Dilrod

 

Within the long, storied history of cartooning, there’s a subset of comic strips that though they reside in the (un)funny pages, never approach anything resembling comedy. For these keepers of the inane, jokes are rarely if ever the point. The brains behind the operation are there to make societal swipes, political digs, and something amounting to “miscellaneous commentary.”

The one thing they don’t want is for you to laugh. There’s an old saying in comedy, that the goal is always tears. You could be in hysterics or sobbing out of abject boredom. Your ducts don’t know, even if you do. 

Over the years, there have been many highlights. From the preternaturally boring and moral reprobate, Garry Trudeau, defending suicide murderers to Mallard Fillmore failing to produce so much as an involuntary chuckle. 

However, nothing compares to Dilbert. It is what people call a double threat. Bad art and bad writing. You may not like the cartooning of South Park, but few people dismiss their point of view. Dilbert is different. 

It’s the worst of both worlds. 

Transportation Coverage

To Whom It Won’t Concern: 

We are writing to you as a collective mob, an amorphous blob, a group without cause but with consternation. We are writing about serious issues as unserious people demanding respect. This is about the editorial bias of major outlets when it comes to transportation issues. 

Some people at these outlets “get it.” They ride to work on scooters, e-bikes, or an old-fashioned Schwinn. Others, sadly, do not. They tele-commute or worse. 

We began counting the words many publications have wasted on transportation issues and we decided to count the letters instead. This being a letter and the number being much higher to overly dramatize our point. 

This year alone there have been several questionable articles. “When Light Rail Goes Dark,” “The Express Bus to Nowhere,” and “Planes, Trains, and Automatons.” Many of these articles give space and legitimacy to anti-transportation advocates, members of the so-called “couch lobby,” who’d prefer nothing more than to sink into their upholstery with a bag of Doritos and a daytime Soap. These people are by definition part of the fringe. Who crossed the Bering Strait land bridge? It wasn’t the sedentary, that’s for sure. 

Many guest essays give credence to the notion that if a child plays with model trains they will grow up afraid of planes. That’s simply not true. There are many forms of transportation that barely get a mention. What about unicycles? Just because we all identify as clowns, doesn’t mean any of us have a background in the circus. That said, we’re not asking for opinion pieces on the efficacy of unicycling and juggling – but a single wheel is a viable way of getting from point A to point B. 

In a recent piece on the romance of the Brooklyn Dodgers, the author contributed to the erasure of transportation issues, lest we forget that the ball team began as the Brooklyn Trolley Dodgers. Because trolleys are what British people call shopping carts, they probably thought they could get away with such an omission. We’re here to say in one unified, creepy voice: nice try. In the so-called record, we actually read “roller blading” described as a “rare and eccentric form of movement.”

With everyone looking to Mars, you’d be forgiven for forgetting about boats as a perfectly acceptable form of travel. Callous dismissals of transportation date back to beginning of civilization. “I’ll walk instead,” was a rallying cry for luddites everywhere. Wagons and ox carts were rarely appreciated in real time. When Washington crossed the Delaware, some have said there were members of his own outfit snidely commenting on the size of his boat. So this nothing new.

Enough of space travel. We want features on roller skates and bark canoes. Stop it with tales of exotic ziplining when there’s nothing wrong with jumping on the back of a garbage truck for a few blocks.

Remember when the actual third rail was a Third Rail Issue? Neither do we. Ever eaten skirt steak at a truck stop? Drank an adult beverage on a commuter ferry? We didn't think so. And where do horses figure in all this? 

We’ll happily wait for your response as long as it takes. We’re not going anywhere. 

Choo choo,

“Plane Jane” AKA “ John Train” AKA “Skater Boy” AKA “The Boatman of Alcatraz” 

 

P.S. One last thing: it’s not our fault that one of the biggest transportation advocates of the last 50 years was Robert Moses. 

 

Attila the Hon

After years of pillaging, plundering, marauding, and massacring, Attila needed a break. Who wouldn’t? Compared to the heady days of barbarian hordes, there are very few modern analogs. Certain aspects of a rock band on tour conjures up similar images. But a lot of people don’t make it. Even Jerry Garcia couldn’t do it forever. Attila, on the other hand, had no manager, no craft service, and certainly no tour bus. 

