for 15 December 1999. Updated every WEEKDAY.
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Filler Subject: Pretty Weak Today What's the deal, did you forget to pay the narrative tax? Alejandro Taylor <ataylor@ findsvp.com> Oh shit! It seems like narrative tax time comes around faster every year! Polly  This week: a shocker. Wish I could say, "top notch," but I can't. Either this week's Filler was so esoteric as to be overwhelmingly boring, or it was so cynical as to not be remotely funny. Disjointed, lost, wandering. What's with the unsolicited negative criticism? Maybe this'll help: This week, my editor/editrix told me, "Don't let cynicism get in the way of creativity." Bahahahahahahahahahahaa! Paul Pavlak <PPavlak@EMAIL.HGA.com> That's funny, because my editor always says, "Don't let creativity get in the way of cynicism." Disjointed, lost, wandering, Polly Polly, You have a fine legal mind (as evidenced by the "Jury Doody" Filler highlighted on the Classic Suck bar this week), but I think your meticulous bong-spilling analysis overlooks a crucial suspect. You are dead-on by recognizing that, in these situations, it's not who physically spilled the bong that everyone gets so hyped up about, it's whose fault it is. Mike Johnson, 23, might have actually upended the device, but why didn't Scott McLeod, 32, act faster to make the save? And how much guilt does Lucy Weiss, 27, bear for putting on the jitter-inducing Tori Amos? There's plenty of fault to go around. But still, the question: What about the cat? No mention is made of this contented, pinkish feline-thing lolling in the foreground. Again, perhaps the cat did not actually attack and topple the bong physically, but it should share some blame. Maybe its dander was aggravating Mike's, 23, allergies and making his eyes blur (he looks like the kind of guy with allergies). Or maybe it fled the clatter of the falling bong, and its hasty exit distracted Scott, 32, from coming to the rescue in time. And perhaps its catty feline energy put Lucy, 27, in the mood for some meowing vocals, hence the Tori Amos. Then, of course, there's the larger concern of whose place this is. Mike, 23, is a friend-of-friend invite; Scott, 32, and Lucy, 27, are guests. Is it your place, Polly? Sorry about the carpet. And I didn't mean to imply that your cat has a dander problem. Stay where you are, cheese danish! Chris Mohney <cmohney@menasha.cncoffice.com> Ah, sure. Blame the cat. That's what's wrong with our society. Something goes wrong, we blame the cat. Sad, really. Anyway, that's not my apartment in the diagram. I don't own a bong, but if I did, the water would be sparkling and clean, I can assure you of that. Maybe it would even be moutain spring water, from protected springs high in the Sierra Nevada and San Bernadino mountains. "It's better up there!" It would be clean enough that you might splash a little in your whiskey on the rocks, if you wanted a little splash of water in there, which you probably wouldn't. I don't have wall-to-wall carpeting, but if I did, I wouldn't own a bong, but if I did own a bong ... (see above). I don't own a cat, but if I did, I wouldn't blame it for everything. Actually, I probably would blame it for everything. But my cat wouldn't have a dander problem, and I wouldn't allow so-called "allergic" people into my home, and I wouldn't have wall-to-wall carpeting, which would aggravate the dander issue when I did happen to have so-called allergic types around, which I wouldn't. While I do not currently know of a cheese danish in the vicinity, I do have a large block of cheese in my fridge, and it is staying right where it is, patiently awaiting further instruction. Polly Subject: What's on your windowsill? Dear Polly, I have resisted writing in the past for fear of ridicule in the sporadic Hate Mail Fillers. But today I have a little problem. On the first page of the 1 December 1999 Filler, we get to see you sitting in your stylish living room. Wonderful. Nice curtains. But I was left puzzled — exactly what was that stuff on your windowsill, if it was on the sill at all? My guess, from left to right, is a snow globe, the head of an alien (or the guy from Munch's "The Scream," only not screaming, or one of those things that spins when exposed to direct light), and a small pig figurine. The more disturbing possibility is that these things are actually outside, across the street, and are (from right to left this time) a gigantic pig, an alien (or the Munch guy on Prozac), and the back of Frankenstein's head!!!! Help me out here!! Andy Abbott <aabbott@gatan.com> I don't know what that crap is. It showed up before, and I meant to ask Terry what it was. I also meant to ask him why I look so fat lately, like some girl who has a big black "kitty" named Elvis and wall-to-wall carpeting and a dander problem and a wall that's creatively decorated with this really fantastic silk scarf she found at a yard sale and paid, like, next to nothing for. Can't you just picture me? Sitting around all day eating cookies and trying to think up funny "jokes" for my pathetic "online cartoon." No, I am much too mean and neurotic to have pets or to vacuum or to hunt for bargains at yard sales or to deign to attempt being "funny." Or to have friends or to describe anything as "fantastic," for that matter, but let's drop it. I think Terry's hinting at the fact that my apartment is overly cluttered. Either that, or he's trying to warn me about the gigantic pig, the alien, and the back