How does one measure a moebius?

Ziggy's life is a grey amorphous mass, populated from day to day by an unchanging cast of dysfunctional characters, trite malaproprisms and "aint-that-how-life-goes" one-liners, each and every one a feeble attempt to deal with the unending monotony that characterizes his existence. It's a Groundhog's Day that only technically moves linearly forward, a Kafkaesque nightmare sans the cockroach, a gorilla on his back that just keeps on eatin' nanners. It's not as severe as Hell, but it's as futile and it's as colorless and drab . And how many of us are any different?

Hi! My name is Dustin, and I write a Ziggy blog.

Godot Just Never Makes It

Poor Ziggy's psychiatrist never showed up. Eh - his patient looks happy enough.

A Soldier Will Fight Long and Hard For a Bit of Colored Ribbon

If there's anything that consistently cooks my goose it's an honor system. Though my crippling , almost OCD-like sense of self-consciousness removes my desire to actually cheat the system, it just feels like an economic disadvantage to pony up the cash for something when there's no beefy guard with a handgun to make you. The honor system lowers prices a little, but it sure makes me feel like a huge loser.

I've got nothing on Ziggy, though. He's obviously left his watch at home and is paralyzed by the thought of exceeding his allotted five minutes should he swing. A well-reasoned point, it turns out: There's not a soul around for miles, but Ziggy's entire life is on a two-week delay before it's on every morning paper on every coffee table in America, and he knows it.

Check out the astonishing change in Ziggy's stance from yesterday. He's flipped and turned blue and that's it.

Just Nod If You Can Hear Me. . .

Another technicolor dreamscape, barren save for today's bringer of confusion: another nondescript vending machine. Placebos are, of course, the perfect drug for the dedicated hypochondriac, though clearly labeling the machine dispensing the drugs seems to defeat the purpose.

Which reminds me: Didja hear about the guy who took an entire bottle of placebo sleeping pills? He committed fauxicide! I just thought of that.

So many Ziggy strips play out like this: Our pale protagonist stands in the shadow of some looming monolith, which purports to offer solace or escape. Sometimes this monolith is machine, but oftentimes the dysfunctional agent of inconvenience is a fellow human. In true monkey's paw fashion, the solution is but a half-answer, a mere facade, and does nothing to help Ziggy in his searching, without exactly hurting him either. You get the feeling that there's a curse of sorts on Ziggy, that the entire world functions perfectly well except for the space surrounding our tiny hero's person. Inside this space, dry-cleaning will be late, you are subject to personal insults hurled by the television and will be the victim of bizarre, inexplicable accidents.

Ziggy's website tries to explain this phenomenon but makes him sound like some kind of broke stalker:

Poor Ziggy. He’s perpetually one step behind, one nickel short, one lane away. But we love him for it, because everyone feels like Ziggy now and then!

Have You Been To Electric Ziggyland?

In a world of uncertainty, despair and bleak hopelessness, I'm often reminded of a. . . wait a minute! Ziggy is wearing pants! Bellbottoms, by the looks of it. Why is he wearing pants!?! And need I draw undue attention to his shoes?

Studies have shown that the mind dwells on events long after they have occurred. Especially-traumatic or notable experiences remain locked in our mental banks for weeks, popping up when we least expect them. Ziggy's pants, shoes, and the general trippiness of this whole scenario shout "dream sequence"! They shout fairly loudly, in fact.

My, what could have brought this particular scene up during REM sleep? Allow me to venture a guess:


It's surprising that it took as long as five days for the experience to quell back up from Ziggy's subconscious. He appears to have merged the experience with his wardrobe from high school thirty years ago. It's like the Matrix, where they give us little hints as to whether we're in the real world or not. In real life, Ziggy's phone has buttons. He conforms to his strict dress code, standing pantless and sans footwear, as is his wont.

In the Dream Dimension, Ziggy is a bald Frank Zappa.

Once again, the real world is not nearly as exciting as our dreams. Heaven knows that today's psychedelic mushroom trip of a panel beats the pants (so to speak) off of the sidewalk chalk pastel it's derived from.

Queued

"I really wish Mom didn't refer to herself in the third person. Or had never bought that answering machine."

I know I've made jokes about Ziggy's mental state in the past, but rest assured that no jokes about suicide hotlines, poison control or any other emergency service will mar this commentary. The strip makes it perfectly clear that Ziggy himself is fine, but his world is friendly but skewed - that's why I like the strip.

I think it's recursion - his old rotary phone obviously has no cradle with which to hold the receiver, leading to a phenomenon called the Customer Service Time Vortex, from which nothing but saccharine muzak can escape.


Quote of the day:

"Ziggy is a small, bald, pantless, almost featureless character (save for his large nose) who seems to have no job, hobbies, or romantic partner. . ." - Wikipedia