M.K. Iodine

@6-string-theory.bsky.social

2147 Followers 2232 Following

Guitarist, photo-funny maker, lover of humor, follower of real journalists. Unless expressly stated, I do not own the rights to any of the images I've so cruelly defiled under the aegis of "Fair Use."

[Panel 1: A Blackpool boardwalk in post-war Britain. A bored-looking teenaged girl (Lydia) in an unfortunate shimmery outfit, hectors passers-by to enter the tent and watch The Amazing Gregory.] Lydia: Roll up, roll up, I say! The Amazin' Gregory will astound you with ... magic an' stuff like that. Gregory [backstage]: *Oi!* Put some life into that spiel. Right now, even *I* wouldn't pay to see me! Lydia: Come on, you lot! It's only five shillings! Step this way for fings you won't see anywhere else. Well, not in Blackpool, at any rate. Swansea, maybe ... [Panel 2: Backstage, Gregory is practicing tricks with his top hat while berating Lydia through the scrim. He wears a tuxedo, has brilliantined hair, a mustache, and a cigarette that dangles from his pursed lips.] Gregory: I swear to Christ, Lydia, if you weren't my niece, you wouldn't 'ave this job! Lydia: If I wasn't yer niece, I wouldn't *need* this bleedin' job!
[Sepia-tone scene from early in the film "The Wizard of Oz" (1939). Dorothy is having words with Auntie Em and Uncle Henry in the barn.] Auntie Em: Dorothy, stop pestering me! Did you get after those weeds like I asked you to? Dorothy: Hell, no! Not after Uncle Henry threatened to skin me alive if I didn't keep away from his tools. Uncle Henry: Only because *somebody*cain't be bothered to put things away the way they's s'posed to go. Auntie Em: Well, go look in the kitchen drawer. We often weed with scissors. Dorothy: *Ooh!* I just got a chill!
Closeup photo of a tomato plant.
onion sliced in half bears an eerie resemblance to a cartoony face.
An onion, sliced in half to reveal a resemblance to a cartoony face.
[Panel from a Pogo comic strip. P.T. Bridgeport, a bear modeled on P.T. Barnum, Albert the Alligator, and Bridgeport's rabbit friend are speaking ...] Bridgeport: I've worked out an act ... you climb a 150 foot pole. Then (daredevil!!!) you leap into a net held by Alonzo here and (special attraction) me! Albert: Um, uh, s'pose I miss you? Rabbit: We'd miss you too. Very much ...
[Backstage in a theater dressing area, an older man wearing a tuxedo (Edward Everett Horton) presents a gift to a young ingenue, as two of her co-stars look on.] Edward: You were brilliant tonight, my dear. You had that audience eating right out of your hand. 1st co-star: So *that's* what they were doing instead of, y'know, laughing and applauding. Edward: Here ... it's a little token of my esteem. 2nd co-star: Hmm, hand-made, too. But remember, honey, even a bespoke token doesn't mean you have to go out with this old fossil.
[Black & white image of Parisians dancing in the street, courtesy of the great Robert Doisneau. Two young girls are dancing together amidst all the so-called grown-ups.] Tall girl: Try to relax, Yvette. You know what they say: "Dance like no one is watching." Yvette: But everyone *is* watching! Tall girl: So what? It's Bastille Day, they're grown-ups, and each and every one of 'em is *trois feuilles au vent*! [three sheets to the wind] Yvette: Well, just once could you let me lead?
[A tense conversation between a distraught-looking Elisha Cook, Jr. and a well-coifed woman ... we'll call her Maria. They are both holding cocktails, but Elisha there looks like he could use another round. Oh, and Maria sounds just like Natasha from the old "Bullwinkle" cartoons.] Elisha: You just don't get it, do you? For Christ's sake, Maria, our lawyer's been convicted! Who knows what he's saying to try and cut himself a deal with the District Attorney! Maria: Is not problem for *me,* big-deal Yankee politician-guy. When all this blows up in your face, I just go back to my *dacha* on the Dnieper. Elisha: So you're just gonna throw me under the bus? I thought what we had was special. Maria: Special for *you,* maybe. But that is some low setting for bar.
[Three people at the cashier's desk in a diner, two women and a man. He appears to be some kind of law enforcement officer.] LEO: Well, Mavis, this'll be my last visit. They're reassigning me to night patrol on the Upper Peninsula. Mavis: You don't say? I don't suppose you'd care to settle up that gigantic tab of yours first? LEO: Uh, gee. I don't have much cash on me ... Mavis: Well, ain't that just so *convenient?* Don't sweat it, hon. I'm a reasonable businesswoman. [To the other woman:] Ma, get out the jumper cables. Ol' Deputy Dimbulb's gonna do a li'l interpretive dancin' for us.
