Krazy Kat: A Cartoon Called Life

You may or may not have heard of Krazy Kat, but odds are heavy that you're a fan of someone or something that was inspired or enamored by it. Chuck Jones of Looney Tunes fame, Cyndi Lauper, the film Pulp Fiction, Bill Watterson of Calvin and Hobbes, Charles M. Schulz, and Michael Stipe from the rock band R.E.M. all come to mind. This isn't accidental. There's something about the surreal American southwestern atmosphere—that abandoned, barren, hopeless desert—the existentialist and Dadaistic philosophy, and the comedically sadistic writing that no one with an honest sense of humor can say no to. In these highly politically correct times it's become more and more difficult to find fans, but such is life. Those who are buffs for comic strip history, or just plain up recognize that cartoon sadism is not an advocate for real life brutality, appreciate it and will likely continue to do so as long as historical landmarks are archived and ritualistically celebrated.
Well, that is to say... unless...
To get to the short of it, it later became a cartoon, in 1962. There were animated shorts prior to it, in an era closer to the comic strip's historically renowned newspaper run. I say later because the comic strip dates back to 1913. Odds are that you consider the 1960s to be a very, very long time ago, and no one can blame you, but that approximately 50-year gap between initial printing and television debut of 50 episodes by King Features is nearly as long as the time that passed since the cartoon's debut and the time that I am writing this. How did Krazy Kat retain such long-term popularity? After all, those who are inspired by famous works have a tendency to usurp their predecessors. They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder, and it can, but it usually just makes people forget.
And how could I forget to tell you why it is sadistic? I would argue masochistic, too. You see, Krazy Kat stars an anthropomorphic cat and mouse duo named Krazy and Ignatz. You might think of something cute like Mickey Mouse (as you now know him—he was actually a rather rotten character in the Steamboat Willy days), or hopelessly violent like Tom and Jerry, but the truth lays somewhere in the middle. The titular character, Krazy Kat, is so labeled by the peculiar rodent who rejects her romantic courtings in favor of... well...
pelting her in the head with bricks. Or him with bricks. Or it. Really, the answer is it. Strip creator George Herriman confirmed that Krazy was sexless, describing it as "something like a sprite, an elf. They have no sex. So that Kat can't be a he or a she. The Kat's a spirit—a pixie—free to butt into anything." During the final five years of the series, Ignatz and Krazy become friends of sorts in collaboration against a police dog named Officer Bull Pupp, but he never truly embraces Krazy in a romantic sensibility.
It was 1964. I was five years old. There were very few television stations back then, so you put on what you turned on. Beetle Bailey and Snuffy Smith were other King Features favorites of ours, about a boyish military man and a hillbilly farmer who loved to nap, respectively. I'm not entirely sure how I remember this, since I've lived a rather eventful life since, but when you're five years old the things that, well, catch you off guard stick with you for the rest of your life. Same reason why some people feel sexual arousal toward some rather peculiar things. You're a victim of your surroundings from when you were a little one. And I was surrounded by a peculiar cartoon episode that makes me scratch my head to this very day.
The cartoon version of Krazy Kat played up Krazy's unrequited romantic endeavors, and Ignatz's hostile rejections. Blam went the bricks, smack dab against Krazy Kat's cranium. Yes, this was a mainstream television cartoon from the 1960s, so you didn't see any blood splurts or brain matter or any other such nonsense. The cartoon creators gave Krazy a heavy lisp, and Ignatz an almost Brooklyn style accent, though not quite the more I think about it.
"Oh, Ignatz! You are my starlight, my moonshine, my hopes and dreams in a beautiful little mousy bundle!", practically sing-sang Krazy, clasping her hands in blissful ignorance while hearts swirled around her head.
"I don't know about starlight, but I know how to make you see the light of stars!", predictably retorted the sociopathic little mouse, tossing a brick at a 45-degree angle smack dab into Krazy's cartoon cranium. As per usual, the hearts became cartoon stars—the sort you see when a character gets hit or is otherwise hurt, symbolizing a mild concussion in as innocuous a manner as possible. "So romantic...", the literally painfully unaware feline crooned, accepting his assault as romantic overture.
Just then, I heard the sound of what must have been a large truck or similar roaring away from my house and a loud slamming, like metal scraping against concrete by magnified a dozenfold or more. This was before kids were warned to never answer the door due to stranger danger, so curiosity got the best of me and I got up from the television set. Outside was a rather gruff man who I barely knew, and I...
All I remember is the sight of my dear aunt's... her mangled corpse. Or that was most of what I remembered. Lying in a pool of... I don't even want to say it. You can fill it in. I didn't even scream, because I couldn't. I had never seen anything like this before. I didn't call for help. My eyes darted the scene. The severed eyeball nerve. And the presumed murder weapon.
A single brick. Oh, it was drenched in vital fluids, organ matter, you know the rest. But all that. From a single brick? Curious how that took priority over my grief. I put on a pair of leather gloves in case the police asked me some questions and wanted to dust for fingerprints. I ended up burying it in my backyard. I'd do it again, really. He told me to.
As I said, we're all at life's mercy. We're all inspired by the dissonance in our youth. For many of us, our first memories are either incredibly painful or otherwise so far out of the ordinary that it 'woke us up'. Sometimes people parody this and call it 'becoming woke'. Me, I could have drawn a comic strip like Charles Schultz. Sung in a band like Michael Stipe. Drawn Wile E. Coyote shorts like Chuck Jones.
But here I sit, jotting this down on yellow notebook pads in prison. Twelve killings, all by brick. My uncle never did marry my aunt, but man, did she badger him. Always took it as flirtation, too. They had pity sex. Did I ever tell you about my son searching the sewers for ninja turtles, or my grandson playing power rangers during school recess? I guess that was OK, because they never got arrested for it.
It makes me scratch my head to this very day. That cartoon episode. I mean, did it really have to be so graphic? My aunt and uncle didn't make for believable characters anyway. Nobody ever really gets hurt in games of cat and mouse. They just see stars. And we're all made out of stardust. I am Ziggy Stardust.
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