Getting Graphic

 "Here's one about the Beatles," Mr. Ginley intoned.

©1985 by Matt Groening

We were standing in the Rocky River library as he perused the latest graphic novel titles. It's a genre he's enjoyed over the course of the last year or two, observing that the breadth of subjects has expanded significantly in recent times.

"It used to be that comic books were outlawed in the library," Mr. said. Apparently, the librarian would point to the door if you brought one the offending publications into that hallowed space.

Today, graphic novels, the offshoot of comic books, cover a variety of topics and, as in the case of the Beatles book, are not confined to works of fiction. There are bios of Bowie, Elvis and a whole host of other celebrities. Science is now graphically explained. And some authors/illustrators have found a home for their memoirs. All this is in addition to traditional comic panels, mainstream and subversive.

Back in the day, I was a fan of Matt Groening's Binky and Bongo. And Lynda Barry. This was years after my childhood interest in Archie and Betty. 

More recently, I haven't paid much attention to the graphic novel section. But Mr. has been working on me, reading passages from the books he's checked out. So, for the first time, I selected three items from the stacks, and I'm looking forward to digging in.

Two are memoirs, one about NYC, penned by Roz Chast (of The New Yorker), the other, by Tyler Feder, is a tribute to the author's mom. The third is a collection of more classic comics, created by Reza Ferezmand, who has a wicked sense of humor. (Just my style.)

Time will tell if my newfound interest will last. Or if the genre will continue to expand or will die out. Given our society and its obsession with instant visual gratification, I suspect they are here to stay. 

Somewhere, I can hear the age-old argument as to the value of graphic novels to young minds.

"At least the kids are reading," it was argued.

True enough. 

It's a Mystery to Me

"Hey, that's Pussy Galore," exclaimed Mr. Ginley last night. "I sure hope she's not going to murder James Bond."

We were watching a 2005 episode of Midsomer Murders entitled A Talent for Life. Sure enough, the victim-to-be was portrayed by Honor Blackman, who was the character with the smirk-inducing name in Goldfinger. In the 1960s Ms. Blackman was also Cathy Gale in The Avengers (no connection to the Marvel comic book characters). She was 94 when she passed away in April of this year.

But there I go, digressing.

Our interest in Midsomer Murders is relatively recent, and we have a lot of catching up to do. We are on the sixth set, and there are a gajillion episodes to watch. Each opens with a murder in a quaint village located in the fictional British county of Midsomer. It's up to Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby* and his young assistant, Sergeant Troy, to solve the murder.

Seldom, however, is the story limited to just one unnatural death. There are usually two or three that follow the initial killing. While I always thought it would be nice to live in the English countryside, I must say this series has put me off a bit. Considering the murder rate per capita, these sleepy little hamlets are in reality a hotbed of premature deaths. One never knows if the dotty old lady next door is going to take offense at some minor criticism and slip a little arsenic in your tea or a stiletto between your shoulder blades.

At any rate, mysteries are one of the few genres Mr. and I share. I keep my finger on the "pause" button so we can inspect some clue or other. And at times, we will pause and make an observation about who the killer could be. (More often than not, we're on the wrong track, but that's okay.)

For whatever reason, the majority of mystery series we've glommed onto were filmed across the pond, some in French or Italian with subtitles. But most are British. There is the added joy (for me) of listening to their accents. The historical settings are cool. And the countryside is lovely. Just the thing for an Anglophile like me.

Thankfully, there are two libraries near us that stock the entire series, so hopefully, we'll be able to view the whole shebang without a hitch. 

If I can't make it to the English countryside, I can at least visit vicariously through British mysteries. 

It's a whole lot safer, too, I'm sure. 

*Fun fact: In real life, Ms. Blackman had a son named "Barnaby." 

Fame and Fortune

My first wallet was quite a prize.

I still have a red wallet.

Red and shiny, with that new plastic smell, it had the added bonus of a photo of a famous movie star, tucked into the clear plastic pocket. Back in the day, they would put a photo there to illustrate how cool it would be to feature a picture of your loved one in that spot.

I gazed at the black and white photo and wrinkled my nose a little. To my five-year-old mind, he was an old, dad-looking guy. He looked like he would be nice, but I didn't recognize him, so he had no real appeal to me.

"It's Gregory Peck," my oldest sister said, as if that clarified all.

 "Who's Gregory Peck."

"He's a movie star. He's been in a bunch of movies," Diane informed me, rolling her big-sister eyes.

I shrugged, not impressed at all. But since I didn't have a photo to place in the pocket of my prized plastic wallet, Mr. Peck continued to hold his place of honor for as long as I owned it. 

Given that pretty much everything non-edible that came into our house was kept forever, Greg and I became well acquainted.

In real life, I haven't had many encounters with famous folk. More often than not, my brushes with fame have been by association. My son, as a preschooler, met and spoke with President Clinton. Harry, former-boss-now-friend, once ate in the same restaurant as Woody Allen. And my brother-in-law, Brian, has had hilarious meet-ups with Jay Leno (from a manhole during a traffic stop), Jim Carey (while helping to fix his stereo) and Garret Morris (who ran from him because he thought Brian was going to serve him papers from his ex).

 

Admittedly, I do like to read about the rich and famous, although, honestly, I'm more apt to read biographies about fascinating people who were not terribly famous themselves, but who hobnobbed with those who were.

