I like things like photography, horror movies and cats, but those likings are not deep, obsessive interests–the kind that I talk about all the time, or am constantly steering the conversation toward–so this whole week has left me a little baffled. I’m trying to imagine a child of mine coming up to me, showing me the engagement ring he’s bought, and my response is something like–
“Wow, cool! Did you meet her through a camera club? What kind of camera does she own, and what kind of pictures does she like to take? Is she a Nikon or a Canon person? How many pictures of cats has she taken?”
I’d be much more interested in what she’s like, how they met, are you sure about this, are you prepared to start a family, when can I meet her–all without throwing in anything about cameras or cats. And adding my sincere congratulations and wishes for happiness. That’s generally how these things work.
Not Holly. All she can talk about are comic books, comic books, comic books. As I said earlier, she has a mild interest in her son’s future, but it’s nothing to the torch she carries for comic books. That doesn’t seem very healthy to me. After having comic books relentlessly thrown in my face by this strip, I will reluctantly concede that it’s fine to have an interest in them, but unless you’re connected to the industry, a 24/7 love-fest is not a life. Fat, drunk, and comic-book-obsessed is no way to go through life, son (if I may borrow a quote).
I’m guessing that Chester’s geyser of ecstasy is supposed to make him look ridiculous, but it comes across a bit hypocritical given the fury Holly displayed earlier–and her lackadaisical response to an upcoming massive change in Cory’s life. Yeah, that Chester sure looks silly, Mr. Batiuk, but…physician, heal thyself.
Here’s a picture of my cat. I took it with a Nikon after watching a horror DVD. See, two can play that game.