in the freezer.  Get it yourself."

This is a crucial moment.  You must allow yourself to find the ice-cream.  If you do, you can forget ever bending her to your will again.  You must look in the freezer and say, "I don't see it."  She will say, "It's on the left side, right beside the frozen peas."  Tell her you still can't find it.  Bring her the bag of frozen peas to demonstrate how thoroughly you have searched.  She may send you back to the freezer to check again.  Check as many times as she tells you, but on no account must you locate the ice-cream.  This takes tremendous will-power, especially since the ice-cream will be in plain sight.

Eventually she will give up, and come get the ice-cream for you.  When she shows it to you - and that it was exactly where she said - grin sheepishly and shrug.  At this point you can even apologize.  But the next time she asks you to get the ice-cream yourself, you must repeat this procedure exactly.

Eventually, she will become so exasperated, the mere mention of "ice-cream" will be sufficient to make her go and get it for you.

At this point, you have bent her to your will.

Presidential Losers, the Final Chapter: Mitt Romney

Of a campaign filled with gaffes, the most famous was when Mitt's remark in a YouTube video that 47% of Americans who are "dependent on government" and "pay no taxes" would never vote for him.  Somehow this overshadowed other magnificent blunders such as the party for top donors in a 150-foot yacht flying the Cayman flag.

That was typical of Mitt, a guy who just couldn't catch a break.  An illustrative incident was the way Romney's opponents suggested there was "something disturbing" about a man who would put Seamus, the family dog, in a roof-top carrier for a twelve-hour road-trip.  

But did they, in fairness, point out Mitt had thoughtfully installed windshield wipers onto the carrier so the dog could see where they were going?  Even when it rained?  They did not.  Nor did they mention that the dog suffered a bout of diarrhea and Mitt had to hose off the carrier, car, and the dog.  Clearly the dog was partially at fault, and the whole incident was a testament, not to Mitt's insensitivity, but his forethought and planning.  Besides, would you want to be locked in a car for twelve hours with Mitt Romney? 

Unlike Obama, whose paltry work experience included mere presidency of the United States, Mitt had a strong track record with Bain Capital, in proven job-creating field of leveraged buy-outs.  Moreover, as a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Days Saints, he's officially promised his own personal planet to supervise in the afterlife. 

But Mitt, humble and folksy to a fault, never bragged about this, instead, connecting with the common man by telling a Detroit audience his wife drives "a couple of Cadillacs" and NASCAR fans that some of his best friends are NASCAR team owners.  

And yet for all that, Mitt still lost.  Earning about 47% of the popular vote.


Result
Barrack Obama: 332Mitt Romney: 206