CSotD: Candor and quibbling

I guess they call it “Candorville” (KFS) for a reason. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a cartoonist run a correction and hats off to Darrin Bell for breaking that tradition, though perhaps Clyde reflects a larger part of the population who prefer certainty over accuracy.

For my part, I’ve lost faith in a whole lot of commentators who continue to pass along the error, in part because I think you can make Elon look bad without misstating the facts and in part because it’s their job to do their homework before they open their mouths.

And it’s everybody’s job to admit when they were wrong.

Here’s my favorite correction and isn’t it nice that it came from a place I worked?

Wouldn’t it be nice if everyone were this willing to walk back the BS?

Or, okay, yes, check it out before it runs.

Pardon My Planet (KFS) mocks gullibility, both of the overly religious and those who suffer from inhaling too much hairspray, and what makes it funny is that, while it’s ridiculous, it’s not outside the realm of possibility.

Not a knock on religion. I’m a devotee of JC and his teachings, just not of the “enhancements” that followed; Jefferson edited a Bible with the improbables and impossibles taken out and I wouldn’t mind a copy, though over the years I’ve learned enough to hack through the jungle on my own.

For instance, Mary Magdalen is not the woman who washed Christ’s feet, nor his mother, nor was she the sister of Martha and Lazarus. And while she didn’t write her name on chocolate candies, she may have done some other writing or at least some teaching.

Don’t stand on one leg waiting for corrections on any of that.

Different kind of correction over at Betty (AMS), and I’ve had one or two of those myself, which evoked just the same amount of surprise, since I rarely get anything but flyers and junk mail in my PO box. I used to get checks there, but nearly everyone pays by direct deposit these days, which takes a lot of the anticipation out of going to the post office.

I got the PO box when I moved here 17 years ago because I wasn’t sure where I’d be living. I’ve lived in four places since, but I’ve been in my current digs now over a dozen years and I could probably start getting mail free at home rather than paying for the box.

But it’s like baby furniture: You don’t expect to need it again, but you know what will happen if you get rid of it, and I don’t want to move.

No, that’s not in Jefferson’s Bible, but it’s true anyway.

Yes, Edison Lee (KFS), I do love surprise plot twists, though this better not be like Hannah and Her Sisters where someone with no discernible talent just up and becomes a best-selling author for lack of anything else to do.

But if you do want to write a novel, you should. I’ve told this cautionary tale before, but, like the Ancient Mariner or Jacob Marley, I’m willing to tell it again:

I dropped out of college at the start of my senior year, went to Colorado, got married, wrote a first draft of a novel and came back a year later to finish my degree. Shortly after my return, I ran into a prof from my department who was pleased I’d written that first draft. He told me he had a novel he wanted to write as soon as he retired and had time.

Instead, shortly after retiring, he died.

Gather ye rosebuds before people start strewing them on your grave.

The Other Coast (Creators) brings up a pet peeve, no pun intended, though I’ll accept the double meaning.

When I got my first of several Rhodesian Ridgebacks in 1986, I had to explain to people what it was, the benefit being that what it was was a well-bred dog. Then it got on the dogfood bag and all of a sudden, everyone knew what ridgebacks were and a lot of them had one and the ones I met weren’t such fine dogs anymore.

And when I was a kid, we had one of the last cocker spaniels before that breed became popular and went all to hell. Granted, people have worked to reclaim cockers, and dobermanns, but reclaimed isn’t the same as unspoiled.

Here’s a depressing little roundup of horrors that sensible dog fanciers have been passing around for years.

It may make adopting a mix attractive, but however you get a dog, you still need to know what you’re doing, or listen to someone who does.

It’s a 10- to 15-year commitment. The average marriage only lasts 19.

“Marry in haste, repent at leisure” also applies to getting a dog. Don’t be swayed by good looks and popularity.

Maggie Larson confirms my insistence that “Upstate New York” ends at Kingston, despite others who consider everything outside the Five Boroughs “Upstate.”

She also confirms my suspicion that Saul Steinberg was right and that nobody in the City has any idea what lays outside or a whole lot of desire to look into the matter.

Surprising as it may seem, the people who run those quaint little tourist traps have to buy groceries and screwdrivers and tires, and they are well outnumbered by people who don’t run quaint little tourist traps.

And if you venture north of Kingston, it gets even scarier and more realistic.

Someone told me the reason the Washington Post has begun running New Yorker cartoons on their editorial page is that they seek a younger audience.

I have to admit that, while the New Yorker used to specialize in cartoons about middle-aged upper-class people talking about Chardonnay, they have changed and now run cartoons about 20-something upper-class people talking about charcuterie boards. Vegan charcuterie boards.

I’ve never been clear whether they are mocking these people or celebrating them, but, as Dean Swift observed, “Satire is a sort of glass, wherein beholders do generally discover everybody’s face but their own.”

Meanwhile, as Joy of Tech observes, the Post isn’t the only place looking to freshen things up with more young people.

Which reminds me of when the New York Times got stung in one of the greatest media pranks of all time.

Y’know the Times — it’s that lamestain newspaper from downstate.