FRIDAY ARK

The passengers on this week’s Ark
Know something isn’t right.
The Captain scans the Manifest:
They are one kitty light.
The word is passed - Alas, alas!
That Tigger is no more.
He’s sailing on a ghostly Ark
That plies a Distant Shore.

Friday Ark #178 is up at the Modulator.

This Sunday evening, Carnival of the Cats swings around to the Great White North to be hosted by our old friend Mog at Mind of Mog. Drop by and visit, why don’tcha?

Update: CotC #205 is up, and Mog has once again done an excellent job compiling this Mother of All Kitty-Roundups.

EAT THIS

The worst food in America.

Brandon, who lives in Indonesia and shows off his prodigious photographic talent on his site javajive, posts a link to an article on The 20 Worst Foods in America, according to Men’s Health Magazine.

[The term “worst” being fraught with subjectivity, I should make it clear that here, it refers to caloric and fat content per serving, not taste. There is plenty of Bad Food out there, but if you want a manageable list, you have to have some sort of measurable Numeric Criterion. And the focus of this piece is on the offerings at popular chain restaurants and fast-food outlets.]

The list is done up by categories (worst salad, worst burger, etc.), and some of the entries are, indeed truly heinous. The Carl’s Jr. Double Six Dollar Burger, f’r instance, clocks in at 1,520 calories and 111 grams of fat. But it’s hardly surprising, since Carl’s Jr. deliberately promotes this Meat-Fest as a monument to excess. Aquarius be damned: it is the Age of Baconator.

To me, something like Ruby Tuesday’s Bella Turkey Burger (1,145 calories/71 grams fat) is much worse, because people see the word “turkey” and mentally equate it with “healthier than beef.” So they think they’re doing themselves a favor by ordering up this Calorie-Bomb. Idiots.

And some of this stuff is obviously Bad For You. When you sit down at a Bob Evans and start stuffing a pile of Caramel Banana Pecan Cream Stacked and Stuffed Hotcakes into your pie-hole, you know you will be carrying a goodly portion of it around on your ass for the next few years.

In the Appetizer department, you have Chili’s, with their Awesome Blossom: 2,710 calories and 203 grams (almost a half-pound) of fat. Sure. Take an onion, cut it in a manner that exposes Maximum Surface Area, batter it, and fry the shit out of it. It’s like an oniony Funnel Cake. (Hey, too bad they didn’t look at the Carnival Food category, huh?)

Hey, I like Big Food as much as anybody. But I’d rather eat a honking big bone-in ribeye steak than any of the crap on this list...or, for that matter, any of the recipes in Steve H. Graham’s upcoming book. At least I know what I put in it...unlike all that Chain Restaurant crap.

The worst food in America? What’s your guess? The answer didn’t surprise me.

VALENTINE

Valentine, circa 1938, from the collection of SWMBO’s late Dad.

There’s a deeply cynical part of me that resents Valentine’s Day. But before you smack me, you Love-Lovers, let me ’splain...

There is a slew of Modern Holidays that represent the end-stage of a process of evolutionary adaptation. You start with an old-timey pagan celebration: Saturnalia, Lupercalia, Dies Natalis Invicti Solis, Bacchanalia, et al.; then you graft on a layer of Christian theology, and - presto! - a New Holiday is born. Then, add the heady pong of Creeping Commercialism and the smoothing effect of Rampant Secularism to arrive at the current mix of Western holidays.

Thus you have Easter and Christmas, the two most sacred days in the Christian calendar, with their peculiar mix of pagan holdover customs (tree and egg decoration) and Modern Bidnis. Without Christmas, the film and recording industries (just to mention a couple) would shrivel up and blow away, having no need to produce or market Santa Claus Films and Seasonal Music.

Saint Patrick’s Day (formerly Bacchanalia) holds true to its pagan roots as a day of alcohol-fueled debauchery...especially in Boston and Savannah. Kiss me, I’m Irish...but let me rinse the Puke-Taste out of my mouth first, OK?

Saint Valentine’s Day (formerly Lupercalia) has precious little to do with Saint Valentine any more. But it has been subsumed by a flood of Modern Marketing, for products as varied as Romantic Weekend Getaways, greeting cards, chocolate, booze, and K-Y Jelly. (What, you haven’t seen that ad yet? No, I’m not making it up.) It’s been secularized to the point that, as a Jew, I don’t give its pagan/Christian origins a thought. It may have been goyische narrischkeit a few hundred years ago, but now all the potentially objectionable Religious Elements have been completely sanded away. It’s...safe.

