Not creative enough to come up with a title...

Scott Mccloud has this concept called the twenty-four hour comic. You’re supposed to pencil, ink and letter a twenty-four-page comic, each page having nine panels, in twenty-four hours. You are allowed to think about the story before actually drawing the comic, but actually putting it down on paper has to take place in one contiguous twenty-four hour window.

I would do this, except I’m not in the least bit creative and I cannot draw for nuts.

Just to clarify, I cannot drink draw for any amount greater than nuts.(Freudian slip there, the effects of prolonged sobriety).

And on a different track, what’s the deal with women and pottery? Here in town there’s an establishment going by the ambiguous name “Paint Your Own Pottery Studio”. What is the ambiguity you ask? Well, because of the lack of hyphenation it could either be a studio where you bring your pottery to paint, or it could a place where you can paint your own pottery studio. I suspect it is the former, because pottery studios are a bit unwieldy and lugging them downtown to be painted can be hard work.

Well whatever their business model, people whom I have posed this question to on occasion (every time we’ve passed it on our way to lunch) have asked me to shut the fuck up and leave them in peace.(Ah the simple pleasures of life…Painting the pottery studio $20, Lunch $4, Exasperating people to the point of sparking a murderous frenzy…priceless) .

After that digression let me guide you back, o gentle reader, to the matter at hand wiz what’s the deal with women and pottery? What is this all-consuming urge to create pottery and then paint it? Is it some deep-seated evolutionary imperative? Did cave-women hunt down prehistoric pottery on the plains of Africa and then paint it, while the male primate pondered deep questions (Is it Paint “Your Own Pottery” Studio or is it Paint “Your Own Pottery Studio”? And Great Taste or Less Filling?). Whatever the case may be, let me make it clear that I have not the least intention to ever paint pottery. I do not feel the lack of a pottery-painting outlet in my life. There isn’t a part of my soul that screams out aloud to paint pottery and end the misery. I can say without a shade of doubt that when I die, and I look back upon my life (Yes there’s a contradiction there. Deal with it.) I will not feel regret that ne’er was there was a pot that I did paint.

(And with props to the Daily Show) Please stop interviewing the Jackson trial jurors and analyzing the trial and discussing the freak. Please. The first couple of hours were excusable but now I’d really like to see the news. Please. Really. I’ll paint a pottery studio if you stop. Honest.