Unfortunately, certain elements of his lifestyle were unshakable. He didn’t know how to live, except when it was on the road. The man wasn’t a home body. He only felt a sense of purpose when burning a rival tribe’s village to the ground. That can only go on for so long. It’s a young man’s game, as they say. 

One afternoon, somewhere between Rome and Constantinople, Attila stopped in a roadside diner for a quick bite. He’d never seen a menu in his life, having taken everything he ever wanted. Before the waitress could attend to him, he began unscrewing the bar stools and removing the sugar shaker from the counter. 

The kitchen bell was driving him crazy, as was the smell of overcooked bacon. He was about to leave when he saw a pack of matches. Just as he was preparing to light a stack of napkins and torch the greasy spoon, the waitress turned to him and said, “Hon? I’ll be right with you.”

With that moment, he blew out the flame and decided to read the menu. He’d been all over the world but rarely stopped to take in a sunset or read a historic plaque. There was no time for rest. He and his tribe were always on an extremely tight schedule. Every trip had a full itinerary and no room for relaxation. Sightseeing? No chance. The years wore on everyone, Attila most of all. He never figured a team bonding dinner or happy hour would’ve improved morale. To him, a meal was inhaled beside smoldering ruins. He hadn’t eaten a meal sitting down since childhood. The only reason he ate at all was because he had to, not because he wanted to.

When he was done and full, he left a very substantial tip. Not of money stolen property, severed limbs, and a few bags of Roman coins. 

Spalding Grayzone

When I want to make a political point, I find it’s easier to disagree with someone than to agree. There’s no point to agree with the masses. There’s no point to consensus. I mean, I want to show people that it’s okay to jaywalk through oncoming traffic or, in my case, ardently defend Vladimir Putin.

You see, there’s this thing that happens to most people who are anti-war. They forget that you don’t have to be truly anti-war, so much as anti-western. And while I have never enjoyed the dramatic stylings of The Duke or Lee Van Cleef, I'm not talking about those westerns now am I?

When people describe the end of the Soviet Union, with bread lines and decaying everything, workers on street corners sucking down vodka from ballooning plastic bags, I wish I could have been there to experience it myself. Breathing in that polluted air with gusto. Finding my own personal Pravda in the cobblestones of Moscow.

It’s easy to laud the fall of the Berlin Wall, but I don’t see many people willingly demolishing a wall in their homes. People in glass houses? That would a nice start. Do we throw bouquets at contractors when they perform gut rehabs on homes that don’t need it? Well, we shouldn’t.

Sure, anyone can criticize the invasion of a sovereign country, especially when it’s done by the USA, but it takes a real principled person to criticize the sovereign country. But I’m not in the despot defense to win popularity contests, unless they are ones taken in the Kremlin by bureaucrats wearing ushankas indoors because the heat is once again on the fritz. 

What’s so bad about being called an apologist? If anything, I’m an empath, it just happens that I have the most empathy for authoritarians who may or may not enjoy riding horses shirtless. I’m always telling anyone who will listen that Ukraine isn’t really a country. They respond, nothing is really a country since borders are artificial; have I forgotten about the Pangaea supercontinent? 

Look, I'm not a geologist, and time is artificial, international boundaries are artificial, and my entire career is the product of artifice. That and being the son of a disgraced Washington insider. Nepotism works in mysterious predictable ways. 

Now I need a glass of water. 

The Last of Ideas

INSIDE A BIG HOLLYWOOD EXECUTIVE’S OFFICE, A FEW WOULD-BE SHOWRUNNERS PITCH THEIR NEWEST IDEA FOR AN ORIGINAL SERIES. HOW ORIGINAL? WELL, THAT REMAINS TO BE SEEN…

Stop me if you’ve heard this one before. The world is ending. The sky is gray, there’s fire everywhere, everyone over 5 has a beard, and stray dogs roam the landscape. In other words, it’s certifiably post-apocalyptic. People drive old jeeps, band together with an assortment of found weaponry, simply trying to survive at all costs. 

There’s a subset of citizens who cause havoc for the good folks of this land. What’s wrong with them? They are devoid of a moral compass and at times, can be caught chewing on their fellow man. Sound familiar?