OK, so I’m cynical. And yet...and yet...

There is absolutely nothing wrong with setting aside one day a year to celebrate Romantic Love. Especially when it’s concatenated with nice things like candlelit dinners, plenty of chocolate, satin sheets, and all of that other Lovey-Dovey Stuff. But (and there is always a But), one day a year of romance is not going to make up for 364 (365 this year) other days of inattention and For-Granted Taking. Like all men who are in marriages of long standing, I find that it’s all too easy to forget that keeping the romantic fires burning is a job to which attention must be paid every day.

I hope I’m doing a decent job...because my Valentine is special.



We’ve shared our lives now, either as brash young lovers or as a married couple, for over 32 years now...and she is as beautiful to me as on the day we met. No: more so, because with maturity comes intelligence, confidence, and radiance; she is blessed with liberal doses of all three.

She has given me two children, the finest children I could ever desire, children that I would be proud to know even had we no blood relationship. My Other Valentines, if you will.

She still makes me laugh at least as much as I do her, and she’s not afraid to use a little salt in her food...and her language. She will go to the Kitchen Device Emporium with me to shop for colanders, even though she knows the nefarious uses to which I will put them. And she makes coming home after an out-of-town trip something to be devoutly anticipated.

I know I tend to repeat myself; it’s an affectation of Advanced Age. But I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: With my love, every day is Valentine’s Day.

(Which may explain my chocolate-fueled Fat Ass.)

LENNY AND SQUIGGY

Er, make that Kenny and Ziggy.

Specifically, Kenny and Ziggy’s New York Delicatessen Restaurant in Houston, where I plan to partake of a bit of Homespun Foodstuff this evening at approximately 7 pm Central Standard Time. Or 0100 Zulu, for you miltimers.

Will it be Smokèd Fish? Pickled Lox? Or perhaps some Cured Meat? I do not know...but I suspect it will be tasty.

Any Houston-area blodgers who feel like joining me are welcome to do so. Y’all know who you are.

Update: No blodgers, alas (possibly owing to the incredibly short notice...or my Repellent Personality) - but a plate full of eggs, sable, and onions to die for. Burp!

IAMBIC PUTZOMETER

I’ve been known to take a digge at Chaucer on occasion...but Iowahawk shows us all how it’s Done Right.

Check it out: Heere Begynneth the Tale of the Asse-Hatte, an Archbishop of Canterbury Tale.

It’s topical, too!

[Tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to Emperor Misha for the link.]

TWO USELESS THINGS

Somehow or other, Steve H. Graham and I got into a discussion of Useless Objects on his Nowlive show yesterday. It’s as good an excuse as any to have a Blog d’Elisson Poll, it being election season and all.

So here’s the Question of the Day:

What is the most useless object ever?
	Ray Charles’s Braille edition of Playboy
	Rosie O’Donnell’s diaphragm
Free polls from Pollhost.com

And, in case you’re wondering how I think of these things, it’s thanks to keen powers of observation. At least in the case of Ray Charles’s Playboy magazine, which I have actually seen.

How do I stand on the issue? Well, it is a tough question...but I do believe that there is a definite difference between the two Poll Candidates here...

Personally, I think Ray Charles’s Playboy is the more useless of the two. Because at least Rosie O’Donnell can wear her diaphragm as a hat. [At least, so sayeth Steve H.] Me, I think she could also use it as a soup bowl...but that may just be the drink talking. Either way, a lot more useful than a Braille Playboy. Unless, of course, you read it for the interviews.

Riiiiiight.

MOUSE CRAP

Those of my Esteemed Readers above a Certain Age may remember a board game, newly invented in the early 1960’s, called Mouse Trap. I’m pretty sure it’s still around today.

The game per se, at least in its original incarnation, is not especially thrilling: your basic advance-pieces-around-the-board sort of thing. What makes it moderately interesting (to those with a nascent engineering bent, anyway) is that, over the course of the game, you construct a Rube Goldberg device - the eponymous Mouse Trap - and then, at the end, you activate it, trapping your opponent’s mouse. Whoop-de-fucking-doo.

