Business Cat: Hostile Takeovers by Tom Fonder

I've read chunks of the Business Cat strip, mostly on GoComics - I've been waiting, for about three years now, for it to restart from the beginning, which used to be a thing that happened regularly on GoComics for strips that ended. But we clearly live in a fallen world, so my hopes are not high. [1]

Business Cat ran from 2014-2018: it wasn't a continuity strip to begin with, but it developed a main plotline in the middle of the run and the strip stopped when creator Tom Fonder found a natural point in that plotline. It's been nearly a decade since, and it hasn't come back, so I have to assume Fonder is doing different income-generating activities these days. (And, actually, that assumes that a webcomic was income-generating in the first place, which is plausible but not proven.)

The strip was collected, I believe in its entirety, into two books. The first one was Business Cat: Money Power Treats, which I haven't seen. But the book of the back half of the strip, Business Cat: Hostile Takeovers, was available in my library app, so I checked that out recently.

The original concept for the strip was one of those weird juxtapositions: BC is both the CEO of a major global corporation and a cat! So the gags were mostly CEOs doing cat-like things: knocking coffee cups off desks, sitting on employee's laps, demanding skritches during important meetings. As you see from the cover, Fonder drew BC as a human being with a cat head, which made the whole thing quite odd - but humorously so.

Eventually, the worldbuilding got rolling - there are several Business Animals, including BC's nemesis, a pug named Howard. Each of them also runs a global megacorporation, each of them also is an animal in human form (mostly just the head to indicate animal-ness), and, as in so much popular media, they fight - as far as we see, entirely through the mechanisms of capitalism.

BC is not actually a good CEO: that's the central joke. He's easily distracted, unfocused, and doesn't seem to care about anything his company actually does. So it turns out that he replaced their "accountant" - like a lot of fiction about the business world, it has a view of a major corporation as organized like the small business above the chip shop, only in fancier offices - with a plush toy, which led to major irregularities, which led to a visit from the IRS, which led to bankruptcy, oddly described.

Howard sweeps in to "rescue" the company by taking it over, and BC is cast out of the business world, in what was a temporary rebrand of the strip as "The Adventures of Regular Cat." BC lives in an alley, is incarcerated in an animal shelter, finds a new family, and so forth - it gives Fonder a chance to make some pretty familiar cat  jokes that didn't fit into the business setting.

Eventually, of course, there is a scheme to get BC back in control of his company and cast out Howard, which of course succeeds, because BC is our hero. And the very last strip comes full circle, repeating the gag from the first strip.

Hostile Takeovers is a fun collection of a crisp, amusing strip that didn't overstay its welcome. I would recommend finding the first book first if you can, but this one has most of the "story" material from the series - and it's not like the concept or background are so complex you need the first book to understand everything.

[1] As always, saying something in public changes the world. Between the time I wrote this post and it went live, Business Cat began another round of reruns on GoComics. I'm not claiming it happened because of me...or am I?

Dante's Inferno by Paul & Gaëtan Brizzi

The last time I read a comics adaptation of Dante, it was by Seymour Chwast. This one, you might say, is from the opposite end of the picture-making spectrum, all soft pencils in a detailed, almost photorealistic style as opposed to Chwast's bold colors and carefully-designed simplicity.

And clear, obvious distinctions like that are good: living in a world with multiple graphic adaptations of Dante, you want to be able to define them against each other as clearly as possible.

Dante's Inferno, unlike the Chwast book from over a decade ago, just adapts the first and most famous of Dante's three sections of the Divine Comedy. Paul and Gaëtan Brizzi - brothers who have mostly worked in animation together for the last few decades - use some of Dante's words, but mostly present this story visually, in cinematic full-bleed pages packed with striking images and magnificent effects. They have animators' eyes for gesture and expression and, in particular, for the large arresting image - the book irises out from the usual four-to-six white-bordered panels per page to full-page or full-spread images at least once per Circle, for maximum effect.

The relative lack of text keeps the focus on the main characters - Dante himself, journeying through Hell to find his dead love Beatrice, and his guide, the classic poet Virgil. Most of the text in the book is their conversation: Dante's wonder and fear, Virgil's explanations and some of his negotiations with all of the strange doomed creatures they meet.

That's the story of Dante's poem, for anyone unfamiliar with the original. The author himself is moping about a forest near his hometown of Florence, since his great love Beatrice has recently died. Virgil appears - long-dead author of The Aeneid and Dante's poetic role model - and says he will lead Dante to her. But Virgil does not reveal that the trip will go through literal hell until they're within the gates. (Seems like a thing one's mentor would want to mention at the outset, so one could be properly prepared with strong footwear, the right mental attitude, and some appropriate traveling snacks.)

