Solving the Caviarette Mystery

I read this New Yorker advertisement once. Then I read it again. I read it a third time and I STILL didn't know what the hell it was supposed to mean (click for a larger image).


I'm happy to report that the fourth time was the charm. So let me explain.

The people in the comic are all members of the same family. They try various pastimes and they all fail miserably; Brother sucks at polo (a "chukka" is a polo-style period), Sis is equally bad at tennis, Mom is losing vast amounts of money playing bridge, and Pop couldn't win at the stock market to save his life (a smooch to anybody who can find out which commodity "Cons. Gravies"* is supposed to be).

The butler knows that "something must be done" to make the family happy...so he serves them caviar on incredible J. R. Ritz Caviarette crackers. He also gives them illegal cocktails, you'll notice. The combination of booze, caviar, and crackers leads to a happy ending in the sixth panel.

Why was this all so confusing? Other than the fact that the actual plot is disconnected and silly, I had trouble figuring out what Pop was doing in panel four (that's ticker-tape, not spaghetti), and it took me awhile to recognize the affiliation of the butler character...it was the bow tie that tipped me off.

But none of this explains the absolutely atrocious first paragraph, which would throw even the savviest culture bloodhound offtrack:

Athletic and high mental family loses all indoor and outdoor sports except Caviarettes at which pastime all run up tremendous record-breaking average.

This is such a terrible sentence that it must have been done on purpose. Was it meant to evoke a telegram, or a radio report, or a quick newspaper brief? Caviarette crackers deserved better, I'm sure.

* I guess I'll have to smooch myself because the answer just occurred to me while I was trying to get to sleep. It's "Consolidated Gravies" and is not meant to be an actual commodity; it's a play on "gravy train." Whew, now I CAN sleep.

"My God, They're Cold Tonight"

Psycho-Gifts for Christmas!

While the Victorians loved their Freud, the '20s were all about behaviourism and personality tests...everybody was taking quizzes and using behaviour modification to keep their children in line. Skinner hadn't arrived on the scene yet but Watson was very, very popular.

This is the first time I've seen the fad so obviously presented in The New Yorker. It's a Christmas advertisement for Wanamaker's Department Store in the December 8, 1928 issue.

The advertisement claims that Wanamaker's has analyzed the neurotic complexes of "the world and his wife" (!), and that you should purchase Christmas gifts for people based on their own personal complexes.

To start this game we hand you a little book which lists suggestions for gifts under psychological classifications...

Start the game with your friends.

Play the game of choosing psycho-gifts. It is fascinating...

A treasure hunt, indeed, that will give you a greater Christmas thrill than you ever had before.

Forget the fact that behaviourism didn't believe in complexes per se, this could still be fun if they were using the good, old-fashioned, traditional Freudian complexes. Should you buy starchy underwear for the man with castration anxiety, or orthopedic shoes for sufferers of an Oedipus complex?

But no. As you'd expect, the "complexes" as illustrated are actually just a list of vague personality "types," making the astute observation that children only HAVE one type: "Children."

A treasure hunt that will give you a greater thrill? Nope, just another sad gimmick to get you to buy Christmas gifts. But I don't understand why the bellhop has an exposed catheter, let alone why the housewife is admiring cat poop on the brand new rug.

Antics of Arabella

One reason that I decided to read every issue of The New Yorker in chronological order was so I could understand the references. By reading all the stories leading up to the 1928 election, for instance, I can understand the jokes they make subsequently about Herbert Hoover. You might ask if it's important to understand flippant jokes about Herbert Hoover. You'd have a point.

Sometimes, however, an item shows up that I have no context for. Such is the case with the November 17, 1928 two-page spoof of the New York Times, featuring all sorts of Times-related humour that even an avid New Yorker reader couldn't hope to understand.

I give you "Antics of Arabella" (click for full-size) and I ask respectfully: what the HELL?

