. . . and I Must Scream

Though I have but a month or so left of doing this blog (I will be ending this feature with the analysis of April 8's strip), I can't help but feel that this feature is also winding down, much like the apocalyptic end of Bloom County or, for that matter, the way a friend will often go terribly mad before going on a vacation (whether the one follows the other is hard to tell). Ziggy's world for this past week seems more sordid, more terrible and arbitrary than ever before. I hope April 8 isn't some boring, mundane strip and I have to eat my words.

By the way, is this creepy?:

Unhappy Medium

Though a psychic who can remotely open your fly may not be particularly desirable (depending, of course, on your predilections), the fact that we can see Ziggy's smooth, curved buttflesh pretty much rules out pants entirely. I think it's more likely that this mophaired mentalist is tapping into an adult frequency by mistake on that old crystal.

(NOTE: To hear my two alternate, much funnier interpretations of this strip you'll need to ask me in person. This is a family blog, constant references to burning flesh and Armageddon notwithstanding.)

Everything comes to a head

NOTE: The following analysis does not reflect Ziggy canon:


This looks like one of the climactic scenes from an Imaginary Character movie (Drop Dead Fred, Donnie Darko, etc.). The "psychologist" represents Ziggy's repression, his desire for sanity and stability, but the trail of bodies in his gruesome wake* show that an attempt at murder-free living is merely a temporary state, a brief pause before the continuing slide to moral and psychological oblivion.

Ziggy has finally stopped yelling "Shut up shut up SHUT UP!" in public while debating this mental construct, and has finally decided to take his frightening advice. "But if I take responsibility for my actions. . ." he thinks aloud, finally realizing that an attempt at requital, however impossible for such great crimes, would leave his illusory bearded, flamboyantly disco Willy Wonka of a doctor no further function to fulfill. By becoming "whole" he will lose his greatest and only friend, will look at his hands and, for the first time, see the blood thereupon.

Will weep but feel free.


* But far be it from me to suggest that Ziggy is a killer:

"I wanna stwangle wu!"

Kindred Spirit to Patty and Selma

Superstitious as he is, Ziggy really shouldn't expect anything more from such a tired woman. She's got that "mother of three toddlers" look in her eyes and is accustomed to shielding her sanity through doing the bare minimum expected of her. He might want to look up from the crystal ball and read this woman's body language: There's ten minutes left of Blue's Clues and I haven't had my morning cigarette.

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.

Tan Light Special

"Books on civil liberties? You'll have to search out the newly-created 'deluded fantasy' section, alongside the Robert Jordan novels."

This librarian seems to have incorporated political commentary into her filing duties, e'er causing confusion in the pursuit of more euro humor. But the euro's been up for quite some time now, prompting the question of what took her so long to notice. After all, she looks for all the world like a K-Mart employee.

That "Books" sign is both garish and redundant. And psychological studies aside, I don't think the colors tan, orange and puke-brown incite a great deal of literate-minded curiosity on the part of library patrons. It just might make them nauseous.

Wis-Dumb

"I spend most of my time cold on a mountain. You, on the other hand, seem to have planned your wardrobe's color scheme yet forgone pants in your great haste. Must we dwell on the sordid state of our lives? I would suggest you resume your melancholy trek, squatty traveler."

Heh - Ziggy's so short he hikes with a yardstick.

Angry Eyebrows Ziggy

The story of Ziggy's life would likely have the disclaimer ". . . Not that there's anything wrong with that!" in nearly every chapter. Not because Ziggy's life has been repugnant, but because the book would have to be written by somebody else, and people are not, as a rule, particularly kind to Ziggy.

Avoid the Freud

Dr. Alfsheim Facialhair has adopted a sort of paganistic psychoanalysis, a breezy naturalism (naturism?) that allows him to keep his friendliness whilst forcing his patients into a sort of zoo animal mentality.

Ziggy's paying through the nose for this percussive psychology. He should have worn pants to his appointment.

Nirvana? Nevermind.

It's some kind of ritual leaping seppuku for prospective intelligentsia. I wonder how the local gubmint spun this sign's establishment.

Inner Pleas

We haven't seen the Guru since he shoved a man to his death. Still, Ziggy hasn't been down there for two months, so it's possible we've had several guru murder/switchovers in the time since he last made the trek. Given his above statement, it's possible that he was witness to one of the murders. Ziggy rarely hammers you with violence, but there's always death lurking under the floorboards. The UV exposure up there must be insane.

Sad Sack

No club will have him, and the last time he tried being upbeat and optimistic, this happened:

Anthony Robbins Better Get a Load Of This. . .