Anyway, Inferno is the journey down through the nine circles of Hell, in Dante's poetry filled with lovingly-described scenes of the torture in various inventive ways of all sorts of people, particularly those he knew and loathed. It's followed by Purgatorio and Paradiso, covering Dante's journey through the other two portions of the Christian afterlife. The other two bits are less popular, and I see no indication that the Brizzi brothers intend to continue this work to adapt them - though, of course, they might.

The Brizzis show us a lot of the creatures and people in Hell - at least one group per circle - but they've quietly simplified the presentation and removed the long Dantean descriptions of various groups of sinners, the horrible things they did in life, and how they are being tortured in inventive ways in Hell. Those who have read Inferno know quite a lot of it is made of that catalog - oh, here are the simoniacs, who are in the third of ten ditches in the eighth circle, Malebolge, and they are evil because they sold holy things, and they are punished by being left head-down in holes in the burning landscape with only their feet showing. It's all a bit like Medieval Mad Libs: the SINNER TYPE is in the REGION OF HELL because they committed VERY SPECIFIC SIN and are punished in INVENTIVE WAY.

Dante sees all of this, and is horrified and/or gratified - the latter when he sees people he knew, and is happy to see them being tortured in Hell - at all of it. Eventually, the two of them make it to the bottom of Hell, where a gigantic goat-like Lucifer breaks out of a frozen lake (the thermodynamics of Hell do not bear close scrutiny) and our heroes are able to jump onto his head to get themselves to the exit.

(Rather convenient of the King of Lies, I'd say - provides good service to visitors. Five stars.)

The Brizzis make compelling pages here, and they have a fantastic, world-famous story full of striking images to work from. Their version of Dante loses the tedious catalog of sins and torments for visual grandeur and a near-epic feel. It may disappoint some hard-core Dante fans, who want more details on exactly how the murderers are tortured, and what the virtuous pagans are up to, but, for most readers, this is either a fantastic introduction to Dante or a gorgeous reminder of his work.

Books Read: August 2025

This is what I read last month; as always, it's mostly an index to the blog and primarily useful to me  rather than you the home viewer. But there it is:

Richard Sala, Night Drive (digital, 8/2)

Ruth Goodman, How to Be a Victorian (8/2)

Doug Savage, Laser Moose and Rabbit Boy (digital, 8/3)

Mark Chiarello, editor, Wedne4sday Comics (8/9)

William Goldman, The Princess Bride (8/9)

René Goscinny and Albert Uderzo, Asterix the Gladiator (8/10)

Sophie Goldstein, House of Women (digital, 8/16)

Jack Vance, Trullion: Alastor 2262 (in Alastor, 8/16)

Sergio Aragones' Groo: The Hogs of Horder (digital, 8/17)

Jeff Lemire, 10,000 Ink Stains: A Memoir (digital, 8/23)

Various, The Mystery Science Theater 3000 Amazing Colossal Episode Guide (8/23)

Peter Bagge and Gilbert Hernandez, Yeah! (digital, 8/24)

Ambrose Bierce, In the Midst of Life: Tales of Soldiers and Civilians (in The Devil's Dictionary, Tales & Memoirs, 8/24)

Kazuo Koike & Goseki Kojima, Lone Wolf & Cub, Vol. 7: Cloud Dragom, Wind Tiger (digital. 8/25)

Carol Lay, Murderburg (digital, 8/26)

Stephen Crane, The Red Badge of Courage (in Prose and Poetry, 8/26)

Stan Sakai, Usagi Yojimbo, Book 8: Shades of Death (digital, 8/27)

P.G., Wodehouse, The Small Bachelor (8/27)

Kenji Tsuruta, Wandering Island, Vol. 1 (digital, 8/28)

Philippe Riche, Bad Break, Chapter #2 (digital, 8/29)

Loren D. Estleman, The Left-Handed Dollar (8/29)

Michael Sweater, Everything Sucks: Kings of Nothing (digital, 8/30)

Denis-Pierre Filippi & Silvio Camboni, Walt Disney's Mikey Mouse and the Amazing Lost Ocean (digital, 8/31)

Dashiell Hammett, The Glass Key (in Complete Novels, 8/31)

I plan to keep reading books in the future.

Better Things: Weight of the World

"Better Things" 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 or Portions For Foxes series. See the introduction for more.

I think this is another obscure one: a song I found randomly and loved, by an artist that might be bigger than I know, or might be as obscure as I'm afraid he is.

This is Weight of the World by Shayfer James.

Another almost honky-tonk song, over a rolling piano line. Long, rolling lines, wordy and detailed, giving vignettes of a dangerous, nasty world - maybe made more nasty by the singer and his gang of...whatever.

