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Idea of a Certain Cat (Tokuhiro Kawai, 2004, Oil and Tempera on Board)
To balance yesterday’s post about the dog star, today we feature three whimsical cat paintings by Tokyo born surrealist Tokuhiro Kawai. I am calling Kawai a surrealist, but perhaps it would be more correct to call him a painter of fantastical narrative: all of his works seem to have some sort of magical fairy-tale story behind them. Although the three monarchical cats shown here are lighthearted, some of Kawai’s other paintings are much more melodramatic and feature fearsome conflict between devils, angels, and heroes.
Tame Cat's Optical Illusion (Tokuhiro Kawai, 2006, Oil on Canvas)
Each of these paintings features a Scottish Fold housecat either wearing a crown or being ceremonially coronated. The little black and white cat seems so self-assured and regal that we hardly wonder at its elevation to the throne. With broad gleaming eyes and fur that seems as though the viewer could touch it this cat seems almost real. One wonders if perhaps it belongs to the artist.
Smolder Thinking (Tokuhiro Kawai, 2008, Oil on Canvas)
Kawai has a particular gift for painting animals and many of his compositions are filled from top to bottom with flamingos, foxes, owls, ammonites, and pelicans. Cats seem to be his favorite and they are pictured as conquerors, tyrants, and gods—in one of his pictures a feisty cat has killed an angel like it was a songbird and is holding the limp corpse in his fangs while standing like a stylite atop a classical column. Fortunately the cat in these three paintings does not seem as violent. The little kitty is clearly dreaming about the trappings of power—what it would be like to wield absolute authority and be pampered all day. Knowing my own pet housecat’s personality, I believe that such an interpreatation of feline psychology is not entirely a stretch.
When I was younger and happier I worked as a drudge in an Investment Bank. Actually, remove the happiness from that first sentence—the place was one of the most toxic & unpleasant environments ever. Nobody there was happy. The bank sucked away human life force…and so I destroyed it from within! It’s gone now. You’re welcome, world.
That all sounds pretty bad-ass, but unfortunately this story reads less like a John Grisham thriller and more like a Russian folktale about a slow witted bumpkin who kills a sorcerer by accident. Although I worked at the investment bank, I was in no way an investment banker (thank goodness). The bankers and analysts were all stressed-out type-A personalities who spent 14-18 hours a day currying favor and staring at columns of numbers. A great many of them were hooked on amphetamines or other drugs.
I worked as a temp in the legal department where my job was to redline legal documents–a sort of grown-up “spot-the-difference” puzzle where one compares two nearly identical legal documents to see if the opposing bank has treacherously slipped new provisions into the contract (legal jobs tend to involve this kind of drudgery). I also helped update and distribute officers and directors lists—a task which was especially onerous since the officers and directors changed with blinding speed. Also the bank was really dozens of different legal entities and shell-corporations, each of which had its own board and officers all of whom overlapped considerably. I completed these monotonous tasks in a freezing cold plastic workstation visible to everyone from all sides. My only joy was to surreptitiously cut arctic animals out of post-it notes with a pair of office scissors. I had an entire Siberian ecosystem by the time I left.
The bank was on a 30somethingeth floor of a dull 80’s skyscraper in midtown. The bankers were forever trying to modify the office to suit the whim of the latest leaders (who were always changing—see above), so what should have been a simple series of embedded corridors was instead a shifting warren of slate-green upholstery, sharp glass edges, faux mahogany, injured egos, and construction detritus. The only constant (other than cold and fear) was an arrhythmic grandfather clock, which wheezed away the interminable hours. Once I was sent to deliver a document to an obscure department on the far side of the bank. On the way back, I got lost in a newly created hallway swathed with plastic sheets and plywood. As I scurried along the passage I heard loud impatient footsteps behind me. I turned and was horrified to see the president of the bank, a cold bossy woman, walking immediately behind me. Why was she walking so fast? How could I escape her? Then it occurred to me: there should be a doorway to the kitchen/breakroom ahead. I flung open the door to escape, but the president had ceased her rapid walking and was staring directly at me, her mouth hanging open in an “O” of surprise. With a touch of élan, I opened the door wider in order to let her pass (I was surprised she knew about the shortcut through the kitchen) and then I noticed the room beyond the door had pink tiles! It was the women’s bathroom! I screamed shrilly, dropped the door, and ran away down the hall. It was not my best career moment… fortunately a new president was appointed shortly afterwards, and then another new president after him!
