newyorkette

Seen in the Wall Street nabe. I thought this was the perfect passive-aggressive gift shop sighting.

Seen on seventh avenue, in the garment district, on the side of a van. Yes. Ingenuity is always welcome here at Johnson Controls. Does Johnson Control? Yes, Johnson Controls! Does Johnson Controls have control issues? Who’s asking? Why are you asking? Why do you need to know? Johnson Controls controls the controls. Does that answer your question? Because that’s all you need to know.

It’s getting scarcer and scarcer, with all the kids moving into West Harlem and their parents paying their rent. I’ll say this much, though: when they complain about no running water, their $3500 rent makes them sound louder to the landlords! So I guess they’re good for something!

I’m not quite sure how I stumbled upon this, by Steven Sugar, but I like it. Nightmare in Birdland has the kind of ending I’m partial to.

In the same shorts section of sugarboukas.com is Don’t cry for me I’m already dead, by Rebecca Suger which is kind of disjointed but extremely touching anyway, and beautifully drawn, although nobody is beautiful in it, per se. Who would have thought that a preservative would lead to tears?

Shot on the way home at the end of the windy day, on the boardwalk.

^{Who am I kidding? I’ll be doing my reading at the laundromat. (Image: carolita johnson)}

The article of the week for me was Jonah Lehrer’s (not online, unfortunately) “Eureka Hunt.” It re-awakened memories of a puzzle that had been given to me years ago as I fled Paris to Madrid, broke. Stuck in Madrid, separated from the strange mathemetician who had given me the puzzle (and with whom I’d suddenly, naturally, fallen in love with just before leaving), I diverted all my spare neurotic energy (of which I had plenty to spare) to its solution. To be exact, he didn’t give me the puzzle (he never gave me a thing, the sweet poor slob), but rather gave me instructions for the making of the puzzle, which, in my spare time between discovering the beauty and oddity of the world and bewailing the impetuousness that had led me to leave Paris, I duly constructed. It turns out this puzzle is known as the “yoke puzzle,” and is as old as the hills.

Well, you’d think that having constructed the puzzle myself, I’d have been in a superb position to solve it, too. But no. I could not figure it out. The object was to move one bead from it’s position on one side of the puzzle, to the other side, next to the other bead, on the same string. I wracked my poor brain over the puzzle (and it was a poor brain at the time, having been addled by five years of modelling, which turned it to mush, basically) for weeks, then months… The puzzle became the metaphor for the state of my love life. Finally, the mysterious mathemetician who had given me the puzzle advised me (in the course of a surreptitious telephone call made on someone else’s dime, or peseta) to “drink a few glasses of wine and try it again.”

I did as instructed, and lo and behold, I had my eureka moment!

And therein, I’m sure, lies many a tale of alcoholism and genius. (Not on my part, unfortunately! I remained on the wagon, and not quite a genius, alas!)

(Photo by Carolita Johnson. Click on the image for larger image.)

I love looking out the window late at night and seeing that plenty of other people are still up, too.

Balking at the idea of upgrading my little blog for so long has meant I’ve been behind in my posts. This week I have a cartoon in the magazine, so I’m naturally relieved to learn I’m not cartoona non grata yet! We all get worried when we’ve sold cartoons but not seen any appear for a while. Did I say worried? I meant paranoid! Paranoid and worried! Anyway, here’s a catch up list of cartoons of mine that have appeared in The New Yorker most recently, with background on inspiration.

Above, appearing in this week’s TNY: I guess I don’t have to say that this has actually happened to me. Some “nice person” holds the door for me even though I am not near the door by a long shot yet, forcing me to step up my pace in order to not let them wait too long while I lumber towards them weighed down either by my heavy bag or by my metaphysical burdens.

I have a policy on door-holding: doors should only be held for a person who is within arm’s reach of actually taking up the relay when you let go of the door. Any longer, and the door-holder is just a pain in the ass. Unless, of course, the door-holdee has no arm available (due to multiple pieces of luggage or amputation) to hold the door. In that case, feel free to earn your brownie points.

