Quote of the Week: A Night in Hollywood

In the Hollywood Roosevelt bar she complained of the air and said she felt wretched and old. Nonsense, I told her, but we moved to the Zebra Room. She had shifted to Irish whisky, which she drank straight. In the Zebra Room she accused a man at the next table of looking at her contemptuously. I suggested more air. She drove down Wilshire as if she was trying to break through into another dimension. I had to park the Buick for her at the Ambassador. I'd left my car at Swift's.

 - Ross Macdonald, The Moving Target, p.53

John Cuneo's Good Intentions

John Cuneo is an illustrator: he's done a bunch of New Yorker covers, worked for Esquire, and so on. But, like any artist, there's work that he wants to do that doesn't fit into what clients want him to draw.

So he's had a series of books collecting his other work, over the past twenty years: nEuROTIC, Not Waving But Drawing, Coping Skills. And, just last year, most recently, John Cuneo's Good Intentions.

His style is familiar, and the older book titles vaguely so, but I can't prove I ever read any of them, or point to a specific time I saw a Cuneo illustration. (That's the curse of illustrators: they're hired to provide distinctive and visually interesting work entirely to support something else. Cuneo has done a bunch of celebrity caricatures, as seen on his site, which I expect originally accompanied various profiles.)

So this was probably the first time I saw a bunch of Cuneo work - and definitely so a bunch of work I knew was by Cuneo. Good Intentions collects eighty or so color drawings, in three themed chapters: In the Wild, In the Studio, and In the Home. More than half of the drawings are captioned, but they're not quite cartoons - the captions are wry, descriptive, allusive, narrative.

And, of course, most of the drawings are about sex, one way or another. (That's what "personal work" means for artists, isn't it?)

They're not sexy, though: Cuneo draws mostly lumpy, middle-aged people, with a few more pounds and wrinkles than they'd like, and his loose line and watercolors can give their skin a mottled look, too. His women tend to be slightly more attractive than his men: their faces are grotesque only occasionally, while men are caricatures around half the time. But there's a lot of flesh in this book: tits and ass and dick, often engaged in activities with other people. Again, it's not particularly attractive tits and ass and dick, so don't go here if that's what you're looking for. (You're on the internet: attractive tits and ass and dick are always only a click away, photographic, hand-drawn, or AI-generated.)

So this is an odd book. It's not quite funny - it's not trying to tell jokes. It's amusing, and quirky, and definitely making commentary about modern life and types of people and things like that. It's not unlike a book of cartoons; it's just not aiming for a laugh reaction. And it is quite polymorphously perverse, which could be a bonus or a detriment, depending on the reader.

Proof That the Devil Loves You by Gilbert Hernandez

So Gilbert Hernandez makes his regular comics stories - I almost said "normal," but that's not the right word here - with continuing characters set in a real world. They get pretty rococo; Hernandez is fond of overcomplication and of turning his theme-amplifier knob up to eleven and then trying to twist it up even further. But scenes have the same people in them, and those people have regular relationships that the stories explain and depict.

He also makes stories that are meant to be fictions within his already-fictional world - I think they've all been "movies" so far, but I don't want to be dogmatic. (Hernandez is deeply inventive, both stylistically and formally.) These focus on his character Fritz, who was a basically normal-proportioned woman who worked as a psychologist in her earliest appearances, but at some point turned into a worldwide icon as a bad actress with breasts larger than her head. [1]

I'll take Fritz's unlikely career as read, and the vastly more unlikely worldwide army of Fritz imitators likewise: in Hernandez's worlds, manias just seem to spread, and people don't act rationally except on rare occasions.

But, anyway: there are the core Gilbert Love & Rockets stories, set in a secondary world. Then there are the "movie books," which are comics versions of movies that exist in that secondary world. Hernandez has done a number of these: Chance in Hell, The Troublemakers, Love from the Shadows, Maria M. They tend to be pulpy - they're bad movies; this is on purpose - but they do lean into some of Hernandez's strengths.

That finally brings us to Proof That the Devil Loves You, which is the most recent "Fritz Movie Book," published in 2023. It collects five stories, or story-pieces, that appeared in his serial comics over the pervious decade, somewhat reorganized and expanded...but not into a single narrative.

