As a precocious kid coming up in the 1970s, I was drawn to the editorial page of the morning newspaper, where I first discovered Gary Trudeau, with his irreverent but accurate portrayal of American narcissism in the form of “Doonesbury.”
Andrews McMeel Publishing has recently issued “40: A Doonesbury Retrospective,” a compendium of every strips published since the comic launched in 1970. Also included are brief chapters by Trudeau on his most significant characters, including Mike Doonesbury, Uncle Duke, Zonker Harris, and others.
At the beginning, Trudeau explains what the book is not. “It’s not about Watergate, gas lines, cardigans, Reagonomics, a thousand points of light, Monica, New Orleans, or even Dubya. None of that.” He is also sure readers will be “relieved” at this news.
Trudeau is confident readers are not interested in “decoding long-expired topical material.” He explains that the book is instead an attempt to show “how it felt to live through those years.” This coffee table sized read includes 13 percent of the 14,000 strips published.
His character’s and his comic strip’s history is all here, nonetheless. The strip began, as most regular readers will already know, while Trudeau was an undergraduate. His first character was B.D., inspired by a college pal. But when syndication came, he knew was necessary to expand his character pool, so soon after, between 1970 and 1974, came the additions of Mike Doonesbury, Mark Slackmeyer, Joanie Caucaus, and intrepid CNN newsman Roland Burton Hedley, Jr.
A quickly noticeable feature of the strip’s evolution is the development of the drawing style and coloration. The first few panels are black and white, the outlines suitably shaded, but less structured and less defined than those of later efforts.
That evolution is also evident in the character’s dialogue. Whereas Mike and B.D. are largely concerned at the outset with what college life might offer, whether there are enough girls to meet a mixers, or the power of campus protest, the acceleration into topics of national significance and lasting impact is remarkable for its historical significance.
Richard Nixon might not make an obvious appearance, but nonetheless, here are Mark, Mike, and B.D. handing out awards to “the men and women who made Watergate a reality.”
Just when it appears Trudeau and his imaginary friends might stay fixed on matters of national significance, however, they veer back toward the ordinary, such as when Mark’s father announces to his still sleeping son, “Yessir, tomorrow’s the first day of college and it’s time to shake down the old man for the upcoming semester.”
Trudeau's most iconic character, however, is Uncle Duke. Modeled on bombastic journalist Hunter S. Thompson, Duke is memorable, whether lambasting his CIA intern for launching a Predator drone, or praising his Samoan aide for mixing a pitcher of daquiris.
For a look back at who we are, check out "40: A Doonesbury Retrospective."
Good Reading.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Lord of Misrule
Winner of the National Book Award for Fiction recently, Lord of Misrule is an odd book. It isn't so much that the setting or the story arc are unorthodox; the story is set in a broken down horse racing world on the east coast and populated by characters with names like Medicine Ed and Suitcase. What makes the novel unusual, at least in contemporary fiction, is the narration. Where dialogue is concerned, dialect or vernacular has long been acceptable and at times preferable. But in narration, the deal with readers has always been that authors would revert to standard English usage. This is not the case here. The narration is rendered in half syllables, run-on sentences, and dropped suffixes. As well, the dialogue traffics in the relatively modern convention of not using quotation marks. I'm not sure the work isn't influenced by the style of Cormac McCarthy or Mark Twain.
In his slim treatise on the relationship between readers and writers, B.R. Myers, takes to task the new lords of fiction, criticizing McCarthy, Don Delillo, and others for their ventures into the ridiculous. I keep wondering what Myers will have to say about Lord of Misrule. I keep wondering what average readers will have to say as well.
In his slim treatise on the relationship between readers and writers, B.R. Myers, takes to task the new lords of fiction, criticizing McCarthy, Don Delillo, and others for their ventures into the ridiculous. I keep wondering what Myers will have to say about Lord of Misrule. I keep wondering what average readers will have to say as well.
The Golden Mean
In the early part of Anabel Lyon’s new novel “The Golden Mean,” Aristotle proclaims, “In the ideal state, the education of children will be the highest business of the government.”
That the book takes as its narrative arc the relationship between the famous teacher and his most notable student, Alexander the Great, offers a creative look into their well-known relationship, if not for a careful examination of his maxim.
