“Forget Boring Truths,” Page 6
I got all my Dane Martin comics!!!
http://danemartin.tumblr.com/
http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/danenitram
(via donnerpartyofone)
There is a dirty place over in Shipshewana where they have a large hotdog you can order called Rapunzel’s Hair. If someone were to sit me down on a fence and ask me to reveal some facts about myself, I would not mention my appreciation for truck stops, in fear of ruining my private and harmlessly perverse appreciation for them. The holy groves must be kept in hiding under the shady rocks of the wild, after all.
The Golden Bunny, previously the Mickey Bunny, was my preferred truck stop of the Midwest. Its tables and napkin holders glistened like a child fresh out of the birthing canal. Waitresses waltzed and whinnied and never made you feel like you were entering a cold, exclusive fortress.
The Golden Bunny was about preservation of hope.
If you wear just the right size and make of suspenders, you can place the Rapunzel’s Hair in-between the straps and eat it slowly with a fork and knife. It is, without a doubt, the most enjoyable way to consume a Rapunzel, as any regular patron of the Bunny will tell you. But I believe in the unpretentious elegance of restraint.
Mother used to play a game with us on Christmas Eve that she called “Horse’s Fate.” My brother Pauly and I truly hated when she would bring out the familiar ceramic hobby horse and place it on the ruby-colored rug on top of the basement stairs. We would watch in horror, every year, as Mother came up and down from the basement with all of the things we loved most in the world. The objects we had been pining for all year would be placed around the horse artfully. Studebaker farm wagons, Lionel train accessories, Bagatelle ball games, cherry licorice whips, Balsa wood kits, wind-up ducks, toy soldiers, miniature phonographs, and loose Lincoln Logs would all be placed around the horse in a circular pattern, like a cruel and sad theatre-in-the-round.
Mother would grab us by the hands and she would recite the annual rules:
“You are not to touch any of these things, boys! You are to sit in these chairs and stare at these things all day, until nightfall, without saying a word. The first person who speaks will watch his share of the goodies get crushed with a sickle. The winner will get their presents wrapped up for the morning. Merry Christmas to you both.”
Mother taught me a lot of things, the most important being that you can have your pleasure, but have too much of it, speak about it too much in the raw, and it becomes too real and it consumes you. Mother taught me that much of living is largely about a preventable decay you create.
So I believed that I deserved my Rapunzel’s Hair when I found myself in Shipshewana… but the old eat-it-from-the-suspenders method was best left for those who did not have people like Mother in their lives.
Anonymous asked: Do you really play video games? Surprised to hear that :(
I think video games have a lot in common with comics in the way that you have to create a world with weird rules that work like a painful math, but then you can go on weird tangents that are satisfying in their beautiful pointlessness. Healthy to wander around in a space. Even the games with the most physically unappealing and disgusting visual presentations can be full of a strange wonder that can be worth it regardless of who you are and what you believe to be the pinnacle of artistic splendor.
I haven’t forgotten Gagger #2.
