Invasion of the superb birds

May 9, 2025

Yesterday, a greeting card from Ann Burlingham, written on 5/5 in Pittsburgh (mostly about the University of Pittsburgh graduation on 5/3, featuring graduate Opal Armstrong Zwicky among the crowd of about 5,000), arrived in Palo Alto on 5/8, with a note beginning:

Another Superb Bird! How many can Australia have?


(#1) [from the Ikonink cards website:] Original Artwork: Superb Lyrebird (Menura superba), illustrated by Elizabeth Gould for John Gould’s Birds of Australia (1840-1848). Currently displayed at the Australian Museum.

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The message in the sand

May 9, 2025

(This posting is mostly about sexual acts, mostly discussed in street language, so it’s entirely inappropriate for kids and the sexually modest; I know, I know, that sucks)

Yesterday’s posting “Bill, it is the scribbling of a gigantic scoundrel” was about the wonderful absurdity of a Benjamin Schwartz New Yorker cartoon exploiting the Desert Island meme, with everything turning on the message in the sand of the tiny island Bill and his companion share with their ratty palm tree — who could possibly have left it there? —


Of three principal senses of suck, this was intended to be suck-C, an intransitive slang verb of denigration; the ingestion verb, suck-A, is irrelevant to the context; finally, the sexual verb, suck-B, was probably not on BS’s mind (though young men on a small island might turn to fellatio for sexual pleasure), but was certainly on mine

I have written extensively on this blog on these senses of suck, their uses, and their sociocultural contexts — compact summary coming soon — because in my gay male world (one of a number of worlds I inhabit), sucking cock is, simply, everyday sex, and consequently the verb suck has been elaborated and played on in that world, and all of that is of interest to me as a linguist (linguistics being another of the worlds I live in).

But I thought to steer clear of the gay stuff yesterday, so as not to distract readers from the intricate delights of the cartoon (which still makes me laugh every time I look at it). But I have a friend who is named Bill, who is gay, and who was moved to comment (on this blog) on yesterday’s cartoon:

I guess I DO suck, or at least would like to.

So then Bill sucks ‘Bill sucks dick’ was on the table. And we’re off for a holiday in Blow Job City.

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Bill, it is the scribbling of a gigantic scoundrel

May 8, 2025

… and your buddy’s on the case, we’ll get the miscreant, trust me! That’s the burden of this goofy Desert Island cartoon in the latest (5/12&19/25) issue of the New Yorker:


(#1) Bill’s priceless facial expression suggests that he’s not buying his companion’s attempt at deflection Read the rest of this entry »

Appliances in therapy

May 7, 2025

Today’s Bizarro is a Psychiatrist cartoon done with common kitchen appliances: a tea kettle and a coffee percolator sit on a couch in couples therapy, with a toaster therapist:


(#1) Wayno’s title, “Mutual Irritation Society”, takes appliancehood for granted and focuses on the relationship issues (the annoying noises the two partners make); if you’re puzzled by the odd symbols in the cartoon — Wayno says there are 6 in this strip — see this Page

The cartoon identifies the percolator as male (presumably on the basis of its phallicity); if we stick to symbolic values, then the mammillary kettle is female (though it could be that the kettle is a pocket bear — a smaller, more compact man-oriented man who’s burly and hairy; the world of gender and sexuality is huge and diverse, full of surprises).

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Opening cans and jars

May 6, 2025

(I was hoping to get one little posting done, a tiny thing I started working on yesterday morning, just to show that I could finish something, however trivial, before tackling the mountain of more ambitious postings sitting in my queue; and to then be able to get out in an anomalously hot and beautiful day, maybe take my walker around the block. And then, roughly every 30 minutes, something new came in to take me away from my minuscule task, some of it alarming and disastrous, but all requiring my attention. At the very end of the day (having left the house only to get my mail) I finished the playful “Sol is secretly queer”.

By then, I had another, even more minuscule, task to do today. And it’s been like a replay of yesterday. While I was describing yesterday to my caregiver, a pair of contractors — surprise! — appeared, seeking the water shutoff valve for my condo and the one above it, so that they could get on with repair work in the condo above me. Half an hour of complex negotiations followed, then my water was off for several hours while workmen trooped in and out. While this was going on, I was obliged to do complicated advance sign-ins on-line for upcoming medical appointments. And now I return to my bit of domestic trivia.

I have not wept. I have not raged. I am, inexplicably, in a good frame of mind (and my vital signs are wonderful). I created an excellent soup for lunch out of random leftovers. I haven’t been able to work my weekly shower into the schedule (well, there was the 7 am grocery delivery, not expected until 10), but what the hell, there’s always tomorrow. I am wearing my FAGGOT t-shirt; I am faggot, hear me roar. I will, somehow, be able to do this.)

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Sol is secretly queer

May 5, 2025

🇲🇽 It’s Cinco de Mayo today, but this posting has precious little Mexican content; don’t let that keep you from your celebrations, whatever they are.