The Thick Ankle Cartoon

I've posted in the past about the 1920s "ankle" obsession, and in particular the occasional advertisements by hosiery manufacturers (among others) about statues having unfashionably "thick ankles."

Despite the number of comments informing me that some people continue to hold thin ankles in high esteem, I've remained baffled as to why STATUES should have thin ankles, and why several different people were picking on them.

I don't have a good explanation, but at least I'm not crazy...cartoonist Henry Holmes Smith thought it was weird as well! Here's his cartoon from November 10, 1928:


I feel SO vindicated!

A "To Hell With It All!" Weekend

Sometimes -- for chemical, psychological, social, and environmental reasons that I can barely understand -- I find myself feeling SO BITTERLY MISANTHROPIC that I need to have a "to hell with it all" weekend. Like the spoiled, petulant child that I sometimes am, I just want to close the curtains, unplug the phone, turn off the lights, shush the squirrels, and moan in a corner until it all just goes away.

When I'm in the throes of this mood I find myself desperately craving an undefinable something, a medicine or a cure that will make me happy again. Unable to find such a thing I fall back on the second best option: lots of movie rentals and a big bag of Ched-a-Corn.

The thing about Ched-a-Corn is that it makes you physically ill, especially if you start at the bottom of the bag where the puffies have literally melted due to high oil content. My craving for Ched-a-Corn makes me wonder if I'm short-sighted, a masochist, or if I'm merely missing certain essential greases in my diet. In any case it's just the ticket for how I'm feeling.

The movies?

The Invasion

With Nicole Kidman as protagonist I can finally root for the body snatchers. The emotionless nature of the alien replicants will at least prevent them from the curse of syrupy overacting. My heart will always lie with the '70s version (which I should have included in that "scariest movies ever" list I made a few months ago, simply on the basis of sound design alone).

Can you forget Donald Sutherland walking between rows of alien pod trees towards a deserted government landmark, while Veronica Cartwright screams and pulls her hair and rehearses next year's encounter with a Gigerrific alien? I can't. God, that movie freaked me out.

The Corpse Grinders II

I was intrigued by the alien catwoman on the front cover, and then I saw that Liz Renay was in it. She inspired me in a way that only John Waters fans can ever understand. R.I.P.

Constantine

Once again, thanks to Keanu Reeves, I can root for the villains. I picked it because it was alphabetically next in the "horror" section, and also because I enjoyed Constantine's "Swamp Thing" appearances (though I was less impressed with the first Constantine trade paperback, which seemed so DESPERATELY new wave).

Judgement Day: Intelligent Design on Trial

I firmly believe that one of the most insidious forces at work in the modern world is the manipulation of words for dishonest ends. "Intelligent Design" is a case in point, and I rented this documentary simply so I could "top up" my already-bubbling fury.

This is the only one of these movies that I've watched so far. Through my gut-aching Ched-a-Corn haze I can at least say that it made the ID proponents look suitably deluded and/or deceptive, and it's awfully funny to see an actor portraying Michael Behe get totally trashed.

I'd rather see Michael Behe HIMSELF on the hotseat, but he's too smart to expose himself to real scrutiny on film. What a maroon!

!

Cartoon Confusion Due to Creepy Ending

Otto Soglow is confusing us again, this time in the September 8, 1928 issue of The New Yorker (click for a full-size image).

I'm not stupid; I assume the joke is that the diver left his suit to join the mermaid underwater. But does it make sense that my first thought was that she'd EATEN him? And does it seem strange that I still halfway believe that this was Soglow's intention?

Even More Modesty

Sometimes my nightly ritual involves taking a few more chunks out of the 10,183 Modesty Blaise strips, thoughtfully being reprinted by Titan Books. I've followed the stories from 1963 to 1969, and if anything they're getting better.

How do you evaluate a comic strip? Here you have two innovative, creative, and driven elements -- Jim Holdaway's stark line-work and Peter O'Donnell's endless parade of tangled plots and bizarre villains -- who meshed together perfectly. They knew each other well and, just as importantly, they knew the characters.