Anyway you want to hear about the destruction of the bank.
Above the little cubicle I was stuck in, there was a big air vent. It roared incessantly all day, continuously delivering a stream of cold stale air on my shoulders. One day, when the legal department was unexpectedly empty, I decided to try to do something about the vent. Balancing precariously on top of my workspace I reached up into the evil grate and found a tiny rusted lever which would not budge, no matter how I pulled at it. Desperate not to be caught, I swung my whole weight at the lever. There was a rusty scream, a shower of dirty particles and a great dull “BOOM”. I sprang down into my chair and looked busy, as martinets in pinstripes manifested from nowhere, but I heard an alveolar shift up inside the ducts of the skyscraper. The hateful cold air was now directed somewhere else!
My moment of triumph it was short-lived. The top boss of the legal department (famous for OCD & prickly disposition) came back to find that her fancy office was unbearably cold. A normal person would have summoned the building engineers–who probably would have traced the problem back to the closed vent. Fortunately that was not the way she did business. Her first action was to have her paralegals find the contract with the building and flag the engineering/maintenance section. Armed with contractual righteousness, she called the property firm and ordered them to raise the temperature on the floor by 15 degrees.
The legal department was on the cold dark side of the building. The important bankers and financiers were portly men with window offices on the sunny side of the skyscraper. While the rest of the bank suddenly became hot, their offices became ovens. To lower the temperature, the bankers started working their way through successive levels of workmen, technicians, and engineers (I heard the angry conversations in the lobby) only to find that the temperature had already been changed by the legal department. Both sides then began a violent squabble about the thermostat.
"...maybe I should go. You guys settle this on your own."
One day I just didn’t go back to the bank—in fact that was the only job I quit outright with no other prospects. Later on I found out that, a few months after I left, the bank was gobbled up in its entirety by a huge New York capital management firm. Perhaps it is wrong not to assume that some other factor was responsible for that place’s demise (its dysfunctional office culture or rapidly changing leadership, for example…or maybe the wave of banking mergers in the nineties) but I think anyone who has worked at an office where everyone is fighting about the temperature can correctly assign credit to me.
I am in South Chicago, and, through no coincidence, my favorite fast-food restaurant is also here–so I am uncharacteristically devoting this post to fine dining. I hope my more serious readers will forgive the frivolity of this sybaritic post dedicated to the nation’s finest fried chicken restaurant, Harold’s Chicken Shack in Hyde Park, which I frequented with great gusto when both it and I were younger. Harold’s is known for its vibrant hen-themed wall-paper, its neighbors–namely a liquor store and a lottery shop, and its impregnability (since the cashiers and fry cooks still work behind at least one layer of bulletproof material), but most of all Harold’s is famous for its dirt-cheap, unhealthy, yet supremely delicious fried chicken.
I purchased a signature half chicken (white) with fries, hot sauce, extra white bread, and an RC cola. I’m live blogging the unique experience both because I have discovered that Harold’s chicken fits many of Ferrebeekeeper’s ongoing themes (namely crowns, farms, mascots, & art), and as an opening salvo of the Thanksgiving season of gluttony and good eating.
OK, here’s a photo of the inside of Harold’s Chicken Shack. As you can see, a variety of luridly colored machines are there to help you supplement your meal with candy, soft-drinks, and diabetes. Actually these are only some of the vending machines in the store: the ice-cream machine and the other candy machines are up by the counter. I decided not to take a photo of the counter area because Harold’s employees are hard-working folk and I didn’t want to get in their way (and because I was afraid they would think I was casing the joint and call the Chicago police). Unfortunately this means you can’t see the remarkable bulletproof glass food carousel or the menu with its gizzards, livers, grits, and fish.
Once I had obtained my half-chicken, I rushed it to the local park. The last 2 decades have been good for South Chicago and the park was much cleaner and more beautifully landscaped then back in the 90’s, but I did notice a smashed cassette about “How to Balance Your Life (The Physical Side of Life)” lying not far from a Crown Regal Bottle. I hope this doesn’t have anything to do with eating a 6,000 calorie meal, but I can’t help but think that it does.