Ziggy's nose appears to be avoiding this exhortation toward assertiveness, gradually migrating its way toward the back of his head. I mocked it up in PhotoShop and eventually decided to protect you all from the image.

Though it's a great deal more interesting if we posit a sort of a riddle: if this were a "pull" door, then it would be truly fiendish for the door to suggest that sheer stubborn willpower would be enough to bend its firm hinges in the correct direction and allow entry. In this way the door is a sort of "guard" as well as an obstacle - a sentry to certify that only the truly intelligent will be granted the volatile gift of assertiveness. The world will not soon fall before the inscrutable powers of a newly-confident Ziggy.

Caf-fiend

Pretty much every decision that Ziggy is ever confronted with involves some crazy life-or-death alternative. Word to the wise: cartoon characters do not have good experiences in diners. The diner is the refuge of the downtrodden, adrift cartoon character, and one of the few places that they can still smoke. In diners cartoon characters fail to pick up women, have their cars impounded, and eat things that the narrative strongly suggests came from mousetraps and species of unknown origin.

If it isn't obvious, the point I'm making is that Ziggy should save himself a quarter and a lot of trouble by getting his morning cuppa Joe sans attitude.

A Moment of Repose Before the Storm

Yum yummers! It's a veritable buffet of subpoenas! But you know it and I know it - Ziggy's problems with the uncaring, base world will not be solved through the law, but through a cold, hard wave of violence that would shatter the mind of any conscientious being. Ziggy's long glance at this door is merely a final look at salvation before the hammer falls.

When the carnage ends, the survivors will erect the following statue. All will look upon it and weep:

Convention Cruiser

This farmhand is unusually well-read for an up-at-five harvester - he's quoting Robert Frost to passing motorists in need. This strip is certainly bucking common stereotypes today; it's not unusual to meet such a literate farmhand, but to meet one while driving a stolen pink convertible.

Knowing Others is Wisdom, Knowing the Self is Enlightenment

This one makes me scream inside. On yet another wacky pilgrimage to the top of Mount Inner Peace, Ziggy encounters some homophonic topical humor, asking the guru what happened to the guru. America finds its "hip" consumer culture in a precarious position, and, on this tiny, isolated mountain in the middle of nowhere, it's no different.

Once again, we see evidence that this wise old mountain sage is leagues more wayward and lost than any of us, yet Ziggy still trusts in his wisdom. Perhaps he can't see past the beard and the robe to the confused, scared soul within, or maybe he has far too much invested in such an arduous journey to feel any well-justified disappointment. Either way, it's a long trek down. Ziggy might want to see to installing a ski lift for future fruitless hikes.

The upside? We've been right calling him "guru" all this time.

Double Whammy - Grasping at the Shadow

I only have two things to say about this one. Firstly, what a cruelty for an animal without eyelids to be subjected to such indifference. I can't imagine the glare inside that tank. Secondly, I have trouble wrapping my brain around the odd syntax in Ziggy's speech ("There's no way I'm able. . .") .



This old sage's character is as inconsistent as my tapioca cooking. Today he's opted for a sort of wishy-washy Socratic existentialism. Truth be told, it all confuses the dickens out of me. Nice coloring, though.

A Day of Books and Babble

Again with the mountain and the climbing, Ziggy! Again with the backpack and the loss of direction and the crushing disappointment! You've visited this guy twice since I started reading this feature, and he ain't got nothin' to offer you. When will you learn? Sure he's got the beard and his butt on a mountain, but, if anything, he's even more wayward and lost than you. Drunk and depressed sages give untoward advice. So don't just assume that he's going to be serene and understanding. If you're going to judge a book by its cover, at least let it be this one:


See? That's pretty straightforward. When seeking enlightenment, however, don't look only for a beard or a robe, or you'll be bucking for disappointment. Looks like somebody could stand for a little self-help:


Dang - must you ruin everything?

After Enlightenment, Chop Wood, Carry Water

Wow, Ziggy - it took female rejection and verbose waterclosets to get you back to the top of this peak, but the trip appears to be worth it. If you value meaningless platitudes, that is. For an enlightened sage, this old man's life is in remarkable turmoil - in the space of a few short weeks he's abandoned his celebrity wheeling and dealing in favor of a philosophy of militant obedience.

Ah, so this is why I was so disappointed the last time, Ziggy thinks, once again contemplating the unnecessary wear done to his hiking boots, which have now rubbed his raw blisters into impenetrable callouses. Meanwhile, enlightenment stands in full sight, as both erstwhile student and guideless guide balance on a grinning buddha.