Big Red

I'm the first to say that redheaded women are gorgeous creatures. Redheaded boys, eh, not so much. They're generally buffoons or just elfish and creepy, like the little guy here sporting the boxing gloves (I like how he's ready to give a quick jab to the author's name).  I'm curious about the wee action figure striking that manly pose in the background. Is it supposed to be a representation of the little boy's future self? If so... see what I mean about creepy male redheads.

Okay, I am SO sorry about that last image. I really am. It should only be used as a secret weapon in the war against terror or overdue library books. As an apology, you can cleanse your senses with one helluva great song about a redhead.

Happy Trails!

I'm going to give all of those sad YA covergirls a break and focus on their male counterparts during the next few posts. Although not as woeful, they have their problems too, mostly concerning sports, cars and ingenious ways to get sad, woeful girls into the backseats of cars. 

This is a really fine example of 1970's book jacket design. Overall it's pleasing to the eye and the font works, but I have to conclude that the illustrator:

1)  was a frequent consumer of hallucinogenic drugs (that's not camera shake - those are real trails there) 

2) was a frequent consumer of Mr. Kroc's popular burger emporium. How else to explain that hair!

You Go, Girl!

This was a night to remember - history in the making! In a classic battle of the sexes, Brynwood Prep was vying for the All County Championship Title against those badasses from St. Mary's School for Wayward Girls. Bud Jenkins wasn't gonna let some girl get in the way of his glory. Sure, the purple uniform was distracting. So was the perfectly feathered hair carrying with it a heady floral scent. No, what he hadn't counted on, didn't see coming until he went for the dunk in the last second of play, was the freakishly long right arms these mutant chicks possessed!

Happy 2009! 

(Image found especially for the Alfieri's!)

Merry Christmas!

I'll be taking a blog break until the new year. 

Have a holly jolly ho-ho holiday!

As a parting gift, I'd like to reacquaint you with a special guest (featured in an earlier post) who graced a card I just received from my sweetheart (Thanks, John!)  If it didn't cause your retinas to spontaneously detach the first time around, then chances are it won't present a danger now. C'mon, I dare you to click on the link. I know your curiosity is greater than your instinct for self preservation. Go ahead, just click!

A Public Service Announcement

Listen up, girls. Beware of clean cut young men who approach you outside of school propped up by a crutch. That short crutch is a dead giveaway that his handicap is purely fauxsical. One word springs to mind - BUNDY! NO, not that one - this one! Sure, he'll sweet talk you and compliment your fine, aesthetic taste in plaid and your exceptionally beautiful tang-colored hair, but I say kick that crutch out from under him and knock his teeth out. Sure, he'll pretend that he can't get up because of his "handicap." Stomp on his balls until he screams for mercy, then shove that Trapper Keeper in his mouth - that'll keep his serial-killing trap shut!  Uh-oh, the principal's coming. What's that you say, Mr. Jackson? He's a transfer student from Jersey? And he lost his leg in an escalator accident? Um.....my bad.

Tequila!!

Before you see what I see, let me tell you what happened last night. I was wearing my supercool burgundy velour ensemble while Jazzercising when my annoying lab partner/next door neighbor (and major asswipe) Ian, showed up and said, "Turn that record off and come outside. I gotta show you something!" So he took me over to the old Herman homestead, "What's the BFD?" I asked. Now, you gotta realize something. Mr. Herman is a bit odd - immature I'd guess you'd say. He doesn't drive a car and he wears funny clothes. But leave the crazy dude alone. Ian is always spying on him and shit, so I was pretty irritated to be included. Ian makes us crouch down all spylike and he starts pointing (I've got to add here that he was wearing that super lame faux sheepskin jacket that he loves so much he might as well just marry it and those ugly Nikes...gawd, I hate them! Chuck's are the shizz, yo!) and he says, "Do you see what I see?" "Well duh," I says, "of course I see it. Can't a poor guy dance? I'm outta here!"

Half-baked Half-gods

When half-gods go....where?

crazy?

potty?

wee wee wee all the way home?

What kind of highfalutin mishmosh is this? 

Translated from the German raises a red flag right there. A title taken from the last stanza of a DWP's* famous work gives me pause - I don't know if my meager intellect can handle it. Then we've got this bizarre assemblage of surreal parts to ponder. Is that a Ford Pinto!? And what is this love affair that illustrators have with dead-eyed creepy kids? For the love of a half-god...Stop staring into my soul!

*Dead White Poet