The Long Grass
No cartoon with this one. This is where I disregard my own precedents out of sloth and tardiness, then try to pass it off as deliberate non-conformity. FUCK YEAH!!
You can chalk this post up to the oxygen deprivation that results from the Filter Bubble, or you can imagine me in loose robes, wild-eyed, dictating this to a scared looking person you’ve never seen me with and who seems uncomfortable with the vigour of the dictation. Either way its late and there’s something clawing its way through my mind.
Somehow in the space of the last three hours, between wandering the streets seeking Peanut M&M’s and carefully preparing Paleo meals with my girlfriend, I had the good fortune to speak with a creator who has brought to market two anthology volumes of independent comics; to read an article reinforcing my belief that the harder you’re working for someone else’s business, the harder you must work for yourself in some equivalence; and to read another article deconstructing the popular assumption that opinions are an entitlement.
Life is pretty fucking good.
But if I ended there this would be too short and you’d think “oh he’s just taking the piss, first there’s no cartoon, now he can’t even be bothered to write a decent length post!”.
The point is that all around you, behind every door and window you pass during your odyssey toward death, there is another person chasing, decorating, or denying their dream. There’s a poem I read once (and that’s all you’re getting, you wield the Google-stick too, so go wield) about a neighbourhood in New York where a bunch of people kept tigers in their houses, and then left the neighbourhood due to illness/hipsters moving in/the unforeseen odorous effects of tiger-stewardship. For months afterwards police and social services had to be careful of any house calls or other duties in this hood, on account of all the tigers. It was very poetic. Try it next time you walk down a residential street, or even better next time you walk down a street in a central district, look at all the doors you can’t see through, that aren’t clearly marked, and imagine a colossal tiger, all mean on account of constipation from chewing office rental carpet. Picture that tiger lying behind the door staring right through it to you.
I guess what I’m saying is that we’re all the tigers. I believe this in a really wide-eyed, “gosh, Paw” kind of way, but when you actually discover through your reading and the contacts you make that other people are checking the wind with their whiskers, and heading for the long grass, tails a flicking, well…
So if you look at yourself and the people you spend your allotted Earth-person hours with and see no tigers, or only flabby albino ones with cracked claws and fading stripes, then it’s time to break the rules you live by. Time to ask “Why?” until you want to gouge out your own eyes and make them into HB totem poles.
The answer’s in the long grass. Stay downwind.
p.s. comments involving Tiger Blood not welcome. Fuck Charlie Sheen.
p.p.s. tigers love M&Ms.