of Frankenstein's head, all of which are just outside my window!!! Help me!!! Polly Subject: What's the deal with Steve? I just read the 1 December 1999 Filler. I sure love that Steve. But as much as I like the guy, he seems to have been watered down from the offensive, lazy, stinking brew he was in "Creepless in Seattle." You know, the Steve we all fell in love with. I mean, going out to dinner with some other doctors? What happened to the Steve who said he wasn't leaving the house unless things were going to blow up? The Steve who disdainfully uttered, "Cold Mountain"? I mean, for fuck's sake. Couldn't we get some more of that whining, pathetic, lying jackass? Please? Bitching and moaning, So-So Stu <sosostu@hotmail.com> Well, the moral of the story was "Doctors are evil." We had to set aside Steve's evilness in order to focus on the evilness of doctors in general. I really shouldn't write things like that because my sister Laura is a doctor. She's sometimes not so understanding about this little exaggerated world I dwell in. Actually, it doesn't seem exaggerated to me, but to a doctor, a scientist ... you understand. Strangely, she and Steve don't seem to like each other much. Maybe that's because my sister Laura is a real live doctor who's doing a fellowship at Duke University, and Steve just plays with this little Fisher-Price doctor's bag I got him. But we have to back up so I can clarify something. You refer to "the Steve we all fell in love with." Could you by any chance send me the names and email addresses of this "we all" you refer to, so I can forward them to offensive, lazy, stinking, whining, pathetic, lying, jackass Steve? As I mentioned before, he could use a date. Trust me, girls, it is sooo cute when he pretends to use the little stethoscope. Also offensive and lazy, but much less stinky, Polly Polly, Why don't you print my letters? I thought the one I sent two weeks ago about that asshole Kornheiser and his no-talent cousin Kornheiser was particularly funny. Flinchingly yours, Syd Lexic <sydlexic@cynical.com> I think this one is much funnier, personally. Polly Psychiatric Help, 5 Cents Yes, we're all very impressed that Charles Schulz has had a rough life, and his personal depression contributes that gloss of authenticity to the misery (i.e., tragedy) that oozes from between the panels of his daily comic. So of course we don't begrudge him his fortune; the man is a professional victim, and in our disposable culture, victimhood is something to aspire to. What bothers me more is that the consumers who have donated their hard-earned nickles to make Schulz rich don't seem to grok the difference between the authentic misery, horror, and despair of Good Ol' Charlie Boy and the synthesized gloom 'n' doom produced by Disney. Whether they're watching Little Miss Whoever-the-Suck trying to get in touch with her ex-dog while dying of cancer in a hospital bed, or watching King Triton level abuse at his daughter while he destroys her bedroom in a jealous rage, having discovered her great betrayal (not that she has spoken with a human, note, but she has fallen in love with someone), the American public just seems to like seeing horrible things happen to children, as long as the overall packaging is cute. Why do we like to see a father rage at a little girl? Why do we pay Schulz to show us a stupid little boy getting screwed over again by the girl who promises to hold the football? (This time she'll wait for him; this time she won't pull out.) We like it because little kids make good victims. For the same reason, Schulz's cartoons are authentic, though we all understand Disney's are counterfeits. We love Schulz; not only does he feed us pure, uncut victimization every day of the week, but the man is himself a victim. He's dying because he's such a victim; it's great. We're like addicts of a deadly substance that found a friendly dealer. Not only does he give us our fix for free, he's also using the stuff himself. It's beautiful. But Disney's stuff is fake; it's junk food. We'll eat it because we have to, but we know it isn't like Mom's cooking. There's no attachment, no real sentiment. We'll compulsively return to see Disney's films, but we won't ever love Disney; not the way we love Schulz. After all, Disney can't die. Walt can. He can have his head sawed off and frozen in nitrogen, depending on what tabloid you read. But Disney, the huge multimillion-dollar corporation that has come to symbolize American bad taste, is immortal. Disney can't hurt; Disney can't be a victim. So we can't identify with it. We all want and hope to someday be as much a victim as Schulz is now; as much a one as Charlie Brown has always been, because if you're a victim you get something better than sex, better than love, and better than money. You get sympathy. You get to be on the news; everybody says, "Poor little boy. Poor little girl. How tragic." People understand you. They understand it wasn't your fault. If you're lucky, the president of the United States will go on the air to feel your pain. That way, see, you won't have to. That way, see, you get your five minutes of fame. I say: Fuck innocence. Fuck victimhood. Do what you can to improve the world, sure — or as much as that vague guilt which perpetually gnaws your innards will motivate you to do — but desist with the mongrelized, mediafied, pain-feeling pity-oozing. Knock off the useless, inauthentic, dewy-eyed telecaster faux-sympathy, and otherwise cut the shit. Max Headroom <plankton25@excite.com> Is "aspiring to victimhood" the same thing as recognizing the tragedy of our inherent disposableness? If so, this raises an interesting possibility — tragedy as a consumer item. I can see the billboards now. Something, something, catharsis, something. It could be bigger than Bubble Goo. I know what you mean about Walt Disney, though. Always offering pat solutions to children's real-world powerlessness. And it's not exactly clear where that supposedly benign paternalism ends. Walt himself squawked to the House Un-American Activities Committee, naming the people who'd unionized his animators as known Communists. And ironically, Walt himself hated his father. It's a small world of wicked stepmothers, after all. I think people are just looking for a safe way to feel their emotions — even if only vicariously through child characters in a movie or comic strip. Something, something, catharsis, something. You make some good points. Newscasters read that Charles M. Schulz is in the hospital, and they start composing "Oh, the humanity" editorials. It's like when a movie star dies — you wonder why you're being told, since you never knew the star, just his or her work. The rationalization is that the performer is, in some way, reflected in his or her work. It's been argued that mass audiences can only register an event if it's conveyed in story form. And the follow-up argument is that some meaningful message can be packaged in story form and still retain some of its essential meaning. But ultimately believing that to be true requires a leap of faith in the mass media. If you asked a broadcaster instead of Linus, he or she would tell you that's what Christmas specials are all about. Destiny I seem to remember a series of books for Christian teens (published by the Methodists?) illustrated by Schulz. This would have been about 1966 or 1967. I can't remember if they were in comic strip format, or just text with single illustrations. Probably the latter ... it would explain why my grandmother could never get me to read them. Well, that and the marijuana. <Glenn.Evans@METROKC.GOV> Ah yes, The Gospel According to Peanuts and The Parables of Peanuts. Actually, it was a Methodist seminary student in Texas who whipped those up, according to Schulz's biographer, illustrating his own religious ethics with borrowed panels. The essays on Charlie Brown's "T-shirt of thorns" went straight to No. 1 on the nonfiction bestseller list in 1965. You know the drill. Find the true meaning of Christmas and win money, money, money. Thanks for writing! Destiny A surprisingly sweet essay. I didn't think Suck was capable of this, but the themes of disappointment and the chronically unfulfilled life are central to Suck's Weltanschauung. That Schulz's now-irrelevant (and frequently humor-free) strip can be viewed through such a loving lens is evidence that at some point, a conversation closed with Schulz saying, "I am your father, Joey." Alas, the merchandising deals were not to follow. Rob McMillin <robm@pricegrabber.com> Yeah, well that shows how much you know, Mr. Smarty-pants! We're working on marketing a collection of Suck-related cartoons called Happiness Is a Warm Fish. We'll keep you posted. We always identified with that weird kid Pogo-ing in the background in A Charlie Brown Christmas. Just so you know. Destiny I had the good fortune to be exposed to You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown during its first run as a stage musical in San Francisco in, I believe, early '69. After the show, I purchased a medallion commemorating Snoopy and Woodstock's role in our space program (how the quaint phrasing rushes back: "our space program" — Tom Hanks could do a whole miniseries about the sentiment that that phrase evokes in white guys his and my age from the suburbs of "happening" states like California ... oh), which named the December 1968 Apollo 8 command and lunar modules. I just wanted to say I think you have it dead right. If I may summarize in my own idiom, Schulz isn't begrudged his wealth because, in some odd but very deep corner of our minds, he "earned it" by giving us the Peanuts characters and nurturing them so well for so long (whenever one would cut off his own period of appreciation, it would nonetheless extend more than 20 years, anyone claiming otherwise being a dramatic and bad liar). I am also glad to read that his children once said publically that the last thing they need is more money. During the time Monte Schulz and I overlapped at UC Santa Barbara, I had my doubts. In retrospect, he must just have been a guy trying to play some hockey under the double-barreled handicap of advancing age (he was rumored to be 30, claiming to be 29) and second-hand celebrity. I'm sure we were too hard on him, and probably the other kids too (whoever they may be). Bless my godfather, and bless Charles Schulz. Great column. Richard Piedmonte <humanmeal@earthlink.net> People forget just how popular Peanuts was in the '60s, and it was mainly because Schulz was extra-relevant back then. In one panel from the period, Snoopy returns to the Daisy Hill Puppy Farm only to find that a riot has broken out. The police start firing tear gas as a horrified Linus and Charlie Brown watch on TV. (I'm not making this up!) Yeah, and in that 20 years, the franchise kept chugging. I mean, there are Peanuts specials about every single holiday. There's even one about Arbor Day! Destiny |
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