What a dog!

Took me a while to find, or re-find this. I kept remembering a Betty Boop cartoon that somehow wasn't a Betty Boop cartoon. And this one isn't. A. Betty. Boop. Cartoon.

Surely it is not, because not only is she NOT called Betty Boop in this cartoon - she isn't even the same species.

Most afficionados of early animation know that BB started life as a dog. And if they don't, they're idiots and should go stand in the corner. It's not obvious that she evolved from a canine, of course, unless you've watched Max Fleischer cartoons from 1930 - 1931, in which a strange, flapper-esque character with long pendulous ears trots around on high heels talking in a squeaky, seductive voice.

A DOG.

Nobody knew what to call her when she made her debut in a cartoon called Dizzy Dishes. Though some people were heard to call, "HELP".

In this first incarnation, "Betty" (unnamed) dances on the table, flipping up her skirt and puffing out her face as if it's retractable, an animal snout or muzzle. She is both seductive and unbearable, her eyes like multi-legged insects. There's no sound here, but it's just as well.

This cartoon is typical of the nightmarish atmosphere of the Fleischerscape, one of those things where you just. . . can't. . . wake. . . up. The other character, which looks like a cross between a bug, a dog and Felix the Cat, becomes disturbingly aroused by this - thing.

I could never quite square those floppy ears with that huge, semi-human head teetering on an absurdly tiny human body. They seem stuck-on somehow, and eventually, like the back legs of a whale, they would recede into uselessness, turning into a pair of hoop earrings to maintain character consistency.  Doggiform, without being dogged. 

But the one I didn't remember, or almost remembered, or forgot to remember - I couldn't figure out why I couldn't find it, and certainly the title meant nothing to me. I only remembered somebody ringing a doorbell, Betty leaning out a second-story window, and a whole lot of furniture dancing around.

I found it almost by accident in a Betty Boop compilation, one of those two-hour YouTube jobbies, only this one was in chronological order. I knew it had to be EB (Early Betty) because I had a gif of her with floppy long ears.

Not only are her ears  monstrously large, she acts like a maniac, mugging and flopping her head around. The only thing that signals Betty is her substantial cleavage. Cleavage on a dog, though.

So flipping through the compilation, the two-hour compilation, the two-hour LONG compilation of Betty Boop cartoons, I realized the one I wanted would have to be near the beginning. But it didn't jibe somehow, because the one that SEEMED to be the right one was called Barnacle Bill. Oh hell. That was a Popeye cartoon, wasn't it? This couldn't be the same one. Or the same title. Or whatever.

It actually was, though, or is. This character, the bug or dog or whoever-he-is, Binky or Blinky or Blanky or Blonky, is actually Barnacle Bill the Sailor, and he and "Betty" go through the routine. Except! She isn't even called Betty in this:

Nancy Lee, one of Betty's many aliases (along with Fifi, Frou-Frou and Arf-Arf).

So this character - aha, his name is Bimbo, though that makes no sense to me - having been swallowed up by Nancy's wall, is subjected to her seductive overtures. When the sofa begins to speak and Bimbo becomes airborne, things get really strange.

So now the secret is revealed: Betty was hideously ugly at the start of her career. She continued to look pretty strange, but at this point there was nowhere to go but up.

Post-it Note: I found the lyrics of the version of Barnacle Bill I remember from the old Popeye cartoon, but when removing the formatting of the thing, THIS happened: so I thought I'd leave it the way it is.