The descriptive copy hints at this, but doesn't quite say it: Proof is a collection of scenes that don't seem to be from the same movie. In fact, two of the six somewhat separate stories  here might not be from a movie at all. I suspect that Hernandez didn't so much turn these five previous-published pieces into a single graphic novel as he cleaned them up slightly and set them alongside each other, and then walked away.

The six stories - the first has the book's title; the others are untitled - are, roughly:

• In a Palomar-esque small town, a female sheriff is one of a large number of monomaniacs, which leads to tragedy. Meanwhile, the Fritz character is a wacky oddball who may be mentally ill and who seems to die off-panel for possibly thematically important reasons. This actually has a beginning and an end, and is arch and affected but all of that seems to be on purpose; think of it as a misfire from a Wes Anderson type, maybe.
• Three weird creatures drive into Vegas, with a lot of money because of something possibly-criminal that they vaguely celebrate. Strange things happen to them, and two seem to die or disappear, while the third is left to keep gambling, we assume eternally. The other two drive away, in what may be a parallel universe.
• Fritz is an "astronette" who needs to uncap some thing on an alien world. It is difficult, and she has a radio argument with her controllers during it, but she does it. A beam of light streaks off, and missiles try to destroy her escaping ship, but she survives.
• A passel of Fritzes, each in costume for a specific story and called by the name of that story, are in a tall building. The central Fritz is from a movie called Chest Fever; we also see non-Fritz actresses from that movie. The Fritzes talk about their careers in metaphoric ways, change their clothing, travel to different floors, come and go randomly. It is all very philosophical, and ends with our central Fritz transforming, or something. It is also super-obviously Symbolic and Important.
• A Prince Valiant-looking dude with glowing flying boots meets a furry demon-woman (played by Fritz) who, along with her imp sidekicks, tries to kill him in a typically icky Hernandez way. It doesn't take, and two other Prince Valiant types appear to scold her. Everyone swears every other word in a very "modern" way, which is probably important.
• Fritz and some guy - he seems to be connected to her career, an agent or manager or studio guy, and might have a name but it's not mentioned here - wander around, talking about various things, mostly in philosophical mode but using mostly-grounded and specific language (unlike the Fritzes-in-metaphoric-Hollywood-as-a-building before). This is probably "real" within the world of Love & Rockets. It's less artificial than a lot of the similar conversations in Lovers and Haters, and looks like it could actually lead somewhere - so, of course, it closes out the book.

As often with Hernandez, his pages are interesting and his artistic choices bold - sometimes bold in the "that is great" sense; sometimes in the "why on earth would he expect that to work?" sense - and I do believe that he thinks these pieces come together to form an overall narrative. But I think that narrative exists about 65% in Hernandez's own head, with only the remnant actually making it onto these pages.

And, in common with a lot of late Hernandez, this is not the place to start. You don't need to go all the way back to Palomar, but you should start earlier in the Fritz stories, maybe Three Sisters. He's in what we might call a remix period currently, taking many of his core concerns and themes and bouncing them around in different permutations - it can be arresting, but you need to have a grounding in the more conventional stories to get much of anything out of it.

[1] Hernandez's work now features many characters with breasts larger than their heads, and some men with biceps larger than their heads, for reasons I hope that are essentially artistic but that I suspect are not.

Perfect Example by John Porcellino

When you self-publish a comic on any kind of regular basis, you tend to pour all of your creative work into that one outlet. (I don't think there's anything similar in other art forms - non-comics 'zines, maybe, but that feels like a variation of the same idea. Very few media have both the low barrier for entry and the potential/audience to run for an extended period of time that comics do.)

John Porcellino has been making comics and publishing them as King-Cat Comics since 1989; he's done other projects occasionally - the only entirely separate book-length one I know of is Thoreau at Walden - but most of his work gets funneled into that one outlet, for all the obvious reasons.

There are books that generally reprint King-Cat: I've seen two of them in the life of this blog, Map of My Heart and From Lone Mountain. But Porcellino or his editors at Drawn & Quarterly have also pulled out selections that are more graphic-novel-shaped from the long King-Cat archives, including The Hospital Suite and Diary of a Mosquito Abatement Man (which I'm pretty sure I read, probably as my first Porcellino, but I can't find any record of it).

Perfect Example is another book like that: it collects the four-part story of the title, plus two other shorter pieces, and a one-pager to open it all up. All this material is from the mid-90s, but it all looks back a decade, to the summer right after Porcellino graduated high school in 1986, in the Chicago suburb Hoffman Estates. D&Q published this package in 2021.