One woman whistling a wounded lullaby
And preaching pain to every unsuspecting passerby
We knew her well before this, she promised portraits of us
We cut her throat while she was waiting for the paints to dry

It's an ominous song, sung straightforwardly by James with some background singers adding color and depth - but it's mostly that piano and his voice, supported lightly by other instruments. It's a dark vision of Hobbesian world, told precisely and tautly.

And what can you do about it?

But that's just the weight of the world
We do what we must to get by
That's just the weight of the world
The weak and the weary will never survive

Quote of the Week, Supplemental: Bay City Blues

I sat down on the bunk again. It was made of flat steel slats with a thin hard mattress over them., Two dark gray blankets were folded on it quite neatly. It was a very nice jail. It was on the twelfth floor in the new city hall., It was a very nice city hall. Bay City was a very nice place. People lived there and thought so. If I lived there, I would probably think so. I would see the nice blue bay and the cliffs and the yacht harbor and the quiet streets of houses, old houses brooding under old trees and new houses with sharp green lawns and wire fences and staked saplings set into the parkway in front of them. I knew a girl who lived on Twenty-fifth Street. It was a nice street. She was a nice girl. She liked Bay City.

 - Raymond Chandler, The Lady in the Lake, p.133 in Later Novels & Other Writings

Quote of the Week: The Real Deal

Much of this chronicle - perhaps, it may seem, too much - has dealt with the difficulties of getting from place to place. But that seems to me unavoidable for it is the preoccupation of two-thirds of the traveler's waking hours, and the matter of all his nightmares. It is by crawling on the face of it that one learns a country; by the problems of transport that its geography becomes a reality and its inhabitants real people. Were one to be levitated on a magic carpet and whisked overnight from place to place, one would see all that was remarkable but it would be a very superficial acquaintance, and, in the same way, if one leaves the reader out of one's confidence, disavowing all the uncertainties of the route, the negotiations, projects and frustrations, making of oneself one of those rare exemplary dragonmans who disguise every trace of effort and present themselves before their employers with a plan completely tabulated, hampers packed, conveyances assembled, servants in attendance, one may show them some pretty spectacles and relate some instructive anecdotes, but one will not have given them what was originally offered when one was engaged - a share in the experience of travel, for these checks and hesitations constitute the genuine flavor.

 - Evelyn Waugh, Ninety-Two Days, pp.525-6 in Waugh Abroad

The Lady in the Lake by Raymond Chandler

This is the middle one, though no one knew that at the time. The Lady in the Lake was published in 1943, the end of the first burst of Raymond Chandler's novels and the fourth of an eventual seven about private detective Philip Marlowe. After publishing those four books in five years, it would be six more before The Little Sister appeared in 1949, and four and five more years between his his last two books.

This is also the end of the war-time Chandler - again, only in retrospect. But Lady is a war-time book, with references to rationing and limited supplies and a heavily-guarded dam that is crucial at the very end of the novel.

Marlowe is hired by a businessman, Derace Kinglsey, to find his wife: she ran away, he thinks with the man (Chris Lavery) she's been having an affair with, leaving their mountain cabin on Little Fawn Lake about a month ago and telegraphing from El Paso, apparently on the way to a Mexican divorce. Kingsley would be fine with a divorce, but his wife is a bit wild and has her own money to be wild with - he wants to make sure she's not getting into anything serious while she's still married to him.

So Marlowe heads up into the mountains - one of the stories that Chandler "cannibalized" into Lady in the Lake was "No Crime in the Mountains," a title I always remember fondly - to investigate the disappearance of Crystal Kingsley. He discovers that another woman disappeared the same night: Muriel Chess, wife of the caretaker Bill. More dramatically, he and Bill discover Muriel's body in the lake - she's clearly been in there since the night she "disappeared," and the note she left for Bill might have been a suicide note.

The local police, led by the local sheriff-like constable, Jim Patton, think that note might be older than Chess says it is, and Chess is the obvious first suspect in the death of his wife. Marlowe isn't sure how this death relates to his actual case, but he still hasn't found Crystal Kingsley. He spends the rest of the novel between Los Angeles, where Kingsley lives; Bay City, where Lavery lives; and Little Fawn Lake. 

Bay City is corrupt - we saw that in Farewell, My Lovely and it's still true now - and Marlowe gets into some trouble with a detective there named Degarmo, who is also caught up somehow with a pill-pusher doctor, Almore, who coincidentally (or maybe not) lives right across the street from Lavery in a neighborhood devoid of other houses. There's also another woman, missing for a longer time - Mildred Haviland, Almore's former nurse. And another dead woman, also a longer time ago - Almore's wife, who conveniently committed suicide by car exhaust after a wild night that led Almore to bring her home and put her to sleep with a sedative.

