It's rare that I feel like tooting my own horn--OK, OK, it's rare that I'll admit to feeling like tooting my own horn--but I must confess I was pleased with a recent effort of mine.

Over in Readerville, my friend and Loose Canons partner Paul Clark made a joke connecting Bob Dylan's Blonde on Blonde album and the classic Chic Young-created comic strip Blondie. The strip is now being done by Chic's son Dean and an artist named LeBrun with whom I'm not familiar; it's actually not bad, but I have a long-standing distaste for comic strips that still lurch about, zombie-like, after their creators have retired or died. It's grotesque to me that Shoe still appears on the comics page without the grace or timing of its creator, Jeff MacNelly, and though Mort Walker and Dik Browne have passed their family businesses (Beetle Bailey, Hi and Lois, and Hagar the Horrible) on to their children, the younger generation simply doesn't have the artistic gifts of the elder. I'd rather see the son demonstrate his own talents, not simply ape those of his father. I don't need to hear Jakob Dylan re-recording "Lay Lady Lay." In fact, since it's about his mom, that would be creepy as all get-out.

Not that I have strong opinions on the subject or anything.

In any case, Paul's mind is a fertile ground for humor, and I found this particular pile of compost extremely nourishing, which is how I came to rewrite one of Bob Dylan's tunes thus:

"Suburban Homesick Blues"

Blondie's in the back room
Mixin' up the dim sum
Tootsie's got the canapés
Set up on the deli trays
Cute gals tryin' to make
Paté, shrimp mousse,
Tryin' to shake some cash loose
Dag an' Herb are no use
Look out, kids
It's a caterin' biz
Take a strip that's ancient
Tryin' to make it relevant
You better duck down the strip mall
Get yourself a new pen
The man at the syndicate
Called you again
Wants eleven hundred papers
You only got ten

Dag runs fleet foot
Headin' off to work but
Woodley's on the sidewalk
Tryin' to set a chop block
Dag runs the straight track
Blondie hears the impact
Letters in the driveway
He'll be back the next day
Look out, Dag
It's a runnin' gag
Gotta hit the mailman
Do it without fail, man
Gotta do the same joke
Make sure you don't choke
And get the strip revoked
Hide the fire with black smoke
You don't need a eulogy
To know that Chic Young's croaked

Chic Young? Dean Young!
(Who the hell is LeBrun?)
Names on the strip run
But we don't see the first one
He's lost, we've lost
What's a new strip cost?
A rollin' strip's got moss:
Dithers's still the big boss
Look out, kid
Ain't like it's hid
Editors, cheaters
Big-time predators
Are pig-trough feeders
Keepin' up a classic
Although it's jurassic
Placate the readers
Just hire repeaters

Ah get drawn, big yawn
Short nap, old crap, shut your yap
Get paid, don't fade
Copy 'cause you're a-fraid
Daisy, Alex, Cookie,
Same faces, lookie!
Years and years of drawin'
And you're still like a rookie
Come on, kid
Do what your dad did
Better be your own man, switch
And draw what you can, which
Ain't just fillin' your dad's niche
Create a new plan, pitch
A strip of your own
Try to make it alone
Not the same damn thing
Where Dagwood eats the sandwich.

Is this just another form of procrastination when grades are due? You decide...

8:31 AM

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