(Rep. Andy Kim in Montclair, N.J.)
Before we lost our way, when boys believed that cigarettes looked cool and parents could could discipline their kids without stigma, everyone knew how to punish an underaged smoker. You gave the wretch a whole pack of cigs, usually twenty, and made him smoke them all, end to end. A cheeky little pleasure could turn into torture. Get sick off something and your TRCs started saying “hey, this is awful; time to vomit.”
I never proved this with cigarettes. The closest I came, back in the year 2000, was finding far too much amusement in a game called “flaming thumb” that two Australians taught me at a Model United Nations conference.
Step one: Dip your thumb in sambuca.
Step two: Light the alcohol now soaking that thumb on fire.
Step three: Display the thumb to fellow party-goers, bar patrons, delegates from the Republic of Chad, whatever.
Step four: Take the shot.
Step five: Put the thumb in your mouth, dousing the flame.
Doing this once was pretty stupid; doing it seven times at one party gave me a puke-stained jacket and a lifelong revulsion at the sight — and god forbid, the smell — of anything with star anise.
Anyway, after taking plenty of time to catch up on movies over the holidays, I hit my puke point. Too much of my life was being spent in front of screens. Time for a little pause. I’ve seen half of the movies that won the Palm d’Or, 246 of Roger Ebert’s 378 “great” movies, 625 of the 1001 “Movies to See Before You Die.” Every Oscar winner? Did that years ago, probably up to date this year, unless there’s a sudden calvary charge for “Origin” or something. For a while I’m going to take back the hours that had been spent on movies, freeze a few subscriptions, and spend more time with the alternatives. Music. Books. Other people? Sure, why not.
If this sounds like a “New Year’s Resolution,” fine. There is too much contrarian spittle directed at people when they say they’re hitching minor life changes to the calendar. And week one on the “how about fewer movies?” plan was a success, with one exception: For the first time in years I didn’t fall asleep as soon as I hit the pillow. Had I started relying on movies to lull me to bed? Probably, but I weaned myself off by Thursday and started passing out hard again — real, restorative, waking-up-and-forgetting-what-room-you’re-in sleep.
Obviously I’m keeping up the diary, too. Self-tracking was the best thing I did last year. Some weeks I have fun travel stories to dish about, some weeks I’m just going to list the things I read while procrastinating, but the extremely small challenge of putting free thoughts together every week was worth it. Welcome back, as Alan Partridge says, to the places of my life.
Oh, did you think that long introduction was delaying a good story? No, read it again — the point was that I’d been inhaling movies instead of doing things. We got back to real life this week, defying the resolution jinx with a gym visit, buying a special duffle bag to store our plastic Christmas tree in. (I’m not allergic to a real tree, but we’ll get to that when we buy more space.) The presidential primary will eat my life for a few weeks, but not yet. I headed to New Jersey for some reporting, I prepared for my trip to Iowa, and I will head to Iowa.
The Best Thing I Read: “Three Rocks,” the surprisingly tender and beautiful biography of “Nancy” and her creator, Ernie Bushmiller. I’ve been banging on about this for a while, but Bill Griffith’s late career graphic novels are astounding — one about investigating the secret life of his mother, one about the real man who inspired Zippy the Pinhead, and a short 24-page eulogy for his wife Diane Noomin. (When I queued up for Griffith’s signature at SPX last year, the Fantagraphics handler told me he would sign anything but the Noomin book. No one disobeyed.)
Griffith fills a need here, closely studying a man who didn’t court media attention; Griffith told The Comics Journal that he didn’t realize, until research began, just how smart the cartoonist was. He knew how to pitch his work to “gum-chewers,” while writing seriously elevated gags.
I knew none of this. There are some nice things about being born in the 1980s, but a downside I only realized this week was that I grew up with the Jerry Scott and Guy Gilchrists take on Nancy. Scott was forgettable, but the Gilchrist take was execrable — Nancy as a kewpie doll who taught and learned valuable lessons, living with a distractingly sexy Aunt Fritzi. (Bushmiller inherited a Ritzi Fritzi strip and gave her a niece named Nancy, and here we are.) My young eyes learned to skip over that shit and find “Calvin and Hobbes.”
The critical consensus, which I’m fine with, is that Olivia Jaimes saved “Nancy” in 2018, restoring Bushmiller’s original vision. Nancy is not cute, but weird-looking. The jokes are not heart-warming, but surreal. The comic panel isn’t a format for heartwarming stories, but a medium to play with, and run jack-in-the-box surprises on the reader. Griffith doesn’t like it, and you can make your own mind up. Just read his book.
Books read
Dan Simmons, “Prayers to Broken Stones”
Sammy Harkham, “Blood of the Virgin”
Bill Griffith, “Three Rocks: The Story of Ernie Bushmiller, the Man Who Created Nancy”
Joshua Green, “The Rebels: Elizabeth Warren, Bernie Sanders, Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, and the Struggle for a New American Politics”
Philip K. Dick, “Ubik”
Rob Gibbons, Neil Gibbons and Steve Coogan, “Alan Partridge: Nomad”
All keepers. “Ubik” doesn’t need one more recommendation; you know it’s good. “Alan Partridge: Nomad” is the second “Partridge” audiobook I’ve listened to — hours of tremendous self-effacing comedy about Norwich’s favorite professional failure. Partridge, wracked with envy over the success other medium talents have had with travel shows, endeavors to walk from Norwich to the Dungeness “A” Nuclear Reactor, in the steps of his father. (His late father once had a job interview at the plant, but ghosted it.) All of his proceeds go to “the world’s first pro-nuclear charity,” which he abbreviates to “Alvin’s Foundation” on the theory that donors will assume Alvin was some kid who died of leukemia. This is the best Coogan delivery service I’ve found yet.
Books bought
Robert J. Sawyer, “Hominids”
Thomas F. Monteleone, “Fearful Symmetries”
Both Kindle books. Have we discussed, boringly, how I keep a bunch of books I’m interested in on a list and buy the e-books if the price falls below $3? It’s a good system. I will read these by 2032.
The Best Thing I Watched: Did you not read the intro? It’s all right there! Fine, I laughed at least four times watching Dunkey’s gag video about streaming services.
The Best Thing I Heard: Sly Stone’s “Crossword Puzzle,” which I remembered after reading Ted Gioia’s Sly appreciation, even though it’s pretty rough on his post-peak records. You’ve almost certainly heard the hook before, because De La Soul used it for “Say No Go.”
Short and back at it. See you next week.