As featured in the 1935 Popeye cartoon "Beware Of Barnacle Bill", with the voices of William Costello as Popeye, William Pennell as Bluto (playing Barnacle Bill), and Mae Questel as Olive Oyl: OLIVE: Popeye, dear, we cannot wed Popeye, dear, we cannot wed Popeye, dear, we cannot wed I love another sailor POPEYE: Who's the guy that won your heart OLIVE: It's Barnacle Bill the Sailor POPEYE: Who's the guy that thinks he's smart OLIVE: It's Barnacle Bill the Sailor POPEYE: Why, that false heart and flattering tongue He courts them all, both old and young He courts them all, but marries none Your Barnacle Bill the Sailor OLIVE: But he's strong and handsome, too But he's strong and handsome, too But he's strong and handsome, too My Barnacle Bill the Sailor POPEYE: I'll twist his toes and squeeze the nose Of Barnacle Bill the Sailor I'll mop the place with his false face The Barnacle Bill the Sailor I'll grab him by his dirty neck And when I'm through he'll be a wreck I'll sweep and smear and swab the deck With Barnacle Bill the Sailor OLIVE: Who's that knocking at my door Who's that knocking at my door Who's that knocking at my door Tell the fair young maiden BARNACLE BILL: It's only me from over the sea It's Barnacle Bill the Sailor I've come to take you away with me I'm Barnacle Bill the Sailor Hurry before you get me sore I'll rare and tear and rant and roar Hurry before I bust in the door It's Barnacle Bill the Sailor OLIVE: Here I come to let you in Here I come to let you in Here I come to let you in My Barnacle Bill the Sailor (Barnacle Bill and Popeye begin to fight) BILL: No one ever challenged me POPEYE: Says Barnacle Bill the Sailor BILL: I'm the terror of the sea POPEYE: Says Barnacle Bill the Sailor BILL: A fee and a fi and a fo and a fum Yo heave ho and a bottle of rum ?????? sailor, your day is done Oh, says Barnacle Bill the Sailor (Popeye eats his spinach and defeats Bill) OLIVE: Popeye, dear, I love you best Popeye, dear, I love you best Popeye, dear, I love you best When will we get married POPEYE: I've changed me mind so you can wed Your Barnacle Bill the Sailor You're nothing more than cabbage head Ev'ry dame's a selfish cat They only turn and leave ya flat Just the way ya did to that Poor Barnacle Bill the Sailor Goodbye!

Visit Margaret's Amazon Author Page!

Chameleon

These are none of them me. I mean, I'm not in these. I didn't even take them. Is that stealing? How does anyone hang on to anything any more? I'm borrowing them from the vast lending library that is the internet. OK?

Is MY stuff getting stolen? Never mind, I think these are interesting, though I find it hard to believe that all of them are accidental (and this is, by no means, all of them). I am trying to imagine the circumstances of them, though - the exclamations that proceeded the taking of the photo. "Oh my God, look at that! Turn around, turn around?" "What?" "No, you can't see it!" "What?" (etc. etc.)

It's the exact colour matches that makes me wonder. It's not just - no, it's the whole thing. It's just so EXACT. Does someone go around looking for these, or do people dress accordingly?

No. Don't tell me she phoned the subway people and said, "Excuse me. Do you have some of that fabric left over that you put on the seat covers?"

I guess this is shot through somebody's knees, but it seems to me, somehow, anatomically impossible. The colour match isn't quite as good as some of the others, but it will pass.

This is TOO good! This guy is about to disappear.

I think this is a factory-direct thing, wherein she ordered a special sofa, dismantled it, made a dress pattern, made the dress, put it on, then posed for the picture, for no reason that anyone can determine.

This is the true Art of Camouflage, I mean it, this is better than chameleonlike. I want to lift this guy up and stuff my clothing into his head.

By the way, what is the origin of the word "camouflage"? Is it French or something? It makes no sense. What's a "flage"? And chameleon, that's weird too. Have you ever thought about "eon" words? Luncheon (and do we ever have a "bruncheon"?), nickelodeon, etc. Luncheon isn't just "lunch", either, but implies a sort of social gathering with, generally speaking, fund-raising attached to it, or long speeches by feminist groups. Brunch(eon) is different, more social and fun, more relaxed. The word "luncheon" immediately makes me tense up. I just know I'm not going to enjoy myself.

Aw c'mon, this can't be real! Nevertheless, here it is, the colours so exact it's freaky. Then again. photoshopping is so easy now, even I can do it, sort of.

Sand socks! This might catch on, if you don't want anyone to see your feet. Trouble is, it will appear as if your body is walking along six inches above the ground, and it'll freak everyone out.

When I first saw this I gasped. It seemed like such a tragedy. If she is anything like me, however, she'll have a much harder time getting up. (Can't you hear it, though: "Oh, Muriel, look at that carpet! It's just like your dress! C'mon, lie down on the floor now!" The hotel manager then decides to tour the hallway to make sure nothing is amiss.)

Sharpie and dress/sweater are in such exact accord, I don't know how you could make it happen even if you tried. Even the head is sort of the same, if you flip the cap around.

He looks sad. He looks as if someone is going to start wheeling him along, and he may be right. The airline person might start asking the bag all sorts of questions and giving it a pat-down, while unzipping and removing all sorts of objects from the man and holding them up to the light, and confiscating them if they look funny. If things take a turn for the worse, the bag might even be arrested and taken into custody,  while they call the bomb squad to come and dismantle the man.

