The Woods

Alas, if you were led to believe that this photo post The Woods was actually a slide show music video for the Sleater-Kinney album The Woods...or a low-budget Sony Cybershot remake of the 1999 "The Wood" starring fall foliage instead of Omar Epps...or a hipper, non-musical production of Stephen Sondheim's Into the Woods replacing Bernadette Peters with some lovely lichen--you will be as disappointed as I was when I learned that "The Manhattan Project" was not in fact Peter Stuyvesant's attempt to build an atomic bomb fashioned out of twigs and his prosthetic limb while harnessing the awesome power of quail. This post just happens to be about a day in the woods (with Sleater-Kinney and Omar Epps).


In upstate New York and throughout New England you are bound to come across many a stone wall, whether in the woods, driving through a charming hamlet or asking you for change in front of a Stop and Shop. Many locals and historians believe such walls were built by early American farm families to denote the boundaries of their property or perhaps restrict the movement of livestock. But the trace writing in a palimpsest that was most recently reused as a store circular for a Yankee Candle outlet indicates that these walls were in fact thousands of feet high and used as a defense against the countless dinosaurs that still roamed the land up until the early 1800's, when the last were burned alive for not being Christian. A few such creatures still survive in Canada, practicing their Celtic polytheistic ways and managing charming incense and crystal shoppes.


When I was little I would wander the immense (an now sadly razed) woods behind my parents' house with my friends Jeff, James, Val and Bruce. We would wander for hours pretending to be on expeditions, looking for treasure or trying to find a hill steep enough that sledding down it in the winter would almost guarantee a sonic boom. Then it would get dark and we'd have to find our way back home. But we never could. So we'd each move in with a new family and call them "Mom" and "Dad" and "Marcello." (Why we all called our newly adoptive brothers and even sisters "Marcello" escapes me to this day.) This would repeat itself again and again. I now have 478 parents and 1242 siblings. I don't even remember my first, true surname. "Marciuliano" was just something I once saw on the side of a truck for a concrete business or baked goods store or whatever it is Italians do. I don't know, being originally Korean.



Whenever you are in the woods you must take a moment to lie on the fallen leaves, look up at the sky through the branches and ask yourself, "What does it all mean?" Say that three times and a leprechaun will appear from some nearby shrubbery. He won't answer your question but rather silently hand you a business card with a phone number on it, typeset in a crisp Akzidenz-Grotesk font and featuring a lovely logo that recalls the best of the Swiss Style school of graphic design. Call that number and you will be put on hold. For a while. (Apparently leprechauns hand out quite a number of such cards.) But be patient, for the answer you receive will be well worth it.


The woods can be a scary place, chockablock with countless horrors that once seemed solely to reside in a Grimms fairy tale or Washington Irving legend. Take this tree, for example. As we approached it the air grew thick with sulphur, the blood in our veins turned gelid and that ingrown hair we thought we finally had beat came back. One could hear low, trembling moans coming from within the very trunk. The limbs oozed a black, viscous substance that caused our souls to shrink away in abject terror. The ground bubbled and cracked, the leaves grew mandibles, the bark bellowed, the very woods roared to life with the deathless voices of a thousand interminable victims before us!

But then we saw this really neat butterfly--it had like maybe three or four of the most delightful colors on its wee wings!--and we chased after that instead.


In the fascinating documentary Visions of Light cinematographer Conrad Hall explains how such previously perceived photographic errors as light flare on the lens--originally deemed a mistake since in essence it broke the fourth wall by reminding viewers of the camera's presence--eventually became an acceptable and highly expressive aesthetic to denote such elements as heat. Naturally, such is what I was going for here, since the sun was not so much setting behind the woods as in the woods, igniting the dry timber and creating a conflagration that burns to this day. That is why we no longer have a Northeast.


Some trees are iconoclasts. They balk at their brethren's cherish belief that vertically is the only way to grow. So they assume a more bowed path, reaching towards heaven in their own time, on their own terms. This tree's singular nature reminded me of a cartoon fable from the early 70's called The Point, about the sole round-headed boy in a village of pointed-headed creature who...well, I'm not quite sure what happened. From the moment I turned it on at age four I just kept screaming and screaming in horror. (Even more so then when I saw the commercial for Dario Argento's Suspiria as a kid in which a skeleton combs her hair while chanting "Roses are red...") Nothing could stop the shrieking, not even Harry Nilsson's wonderful soundtrack. Maybe as a pathologically shy child the cartoon made me feel even more alone. Maybe as a pathologically insane child the cartoon actually talked to me. I don't mean resonated with me. I mean talked to me. Maybe this is what happens when your childhood predates adequate psychopharmacological treatment. All I know is that this tree is doing its own thing and that both delights and alarms me.


The thing about taking pictures of the woods is that even though you can capture some absolutely stunning scenery the photos can all start to make the same statement--"This is nice." That's why I like to mix things up by hiding a small infant in the picture. Just a little visual game to keep things interesting. Can you spot the baby? Can you? Because if you can please tell me where it is. I borrowed the kid without permission like three weeks ago and I really need to return it before its parents realized that changeling I put in their Bugaboo stroller is actually a shaved puppy.