The next cartoon is how I feel about the glute machine. You’re not doing it right if you have any dignity:

Below, this was inspired by a friend who kept claiming to aspire to celibacy in order to dump his girlfriend:

And next, I used to ask myself this very same question, until I started working eight hours a day on my feet (albeit very well-paid). It makes your feet hurt! Feet need support! I am now a Birkenstock fan, and plan on buying some orthopedic clogs for winter use. (Sooooo, that’s why!):

Last but not least, because I know many a bitter woman in New York who’d love nothing more than to be celibate by choice, but have never had the chance to exercise that option. By choice, I mean. (A little sympathy for them is due, particularly from the awful men they’re not having sex with: it’s hard to be a girl here!):

This one goes out to all my fellow TNY cartoonists slaving (or slobbering, or drooling, or whatever the case may be) over their batches (as usual, on Monday), this goes out to them: I know it’s hard, but DON’T GIVE UP!

I’m fond of these flyers, so easy to collect, often found slid into subway window frames, or fluttering around the seats. So brazenly hopeful, and so poetically badly written. What’s not to like?

(Click on the image for an unshrunk, full-sized version!)

This strip, by Scott Meyer, provides many a valuable “How To” lesson. Besides proving that having a job (or having had one long enough) and dealing with other human beings (or having had to for long enough) are great fodder for cartoon idea percolation (as opposed to psychic festering), it is very handy, particularly if you, like most people, have to deal with the usual human problems, such as how to:

- analyze classic literature
- deal with someone who has bad breath
- drastically change your appearance
- talk to your kid about smoking
- deal with a Trekkie

Basic Instructions, by Scott Meyer.

(Watercolor and india ink, 11″ x 15″, by Carolita Johnson)

I’ve always wanted to be like J. J. Audubon and do my own Birds of America (or some other locality) type work. But I turned out to be a cartoonist instead. This is what you get when you bark up the wrong tree! Doubly wrong, as it was rejected by the magazine (in two different departments, no less)! But I remain undaunted. That is what you must be in this business. There’s no place in this business for daunted cartoonists.

And guess what? I’m very proud to say that this cartoon, duly rejected by TNY, was duly picked up by Gothamist today! I’m duly flattered! Thanks, Gothamist!

I always honor a sale with a rejected cartoon from the same batch. This cartoon (and five others!) was rejected in favor of another this week. I really only submitted it for fun, which is what one must do to remain undaunted (word of the week)! It’s also the only way to get a ridiculous, unpublishable cartoon out of one’s head!

(Front of bag/back of bag)

Just for fun (and not much profit), I’ve opened a CafePress account, where anyone who wants can buy themselves a newyorkette-themed mug, tote bag, or organic t-shirt. Check it out, here!

NB: If you’re a close friend or relative of mine that’s too broke or too cheap to buy anything, just let me know, and you’ll get something from the shop for Christmas (or Channukah) (or whatever I decide the excuse will be!)

After work, I got on the N train and went straight to Coney Island and read The New Yorker for an hour and a half. On my way back to the subway, I snapped this garbage can trying its best to resemble the parachute tower behind it.

I have no problem with this one. And I love Blitt, yes, indeed. Face it: we all need our cultural Islamophobia poked in the ribs a bit. Even those of us who think we’re totally cool. And they know who they are. Oh, wait, no, maybe they don’t!
I can’t wait for the McCain cover! (I do hope it’s forthcoming).

Newyorkette just got an upgrade. Any oddities can be brought to my attention the usual way, or through the comments! (Comments are open again, but you must log on, and you must not be a spammer. Ha.)

I saw this window on the way to one of my jobs in the garment district, and it made me laugh. In case you can’t read the sign, it says, “Invisiwig: completely undetectable wigs.”

(Miniature roses in Duralex tumbler by Carolita Johnson, chaulk pastels on paper.)

There’s nothing more ordinarily French to me than the Duralex gobelet or tumbler. Practically indestructible, it is humble yet coquette. The Duralex tumbler has a tiny fault line that you will only find when you drop it exactly on that otherwise undetectable vulnerability almost always and ironically from a very short distance. Usually in a bathtub, or other surface where your feet are in the habit of treading without fear of stepping on Duralex shards.

Hélas! I have but one left after buying a set of 4 out of nostalgia.

Vive la France! Vive Duralex!

Duralex en français.
Related post: A few of my favorite things: Duralex

Yes, I went back to the beach. The sirens were calling. And so was the ice cream bell.

I also love this one, though I’ve never been fired it’s what I’d do if I were.

Chris Harding’s We the robots.