Visit Margaret's Amazon Author Page!

Disney's zebra centaurs: the lost tapes

Here, after much searching, is a very brief but significant clip from the Pastoral Symphony segment of Disney's Fantasia. I wanted to see this because it features, if ever-so-briefly, two glorious zebra centaurettes who weren't erased from the final cut.

This voyage into cinematic racism in human/equine hybrids started with Sunflower, the little black girl who acted as a handmaiden/possible slave to the pastel-coloured centaurettes. Sunflower, who was half-donkey rather than half-horse, was edited out so thoroughly that she no longer appears in the DVD version of the movie at all, and even looks to have been photoshopped out of one scene.

That turned out to be wrong. The little black centaurette/donkey/possible slave who unrolled the red carpet for Bacchus/Dionysis and the gang was a character called Otika. It was nice of the animators to name her, but not so great when she almost instantly vanished from view.  Once she was photoshopped out, we were left with the bizarre phenomenon of the red carpet unrolling all by itself.

Better black magic than an admission of racist stereotyping. The solution seemed to be getting rid of the character altogether. But what of the zebra-ettes, who aren't even given names? They too act as servants: one of them fans the fat,drunken Bacchus, and the other keeps his wine glass sloshing over the top. Within ten seconds or so, both of them have quickly moved out of the frame.

 

I don't know what the rationale is here. These are grown women, obviously; but it is equally obvious they are black, perhaps even African, since their lower halves are not horse but zebra.

Were these exotic creatures serving Bacchus out of love, or because they were earning a salary? Disney was a known cheapskate who might just have kept his zebra hybrids on slave wages.

It's impossible to untangle this one because it's such a bizarre example of erasing something that is just too embarrassing to leave in. Having a sort of little black Sambo-ette/servant figure in the movie is inappropriate, but why is it OK to get rid of her completely? The magnificent Deviantart depictions of Sunflower are reclaiming her from obscurity, giving her her power back. And I'm all for that.

DeviantArtSunflower

But Otika, her two-second film appearance now more rarefied than the unicorn or even the centaur, can take comfort in the fact that she is not the only actress whose performance has ended up on the cutting room floor.

Visit Margaret's Amazon Author Page!

What goes around

This started off as a tack-on for my last post on Sunflower, but then I realized that, even for this blog, which trades in twists and turns and irrelevancies, it was just too irrelevant to be there. 

But I have to deal with it, somehow. 

This is something of an update on another tack-on from my Bob Dylan post, Darkness at the Break of Noon. Yes, my former friend is dead. He is not asleep; he is dead. At the end of the Dylan post, I wondered what exactly had happened to him: his longtime partner, someone I have never connected with (they were, strangely, both named Paul), emailed me to say he'd had a stroke and was "not expected to survive the weekend". It was a mass email that went out to a couple dozen people, none of whom I knew.

Nothing came after that. I didn't feel comfortable answering the email, and I needed to know, so I had to do some detective work. I found out on the Facebook page for his former church (which he founded and made himself the head of) that he died on Easter Sunday.

Is he in the Afterlife, whatever that is? I feel him batting around me like a fly. It's a nuisance, is what it is. Not a good energy, if it IS him. Black magic - was there some black magic going on here? Nonsense, I know nothing about it, even though I took his class in traditional/aboriginal medicine many moons ago. That's how I learned about curses, poisoned darts, boiled toads and datura. So it's interesting that if - a big if - an impossible if - IF there were any black magic going on at all here, the source of it would actually be him.

What happened for me was anything but magic. His was a particularly fine-edged abuse: take an interest at first, be kind, be helpful, be supportive even, and then, for reasons impossible to ascertain, or for no reason at all - chwwwwwwt! (The sound of a guillotine blade making a lizardy little breeze). I only know that, having set himself up as an expert on certain things I was interested in, he said some hateful, hurtful, condescending, even contemptuous things about me and my beliefs. 

Yet everyone thought he was the most wonderful, big-hearted, kind - but here, I am not sure. He left that church at some point - "retired", but if I knew the man at all - knew the hole in the centre of his sureness - I think he left because he lost control of the whole thing. No one was falling in line any more. He had ceased to be the Little Prince, holding sway over his own little spiritualist fiefdom.

