Cheeky, With an Invigorating Sense of Audacity

I've gotta get up at 6 for work - stay tuned later today for the commentary on this one. You won't see tomorrow's newspaper columnists trying that.

All right - let's go. We'll begin with a topical poem:


Amusing Wine?
By Madeleine Begun Kane

When experts say wine is amusing,
It’s a compliment. Ain’t that confusing?
Why laugh at a wine
If you think that it’s fine?
Methinks they do far too much boozing.

It's the last line that deserves special mention. It's my understanding that alcohol merely reduces inhibitions, so unless you have some wonderful hilarious anecdote on the tip of your tongue amusement is hardly a necessary consequence of chugging down a bottle of '68.

On the other hand, if your life is a vale of tears and sadness that you'd rather not dwell upon, inhibitions are the only thing keeping yourself from a complete emotional breakdown. I think that we all agree that, in Ziggy's case, it may be better to just have a cookie.

The Idiot Box Has Opened My Eyes

A confession: One recurring problem with this blog is the need to continuously reference the title character. Occasionally I'm able to stem the flow of Ziggy ennui by reaching into my descriptive grab bag, but referring to Ziggy as "our luckless chum" or "our pessimistic protagonist" does little to address the underlying issue of Ziggy's pervasiveness in this feature. I can only hope that you find, as I do, a certain camp value to the adventures of the hapless pink blob that serves as the subject of this blog. That name which shows up in the URL, posts and artwork of this blog, and the character who answers to it, are the heart and soul of this blog. It seems fitting that Ziggy, the world's most recognizable pink blob, be granted the dubious honor of this, the ultimate Blob's Blog.

On to the feature. Ziggy's television set, always honest-bordering-on-the-surreal, attempts a final disclaimer urging insomniacs citywide to bed. Ziggy's not hearing a single word of it, except possibly for the first: "ANOTHER." Another program?, He thinks with all of the vim and gusto of a late-nite television viewer: Don't mind if I do.

If this feature really wants to simulate the mind-numbing drudgery of television overdose (hey, it's a slippery slope!), I can think of nothing better than to run the following strip for a week. Trust me, it's the only way to make a statement. It's an actual, undoctored photo of the moment your soul solidifies into concrete:

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!

Little Green Mensch

I'll admit that Ziggy's wardrobe holds more interest for me than the otherworldly scene being played out here. It seems that, in direct conflict with my statements three days ago, a Ziggy in pants is not an aberration. He's also donned the cap and collar of a Britain, which go well with his size 36 shoes for Bigfoots and other podiatrically-gifted individuals. Just another homely Britain, out for a walk, mumbling to himself. "Tut, tut, it looks like aliens! Ho ho! Sip a spot of tea, tally ho good chap, wettin' gee a golly whistle on the odds bodkins, never mind the bollocks," and so on. Oh, the mirth.

Now, on to the plot. An alien being draws neat little circles on his notepad, while his identical derriere-headed assistant stares absentmindedly at the foliage in front of the saucer. I can see why Standing Alien is in charge of the project.

Just here to check up on your "control group", eh, Zort? That means that there's another group of humans somewhere, probably somewhere else in space. Just a quick question, though:

Just what on Earth (so to speak) is happening to your other group!? Also, where did you get those clipboards!?

Presumably, the aliens are performing horrible experiments on some of Ziggy's fellow humans. "Subject shows no signs of profuse bleeding from the eyes, nor of any enormous tumors like the other subjects. Further investigation is needed but it seems that homo sapien reacts differently to microwave radiation than our species." Again: oh, the mirth!

Finally, that's one mighty well-drawn tree on the right side.

Find Something To Pacify

Everybody in Ziggy's neighborhood got a copy of this book for free, left anonymously on their respective kitchen tables in the dead of night. It mentions no author, no publishing company and has no jacket price, but contains information on Ziggy's life that is far, far too specific to be just lucky guesses: Ziggy, did you think that your dental floss malfunction went unnoticed?

All of this is just a build-up to the book's main point: a plead for fraternal alliance against the scheming, tricksy world. Suddenly, everything makes sense: Ziggy's world is like The Truman Show, only instead of keeping him in a bubble mystery world, the totality of humanity has contrived to make his life as surreal and horrific as possible.

Is the Book Man Ziggy's friend, or the real enemy? And is he crouching right behind Ziggy's chair, clenching his fist and breathing shallowly? We may never know.

On a related note, I once read a book called The Paranoid's Pocket Guide, a nifty little tome with all sorts of information to keep you up at night. A prominent page features a chart of bacteria counts on common household items. The rest of the book offers helpful tips like (from memory): "When staying in a hotel in an unfamiliar city, wait a few minutes after entering the building to turn on your room's light. That way people outside won't know what room you're staying in." Great stuff.

Divirtimento in Gee

Let it not be said that this strip is anything but wonderful. I'd love to imagine this strip in motion, if only to watch those notes shoot across the room, propelled from Kiltbeard's turkey-like bagpipe. The look in our patient's eyes shows that he appreciates the special attention; not every dentist's office has its own resident Scotsman. Even as Ziggy struggles to keep the saliva from dribbling down the right corner of his benumbed and paralyzed mouth, his arms gripping the armrests in silent desperation, he must appreciate the special effort undertaken by Dr. Drill 'n Gouge to incorporate all of Ziggy's phobias into each and every appointment. We're only a couple of manically-grinning clowns away from a complete Fear Encyclopedia.

Drill 'n Gouge must be in cahoots with Ziggy's shrink. I'm aware that the bagpipes are basically Britain's saxophone, with all the soul implied by such a comparison, but was this the only alternative to generic elevator-style muzak? "So, he doesn't like snakes!? Well, how about a sea of spiders!?!"

Grin (so to speak) and bear it, Ziggy: it could be much worse.

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.