My First Day in Poverty

Like Patches in the old cartoon panel "Patches & Green," literally till yesterday I had enough money to get along pretty well. I wasn't wealthy, exactly, but I was never hurting. Then came Share This Empty Wallet, topped off by The Curse Blob taking away everything I had, even to the point of disintegrating my house, garage, and car. It's been a tough few days, with me ending up with nothing.

Basically nothing. I have a gnarly New Testament, the clothes I was wearing, and an empty backpack. I'm allowed to scrounge here and there, wherever I happen to be, and fill the backpack to my heart's content. This is all at the allowance of The Curse Blob, the power behind The Empty Wallet curse. By sharing that damned graphic, in three days I went completely broke, just as it said.

This also means my computer's gone, you understand. Meaning, I'm using the computers at the library, and their graphics capabilities suck. It took me twice as long to make pix for this post, and even then the cartoons are basically lifted from other guy's site, with a few changes on the captions. If you know him, don't rat me out.

But of course I have bigger problems. It's damned tough to live in total poverty. I don't have a single cent, this is serious. You might think it's romantic to wander the streets, looking for bits of a sandwich here or there. It's not how you imagine it at all. Finding a place to sleep, having nothing, is also tricky. But I have some experience with that from back in the '70s when I used to hitchhike around the country.

So it was the same last night as it was back then, I went out to the interstate and slept under one of the bridges. Wasn't too bad, about like I remember. I stuffed some weeds in my backpack and that was a good pillow. But I didn't have anything to cover up with. And just as I remember, it's always around 4 a.m. when it gets coldest. The biggest difference is now I'm 40+ years older. I was a kid then and looked cool like Tom Sawyer. Now I must look as pathetic as usual, only worse.

Since the interstate's just south of where I used to live, it wasn't tough getting there. Then today when I went back into town I surveyed my home place, looking for something that might've escaped the devastation. The Curse Blob was very thorough. I couldn't have cleaned the place out any better if I'd had Service Master out. Or maid service for a year, like they sometimes give away on The Price is Right.

No TV, so I won't be seeing Price is Right much till I stumble across an episode somewhere already in progress. I'll check the hotel lobbies. It could be -- you know, if I played this thing smart -- I might do a little work, like at Manpower, and get a little money. I've always been a hard worker, although I've taken it easy in recent years, getting disability because of my game toe. But I can still work, I'm not too proud. Then, let's say, I do manage to get a little money, I'll hit the antique stores, find something to put online, and I'll be back in the green in no time.

Unless, and this is a very real possibility, The Curse Blob isn't done with me. It could be this poverty thing is my reality for the foreseeable future. He's probably watching me right now, knowing what I'm scheming. I'm looking around the library. Nobody seems to be paying close attention to me. I feel smelly, maybe that's why; they're giving me wide berth. I didn't get my daily shower this morning. And these pants I was already wearing for four or five days. Fortunately the undies were fresh yesterday morning.

Anyway, whatever, I'm sure it's like anything else -- being dirt poor -- you get used to it. I've always been good acclimating in life, I suppose, not that I'm bragging. I've had very little a few times, and I've had a lot. But I never actually had nothing. Still, as terrible as it is, don't get me wrong, it's not without its fascination. The food thing's the worst. I think I'm going to need to hit some cans and find something decent.

Remember, when you got nothing, you got nothing to lose. I'm going to play this eating out of cans thing very smart. None of my usual pickiness. I'm willing to take what I find and make the best of it. Same as when I used to hitchhike, even though I always had a little money taped to my leg, since some of the rides were bastards.

The old library marm's looking at me. I guess my hour's about up. I wasted too much time on the cartoons, so I've been typing this thing like crazy. I'm not too sure they like to see ragged people in here a lot, which now includes me. Still, I'm not like the guy across the room, slumped on the bench and dozed off. Where's your pride, man?

I Shall Be Pope Ye

I had moderately optimistic feelings about the new pope, Pope Francis. Which was only natural, considering the last guy having been such a scourge. Francis came in, naming himself after one of my favorite saints, a friend of birds and wolves alike. And one of the coolest garden statues ever. And he's done honorable things, like washing the feet of the poor and children and has been Mr. Cool in other ways.