All of that is connected, in the end. Crystal Kingsley is not as central in her own missing-persons case as she seemed to be. And there will be more bodies before it's done, as always.

I tend to clump Chandler's novels: Big Sleep and Long Goodbye are the best, with Goodbye clearly on top. The four in between them, including Lady, are all very strong, and only one small step down. I try to be polite and not mention Playback. On this re-read, I didn't see anything to shake that hierarchy: Lady is still a fine detective story, with an interestingly twisty plot, and doesn't rely too heavily on Marlowe being sapped on the head and left in danger. And Chandler's prose is as evocative and thoughtful and resonant here as his best.

(Note: I read this in the Library of America Later Novels & Other Writings. I don't think there are any textual discrepancies in editions of Chandler, but I'll always recommend LoA for American writers, particularly if you think you'll want to read more than one book.)

H.P. Lovecraft's The Call of Cthulhu by Gou Tanabe

Gou Tanabe is a manga-ka whose work has largely been adaptations of literary works - with a particular line in adapting H.P. Lovecraft stories. He's put out a fairly long shelf of work, but I can only speak to his two-volume version of Lovecraft's At the Mountains of Madness, which I read a few years ago.

Tanabe - in this edition, supported by Zack Davisson (translation), Steve Dutro (lettering and touchup) and Carl Gustav Horn (editor) - is, from what I've seen, a very faithful adaptor of the stories he chooses. He picks up large chunks of the original author's prose and runs those as large captions, floating over his pages, occasionally for several pages at a time. He also replicates the structure of those stories, at least in the Lovecraft works I've seen, which is particularly notable since Lovecraft tended to use a multi-section, fake-document style in his major works, and Tanabe closely follows that.

H.P. Lovecraft's The Call of Cthulhu - the Tanabe adaptation, I mean; the original short story is from 1928 - was published in Japan in book form in 2019, and this English translation followed in the fall of 2024. And it does adapt the underlying story very, very closely, turning a thirty-some page story into about two hundred and fifty pages of comics. The only thing I could think to complain about is that the main character, Francis, looks a lot more like Elric - very pale, thin face, stringy collar-length hair - than I think Lovecraft would have been comfortable with.

Tanabe's backgrounds and objects are hyper-detailed, especially the horrific visions - he's an artist who clearly delights in the monstrous and hideous, crafting his images of Cthulhu, cyclopean ruins, and the like with great care and to strong effect. His people are slightly less detailed, though still well into the realistic side of manga art styles - and he gives his people distinct faces here, something American readers don't always find the case with manga.

Do I need to describe the Lovecraft story? It's, like a lot of Lovecraft, one of the world's creepiest document reviews, as Francis gathers and annotates several statements by other people - all of whom, spoiler alert! - are dead because of the horrific things they witnessed, which slowly reveal to the reader the by-now well-known Lovecraft view of the universe: humans are small and unimportant; beings of far greater power and scope used to rule, and will come back "when the stars are right;" understanding humanity's very small and temporary place in the universe almost inevitably leads to a mental breakdown if not immediate death.

This story was one of the earliest crystallizations of that idea, the story where all of Lovecraft's ideas melded into the final form that he would work out in a series of stories over the next nearly twenty years. And Tanabe's adaptation of it does justice to Lovecraft's "unspeakable, unnamable" language - Tanabe is excellent at drawing gigantic, shadowed, horrific, bizarre creatures that both seem real on the page and yet are impossible. This is a fine adaptation of a major horror story; I'd recommend having a familiarity with the original story first, but anyone interested in a Lovecraft adaptation will have that arlready.

Doctor Strange: What Is It That Disturbs You, Stephen? by P. Craig Russell and others

There are several different ways to collect periodical comics into book form. The most obvious, and to my mind the best, is to take a story, or at least a string of issues that mostly tells one story, and maybe add some additional material to explain any random references or dangling plot threads. Things like The Great Darkness Saga or Born Again or Days of Future Past - they can work well even if collecting the story wasn't the original plan; and obviously series designed to be discrete, like Secret Wars or Batman: Year One, work even better.

Next best is the big chunk of continuity - the Masterpieces or Archive model. Take a year or two of periodical comics, starting somewhere relatively coherent, and just reprint it, in the order original readers would have seen it, with any intros and outros necessary to give it a little shape.

But since corporate comics often worked on an assembly-line model, with creators treated as interchangeable widgets, neither of those models works well if you want to focus on the work of a single human being - because those companies, historically, didn't value the contributions of any single human being.