Descriptions of this book can lean into the "aimless teen" cliché - that's not completely untrue, but not everyone has an aim automatically. (Maybe most of us don't.) It is day-to-day, matter-of-fact, about what John and his friends were getting up to that summer - driving around, going to parties, starting relationships, meeting new people, going to concerts (or trying to), all that kind of thing. The exact details aren't as important as the feelings and the motion.

If you've read Porcellino's work before, you know he's had some mental health issues - anxiety, depression, that whole sad ball of wax. This is, to be all comics about it, something like his origin story - or, at least, a time when that was starting and young Porcellino realized it at the time.

Like all of Porcellino's work, Perfect Example is full of clean, single-weight lines in hand-drawn boxes, with a very minicomics, personal look. His writing is focused and minimalist as well: he's not trying to tell a story, but to capture what he was doing, and what it felt like, moment by moment.

Porcellino is a cartoonist of moments: that's how I'd put it. Good ones, bad ones, points of connection and of disconnection - how this one young man was living in the world, what he cared about, and how his own brain was undermining him along the way. This book is a collection of those moments, all from that one summer, organized and arranged to show what Porcellino was like then. I don't know of any other cartoonist who can do this kind of tone and style: simple, unadorned, precise, thoughtful, ruminative, open.

The Moving Target by Ross Macdonald

I have a shelf dedicated to reading projects, in my to-be-read bookcases. It's mostly sat quietly for the last few years, with three half-assembled "projects" slowly disappearing behind other things piling up in front of them. I thought I had to assemble all of the books first; my model was Starktober and similar things, where I read a whole bunch of books quickly - generally one a day - and wrote about them just as quickly.

But I don't read like that now, so those "projects" have sat gathering dust.

On the other hand, I have been reading through authors intermittently, mostly nudged by the presence of Library of America books on my main shelves. Over the last couple of years, I got through all of Dashiell Hammett's novels, and then Raymond Chandler's, that way.

One of the "projects" was to read all of Ross Macdonald's Lew Archer novels. And I just realized I could do that the same way I was reading other authors: one at a time rather than in a big burst. So I think I will.

The Moving Target was the first of that series, and the first novel to appear under the author's pen name. ("Macdonald" was really Kenneth Millar, but his wife, Margaret Millar, was also a crime novelist, with a growing career at the same time, so her husband cycled through "John Macdonald" and "John Ross Macdonald" before settling on the version of his name he kept for the rest of his career. It was always a fairly open pseudonym; I suppose mostly to keep their books just a few feet separate on the shelves.) "Macdonald" had published four standalone mystery/crime novels before this; he wasn't brand-new, and he'd gotten good notices.

So Moving Target comes mostly formed. It's very much in the Chandler mode: Macdonald's series hero Lew Archer is similarly tough and cynical at this point, and Macdonald has flights of language not unlike Chandler's in the course of the novel. It's also, most obviously, a book about a private detective in Los Angeles and its surroundings in the late 1940s - Chandler would have been the glaringly obvious touchstone even if Macdonald had tried to run farther away from him.

As I recall, Archer became more of a viewpoint, especially as the series went on - he was a window into the lives of the people he met, and did less commentary than Chandler. I'll have to see if I still think that, this time through the novels. It's not really the case here: Archer gets knocked out multiple times, kissed by dames, and gives a few major speeches, all of which is solidly in the Chandler mode.

The joke about Macdonald is that all of the Archer books are about family problems, which stem from some event that happened twenty years ago in Canada. (Macdonald was born and lived most of his life in California, but his family was Canadian and he spent his youth in Ontario.) This first one is about families, but all of the cliché elements aren't there yet - there's no Canadian content here.

Archer is hired by a rich woman to find her husband. Ralph Sampson is a Texas oil millionaire, living on his rents and making occasional random deals, drinking too much and flying around impulsively to Las Vegas and elsewhere. Ralph disappeared the day before, after a flight back from Vegas. Archer was brought in by the family lawyer, Bert Graves, who he worked for when Graves was a DA and Archer an investigator in that office.