Here is the outside of my fried half-chicken. You can see Harold’s two remarkable mascots on the wrapper: King Harold, complete with crown and scarlet robes is rushing after a speedy and clever free-range chicken who does not want to be part of his majesty’s supper. There is a lot to appreciate about the drama, pomp, and pathos of this logo—it captures all of my ambiguous but powerful feelings about animal farming. As an aside, it is unclear whether the eponymous “Harold” of Harold’s chicken represents Harold Harefoot (c. 1015–1040) or Harold Godwinson (c. 1022–1066) who famously fell before William the Conqueror to end Anglo-Saxon rule of England. Maybe they simply anglicized one of the many King Haralds from Sweden or Norway. Anyway, the mystery is part of the charm.
Now for the reveal: here is the Harold’s half chicken sodden with hot-sauce on its bed of fries. A few pieces of wonder bread are stacked on top in case the diner wishes to make a little chicken-skin and French fry sandwich. Hopefully you will notice the Royal Crown “RC” cola which again features a crown (in fact the logo is pretty much only a crown). My whole repast is covered with crown logos and there is indeed something regal about this meal. I can’t help but feel like Henry VIII as I throw bones to the side from orange-stained fingers. Eating Harold’s chicken is like life: the experience is messy and horrifying and delightful. There are moments of delight and moments of despair. As with life, the end is grim and painful and comes too soon. As a greasy calm fell over me and the first stabs of stomach pain began, I noticed this admirable statue sitting nearby the chess tables of Nichols Park. Campoli’s abstract imagery of talons and claws and beaks emerging from a (stomach-like) egg perfectly summarized my feelings about my delicious and unsettling lunch. Hooray for Harold’s!
Bird of Peace (Cosmo Campoli, 1970, cast bronze)
Tomorrow evening will feature the first game of the Detroit Red Wings season. This bold team of lovable* misfits will take to the ice against the hockey team from Ottawa–the name isn’t listed but they have some sort of classical footsoldier as a mascot so we’ll call them the Ottawa Hopelites. [maybe you should understand at least something about hockey before writing about it—ed.]
Anyway, even more exciting than the actual game between the Redwings and the Hopelites is the unofficial mascot of the Red Wings. In a post concerning mollusk mascots from around the world, alert reader Ryon Lancaster commented that we had overlooked the mascot for the Detroit Red Wings, a purple hockey-playing octopus named Al. Apparently the legend of Al started back in April 15, 1952, when fishmongers Pete and Jerry Cusimano decided to throw an octopus onto the ice at Olympia Stadium. The eight tentacles of the cephalopod were meant to mystically represent the eight victories required to win the Stanley Cup (the ice hockey championship trophy). Sure enough the magical mollusk brought the team to championship victory and ever since then fans have thrown deceased octopuses onto the ice at their home stadium—especially during playoff matches. As the Red Wings’ octopus tradition deepened, the purple mascot Al coalesced from fan art and from oral tradition. Al takes his name from a former building operations manager, Al Sobotka, who exhibited great elan whenever he removed octopuses from the ice. Apparently Sobotka had a special octopus twirling technique which whipped the fans up (albeit at the expense of distributing octopus particles onto the ice and the crowd).
As you might imagine, NHL officials have mixed feelings about this fan tradition. In 2008 hockey officials banned Al Sobotka’s octopus twirling and the duty of removing octopus corpses has fallen to linesmen and icegirls. The stadium itself added a large octopus prop during the 1995 playoffs. This huge octopus totem was ceremonially raised to introduce the team. Later on it was given glowing red eyes (which light up during goals), a number eight hockey jersey, and a broken tooth. Since it now requires winning 16 games to win the Stanley Cup, there are two Al the octopuses hanging above the ice at playoff time.
Naturally a number of other teams have tried to imitate the seafood throwing craze including San Jose, (where fans threw a shark), Boston (lobster), and Vancouver (Salmon). The only other team which appears to be establishing a continuing tradition of throwing deceased aquatic creatures on the ice is the Nashville Predators (why does Nashville have a hockey team?): predators fans have been known to throw large catfish onto the ice. A weary ice attendant, Jessica Hanley is reported to have said “’They are so gross. They’re huge, they’re heavy, they stink and they leave this slimy trail on the ice. But, hey, if it’s good for the team, I guess we can deal with it.”