Approaching middle age, Aristotle is summoned to Pella by his boyhood friend Philip, King of Macedonia. Along with his young and less than worldly wife Pythias, the philosopher embarks on a course that has long been considered a crossroad of history; the teenage Alexander and the aging thinker shadow box through their lessons, sometimes working together, other times at odds.
The novel is much more, however, than the simple amalgam of teacher and student. Aristotle’s heritage shades the story. He longs to return to Athens, to the Academy, where he can put aside the worry of daily life, the quotidian complications of maintaining his household, navigating the pitfalls of marriage, his young wife’s pregnancy, his king’s expectations, as well as his own desires.
This simplicity is not to be, however, as Philip leaves to expand his empire, expecting Aristotle to remain in Pella to provide some ethical stability and philosophical inspiration to his son and his mates. This maturing cadre of aristocrats challenges the old thinker.
For his part, Alexander suffers blackouts while in battle, committing atrocities on the battlefield he is later unable to recall. His behavior, recalled by others, clearly abhorrent, is a counterpointed by Aristotle’s own ignoble foray into battle. He serves with the medics, where he continues to develop his conclusions. He recognizes, “There is, too, the matter of purpose; can one say the soul is the purpose of the body? I feel a wooliness there, a gap in the teeth of my logic.”
Alexander and Aristotle find in each other their own aspirations, but also their own failures. Aristotle wishes for more worldly experiences, but knows these are fleeting, and because of his lineage traced from Socrates, he knows is constantly in pursuit of restraint.
This equilibrium is the golden mean, the balance between access and excess; the tipping point between mania and moderation. For his part, Alexander, raised by an ambitious father and a doting mother, wants for a more cerebral existence, but recognizes his inability to hold temptation at bay. Side by side, the two demonstrate both the height of human possibility, as well as the depth of human suffering.
“The Golden Mean” is Lyon’s first novel. Her writing blends an earthy diction with a
That the book takes as its narrative arc the relationship between the famous teacher and his most notable student, Alexander the Great, offers a creative look into their well-known relationship, if not for a careful examination of his maxim.
Approaching middle age, Aristotle is summoned to Pella by his boyhood friend Philip, King of Macedonia. Along with his young and less than worldly wife Pythias, the philosopher embarks on a course that has long been considered a crossroad of history; the teenage Alexander and the aging thinker shadow box through their lessons, sometimes working together, other times at odds.
The novel is much more, however, than the simple amalgam of teacher and student. Aristotle’s heritage shades the story. He longs to return to Athens, to the Academy, where he can put aside the worry of daily life, the quotidian complications of maintaining his household, navigating the pitfalls of marriage, his young wife’s pregnancy, his king’s expectations, as well as his own desires.
This simplicity is not to be, however, as Philip leaves to expand his empire, expecting Aristotle to remain in Pella to provide some ethical stability and philosophical inspiration to his son and his mates. This maturing cadre of aristocrats challenges the old thinker.
For his part, Alexander suffers blackouts while in battle, committing atrocities on the battlefield he is later unable to recall. His behavior, recalled by others, clearly abhorrent, is a counterpointed by Aristotle’s own ignoble foray into battle. He serves with the medics, where he continues to develop his conclusions. He recognizes, “There is, too, the matter of purpose; can one say the soul is the purpose of the body? I feel a wooliness there, a gap in the teeth of my logic.”
Alexander and Aristotle find in each other their own aspirations, but also their own failures. Aristotle wishes for more worldly experiences, but knows these are fleeting, and because of his lineage traced from Socrates, he knows is constantly in pursuit of restraint.
This equilibrium is the golden mean, the balance between access and excess; the tipping point between mania and moderation. For his part, Alexander, raised by an ambitious father and a doting mother, wants for a more cerebral existence, but recognizes his inability to hold temptation at bay. Side by side, the two demonstrate both the height of human possibility, as well as the depth of human suffering.
“The Golden Mean” is Lyon’s first novel. Her writing blends an earthy diction with a
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Finders Keepers
Each summer, my Mackinac Island backyard gives up a few archeological treasures. The site of a former blacksmith shop, the soil is rich with historical castoffs.
Though no one else is ever vying for these finds, Craig Childs’ book “Finders, Keepers” put me in mind of how tenuous is the relationship between searchers and their finds.
