CSotD: Taking it personally
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I'm burned out on politics, so I'm going to limit myself to things that simply triggered memories and let you decide if they're universally funny or not.
For instance, Sherman's Lagoon is starting a new story arc, so you can be pleased that I let you know about that, even though tuning in on a Monday is kind of a no-brainer in that respect.
But it did remind me of the two times I was served with a subpoena, neither of which included a tip for the server.
The first was in 1970, when I was a witness for the defense in an injunction hearing against some demonstrators.
It was a huge disappointment, because I knew I was being asked to testify and I was perfectly willing to do so, but I still wanted the experience of being served.
Instead, I got back to my house one evening and found the subpoena stuck in my screen door.
It's not like I was getting paid to testify, you know, and they could at least have given me the pleasure of a little drama, dammit.
The other time gave me all the drama I needed, however: After about a 15 minute conversation with a Maine State Trooper about an interview I'd done with a suspected murderer in which we agreed I wasn't going to hand over my notes willingly, he reached into his briefcase and handed over a grand jury subpoena.
Which did not change my views on reporters' notes, but it certainly made me think about picking up a new toothbrush and figuring out what to do with my dogs while we worked things out.
That was the gift that kept on giving, too, because the publisher had my back, as did the newspaper's owner.
And then the publisher left and, after a few weeks of my being the interim-publisher, the owner decided to retire and sold the paper to a regional chain that I'm pretty sure would not have kept me on the payroll while I sat in a cell preserving my journalistic ethics.
Fortunately, neither the cops nor I acted like confrontational *******s about it and, on the eve of the day I was to (not) testify, they dropped the demand.
Later, the chief investigator came up to me at a related news conference and said they knew I was just doing my job and that he was just doing his.
And, come to think of it, I did actually give him a tip, which was to tell one of the troopers when I heard that the suspect had moved, to which he chuckled and said, "Oh, we're keeping a very close eye on Mr. LaGasse."
And a closer one now, since they put him away fo-evah.
I also got served with papers over my divorce, I guess, but I honestly don't remember how that came about, which is one drawback to a civilized and relatively congenial parting of the ways.
I didn't mind keeping the drama to a minimum on that one.
And Rhymes with Orange reminds me not of my car, the rear windows of which are, indeed, festooned with nose smears, but of a time when I had four dogs, none of them more than 18 inches tall at the shoulder.
The nose smears on the windows at home were not terribly high, but since a prospective burglar wouldn't know that they were made by dogs standing on their hind legs, I felt they probably did the job.
And I thought about marketing a security kit that would consist of a bingo marker filled with glycerine to mark up your windows, plus a half dozen gigantic plastic dog turds to scatter around your yard.
Coulda shoulda woulda. I could be blogging from a beach in the BVI by now.
And Fowl Language is only off to the extent that little kids generally only escape temporarily into the outdoors underdressed, while it's their older brothers and sisters who head out there for the day as cool tools of fashion.
And the biggest tools I'm seeing amid the snow and ice of a New England winter are guys in their 20s in shorts, and not just shorts but baggy silky shorts. And low-cut sneakers in ankle-deep snow.
In cities like Buffalo — and, apparently, Minneapolis — working women switch to for-real winter coats and sweaters and boots when winter comes along, while in more moderate-but-still-Northern metro areas, they try to remain four-season fashionable even when surely they must be freezing as they go from bus stop to office.
But these guys are not dressing for success. They'd have to make more of an effort if they were simply headed to McDonald's for a shift.
Though I suppose they're not any less warm than those well-groomed twentysomething popinjays strutting around downtown in their flimsy $95 JC Penney suits.
And then there's today's Speed Bump, which brings to mind the poor kid in my cabin at Camp Lord O' The Flies one summer whose mother arrived for parents' weekend during rest period, walked into a cabin full of 11-year-old boys and gushingly addressed her son as "Weasel."
Since we had thought his name was "Nick," this did not go unnoticed.
And there were four more weeks of camp left.
28 days.
Practically a whole freakin' month.
He should have just packed up his gear and gotten in the car with her right then.
A more universal story:
I've seen a couple of links to this, and I suppose all my cartoonist friends know about it, but I didn't and it's pretty cool.
Mel Lazarus was not simply respected as a cartoonist but genuinely loved by his contemporaries, and this story of his last days and how he managed to wrap up his career, his life and his strip, "Momma," is both a testimony to professionalism and to his own irrepressible personality.
If you click on no other links today …
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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