Graves is involved in a love triangle with Sampson's twenty-year-old daughter Miranda: he's pursuing her in a slightly embarrassing middle-aged way, while she's making eyes at her father's hunky pilot, Alan Taggert. Mrs. Sampson is openly derisive of her husband, insisting - though she's an invalid whose legs don't work after a fall from a horse - that she's going to outlive him. And Sampson, as Archer discovers, has some very odd business connections, including the gangster owner of the Wild Piano club, a thug named Dwight Troy, and a self-declared guru, Claude, who Sampson gave a mountain hunting lodge as a "temple."

Archer chases Sampson's trail for a couple of days, as it becomes clearer that the millionaire was kidnapped and eventually a ransom note appears. He meets a number of women connected to the case, faded movie star Fay Estabrook and ex-con pianist Betty Fraley, and some violent men connected to them.

Most of this takes place near the Sampson mansion in Santa Teresa - Macdonald's invention, a fictional town loosely based on Santa Monica that later mystery writers would also use - and in the mountains and rural roads nearby. That's one of the most clearly 1949 parts of the novel: how empty so much of Southern California was at that moment, with the post-war building boom still building up steam. (The other thing is another post-war sense, that something big had just happened and was over, leaving a lot of men still keyed up, still used to handling dangerous, important work and now trying to settle back into smaller, quieter lives.)

Archer solves the crime - well, crimes, since there's more than just the kidnapping to deal with in the end. A mystery novel needs at least one murder, doesn't it?

This is an atmospheric and smart mystery novel, very much in the Chandler manner and style but already showing clear signs of distinguishing Macdonald from Chandler. Archer is less romantic than Chandler's hero, Marlowe, maybe more of a post-war man in that. And, as I recall, the series only gets better from here.

All of This and Nothing: Barracuda

"All of This and Nothing" is a series of weekly posts, each about one song I really love, by an artist I haven't featured in the previous This Year, Portions For Foxes, or Better Things series. It alternates between Obscure and Famous songs; feel free to argue either way if you're so inclined. See the introduction for more.

As usual with the Famous songs this year, I'm assuming you recognize this one - probably just from the title. You might not have been around in 1977 to hear it when it was new, but it's been in movies and TV shows and probably video games and web animations and other things I don't even know the right names for. It's got one of the great guitar lines in all of rock.

It's Barracuda by Heart, from their third record Little Queen.

According to legend, it's about A Specific Guy, some music-industry jerk who made ridiculous, horrible comments backstage at some concert to singer Ann Wilson, who almost immediately went back to her room and wrote the song. It has that kind of immediate energy, and it's a great story, so why not?

If the real thing don't do the trick
You better make up something quick

The lyrics are vague and allusive - there's a dolphin, and also the barracuda of the title, which is somehow "lying so low in the weeds" like a snake. There's almost a whole aquatic metaphor going on, and an energetic fan could probably assemble a big, complex explanation on a wallchart, with strings and thumbtacks and circled photos.

But you don't need that. Just the Wilson sisters, voice and guitar, and enough anger to fuel a fine four-minute song.

Oooh, Barracuda!

Quote of the Week: The Vocal Qualities of Rural Aunts

I had already divined who was at the other end of the wire, my good and deserving Aunt Dahlia having a habit of talking on the telephone with the breezy vehemence of a hog-caller in the western states of America calling his hogs to come and get it. She got this way through hunting a lot in her youth with the Quorn and the Pytchley. What with people riding over hounds, and hounds taking time off to chase rabbits, a girl who hunts soon learns to make herself audible. I believe that she, when in good voice, could be heard in several adjoining counties.

 - P.G. Wodehouse, Much Obliged, Jeeves, p.16

Muybridge by Guy Delisle

Guy Delisle's new book last year - his first graphic novel since 2021's Factory Summers - was something of a change of pace.

Delisle, to this point, had mostly had two strands of his career - the short books of funny strips like the four "Bad Dad" collections and some early work, and longer, more integrated books that told single, essentially serious stories. Up to this point, all of those longer books had some connection to his life, and most of them were autobiographical to some degree: Hostage was the outlier, about a Médecins Sans Frontières worker (like Delisle's wife), living in a foreign and in some ways dangerous country (not unlike Delisle's travel books), and retelling the story that man had told Delisle.

Muybridge has a vastly smaller connection to Delisle personally; near the very end, he mentions that he, and thousands of other animation students over the past century, bought and studied Eadwaerd Muybrudge's two books of photographic motion studies; that those books are standard references for that entire industry and have never been out of print. Delisle does appear in this book: on that one page.