Childs, author of “Animal Dialogues” and “Soul of Nowhere,” trades on his experiences of the desert southwest to frame his thesis. However, what might appear obvious to some, namely that the dead do not continue to claim their castoffs, is not as obvious as Childs navigates the ethics of archeology.
“Spitting potsherds” as a youngster, Childs graduated to “unaffiliated backcountry aficionado,” and eventually backcountry guide. All the while, Childs was honing his finding skills, while developing his keepers’ ethos.
His conclusions are derived from his own experiences, as well as the experience of others, both those Childs applauds and those he loathes. One of the latter is Jack Haralson. An insurance salesman, Harelson was also an amateur archeologist, who once dug up “a 2,000-year-old sealed torso-sized basket, heavy with objects inside.” Among the objects inside is “a mummified boy who had been about four years old when he died, and below his leathery corpse was another mummy, that of a girl about ten years old.” Harelson kept the loot and buried the mummies in his backyard. For his pains, he spent eighteen months in prison and a $2.5 million fine.
On the other side of the equation are Emil Haury and Julian Hayden, also archeologists who explored the southwest, also discovered mummified remains, but who donated their finds to science. “The distance between these two ends of the spectrum,” Childs writes, “seems like forever, but it is not.”
Guiding a reporter, who is interested in the subject, Childs confronts the questions of ethics as they search for artifacts in the Arizona desert. “I did not want to force my own ethic on her,” he states. “We want to be the first ones to bridge the gap,” he says, “clearing the dust away and letting in light.” What he understands, however, is “if we opened it, the seal would be broken. It would be forever changed.”
This, of course, is the rub. “There is a difference between finding and keeping,” Childs warns. “The two are often lumped together in one action, but there is a blink that comes in between.” This blink is the territory where Childs finds questions that do not necessarily have clearly defined answers. “We have no single agreed-upon way of treating the past,” he reasons. “Behavior varies from person to person.” This variation can be problematic, causing either derision or adulation.
Childs suggests a direction, courtesy of James O. Young, of the University of British Columbia, who believes, “Artifacts ultimately belong to the cultures that made them…if they are proven to have had a genuine, substantial, and enduring significance to the people. If they aren’t so significant, it’s finders keepers.”
Though no one else is ever vying for these finds, Craig Childs’ book “Finders, Keepers” put me in mind of how tenuous is the relationship between searchers and their finds.
Childs, author of “Animal Dialogues” and “Soul of Nowhere,” trades on his experiences of the desert southwest to frame his thesis. However, what might appear obvious to some, namely that the dead do not continue to claim their castoffs, is not as obvious as Childs navigates the ethics of archeology.
“Spitting potsherds” as a youngster, Childs graduated to “unaffiliated backcountry aficionado,” and eventually backcountry guide. All the while, Childs was honing his finding skills, while developing his keepers’ ethos.
His conclusions are derived from his own experiences, as well as the experience of others, both those Childs applauds and those he loathes. One of the latter is Jack Haralson. An insurance salesman, Harelson was also an amateur archeologist, who once dug up “a 2,000-year-old sealed torso-sized basket, heavy with objects inside.” Among the objects inside is “a mummified boy who had been about four years old when he died, and below his leathery corpse was another mummy, that of a girl about ten years old.” Harelson kept the loot and buried the mummies in his backyard. For his pains, he spent eighteen months in prison and a $2.5 million fine.
On the other side of the equation are Emil Haury and Julian Hayden, also archeologists who explored the southwest, also discovered mummified remains, but who donated their finds to science. “The distance between these two ends of the spectrum,” Childs writes, “seems like forever, but it is not.”
Guiding a reporter, who is interested in the subject, Childs confronts the questions of ethics as they search for artifacts in the Arizona desert. “I did not want to force my own ethic on her,” he states. “We want to be the first ones to bridge the gap,” he says, “clearing the dust away and letting in light.” What he understands, however, is “if we opened it, the seal would be broken. It would be forever changed.”
This, of course, is the rub. “There is a difference between finding and keeping,” Childs warns. “The two are often lumped together in one action, but there is a blink that comes in between.” This blink is the territory where Childs finds questions that do not necessarily have clearly defined answers. “We have no single agreed-upon way of treating the past,” he reasons. “Behavior varies from person to person.” This variation can be problematic, causing either derision or adulation.