But now, who knows what might become of him? It was in the news that he's staying in a particular hotel in order to get away from it all. In his own words, “I didn’t want to be pope.” And now he says he's living in the Vatican hotel "for psychiatric reasons." I think I get that. He thinks living in the papal apartments, right there in the loneliest place in the Apostolic Palace, would separate him too much from the people. He'd be living with all the various Vatican cutthroats, etc. They'd be going through his stuff, looking for dirt. Then it's simply a matter of blackmail. And next thing, you're retiring, like the last guy. I'd love to see the dirt on Benedict. Just one look at him tells you he's devious as sin. Yet they chose him! They couldn't find a more honest-looking rat than him? When even then Francis was right under their nose?

As for the psychiatric reasons Francis has, of which I've outlined some, to me this just shows that he basically has it together. If only I had the same boldness in life! Maybe I'd move away from Grandma's house here and find my own place. Really, you think I don't know the family's talking about me? He's 60 years old and still there. We ought to burn the place down, that'd take him out. Or dump out some bedbugs by his window. It wouldn't take them long to find his bed. There he is, rolling around in one of his fantasies, only to turn and see a bug the size of a pillow staring him in the face. That'd fix him! Of course, for psychiatric reasons, I'd be better off anywhere than here. Some place where they can't find me. The State Hospital, wherever, I'm not particular, anywhere.

It's refreshing to hear something honest, isn't it? Just like it's refreshing to hear the pope tell us what we've suspected all along. We sure didn't hear anything like that from Benedict. No, he was right there in the papal apartments, padding around the Apostolic Palace, he didn't care. But the walls had ears ... and eyes. He knew his time was limited. That bleeding statue? That's someone inside it who nicked his nose on a jagged piece of plaster. Watching Benedict, just biding his time, getting enough dirt on him that---- Well, you know the rest, the first resignation of a sitting pope in something like 1,000 years. What's the chances?

I'm really hoping Francis makes it a while longer. We had Pope John Paul I. He lived only a month! I'm still suspicious about that. Then Pope John Paul II. He lived forever. He was the only pope some people ever knew. They were born when he was pope, grew up, married, had children and grandchildren, and finally died. Like the queen in England, trying to outlive 'em all. And then ... you know the succession ... finally someone offed JP II, and, surprise! surprise! there was Benedict standing there, eager to pick up the crown! As devious as they come! Then he's caught doing something behind the scenes -- let's say -- first one to resign in 1,000 years -- and the Vatican decides to clean house.

But can Francis make it? He's already talking about his psychiatric health, and telling children he didn't really want to be pope, etc. I have my suspicions of what must be going on behind the scenes. And it ain't pretty.

OK, what about me? Do I want to be Pope? If elected, yes, I'd give it a go. And just like Francis chose his hero, St. Francis, so I would choose my hero, my lifelong hero ... Popeye, making me Pope Ye.

What kind of pope would Pope Ye be? All the Vatican enemies, the various cutthroats infesting the place, would have to be on their guard. Because I'd eat spinach, puff out my chest like a battleship, and destroy them all. I'd BIFF them and BOP them, and always I'd STOMP them. Let's say I punched them so hard, they flew up in the sky. Before they came down, then, I'm punching trees so hard they become boards and fall down as a dozen highchairs. The cutthroats land in the highchairs, which snap into place, leaving them there to fuss and cry, shaking violently their rattles.

As Pope Ye, I would immediately ordain women. Yes, Olive Oyl isn't the strongest role model for women. She always needs my assistance against Bluto, who's almost sexually deviant enough to qualify for the military. But once Bluto was out of the way -- a type of devil, or Benedict, if you will -- then Olive would be free to bloom and grow. I'd immediately ordain her as priest. It would be a complete renaissance for the church, which to this moment is stuck hopelessly in the mud.

Then, as Pope Ye, thinking of little Sweet Pea, the baby in Popeye cartoons, as well as Popeye's four nephews, we would immediately address the child abuse bullshit that has given the Catholic church such a black eye. I would gather all the male priests and demand them by everything holy to immediately confess their sins. The sheep and the goats. Spinach cures all ails, and in this case it'd guide my judgment. And if it's just a matter of them being too horny they can't keep it in their robes, of course I would open it up so they could get married.

