CSotD: Cliche bad, tradition good
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Hats off to Terri Libenson for a fresh take on what is generally one of the lamest days of the year on the comics page.
Granted, she's riffing on the now-iconic movie rather than the over-promoted tradition itself, but I'm also giving her credit for an overall breakthrough: The new wrinkle for the "over-worked mom" theme which lies at the base of Pajama Diaries to begin with.
If you're not familiar with the strip, it starts with a cliche-defying premise, given that Jill, the lead character, is genuinely a work-at-home graphic artist, which is a twist on the more common housewife-with-a-cute-part-time-job set up.
Jill's got genuine deadlines, real clients and every-damn-day demands that don't simply surface when they fit a particular gag.
(Relevant side-note: Lynn Johnston told me in an interview how cartoonists guffawed over how much time the alleged cartoonist in the sitcom, "Caroline in the City," had for dating and other personal matters.)
And the punchline is a scream, though maybe only to me because it hits one of my favorite gripes: I hate movies in which Bwana makes it to the treasure stash, and then the next scene is at dockside as he prepares to sail away with the loot.
I want to know how, having cut down critical rope bridges and pissed off every tribe between Leopoldville and the Lost Kingdom on the way in, he made it back out in one piece. I'll admit I'm probably overthinking this.
(Still, it gives me a chance to plug the upcoming Kenosha Festival of Cartooning, at which you may meet-and-greet the charming Ms. Libenson, whom I got to spend some time with at the Billy Ireland and look forward to seeing again!)
Incidentally, I was way too old before I finally realized that the reason Groundhog Day never resonated with me is that "six more weeks of winter" is supposed to be the bad news, while I've generally lived in places where, on February 2, the prospect of "only six more weeks of winter" would be a wonderful if unrealistic promise.
And, by the way, I could use a little bit of time-looping to catch up, too. Never mind her impossible dream of actually getting ahead.
Speaking of overthinking things:
It's rare that Dilbert's PHB gets to be the sympathetic character, but, as the son and grandson of engineers, today's strip also resonated with me.
People get upset when you say, "Well, wait a minute … " and want you to let it go, but, hey, they shouldn't make remarks that are full of logical holes. We're simply doing them a favor by helping plug up the gaps.
So, kids, when your teacher begins to explain timelines to the class, be sure to raise your hand and point out that there was no Year Zero and ask how you should adjust calculations to account for this fact.
She'll thank you.
Teach your children well
Speaking of breaking free from tired stereotypes and also things we learn from our parents, I like today's Stone Soup. And I like Wally all the time.
Wally is the antithesis of the stereotypical comic strip father. He's no more puzzled by children than is his wife or anyone else, and, as seen not just here but often in the strip, he pitches in capably and often of his own volition.
He doesn't clomp around helplessly in the kitchen, unable to make toast without fouling it up and calling for help.
He doesn't treat the outdoor grill like some prehistoric altar over which he is High Priest.
He doesn't use every pan and implement in the kitchen to make a single dish, then leave them piled up in the sink.
He just cooks, and he cooks well, and, if he is appreciated for it, that's good, too. But he just cooks because, well, why wouldn't he?
I lived on take-out my junior year in college, but there was a reason for that: I was 19 years old. Then I grew the hell up.
A guy who can't cook is like a woman who can't check the oil in her car. It might have been cute and endearing 30 years ago.
My boys are both better cooks than I am, but they got a bit of a head start, because I was the parent-at-home (see "Pajama Diaries," above) and even during our marriage, I prepared most of the meals, so they never lived with the cartoon helpless-in-the-kitchen dad.
Then, during the single-dad years, I rarely cooked dinner alone. There was no culinary instruction going on, but lots of sitting around the kitchen talking, so that they left home with a basic knowledge of what cooking looked like. Then came the phone calls, as I had called my mother, saying, "Okay, how do you make …?"
They had inherited that engineering gene from my side of the family, augmented by the influence of their maternal grandfather, a tool-and-die maker with a full woodshop in his basement, so they felt it perfectly natural to tinker with recipes, as a result of which they can each kick my ass in the kitchen, and I'm a decent cook.
In a few hours, I'll head over to Eldest Son's house for what I will admit will be Manly Man Food this time around, a tradition on this day of days (no, not this day of days), featuring ribs, guacamole — which he makes better than I do despite my learning how at a pretty good Mexican restaurant — ribs and chicken wings, the latter of which he will be making using a new Korean-style recipe.
And we'll genuinely and passionately watch the game, I'm sure with phone calls to Younger Son in Minnesota, given that my boys were raised on Orange Crush, made with pure Rocky Mountain spring water.
Though I agree with Arlo that one aspect of the day has faltered in recent years.
Behold! A sacred tradition endures unto a new generation:
Mike Peterson has posted his "Comic Strip of the Day" column every day since 2010. His opinions are his own, but we welcome comments either agreeing or in opposition.
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