Yes, of course. You’re talking about zombies, right?

Who said anything about zombies? These “weird” people are deeply troubled and straddle the living and the dead. Do they have an awful skin condition? Most definitely. In the end times, moisturizers and creams are extremely hard to come by. The flaking, the itching, the scratching – it just gets worse and worse. 

Right. But this sure sounds like zombies.

There’s an important distinction. We never say they’re zombies. That’s the key component of a zombie show; the unapologetic embrace of zombies. Not by the townspeople, since they’d get infected after so much as a handshake. Our people have bad skin, and they are taking it out on the fresh-faced, oil-free survivors. 

By eating them?

We would prefer the term “gnawing”, but yes, should you catch them prior to a meal, total consumption may occur 

What would they call themselves?

They don’t call themselves much of anything. They grunt and growl without much of an interior life. 

I gotta say, this really does sound like another stupid zombie show. I feel like the public has grown tired of them. Don’t you?

Would you mind rolling up your sleeves? For a simple demonstration. It won’t take long.

Okay…

ONE OF THE WRITERS BITES THE EXECUTIVE ON THE FOREARM.

In a few minutes, you’ll come around to our way of thinking. Trust us. What do you think? 

Joanne, can you get security in here? I think you’ve run out of ideas. Call me when you think of something with vampires.

You Might Not Be a Journalist If…

 

You think the Pentagon Papers are a form of military recycling. 

 

You think Watergate is just a hotel. 

 

You think burying ledes is something your landscaper does. 

 

You think a leak can be fixed with duct tape.

 

The only whistleblowers you know teach high school gym.

 

The longest thing you ever wrote was a 35-part tweet thread about why you shouldn’t have to work Presidents Day. 

 

You cried when you got your blue check mark.

 

You cried when Musk bought Twitter.

 

You cry too much during the workday.

 

Your idea of a hard day at the office involves texting relatives to share your story across their social media platforms.

 

You went to Journalism School.

 

You’ve never respected anyone you remotely disagree with.

 

You hate asking questions.

 

You hate getting answers that challenge your own pre-conceived notions about the world.

 

You’re always signing open letters.  

 

You don’t believe in striving for some semblance of objectivity and fairness.

 

You think there’s a single right answer on every issue. 

 

You believe certain ideas you disagree with are a form of violence and should be outlawed. 

 

You can’t craft a sentence without the help of a committee. 

 

You think the first amendment is the least important one.

You’re a dope. 

Don't Know Much

 

Don’t know much about empathy,

Don’t know much oratory,

Don’t know much about etiquette,

Don’t know much ‘cause I’m an idiot.

But I do know that I love to yell,

And I know if you love to yell as well,

What a weird world this would be. 

Don’t know much about demography,

Don’t know much costumery,

Don’t know much about governing,

Don’t know to how use a draw string. 

But I do know bugging my eyes out beats than thinking,

And if you can’t see me blinking,

What a weird world this would be.

Now I don’t claim to be mentally fit,

But I’m trying to be,

For maybe by being mentally unfit, baby,

I can win some of your sympathy. 

Don’t know much about apology,

Don’t know much humility,

Don’t know much about a single book,

Don’t know much about how nuts I look.

But I do know my schtick is wearing thin,

Like my makeup and rifle pin,

What a wonderful world this would be (when I’m an ex-congresswoman) 

Duh duh duh duh duh 

Familiar Gospels

 

I avoid Times Square when I can, which is often, but not always. So the other day I found myself walking through its subway station when a lone man was preaching about our guy from Nazareth. And I’m not talking about Nazareth, Pennsylvania. Jesus was on his mind. What struck me was how enthusiastic he was about the bearded messiah and his good works. This is all I thought about. Doesn’t everyone – believers and non-believers alike – know all about JC by now? The answer is yes. 

He's not some mystery figure we need to google afterwards. We have his resume and we’re taking his application under serious consideration. Standing in a busy transit hub promoting Jesus is akin to telling strangers how great the Beatles are. Aren’t people aware of that? You don’t have some secret knowledge that no one else has. For centuries, people just like you – subterranean preacher man – have been saying the exact same thing. 