*actual boldness and lovability may vary
Of all the animal posts on Ferrebeekeeper, by far the most popular is the post relating to the wombat, the stalwart marsupial grazer of Australia. I have since added a post dedicated the (sadly) extinct Diprotodon, a giant wombat which walked the world from 1.5 million to 40,000 years ago. However, it has been a long time since those posts and also a long time since we had a post concerning mascots, so today we once again visit the stolid burrowing quadruped–but this time as interpreted by consumer artists. Here is a short gallery of wombats used as logos or mascots.
A proposed wordpress wombat!
Wilf the Traveling Wombat
A Wombat Mascot created as a Demo Piece by humordrive.com
Little Wombat Logo (artwork for Australian children's clothing company by Studio Ink)
Wombat Alone Logo
When I am playing the best-selling video game Mortal Combat with friends, I have one friend who always calls the game Chortle Wombat in the same sonorous battle-voice used by the (dark-wizard?) narrator of Mortal Combat. Surprisingly, the joke is hilarious to me because I always imagine a troop of ninjas desperately trying to make a dour old wombat laugh.
“]”]”]”]
Perhaps the most famous of all wombat mascots is “Fatso, the fat-arsed wombat”, an irreverent spoof of the official Olympic mascots of the Sydney games. It took me a long time to find a printable picture of Fatso and the most charitable interpretation I can put forth is that the character was designed and popularized by larrikins (a word which seems to either denote puckish non-conformists or dirty anarchists) to shine a spotlight on the weight problems sweeping the developing world.
[There is no actual wombat here - ed.
If you want more "Fatso" you are on your own.
Finally there are a handful of schools and sports teams which feature wombat mascots, although less than I would expect for an animal which is, in its way, an unofficial mascot of Australia.
The University of Wisconsin-Sheboygan Co-Ed Soccer Team Wombat Mascot with the Junior Wombats
Wanniassa Hills Pre-School Mascot
A Real Wombat, finally! Hey graphic artists, make some better wombat logos and designs!
Father Time Discovers Truth Trampling Feudalism (French School, circa 1792-93, intaglio print)
Today is December 1, 2010. It is now the last month of the last year of this decade (and good riddance to the “aughts”). As the calendar winds down, one’s thoughts invariably turn to timekeeping. Although the dominant calendars of history–the Jewish calendar, the Chinese calendar, the Moslem calendar, the Aztec calendar (!)–are each fascinating in their own right, I thought today I might feature a calendar which I admire for its tremendous poetry. It is also remarkable for its epic stupidity. I mean of course the calendar of the French Revolution aka “the Republican Calendar”.
This calendar was introduced in 1793 to bring rigorous standardization to what the leaders of the Revolution regarded as a slipshod artifact of the aristocracy. The makers of the new calendar wanted to purge the year of its religious associations and bring an enlightenment (and Roman classicist) frame of reference to the months and days. They did this by reinventing everything wholesale.
To quote a whole page from Wikipedia:
The Republican calendar year began at the autumn equinox and had twelve months of 30 days each, which were given new names based on nature, principally having to do with the prevailing weather in and around Paris.
- Autumn:
- Vendémiaire in French (from Latin vindemia, “grape harvest”), starting 22, 23 or 24 September
- Brumaire (from French brume, “fog”), starting 22, 23 or 24 October
- Frimaire (From French frimas, “frost”), starting 21, 22 or 23 November
- Winter:
- Nivôse (from Latin nivosus, “snowy”), starting 21, 22 or 23 December
- Pluviôse (from Latin pluvius, “rainy”), starting 20, 21 or 22 January
- Ventôse (from Latin ventosus, “windy”), starting 19, 20 or 21 February
- Spring:
- Germinal (from Latin germen, “germination”), starting 20 or 21 March
- Floréal (from Latin flos, “flower”), starting 20 or 21 April
- Prairial (from French prairie, “pasture”), starting 20 or 21 May
- Summer:
- Messidor (from Latin messis, “harvest”), starting 19 or 20 June
- Thermidor (or Fervidor) (from Greek thermon, “summer heat”), starting 19 or 20 July
- Fructidor (from Latin fructus, “fruit”), starting 18 or 19 August
(Thanks Wikipedia! Good luck with your donation drive!)