That's when you get the "here's some stuff by this guy" - and it is, 99% of the time, a guy. Sometimes the guy is a writer, and so it's a collection of mostly standalone stories - for example, DC Universe by Alan Moore or Midnight Days. But when the creator in question is mostly an artist, the book can get very random and miscellaneous.

Doctor Strange: What Is It That Disturbs You, Stephen? collects what I think is all of the work that P. Craig Russell did on that character, from 1973 through 1997, including things he penciled but didn't ink, things he inked but didn't pencil, and even a couple of versions of a mostly-Russell story. It would have been a rag-bag in the best of situations, but this 2016 book has no table of contents and only a jumbled page with credits for all of this material, perhaps in an an attempt to hide just how massively miscellaneous the book is.

It credits six pencilers, five inkers, eight colorists, five letterers (plus an "& Co."), two assistant editors, five full editors, and a whopping thirteen writers - from Gardner Fox to Marc Andreyko. Most of the book is from the caption-crazy era of Marvel comics, with a bunch of random '70s stories and then a shorter stretch of slightly more ambitious and less cringeworthy pieces from Marvel Fanfare in the '80s.

It opens with the title story, which appeared as a one-shot in 1997 and was itself an expansion or re-imagining of the first Dr. Strange annual from 1973 (which itself is next in the book). Both of those started from an idea Russell had - the 1973 version was molded by writer Marv Wolfman into a very conventional Marvel tale of the time and the 1997 version was allowed to be more consistently Russell-eqsue by Marc Andreyko.

In both stories, someone close to Strange - Wong in 1997, Clea in 1973 - is spirited away by mysterious mystical forces, and Strange goes to first a temple (where he's attacked by a librarian) and then to the usual floating-paths otherworld so common in Dr. Strange stories. In that otherworld, he's attacked by a sorceress, Electra or Lectra, who rules that realm and who eventually cajoles him into coming with her to save the person she's kidnapped. They travel in a ship crewed by the dead for a while, see a vast golden city rise up out of the depths, and land in that city. Electra/Lectra's sister - her name is more variable in the two versions - is supposed to be equal in rulership of this realm, but Electra/Lectra claims she's totally evil and had to be contained.

The truth, as even a very dull child will notice, is exactly the opposite: Electra/Lectra is door-shakingly insane, and has trapped her poor innocent sister (and the sister's gorgeous lover, who Electra/Lectra covets) magically. There is a confrontation, with lots of mystical hand gestures and bands of light zipping around the panels for a while, until the madwoman shatters the mirror that maintains this realm and dooms herself, her sister, and her sister's lover to oblivion.

Only Strange survives, cast back out into his normal world, presumably sadder but wiser. The person he came to save, Wong or Clea, is also carefully preserved to appear in future stories.

The plot is more than a little operatic, and Russell draws the 1997 version in much the same style and energy he brings to his opera adaptations. That title story is obviously the high point of the book and reprinting it is the overall purpose - it's a shame it comes first and the rest is such a letdown.

The 1973 annual sets the tone for much of the subsequent material: it's clotted with captions and bombastic dialogue in the tedious Marvel Manner, as readers are spoon-fed every possible bit of information they could possibly want to know.

Everything else here is just random Dr. Strange comics that Russell happened to touch - penciling a few stories, inking a few others. None of it looks like Russell to any serious degree, though really serious students of art could spend a long time staring at individual panels looking for his work. Oh, wait, there are also three random short horror stories from other series - standalone "chillers" without continuing characters - that were Russell's first work for Marvel. And then some backmatter with other covers and similar bits of Dr. Strange-related art. All in all, over two hundred pages in this book, of which the first sixty (the title story) is worth reading for an adult with a normal reading level in the 21st century.

We can note that '60s Marvel comics were a major advance over the competition, with more realistic motivations and characters that spoke more clearly to the teen and young adult audience of the time,  and that they were popular and a welcome surge of energy for the field, while still pointing out that they were not very good, and that the things that came afterward in the same style were not even as good as that. Most of Disturbs You is hacky minor '70s and '80s yardgood comics, pages made to fill an editorial hole and entertain an audience that didn't want and probably wouldn't recognize nuance or subtlety. The book itself is one-half an celebration of all things Russell (even those apprentice pieces that maybe should not be celebrated quite so loudly with such fervor), and one-half cynical package so that Marvel could charge substantially more for the sixty-page story that it knew audiences actually wanted.

Ninety-Two Days by Evelyn Waugh

I doubt there is a travel book with as much of a throw-my-hands-up title as Evelyn Waugh's Ninety-Two Days. It's as if he was saying, "Look, I went to a place and spent some time there, and this is the book I wrote about it. Can't say it any more clearly than that."

