A new 'Mary Worth' rewrite

Original by Karen Moy and Joe Giella. Drastic rewrite by your humble blogger.

I'm working on some dandy new content for this blog, but in the meantime, I wanted to post something new here. This is another one of my rewrites of a newspaper comic. I took today's Mary Worth and added my own dialogue to it, changing the plot ever so slightly. Currently, the storyline revolves around a recently-reuinted couple, Adam and Terry. Disturbingly, Adam moved into Terry's building without telling her. She was shocked and horrified at first, but now they're sort of dating again. In this episode, they've just been hot air ballooning and are enjoying a nice lunch afterwards. Terry clearly wants to take things slowly, but Adam is already talking marriage. I thought that was funny, so I made the dumb thing you see above. Enjoy.

I've done similar jokes about the high-pressure guys in Mary Worth before. Here's an example from a few years back. I called this one "The Patient Man."

A moldy oldie from the Blevins vaults.

Strangers on a train... platform

"So... do you utilize public transportation around here often much?"

Can I tell you about my morning? Don't get your hopes up. The story I'm about to tell you would not even qualify as a story in most people's lives. It barely qualifies as one in mine, but it was something out of the ordinary which happened to me, and I wanted to write it down for posterity's sake. Okay? Here goes. Be forewarned: I'll probably tell you way more than you wanted to know... which I'll assume is nothing. You can skim the first few paragraphs if that helps.

See, this is why I'm an atheist...

I kept seeing this dumb ad on every website, so I had to fix it. You're welcome. (The one on the left is the original, by the way, in case you weren't clear on that.)

A weird, incomprehensible new "Zomby" cartoon

Let's all wallow in my sub-mediocrity, shall we?

A more-or-less typical episode of Trolleytown Frolics

The Toonerville Trolley

In yesterday's post about my fear of mediocrity, I mentioned that for a while in the mid-2000s, I drew a crude homemade comic strip called Trolleytown Frolics. Going through the images on my computer, I managed to find at least one strip that I'd bothered to scan. It's pretty representative of what Trolleytown was like. 

If you're wondering about the name, by the way, it came from my interest in comic strips of the past. There was a famous one called Toonerville Folks by Fontaine Fox which ran from 1908 to 1955, and it featured a vehicle called the Toonerville Trolley. The "frolics" part also comes from old movies and cartoons. The IMDb has listings for Frisky Frolics (1932), Frozen Frolics (1933), Barnyard Frolics (1917), Vitaphone Frolics (1937), and many others. It seems like a lot of these titles are from the 1930s, and at the time I was sort of "into" '30s culture. I still like the music of that era very much.

This particular Trolleytown Frolics features the luckless antihero, Thirsty Lad (my cartoon avatar), locked in a debate with a disembodied narrator. Don't judge the artwork too harshly. I can draw better than this, but it was scribbled in a tiny notebook while riding a commuter train. The handwriting can be tough to read, so here's a transcription:

NARRATOR: How ya doin', Thirsty?

THIRSTY: Me? Swell! Perfect!

NARRATOR: Perfect? 

THIRSTY: Well, uh, maybe not "perfect" exactly, but...

NARRATOR: So what's wrong? 

THIRSTY: Nothing's wrong!

NARRATOR: If nothing were wrong, you'd be perfect!

THIRSTY: Then I guess I am perfect! La-di-da! I'm perfect!

NARRATOR: You seem upset. I'll go.

THIRSTY: I am not upset! Please stay so that we can continue this delightful chat!

NARRATOR: Yeah. I'm gonna go now.

THIRSTY: seriously i'm fine... great, in fact.

{END}

 As you can see, I had a panel left over, so I filled it with "Random Evil Guys." This would have been written on the way home from work on an average weekday, so you gain some idea of my mindset in that situation. In this scenario, both the Narrator and Thirsty are manifestations of me. So now you have an even better idea of how my mind works. You can also see how influenced I was by the psychodrama of the '90s Nickelodeon cartoon The Ren & Stimpy Show. Thirsty's pose in the fourth panel is taken directly from an R&S episode called "Space Madness."

A comparison: Stimpy in "Space Madness" vs. Thirsty in Trolleytown Frolics

I cannot let this topic of mediocrity pass without mentioning a great skit from Mr. Show with Bob and David, a parody of Amadeus set in turn-of-the-century America and centered around marching band music.  You're not meant to identify with David Cross' character, frustrated would-be march composer Salini, but I do anyway. And then there's Jay Johnston's legitimately disturbing "Mediocrity" character. I'm so glad my specter of adequacy looks like the cartoon character Gossamer and not this ghoulish monstrosity. Both Bob and David are great in this sketch. The emotional burden here is on David, but Bob gives such great, off-kilter line readings to dialogue like: "For I have work to do!" As a former marching band member myself, I love the way he wears the hat everywhere and chews on the chinstrap occasionally.