All of this was rightfully pilloried by the English who (somewhat brilliantly) characterized the Republican months as “Wheezy, Sneezy and Freezy; Slippy, Drippy and Nippy; Showery, Flowery and Bowery; Wheaty, Heaty and Sweety”. Of course years are longer than 360 days, so each Republican year ended with five holidays (or six, on leap years) dedicated to heroes of the revolution. The calendar abolished the Babylonian week in favor a ten day week confusingly known as a “decade.” Familiar 24 hour chronology was replaced with decimal time–concerning which, the least said, the better (if you really want to know about this abomination click here). The years were recorded with Roman numbers. By Republican reckoning today would therefore be 11 Frimaire an CCXIX.
This is all baffling to good Gregorian thinkers like ourselves. In fact it was always confusing to everyone–even the most dedicated Jacobins. After 12 years, during which the French did not know what day, or month, or year, it was, Napoleon finally abolished the Republican calendar on 1 January 1806 (aka the day after 10 Nivôse an XIV).
The brilliant and beautiful part of the Republican calendar lay in the agrarian poetry of the individual days. During the Ancien Régime, the days of the year were each associated with a saint or a religious festival. With Enlightenment zeal, the Republican calendar did away with this and each day was associated with either an animal (for days ending in “5”); a tool (for days ending in zero), or a plant/agricultural product (for all other days). Today 11 Frimaire is “Cire” which means honeycomb. Yesterday was “Pioche” (Pickaxe) and tomorrow will be “Raifort” (Horseradish). The plants, animals, and items were all chosen to be synchronized with the rhythm of the year. For example the animals characteristic of Floréal (which roughly corresponds to May) are the nightingale, the silkworm, and the carp.
Pickaxe, Beeswax, Horseradish: Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow (source: French Republican Calendar)
This all sounds goofy and it is, but just look over this chart of the days of the Republican year with their individual associations. If you bring a poet’s imagination I guarantee you will be charmed.
Thanksgiving is next week! I have already bought a big aluminum platter and some oven bags for the great feast and my hunger is growing sharp…. In the mean time though, I continue to salute the majestic turkey bird–the glorious figure the whole holiday focuses around (albeit in an uncomfortably primitive sacrificed-and-devoured kind of way).
Today’s ambiguously conceived tribute takes the form of a gallery of turkey mascots and logos. It seems quite a lot of them are “Turkey Trot” promotions (apparently that’s some sort of Thanksgiving Day ceremonial run), processed food advertisements, whiskey labels, or creepy sports mascots. In this last category, pride of place certainly belongs to the HokieBird, the fighting turkey mascot of Virginia Tech, my sister’s alma mater. Here he is, first in a formal logo, then below that in a portrait, and finally in a candid shot, horsing around on the sidelines:
I’m never sure how to feel about Virginia Tech (sad, angry, confused, affectionate?) but I love the mascot and I salute their bold choice! Here are some other Turkey Mascots that didn’t necessarily work out as well and then some anonymous turkey costumes.
The Terrifying Mascot for Turkey Hill Dairy
?
The following are food labels/brands. I really like the first one—a turkey trying desperately to sell tofu substitute:
I know I mentioned wild turkey before but I had to include it again because of the dazzling realism.
Here are some random Turkey images–cartoons, and logos from all sorts of different sources (especially “turkey trot” races around the country):
Wrong, wrong, wrong! --ed.
Argh! Also wrong! --ed.
Sigh...
A timeless classic of the season....
I’m closing this grabbag of images with a picture of the national bird of the United States getting angry and jockeying for pride of place with the turkey. Next week I’ll finish listing the different strains of domestic turkey and write some closing thoughts about this national obsession.
The Garden of the Hesperides (Sir Frederic Leighton, 1892)
In the Greek view of the world, there was a tranquil garden of perpetual rosy twilight which was found at the sunset edge of all lands–so far west that the west came to an end. The garden was inhabited by three nymphs of peerless beauty whose special task was to tend an apple tree in the middle of the garden. The golden fruit of the tree would confer immortality upon anyone who ate one. But of course there was a catch.
This was the penultimate labor of Hercules: to bring back three of the apples of the Hesperides. The tree was in the private garden of Hera herself and the apple tree was a wedding gift from Mother Earth to the queen of the gods. Plucking the apples from the tree would bring instant death to any mortal, but the biggest problem of all was the garden’s true guardian, the dragon Ladon who was coiled around the apple tree. As you might imagine, Ladon was one of Echidna’s offspring. He is sometimes shown as a great python, other times as a more traditional dragon, and occasionally as a hundred-headed uber-dragon.