And with those last "shaved puppy" and "missing infant" remarks from the previous photo the camera is being forcibly taken away from me and I have been instructed to end this tale immediately. But seriously, you gotta help me find that baby.

Pumpkins. Pumpkins? Pumpkins!

The secret to finding the perfect pumpkin begins with finding a sincere pumpkin patch. Any by "sincere," we of course mean the pumpkins say what they genuinely feel and/or believe. Take the above pumpkins, for example. They believe that the world sits atop a never-ending stack of turtles. But they are honest about their belief. They don't hem and haw, trying to determine where your spiritual and metaphysical underpinnings lie and then try to match or at least mirror such. The moment you drive up to this patch the pumpkins yell out in unison, "TURTLES! IT'S ALL TURTLES" which...well, which frankly scares the crap out of you. In fact, such was our shock at being not only addressed by but actually screamed at by gourds that we quickly grabbed a tire iron and killed at least 60 pumpkins before we eventually gathered our wits and simply started stabbing them unnoticed with a shiv we fashioned from some lovely Indian corn.


Some pumpkins are clearly to large for our needs and, to be blunt, their own good. Take these fellows, for example. They look like the B-roll for a news story on rising obesity. The important thing, though, is never to stop and stare. Simply smile politely and move on. But they know when they are being dismissed. Pumpkins always know. That's why they always huddle in little groups like above, for the camaraderie and confidence that sometimes can only be found in numbers. Plus, if you lean in, you can hear them whisper what a judgmental jackass you are.


On the other hand, some pumpkins are just far too wee to carve. Take these little fellows as presented by Kim and Remy. Only a small mouse could create a Jack O' Lantern from such pumpkins. And do you know how much a mouse artisan costs these days?! That's why next time there's a mouse in your house or apartment, don't kill it. Instead capture it, send it off to the Rhode Island School of Design, buy it a tiny X-acto blade and let it work wonders. Frankly, it's your only logical course of action.


However, if you do not have the necessary funds to send a mouse to RISD and the little bastard is far too busy getting stoned with his idiot bandmates--seriously a prog rock group in this day and age?-- to do well enough in class to score at least a partial scholarship, then you may have no other choice but to wear the tiny pumpkins as hats, just like Kim and Remy are doing in an all-too tragic moment of millinery faux pas. It makes the heart weep, it does...


Sometimes, though, you'll come across a wee pumpkin with so much character (read: startling ugly but in a "can't stop gaping" kind of way) that you just have to find it a home, like Charlie Brown's Christmas tree. And, alas, like that tree if you hang a large red ornament on this pumpkin you are just as likely to kill it. But, more importantly, you'll be killing your soul, because you will be the person sitting alone in their studio apartment festooning a small, pockmarked pumpkin with Christmas decorations in the middle of a weekday afternoon, forcing you to come to the conclusion that yes, getting a B.A. degree in English, no matter how good the university, nailed your professional and personal coffin shut before you ever really had a chance to live.


But the search for just the right pumpkin continued...in the direction of even smaller pumpkins, leading the corporations and academic institutions who funded our expedition to question not only our true intentions but also our ability to even identify a goodly-sized gourd. With each step on our journey their missives and telegrams displayed more concern, more vitriol and more unique ways we could shove said gourds up our "bumholes" (I should note many of these aforementioned institutions were British). But we ventured onward, certain in if not our mission than in the fact we had driven an hour upstate to get here and we were going to return to the city with something, even if it were just more medium amber maple syrup...


...Only to once more be occasionally waylaid by the apparently repetitive human instinct to sport round, fleshy fruit on one's head at a jaunty angle.


Our expedition did lead us to some very unique specimens, though, including this elongated goiter removed from the neck of a pumpkin so massive that the local villagers have forsaken all Judeo-Christian tenets and now worship a giant squash named "Steve." Can you believe it? "Steve." That would be so much more pathetic had it not been that the pumpkin had that very name written on a "Hello, My Name Is..." sticker on what one would presume would be its lapel. Word is it was on its way to a heating and plumbing convention but got lost and just became a god instead.


We also happened upon this little specimen which, yes, looks exactly like what you think it does--1928 Democratic Presidential candidate and supposed papist Al Smith.


And then there is this fellow, a sad reminder to sailors everywhere to always watch those "beware the clap" educational shorts before hitting port.


Now some of you may be asking, "Why are you looking for a pumpkin in November?" (You may also be asking, "Why are the cows so flat in upstate New York?") The answer is "We weren't. These photos were taken in mid-October." Then you may ask, "Then why didn't you post them in October?" To which I can only reply, "Because it's already November and I don't have a time machine! Do YOU have a time machine? Huh?! DO YOU?!?" To which you may very well state, "Yes, I do." Then we would talk a bit about the possibility of letting me use the device at a reasonable rate.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that online friendships can be hard.

Professionally Driven but Not One for Such Stuffy Business Attire as, Say, Pants? Then Craigslist Has the Job for You!

Update on the Little Book That Isn't (Now Updated!)

Yes, the little book that isn't is now the talk of the Internet! (Well, the part of the Internet that's usually vacant or used for temporary storage during moves.) Why, just look at these sample pull quotes!