Obscure religions need better proselytizers. Scientology is overexposed. I want strange cults and weird customs, not a two-thousand-year-old classic. Tell me why pigeons make great pets, since I know all about dogs and cats. Even the biggest novice will know about feeding the poor, turning the other cheek, and turning water into wine. There’s an old story about Jesus did the same thing with Bud Light, but no one noticed the difference. 

Get serious

 

Serious side effects can occur that can be serious. You might start to question things. You might annoy your parents, friends, parents’ friends. You might ruin dinner parties, cocktail parties, political parties. You might start spouting information to strangers waiting in line for the bathroom. You may seem smarter, you may feel smarter, you may indeed be smarter. 

You might not have all the answers. But you may be okay with uncertainty. You might even begin reciting lines of poetry when it’s appropriate, and when it’s not. You may experience a sudden desire to read other things; cereal boxes, vitamin containers, and the bumper stickered rear end of an aging hippie’s Vanagon.  

You might start saying intelligent things, shocking people who come in contact with you. Not literal contact, since that’s no longer a part of civilized society. Although should you learn lessons in European etiquette, you may be compelled to kiss two or more cheeks.

Seriously. 

Tone deafness

 

When you call someone tone deaf, please think first. Think of what you’re saying. Think of what you’re implying. Think of how it comes across. You’re insulting them, which is never good. The only conclusion a casual observe could draw from what you’re saying is that a cabinet full of stainless steel pots careening off the linoleum floor make better melodies than they do.

You’re calling out their tone deafness, which is really something, when you consider how offensive and outdated a term it really is. Sorry, but we prefer the differently toned. Or the tonally impaired. Not since Pete Townshend became obsessed with arcade games has the word deaf taken hold. And that was over fifty years ago. 

Times have changed. People aren’t tone deaf anymore, okay? Nor are they dense since that ruffles the feathers of the mathematically inclined. They can’t be obtuse either, for the same geometric reasons. 

If they can’t be deaf, then they can’t be blind. And Even myopia misses the mark.  Ultimately, the tone deaf are people, like you and I. Except they self-censor a bit less.

Commercial Breaks

 

What if we repeated the same joke over and over for the duration of the commercial?

How many celebrities is too many celebrities? 

Who here still likes Pete Davidson?

Dogs anyone? 

Zombies are relevant, right? 

Going electric made a difference for Dylan, so why not us? 

Any good puns, people? 

Want to put a QR code somewhere prominent?

Who’s the long-haired hippie (not Jim Morrison) who died young but made a big impact? Maybe get him if he's available? 

Does anyone know the dictionary definition of nostalgia? 

Is it smart or clueless to reference a thirty-plus year-old film? 

What are going to do about Harrison Ford’s face? 

Kiss, really, Kiss?

What’s the product again? 

In the Knick of Time

 

It’s a shame James Dolan owns the Knicks and Rangers. Not because he’s a bad owner, but because his natural abilities are wasted in the lowly stewardship of two professional sports teams. With incomparable pettiness and vindictiveness, the man deserves a small country of his own. You’re telling me there isn’t a lesser Antille that could lend its borders to Jimmy D? How about a place like Liechtenstein? He shouldn’t waste his time arguing with the State Liquor Authority when he could be fighting guerrilla forces in the jungle somewhere.

State Vagaries

 

My fellow automatons, there’s are great things happening right now. Big things, small things, subtle things, as well as some not-so-subtle things. Good thing I have these things under control. When I was elected, there were a few things you probably didn’t know about me. The thing is, I’m sure that’s not the case any longer. If anything, you know almost as much about me as the Harry formerly known as Prince. 

In addition to all the things going on, there’s a lot of stuff coming to a head. Stuff isn’t just substantially different from your average thing, it’s substantial. Stuff goes into turkeys, while things stay on the counter in small porcelain serving dishes. 

So there’s some stuff you should know, and some things you need to understand. But for the sake of national security, and on the advice of counsel, I’m going to keep it vague. Think of me like an acquaintance you see on your commute. We talk about the weather, sports, maybe a new restaurant. But we never, ever talk about our families, politics, and especially not our jobs. 