The Garden of Hesperides (Edward Burne-Jones, ca. 1870-1873)
Although dragons abound in Greek mythology, the snake-dragon curled around a sacred tree, seems to have arrived in Greek mythology from another canon altogether. Scholars believe Ladon’s original form was the Semitic serpent god Lotan, or the Hurrian/Hittite serpent Illuyanka. In fact, serpents/dragons wound around fruit trees are well-known in the three great monotheistic faiths of the present. In Greek mythology, Ladon only plays an active role in the story of Hercules 11th labor (and even then, the dragon’s role is curiously ambiguous).
Hercules and the Hesperides (Rubert Bunny, 1864 - 1947)
Hercules traveled through the Greek world having adventures, killing giants, and seeking the garden’s location. It was during his search for the Garden of the Hesperides that he slew the Caucasian Eagle and freed Prometheus (who, in gratitude, told him what to expect at the garden of the Hesperides). In order to obtain the apples, Hercules solicited the aid of the titan Atlas, who holds up the firmament. Hercules assumed the burden of the heavens while immortal Atlas collected the apples. When Atlas betrayed Hercules and left the strongman holding the heavens, Hercules pretended to accept his fate–but he asked to adjust his lionskin first. Once Atlas was holding the heavens again, Hercules picked up the apples and took them back to Eurystheus (who was rightly afraid of them, and gave them to Athena). The fate of the dragon is a bit unclear. In some versions Hercules kills him for good measure. For example, in the story of Jason and the golden fleece, Ladon’s corpse is spotted by the Argonauts—the creature’s body is still heaving and trembling years after death while the heartbroken nymphs sob. In other stories the dragon survives and, together with the nymphs, continues to look after the tree of life.
Because I can not resist, here are links to a very short and delightful comic strip consisting of a first, second, and third panel. The drawings contain mild nudity (which differs from that found in Lord Leighton’s painting above only in that the strip is contemporary). The creator, M.L. Peters, tried to add a feeling of fin de siècle illustration so as to give the comic punchline a deeper resonance, and I feel he succeeded admirably. Additionally I love anchovies.
I was reading the accursed “Captivate Network” on the elevator today and, as usual, it had some feeble management hints—this time about how leaders can foster a sense of humor. It caused me to reflect that most of the good leaders I know don’t have much of a sense of humor. I believe this humdrum fact may contain clues about the nature of leadership and the hierarchical structure of human society.
Like many underlings, when I am at my day job, I have to work hard not to chime in with quips about the (many) ridiculous paradoxes and quirks of the workplace. Even if everyone else in the office enjoys a bit of clowning, humor sets the big boss on edge. Although he is too much of a politician to say anything, a careful observer can notice a moment of icy distaste settle on his face when anybody says something funny.
Not Funny
Part of this undoubtedly has to do with his agenda and his calendar. He runs a tight ship. Things must get done, and time constraints proscribe horseplay. Also the boss has to appear to be fair; and humor has an obvious power to unsettle and alienate. Looking back to middle school we all remember that the class clown could be a terrifying force of mockery and insecurity. A clever comedian can use jokes to exclude people from groups or shame them socially. Perhaps the boss needs to appear to be entirely above such things so he does not inadvertently slight someone or create a hostile environment.
But there are larger and more fundamental forces at play concerning bosses’ humorlessness than just good time management and coverage from liability. A comic sensibility is a wonderful tool for dealing with stress and uncertainty, however managers have even better tools for dealing with such things: namely us, their employees, who can be used like chess pieces to solve their problems. Additionally the boss has charisma, a forceful personality, a logical mind, self-discipline, and an extreme ability to organize things. What need hath he for laughter?
Also, as dog owners know, humor is a function of hierarchy. Lower status dogs are funny and amiable. They roll on their back and put their paws up in submission. They clown and cavort like puppies. Alpha dogs are more like wolves or bankers—serious, ruthless, and businesslike. Perhaps the boss becomes animated and fun when placed in a room filled with his superiors. Although, for the record, I have seen him “making rain” with wealthy individuals—and, although he was most convivial and used many humor-like turns of phrase, I don’t believe he was funny, nor did he particularly enjoy the jokes of others (even as he worked hard to produce an approximation of mirth).