Mid-60s Vox amplifier with trademark plaid grill cloth removed and replaced with burlap and plastic garden fencing.
[Black and white image of an elderly woman (who apparently has never moisturized a day in her life) rousing a fully-dressed fellow from his mid-day slumbers.] Woman: Wake up, you Dickensian dolt! You overslept again! Fellow: *Ahh!* Oh, mother, it's *you.* What's the idea of getting me up at the crack of noon? Woman: Y'know, for a choir-master, you're pretty dumb. Go find your nephew Edwin and ask him what he's done with our one remaining mode of transportation. Fellow: You mean ... Woman: It's simple enough, even for you. You'll say, "Drood! Where's my carriage?"
[Black and white image of a blonde woman staring off into the distance, while conversing with a short, rustic fellow with his hair slicked forward. For the purposes of this desperate attempt at humor, they appear to be in the lobby of an Italian hotel.] Woman: Geppetto, is it? Will you please take my luggage up to Room 23. *Wait!* That *music!* Where is it coming from? Geppetto: From the courtyard. It is but the traditional music of our people, Signora. Woman: Ah! It's so beautiful! Geppetto: You think so? Maybe you ought to get out more. I hear that travel can be broadening. Woman: Those haunting strains ... Geppetto: That's nothing. Wait 'til you hear me trying to hoist that steamer trunk of yours.
[A tense scene on a shadowy stairwell: two punks have their large-ish handguns drawn on a thin fellow (who has an unfortunate moustache), and his girlfriend, who wears a slinky black dress.] 1st Punk: That's enough stalling, Carl. We want some answers and we want 'em *now.* Sylvia: Just so you fellas know, our relationship is kind of open-ended, so don't feel obliged to-- Carl: That's fine, Sylvia. Just throw me under the bus at the first *hint* of trouble. 2nd Punk: Hey, if we're gonna be here a while, where's the dang light switch?
[Black and white image of a blonde woman (Gloria Grahame) seated on a massage table, wearing only a sheet, addressing an older woman in a uniform.] Gloria: Ah, goddammit ... I'm stuck with "The Malmö Mangler" again. Masseuse: Americans! So coddled you are, but so tense! Is no picnic for me, either, trying to keep your trapezius from fusing to your spine altogether. Gloria: Look, instead of beating *me* to a pulp, shouldn't you be turning a reindeer into meatballs or something? Masseuse: Hey, what I do on the weekends is *my* business! Now let's get cracking.
a man in a black t-shirt appears to be playing an old Vox Tornado guitar. In the background is a Vox Pacemaker amplifier.
[In a book-lined office, a man in a suit and tie sits at a desk reading from a piece of paper as his wife looks on.] Harold: ... so then the doctor says, "Walking where? To restaurants?" Heh-heh. Angela: Mm-hmm. That's one's almost kind of funny. Harold: You know, you could try to be a little more supportive, Angela. It's my dream to be taken seriously as a humorist. Angela: Jesus, Harold. Can you even *hear* yourself right now?
A three prong plug adaptor, for use with old, un-grounded outlets in homes that probably will be burned to the ground sooner rather than later.
[Three people at a rather tense gathering in a drawing room: a vexed-looking woman in a delightful floral print dress with shoulders out to here, a moon-faced Peter Lorre, and Eric von Stroheim in a double-breasted suit, munching on an hors d'oeuvres.] Woman: Yuri! After that stunt you pulled in Minsk, you have the *nerve* to show up at my cocktail party. Un. Be. Lievable. Peter Lorre: So that was *you*! Why, you double-crossing, vodka-swilling *cad!* Erich (Yuri): You people ... you take this all so personally. I am man of business! Woman: Finish your canapé and go! I won't have you preying on my fellow crafters. Yuri (Erich): You know the old Russian saying: "If you lie down with seals, you can be sure someone will bark."
[Black & white image of an older (obviously well-to-do) woman offering a small piece of fruit to a servant of some sort while talking to another man, who is perched on the corner of a desk.] Woman: That will be all, Renfield. Here, have a persimmon for your trouble. Servant: Madame is too generous by half. Man: Careful, Mother, you don't want to spoil the help. Woman: Oh, *pish*. I don't mind indulging in these shallow displays of *noblesse oblige* if it keeps the lower orders from breaking out in torches and pitchforks.
