Shoggies in the Grass. aka True Bliss. Really, who cares if the the flower is no longer all that bright and the grass has lost some of its splendour, as long as there are Shoggies in it? And yes, this is the last of the series Denizens of the Tall Grasslands, also known as the Whehthefuckahwe. Have a spiffing week.

Landscape3. Remember, remember 11 September.
This is a memorial for 11 September. No, not that one. Or that one the Catalans like both to celebrate and kvetch about (how’s that for cognitive dissonance?). This is for the other-other one, the one that befell Chile 50 years ago. The one nobody likes to remember, let alone talk about.
Karma, cause & effect, what goes ‘round comes ‘round, you push here something pushes back there…call it what you will, that’s the way the cookie crumbles. Or as Michel Foucault pithily said: “Where there is power, there is resistance.”
But the Greening Plodder and her pal, the Mouthy Mouse, remember. And they say so , loudly and with great wealth of sordid detail. Which, of course, irritates the Sanctimonious Reverend and his tiny indentured dependant. This is a small but not insignificant part of the exercise, naturally.
Never hesitate to speak heresy. These days of blatant, endless lunacy, is the only thing that makes life bearable. Well, that and teddy bears.
Henry Kissinger may you rot in Hell in the company of Milton Friedman and all his minions.
Have a lovely week.
https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=4JVaRloezno&list=OLAK5uy_m5dsS1Dt0iGfY4QA4aJpqLOzFKBebrfnU
https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=T7TeBLyZTeQ&list=RDAMVMsePxSQfwP8o
https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=rX_NFOLYxb8&list=RDAMVMsePxSQfwP8o

Brief Encounter X
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower
We will grieve not,
Rather, we will dance and drink and riot and make merry and to hell with the flipping Sacred Markets and the Vampire Industrial Complexes!
So tells the fierce chubby chappie to the also chubby wraiths. We, The Family and yours truly, are all behind him. Life’s too short.

CucaFera and Baby. Catalan Stuff I. This be the reworking of a cover of a very short-lived Catalan satirical magazine published in Barcelona between April and August 1917. I’m pretty sure the contents wouldn’t have been my cup of Rosie even then but I do love some of the graphics of that period.
My CucaFera (Vermis Indomitus Cultus) and her baby, whose name is Laia, have come across a wandering self-exiled Yithian teenager who left its wonder-city back in primeval down-under because of a strong disagreement with the Chief Librarian. See it here, blubbering on lavishly about all the wrongs done to it and how it misses the humid swamps and the luxuriant forests of giant ferns and, worse of all, its loss of library privileges. The scholarly creeper, always sympathetic to such melancholy cases and a sucker for a sob story has offered the defecting youth a loan of her own collection of literary masterpieces, like the complete works of Emma Goldman and a comprehensive edition of Garcia Lorca’s poetry. Such a kind creature, she is.
Warning: More varieties of Catalan Worms/Dragons/Snakes/Whatnots coming soon.

Dino Stroll. Here’s a sweet little family scene. Mrs. Dino and her young daughter Lilly have gone for a wee walk and met the ineffable Shub-Niggurath rambling upon the hills and brooding in the forests and being permanently unhappy, as it’s Her wont. Mrs. D. never misses an opportunity to give wise counsel, whether solicited or not, so here she is telling the Shubby to chill out and relax and smell the flowers. It’s all very well, though, for the laid-back saurian to give such advice; she has a nice Mr. Dino back in the swamp, who helps with the cleaning and tidying and the communal babysitting, and only one nipper, so far. Whereas the poor old incomparable Black Goat of the Woods has 999* Young -all very badly behaved and inclined to rioting at a drop of a hat- no mate to help with the rearing and education of said juvenile yahoos and hardly ever a babysitter -which is not surprising as She tends to eat them, bless Her monster socks. I do do the odd stint as Young-minder when I can see that She’s getting really stressed. The Wee Worms chip in and that gives the Ineffable One a chance to piss off to beautiful Lake Hali for a long weekend. In exchange for the respite She tells me “things”. Give and take, that’s out motto.

*999 because one of Her Young took off some years gone to travel the Void and have adventures and, most significantly, to stay away from music lessons in general and flutes in particular, with which he had a thorny relationship (basically he broke them). Young 753 as he then was (now renamed Oops by Lavinia, the Hyper-Penguin) is doing very well and dutifully writes home regularly -which doesn’t stop Mother from grumbling about filial ingratitude. Cría cuervos… She mutters now and again. Secretly, though, She’s dead proud of Her intrepid and enterprising offspring.

Tall Grass. aka Fish Out of Water. This here lot have lost their way and are now stranded in tall grass terrain. Oh dear. What a bummer. The twin suns are nearly as nonplussed as the poor wee darlings. Let’s hope they can help them find their way out of the woods soon-soon.

Water Royalty. aka Watery Royals. No, I’m not about to embark on the designing of yet another Tarot deck. I’ve committed this sin already and once is more than enough. But these two just popped out of my e-pen spontaneously and who am I to argue with self-generated manifestations of graphic life? So here they are. Say hello to Mr. And Mrs. “Ah feel your pain…” (Also your joy, your delight, your indignation, your rage, your fear, your mirth, your tedium, your deepest desires and the nagging suspicion that the world is going to the perritos in a hand basket really fast.) Have a spiffing week.

Attention. The long quotation is from Simone de Beauvoir’s The Second Sex, a book that I’ve just started reading (a la vejez, viruelas…) and I’m quite enjoying, amongst other things because at least she had a sense of humour, unlike some second wave feminists. -let alone the third and fourth-wave ones. The Doggie’s quote graces the introduction of the same book and is by a French geezer, François Poulain de la Barre, and is one of the very (VERY) few things ever said by a bloke about women that isn’t a lot of cobblers. (In fact it’s spot on and it’s just what I’ve been saying for the past three decades.) Not that women haven’t talked (and still talk) a lot of bollocks on the very same subject, let’s be fair. But nowhere near by a long, long chalk as the self-styled masters of creation have, which has had such dismal effects on the human race at large and the female contingent in particular. PS. The Doggie’s name is Calanda. She’s not a Cagnolito of Tindalos but she’s closely related to them on her third auntie’s side.

Blimey! You know what it’s like. You’re peacefully trundling along the paths of evolution when suddenly you come across a crack in the continuum. And then everything goes wonky. And then next thing you know is that an adventurous amoeba decides to grow arms, or legs, or both. And then, next chapter in the saga is…people! Oy vey! 🙁 Still, one must go on, even though one can’t go on. Have a spiffing, gap-free week end, wot sooooon come.

Walkies. aka (Small) reasons to be cheerful. The unruly doggies of the Mid-Badlands have escaped en masse to party and riot and rejoice at the demise of that ghastly cunt Berlusconi. One down many, many, many more to go, but, as the Spaniards say, Menos da una piedra. That is, every little helps and even a small bit of good news can be stretched and used as an excuse to have a merry shindig. I’m off to join the disorderly canines. Take very good care of yourselves and stay sane. Have un po’ di very silly mu’:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ojULkWEUsPs