Philadelphia Weekly

The New Yorker's Cartoon Caption Contest

Remember that Seinfeld episode about how people who like the cartoons in The New Yorker can't pinpoint exactly why they're funny? Well, I never thought they were funny, period. But since becoming a subscriber, I've grudgingly allowed myself a light chuckle upon viewing one or two. And now there's the magazine's back-page contest, in which readers create their own captions for a cartoon and then vote among three finalists. It's like American Idol for bookworms, and nonsubscribers can join in online. The first one featured a scene of a man in a rat suit taking notes on caged rats in a lab as his colleague looks on. That contest's winner was New York City resident Roy Futterman, who came up with: "More important, however, is what I learned about myself." Okay, so it's still awfully dry, but it nearly brought me to tears. Subsequent installments have depicted an injured man crawling up to workers at an emergency hotline, a businessman rushing into his office with a surfboard, and two Godzilla-ish monsters chatting as they devour a city. All are ripe with potential, though for the life of me, I can never think of a single caption worth submitting.

The Thackery T. Lambshead Pocket Guide to Eccentric & Discredited Diseases, Edited by Jeff Vandermeer and Mark Roberts (Bantam)

Nobody knows the foibles of the medical profession better than Thackery T. Lambshead, a 104-year-old Englishman who traveled through cities and jungles alike to document outlandish ailments. Thing is, there is no Thackery T. Lambshead. Nor are you likely to catch inverted drowning syndrome or experience fungal disenchantment. But every coffee table needs a shot of satire as precise as this one, dreamt up by a clever crop of sci-fi writers including Sandman maestro Neil Gaiman. Fans of phrenology and other ancient quackery will delight in Onion-tinged essays on conditions like poetic lassitude, the victims of which "become preoccupied and introspective ... staring at tiny flowers," and third eye infection, involving a nasty tick and potent hallucinations. (Rest assured: All the illustrations are hilarious.) Best of all is "The Obscure Medical History of the Twentieth Century," which accuses Kafka of drinking ink, attributes Lon Chaney's chameleonic film career to skeletal protrusions, and dispels rumors of Jim Morrison's "inoperable penis cancer." The book doesn't pull any punches-Hitler, AIDS and terrorism are included-but like the rest of this tickling tome, it's just absurd enough to work.

Medieval Madness Pinball Machine

"Defeat the king and all his men and stop the madness and restore order to this great land." That's your mission when you play the best pinball machine in the city, humbly located at Village Pizza (3233 Powelton Ave. 215.222.1397), just off Drexel's campus. The king in question is the King of Payne (sounds like a pro wrestler, huh?). But to get to him, you have to destroy the castles of the Earl of Ego, Sir Psycho and the Duke of Bourbon. And the silliness doesn't stop there. One villain taunts, "I'm going to get medieval on your derriere." Medieval Madness has all the fantasy cliches down pat, from catapults and jousts to damsels and Merlin, plus trolls that crave "human burgers" and laugh like Pee-wee Herman. It's sure to bring out the inner Dungeons & Dragons fan in you, whether you like it or not.

The New North Carolina Indie Rock Scene

It's been more than a decade since the North Carolina triangle of Raleigh, Durham and Chapel Hill yielded the nationally known scene that included Superchunk, Polvo and Archers of Loaf, and spawned Merge Records. Lately, though, I've sensed a second coming. Exhibit A) the Raleigh band Schooner, whose You Forget About Your Heart (Pox World Empire) hit me like a ton of bricks and was voted one of 2004's unknown pleasures by GQ. Just eight songs long, it's steeped in the same stumbling, organ-drenched fuzz-pop of the Walkmen and the Rock*A*Teens. Exhibit B) the Durham band the Sames, whose You Are the Sames (also on Pox World Empire) is a total relic of heady '90s indie rock in the vein of Silver Scooter. Each song is crowded with giant hooks, bristling feedback and slacker choruses. Exhibit C) the Raleigh band Ticonderoga, whose self-titled album (54�š40' or Fight!) weds twangy turbulence with breathy pop in the manner of ex-Gastr del Sol whiz David Grubbs. Clarinet, accordion and contrabass make it all the more moody. These three, along with recent releases by the Comas and the Rosebuds, are enough to fuel hopes of the triangle's resurgence. Like all scenes, it may be largely imagined, but it's hard to ignore this many bands that are this good when they're coming from the same little corner of the world.

Adult Swim Happy Hour at Dive Bar

I still can't forgive a name as self-conscious as Dive Bar (947 E. Passyunk Ave. 215.465.5505), especially when applied to the homey South Philly hole that was Low Bar. But this concept nearly makes up for it: a happy hour coinciding with Cartoon Network's Adult Swim block. Sundays at 11 p.m. you can bury yourself in discounted drinks at an already cheap bar as three hours of animated mayhem ensue. Mainstays like Home Movies, Sealab 2021 and Aqua Teen Hunger Force may be on break for now, but Family Guy and its very similar spawn American Dad fill the first hour. Then comes the Seth Green-produced stop-animation Robot Chicken, which notably featured Transformers' Optimus Prime in a fatal bout with prostate cancer. Next up is Tom Goes to the Mayor, the wacky work of a pair of Philly expats. By the time the anime double-header of Samurai Champloo and Fullmetal Alchemist rolls around, you'll be good and drunk. And just in time, since the Johnny Quest-damaged Venture Bros. often requires a chaser.