Opus is Back

https://www.facebook.com/berkeleybreathed/photos/a.114529165244512.10815.108793262484769/1004028256294594/?type=1&pnref=story

Berkeley Breathed just posted a new comic on his Facebook page.

It's been 8 years since he last published a comic.

He's the creator of the Bloom County, Outland, and Opus comic strips. The comics cover the adventures of a band of misfits, and center around a jovial and neurotic penguin, Opus.

 While Bill Watterson's Calvin and Hobbes informed my philosophy, and Jim Davis' Garfield shaped my precocious pessimism, Breathed's Bloom County served as a political/current events primer. This was especially useful/weird for a kid who didn't discuss politics at home. Who was this C. Everett Koop, and why is it funny that he gets killed by tofu and bean sprouts?

The timing of his return can't be coincidental. And if I had to guess, it has to do with Donald Trump.

One of the main long-running stories that emerged in Breathed's comics centered around the brain transplant of Donald Trump into the body of Bill D. Cat, the gross, anti-Garfield tongue fetishist. (And possible proto-Hodor: his vocabulary consisted of Ack! and Thbbft!)

"Billthecat". Licensed under Fair use via Wikipedia - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Billthecat.jpg#/media/File:Billthecat.jpg

Yeah, there's a lot of sophomoric humor. Maybe that's why I love it so.

Anyway, it's interesting to see Bill transform from bizarre cat to, well, Donald Trump in a cat's body. But between the laughs, there's some good commentary. I still remember this comic.

http://welcometoyouredoom.tumblr.com/post/104760707206

Welcome back, Berkeley Breathed. This might be just a way to fund your powerboating habit. But maybe, just maybe, you see that there is a need for your type of satire.

Charleston

Something had been bugging me about the coverage of the nine murders at Charleston Emanuel AME.

At this time, it seems pretty clear that the shooter was motivated by white supremacy, that he went out of his way to target this specific church because of its tremendous legacy, that he had been forbidden to purchase a weapon because of a pending charge, and that he still had access to at least one weapon. Furthermore, the Confederate flag still flies at the statehouse, but not over it, and will likely not be moved to half-mast.

All of this is documented reasonably well.

But what I return to, over and over again, is how that prayer group welcomed him, allowed them to join, and prayed together.

Faith, especially a faith of redemption, doesn't give people superpowers. If anything it makes people more trusting, more naive, more oblivious to warnings.

It is easy to say

"They should've been skeptical!"

"Why would a white boy show up there?"

and, I'm sorry to see some have even said,

"Innocent people died because of his position on a political issue" [voting against a law that would have permitted gun owners to bring concealed weapons into public places, including churches]

They were armed better than you or I know.

The pastor, Clementa Pinckney, appears to have been a young, healthy man. He didn't pull out a gun. He didn't try to tackle the shooter.

He talked to him. Even in the midst of such carnage and immediate danger, he tried to appeal to this man.

Now, some will say that this was a mistake, that perhaps he should've fought.

Perhaps faith made him more vulnerable.

But isn't that what faith is? Vulnerability?

Faith, for many, is about security, about certainty, about conviction. But it doesn't promise outcomes. The people gathered in that prayer meeting had lives that spanned several decades. They had seen history. They would have had to be blind not to know that what made them great made them a target.

They still welcomed him.

Maybe I wish that things had happened differently, that these nine people -- ten, even -- were still alive, able to do the works great and small that made them a community. Maybe they should have been more careful.

The only thing I know is that they had a welcoming, trusting, spirit that escapes my understanding, which I can only ascribe to a faith I cannot share, but appreciate nonetheless.

There are many stories written into this tragedy: terrorism, racism, gun violence. But there is also faith -- not in a distant God, but in other humans, that caused them to open the door, to welcome, and to appeal, to the very end, for the triumph of goodness over evil.

Now it's time for us to be worthy of that faith. What will we do?

Vroman's Bookstore

I'm a book hoarder.

Note: this doesn't mean I'm well-read. People seem to have that impression. The secret is that I talk about the same three books I've read all year. I'd like to think it's because they are good enough books that they have application to a wide range of circumstances or situations. But maybe it's because I'm a charlatan and a fraud in the knowledge cannery.

I stopped by Vroman's Bookstore, an independent bookstore in Pasadena, in part because I needed something to do in Pasadena, and in part because I now live in a bookstore desert. (The nearest Barnes and Noble stores are in Glendale and Fullerton. All others, including the one in Old Town Pasadena, have shuttered.) A student entering 9th grade needed a copy of The Glass Castle. (Her choice for summer reading -- she and her brother are pretty impressive.)