[A man and a woman are sitting above the business end of a bowling lane, where balls and pins collide.] Man: Ha-ha! That was a close one! Pin-setting may be risky, but it's never *dull!* Woman: OK, *OK,* I'll go out with you. Now *please,* let me go back to working at the concession counter.
Close-up view of LP records in cubbies.
[On rare sunny morning in Britain, a posh-looking couple are standing in their doorway, looking toward the street, ca. 1948] Woman: Nigel, look! Journalists are rummaging through our dust-bins. Nigel: Well, the blighters won't find anything incriminating. I've shredded all my documents, burned the shreds and then I burned the ashes! *Hah!* Woman: It appears they're looking for food ... Nigel: Oh, that won't do. I say, Corcoran? Corcoran [out of frame]: Yes, m'lord? Nigel: Release the hounds, would you?
A collection of guitar-related magazines.
A slug is crawling on an empty Ancient Age whiskey bottle.
Cover art for "The Return of the Hellecasters" cd.
[A woman and a man are having a tense conversation on the sofa. Behind them, a typical dining room, with flowers in a vase and thick, hard-backed books cunningly arranged so the titles face up.] Woman: That's what I love about you, Harold. You always pick the right moment to chime in with a pointless cliché to let me know you *haven't* been listening. Harold: Well, better late than never, eh? Woman: Stop proving my point.
A haggard looking man (Czar Nicholas II) in a uniform sits on a tree stump, with three serious-looking troops in the background guarding him, ca. 1917.
[Old-west scene: a woman in an elegant frock is cuddling with a rustic fellow outside a building. On the wall above them, a sign reads "Singing lessons given."] Rustic fellow: Well. Miz Bernhardt, how do y'all think I'm progressin'? Miss Bernhardt: Honey, I hate to say it, but I almost feel guilty about taking your money. RF: Y'mean 'cuz I got a natural-born talent? MB: Uh, well, let's put it this this way: if I was a big-deal Broadway producer, and you were the *only* tenor that showed up to audition? I'd seriously consider getting into film-making ... they're silent, you know.
Two electric guitars on stanfs seen from the side of the stage in a dmall club.
[Black and white image. Three woman having a rather tense conversation. The one in the middle has her hands turned up in a threatening manner.] Middle Gal [to the gal on the right]: *Think,* stupid! If we don't get that car back by five o'clock, we'll lose our deposit! Estelle: I *told* you not to trust her. Middle Gal: Shut up, Estelle. Gal on the right: [Sob!] How do you expect me to concentrate? Your nails are so ... intimidating. Middle Gal: I'm glad you think so! 'Cause if you don't remember where you parked that Edsel, they'll also be the last thing you see!
Typed names on an old court document: C. Bremo Carlson, Plaintiff vs Torsten Fornander, Defendant
[Black and white image of a well-dressed woman tickling a butler under his chin. They are standing in the middle of a well-appointed living room.] Woman: Oh, come on, Whetstone, you can show Mimsy a little smile. After all, I've been at Biarritz for over a month! Whetstone: Time's inevitable passage has not gone unnoticed, Madame, particularly since it's been that long since I've been *paid.* Woman: What do you mean? I left Cook in charge of all the household finances! Whetstone: In retrospect, that may not have been the wisest choice. It appears she's buggered off to Majorca with the Second Under-Footman.
[Black and white image of a man and a woman being confronted by their landlord, who has his back to the camera.] Landlord: Listen, you two, I been gettin' complaints from some of mah other tenants. Man: I can well imagine. Your diction is *awful!* Landlord: Nah, about you two! What's the idear of carryin' on til all hours? Ain'tcha got no manners? Woman: Manners? What about the family of eight shoe-horned into apartment 2-B? Just yesterday the husband snubbed me in the foyer! Landlord: Ouch! Woman: That's a fancy word for entry hall, you dipshit.
[Black and white image of a woman sitting atop a step ladder, poring over a book, her chin her hand. Behind her, there's a whole lotta books. It's a regular library in there. She wears a frilly dress with poofy sleeves and several petticoats. An unseen boss is speaking to her:] Boss: Miss Calibri, have you found that citation yet? Miss Calibri: Nope. Have you found the *spine* to tell your wife about us? Boss: Er, well, no. Miss Calibri: No? Well, then how 'bout you get yourself a big, steaming mug of "shut the fuck up," and a cushion for my ass. Boss [sotto voce]: Okay.