I'm getting the sense that Waugh's travel books were often, perhaps always aimless and faintly mercenary - his older brother Alec had, I believe, already made a successful career as a travel writer, and maybe it took some time for Evelyn Waugh's novels to be seen as the magnificent things they are. [1] Whatever the reason, his travel books can be close to the pure old-fashioned "I am an Englishman, one of the world's aristocrats and a deeply cultured individual. I will go to This Strange and Foreign Land and tell you about it."

See my post, earlier this year, on Remote People, for some more detail. That trip had a slightly more obvious trigger, and yet also involved a lot of random bumming around in search of local color.

In December of 1932, Waugh went to Guiana, more or less because it was a British colony in a different part of the world, and he wanted to see how things there compared to what he'd seen in British Africa (in Remote People). He traveled up-country, by horse and foot, crossing the border into Brazil, and then came back, via a somewhat different route that also included some boats.

The point was not to visit some particular place or person, though he did pass by the famous Kaieteur falls, or to understand local government, or even any obvious anthropological interest in the people of Guiana. No, it purely seemed to be "this is a part of the world my people own; I want to take a look at it." And so he did, spending, as he noted, ninety-two days doing so.

If one were cruel, one would here note that there is no point to Ninety-Two Days. Waugh didn't plan to learn anything specific, and he succeeded at that. He wandered around what seems to be a fairly harsh, somewhat depopulated wilderness for three months, battling insects and heat and dehydration, meeting only a few particularly colorful characters (all white settlers), and spends most of his pages talking about logistics, privations, and hardships. He was supported by a variety of porters and guides and assistants, and makes some effort, in that very eugenics-era way, to make clear which of them were natives and which were black and which were various "mixed breeds," using the local terms and explaining them. But most of those people are just names, sometimes a few traits - usually that this one was lazier than Waugh would prefer for a local hired for a pittance to carry heavy burdens through a tropical wilderness - and that's it.

Of course, all this is written by Evelyn Waugh, who even this early in his career was a master of prose and deeply entertaining. It's an often-true cliché that travel books are better the more uncomfortable they were for the writer, and this trip was deeply uncomfortable for Waugh. There's a lot of insight and fine writing and thoughtful sentences throughout: the whole thing might seem vaguely pointless, but it created a deeply readable book, of the kind where the reader is happier the greater the contrast between Waugh's travails and the reader's comfort, perhaps in a nicely overstuffed chair.

Waugh's novels are more important than his travel books, and I suspect (only having read a few so far) that this is one of the least of his travel books. So I would not recommend coming to Ninety-Two Days early in one's Waugh reading. But if you've already read about a dozen Waugh books, it will definitely suit.

[1] There's a point in the book where Evelyn Waugh points out that he and Alec have divided the world between them - well, I think it's more that Alec declared particular regions (like North American and the Caribbean) as "his" and warned Evelyn off his turf. Guiana is allowed, but his journey there was out of bounds.

Better Things: Twin Cadillac Valentine

"Better Things" 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 or Portions For Foxes series. See the introduction for more.

This is one of the greatest driving songs I know, by a band I loved for their three records but think has been completely forgotten in the thirty years since.

And that paragraph actually refers two different songs by the Screaming Blue Messiahs. I originally wrote this post about one of them, and now I'm going back to switch it to the other one.

So you may like Big Brother Muscle better - I almost did. If I was less committed to the one-song-a-week thing, I'd list them both here.

The Screaming Blue Messiahs came out of nowhere - as I understand it, they were all British, all veterans of multiple bands that sort-of or almost made it, all middle-aged in 1986 when their first record Gun Shy came out. The best song on Gun Shy is Twin Cadillac Valentine, and I'm going back, about a week after originally "finalizing" this post, to write about that song.

It's a song about cars, about driving, snarled over a driving beat, staring out with a unique chiming noise, as if to tell you these guys have arrived. The Messiahs were a power trio, and that power comes out really starkly here.

Well you could be driving two Cadillacs at the same time

And one's going 45 and one's going 99

It's near-apocalyptic in the middle, ominous and unsettling - almost random lines and images. What does it all mean? Is it telling a specific story? Forget all that.

What do you do: get in the car

This is a loud, insistent, jangling rock song, setting off at top speed and lighting out for the territory. Punch the gas and go along with it.

Quote of the Week: Getting Paid Enormously for Committing Crimes Against Which No Laws Had Been Passed

When the United States of America, which was meant to be a Utopia for all, was less than a century old, Noah Rosewater and a few men like him demonstrated the folly of the Founding Fathers in one respect: those sadly recent ancestors had not made it the law of the Utopia that the wealth of each citizen should be limited. This oversight was engendered by a week-kneed sympathy for those who loved expensive things, and by the feeling that the continent was so vast and valuable, and the population so thin and enterprising, that no thief, no matter how fast he stole, could more than mildly inconvenience anyone.

