Cabbie Story...

Okay, so I have not been posting cartoons the past few days for a couple of reasons.

Reason 1: I’m going on vacation this Wednesday, and I have been really busy.

Reason 2: I’m lazy.

Okay, I promised a cabbie (cabby?) story in my post title so here goes…


Last night I decided I would go to my girlfriend’s house (she knows who she is) to hang out because I would not see her until I returned from my vacation. It was kind of late at night, and I was traveling alone so I decided to take a cab.

Well…

I managed to hail a cab on Broad and Ritner. As the cab slowed to a stop – in the middle of Broad Street – I realized that the driver was a woman. In the three or four seconds I had to think about it, I realized I had never been in a cab that was being driven by a woman. In fact, I had never seen a female cab driver before last night. So, in my mind, this woman was a trailblazer, the Amelia Earhart of cab drivers. Unfortunately, the ride turned out a lot like Amelia’s transatlantic flight in the sense that I have no idea what happened in between Point A and Point B.

“Where are you going?”

“Ummm, [DESTINATION], please.”

“My air conditioner just turned off. It’s off. It stopped working. If you want to get out now, get out now.”

I should have gotten out.

“No, that’s fine…”

The entire trip up Broad Street I was treated to lectures on behavioral patterns and the moons effect on the human psyche.

“Tonight there’s an eclipse. You see the moon there? It’s almost full. I don’t know if you can see it because it’s so low, but the eclipse is going to happen in about an hour…”

Feigning interest, “Yeah…I’ll maybe check it out.”

Then, almost cutting, “Okay, you don’t care. I care about the moon.”

It was getting creepier.

Her car could go no more that 25 miles an hour and the check engine light was glaring on her dash, but that did not stop her as she unflinchingly blared her horn at anything that was not moving fast enough for her.

Then…

“You know, strange things tend to happen during full moons…”

Great!

She’s a fucking werewolf.

Or maybe I’ll be lucky enough that all she wants is my severed penis to add to her moon shrine.

“Lots of premature births…”

Oh. Those kinds of weird things. Still. Creepy.

We were getting really close to where I was going, and my nervous laughter was turning into legitimate fear. I was riding with Travis Bickle sans the dick on the night of a full moon.

Luckily, her ire shifted from my apparent moon apathy to an Asian man on a bicycle. I was beginning to think that her air conditioner turned off because her overuse of the horn was draining the car’s battery.

I know nothing about cars.

So, we pulled to the corner of my destination.

“Cash or credit.”

“Cash”

“$7.50.”

Handing her a twenty, “Can I just have ten back?”

She glared into my eyes, and it was the closest I’ve ever felt to death.

“I can’t handle this. Three people just gave me twenties.”

Here it comes, I thought. My life was on the line, and all I could say was:

“This is all I have.”

“Well, then just get out.”

Okay.

“Okay.”

Okay.

I got out, but not before I said this:

“Thanks, have a great night.”

And not before she said:

“Okay, go fuck yourself.”

To which I said:

“What did you just say to me?”

After which she replied:

“I said go flax yourself.”

“Oh,” I said.

I got out.

The moon eclipsed last night at 07:53:39 UTC.

Deprecine

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New ad campaign for the anti-depressant DEPRECINE.

Mmmm, summerwear...

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I've used this gray (grey?) background technique in all of my comics this week. It's kind of depressing, calling to mind the bleak worldview shared by most of my characters. What does everyone think? I like it.

22 on 8/22

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Also, I left my house for work at 8:22 AM.

These are too many coincidences to simply ignore.

Still, I've managed to ignore them for the most part.

The News with Chum Huggins

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NOTE: Edited cartoon on 8/23/07.

Morgolth and Dave

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"Morgolth and Dave" is filmed in front of a live studio audience.

Friday Poop Joke - Week Deuce

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Supervalue = Ungood

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Infrequent posting...

Blister Keaton here with some news to pass along from blogger Christian Alsis. Here it is:

"Thanks to everyone who continues to view my site. The tag at the bottom of the page indicates Ahhhh, Phooey's position on the the Webcomic List. Ahhhh, Phooey has remained steadily in the 1600-1700 range out of 9,000 total webcomics. Thanks to all those who have viewed my blog enough to take Ahhhh, Phooey from just another face in the crowd to a slightly more prominent face in the crowd. I will be updating soon, but other projects have sprung up that have taken my focus away from cartooning. Stay tuned for more wacky adventures!"

Good Grief...

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You're Grounded.

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FRIDAY POOP JOKE!!!

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If this post is popular, it may stay regular. If not, there is always Metamucil.

MELVIN #5

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* - Online store coming soon**

**- Not really.

Cleft Pants

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Serves Him Right

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Songs of Suburban Station, Pt. 2

Okay. So, now I'm beginning to realize how many great musicians go unrecognized throughout their careers for one reason or another. Be it geography, age, race, looks, whatever, I am beginning to realize that no matter how good of a guitarist Bob Dylan or Duane Allman is or was, they are only as good as the people who thrust them into the public sphere say they are.

Today, walking through Suburban Station, I saw the greatest violin player I have ever witnessed in my life. The man was playing furiously, his stringy hair hanging in front of his closed eyes, his fingers moving a mile a minute, and his body contorting in a rage of movement as he became the music.

Then, I realized what he was playing.

"Oh, Sherrie" by Steve Perry was a monster hit in 1984; however, this song's popularity was proof of the continued bastardization of the music industry by businessmen, another sign of Orwellian prophecy in a decade that saw the deification of the American dollar and the nation's highest position bestowed upon a B-list actor.

I didn't watch the man for long as I would have been late for work, but what I saw haunted me (enough to write this post at least). It haunted me in the sense that I couldn't tell whether the man was being honest or ironic. After all, he had to have known how he had reached this point in his life. As far as I could tell, he had been trained. The way he played was chaotic but controlled. Was there a point where he had abandoned classical training to play novelty pop from the 1980s? Did he know at that moment that his decision would land him years later in Suburban Station, his playing barely audible between the hustle and bustle of Philadelphia's biggest transportation hub?

Or had he been playing it ironically? Perhaps. Was he nodding toward the desecration of music by white men in business suits who cared more about the "sell" than the passionate and labor-intensive "pitch"? Was he playing to make us suddenly aware that people like Steve Perry are talentless and that the world's true musicians are being ignored? Was he making even more of a comment by playing such a trite and uninteresting song on an instrument that has played the world's most beautiful music for centuries? Or maybe he playing it ironically to the people walking to their mindless and butt-numbing jobs, urging them as tongue-in-cheek as possible, to "hold on".

We will probably never know why he was playing that particular song in that particular place on that particular instrument. This failure to understand motives will not, however, stop me from knowing, in my heart of hearts, that I will never enjoy "Oh, Sherrie" by Steve Perry any more than I did this morning.

THE SMOKING DICK #1

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Look up amusia on wikipedia...

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NOTE: The title character's name is not a pun on the word "amusing", but rather it refers to a disorder which results in "the inability to recognize musical tones or rhythms or to reproduce them." I would never presume a character to be "amusing", especially one so dreadfully one-note.

MELVIN #4

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