Office Dynamics
Possibly too the boss could be holding his humor in reserve. In the Hornblower novels (a series of adventure novels about a great naval commander), the admirable captain conducted his life without humor or sentiment except in extreme situations. When everything was on the line, Hornblower’s subordinates were always shocked to find that their lofty captain was able to make jokes and be extremely affable. It allowed the sailors to get through the truly trying times–like when their frigate was being blown to smithereens or they were being sent to Paris for public execution. Perhaps in similar situations other emotionally-restrained bosses could pull off some big laughs.
Finally there is the nature of society. From personal first-hand accounts I know that the despised George W. Bush Junior was funny and amiable, with a knack for making people around him feel at ease. When he tried the same thing on cameras however it came off as shallow and uncaring. Any attempts to make fun of himself or the affairs of the nation (and both were frequently patently absurd) were derided by his enemies as callous and oafish. Lincoln apparently had a similar problem but was smart enough not to allow television cameras at official events (and brilliant enough that his witticisms were scintillating even on paper after 150 years). It seems like the current president suffers from such a problem too. He has certainly receded from being a mildly funny person whom people liked into a distant, dour technocrat. On top of that, even now, American society is still fundamentally puritan with a dislike of idle laughter in favor of good hard work.
I’m sorry to write such a dour and earnest essay concerning the (possible) humor of leaders. I know whole that whole species of comedy exist concerning how funny bosses are without meaning to be. I think that such entertainments, however, are aimed at bad bosses, whereas I like and respect my humorless boss as a superb and powerful leader [as an aside, I wrote the boss in this essay as an abstract figure—certainly not my actual bosses, business associates, or editors!]. I even kind of like and admire the hapless United States president (both this one and the last one) for earnestly struggling with the problems of the world night and day in a crazy media environment which usually prevents him from being very human and then requires him to emote like crazy every once in a while. In the final assessment of leadership and humor, though, I fear that, at least in contemporary America, the one usually precludes the other.
Today features the unwholesome misalliance of two major ferrebeekeeper topics: “catfish” and “mascots”. Apparently I’m not the only person to have this idea, because there are plenty of catfish mascots out there, but, be warned, most of them are not especially pretty….
This character is available from the Texas Fun Shop. So if dressing as a big schlubby catfish is indeed your idea of having fun, it’s available for $1,279.00.
It doesn't seem like "Finnley" is taken yet. So if I get really serious about popularizing this blog (and being beaten up by fellow New Yorkers) my course of action is clear.
Of course Japan is represented on this list! Caffy, is the official mascot of Shiga Prefecture. He represents a species of catfish indigenous to Lake Biwa, Japan's largest lake which lies northeast of the former capital city of Kyoto.
Freddy the flathead is appropriately the mascot for The Mississippi National River and Recreational Area.
Click here to learn more about Freddie the catfish or just visit his myspace page.
I think this is a catfish because the jersey says "catfish". Additionally, the costume is blue, so that seems fairly aquatic I guess. Further visual cues are scant.
Here's another ambiguous outfit. The label said "catfish" on the website which was selling it, but it almost seems it could be any sort of fish.
Ooh Ooh! Look at this picture! How could you not choose the mud cat?
In 2007, the Catfish swept the West Virginia Power in three games to win their first South Atlantic league championship. Unfortunately they changed their name to "Bowling Green Hot Rods" when they relocated to Kentucky in 2009.
This isn't a mascot as such, but it seemed remarkable enough to merit inclusion. "Chuck the Catfish" is a large roadside sculpture in Selkirk, (which is in Manitoba Canada). The 30 foot sculpture was built in 1986 to popularize Selkirk as the world's catfish capital.
If you though Chuck the Catfish was the world's largest catfish statue, think again! That singular honor belongs to the 40 feet "Wahpper" catfish in Wahpeton, North Dakota.
The Wahpper’s website informs us that “ same artist that created “Wahpper” also created “Salem Sue” – the World’s Largest Holstein Cow in New Salem, North Dakota.”
Last of all, here is a sign showing a literal catfish chef(presumably cooking a catfish!). This image is meant to segue us into the next catfish post--which will feature cooking. So keep checking back here!
Wow, what a folksy post!
