I didn’t write the “You used to my hero” line. Because it’s sarcastic and Hammy isn’t sarcastic. It’s also pretty mean and Hammy is never mean.
Elves rewrote me again. I had Larry on Hammy’s head say, “Desperation is never funny.” Then Hammy says, “Except in France.” It’s a little hip for the room, but it’s stronger than, “you used to be my hero.”
I’m open to suggestions about how to deal with the Elves. Reasonable appeals to consult before publication fall on deaf ears. Yelling and screaming don’t work. I’d kill them, but I don’t think our state’s “stand your ground” law would apply.
Did you enjoy the debate last night? I did. Really enjoyed watching Perry double-down on Social Security as a Ponzi scheme. And the science not being solid on Global Warming. And he’s never struggled with risk of executing an innocent person. And WTF was he trying to say about Galileo?
Perry’s peaked. Huntsman may catch fire as the only electable one of the bunch… but probably not.
Romney looks like he’ll be the last lamb standing.
I love how Rick Perry describes Texas as some sort of “Lord of the Flies” island of misanthrope Milton Friedman’s. Each of us hacking an entrepreneurial path through the wilderness while eschewing all entreaties of help or support – fortified solely by the fermented sweat of our brows.
Today’s headline: Central Texas Wildfires Prompt Perry to Request Natural Disaster Relief.
Texas: It’s Like a Whole Other Country.*
(*That Pretends We Don’t Need Each Other. Until We Do.)
Technically, I live about 20 miles south of Austin near Buda. And I work at home. I don’t have to deal with Austin traffic or Austin hipsters-than-thou (pretty much everyone is hipster-than-thou these days).
So, my Austin is the Austin of my college days at UT. Dancing in the sand to reggae at Liberty Lunch. Swimming at an uncrowded Barton Springs. Cheap steaks at Another Raw Deal. Too many Shiner Bochs at The Hole in the Wall. And the first few Eyeore’s Birthday Parties in Pease Park.
Most of the places and events are still around, but it’s not the same. It’s more crowded, less interesting and less Austin.
Ultimately, everyone can’t be a nonconformist like everyone else.
But it’s still cooler (not COOLER) than anywhere else in Texas. And it’s probably the only place you’ll find a small squirrel in a drum circle banging a coffee can with a spatula in celebration of a clinically depressed donkey.
I love football — specifically college football. But with bigger and faster players the game has become ridiculously violent and dangerous — to heads.
I saw a report recently that linked ALS or Lou Gerhig’s Disease to repeated concussions. This is is on top of the well established connection between head trauma and Parkinson’s Disease.
I predict organized football at all levels will decline in popularity over the next ten to 20 years as efforts to make the game safer result in making the game duller. In the race between conditioning (natural and artificial) and padding, conditioning is going to win. I don’t think anyone wants to see players running around in Michelin Man suits.
Forgive me if I’m a little down on football this year. My first favorite team, Texas, has had an abysmal season (please fire the O.C. Greg Davis). My second favorite team, TCU, is probably going to get locked out of the National Championship despite an unbeaten season and the BCS’s absurd opposition to a playoff.
Still, I live in Texas and if football went away the entire state would sink into such a depression that it might suck the entire country down with it. Of course, a lot of people already think Texas is a sink hole. But it’s our sink hole and until football goes away it’ll be filled with Friday night lights and Saturday afternoon glory.
Here’s another short film I did for Babelgum in which I recount my student cartooning days at Baylor University and the time when Playboy came to shoot Girls of the Southwest Conference.
Playboy coming to Baylor was big news for the student newspaper The Lariat where my friends and I all worked. We became embroiled in a test of wills over whether a student newspaper at a private college had the right to editorialize that adult women should be able to do adult things. It doesn’t.
Scholarships were yanked and we were told we would be happier elsewhere. Those of us not graduating packed up and headed to Austin and the University of Texas where we were hailed as conquering heroes.
For about a day and a half.
It was a important lesson in real politics at a young age. Baylor never cared about Playboy or bare breasted Baptists. By shutting down The Lariat and encouraging publicity from Newsweek to The Washington Post, they were sending a loud and clear message to Baptist fundamentalists who were threatening to take over the Board of Regents. The message was, “See, we have a handle on this place. We can get medieval on these sorry heathen student journalist asses. So, no need to worry about this place becoming Sodom and Gomorrah on the Brazos.”
For me, the whole thing was a clear sign from God that I become a cartoonist. And I always listen to God. Especially when he speaks to me through Lisa Welch, Miss September 1980. Her turn-ons include: sexy men, fireplaces, sunny days at the beach and cartoonist.*
*Lisa didn’t actually write that. But I could see it her eyes — eyes that looked directly and only at me.
Below is cartoon I did for my good friend and neighbor Jeff Barton who’s running for Hays Country Judge here in Texas. It’s actually the first cartoon I’ve drawn in years. And a cursory glance can tell why it’s the first cartoon I’ve drawn in years. I suggest everyone focus on the writing.
The cartoon was supposed to run on Jeff’s website and become a mailer or something, but somehow that never happened. The give-a-ways in the cartoon don’t exist, but I’ll print out the cartoon and sign it for anyone whodonates (click on the cartoon or go to Jeff’s site).
He’s in a tight race. Jeff’s a smart, decent, hard working friend that I’ve known for over 30 years who’s dedicated most of his life to public service. The County Judge position in Texas is not an actual judgeship, but similar to the head of the county board of commissioners or supervisors in other states. It’s about urban planning, building roads and managing growth.
The position is not ideological. But, unfortunately, Jeff’s opponent and his supporters, egged on by the Fox News-ification of politics, have made it ideological. This has brought out a deluge of lies, innuendo and dirty campaign tactics that this county hasn’t seen since battles over civil rights. Whole blocks worth of campaign signs have been stolen. They’ve organized anonymous email campaigns spewing hate-filled lies. The venom is both sadly ridiculous and a little scary — as though all the local right wing’s frustration and anger over Obama as president is directed squarely at Jeff.
I think Jeff will win next Tuesday. But it will be close. If you’re a fellow resident of Hays County, please consider voting for Jeff Barton. Don’t listen to the anonymous lies from the right. Educate yourself on the local issues that matter and make your own decision.
I recorded this last night at about 11 PM on our back porch.
We live southwest of Austin, near Buda, TX on the edge of the hill country. What you’re hearing is our nightly cacophony of insects and the occasional frog from our pond. When I hear this I’m reminded of how outnumbered we humans are. Outnumbered and ultimately outmatched by a menagerie of nightlife that hums and croaks and chatters and sings without a care whether we’re listening or not.
One summer (and the summers are HOT in central Texas) we went without air-conditioning because we couldn’t afford a repair. It wasn’t that awful. Sure, it was uncomfortable, but by 1 or 2 AM with the windows open it would cool down to the mid 70′s. And in the sticky darkness I would finally fall asleep to this living lulabye.
Today, our AC works just fine and manages to successfully drown out this nightly serenade.
Zombies are funny. They just are. Hard to take a zombie seriously, no matter how much he wants to eat your brains. You see a zombie coming toward you in Starbucks, eyes glazed over like Ben Rothlisberger at a sorority mixer, arms outstretched grasping for a synaptic snack and you think, “Really? REALLY?!”
You easily side-step him (zombies have poor motor skills) and then blow his head off with the grenade launcher you got a carry permit for just last week (don’t mess with Texas). It’s then that you realize that was no zombie. That was Ken from the cubicle next door and he just hadn’t had his Chai Tea yet.