With the Funky-thon officially concluded, our narrative turns not to Summer sports, nor to band camp; neither to the Les-Cayla-Susan triangle. As “Crazy” Harry sits at Montoni’s counter abusing the free coffee, in the back of the pizza joint two co-workers pass like ships in the afternoon. Wally has traded in his ballcap for an olive drab schmatte, and carries a teetering stack of plates (a “lazy man’s load”, my Mom would say). Rachel, apparently desperately lonely and/or hot for Wally, responds to his offhand greeting as if it were a marriage proposal: “Yes? YES? SAY IT, Walter! Say the word, my soldier boy!” She is mortified when Wally orders her to stand down.
The good news here is that the nearly two-month long Funky-thon (if you go back to June 9 when DSH John ccouldn’t pay his rent) appears to be concluded at long last (except we will never know what happened to the other driver).
The bad news? Les in an apron. And “Crazy” Harry, “thinking”. Apparently the only postal worker Batiuk has ever known is a guy from Boston named Cliff Clavin. Of course, Cliff was able to make us laugh, while “Crazy’s” musings only serve to give us douche chills.
Today’s entry feels like a filler strip bridging us over to Sunday. In case it was lost on anyone two weeks ago: yes, somehow by conflating time travel and dreams, Old Funky put it in Young Funky’s head to buy a comic that would be ridiculously valuable a mere 25 to 30 years hence. Way to put a big bow on it, TB.
“Sometimes I go about in pity for myself, and all the while a great wind carries me across the sky.” —Ojibwe saying (by way of The Sopranos)
It’s not enough that Funky’s long strange trip has touched on themes of aging parent issues, flirtation with alcoholic relapse, the perils of distracted driving, and leaving one’s youth behind. The Great Wind that is Tom Batiuk cannot rest without piling on yet another “timely” reference to the struggling economy.
Son of Stuck Funky 