Otherwise, Muybridge is what it looks to be: a biographical sketch in comics form of the photographer who, more than anyone else, froze time in his pictures. Delisle ranges more widely than Muybridge himself at times, but his focus is on the man himself and his career, with some material on his personal life. (It was scandalous, but not terribly happy: he married a much younger woman, who had an affair and then a child - parentage never entirely clear, decades before genetic testing - while Muybridge was traveling to photograph various things. Muybridge tracked down the seducer, shot him dead, and was found not guilty by a jury. His wife tried to divorce him multiple times after that, was rebuffed by the state of California each time, and died soon afterward of typhoid fever. Her child was stuck in an orphanage, and last saw Muybridge at the age of nine.)

Delisle also shows other photographic pioneers of the era - the late 19th century - and some painters who worked in related areas, as well as a lot of material on Muybridge's relationship with railroad tycoon and later Senator Leland Sanford.

The book is organized chronologically, with sections set off with the years they begin, but it falls into roughly three sections. First is the early, pre-photography life of Muybridge, which is the shortest and gets him from his youth in England to San Francisco (and back, and back again). Then there's the long years of trying to show exactly how a horse gallops, which was a matter of much scientific, gambling, and artistic debate in those days. Muybridge's work, bankrolled and supported by Sanford, proved how a horse's gait really looks when frozen.

And then the last third of so of Muybridge is everything after that - a stretch at the University of Pennsylvania doing stop-motion photography of all kinds of animals and people (scandalously, many of them naked!), other advances in photography and how it affected painting, and finally, how it all led to the motion-picture industry at the turn of the century.

Muybridge was central to most of that, but not the only central figure, so he's at the core of the book but not always the focus for specific scenes. Delisle named his book after his main character, but his story is wider than his hero.

This is more distanced and less personal than Delisle's previous books, and I might have felt it slightly lesser because of that. In all of Delisle's books before this, the creator was intensely present - even is Hostage, he was telling the story, and had a "that could have been me" frisson throughout. Muybridge is a fine graphic biography of an interesting, important figure, but it feels more like a book that any one of a dozen cartoonists could have done, more or less.

(Compare it to Bill Griffith's Photographic Memory, another book about a 19th century photographer that came out at nearly the same time - Griffith was writing about a family member, and intensely present in his book; Delisle was writing about a world-famous figure, and keeps it all on that level.)

Muybridge is excellent at what it does; Delisle even turns his pages into facsimiles of Muybridge's motion studies a few times, with more panels than usual showing small changes in motion of a figure. His art is inventive; he makes the grumpy, self-centered Muybridge a sympathetic figure; and he covers a lot of strands of a complex story well. I just felt that his previous books were more specific.

(Throwing this in at the end, since it didn't fit elsewhere: Delisle works in France and creates his books in French. Muybridge was translated by Helge Dascher and Rob Aspinall for this English-language edition.) 

How I Make Comics by Kim Deitch

Kim Deitch's work has been largely of a piece for the last thirty or so years, going back to A Shroud for Waldo. Deitch himself is a character in his work, often the main character in the modern-day sections, investigating or just discovering mysterious stories about old entertainment, obscure Hollywood movie-makers or vaudeville or carnivals or similar things from the early 20th century. But the meat of the story is in that past world, with supernatural entities and midgets and mysterious technology and reincarnations of the same people over time.

For a while, the stories centered on his trickster character Waldo, something like an evil Felix the Cat, but I think Deitch has been deliberately playing down Waldo over the past decade or so, to tell different kinds of stories using other elements of the same mix.

How I Make Comics is his most recent book, from earlier this year; it follows in that tradition while being a little lighter and more accessible. Despite the title, it's not a how-to. It might be a series of examples, though: it's explicitly a linked collection of shorter pieces, like beads on a string, which connect loosely to each other to tell a series of stories about Deitch in the present day and the same sort of past events - some of them possibly true, or partially true, but it's never clear - that he's turning into his stories. As always, we see the Deitch-created versions while he tells us that he's presenting the true history, but, this time, his wife Pam is a more major character, and she acts as his first reader and sounding board (both, we understand, in life and in the fictional versions in this book), commenting on the stories in the middle of them and between them.

