The First Monday in November

Link to today’s strip.

Cue the shrieking violins from Bernard Herrmann’s Psycho score.

In a town where calamity awaits around every corner, what exactly did Holly expect would happen?  Did she really expect that Cory would appreciate all the “effort” she put into completing his collection?  I seem to recall a lot of commentators here saying that Cory’s reaction would be, “Thanks a lot, mom, but I’m not into comics anymore.”

I do have to say it’s kind of clever how Holly discovered the empty box.  A full box would not have moved from a simple bump, but an empty one slides easily.  I wonder if she’ll call the police?  That would make sense, but “making sense” is seldom on the menu here.

Anyway, it’s a week of comic books!  Again!   What is it about comic books?  I mean, there are things that I like, things I enjoy, but I don’t wallow in them 24/7, nor do I push them into every context in which I find myself.  There’s nothing wrong with enjoying something, but to base your whole life around it seems like going way overboard.

But I guess extremism in the cause of comic books is no vice.  Or something.

The Lights In The Sky Are Stars

Link to today’s strip.

This could be kind of sweet, if we liked these characters even slightly.  Since they have been deliberately fashioned to be as unlikable as possible, instead this is just three panels of wasted space.

It’s interesting how the viewpoint shifts–in panel one, Les starts with “I’m,” meaning he (as usual) only cares about his own feelings.  In panel three, Cayla goes for the “We’ll,” somehow hoping to include herself.  Does she really think she’ll ever be included in Les’ world?

I can’t really think of anything else to say about this one, so on to the comment section wi’ ye!

Chips Ahoy

Link to today’s strip.

Well, it’s the same dim-witted word-play, the same squinty eyes, the same smirks all around.  Everyone looks both miserable and punchable as always.   Or, as it’s usually known around here, “Friday.”

I confess – I wrote the above paragraph before I’d even seen the strip.  I figure it’s a good guess.  We’ve had four days of “Lisa’s favorite tree must be culled” and when the Glorious Author has a Lisa Fetish, that’s an itch that just can’t be scratched away in a strip or two.   That Pulitzer nomination must just gnaw at Tom Batiuk night and day, all seasons of the year, every waking moment.   That’s the lure of the established awards culture.

You know what made me re-think the entire “Awards Have Meaning” thing?  The 1979 Grammy Awards.  The nominees for “Best New Artist” were Chris Rea, The Cars, Elvis Costello, Toto, and A Taste of Honey.  Look at those names, and look at their careers.   Costello, the Cars and Toto went on to have big hits, become household names, and influence millions of bands and record buyers.  And the winner that year was…A Taste Of Honey, a disco band that had one hit and went nowhere afterward.

My point is this–you killed off Lisa so you could get an award.  It didn’t happen.  Acknowledge this and move on.  A Taste of Honey still has their award, but Elvis Costello wrote, and continues to write, great songs that will speak forever.  Both Toto and the Cars made hits that you can find on the radio every day of the year.

You could give it a shot, Mr. Batiuk.  Throw the past away.  Shred that letter from the Pulitzer committee.  Move on.

And, if you’re going to move on, please kill Les Moore.  Your fans would love that.  A LOT.  I mean, it would require re-tooling the strip into something positive, but then…are you Toto, or A Taste of Honey?  Because that’s the real question.

Blightmare

Link to today’s strip.

Here’s something I like about today’s strip.  No, it’s not the idiotic word-play.  It’s not the artwork, the falling leaves, or the grotesque slab of Les’ greasy hair in panel two.  (Seriously, look at that.  I mean, we all want him to melt in agony, yet here it is and it isn’t any fun at all!)

No, what I like are the expressions in panel three.  Those are three of the most bitter, most miserable people in the world.   Even the guy who’s delivering the pun doesn’t look pleased with himself–he looks as if he’s really loathing himself for having to do this.

What we see here are three people realizing that they are mere toys in the hands of an angry god, and they must dance for his pleasure or burn.  They have one freedom left:  the freedom not to smirk at a pun.  They can withhold their approval in this one thing without fear of annihilation.

No wonder both Les and Cayla envy Les’ dead wife.  Even though the dead can never rest, they can’t die again. either.

Of course, Les’ expression in panel three is typical of him when someone else delivers wordplay.  It just galls him when someone beats him to the punline.  I recall Barry Balderman’s remark about “Life is like masking tape, the more you use, the less you have” (or whatever he said).  Les’ face then was just Boy do I hate you.  Boy do I hate you.  Lisadamnit, I’m supposed to do the clever stuff. 

Given what passes for “clever” in these parts, I suspect most cast members would be happy to pass it off to Les.  “Happy” being the completely wrong word, of course….