AdPock

Not that i have anything really bothering me, other than it all. But being in a new town, getting to know Seattle for all its very good and all its kinda surprisingly bad, well, i should be writing about it.  Though this has lately been a cartoon blog, i still feel like it's the right medium for my Seattle musings.  Comics and musings are obviously related; the only way to look at life is comically. Especially in Seattle. This place is a bit bonkers. And real. Like not joking around. Not like Playa del Rey seemed to be. No. Far too serious here. The part of it I've gotten to know, anyhow. Which I just don't get. Like the kids in high school who always felt wronged and needed to pursue justice and dress weird because it was their right to.   I'm all for justice, but can't humor still be righteous? I'm new here. And springtime does seem to be loosening everything up. Spectacularly so, even.  Still, there was an armed robbery in bro...

“It’s not that I wasn’t listening, Honey, it’s that I forgot what I heard when I was listening.”

David always had an irrational fear of sharks, until one day, Brie explained that he'd have a much better chance of being killed by a falling coconut than by a man-eating shark.  After that, David always had an irrational fear of sharks and coconuts. 

Steve used to be embarrassed by his constant erection, but now that he was hitting strictly on cougars, it was a huge asset. If he could just get it to go down on holidays.

AdPock had been ignoring Missy since they first started dating. But now that they were married, she deeply resented it.

Bob was way into the communal concept of getting high at 4:20, but if he waited till then, he'd waste half his day.

60 seconds, motherfuckers. Just hang on for 60-fucking ticks. Christ, this is dick-sandwich time. Stop it. No bad thoughts. No bad juju, not now. Now is when the Fish need you most. It's now time. Hold the line. "Hold it. Right here, baby! We hold them here and it's ball game! Sweet Jesus who art in heaven, please let them hold it right here, baby!" "Does baby Jesus root for the Dolphins too, Daddy?" Asks Charlene, the yelling guy's precocious 6-year-old daughter. "Ask your mother, Char, Daddy's focusing...” The Dolphins don't hold. "Fuck!" First down Bills. Down to the Dolphins 34. But the Fins are still up by 4. "Right now, fuckers. Just keep 'em out the endzone, Fish! Right now!" "That's a quarter, daddy. Actually, two." "Charlene! Not now! And there's no charges during Dolphins games, right?" Now is when they always fucking take that big fucking bi...

Since I can remember, I've been affected by John Lennon. I recall vaguely the day he died, 34 years ago today, and being very scared, because my parents were very sad. It was the first time I can recall seeing sadness like that. But mostly, my memories of John recall being infatuated with his life of art. Every little thing that oozed out of him was art. And John made me want to be art too.  These photos of doodles, which I retouched today, are taken from random notebooks I've kept through the years. I imagine each doodle came to be, because upon hearing John sing, I stopped doing whatever it was I was supposed to be doing, and became compelled to create instead.   He continues to have that effect. So for me, John's as alive as ever.

Bill couldn't help thinking that he might have had a really promising future if his parents hadn't made him go to college.

A few years back, my father's associate, Barney Rickshaw, persuaded him to go down to the boondocks of Argentina to go hunt doves. That's right, doves: the birds of peace.             At first it was hard for me to swallow. My dad—whose knowledge of shotguns was reserved for golf tournaments—was no killer. I laughed at the prospect of him doing anything so rugged. So manly. I figured it was probably just a good business move, as Rickshaw was one of Dad's best America-fleecing clients.             Surprisingly, my dad came back from the trip a bon-a-fide killer. Apparently, Argentina for dove season is unlike hunting anywhere else in the world. As the birds fly to and from their roost, they fill up the sky, turning day into night. There are no regulations as to how many birds you can shoot or how many shells you can load. So for those two hours, it's a hunter's paradise—...

Life of Pi: 92 Points. Definitely an escape, and a beautiful one at that. The only time I really felt out of the story were moments I’m pretty sure Ang Lee wanted me to feel out of the story – to give pause, to assess my own situation. It’s hard not to assess your life after watching Pi’s extraordinary adventure. It’s hard not to assess your faith. And if you don’t have enough, you might leave the theater a bit bereft, a bit jealous of those who can believe so fully. But if you think about it a bit more, let the lost-at-sea story sink in, you might also be able to see it as good reason to have faith in something other than a higher power: humanity.

I’m not very good at denying myself things; I can’t say no to any of my myriad compulsions. I’m a slave to them. While it’s a close race, my most powerful of cravings is my need for Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Fudge Brownie. If the idea sneaks into my mind, the idea must be eaten. Maybe because I can’t see the point. Why shouldn’t I have what I want? Why should I try to deny myself what my base instincts so desire? What’s wrong with pleasure? I believe in pleasure. However,   thanks to my Hebrew upbringing, I also believe in guilt. And where there’s guilt, there can be no pleasure. So, in defiance of my upbringing, and to see if I could deny myself something – anything – I decided to give up ice cream for lent. I almost made it too. The Wednesday before Easter Sunday, I caved. And it wasn’t like I was so craving Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Fudge Brownie that I couldn’t live one more hour without it, it was that I couldn’t remember why I was ...

That last blog post  i created was the first one i did in some time. Not since i started working, coincidentally. To save you the click, here's all it said: i blog therefore i'm spam Can you tell how much effort i put into it? Anywho, i have a tendency to over-edit myself, which has been holding me back from getting anything posted; that and the fact that all i wanna do is nothing once i come home from using my brain all day long. So during this nothingness, i was coasting Facebook and noticed one of my "friends" posted the following: "if you want to increase your page views, tag your blog post with the keyword religion !" i was intrigued. But in order to attempt the experiment, i would first need to post something. Anything! But it's been just so hard to post even anything. So hard to have my own thoughts after cranking out work thoughts all day. And twice as hard to edit those thoughts to the point where they actually communicate and entert...

i blog therefore i'm spam

My wife is trying to train me to share restaurant food with her. She wants us to start splitting everything, apparently in some sort of fairytale effort to make me eat less, save money, shed cholesterol, and learn about the widespread benefits of sharing in general. She formally proposed the idea about three weeks back. “Honey,” she said while looking over the menu. “Let’s split a salad, an app, and an entrée?” Then she got all excited, like it was the best idea she ever had: “Yep! That’s the plan.  Every  time we go out!” At first, per usual, I thought she was out of her mind, and told her so. Splitting meals? What kind of a man splits a meal? Not a proud American man like myself. I ordered a steak. And I ate the fat. Obviously, that wouldn’t be the last time we talked Sharing. Oh no, it’s in her head now. But she’s wizened up since that first attempt. She’s refined her strategy. She’s put those other sharing benefits on the backburner and placed all her guilt-laden ...

After finally finishing a painting I’d been working on for weeks, I proudly displayed my handy-work to my wife. “Well,” I said, “Wife, what do you think?” Wife looked over said painting for all of two seconds before she decided, unequivocally, she was unimpressed. “Eh,” she said. I was shocked. How could she not like it? My hard work and ingenuity created it. It is me. I am it. We are one. If she didn’t like it, then she didn’t like me. And if she didn’t like me, who would? She’s supposed to be my biggest fan and all. Right? “Maybe I don’t have to like it.” Said Wife, rationally, like it didn’t matter in the slightest. Then she went back to doing whatever it is she does and I painted over my painting with thick black paint. Of course I disagreed with her at the time, as my instincts usually tell me to, but after six weeks of deliberating, I’ve decided that actually, against all odds, I’m wrong, and she’s right: she doesn’t have to like the painting. Because, as shocking as this is to s...