I will confess to playing Mouse Trap frequently back when I was a sixth-grader. But after a while, the game lost its luster. It’s not easy to stay fascinated with a Rube Goldberg device, unless it’s a real doozy.

But that’s not really what this post is about.

Every so often, I will make a pilgrimage to the Headquarters of the Great Corporate Salt Mine, there to hob-nob with my colleagues and the various Middle and Senior Management wonks. When I spend a day at said Headquarters, I will generally camp out in an unoccupied office, snapping my laptop into the docking station. This hooks me directly into the corporate LAN, as well as providing a handy full-size keyboard and display. And a mouse. (I hate the dinky-ass keyboard and screen of my laptop, but I especially hate the nasty-ass little touchpad mousing device.)

And this is where you can learn a lot about people’s Computer Hygiene...which I suspect is somehow related to their Personal Hygiene. Because some people have Mouse Crap.

Mouse Crap is the gunk that, over time, builds up on the internal rollers of a standard computer mouse. When it becomes thick enough, it interferes with the smooth operation of the mouse, causing the cursor to skip and stutter across the screen.

My borrowed mouse had a bad case of the Shakies ’n’ Skippies, so I opened ’er up.

Gaaaaah. There must’ve been pounds of black grachitz in there, forming a thick incrustation over all the rolling surfaces. Normally, I’d attack the crud with an alcohol-moistened cotton swab, but here it was laid on thick enough to be chipped off with a fingernail. I felt a little disgusted doing it; it was so much like picking one’s nose. Hunting Mouse-Boogers.

I was tempted to leave a note alongside the little heap of Mouse-Droppings, something on the order of, “Check out all the crap I found in your frickin’ mouse, dude!” But that would have been nékulturny. Unprofessional. And too much fun.

At home, of course, I have my own solution to the Mouse Crap problem: I use a laser mouse. Wireless, to boot.

Have you given your mouse an enema lately?

THE NEW STEAM AGE: A 100-WORD STORY

Image: Sean Slattery.

Doctor Rauchfisch stood over the basin, trimming his muttonchops carefully with his straight razor. He rinsed. A splash of bay rum and he strode out, clapping on his top hat and walking-goggles.

Dodging the press of Stanleys and Vapormatics that clogged the street, he arrived at his office and rode the hydraulic lift to the seventh floor.

Taking a polished mahogany case out of his desk, he unfolded it, snapping the steam hose into the wall outlet. Rapidly clicking clockwork signaled the Difference-Engine’s readiness.

He smiled. Life was so much easier since the invention of the World-Wide Steam-Powered Computational Network.

[Read more about Steampunk here.]

THESE TA-MEOW-LES ARE DELICIOUS

David, the Boss-Man over at Radio Sandy Springs, just shared a story with me about a restaurant in Lubbock, Texas years ago...possibly inspired by the show I did yesterday about Food Nostalgia.

David grew up in Lubbock, and it seems that, like 99.9% of the other Local Denizens, he was a big fan of Mexican food. Tex-Mex or Mex-Mex, no matter: He loved it all.

And it also seems that, back in the day, a new Mexican restaurant opened up, quickly becoming the Toast of the Town. It was an unpretentious hole-in-the wall, a complete dive, but all the Anglos flocked there. It was to Lubbock what Paula Deen’s The Lady and Sons is to Savannah, which is to say extremely popular, possibly to an unjustifiable degree.

One day, so David’s recollection goes, a group of doctors and their wives came in for a pre-theatre dinner, dressed to the nines. They ordered; their food was duly delivered unto them; they chowed down.

And then it was that one of the physicians - someone trained in anatomy - found a bone in his food, the shape of which he immediately recognized as having come from...

...a cat.

(Hey, Bill Frist used to dissect ’em in medical school, too...)

The discovery led to people belatedly realizing that cats had become rather thin on the ground since the restaurant had opened...to an inevitable (and drastic) fall-off in business...and to the subsequent closure of the restaurant.

But what fascinates me is that plenty of people must’ve enjoyed what they were eating when they didn’t know what it was.

Now, I’m not here to suggest that “Enchiladas de Gato” is a typical Mexican dish, or that Mexican restaurants routinely use protein sources that would horrify most of their customers, Mexican or Anglo. Unlike, say, Korean restaurants. (Just kidding, Kevin!)