Childs suggests a direction, courtesy of James O. Young, of the University of British Columbia, who believes, “Artifacts ultimately belong to the cultures that made them…if they are proven to have had a genuine, substantial, and enduring significance to the people. If they aren’t so significant, it’s finders keepers.”
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Princess Noire
By many estimations Nina Simone was the height of cool. She was also the height of narcissism, as well as paranoia and pride.
Simone, the classically trained pianist from Tryon, North Carolina who wanted to be a concert performer but instead became an jazz and blues icon, is the subject of Nadine Cohodas’ biography “Princess Noire: The Tumultuous Reign of Nina Simone.”
A child prodigy born Eunice Waymon to enterprising parents in 1930s South, Simone caught her first musical break when she found the ear of a local white woman who agreed to sponsor the girl. Sent to another local white woman for piano lessons, Eunice progressed quickly. She regularly played her way through the heavyweights of classical composition as a child, demonstrating a keen affection for Bach.
From Tryon, Eunice made her way to Philadelphia, then a summer at the famed Julliard School in New York. Her goal was admission to the prestigious Curtis School of Music, where she intended to study classical piano, then go onto a career on the philharmonic stage.
What happened instead was a simple twist of fate. Cohodas provides a combination of speculation, hyperbole, and legend, retold by those who knew Simone best, to show the trajectory of her subsequent career. Rejected by Curtis, a now teenage Eunice Waymon earned money the only way she could, playing piano wherever she could.
Cohodas suggests the Curtis snub cut Eunice to the quick. “Over the ensuing half century that moment of despair would resurface, sometimes unexpectedly, with all the anguish of a fresh betrayal, and it would shape forever how she viewed her past.”
Over the next 50 years, navigating the civil rights movement, befriending literary luminaries such as Langston Hughes and Lorraine Hansberry, Simone earned a reputation as a champion of black rights, but also as a diva who could subject her audiences to both scorn and diatribe. She rarely started a show on time, and never missed a chance to speak out on race.
“Princess Noire” plumbs these musical and social depths of one of America’s most compelling voices.
Simone, the classically trained pianist from Tryon, North Carolina who wanted to be a concert performer but instead became an jazz and blues icon, is the subject of Nadine Cohodas’ biography “Princess Noire: The Tumultuous Reign of Nina Simone.”
A child prodigy born Eunice Waymon to enterprising parents in 1930s South, Simone caught her first musical break when she found the ear of a local white woman who agreed to sponsor the girl. Sent to another local white woman for piano lessons, Eunice progressed quickly. She regularly played her way through the heavyweights of classical composition as a child, demonstrating a keen affection for Bach.
From Tryon, Eunice made her way to Philadelphia, then a summer at the famed Julliard School in New York. Her goal was admission to the prestigious Curtis School of Music, where she intended to study classical piano, then go onto a career on the philharmonic stage.
What happened instead was a simple twist of fate. Cohodas provides a combination of speculation, hyperbole, and legend, retold by those who knew Simone best, to show the trajectory of her subsequent career. Rejected by Curtis, a now teenage Eunice Waymon earned money the only way she could, playing piano wherever she could.
Cohodas suggests the Curtis snub cut Eunice to the quick. “Over the ensuing half century that moment of despair would resurface, sometimes unexpectedly, with all the anguish of a fresh betrayal, and it would shape forever how she viewed her past.”
Over the next 50 years, navigating the civil rights movement, befriending literary luminaries such as Langston Hughes and Lorraine Hansberry, Simone earned a reputation as a champion of black rights, but also as a diva who could subject her audiences to both scorn and diatribe. She rarely started a show on time, and never missed a chance to speak out on race.
“Princess Noire” plumbs these musical and social depths of one of America’s most compelling voices.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Not For Profit
Martha Nussbaum makes an assertion in her new book that not all educators believe. Her premise is that liberal arts are necessary for a strong democracy, but the shift in the educational paradigm over the past fifteen years or so is toward outcomes that can be measured on multiple choice tests. This is antithetical to the notions espoused in liberal arts classes that counter the student should construct meaning from a variety of sources, presented with the idea that while bias is always inherent, prejudice is to be avoided.
