CSotD: Monday Mop Up
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Having appropriately devoted yesterday to the passing of Mort Walker, here are a few Sunday cartoons I might otherwise have run, starting with this hail-and-farewell from Piranha Club.
Bud Grace is his early 70s, so I don't begrudge him the retirement, but I'm certainly going to miss the strip, which appears to be petering out in dailies, the Sunday having offered the real estate for a good-bye.
Piranha Club has often been featured here, not because it threw me a punchline I hadn't expected but for quite the opposite reason: It's one of those strips with a bold kind of Bob Newhart sensibility that offers a completely predictable gag and dares you not to giggle. And I always do.
As with the (real) Bob Newhart Show, this approach requires a solid cast of well-defined characters and a sense of timing that operates with a safecracker's touch.
And — whether it's Howard Borden's latest dilemma or Effie's latest octopus delight — part of the fun is that you know what the gag will be and you're almost ashamed of yourself for laughing, and yet you do. It's like getting the giggles in church.
I read a lot of strips, but I'm going to miss this one.
By contrast, yesterday's Soup to Nutz made me laff because, while it's a really stupid joke, it's also an eminently sensible one, which is how a lot of the gags in this strip work: A "Hey, wait a minute …" application of logic to illogic.
While it has become hip to make gags about Clark's glasses being a lousy disguise, it's hardly the biggest problem with the whole idea. One of many genius pieces in the 1978 movie was how Christopher Reeves made Clark into such a sniveler that Lois looked past the fact that he was a muscular hunk.
By contrast, DC comics would respond to reader questions with editorial explanations that were far less convincing than Andrew's.
I was in the right place at the right time by being 12 when Marvel began pumping out superheroes who weren't as transparently ridiculous, because Peter Parker arrived just as I was becoming old enough to be bothered by the illogical world of DC superheroes.
For instance, don't get me started on those damned androids, because I had noticed that every time Superman was defeated and killed, it turned out to be another android. In the early 60s, the Fortress of Solitude became just a giant warehouse full of freakin' androids.
But puberty was a great time to introduce insecure, neurotic, incredibly fallible superheroes.
Speaking of which …
I'm not likely to be awake long enough to hear Dear Leader's speech tomorrow night, though by next year, I'm sure watching it will be mandatory.
However, Pearls spared me the trouble, because I'm pretty sure this is how preparations are going, or, will be as soon as himself finishes his morning meetings, as Mike Luckovich depicts.
In the Olden Days, the press would get an advance copy of the speech and then would listen and make corrections in the text whenever the President substituted a word or phrase. Now they read along and wait for the moment when he goes completely rogue and they can tear up the rest.
Although it's more fun when you don't have the advance text because then you get to just watch and try to guess where he's gone off the rails.
Maybe I'll make coffee.
I'd hate to find out Wednesday morning that he went full Belushi and I missed it.
Confession Time
Today Tom Toles touches my conscience and, as a good patriot, I feel I should disclose that, not only is there a secret society among journalists, but that I am a member of it.
Though now that newspapers are laying off their copy editors, I suppose there is nobody under 40 in the Order of the Occult Hand anymore, there being so few uptight arbitrators of style left past whom to slip meaningless drivel.
And it's no fun writing meaningless drivel when nobody tries to stop you.
Sweet Sorrow
Pros and Cons hit me with a particular memory this morning and, while it's been over 30 years, it might still be painful except that it wasn't all that painful even at the moment.
Shopping for therapists is often a search for someone who agrees with you, and a couple searching for a marriage counselor often often often comes down to each partner looking for the Qualified Expert who will turn to the other party and say, "Your spouse is correct. Straighten the hell out."
Leading to the above.
However, in our case, when we sought counseling, I thought of a fellow I'd had on my radio show, which was like taking your problems to Judge Wapner or Dr. Oz. He was very charming and articulate and we jacked around for several weekly sessions about life and stuff, only it started to get more and more into his philosophy and less and less into our difficulties.
Finally, we hit the point where we needed to transition from "how to fix it" into "how best to dismantle it," and we told him so.
And he got pissed. Seriously.
He was more upset over his failure to convert us to whatever hippy-dippy bullshit he was peddling than he was upset that our 13-year marriage was ending.
Walking out of the building together that day was one of our last good bonding experiences for several years. I can't remember if we actually laughed, but we shared a lovely "What the hell was THAT?" moment.
The dude had a gift.
Wumo offers a more stark view of how one handles the unraveling.
Neither of us actually purchased a lawnmower, but, if we hadn't had a lawn, one of us might have.
Pros & Cons is more realistic, but this one hurts more because the fact that everyone does it doesn't make it any less painful.
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