And I’m not about to suggest that cats be considered as a protein source. (I know it happens in China, but in China they will eat anything that’s not nailed down.) But I think it illustrates two basic principles of human nature: (1) There are some things you may be better off not knowing, and (2) Caveat Emptor.

Now, excuse me while I go puke.

VALE, TIGGER

Tigger.

The catblogging world mourns the loss of Meryl Yourish’s orange furball Tigger, who had been struggling with chronic renal failure these past several months.

Grief is the price we pay for our ability to feel love. Knowing something is inevitable does not necessarily make it any easier...and the relatively short lives of our Animal Companions mean that, inevitably, our hearts will be broken.

Please visit Meryl and offer up your condolences.

REVENANTS

Mom came to see me again last night.

She doesn’t come around all that much these days. Not surprising, since she’s been dead almost twenty years. But once in a blue moon, she’ll come back, a silent presence in my dreams.

Silent, yes. She never talks. None of the revenants who come to visit me at night ever do. They may smile bittersweet smiles, or they may go about their business wearing blank expressions, but never do they speak.

Sometimes it’s not my mother who appears. Most times, in fact, it’s not. Grandparents, mostly. And suddenly they’re back, going through the motions of life as though they were never gone.

Where have you been? I try to ask them. How can you be here now, unchanged? Why did you go away?

They never answer.

My mind invents scenarios, attempting to explain. They disappeared to live another life with another family. They were really here all along, and I simply forgot. They’ve never been away, except in a dream I had…

I’m happy and upset all at once. Happy to see them. Upset at the time we’ve missed together…and at the fact that they never, ever speak. Except with their eyes.

And it’s their eyes that tell me that their absence is not a dream, that they are really, truly gone, except as ghostly revenants that come in the night.

Still dreaming. My life feels empty, like the socket left by a pulled tooth. Something is missing, and it won’t ever - can’t ever - come back. Then I wake up, and as the cobwebs clear from my mind, the sense of loss fades.

But it never goes away completely.

NUMBER TWO

This evening at dinner, Gary announced that he had scored an invitation to play a round of golf at Pinehurst. And not just Pinehurst, but on Pinehurst Course No. 2, site of the U.S. Open Championships in 1999 and 2005.

I played Pinehurst No. 2 back in the spring of 2000. It’s a wide-open course, very much along the lines of Augusta National, with brutal inverted-teacup greens. Hackers like us could never expect to hit a fairway shot to those greens and have the ball hold. Instead, we would aim for the front of the green and then plan to putt or chip on. It was a workable strategy, one that saved us a lot of heartache.

So Gary says, “You played No. 2 once, didn’t you?”

No sooner had I gotten the words, “Yes, I did...” out of my mouth when the Missus chimed in:

“Yeah...and he played like Number Two.”

Damn, she’s good...

FRIDAY RANDOM TEN

It’s Friday, which means it’s time once again for Blog d’Elisson’s Friday Random Ten, the weekly Random Musical Selection pooped out by the iPod d’Elisson.

This week, we start off with a Cool Jazz selection by the legendary Miles Davis. After that...who knows?

1. So What - Miles Davis
   
   From 1959’s Kind of Blue album, a landmark exemplar of The Cool, and the best-selling jazz record of all time. Many critics and jazz aficionados rank it as possibly the best jazz album ever.
   
   On this album, Davis’s prodigious talents were supplemented by a veritabobble pantheon of all-stars: Cannonball Adderley on alto sax, John Coltrane on tenor sax, Bill Evans and Wynton Kelly on piano, Paul Chambers on bass, and Jimmy Cobb on drums. The music was recorded with minimal rehearsal; in fact, the musicians had little idea of what they were about to record (Wikipedia). The results speak for themselves.
   
   
2. Projector - Philip Glass, Kundun
   
   This cut from the Kundun soundtrack starts with an appropriately ominous note: it plays over a scene in which a horrified young Dalai Lama watches a film of the first atomic bomb test.
   
   
3. Jesus Thinks You’re A Jerk - Frank Zappa
   
   
4. About To Die - Procol Harum
   
   
5. Bahn Frei - Boston Pops Orchestra
   
   This fast-paced polka by Eduard Strauss was the beloved theme music for Jean Shepherd’s radio show. You can hear it here.
   