I'm not a fan of mystery-thrillers by any means, but O'Donnell has me permanently hooked. Far from being repetitive, each story has a new angle that puts Modesty Blaise and Willie Garvin to the test. The fact that he could cram so much into a daily three-panel strip -- and make it engrossing even when collected into books -- is baffling to me.

Simultaneously ahead of its time and the last of its kind, it's cinematic and epic, funny and terrifying, and ultimately touching. I'm sad it's all over, but I still have 31 more years of strips to read.

PS: Peter O'Donnell says that "The Hell Makers" is one of his favourites, and I agree. Willie is kidnapped and tortured with a brain-damaging psychedelic drug, so Modesty teams up with a dusty old cowpoke and his trained eagles. And that's just the beginning...

Anthropologist Seuss

Before devoting himself to sheer fancy, Dr. Seuss was a minor sort of anthropologist. Here's what he uncovers in the June 30, 1928 New Yorker.

AN ANCIENT NEWS PICTURE

The above photograph was found in recent excavations under the city of Rome. Noted archaeologists say it is from the Sunday Roto Section of Rome Graphic, and appeared in B. C. 1073. The picture depicts that sly satyr Flit undoing the work of the unpleasant goddess Insecta.

Why a "photograph" instead of a pot shard or something? I honestly don't know; it wasn't like newspaper photographs were anything new in 1928, though they may have been part of a controversy around this time. Just a few issues previous, Morris Markey had done an expose of unsavoury newspaper photographers (which meant all of them, according to Markey), and especially their photo-manipulation techniques: it was common at the turn of the century, apparently, for photographers to use photo tricks to raise the hems of ladies' skirts and -- gasp! -- draw in fake ankles!

Still, the advert's pointed mention of a newspaper photograph is a mystery akin to "why does Insecta wear a housecoat?"

Life at the Moment

A quick catch-up:

• Avidly reading John Barth's "LETTERS," trying always to find the most comfortable spot to read it in: porch, balcony, couch, chair, bed, coffee shop, park.
• Meanwhile proofreading a friend's satirical self-help book.
• Also reading a book on composing white papers, since I need to produce one at work.
• And promising, at some point, to read the graphic novels that Ash loaned me last week.
• Editing down certain songs ("Pretend to be Nice," "Terrible Thought," "Heart be Still") for this Thursday's open drag night, and making scattershot plans for the night itself.
• Watching the rain, the wind, and the gradual cooling of each day.
• Tending my hand, which has gotten worse due to all this activity. Acting upon the realization that POSTURE has a lot to do with the pain, and alternating cold-and-hot soaking seems to help it.
• Getting back, eventually, to working on UPhold's "Road to Avondale" project, and writing on Octavia-the-Neo (once my hand has improved and I start reading a lighter book), and taking the next BusWalk Tour.
• Watching the second season of "Twin Peaks" and enjoying it.
• Praying that I don't need to walk in the rain until I can buy new boots on the weekend.
• Pimping for my neighbour's dog. Waiting for the right time to approach the resident squirrels.
• Saving money with a vague hope of buying a car next spring.
• Anticipating next month's Pridetoberfest, BBGG DJ gig, hallowe'en, birthday, and "Mother Mother" live show.
  
• Jus' relaxin'.
  

Rick Veitch

I am not a reader of comics, I guess because I rarely find a comic that I like. I don't think superheroes are exciting and lycra just doesn't appeal to me. Even when comics get all dystopian, I still can't help thinking that most of them are mass-produced pulp.

Way back in February 1983 I was suffering through an extremely dull visit with my grandparents. My father -- equally bored -- took me down to the Short Stop and promised to buy me a magazine. I saw a brilliant cover of a dead angel in the water and decided that it was the one for me: Epic Illustrated #16, a quote-unquote "adult comic" monthly that gradually died under the commercial pressure of rival Heavy Metal's T&A.