Are there any movie stars I'd like to meet?

Giving it some thought (but not too much), I chose five alive and five not-so-alive:

Alive

1. Sam Elliott

2. Jody Foster

3. Tina Fey

4. Jon Stewart

5. Tracy Ullman

Not-so-Alive

1. Cary Grant

2. Jimmie Stewart

3. Harpo Marx

4. Carole Lombard

5. William Powell

I'd love to hear your favorites. Isn't that what social media is all about? 

Spill! (Please.) 

My friend, Gregory Peck, would approve.

I'm Not Karen

 I want to take a moment to thank the person who chose the name "Karen" -- and not mine -- to represent the stereotypical privileged white woman of a certain age.

Yes, I feel badly for the thousands of Karens out there, who must, every day, face down the stigma, magnified by the relentless memes, of Karen behaving badly. "Karen" shouting that she will not wear a mask. "Karen" standing outside her home, threatening peaceful folks of color with a rifle. "Karen" complaining she didn't want onions on her Big Mac but got them anyhow.

There but for the grace of God, etc.

In the year of my birth, "Karen" was ranked as the #4 most popular girl's name, preceded by Mary, Susan and Linda. My name took the #11 spot. 

I do believe, if we find it necessary to give a name to a woman who behaves badly, why don't we have a male counterpart? It may be because, if you look at boys' names from the same period, they are still in vogue today. During the Karen era, the most popular names were Michael, David, James, John and Robert, all of which are still used today. 

In fact, going down the Top 30 list of boys' names, none jumped out as being dated. Which brings up another question. Why are boys' names timeless, while girls' names can often be pegged by generation?

Jennifer, Amanda, Jessica, Melissa and Sarah topped the list for 1980.

In 1990, the top 5 were Jessica, Ashley, Brittany, Amanda and Samantha.

Fast forwarding to 2000, we have Emily, Hannah, Madison, Ashley and Sarah. 

2019: Emma, Ava, Olivia, Isabella and Amelia.

I will grant you that boys' names have become more diverse over the last 20 years. While William, James and Benjamin still made the Top 10 in 2019, ranking high on the list were Liam, Noah and Logan.

Still, I wasn't able to find a boys' name that is unique to my era. 

If we have a "Karen" we should have the male counterpart to represent the white guy of privilege.

Maybe "Donald" would work.

I'm open for suggestions.

Hello Goodbye

I know these are Christmas socks and it's not Christmas.

But I don't care. Because they make me happy.

Now me and these kitties are taking it on the road. To find a place to walk and enjoy this gorgeous day.

Hope you do the same!

Life in the Slow Lane

Two guys on crotch rockets went flying past me on the freeway last night.

They zoom zoomed and zipped their way around the other vehicles on the road. 

I pulled my heart out of my throat and kept a steady pace, allowing them to go by -- and get far, far away from me. 

I've noticed just about everybody is in a hurry these days. It has a lot to do, I'm certain, with being cloistered for several weeks during the pandemic. All that pent-up energy. 

Being the contrarian I am, my inclination has been to slow down. I went home last night and sat by the kitchen window, looking out at my backyard, watching day turn to night. There was a cool breeze. And crickets. And fireflies flickering their lights. Maggie dozed in her basket. I breathed it all in.

This morning I awoke to a cotton candy sky, all pinks and blues. And birdsong. And squirrel chatter.

Just a gentle reminder that the world will continue turn. The sun will make an appearance every morning. And each day we are given has at least some moments of peace and a little joy, if we look for them.

So, why is this "get off my lawn" gal spouting platitudes? 

Don't get used to it. I'm sure the old irascible Barb will return next week.

Sans the crotch rocket.

TTFN.

Time for Change

Our quest to downsize continues.

We cut the

Canadian coins need not apply.

cord on the cable and have been amazed by the quality of the picture we get from our vintage rooftop antenna.

Eating at restaurants has largely become a thing of the past. I haven't missed it as much as I thought I would. It's nice not to have the chronic, "I don't know, where do you want to eat?" discussion.

My monthly credit card bill for gasoline has dropped significantly. 

I haven't had to buy work clothes. (Bonus: no need to grimace at my hefty self in the three-way-mirrored, brightly-lit dressing room.)

Our basement has grown in size, owing to the diminishing piles of stuff we've donated.

And we've made some scratch selling books, CDs and DVDs.

Casting about the other day for more ways to save, I spied my filled-to-overflowing change dish. 

There's been a lot of noise in the news lately about the shortage of coins in circulation. I decided it was time to do my part.

Sitting down at the kitchen table, I sorted my quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies and started rolling. When I finished organizing my stash, Mr. Ginley brought over his jar of coins. All told, we had enough money to pay for groceries for the week.

Woo hoo!

I know there are folks who swear by those coin machines, where all you have to do is dump in your change and collect the cash. But I'd rather roll the coins myself and keep the percentage they charge for their service.

Certainly, there is enough time. Also, I find rolling coins to be a relaxing sort of activity. And it always feels good at the end to realize how much has been accumulating, not only in my change dish but in every pocket of every coat I own. 

As a special bonus, I discovered Mr. Ginley's wedding ring in his jar of coins. It's a mystery how it got there, but he was very pleased to be reunited with his ring, although it's still a bit too snug for him to wear.

What will my next downsizing project be?

Suggestions are welcome!