I don’t want to bore you – the American people – with what goes into being a chief executive, day in, day out. It’s none of your business. It’s my business. You’ll know when something big comes up. Or there’s stuff to be addressed. I haven’t asked what you do, so don’t ask what I do. I don’t even know what you do. Though I have browsed the job reports. 

Besides things and stuff, I have a few ideas. These ideas are in place to guide the country. My job is to steer the ship, not go down with it. Unless that’s what the gig requires, then, call me the captain and look out for ice bergs. 

Anything else? I know I’m stuffed. Feel free to applaud anytime. 

Shop Till Your Drop

 

When movie theaters first noticed a drop off in customers, they tried to entice people with non-movie related benefits. Food, drink, and comfortable seats. The only trouble was the real reason for going to the movies were the movies. And those have gone downhill for years. Unless you like CGI, spandex, and non-descript wannabe celebrities parachuting in (sometimes literally) as superheroes. No one goes to the cinema because of the food or the furniture.

However, it got me wondering, what if a business that gave you everything you already want suddenly decided to give you a little more. Grocery shopping is necessary part of life, but why can’t it also be fun and relaxing. 

What I’m proposing is not a food court at your local Whole Foods, but a second floor of fantasy suites built around different foods. Shopping can be exhausting, especially when it involves lifting enormous mangoes and watermelons. Shouldn’t there be a chaise lounge somewhere or a private room to catch some post-fruit shuteye? I certainly think so. 

Instead of shopping on Friday night for dinner, why not make a weekend of it? You could start in the produce section and end up in the penthouse. Yes, there will be a kitchenette, but you could leave your groceries outside your door with a recipe request, so someone else cooks you dinner (but with your ingredients). I think it’s a revolutionary idea. 

Give people more than they need. Going to the grocery store will become a euphemism for abandoning one’s responsibilities. That’s a reasonable trade-off when compared to the hours spent smelling herbs in a futile attempt to distinguish parsley from cilantro. 

Enter the Avoid

Here is a far from comprehensive list of phrases, actions, and practices you’d be better off eliminating for everyone’s sake. 

Calling strangers, “John.” Despite this most common name, many people who like perfectly Johns are 

Whistling while a train approaches can be distracting to the conductor, commuters, and even the locomotive itself.

Stop saying “bon appetit” if you aren’t French or dining at a fancy French restaurant known for its escargot and brusque waitstaff.

Don’t ever pronounce tomato, “to-mah-toe.” It’s offensive to the vast network of hardworking podiatrists. 

Never ask someone what they’re currently reading, since it puts the unlettered in the unenviable position of lying about their education.

Telling people you prefer, “sparkling to flat,” is snobbish.

Describing recent dreams in great detail can make the dream deficient envious and vengeful.  

You can’t play croquet.

The phrase “smells fishy” is fraught with anti-pescatarian bias.

Smiling is best saved for your bathroom mirror.

Stop asking where someone is from. Or what they do. Or what their name is. Or where they're going. Or where they've been. Or what they ate. Or what they said. Or why they're here. Or what they wear. 

Avoid anything that could be misinterpreted. So, everything. 

New Delivery Systems

 

How many times does your delivery driver get lost? Or better yet, how many times are they forced to violate traffic laws simply to hand over your food on time? 

It’s why I wasn’t worried when I read the news about the Chinese balloon floating its way across the continent. I can think of more than few restaurants that could learn a valuable lesson from this sort of transportation. We live in the beyond Space age and yet, my noodles are brought to me on the back of an electric scooter, or worse – a bicycle. Is that really the best we have to offer? 

I suppose by the time it reached the Atlantic Ocean the food had probably gone bad. While the sea is a good repository of fish sauce (not to mention fish), this may have been twenty thousand leagues too far. 

Whip Smart

 

When I think intelligence, I don’t picture Albert Einstein cycling his way past coeds on the Princeton campus, tongue out and legs akimbo. I don’t imagine Sir Isaac Newton staring up at the stars and fondling his prodigious mane. I don’t see Archimedes playing with rubber duckies while pondering the mysteries of the universe in between scrubs.  

I think of a tool as the personification of higher learning. And not just any tool found in any toolbox. Not a hammer, or a sickle, or miscellaneous accessories associated with communism that I’m somehow forgetting. 