Noah and a few like him perceived that the continent was in fact finite, and that venal office-holders, legislators in particular, could be persuaded to toss up great hunks of it for grabs, and to toss them in such a way as to have them land where Noah and his kind were standing.

Thus did a handful of rapacious citizens come to control all that was worth controlling in America. Thus was the savage and stupid and entirely inappropriate and unnecessary and humorless American class system created. Honest, industrious, peaceful citizens were classed as bloodsuckers, if they asked to be paid a living wage. And they saw that praise was reserved henceforth for those who devised means of getting paid enormously for committing crimes against which no laws had been passed. Thus the American dream turned belly up, turned green, bobbed to the scummy surface of cupidity unlimited, filled with gas, went bang in the noonday sun.

 - Kurt Vonnegut, God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, pp.196-97 in Novels & Stories, 1963-1973

Safely Endangered Comics by Chris McCoy

I haven't seen any official figures, and I don't know who would produce them, but the webcomics field seems to be at least as broad and potentially remunerative as newspaper comics at this point. Although "about as good as a thing that has been publicly shrinking and dying for a generation" is not necessarily a positive, I admit. And webcomics have their own financial pressures, as the ad market online has sharpened and tightened.

I guess what I'm saying is: I'm still finding "new" webcomics that have been collected into books. Things that are reasonably popular, have been running for a few years, have a style I'm pretty sure I've seen on social media here and there, have a profile that I hope means the creator is getting something like a living wage from it.

For instance: Safely Endangered! By the British creator Chris McCoy, it runs on McCoy's website to this very day, had a run on Webtoon in the mid-teens, and a bunch of the strips were collected as Safely Endangered Comics in 2019 by Andrews McMeel, the American strip-format-comics goliath.

The book collects a hundred and forty strips from the earlier years of Safely Endangered - it's been running almost as long since then as when the book came out - and they're modern, crisp, often-NSFW, standalone gags, usually in a four-panel format. McCoy draws people consistently as those bright-colored outlines, like on the cover, somewhat in the Mr. Lovenstein mode. There's a lot of jokes about sex and death and superheroes, and it's the kind of strip where people will say "fuck" and "holy shit" when appropriate - that's what I mean.

I find this is a distinctive style of humor: McCoy isn't making the same gags as War and Peas or Lovenstein or Poorly Drawn Lines or several others, but he's working in the same general territory, the same way all newspaper gag-a-day family strips are roughly similar to each other. It just means "gag-a-day webcomic" is basically a genre these days, and we can predict a lot of what that implies about any specific strip.

These are often-sarcastic comics, with video game and Marvel-movie references - not overly geeky, but set in a modern media landscape, aimed at an online audience that will know and recognize the things McCoy is making jokes about. If you like comics like that - and a lot of us do - this book is out there for a sample, and McCoy is still plugging away at Safely Endangered, with what looks like new comics twice a week.

Hypericum by Manuele Fior

Manuele Fior is an Italian cartoonist - or maker of graphic novels, if you want to put it that way - who does interesting books about particular people, told quietly and distinctively, as far as I've seen. (I've gotten to about half of his books - 5000 KM per second, which is magnificent, the short-story collection Blackbird Days, and the chilly post-apocalypse Celestia.) He seems to use SFnal elements pretty regularly, but not all the time, and doesn't focus on them.

Hypericum is, I think, his most recent book to be published in English - the original copyright is 2022, and this Matt Madden-translated edition from Fantagraphics was published in early 2023.

It starts with the Howard Carter 1922 expedition that discovered Tutankhamen, which is our "B" story. The main story is set about twenty years ago - this isn't clear at first; I realized it when a cell phone was a strange and wondrous thing in one scene - and centers on Teresa, a driven young Italian woman in Berlin to be the youngest member of a team working on an exhibition of the materials Carter discovered about seventy-five years before.

Teresa is regimented, precise - the kind of person who has always just moved along a single unvarying line, on to the next thing and the next, following the path laid out for her life. She's also subject to horrible insomnia, barely getting two hours of sleep a night, burning off the hours of the dark by re-reading Carter's diary of the dig.

But on her second day in Berlin, she runs into a young man from Italy, about her age: Ruben. He's her opposite in almost every way: living in a squat, living completely randomly, doing whatever he wants. She's somewhat frustrated by him but immediately intrigued, and the two quickly start a relationship, and she moves in with him.

By the way, we learn fairly quickly that the reason Ruben is able to be so carefree is that he's a remittance man: his father gives him a large monthly allowance, so he doesn't need to pursue his art or do anything in particular to pay for his living. As always, that's a very nice life if you've happened to luck into it.