As I was browsing, I noticed these small laminated cards containing handwritten recommendations from staffers. I noticed that someone named Rafael seemed to have the same taste in US biographies. Curious, I inquired as to his disposition, both spatial and temperamental.

"Um, excuse me. Is Rafael working today?"

"Yes! He's in the back room."

"Does he ever work the floor?"

"Nah. He's the only one that requests to work in the back."

This sounded promising. The guy with tastes similar to my own seemed to be an antisocial troglodyte.

"Um... could I speak with him, if he's not too busy? We seem to have the same tastes in books."

"Sure!" *calls him up* "Oh, by the way, he teaches history at ELAC (East Los Angeles Community College."

For a moment I had that sinking feeling that I had in academic settings in which I demonstrated tremendous intellectual inferiority. I had a flashback to that time when I suggested Robert Kagan, a neoconservative, was writing as a liberal, which earned me the incredulous glance of the otherwise unflappable Professor Andrews. Or that time I asked a question, and had Professor Chen suggest, in front of my entire graduating class, "It looks like someone didn't read the book!"

Then I remembered: I'm a grown-ass man with money in an American store! I can be as ignorant as I damn well please! Emboldened by the pocket bulge of a wallet, I greeted Rafael with a vigorous handshake.

As it turns out, he was friendly and weird in that sort of academic way. We chatted about the relative merits of a biography written by a historian as opposed to a newspaper columnist, about accusations concerning Hamilton's heritage, and whether or not the new Nixon biography would live up to expectations. ("A lot of books written by journalists get a lot of attention, but they end up being surface rehashes of things already known.")

And so, I paid retail, hardcover prices for two books.

Reagan: The Life, by H. W. Brands

The author, according to Rafael, has conservative leanings. "If you're left-wing, you'll probably hate it." I took that as a challenge, though I suppose even if I hate it, it will make a welcome gift to my cousin. If nothing else, I am curious how Edmund Morris, the outstanding Theodore Roosevelt biographer, foundered on this subject.

Being Nixon: A Man Divided, by Evan Thomas.

Although Rafael had this book in mind when commenting on "rehashing known material", I found drawn by the Fresh Air interview too compelling....

wait, did I get the wrong book?

Argh.

Well, at least I still have the receipt somewhere.  The perils of shopping with a dead smartphone.

Anyway, this is probably going to be a difficult summer as far as reading is concerned. I'm probably open to suggestions, although there is perhaps no insult quite as specifically annoying as a rebuffed/ignored book recommendation.

Unforced errors aside, I liked this aspect of Vroman's. Makes me wish I was part of a book club.

An Honest Mother's Day Card to Grandma

Dear Grandma,

Sorry I've been such a screwup and haven't kept in touch. Please accept this offering of a glittery card in type that is, upon further reflection, too small to be legible. It is a down payment on the debt of years of equally crappy cards that I never sent.

Guilt is generally effective, and no guilt is as effective as grandma guilt. When I called you last Mother's Day, I did so because I hadn't remembered to send a card in time. It broke my heart to hear you say that none of the other grandkids had written or called. This is the only case in which me wishing you to have memory problems is not a terrible thing.

You're old. Possibly 90. I'm not sure, because I am a terrible grandson, and we haven't kept in touch. You've seen the world. You have stories to tell. But I'm not supposed to ask. Did you really study in Japan and get trapped there by the war? Did you really disguise yourself as a man to avoid rape and forced prostitution? Grandpa isnt around anymore, but maybe you can tell me about his younger brother, about the fights that led to Hideo joining the US army and dying in France. I had copied the inscription of his name on the 442nd/100th monument in Little Tokyo, and was going to send it to you. I can't recall if I did -- I think there was some concern that it would dredge up bad memories.

Is it terrible that I want to know about the dramatic events of your life, instead of the grueling, daily reality of raising five kids on the farm? I know you fucking hated farming, or at least being married to a farmer. I don't know if you hated grandpa or not -- we have the luxury of marrying for love now. You made it work, and thank you for that.

Did you know something was off about Dad? Bipolar I usually manifests itself in the teens. The vocabulary of mental illness didn't really exist then, and certainly not in rural Hawaii. But I don't know -- grandpa did read a lot, when he wasn't writing angrily to the local newspaper about taxes or the constitution. I remember writing to you both about my depression, and he replied with a message advising vitamins and exercise. I think Grandpa knew a lot, but perhaps didn't understand people. Maybe I'm not so different.