Doesn’t the sheer sight of a floppy whip raise your IQ a few points? I’d like to think so. It would explain an awful lot.

Whips aren’t for beating man or beast, they are for turning the pages of a turgid tome. They’re for pointing out the modest brushstrokes in an impressionist’s painting. I’d stick to private collectors, since museum security guards tend to have a thing about slapping the art. Horses might be naturally fast, but they need a whip to win a race. That sure sounds pretty smart to me.  

Groundhog Days

 

There was a time when people in this industry had to walk both ways to work. This was, mind you, long before working remotely had caught on, so both ways meant a great deal farther than the distance between your bedroom and your hallway mini-fridge. People had to walk uphill too, since this predates the massive razing of any elevated urban areas. San Francisco still has a few mounds left, but nobody works there anyway. Not only that, but they had to trudge through the snow, since this was prior to the ascendancy of climate change. They tried harder. They worked harder. Heck, the ground was harder. Not this organic stuff used to make packing material.

And that was just on the commute. In the building, anything could happen. Except taking an elevator. That could never happen. You always took the stairs, no matter how high the destination. Sometimes you slept in the stairwell due to to the altitude change. There were sleeping bags, lanterns and tons of gorp. The first people to understand the principles of acclimatizing were not sherpas, but advertising schleppers. 

Once you were in the office, you had to dig an actual key out of an actual pocket. It usually had chain on it for safekeeping. You had to shove it into a doorknob’s tricky lock. It wasn’t a decorative accessory used to open beers and dig crud out of your fingernails. This was the real thing and you only had one. Lose it? Well, I hope you knew how to mountain climb or were neighbors with a friendly and worldly sherpa.

Swiping keycards was inconceivable. People didn't even have credit cards. Many used cash. Most preferred bullion - and not the stuff you use to make soup. The other kind that's much, much heavier.

Sitting in your desk chair was a profoundly uncomfortable experience. This was before lumbar support and acupuncture. You had to make phone calls and write memos in real ink. That meant going to the fish market and buying a few pounds of fresh squid to insert into each printer. Otherwise, you couldn’t review any layouts that day. Even your portfolio caused hernias for people who didn’t lift properly. This was a major risk, given the state of desk chairs and vertebrae appreciation at the time. 

There were paperweights, fax machines and rolodexes, oh my. Tweets were something your bird said while destroying your private balcony. Not part of a media plan. It was a culture that cultivated cult-like ideas. How can you worship someone without an oil painting of them in the lobby? It worked in the Eastern Bloc, why couldn’t it work on the East Coast? Well, it did.

People were just smarter. It’s not that they never did bad work, it’s just that we don’t remember it. But if you don’t remember something, did it really happen? We must at least grant that it’s hard to prove, given the lack of documentation. In a surveillance state you can always check the footage first. 

You never had to come up with an original idea, since there were so many better ones on bulletin boards, garbage pails, or inside thick annuals. Today, there’s none left. People sit around all day staring into screens and memorizing memes. People aren't even people. Some are apps. Others are robots. A few are considered "rockstars." Nobody takes risks anymore. They're too comfortable in Aeron chairs and working totally at-will. 

There were no hacks. There were only visionaries. It was a paradise, an Eden, a utopia. And the address was Madison Avenue. There was no shortage of great work. Especially if you had to sell something like laxatives to a backed up audience. 

Click Bait & Tackle

 

I wonder how the average fisherman feels when he comes across the idea of “click bait?” Or better yet, how should he feel? It’s a term bandied about constantly without even a passing nod to the people who first forged the term in real muck. 

It’s a practice done in the service of subpar journalists, in a desperate attempt to gain some eyeballs. Though not in the way an ambitious young witchdoctor yearns for a necklace made from a durable optic nerve. 

Instead of celebrity fodder, when is the last time a headline teased the notion – one that used to be rather commonplace in this country – of a juicy worm squirming on the end of a regular ol’ fishing rod? It’s been some time now since this was the norm. That’s what bait used to mean. Now it’s got something to do with a reality star or a politician versus the old days when it was all about a little krill.

I want to return to the days when click bait meant something for those in knee-high waders and smelling like brine.  

Otherwise, we’re the fish. I don’t like the way that sounds. Do you?