Epic was great. After tossing out all my issues when I first moved from home, I've managed to re-collect them all and see them again through adult eyes. Sure they were selling sex -- even a little kid could see that -- but more often than not their stories were also complex, intelligent, and downright strange. And they could be really gross too.

Strangest, grossest, and brainiest of all in issue #16 was an episode of Rick Veitch's ongoing saga, "Abraxas and the Earthman." A looney re-telling of the Moby Dick saga, it had the great (red) whale pursued by a peg-legged madman...through space, assisted by an earthman with all his skin ripped off, his disembodied head sidekick, a six-breasted leopared-woman, and a swarm of manipulative insect creatures who could creep into the subconscious and smush your brain together. And that's just for starters.

I loved all of Veitch's Epic comic creations -- man-eating banana-plants, sentient suns, pre-Matrix men caught in a computer virtual reality, sexy bulls, a John Waters look-alike with a horrific sexually-transmitted disease -- and I later discovered his work on Swamp thing, and then his TRULY twisted graphic novels. I love his loose plotting style, the long story detours that usually end up in the most unexpected places. I love his depressingly average people who suddenly suffer catastrophic revelations. Most of all I love his human faces: greasy people with brow-wrinkles and acne, messy stubble, inbred chins and stupid eyes. Nobody draws a redneck like Rick Veitch does.

Not only has "Abraxas and the Earth Man" finally been released on graphic novel format, but Veitch is working on a six-part mini-series called "Army@Love." I'm coming into it late and I've just read the first six issues. It's a vile satire of the Iraq war. Sometimes it clubs you with a sledgehammer, but it's most effective when it's subtle.

Veitch doesn't have much love for war profiteers and bumper-sticker patriots...as it should be. In his "Afbaghistan," soldiers are being enticed with promises of excitement and kicks, where the ultimate high is to have sex during combat and therefore join the "Hot Zone Club." This is the only way the government can continue to market the conflict after ten years of an impossible war.

As sick and tasteless as that Lynnie England cover of issue #2 is, Veitch is dead on...but he's also weaving a great story, and he's the only person who could get me buying a monthly comic again.

And I'm not just saying that because I've been in love with him since 1983.

More Modesty!

I stumbled upon Modesty Blaise through the back door: the 1966 film starring Monica Vitti. Not being familiar with Peter O'Donnell's "Modesty Blaise" newspaper strips or novels, I took the movie at its purely silly face value. And I loved it.

It turns out that Monica Vitti's character bears next to no resemblance to the REAL Blaise. Titan is reprinting the entire 39 year run of the daily strip in brand new, super high quality books, and I bought the first volume just to make a comparison. Now, three volumes in, I'm hopelessly hooked on the original non-campy-but-still-so-mod Modesty Blaise.

I'm not a fan of spy/action/thriller storylines, but O'Donnell gets me every time. Besides the solid characterization of Modesty Blaise and Willie Garvin -- a truly believable male/female duo who compensate for each other's weaknesses -- the villains are also fully-fleshed and beautifully quirky; Gabriel's nerd-sociopathy, Uncle Happy's baby-talk, Mister Sun's sadistic drive to force Blaise into compromising her rigid morals. On top of all that, artist Jim Holdaway's style is stark and real...but many of his characters have a comically grotesque appearance.

In short, the Modesty Blaise strips are expert storytelling, endless creativity, and every panel is a surprisingly beautiful and complex piece of art.

It's also interesting to see how O'Donnell structured the stories to meet the unique demands of a daily newspaper strip: three panels each, always ending with a significant piece of dialog; every strip self-contained but still fitting into a plot arc; subtle moments for rehashing the story for readers who missed a week or two. It does feel a bit weird to read them one after the other, but it still works...and they're the BEST "just before bed" material.

So cheers to Modesty: a realistic kick-butt professional heroine. And cheers to the Monica Vitti version as well, incidentally.