I know we discussed about you leaving the farm. It'll be hard to leave, and god knows I hope your family doesn't go through the same problems mine did when they sold property. Your family. Not Mine. It feels that way. I can't say it's just Dad, either. I'm sorry, but I believed that after Dad died, I wouldn't keep in touch with that side. And it's sort of worked out that way. This crappy card is one of the few connections. It's a fragile metaphor of all the things that could have been and weren't, and all the things that shouldn't have been but were.

I'm sorry Grandma. I'm sorry life hadn't been easy for you.

You have a wonderful laugh, and I hope you make more use of it.

Love,

Ryan

Reunion

Joy, I don't really understand.

But pain?

That is more familiar, more real, and more interesting.

Ten years sounds like a long time. It is a long time. And yet it felt as if many of us were holding our breath. Uncertainty.

Some of us, including yours truly, seemed in better shape now than at five years. We had left grad school. We had found jobs. We had, slowly, rebuilt our confidence, our reserves of emotional energy, and rebuilt -- or built, really built, for the first time -- our sense of self. Maybe we were still reacting to circumstances, but those sprints seemed less harried, with the gap between action and reaction growing, and the gaps between events a bit more comfortably long.

Some of us were less secure now than five years ago.

After ten years, those still in academia were still navigating postdocs, professorships, research positions, and teaching offers.

Some had left or lost their jobs.

Some had kids.

Some were getting ready to finish or leave school, and waiting for the next step.

Whether people were doing well, or doing poorly, it felt like many of us were in some sort of transition.

What a ten years. I think a lot of us bore scars. We were the graduating class that were one week into college when 9/11 happened. We had a cross burning on campus. We went through the drama of the Kerri Dunn saga. The recession hit our class pretty hard, and some of us won't make it up.

The pain we talked about, though, wasn't macro pain. It was personal, private, but in this space, seemed safe to share. Not all shared, and no one shared all. But enough to remind me that these people that intimidate me even as they inspire had lived.

And I was proud of them for fighting for their lives and happiness and purpose, as desperately as our ancient ancestors fought over scraps of meat. These aren't only people who were brilliant and hardworking and lucky. They are survivors.

When I learned that, I loved them for it. I chided myself for not listening better in the past. Pride and insecurity had deadened my ears then, when we were all young and present. How could I forget that under all that talent and beauty were real people, maybe as scared and uncertain as I was? How had I made them gods, and by doing so, forgotten to be present and helpful?

This isn't about me. It's about them. I'm so proud of them. I couldn't give a rat's ass about their professional successes. I should, but I just really don't care. I love the people they've become, the emergent selves that push with grace or blunt power against the world, and build up, raise up, speak up.

I'm misrepresenting. Most of reunion was laughing and catching up, revelry and reminiscing. But I will forget that; those things will fade. I will remember the vulnerability. Remember, but not define, for we each own our grief, and own our responses.

As for the school, we borrowed it for a weekend. And I realized that it never belonged to us.  Maybe we believed our work bought us ownership. But we were borrowers. The school has changed, is changing, in ways I don't fully understand. I am too confused to be hostile, and too ancient and distant to be proud.

But these people? These Mudders? I suppose we belong to each other. At least, I belong to them, and that's a wonderful place to be.

Constants

"I need to look up the mass of the Sun."

"It's 1.989x10^30 kg."

"Wow. How do you know this stuff?"

How indeed, young man.

Once, when the world was young, or so I believed, for I was the center that could hold...

Once, I dreamed of distant space. It whispered to me in long, lonely nights. Within those distant, imagined lights--imagined, for the haze was strong, the neon maelstrom of brash immediacy strangled the utility of sight--I glimpsed a way out. Out of awkwardness, out of fear, out of the promised but never realized dangers of a mad father and the social anxieties of a grasping mother. Out! Out of the proscriptions and rules I had set myself to protect myself--or was it the other? It was high ground, the highest ground, from which all care and fear was unassailable.

Once, too, I climbed and flailed, begged and lied, stole and betrayed my way toward the light. I was a fool, but a fool can do much if he is motivated and remains ignorant of the hopelessness of his cause.

I drifted upward, ever upward. And when I met the stars, they farted in my face, laughed, and cast me down.

I awoke a half-blind bottom dweller, a trader of dreams and secrets, the greatest of which is that I am a promise that will not deliver.

"It's the mass of our Sun. It's important."