The new Calvinism

(From the Register-Pajaronian)

A decade from now, when those of us who grew up reading the comic strip “Calvin and Hobbes” every morning are old enough to make proclamations, I’m certain that the strip’s author, Bill Watterson, will be recognized as one of the greatest artists of his generation in any medium.

If you want to read reams (or at least gigabytes) of essays supporting that argument, just Google his name. The number of info-weary, chronically unimpressed 20-somethings gushing about the impact the adventures of a 6-year-old kid and his stuffed tiger had on their lives will astonish you.

I absolutely count myself among them. Watterson’s strip was genius not just because of his stunning visual art, which may never again be equaled on the comics page as more and more papers require all strips to fit into a 2-by-5-inch space, but because of the man’s ideas. He would condense entire philosophies and worldviews into five panels without losing a single nuance, using water balloons and superheroes as metaphors.

Watterson always wrote to adults, but he never lost sight of the fact that kids grasp things intuitively that grown-ups have to relearn later in the context of the real world. The principles are the same, though, and that’s one reason the strip worked: A lot of us still see strong parallels between the bully, Moe, and the big guy walking straight down the middle of the sidewalk on Pacific Avenue. And I think there have been echoes of Calvin pelting Susie Derkins with snowballs rather than talking to her in every relationship I’ve ever been in.

One of my favorite strips is one where Calvin’s dad asks him to consider all sides of an argument and suddenly the strip becomes an M.C. Escher piece — Calvin can literally see all sides of everything at once and is unable to move without crashing into the furniture.

I first read it when I was about 11, and I got the joke. But like all good art, it makes more sense as I get older. I think the first time I really got my mind around it in a grown-up way was on Saturday.

The front yard of the house was empty and quiet, and there was a distinct wet chill in the air that made me glad I’d dressed up as a referee rather than, say, Tarzan. The brunette gangster and the cowboy with me seemed to be doing OK in coats and hats, but the black cat was rubbing her exposed arms and Alice in Stripperland was clearly having second thoughts about the length of her skirt.

A heavy wave of warmth and sound spilled over us and into the street when I opened the door. Because of new laws, parties in Santa Cruz are subject to being raided like crackhouses the instant neighbors complain, so the host ushered us into the cheek-to-cheek crowd in a panic and quickly slammed the door.

Immediately, the single most intoxicated female I had ever seen standing upright grabbed me by the shoulders and drove me back several steps before I could get my feet set.

“Hi!” she announced into my left ear. She had probably been a pirate before she’d started shedding clothes, though it was hard to tell. At least she’d managed to hang on to her hat and sword.

“Hey,” I said, but she’d already caught sight of the pink bow in Alice’s hair and was trying to pluck it out while making small talk. Eventually, she lost interest, gave her a big hug, and disappeared into the press of people.

“She looks really different in that costume,” Alice said.

I tore my eyes away from what I had just realized were Wonderland-themed garters. “Like a different person,” I agreed.

I didn’t know most of the people at the party, which was good because I could walk up to anyone and just start talking and they’d likely be drunk enough to consider us great friends within a few minutes. The downside was that lasting bonds are rarely formed while intoxicated and in costume, so after a while all the masked killers and cavewomen started seeming awfully similar. Fortunately, the pirate found me and broke up the monotony by showing me (and most of the rest of the room) her various tattoos. When she got confused and started over from the star on the back of her neck, I excused myself and slipped outside.

Alice was alone on the porch, her breath fogging the screen of her cell phone. Within five words, I could tell that the person on the phone was male, far away and that neither of them was happy about it. There’s a specific inflection that works its way into your voice during those talks, and it’s pretty easy to pick out after you’ve heard it come out of your own mouth a few times.

“OK,” she said, lingering over the word, stretching it out because she knew she’d have to hang up after it was finished. “Happy Halloween. Bye.”

She snapped the phone carefully shut and stared at it for a few seconds. Then she looked up and saw me. For a moment, she looked like she might get embarrassed, but the look faded.

“This sucks,” she said.

I looked past her at the street.

“Not much fun being on the other end of that call, either,” I said.

“Yeah.” She sipped from a stainless steel flask she’d borrowed from the gangster, offered it to me. “Probably not.”

I’d never seen the Wish You Were Here talk from this side before. I wasn’t sure I liked the possibility that it might be tough on both parties. When I had been in similar situations, I’d always sort of assumed I was bearing the weight of distance alone. Calvin was right. Things are a lot simpler when you can only see one side of them.

The door swung open and the black cat stared at us in disbelief.

“You guys,” she said. Her black ears had turned so they ran diagonally across her head. “This is a party. Get in here!”

I shrugged at Alice, handed her the flask and we all plunged into the crowd. If Calvin had taught me anything, it was that being lonely and confused can’t keep you from having a good time. Only you can do that. You, or a random pterodactyl attack.