HEALTH NEWS 'N' NOTES: Still feeling fine. The demonic-possession-like fear I once experienced has been replaced with just plain old ordinary "jitters." The appetite continues to improve, though the libido remains dormant. I realize now that my exercise routine revolves around walking, which takes place outdoors. That's going to be a problem as the temperatures drop. I'll have to find another solution. 

True story: during my last full year as a teacher, I lived in a very small, isolated town in an apartment that was actually part of a roadside motel. The place was tiny, as you might guess, but the rent was so cheap! Best of all, I had access to the motel's indoor swimming pool and spent hours swimming laps. I mean, I'm no Mark Spitz, but I got pretty good... for me. When I left my job at that high school, I stayed on in the motel for a few more months while I planned my next move and used the pool more than ever. 

My current apartment complex used to have a pool, a rather nasty outdoor one which was home to ducks and geese, but the owners filled it in several years ago. Today, you'd never know there was a pool there except for the lonely changing room which still stands as a sad monument to its former existence. Anyway, I realize how important exercise is to maintaining good emotional health, so I'll have to figure something else out. So far, though, the meds are robbing me of my ambition. (Damn. That's a paraphrase of something Samuel L. Jackson said in Jackie Brown. Can't I get away from pop culture references? I read books. Honestly, I do.)

My horror

Speaking of which, I somehow got into a position in which my MD appointment and therapist appointment were scheduled for the same day. Now there are going to be phone calls and me writing down numbers on pieces of paper while I sort this out. Meanwhile, I've neglected to schedule a dental checkup or an oil change for an embarrassingly long time. How I wish I had someone who'd sort out all these practicalities for me so that I could just focus on getting better. 

My MD's office is in someplace called "Elgin," which I've heard of but have never visited. If I were to list my Top 5 phobias, "driving to someplace new" would be right up there, perhaps #1. I hate driving. I hate cars. I hate the whole thing. I didn't choose this doctor, by the way. He was assigned to me in the behavioral health center, and I said something pithy and intelligent like, "Duhhhhh, okay." I don't want to cancel this appointment, though, because there are some side effects which I want to address ASAP. The libido thing is becoming a problem, especially. I want to be a lustful, chauvinist, patriarchal pig again. Kidding, of course. But I do want to be interested again.

It turns out I'm actually Steve Buscemi in "Ghost World"

"Oh my God! He just ordered a giant glass of milk!"

Well, that didn't turn out as planned.

"Tai chi, chai tea."

If you read my last post, you know that I was expecting to meet up with a young lady I'd met while in a behavioral health center. We'd exchanged several phone calls over the past two days, and she suggested meeting at a local Starbucks at 5:00 tonight. Long story short: I showed, she didn't. I got to the agreed-upon rendezvous about twenty minutes early and waited outside in the cold for her to appear. At the appointed time, I went into the establishment (side note: this was literally my first time ever in a Starbucks) and ordered a tall chai tea latte, largely because Lisa had recommended it in an episode of The Simpsons once. She was right, by the way. It was delicious. I sat at the counter and nursed that chai tea for about twenty-five minutes before heading for the door and beginning the long walk back to my car. Being a homebody, I'm not too familiar with the layout of my own city's downtown, so I parked rather ridiculously far from the coffee shop.

All the while, I could not help but think of a scene from the movie Ghost World. If you haven't seen it, the film concerns two young women (Enid and Rebecca) who have just graduated from high school and generally realize over the course of a summer that their lives are going in different directions. Before their friendship slowly dissolves, however, they do spend a lot of time hanging out together and snarking on the rest of the world. Just to amuse themselves, they pretend to answer the personal ad placed by a rather hapless nerd, Seymour (portrayed by Steve Buscemi), so that they can stalk him and see how he reacts when he realizes he's been stood up. Surprisingly, this prank proves to be a major catalyst in the plot, and the lives of Enid, Rebecca, and Seymour all change because of it. I do not know Helen's reasons for skipping our meeting. Maybe she has a perfectly good excuse. When I got back home, there were no new voicemail messages. I have decided not to call her but to wait for her to call me if and when she is interested in doing so. If that turns out to be never, then so be it.

I'm surprisingly chill about all of this. Hey, at least I got out there and made an attempt. That's more than I might have done six months ago. I can't call this a victory, but I'll say it was a tie. In the meantime, here's a relevant clip from Ghost World.



EPILOGUE: I just got a call from Helen. (It's so weird to keep calling her "Helen," but I want to protect her privacy and anonymity.)  I asked her what happened and she said she'd just had a really bad day and couldn't talk about it right at the moment, but she wished me luck in my return to work tomorrow and told me to let her know how it went. She was glad I hadn't taken it too badly. ("Good! You're still alive!" were her words.) So I guess we'll leave the narrative there for now. It's a long, strange trip, readers.

Depress-A-Date! Or: How I learned to stop worrying and become a manic pixie dreamgirl

Image courtesy of Wacky Packages

I have a date tonight.