Hypericum follows those two tracks: Theresa's work and relationship with Ruben; Carter's painstaking excavation of the wonders of Tut's tomb. We mostly get Carter during Theresa's night, as if we're reading the diaries along with her. Like much of Fior's work, it's mostly quiet and character-focused; Teresa does have some big decisions to make over the course of the year or so the book covers, but she doesn't make them in a big way. The Carter sections are primarily, I think, for parallax - background on what Teresa does, history and explanation, and some thematic connections. But there's no serious drama, no real surprises in the historical sections, just methodical digging and a succession of unearthed wonders.

Fior has a painted style that feels entirely down-to-earth to me here, unshowy and matter-of-fact in both timeframes. He depicts sex and priceless Egyptian gold equally in the moment, both things that are there in his panels, both things that are interesting to look at, and of this particular moment, but not more important than that. Hypericum is a quiet book of connections, one you assemble large pieces of in your own head as you read it.

God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater by Kurt Vonnegut

I've been re-reading Vonnegut novels, slowly - Slaughterhouse-Five in 2019, Breakfast of Champions in 2023. And now I came to the book just before them, 1965's God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater.

I read it long, long ago - as a teenager, I think, during that first Vonnegut phase that a lot of teenage readers go through. It's the Vonnegut novel with the quote that's stuck with me the most, the one that I really do think encapsulates all of Vonnegut's concerns and obsessions. I usually just quote the end of it, but I want to present the whole thing this time.

This is a novel about capitalism, to be blunt - or, more specifically, about the role of unearned dynastic wealth in a society. The main character, Eliot Rosewater, is a Vonnegutian oddball, whose sanity is a major question in the novel. He's fabulously rich, but lives, at this point, quietly in his family's ancestral seat in Indiana, running a Foundation that mostly consists of him giving small sums of money to woe-begotten locals and providing moral support to them on the phone. He's been asked to baptize the newly-born twin daughters of a local woman, even though he's not religious. He says he couldn't get out of it.

"What will you say? What will you do?"

"Oh - I don't know." Eliot's sorrow and exhaustion dropped away for a moment as he became enchanted by the problem. A birdy little smile played over his lips. "Go over to her shack, I guess. Sprinkle some water on the babies, say, 'Hello, babies. Welcome to Earth. It's hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It's round and wet and crowded. At the outside, babies, you've got about a hundred years here. There's only one rule that I know of, babies--:

"God damn it, you've got to be kind.'"

I almost want to just leave it there. Vonnegut novels are loose, shaggy assemblages, held together by his obsessions and his sentences, always more carefully constructed than they seem, and writing in detail about them can make them seem trite or small or silly. Like all his novels, Rosewater is not terribly plotty; it runs through a number of characters and scenes - if I were being pretentious, I'd say motifs - before coming to something like an ending that mostly sums up everything that happened before. The other elements of Rosewater include Eliot's distant cousin and his family in Connecticut, a rapacious young lawyer, Eliot's very "red in tooth and claw" Republican Senator father, and, as Vonnegut puts it in the opening sentences of the novel, "a sum of money."

Vonnegut is clear-eyed in Rosewater. Everyone knows the Rosewater Foundation isn't going to save the world, or even save any of the people it helps. The narrative voice admits that the poor, downtrodden people of Rosewater County, Indiana are pretty lousy people, who will take advantage of any out and can't be expected to better themselves in any way. It basically says that all people are like that - that, all in all, people are not very nice, good, or useful. What Eliot, and his Foundation, do is to help a subset of those lousy people, the ones the worst off in this particular place, to make sure they can keep going. To let them get as much of that hundred years at the outside. Even if they don't get good jobs and upstanding lives and contribute meaningfully to the public.

Vonnegut is as stark as he can be here. They deserve help because they're here, because they're human, because they're alive. That's all they needed to do to be worth it. To be babies. To be born into a world round and wet and crowded. Because we all have got to be kind.

And, of course, Rosewater is mostly about people not being kind, because Vonnegut was not an optimist. He might have been a visionary, but he knew very well his visions didn't correspond to the actual world. And that's what his novels were about. Rosewater is more focused on money than most, as one particular element of the modern world that makes it hard for people to live, but all of his novels took particular elements and made them central, at the same time as the bulk of the concerns and insights and thoughts were broadly similar: people are not all that great. But they're all we have. We need to treasure what we actually do have, and, more than anything else, be kind to each other.

(Note: I read this in the Library of America omnibus Novels & Stories, 1963-1973, and, as always, I highly recommend LoA editions for any writers they publish. The books are elegant and a pleasure to read, with good scholarly notes and the best texts available.)