Of course, Pam here is a fictional version of the real Pam, as the Deitch here is a fictional version of the real Kim Deitch. He does draw their real apartment, with all of its knickknacks and oddities, and details their conversations - but never forget that it's all a story being told, and that this is the same thing Deitch has been doing for decades. He slides from modern domesticity into stories about reincarnated rats and flying cars seamlessly, with the reader left wondering which bits are "real" and which are invented.

So the first story dives right into a 1952 taping of Howdy Doody in which an eight-year-old Deitch was bullied by a six-year-old Donald Trump. If I had to untangle truth from fiction, I'd bet Deitch was in the audience for Howdy Doody that year, and maybe Trump was, too, but that the rest is modern fabulation. 

The rest of the book is similar, with probably-true bits about cartoonist Harold Grey being inspired by news reports of a woman's passionate courtroom speech in a case about a midget couple involved in a fatal bombing and definitely-fictional bits about that couple's (normal-sized) son becoming a superhero with a flying car and his father-reincarnated-as-a-rat sidekick. The stories aren't quite complete: there are a lot of anecdotes and beginnings here, but no real endings.

How I Make Comics has a dozen sections: a few of them are clearly interstitial material - titled "Interlude" and "Appendix" and "Preview" - but most are stories, or partial stories, with that mixture of probably-true and obviously-fiction. They circle or cluster around the same concerns as Deitch's prior work, but don't really build or combine. They stay mostly separate pieces, as Deitch pitches them to Pam and she finds faults in most of them. The last section, the one called "Preview," might be the topic of Deitch's next book, a collection of stories from storytellers in a park he frequents.

So this could be a bit disappointing to some Deitch fans, especially the ones that want the wilder mythology of Waldo and the time-hopping, integrated plots of his bigger books. On the other hand, it has lovely art on its big pages, quirk to spare, as it tells the kinds of stories that only Deitch can. And for a guy in his early 80s, that's impressive - I'll take whatever odd stories Deitch feels like telling now.

Much Obliged, Jeeves by P.G. Wodehouse

This is the fourteenth of the fifteen books primarily about Bertie Wooster and his man Jeeves. Others may argue with that number, since it includes several short-story collections that are mostly Jeeves but include other stories, and also includes the novel Ring for Jeeves, which does not feature Bertie. But it's about that many, and this is near the end but not the actual end. It was originally published in 1971, near the end of author P.G. Wodehouse's long life and career, and was known as Jeeves and the Tie That Binds Us in the US for its initial life.

The UK title was Much Obliged, Jeeves, under which title I first read it in the early '90s and under which title it appears these days.

It's shorter and slighter than the best of Wodehouse's work - he was ninety the year it was published, and so possibly slowing down just a bit - but just as funny and sprightly as he ever was, with a fine example of Bertie Wooster narration. (Though Bertie is possibly overusing the narrative tic of using a letter to stand in for a word here - a little of that can go a long way.)

Like all of the Bertie-and-Jeeves books, it's explicitly set in sequence, and starts off with references to the plot of 1963's Stiff Upper Lip, Jeeves, the prior book in the series. None of the plots are terribly dense or difficult to understand, but the recurring motifs and plot devices can be slightly confusing, I suppose. (Not many impostors in the Bertie stories - those are mostly at Blandings Castle. Bertie's troubles often start with aunts, though. He also ends up stealing, or being accused of stealing, various expensive objects a lot, and of course has a whole herd of young women who think he wants to marry them and will "allow" him to do so if not stopped. Also, everyone else in the book thinks Bertie is mentally feeble, which is not exactly correct but also not entirely untrue.)

This time out, the Aunt is Dahlia, the nice if loud one, who drags Bertie down to her historic pile outside Market Snodsbury to help out Bertie's old university chum Ginger Winship, who is standing for Parliament there. Ginger is affianced to the formidable Florence Craye, and is being supported in his political battle by the odious Roderick Spode (now Lord Sidcup), who is also joined by his fiancée, Madeleine Basset, who famously believes the stars are God's daisy-chain.

Both Florence and Madeleine are former fiancées of Bertie's, and both could potentially re-establish that connection if their current beaus disappoint.

Meanwhile, the club for butlers and gentlemen's personal gentlemen, the Junior Ganymede, has a book in which members are required to write down everything "interesting" or relevant about their current employers, which means there's a very long section about Bertie's various escapades. Even worse, there's a section about Ginger, and his former man, Bingley, has absconded with that book and is offering it for sale to various persons around Market Snodsbury.