Or maybe not. I don't know. Maybe I shouldn't be thinking of this as a "date," but I've had so few of them in my life that I'm tempted to chalk this up in the "win" column. In any event, I've decided to use this blog, at least for the time being, to discuss what's going on in my life. And this, readers, is what's going on in my life.

First, some background. As a person whose life has been ruled to this point by fear and depression and whose default mode is seclusion, I have had very few interactions of a romantic nature in my waking life. I've had a string of crushes and hopeless infatuations since I was probably 11, but nothing meaningful or beneficial has ever occurred because of them. My one date in high school was escorting a young lady to our school's Sadie Hawkins dance. Yeah, that's the one where the girls ask the guys out, and this particular young lady was pretty insistent. Our evening was a mini-masterpiece of tragicomedy which might make for a good short story someday. Needless to say, it did not lead to a sequel.

Ain't it the truth?

After high school, I lived alone with my father and felt a strong obligation to stay home and keep him company as much as possible. My college years were strictly about studying and getting good grades. There was not even a hint of "fun" involved and certainly no dating. Not that my father would have discouraged it (he's never brought up the subject), but I would have felt like I was betraying him somehow. Particularly since my mother died, I've tried not to change much from the person I was at 17. It's a routine that has grown sadder and sadder with each passing year as my body has aged while my lifestyle has not kept pace. A couple of times over the years (two to be exact), I have mustered all my courage to ask out coworkers, since those are generally the only women with whom I ever interact. In return for my efforts, I've received the expected polite, gentle, slightly condescending rejections, which actually sting quite a bit more than women may realize. I would so much rather have been slapped across the face or cussed out than to be treated as a slightly slow-witted child. (Of course, I would have preferred acceptance to any of these options.) These experiences crushed me so badly that I swore to myself that I would never again pursue romantic relationships. Who needs 'em, right? Shouldn't I just be happy to be myself? Why do I need another person to validate that? Trust me, I've had this argument with myself countless times over the years. The trouble is, it gets a little stale after 37 years.

Group meetings: an unlikely spot for "meet cutes."

All this brings us up to today. Even though I have theoretically given up on finding "the right girl" or "any girl who will tolerate me for more than five minutes," I cannot help but fantasize and, if I am feeling especially brave, flirt. The very first day I was in the behavioral health center -- scared out of my wits but outwardly projecting calm -- I attended my initial group meeting, a session about anger management, and was struck by the comments made by a fellow patient, a young woman I'll refer to as Helen (not her name). I'd seen this young woman earlier when I was being admitted, but I didn't approach her because (1) I was shy, and (2) she had a black eye and seemed to be in a state of subtle distress. Anyway, during the session, she explained to the counselor that she couldn't believe that she was really there and that the whole situation felt like a dream or a nightmare. She also expressed a strong desire to get back to her life. Other patients tried to reason with her and rationalize with her, but I just listened in amazement because she had just vocalized my exact thoughts. After the meeting dispersed, I approached Helen in the hall and told her how relieved I was that she'd said what she said, and we ended up going off to a more secluded spot in the ward to talk for a while. I learned that her black eye was self-inflicted as part of a suicide attempt and that she was very nervous about being away from work for so long. From that point on, Helen and I were close companions. We ate our meals together, attended groups together, and had nice long conversations during the frequent "down times" between scheduled events. She was always on the verge of lapsing into pessimism and despair, so I took it as a personal mission to give her frequent pep talks during the day. "You're the most positive person in the world," she'd tell me, which was definitely news to me. During my stay, Helen's parents visited twice, and both times she made a point of introducing me to them. On her penultimate night in the ward, Helen and her family gathered in a semi-circle in one of the day rooms, and they invited me (unique among the other patients) to be a part of their discussion.

Helen and I were discharged within a few hours of each other last Friday, and before she left, she gave me her phone number and told me to call her. I have not yet mentioned that we live in the same town just minutes from each other, but that's a huge part of the story. As with my childhood friendships, geographical convenience might play a major role in my adult relationships. Anyway, the Saturday after I got out, I hemmed and hawed a bit but finally wound up calling her number. Since then, we have talked over the phone a few times, and she suggested that we meet up at a downtown Starbucks tonight.

Somehow, I've become Zooey Deschanel

I know, I know. No sane, rational person would call this a "date." There is nothing remotely "romantic" about any of this. This is not a Hollywood romcom. If this were a romcom, though, I would be the "manic pixie dream girl" in this script. So far in this relationship, I've been the quirky, kooky, fun-loving one trying to pull the other person out of the doldrums. But let's be serious here. This is just plain, old, ordinary, disappointing real life. Two people who have been through a common experience are meeting at a Starbucks. That's it. In all likelihood, it will lead to nothing. Maybe all we have in common is this terrible thing, and once we stop talking about that, there will be nothing left to say.

But, still, this story shows that I'm trying. At least I'm getting "out there," whatever that means.

Wish me luck.