It was a long time ago I met him, I was a different person then, and I would never let anyone like that into my life now. I had enough of it growing up in my family of origin, thank you very much. (But then again: most of THEM are dead now, too. Funny how, in a strange sort of way, death solves everything.)

But it's unpleasant, the way things come back to me, disparaging things I put up with: having my own spiritualist experiences, which I was testing out because I wasn't sure what to make of them, dismissed as "oh I don't know, it's probably just some kind of fantasy", said in a bored sort of voice. Whereas he would go on, and on, and on about his own experiences, with the assumption that all of them were bona fide. Did anyone even need to question it?

The Gershwin thing hurt and angered me. I am the first to say it may well be 100% imagination, but my exploration at first seemed to be greeted with enthusiasm and even fascination. I started sending him things. I don't know when, exactly, the turning point came, but it's hard to hear that nasty little metallic "chwwwwwwt!" before you've even had breakfast.

No, this doesn't sound authentic at all. No, I could check with some of my friends who know something about this, but I know what they'd all say. Don't forget, Margaret, that you don't really have a grounding in this tradition and that I trained myself for many, many decades to blah blah blah. I don't see anything here that blah blah blah blah blah.

He did not have to say, "Oh yes, write a book about it, why don't you." But the sudden trap door opening under my feet reminded me of another vicious sadist, a man whom I later found out was virtually sociopathic in his cruelty to others. I actually found it out from a psychiatrist who had "inside knowledge" that I did not doubt. Later I found some blog posts from people who turned themselves inside-out apologizing for him because he was dead, but then went on to compare him to Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street, with his lethal trap door. A direct quote from a dear friend of his (name changed to protect the innocent, namely me):

My good friend writer R. D. died last week. This is not an obituary. Nor is it a paean to him. He would have hated that. R. was not a perfect person. He was funny and kind but he frequently isolated himself and he cut off some friends like Sweeney Todd dispatching a client.

He was also deeply private. As he lay dying of a stroke at age 67, colleagues were arguing about the particulars of his life. Did he have one brother or two? Had his father been a school teacher or farmer? Did R. really play the cello and, if not, how did this small town Prairie boy develop such a profound knowledge of music?

I hope that, when my time comes, work colleagues don't stand around my deathbed trying to piece together my life, trying to determine if I had anyone in my life at all (which these rather chilling words imply). Obviously they were attempting to scrape up particulars for his obituary, having no one else to ask. I think this goes beyond being "deeply private". I wondered at first if someone had found him weeks later, as sometimes, sadly, happens with people who "frequently isolate themselves".

I also hope there are no comparisons in my obituary to Sweeney Todd, who slit people's throats in his barber chair, slid them down a trap door, had them ground up into meat and made them into pies that people then purchased and ate. 

(Sidebar: in the usual published tribute, someone at the Sun strongly implied he had been wasted in the backwater of Canada and should have been writing for somebody important, like the New Yorker. I'm trying to figure out who this says the most about: R. D., the commentator, the Vancouver Sun or the New Yorker.)

And a curious thought: both men died of sudden strokes. I don't want to go too far down the road of what that might mean symbolically. Neither of them were old: seventy-ish, if that. In fact, R. D. was maybe 67. First there is a person, then there is no person, then. . .
The last email I ever got from Paul I deleted unread. I already knew what was in it. I just pushed the whole thing away from me. Part of me wanted some kind of revenge - I admit it now! And yes, I admit that at that particular point, I had my mojo working.

What does that mean, exactly? What that means, and all it means, is that one holds up a mirror.

One holds up a mirror, and whatever bad vibes that person is emanating, they bounce right back at them and hit them in the face.

You don't have to do anything, not anything at all. That's the way it works.

That's why I opened this post with Celie's famous statement from The Color Purple. It's the scene in which she gets her power back. I got mine back a very long time ago, but it is nasty to be reminded that someone, anyone, can toy with it and do damage the way Paul did.

I can't sit here and say I'm glad he's dead, because surely he did have people who cared about him, and I wouldn't insult them. But I am glad that the nastiness in him, unacknowledged by anyone around him, is dead. I am glad his pomposity and intellectual bullying and constantly pulling rank on people to make himself feel better is dead. I am glad that peculiar form of sinking dismay will never happen to me again. 

I know I have learned from him, but not even remotely what he thought I would/"should" learn. From him I learned I can step around narcissists who seem to believe they have special knowledge, wield special power, and are thus innately entitled to tell you that your own beliefs are ill-informed and of no value.  From him, I learned what to avoid - what to ignore - and how to keep on walking.