There's also an unpleasant American businessman in a Panama hat, who wants to sell a valuable silver thingy to Aunt Dahlia's husband. Dahlia also wants him to bestow a large quantity of money on Tuppy Glossop, another chum of Bertie's, whose father developed a fabulously successful product for the American and who is looking to marry Dahlia's daughter Angela. (Angela and Tuppy do not appear on-page at all in this novel; there are complications here that are mostly formal.)

Wodehouse runs through his usual type of scenes to get to the requisite happy ending - as I said up top, a bit quicker and less impressively than some earlier novels, but still breezily and deeply amusingly.

Don't start reading Bertie-and-Jeeves with this book. You don't actually need to read them through in order - the details rhyme more than they build - but start with Joy in the Morning or The Code of the Woosters or The Mating Season or one of the short-story collections, and then move on as you feel inclined. Wodehouse is one of the greatest comic writers of the 20th century, if not all time, and his worlds are sunny and enticing, particularly when the real one is neither of those things.

The Cartoonists Club by Raina Telgemeier & Scott McCloud

If you knew nothing else, and heard that Raina Telgemeier and Scott McCloud had made a graphic novel together under the title The Cartoonists Club, what would you think?

Most of us would say something flippant like "Oh, it must be Understanding Comics, but for pre-teens, and in Telgemeier's art style!"

And...that's pretty much exactly what The Cartoonists Club really is. There's a fictional story wrapping it all together, but that's mostly an excuse to investigate the various worlds of comics, with a focus on how to make them. (Creators have the unshakeable belief that all of us really want to spend vast hours making stories, which is an adorable misconception. As my old boss would say, why spend a year writing a novel when a really good one only costs a few dollars? Most people think that way.)

How was this book made? Luckily, they tell you: Telgemeier and McCloud co-wrote, co-thumbnailed, and co-scripted. Telgemeier laid it out and did the main-character art, inked by Ray Baehr; McCloud added all of the metacomics (ones made by characters in the book) and similar stuff. It was colored by Beniam C. Hollman and lettered by Jessie Post. There's a process section in the back detailing how all of this worked, listing people and stages and activities and even the tools used - this book very much aims to be used as a model or template by a generation of wannabe cartoonists, so it's explicit in many places about how to do these things.

The story itself is about four middle-school students - Makayla, Howard, Art, and Lynda - who start the title club with their school's media specialist, Ms. Fatima. They each have different styles and ideas and concerns, but all four really like to draw and really want to make stories once they realize that's possible. Once they meet and form the club, the book is a series of chapters, each one of which introduces another aspect of comics - including tools, minicomics, genres and types of stories, showing feelings through facial expressions and body language, how comics tell stories through separate drawings, the splendor of the blank page, art styles and collaboration, and showing off your work at a local comics show.

It is all encouraging and positive and age-appropriate and enticing. If you have any impulse in you whatsoever to make comics - my drawing skills are sub-basement-level; don't ask me - it will make you want to pull out that vague idea you used to have and see if you can sketch it up. It does assume an audience of people who want to tell stories and can draw, which I suspect is vastly less common than Telgemeier and McCloud believe. But, for those who fit into that intersection, or are just interested in how comics are made, it's an energetic exercise in you-can-do-it!-ism.

All of This and Nothing: Alarm Clock

"All of This and Nothing" is a series of weekly posts, each about one song I really love, by an artist I haven't featured in the previous This Year, Portions For Foxes, or Better Things series. It alternates between Obscure and Famous songs; feel free to argue either way if you're so inclined. See the introduction for more.

Back to Obscure this week, which as usual means a song I found semi-randomly by a band that I can't tell you all that much about.

This time out, it's Alarm Clock, by the British band The Rumble Strips, from their 2007 debut record Girls and Weather. It's poppy without quite being power-pop, driven by some nice horn work and an appealingly distinctive vocal performance by the lead singer.

And it's a fun, zippy song that's about exactly what it says: the singer's alarm clock, which was annoying and now no longer works:

Well I don't like doing things
That other folks tell me to do
So I hit it with a hammer
And now he's quite subdued

That's it: a fast-paced, fun, horn-driven pop song about a guy who doesn't want to get up in the morning. If there's a Platonic ideal of the relatable song, this is right up there.