   
6. Mama Roux - Dr. John
   
   From his 1968 debut album Gris-Gris, about which Atlantic Records executive Ahmet Ertegun famously said, “How can we market this boogaloo crap?”
   
   
7. I Wanna Be Like You - Big Bad Voodoo Daddy
   
   Here, BBVD covers Louis Prima’s song from the 1967 Walt Disney film Jungle Book. Their version, recorded for the movie Swingers, does not appear in the film but is on the soundtrack album.
   
   
8. Horn - Phish
   
   
9. After The Fall - Elvis Costello
   
   
10. Hello In There (Live) - John Prine
    
    

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

FUZZY FRIDAY

The Friday Ark casts off its lines
And moves away from shore.
It’s packed with Cats and Dogs and such:
Now, who could ask for more?

Friday Ark #177 is asail upon the Bloggy Sea. Check it out over at the Modulator.



Hakuna is here to remind us that this Sunday evening, Carnival of the Cats comes to Pet’s Garden Blog. Be sure to stop by and say hello to the Assorted Kitties.

Update: CotC #204 is up.

THURSDAY CATBLOGGING: MORNING CHAIR

Hakuna. [Click to embiggen.]

Hakuna, parked under her favorite Morning Chair.

OUT BY THE WHARTON FREEWAY:A 100-WORD TALE

The worst job I ever had was manager of the U-Store-It unit out on the Wharton Freeway.

It wasn’t the pay (which sucked), or Corporate (which really sucked).

It wasn’t even the clientele, although most of our customers weren’t what you’d call Model Citizens.

No, it was the astonishing number of dead bodies that would appear in the unrented units. Every couple days, we’d find another, chewed up pretty bad. The cops were mystified, and it got to where I wasn’t sleeping too well.

Then one night I saw them, and I understood. “Tekeli-li,” they moaned.

I never came back.

NO WAY THIS IS KOSHER

Good Gawd.

Has Steve H. seen this?

Might give a whole new meaning to the term “Hog On Ice,” eh?

[Tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to Hairboy for the link.]

THE GONIFS OF HOLLYWOOD

A gonif, I should explain to the Yiddish-Impaired, is a thief. Hollywood is full of ’em these days - no surprise - but these days, their main stock-in-trade is ideas.

The Missus and I were enjoying a few draughts from the Glass Teat this evening when Fox showed a promo for their upcoming new series New Amsterdam.

We looked at each other. The story, about an Immortal Guy who lives in New York City, seemed strangely familiar.

Let’s just take a look at the description from the Fox Broadcasting Company website, shall we?

NEW AMSTERDAM is the story of a New York homicide detective unlike any other. He is brilliant, mysterious, reckless, magnetic, unknowable. And he has a profound secret – he is immortal...

...Amsterdam has found [immortality] to be a mixed blessing. Over the course of three centuries, he’s experienced endless adventure and honed his many talents. But everyone Amsterdam meets must leave him in time; lovers and children die while he remains young.

Having witnessed its entire history from colonial outpost to mega-metropolis, John Amsterdam is the living embodiment of New York City. He and the island of Manhattan are now part and parcel of each other...

Gee, this sounds a lot like a book both I and She Who Must Be Obeyed have read within the past several years: Forever, by Pete Hamill.

What possible similarities could there be?

Well, the main character in Forever is an Irishman, one Cormac O’Connor, who travels to America and is given immortality by an African priestess for having saved the life of an enslaved prince. The immortality comes with a price: Cormac can never leave Manhattan Island. In New Amsterdam, John Amsterdam is given Life Eternal by a spell cast by a Native American girl whom he saves by interposing himself between her and a deadly sword blow. He cannot die...until he finds True Love. (It never hurts to have a Politically Correct Backstory.) Forever starts about a century later than New Amsterdam, but there seems to be too many similarities to ignore...in particular, the especial connection between the (respective) heroes and the island of Manhattan.

I will be very interested to see whether Pete Hamill ever receives a scintilla of credit for the TV show. I suspect not; and I further suspect that he would have a legitimate cause of action in that event.

This smacks of the recent film Idiocracy, and its complete lack of acknowledgement of any influence from Cyril Kornbluth’s classic SF short story “The Marching Morons.” The remarkable similarities in major plot points between Idiocracy and “The Marching Morons” were the topic of a post by Yours Truly some time ago. Mike Judge’s failure to credit Kornbluth is reprehensible.