That's how it'd go as Pope Ye, if I were to be chosen. Just as my patron saint, Popeye, always brings everything to a happy finish, so I would completely reform the church. Then I would take on Protestantism, ridding it of snake handlers, Pat Robertson, strychnine drinkers, fundamentalists, and mission trips to Haiti (there has to be some other place these people can do good!). As Pope Ye, just to show I care about the unfortunate, I would personally go to Haiti and knock some heads and get it straightened out down there. It has to be a corrupt government. If we were able to get rid of Benedict, of all people, the persistent failure Haiti represents shouldn't pose an insurmountable problem.

Lastly, my ascension as Pope Ye has a biblical foundation, like when Jesus said, "Ye of little faith."

Whittier The Snowman

Finally, a Christmas character I can actually like, who brings the true joy of the season to all. No troubles, no conflict, he's simply happy. Whittier the Snowman.

I have to tell you, I'm really sick of conflict in Christmas shows. I was watching Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer the other day, and this is what I'm talking about. Rudolph is bullied by everyone from his father to the younger reindeer to Santa Claus himself! Bullied because of his red nose. I'm sick of it. I can understand the younger reindeer; they're idiots. But his dad? And Santa Claus? How terrible. Santa's supposed to be a good guy, not a bully. So Rudolph, along with his similarly rejected dentist friend, have to leave the compound and run away on their own.

The conflict doesn't stop there, of course. There's the Bumble (the Abominable), the Island of Misfit Toys, and Burl Ives shivering and about to catch his death. There's so much trouble, I'm more depressed after watching it than I was before. You only have to hope Christmas will be foggy every year, just so Santa won't be stupid enough to reject Rudolph again.

One of these shows is on TV right now as I write this, Santa Claus is Comin' to Town. I'm not watching it because I hate it passionately. I think that's the one where the town outlaws Christmas, or outlaws toys, or some such nonsense. Like the Republicans, they're violently opposed to common sense. So everyone's miserable, until something happens -- what I can't remember -- but it has a happy ending. I hate conflict. All I want, all I seriously desire at Christmas, is more or less a slice of life in some little Alpine village where everyone is absolutely happy, giving gifts, with no need to exchange because something's the wrong size. No one tries to outlaw anything everyone likes. It's the ending of Scrooge without the rest.

Frosty the Snowman was on a few days ago. I'm not crazy about this show either. A little because it's obvious they're just giving a stupid story to flesh out the song. But mostly because there's conflict in it. There's an evil magician (or whatever), then there's the kids' sadness with Frosty melting. But they deal with it creatively, in that "Christmas snow" can never remain melted. It comes back on Christmas Day, and as for Frosty, since just living on Christmas Day isn't much of a happy ending, he goes with Santa to live at the North Pole. Where, no doubt, Santa will bully him till he moves to Antarctica.

By the way, in Rudolph Santa also belittles the elves' song about filling Santa's shelves. He complains to Mama that he can't stand hearing that song, and that he wishes they'd all become dentists and run away so they'd finally leave him alone. And Mama's not exactly a benign character, since she's explicitly trying to fatten Santa up. In fact, he goes from thin to pants-poppingly fat in a quick cut from one scene to another. That's one dangerous wife!

Must we suffer everlasting conflict ... at Christmas time? It's even in the original Christmas Story itself, we have to suffer Herod trying to kill Jesus. It's a relief that Jesus grows up very fast and conquers the Roman Empire as His first official act. A hero I can admire.

Which brings us to another hero I can admire -- making two, Jesus and Whittier the Snowman.  But Whittier's story is even better than Jesus', because it has absolutely no conflict. Because your mind should be free and clear at the holidays, not having to put up with pain and anxiety.

Whittier's story goes like this. He's created one day by some happy children. He comes to life, and lives to a ripe old age and never dies. His age just gets riper all the time, but with no apparent aging. The people in his town share in his magnificent powers, living forever, or until Christmas is put away. Everyone is very very happy. Then spring comes and he melts -- happily, with no one mourning. All conflict is vanquished till after the holiday, at which point everyone's life gets back on track. See that? A happy story without conflict -- and I just read it again -- absolutely no contradictions to resolve.

The Trouble With Cartoons

The main trouble with cartoons is they're not realistic. So I haven't got much time for them. People with four fingers, etc.