"A breathtaking work of profound academic value..."

"...At just 3 words a page, this tome elicited from me both diarrheatic and arthritic unstoppable miasma, truly spreading into my soul like cancerous stem cells..."

"Perhaps this is meant to be a probing psychological study of a damaged individual, but Ted Forth's rampant psychosis is an unpleasant read at best..."

"...This beautifully crafted piece of metafiction is a wonder to behold, and most definitely does not exist."

"The minute you read that the source for a book of eighteen pages is going to be wikipedia, you know in your bones just what a work of quality it must be that you're going to hold!"

"It was much better than "Cats: Andrew Lloyd Webber, T. S. Eliot, Old Deuteronomy."

"Only a dedicated and seasoned mountebank could achieve this level of guilefulness with such apparent impudence."

That's right! Over six customer reviews are coming in with no end in sight! (That is if you keep in mind time itself is without conclusion.) Read for yourself what these informed, insightful, insane critics are saying about the one Sally Forth collection to be inexplicably made available but not actually exist!

Make sure your voice is heard--add your review today!

Never Before Has the Word "Douchebag" Been Said So Eloquently and Significantly

This Holiday Buy the One Book That Doesn't Exist

Whether you wish to acknowledge it or not, the holiday shopping season is indeed upon us. And while many of you may be looking to the latest Wii-inspired/infringing devices from Xbox and Playstation to make your loved ones momentarily happy with you and the season, may I suggest a more luddite alternative? In short, a book. But not just any book. Oh no. A book that I stumbled upon while Googling my own name for pathetic self-validation. A book that Amazon.com is now selling for a mere and curiously priced $14.14. A book that comes in at a whopping 20 pages and 1.6 ounces. A book that does not, in fact, actually exist.


Yes, that Sally Forth. No, not the Wally Wood comic strip Sally Forth. No, not the record company Sally Forth. No, not the turn of phrase "sally forth." No, not the untold number of bloogers who write under the name "Sally Forth." But yes, that Sally Forth.

However, before you quickly go to Amazon and snatch up your eleven hundred copies, let's review the "book" in the spirit of consumer protection, shall we?

First, let us take note of the collection's distinctive yet highly descriptive imprint--Books LLC--a publisher that not only plainly focuses on its own namesake but whose very limited liability status clearly prevents it from dealing with the potential legal and financial culpability that so often comes with cover art, correct typesetting or a spine. I'm not even certain that there are actually any pages behind said cover rather than the idea of pages. So minimal is the collection's tangible qualities, in fact, that were it not for the slightly embossed paper stock one could almost assume that this may very well be the first tome to be published in a purely gaseous state. So take that, e-books!

Second, and more importantly, let's review the authors. The third author in particular, that is--Ted Forth. Obviously his inclusion in the masthead can only mean that not only is this a collection of Sally Forth strips but also a glorious work of metafiction so aware of its own construct and conventions that it draws awareness to its status as an assembly of supposed artistic fabrications by having one of the strip's character--and a secondary character at that--co-author the book. Perhaps the book is Ted Forth talking about the stories behind the stories in the strip, spinning creative "reality" behind the illusion, like Tristam Shandy but with far more robot monkeys. Or perhaps it's a collection of Ted Forth trying to read said collection, like If on a winter's night a traveler, alternating between him preparing to peruse the strip and then the strip itself, causing us to question not only how and why we read but also why we need to be far more careful in our book purchases. Or maybe Ted Forth's inclusion as author is a proofreader error, but a purposeful one. A seemingly insignificant detail that actually elaborates and comments on the collection as a whole, like a footnote in Infinite Jest or that obsessive-compulsive who highlighted every damn paragraph and repeatedly wrote "what does it mean?" in the margins of my used university bookstore copy of The Sot-Weed Factor, forever causing me to associate John Barth with autism spectrum disorder. OR, maybe since the very existence of this collection is fictitious to begin with, it's not just a statement on such fiction but on the things we dearly need to hold true to make sense of our lives, like books, like art, like comic strips and like online retailers we trust are selling actual product.

And third, and even more importantly, this imaginary book does not have a single customer review yet. Go nuts.

So this holiday season, avoid the long lines, the endless gadgets and the need to impress. Simply click on Amazon and get the one gift that will make friends, family and loved ones say, "You know, Hickory Farms sells both cheese and sausage in one gift basket."

"And Don't Even Get Me Started on the Validity of Bit-O-Honey!"

The following email was received in response to the final panel of yesterday's Sally Forth Halloween Sunday strip (as seen above).

What a disgusting commentary on our society and your cartoon. Your priorities are way off base as are your values. Our children are reading your comic and you have a moral responsibility to send the right message. Since when does a halloween treat given in good faith have a monetary value? I happened to love bubble gum and tootsie rolls as a child and was happy to have them as a treat. No, I have never given them as a treat on Halloween. Let's see-I gave Reese's Peanut Butter Cups this year. I got 14 for $2.50. That's obviously unacceptable by your standards or lack thereof.Our children should be happy with "any" treat given in good faith from a kind and generous neighbor. Clean up your act. Think about it please!