Is this a new trend? Are things in Hollywood not loathsome enough, with studios recycling old ideas in a ridiculous orgy of Sequel- and Prequelitis? Is outright plagiarism now to be the Order of the Day?

KARMA 1, DOGMA 0

There is an old joke - a Shaggy Dog Story - in which a young man hears that a wise guru possesses the secret of Eternal Life. He sets forth to find the guru and learn his secret.

He travels for days, flying to India, then hiking through the treacherous mountain passes of the Himalayas. Finally, after much painful struggle, he arrives at the cave where the ascetic guru is said to reside.

And sure enough, the old man comes out of the cave and greets his visitor happily. (He doesn't get too many of them.)

“How may I help you?”

The young man replies, “I hear that you possess the secret of Eternal Life. Would you be kind enough to share it with me, O Great One?”

“Oh, yes, indeed, yes.

“First, you must refrain from eating rich foods.

“Second, you must abstain from strong drink. You writing this down?”

“Yes, of course, O Great One.”

“OK. Third, you must avoid the company of fast women, women of questionable morals.”

“Right. No rich foods, no strong drink, no slutty women. And if I follow these instructions, I will live forever?”

The old guru shook his head sadly.

“No, my son. But it will seem like it!”

Well, it seems that one guru will not live forever: the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, who migrated to another plane of existence earlier today at the (estimated) age of 91.

The Maharishi (“Great Seer”), the world’s best-known advocate of Transcendental Meditation and one-time guru to music industry biggies such as the Beatles and Mike Love of the Beach Boys, died peacefully at his home shortly after his Dogma got hit by a Karma. He apparently did not have Transcendental Insurance.


Maharishi Mahesh Yogi.
“I’m deader than your average Yogi!”


“Hey, there, Boo-Boo! That’s my line!”

BUT, IS IT ART?

What do these things all have in common?


New Yorker magazine cover, September 24, 2001.


RAW, Issue #1.


Harper’s magazine cover, August 2006.


New Yorker magazine cover, February 15, 1993.


Garbage Pail Kids. [Click to embiggen.]


Self-portrait.


Wacky Pack sticker, 1973.


Maus II (detail).

If you guessed that these are all the creations of one Art Spiegelman, you are correct.

Spiegelman, the child of Holocaust survivors, came to prominence in the world of underground comics back in the late 1960’s. He is perhaps best known for Maus, a graphic novel in two parts that chronicles his father’s experience leading up to and during the Holocaust. He also worked for the New Yorker for ten years, creating some of that magazine’s most memorable (and controversial) covers. (It’s hard to imagine that the same cartoonist who drew scurrilous material for underground titles like Real Pulp, Young Lust, and Bizarre Sex could land a gig with that most staid bastion of New York literary pretentiousness, but, well, there you are.)

I’ve written here about Wacky Packs and Garbage Pail Kids, two of the stranger excrescences of Kiddie Popular Culture of the 1970’s and ’80’s, and how they were, no doubt, inspired (directly or indirectly) by MAD Magazine. As it turns out Spiegelman created both...and he acknowledges that MAD Magazine was a significant Childhood Influence.

Last night, I had the good fortune to attend a lecture Spiegelman gave at the Atlanta outpost of Savannah College of Art and Design. For over two hours, he had the rapt attention of several hundred audience members as he talked about everything from 9/11 (he was close enough to watch the whole thing), to the underground comics scene, to his years at the New Yorker, to the Great Muhammad Cartoon Controversy of 2006, to Dick Tracy and Peanuts, to the work of will Eisner.

He spent quite a bit of time talking about how MAD Magazine - and its sister EC Comics publications, including the entire stable of pre-Code horror comics - helped mold his sensibility and sense of humor. He reminded me of me...except for the fact that he has Artistic Talent.

Afterwards, I had a chance to speak with him briefly and reminisce about some of the shared elements of our New York-area childhoods. It was all too short a dialogue, because I could have listened to his stories for hours.

But thanks to the miracle of the Printing Press, coupled with Spiegelman’s extraordinary vision, I can see his stories anytime I want to.


Art Spiegelman. [Click to embiggen.]