It hasn't always been that way, what I thought. When I was a kid, like most kids, even the stupid ones of today, I wanted to watch cartoons. Turn on the cartoons, I want to see them! But back then, cartoons were something special. They were on for a half hour in the afternoon, Saturday mornings of course, and maybe an hour on Sunday, if you were sick and didn't have to go to church.

Now, kids have cartoons all the time, to the point of being able to watch countless reruns on Netflix or DVDs. And they have outrageous cartoons, more outrageous than anything I remember, like some guy, I think his name is "Kick Buttinski" or Buttowski. If we even said the word butt, we were grounded for a week. So that's another thing, it's all pottymouth.

How many times do you have to watch a cartoon -- and I'm talking about people who actually think, not your average idiot -- to realize you're not watching something realistic? That's my big beef, remember. They're pounding each other with sledgehammers that somehow they've been able to hide behind their backs. They're running off cliffs without being permanent injured or killed. They dive in a hole like it's an Olympic swimming pool. They're running 100 mph down a hill with a repeating background. So you see the same tree go by a hundred times. It's ridiculous.

Look at the illustration I have. A bunch of monkeys riding a zebra. The zebra is running so fast that all four feet are off the ground, if it's not Super Zebra and he's flying. Yet the monkeys are not holding on for dear life. They seem to be very nonchalant about it, and this would be a perilous ride! The fourth one back is waving at someone, we don't even see who.

The last one's the one I'm really looking at. He's reading a book. It appears to be a book by a guy named Darwin, in which he hopes to find the instructions for how to become a realistic man and get off this mad zebra. As it is, he has an erect tail to rest his foot on, and whatever hopes a monkey in mid-evolution can muster.

The Stick Figure Artist

He sits alone in his artistic citadel. (Hallelujah, that's a great sentence!)

You might call him an alone kind of guy. Something of a social clod. Perplexed by the madding crowds, the jostle and bustle of too many foreign bodies. (Wow, I'm really fleshing this bastard out!)

(Sorry for the parentheses, I know everyone hates them. I'll try to keep my own delight down to a minimum. On the other hand, who am I trying to spare? You, certainly, who are my lovely guest. Let's get back to the stick figure dude...)

There he is, and that's a self portrait you see, alone in his artistic citadel. He's sort of like me in several ways, thinking he is artistic without there necessarily being any evidence to prove it.

By citadel, I mean he's not sitting on the floor. He's up at the kitchen table or at his desk, sketching out his pathetic little sketches in a sketchbook, a regulation sketchbook that he got at the stationer's store. It's run by an English chap, well known for his accent. He, our artist, spends too much on sketchbooks, more than his sketches probably deserve, but the English chap's accent is seductive.

So there he is, once again, hunched over the sketchbook, using his imagination, digging deeply into his thoughts to come up with yet another stick figure sketch. There's a lot -- a hell of a lot -- of straight-on views like that, since profiles don't come easily. Mostly straight-on views, that in my opinion aren't going to appeal to anyone.

(Pardon me while I pause to think. I'm thinking, Who am I to judge such an one? Nobody, really, except maybe ... I could be the stick figure artist. His sketches and mine are straight-on. And too much for anyone to bear. He likes to think maybe the madding crowds will see his sketches. That's a natural inclination, perhaps, although it has a social component, too. End of my thoughts. He needs to think, Why do I even care?)

One of the stick figure artist's great projects, great to him, was to fill a tablet with little drawings at the edge, so he could flip them and see his work in motion. It took a week of meticulous drawing, and what he finally came up with was a stick figure picking his nose. The piece he entitled, "Everyone Does It."

Let's say someday, like when he's on his last stick, he might become famous. Suddenly his tablets and sketchbooks are in big demand. A museum somewhere heard the buzz and decided to jump on them. Now, as his life's breath is on the wane, suddenly his figures are going for big money. Like one figure for four figures or five.

It'll Take Lots Of Sugar To Keep My Big Mouth Shut

This is a panel from a cartoon strip called "Jeff Cobb." By Pete Hoffman. Printed in the Bakersfield Californian, Bakersfield, CA, Sept. 24, 1958, p. 50. The character's name is Rona.

I touched up a big white spot on the lips. I hope it wasn't supposed to be a big reflection.

UPDATE: It was supposed to be there. The big white spot on the lips is supposed to be there.