Today I cried in the car, after being ambushed by an NPR retrospective on Pokemon (“Pokémon:“) I came a bit unmoored hearing this stupid theme song (“it’s you and me,”) and my brain stinging with all these involuntary flashes (“I know it’s my destiny, “) of the built-in swing (“Pokémon!”) Pencil sharpener, Turkey Hill Decaffeinated Iced Tea and Hot Pocket Five Cheese Pizza after school. Do you remember not feeling fat with grief? Try to remember.
When I cry in the car or anywhere else, I’m ashamed to admit how much I want a mirror. How come my face is scratching like this? How do its caves blow air, do its convexes collapse? How to reorganize? Green eyes turn red and wrinkles – bless – turn to streams. I went from the thing that doesn’t cry to the thing that does. And then I leave, keeping my morph in a back pocket or a stomach bag, proof of straying from the path of small demolition, a license to respect.
Maybe you are on the Internet? Yesterday the internet shouted “PEOPLE SHARE THEIR FEELINGS ABOUT LOLA BUNNY,” a statement that actually means, “PEOPLE ABSOLUTELY LEAVE EVERYTHING ABOUT CARTOON RABBIT ANATOMIES; PEOPLE REALLY NEED VACCINES / FRESH AIR ASAP! »Maybe it’s weird that Space jam hosted Lola Bunny as Jean Harlow in Athleisure. Maybe it’s stranger than Space jam 2 (???) is forced to consciously desexualize a cartoon bunny. These are weird sentences to type.
We may not have the essayist time to either atomize the longing of historically male animators for what we can only call the ‘Bazoonga Theory’ OR the progressive sway of liberal moralism – increasingly online. with the corporate-conservative pearl-taking – to a brand philosophy firmly opposed to any basic expression of sexual pleasure or deviance. But there is something revealing, humanly limited in the anxieties that we attach not only to the plasticity of the evil, but to the perversity of the plastic. Toons are always transforming, moving, transforming into a new one. This sublime slip is the precise tonic of the gray myth under which we jostle, the one which assures us that real change is impossible, that it is better to accept this literally murderous acid masquerading as an imperfect beige.
When I cry, I cut my face with salt water and transfigure if only a little. I am constantly aware that I am just me. “I don’t need / I don’t need anyone to be who I want to be / I’m the only one.”
We * (* I) talk about Bugs and Daffy like they’re ready and always mythologies to summon, but they all melt and chirp and tremble and revive. We meet Daffy in 1937 Porky’s Duck Hunt, a year before Bugs debuted. Unlike the gradual introduction of Bugs and his personality, Daffy comes in while screaming puddy duck, all “Woo-hoo! Woo-hoo! Woo-hoo! ” When Porky sends his dog to swim after Daffy, the dog only retrieves the duck for the duck to contact him and hit him backwards. Daffy swims without scot. Porky rummages in his coat pocket for some papers, stammering softly, “It wasn’t in the script uh.” Daffy shrugs. Insect anarchy is the cool con, the I can’t believe you thought I was stupid enough for this. Daffy is the ripped bazooka, both explosive and gummy.