[A woman and two gentlemen seem to be having an intense conversation in a suburban kitchen. The man in the middle (Gregory Peck, as it happens) wears high-waisted trousers, a white shirt with sleeves rolled up, and a tie that ends somewhere around his solar plexus.] Dorothy Maguire: I'm sorry, darling. I don't know what got into me. Gregory Peck: I'm not angry. All I ask is that you be a little more careful when you're doing the crafting thing. Dorothy: Well, in my defense, you *do* have a habit of leaving your clothes lying around. Gregory: Perhaps, but that doesn't-- John Garfield: Ah, c'mon, Phil, let it go. Why don't we just run out and get you a new necktie.
[Black and white image of a woman hugging her young son (who is swaddled in a blanket), flanked by two men in suits.] Security guy: There you go Mrs. Flage. We found him naked in the mannequin storage room. Mother: Oh, Percival, you little scamp! Mummy was worried *sick!* Security guy: He'd posed their arms so they were all saluting him. Dept. Store Manager: [cough] As soon as this heart-warming reunion is about over, we need to discuss settling up for the damages he's caused. Mother: Oopsie, my bad! This isn't *my* kid. Better keep searching.
Color still frame from the film "The Bed Sitting Room" (1969): Harry Secombe with wild hair and a goatee, examining a strip of film by holdit up the light. All rather confusing, really.
Cover of the Firesign Theater's concept comedy album, "I Think We're All Bozos On This Bus."
Archival photo of British Princes Andrew & Charles, spiffily dressed, wearing top hats. (Andrew has a lot to answer for, and not just because of his choices in neckwear.)
Color photo of a tabby kitten walking across terra cotta pots filled with potting soil and various flowering plants.
[Black & white image of a fancy dinner party attended by an older man in a tuxedo (helping himself to the drinks cart), a youngish woman in a strappy dress and pearls, leaning up against another fellow about her age, also in evening dress. The table is cluttered with drinking glasses.] Older man: Look here, if you're serious about marrying my daughter, I need to know that you're gainfully employed. Younger man: Fair question, daddy-o. For the last decade, I've been chief noodle scrubber down at the Buckwheat Past Emporium. Older man: Is there much of a future in that? Younger man: I'll say! People perk right up when I tell 'em I've been cleanin' soba for ten years! Youngish woman: Please don't hurt him, father. He can't help himself.
[Black and white image of an attractive couple shaking hands. He wears a tuxedo and a pencil-thin moustache; she almost has on a shimmery dress with spaghetti straps, deluxe dangly earrings and is smiling the dazzling sort of smile that would normally cause a fellow to make a complete fool of himself. But it's not enough, apparently. Even when she gives him an opening you could observe heavenly bodies through.] Him: Well, as much as I'd love to stay and chat, there's a full "blood-moon" eclipse tonight and I'd hate to miss a minute of it. Her: Gee, handsome, you're not going to spend all night in that drafty old observatory all by yourself, are you? Him: Erm, yes, I'm afraid there's only just the one telescope. Her: Uh-huh. Well, you have fun with that, Galileo. Something tells me you'll be doing a great *many* things all by yourself for rather a long time.
[Black and white image of three sailors in a ship's cabin. The fellow in the middle has his hands clenched over his midsection and is making a face that suggests he is in agony; on his right, an officer wearing a cap tries to console him. And on the left, a guy who's totally over the whole business.] Guy in pain: Annngh! Guys! Take me to sick bay! I think one of those fucking balloons has burst! Officer: Don't be an idiot. If that much cocaine entered your system all at once, you'd be dead in a minute or two. Guy in pain: Oh, well, thanks for *that* little nugget of information! Please, don't stop. Comfort me some more! Guy on the left: Aw, does Mr. Big-Time Drug Mule gots a tummy-ache? Y'know what you need? More tequila. It coats the stomach.
Color photograph of a cat and a dog on a couch with a colorful knitted throw. (The dog's head is the only part of her that's visible.)
[Black & white image from the 1950s of a woman seated in front of a large television set, while a man explains its features.] Man: ... and then there's this model. It can automatically scan your house for any illegal printed materials *while you sleep!* Woman: Oh, that's all right. It's not as though my ISP is ever going to sell all my personal information to the highest bidder ... Man: [cough] Sure, keep clingin' to *that* raft.