As professor of Ethics at the University of Chicago, Nussbaum no doubt knows first hand the dilemma many students face in classes where the quest is for the right answer rather than for a strong argument. This dichotomy has long vexed educators and students alike, as we play at school, when what is valuable is shunted into a corner because it cannot be quantified.
Building her own argument on the work of Bronson Alcott, Rabindranath Tagore, and others, Nussbaum believes this marginalization of the arts is indeed a "silent crisis." Her remedy? A renewed investment in the arts and in the Socratic Method, which provides a student centered approach to education that is in keeping with the educational theorists she champions, such as Jean-Jacques Rousseau and Johann Pestalozzi.
Nussbaum goes to great lengths to state that math and science are valuable commodities in the marketplace of education, but argues more vehemently that democracy, with its insistence on providing advantage for all, can only be bolstered with a vigorous infusion of art, music, theatre, history, and literature.
As professor of Ethics at the University of Chicago, Nussbaum no doubt knows first hand the dilemma many students face in classes where the quest is for the right answer rather than for a strong argument. This dichotomy has long vexed educators and students alike, as we play at school, when what is valuable is shunted into a corner because it cannot be quantified.
Building her own argument on the work of Bronson Alcott, Rabindranath Tagore, and others, Nussbaum believes this marginalization of the arts is indeed a "silent crisis." Her remedy? A renewed investment in the arts and in the Socratic Method, which provides a student centered approach to education that is in keeping with the educational theorists she champions, such as Jean-Jacques Rousseau and Johann Pestalozzi.
Nussbaum goes to great lengths to state that math and science are valuable commodities in the marketplace of education, but argues more vehemently that democracy, with its insistence on providing advantage for all, can only be bolstered with a vigorous infusion of art, music, theatre, history, and literature.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Shadow of the Wolf Tree
Joe Heywood has a good thing going, and in his new installment, Shadow of the Wolf Tree he keeps it going.
Conservation officer Grady Service and his military buddy Tree are after a bit of r and r on the banks of a remote upper peninsula river when their tranquility is blasted by the work of what appear to be militant eco-warriors. With the discovery of two long dead bodies, the brutal murder of an out state fisherman, and the prospect of a long forgotten gold mine, Shadow of the Wolf Tree quickly catapults Service back to the front lines of environmental law and order.
After recently losing the woman he loved, Maridly Nantz, the aging woods cop now finds himself pursued by his new partner, Tuesday Friday, a new mother and a state trooper. When he figures he has the expectations worked out, he finds his perspective turned sideways, providing for some tension that is neither professional nor imagined.
Tramping through the north woods once again, Grady Service makes his way along the trail of loose ends, piecing together the clues of more than one eco-mystery.
Along for the ride are a host of regular Heywood characters, including the lovable but despicable Limpy Allerdyce, perhaps the Yoop's most notorious game violator. Back too are many of Service's allies, including Captain Lorne O'Driscoll and Simon Del Olmo.
Before its conclusion, Shadow of the Wolf Tree finds Service in typical Heywood form, angling through a messy swamp of convoluted clues, intent on once again restoring order.
Conservation officer Grady Service and his military buddy Tree are after a bit of r and r on the banks of a remote upper peninsula river when their tranquility is blasted by the work of what appear to be militant eco-warriors. With the discovery of two long dead bodies, the brutal murder of an out state fisherman, and the prospect of a long forgotten gold mine, Shadow of the Wolf Tree quickly catapults Service back to the front lines of environmental law and order.
After recently losing the woman he loved, Maridly Nantz, the aging woods cop now finds himself pursued by his new partner, Tuesday Friday, a new mother and a state trooper. When he figures he has the expectations worked out, he finds his perspective turned sideways, providing for some tension that is neither professional nor imagined.
Tramping through the north woods once again, Grady Service makes his way along the trail of loose ends, piecing together the clues of more than one eco-mystery.
Along for the ride are a host of regular Heywood characters, including the lovable but despicable Limpy Allerdyce, perhaps the Yoop's most notorious game violator. Back too are many of Service's allies, including Captain Lorne O'Driscoll and Simon Del Olmo.
Before its conclusion, Shadow of the Wolf Tree finds Service in typical Heywood form, angling through a messy swamp of convoluted clues, intent on once again restoring order.
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