But meanwhile. . . LET'S SING!

Seems a downright shame

Shame?

Seems an awful waste

Such a nice, plump frame

Wot's his name has

Had

Has

Nor it can't be traced!

Business needs a lift

Debts to be erased

Think of it as thrift as a gift

If you get my drift, no?

Seems an awful waste

I mean, with the price of meat

What it is? When you get it

If you get it

Hah

Good, you got it

Take for instance, Mrs. Mooney and her pie shop

Business never better using only pussycats and toast

And a pussy's good for maybe six or seven at the most

And I'm sure they can't compare as far as taste

Mrs. Lovett, what a charming notion

Well, it does seem a waste

Eminently practical

And yet appropriate as always, it's an idea

Mrs. Lovett, how I've lived

Without you all these years, I'll never know

How delectable, also undetectable

Think about it

Lots of other gentlemen'll

Soon be comin' for a shave

Won't they?

Think of all them pies

How choice

How rare

For what's the sound of the world out there?

What, Mr. Todd?

What, Mr. Todd?

What is that sound?

Those crunching noises pervading the air

Yes, Mr. Todd, yes, Mr. Todd

Yes, all around

It's man devouring man, my dear

And then who are we to deny it in here?

These are desperate times

Mrs. Lovett and desperate measures are called for

Here we are, now, hot out of the oven

What is that?

It's priest, have a little priest

Is it really good? Sir, it's too good, at least

Then again, they don't commit sins of the flesh

So it's pretty fresh

Awful lot of fat only where it sat

Haven't you got poet, or something like that?

No, y'see, the trouble with poet is

'Ow do you know it's deceased? Try the priest

Heavenly

Not as hearty as bishop, perhaps

But then again

Not as bland as curate, either

And good for business too

Always leaves you wantin' more

Trouble is

We only get it on Sundays

Lawyer's rather nice

If it's for a price

Order something else, though to follow

Since no one should swallow it twice

Anything that's lean

Well then, if you're British and loyal

You might enjoy Royal Marine

Anyway, it's clean

Though of course it tastes of wherever it's been

Is that squire on the fire?

Mercy, no sir, look closer

You'll notice it's grocer

Looks thicker, more like vicar

No, it has to be grocer, it's green

The history of the world, my love

Save a lot of graves

Do a lot of relatives favors

Is those below serving those up above

Everybody shaves

So there should be plenty of flavors

How gratifying for once to know

That those above will serve those down below

Now let's see, here we've got tinker

Something pinker

Tailor? Paler, Butler? Subtler

Potter? Hotter, Locksmith?

Lovely bit of clerk

Maybe for a lark

Then again there's sweep

If you want it cheap

And you like it dark

Try the financier, peak of his career

That looks pretty rank

Well, he drank, it's a bank

Cashier, never really sold

Maybe it was old

Have you any Beadle?

Next week, so I'm told

Beadle isn't bad till you smell it and

Notice 'ow, well, it's been greased

Stick to priest

Now then, this might be a little bit stringy

But then of course it's fiddle player

No, this isn't fiddle player, it's piccolo player

'Ow can you tell? It's piping hot then blow on it first

The history of the world, my sweet

Oh, Mr. Todd, ooh, Mr. Todd

What does it tell?

Is who gets eaten, and who gets to eat

And, Mr. Todd, too, Mr. Todd

Who gets to sell

But fortunately, it's also clear

That, but everybody goes down well with beer

Since marine doesn't appeal to you

'Ow about rear admiral?

Too salty, I prefer general

With or without his privates? 'With' is extra

What is that? It's fop

Finest in the shop

And we have some shepherd's pie peppered

With actual shepherd on top

And I've just begun

Here's the politician, so oily

It's served with a doily

Have one, put it on a bun

Well, you never know if it's going to run

Try the friar

Fried, it's drier

No, the clergy is really

Too coarse and too mealy

Then actor, that's compacter

Yes, and always arrives overdone

I'll come again

When you have judge on the menu

Wait, true, we don't have judge yet

But we've got something you might fancy even better

What's that? Executioner

Have charity towards the world, my pet

Yes, yes, I know, my love

We'll take the customers that we can get

High-born and low, my love

We'll not discriminate great from small

No, we'll serve anyone

Meaning anyone

And to anyone at all

  Visit Margaret's Amazon Author Page!

http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B001K7NGDA