[Black & white image of a woman & man in the cargo hold of a dirigible. She has a short hair-do, wears a sheath dress with frilly, feathery accents. She is lighting a cigarette for the man, who is chained up with what appear to be sandbags. He wears a natty suit & tie, and looks pretty smug, considering.] Woman: Enjoy this while you can, Mr. Nosey Parker. As soon as this zeppelin gets to 5,000 feet, you're going to experience the gravity of your situation. So to speak. Man: You're too kind. Say, you don't suppose you could make it a low-tar, filter cigarette, could you? My doctor says I should cut down. Woman: You're not so big on the listening thing, are you?
[Black and white image of a young couple caught in the act of dancing madly backwards: she has one leg kicked back; he is doubled over. A crowd of on-lookers crane their necks for a better view.] Her: Harold, I can't hold this pose much longer. You'd better find that goddamned contact lens in the next five seconds. Harold: Ooh! There it-- no, that's a sequin. Jeez, I wish they'd swept this place out after Mardi Gras.
[Black and white image of an office in the old west. A business-like woman sits behind a large wooden desk, speaking to an unshaven fellow wearing tall boots, a bright, floral neckerchief and holding a ten-gallon hat in his hands. Looming in the background, a tall, menacing guy smokes a cigarette.] Neckerchief Guy: Ma'am, I shore do appreciate y'all seein' me on such short notice ... Woman: Eh, I had a cancellation. What's on your mind? If you could call it that. NG: Well, what with the hard winter, folks ain't been comin' to the drag shows. And then them moths got into mah gowns ... Woman: Yeah, yeah. Skip the prologue, Proust, I can feel my life ebbing away. NG: Ah'm powerful sorry to say mah payment this week is gone be a little *light.* Woman: I see. Well, as new owner of your skeevy little bathhouse, I'm *happy* to say I'm not without compassion. Günter over there is only going to turn *one* of your kneecaps into pâté.
[Black and white image of two men and a woman at a fancy dress occasion. The fellow on the left, in a tuxedo, is obviously inebriated. His friend, in a pinstripe suit, has a steadying hand on his shoulder, and pointing toward the door. Seated at the table, the woman wears a floral print, low-cut, bared-shoulder frock.] Tux guy: *Hic!* I'll have you know I'm perfectly culpable of driving my home self! I mean CAPABLE! Of driving my-- Pinstripes guy: Now, now, Fred. Don't be like that. What you need is fresh air. Let's go for a little walk. Say, around Nevada. Woman: I hope you know, if their wedding gets postponed because you've been pouring martinis down his throat all evening, Shirley will have you flayed alive, stuffed, and mounted. Pinstripes guy: I suppose it's *my* fault he's used the rehearsal dinner as a chance to rehearse for *liver failure?*
[Black and white image of two men and a woman at a fancy dress occasion. The fellow on the left, in a tuxedo, is obviously inebriated. His friend, in a pinstripe suit, has a steadying hand on his shoulder, and is pointing toward the door. Seated at the table, the woman wears a floral print, low-cut, bared-shoulder frock, and holds a glass of wine.] Tux guy: *Hic!* I'll have you know I'm perfectly culpable of driving my home self! I mean CAPABLE! Of driving my-- Pinstripes guy: Now, now, Fred. Don't be like that. What you need is fresh air. Let's go for a little walk. Say, around Nevada. Woman: I hope you know, if their wedding gets postponed because you've been pouring martinis down his throat all evening, Shirley will have you flayed alive, stuffed, and mounted. Pinstripes guy: I suppose it's *my* fault he's used the rehearsal dinner as a chance to rehearse for *liver failure?*
[Black & white image of Donald Trump behind a lectern with a presidential seal. He is taking questions, and appears to be confused. If you can imagine.] Unseen Reporter: Mr. Trump, due to your apparent collusion with the Russian government, you've been referred to as a "Quisling" ... Trump: "Quisling?" I don't know what that means. What is it, like a baby quisl?
Two small dogs recline on a heating pad and a blanket with "houndstooth" pattern.
[Black and white image of a depressed looking man (Buster Keaton) sitting one the bottom step of a staircase in a dark foyer; standing next to him is a very tall, older woman, looking down at him pityingly.] Woman: What are you doing moping around here. I thought you had a date. Buster: She cancelled at the last minute. I had tickets and everything. Woman: Tickets to what? Buster:The city's pouring a new foundation for the sewerage treatment plant. It was gonna be a real hoot. Woman: That's the trouble with kids these days. They don't appreciate culture. Well, buck up, Balthasar. Life goes on. And by the way, your rent was due on the fifth.