I had intentions to cook up a homey Mexican pozole  (any occasion is a good one for pozole, in my book, and I always have a can of white hominy in the cupboard, just in case I want to assemble the materials for one), but the main fresh ingredient I had on hand was an big order of Chinese (mung) bean sprouts, so I chopped them up; added a can of lentils (another household staple), with their liquid; splashed in a dose of sriracha sauce; thickened the broth with a container of hummus (ground up chickpeas); and produced a rich, spicy, and crunchy  Chinese / Middle Eastern / Southeast Asian three-legume soup, heated in the microwave. It was fabulous. I might do it again, on purpose this time.

But this posting is a reaction to a card I got from Kathryn Burlingham in Portland OR roughly a month ago — I move sloth-like through my social responsibilities —  about (among other things) the toll of the closet for queer people. Trying to write out and then mail a physical card is, however, gravely difficult for me, while typing at my computer’s keyboard is merely somewhat painful, so this is my response to KB, which turns not so much on the closet — coming out, accepting myself, was heart-breakingly difficult for me, but I spent almost no time in the closet — but on the actual card that KB sent me, the Jahna Vashti greeting card (“vibrantly printed in [yes!] Portland OR on a sturdy, uncoated card stock”) “Brother Sun”:

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Linguist Arnold Zwicky shuts down grammar Nazis

May 4, 2025

Not how I expected to begin Dave Brubeck Day (in 5/4 time, as was his pleasure) / Four Dead in Ohio Day (dreadful memories from 1970, which come with a CSNY soundtrack), but there it was, listed by Google Alerts for the morning: on YouTube, on the “Today I Found Out: Feed Your Brain” channel, the segment

“In which linguist Arnold Zwicky shuts down grammar Nazis”

with Simon Whistler reading with great relish a passage from a posting of mine and savoring its vocabulary.

First, Google identifies me as a Public Figure (not just some mook off the streets, but in a class with, oh, Neil deGrasse Tyson). And now the tireless YouTuber Simon Whistler, with an audience of 2.52m subscribers to Today I Found Out, admires my word-slinging.

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After years, the thin-skinned injustice collector extracts his revenge

May 3, 2025

Today is both Opal Armstrong Zwicky’s college graduation day — 🎓 that’s a mortarboard — and also Kentucky Derby day — 🏇🏼 that’s a jockey on horseback. It also seems to be Rain Day, in both Pittsburgh and Louisville. In any case, two occasions packed with sentiment for me.

(Opal’s graduation from Pitt is straightforward on the sentiment front, but the Derby might need some explanation: Ann Walcutt Daingerfield (later Zwicky) was born — to a celebrated family of owners, breeders, and trainers of thoroughbreds — on Derby Day in 1937, and her father, Keene Daingerfield, ended his working life as the senior state steward for thoroughbred racing in the commonwealth of Kentucky, serving as a judge overseeing racing at both Keeneland in Lexington and Churchill Downs in Louisville. Note: Ann died in 1985, Keene in 1993.)

I hope to post separately about today’s Derby and about my odd long-ago life in the elite social world of central Kentucky and in the complex culture of thoroughbred racing. But today I bring you something completely different, an especially fine Bizarro cartoon, one that comes with a sting.

The 4/30 Bizarro “Chief Petty Officer” (to which Wayno gave the alternative title “Pulling Rank”):


After years, the thin-skinned injustice collector extracts his revenge (if you’re puzzled by the odd symbols in the cartoon — Wayno says there are only 2 in this strip, and they’re easy to find — see this Page)

My comment on Facebook when Wayno posted this cartoon:

— And this is, who would’ve thought it, a political cartoon. A pointed one.

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Schadenfroggy

May 2, 2025

A Victoria Roberts schadenfrog cartoon in the 5/5/25 New Yorker:


(#1) The surviving frog — call it Schadenfroggy — takes malicious pleasure in its companion having been flattened to death; it’s a cruel, cruel ranine world

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Well, nobody’s perfect

May 1, 2025

🐇 🐇 🐇 rabbit rabbit rabbit for the first of May, and hordes of aroused bunnies are streaming in the streets, aggressively singing “L’Internationale”

Meanwhile, I had a wonderful dream last night, starring — a dream first — my grand-child Opal Armstrong Zwicky, who in real life is just about to graduate from the University of Pittsburgh. In the dream,  Opal and another young woman wrote a zany hit musical show in both English and Spanish. During the flurry of production, I met the grandfather of Opal’s collaborator, a charming man with whom I developed a friendship. My clothing, in the dream as in real life, clearly conveys that I’m gay, so this man, not wanting to be leading me on, admitted, gently, “You know, I’m straight” — to which I replied, quoting one of the great films of all time, “Well, nobody’s perfect” — a line I use frequently in my postings, after I celebrate some good friend, woman or man, whose nature runs contrary to tight gender norms, explaining that they’re straight, but, well, nobody’s perfect.

The movie is Some Like It Hot, and it’s a French farce given a distinctly American twist, with mobsters and eccentric millionaires. I am astonished to see that I haven’t ever written it up on this blog. But now its day has come. It seems to afford no place for the Industrial Workers of the World, but, well, you can’t have everything.

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