Well my alarm clock he ain't working
But I don't really mind
'Cause he ain't no friend of mine
He kept waking me up all the time

Reviewing the Mail: Week of August 15, 2026

I was out at the library, and vaguely unhappy with the choices I had at home for my next book to read. (Three big bookcases just isn't enough choice, I guess.) So I was poking around the new arrivals shelves there, and came away with one book:

Joshua Kendall's Trudeau & Doonesbury: A Biography is just what it says it is, a biography of Doonesbury creator G.B. Trudeau. It came out a couple of months ago from Abrams, and is heavily illustrated, which is a big plus for a biography of a cartoonist: Kendall can describe a strip, and then show it. I'm about halfway through right now, and it's pleasant, though I'm realizing Trudeau had a boring life - a major hazard for the lives of creative types, who mostly live in their own heads. So far, Kendall is impressively well-informed, with lots of interviews of all sorts of people (including the publicity-shy Trudeau himself), so I might just be complaining about Trudeau's actual life, not the book about it.

Quote of the Week: O Pioneers!

It was a splendid population - for all the slow, sleepy, sluggish-brained sloths staid at home - you never find that sort of people among pioneers - you cannot build pioneers out of that sort of material. It was that population that gave to California a name for getting up astounding enterprises and rushing them through with a magnificent dash and daring and a recklessness of cost or consequences, which she bears unto this day - and when she projects a new surprise, the grave world smiles as usual, and says "Well, that is California all over."

 - Mark Twain, Roughing It, p.840 in The Innocents Abroad & Roughing It

Lone Wolf and Cub, Vol. 10: Hostage Child by Kazuo Koike & Goseki Kojima

Lone Wolf and Cub is a twenty-eight volume series, collecting a serialized story that originally appeared in installments in the early '70s in the aptly titled Weekly Manga Action. Now, each installment is long: fifty pages, sometimes longer. But they often tend to be separate, each one an adventure or encounter of the main character, former imperial executioner Ogami Ittō.

But, sometimes, the stories in a particular collection - I think the English-language editions of this series actually are in tankōbon format, unlike most manga, which is closer to bunkoban or the US-specific "Tokyopop trim" - are more closely related, and form something like a story arc.

Lone Wolf and Cub, Vol. 10: Hostage Child is one of those. It starts with a massive battle, in "The Yagyū Letter," which is, if I recall correctly, the first big battle between Ittō and the forces of the evil ninja Yagyū clan. Since there's still several thousand pages of story to go, neither Ittō nor Yagyū Retsudō, his nemesis, are completely victorious, though they do get to cross swords in between Ittō killing just about everyone else in the scene. (Samurai stories, like cowboy stories, usually have a character who is vastly better at dealing out death than is plausible - it's just a trope of the genre, and we have to accept it.)

In the aftermath of "The Yagyū Letter," Ittō is separated from his son Daigorō, and the narrative hints that he might be dead. (Of course he isn't; that's the whole point of this series.) But we get two stories of Daigorō's adventures without his father, and then two more showing what they do separately as Ittō  follows the tracks of his son's path. Daigorō is saved by a former samurai, whose death - and that of his mentally disabled son - allows Daigorō to flee. In the second all-Daigorō story, various peasants are amazed and astonished at his shishōgan eyes and calm demeanor, while a temple priestess (I think) loudly insists they should send the kid away because he's bad luck.

She is correct, but that's kind of the point of every Lone Wolf and Cub story: crossing the paths of either Ogami is likely to shorten your life, often down to the next few minutes. 

The last story here sees a starving and nearly-dead Daigorō picked up and nursed back to health by a bandit as a "straw boy" - he and his two henchmen can travel more easily if they're not obviously a band of thugs, and a little boy helps sell that story. Since this means Daigorō is "working" - he's a look-out for the gang, among other things - the kid then allows himself to be fed and regains his strength. The authorities are close on the bandit's tail, though, and everyone but Daigorō dies in the end.

Daigorō has not reunited with his father Ittō yet; I assume that will happen in the next volume. And Yagyū Retsudō and his remaining forces are still nearby - I think; it can be difficult to follow the geography in this series - ready to attack once again. So danger still lurks, as always, but Ittō and his fancy sword will be slicing torsos for another eighteen volumes to come.