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Herb and Jamaal, 1/31/13

So, when does a comic make the jump from “funny little joke about life’s foibles” to “horribly depressing”? In the case of today’s Herb and Jamaal, that moment came when the artist decided to add such vivid emotion to Sarah’s face in panel one, as she briefly mistakes Herb’s clumsy reach for the lamp as an attempt to touch her affectionately. Is he going to hug me? Could this actually lead to sex? Haha, don’t be silly, Sarah, you’ve reached a “comfortable” point in your marriage, if you define “comfort” as “a cold, numbing absence of strong feelings of any kind.”

Dick Tracy, 1/31/13

I think traditionally Dick Tracy has used arrow-box-labels to identify the bits of gee-whiz technology the strip’s law-enforcement characters usually deploy. But since things like two-way wrist radios have now been superseded by boring, ordinary cell phones, I guess they’re just now going to be pointing out random objects. Architectural details in early 20th century mausoleums? Skeletons inside said mausoleums, which is exactly the sort of place you’d expect a skeleton to be? Sure, why not!

Spider-Man, 1/31/13

Say, what’s our good friend the Amazing Newspaper Spider-Man been up to since he was physically present when Kraven’s plot was foiled? Well, after finding out that one of his old nemeses was up to his old tricks in San Francisco, he decided to hitchhike from Las Vegas to San Francisco, because of poverty. (Isn’t MJ making decent money as a Broadway actress, enough to subsidize a bus trip or perhaps even coach-class plane travel? Maybe she quite wisely refuses to give him access to her bank account.) Then the guy who picked him up tried to rob him at gunpoint, and then he crushed the barrel of the gun with his bare hands, without the usual seven strips of agonizing about “oh, no, my secret identity,” presumably because whatever happens on I-15 several hours outside of Vegas stays on I-15 several hours outside of Vegas. Today’s strip made me laugh because of how devastated our ne’er-do-well is at the prospect of spending a few minutes looking for his keys in a roadside ditch. I’m thinking if you threaten someone with a gun and he turns out to have superhuman strength, this is probably one of the better possible outcomes?

Slylock Fox, 1/31/13

“So, what’re you doing, bro? I’m just gettin’ baked, makin’ calls on my fuzzy phone, and taking a bath in a tub full of pancake batter.”

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Archie, 1/30/13

OK, when it comes to “what year are the Archie reruns from, and what weird violence has been done to the text and art to make them seem vaguely contemporary,” I … I don’t even know anymore? Like, obviously there’s some kind of chronological discontinuity going on here, or else why would Veronica, in a public place, call Archie “on his cell” from what appears to be a wall-mounted pay phone? And yet nothing about the joke makes sense if Archie doesn’t have a portable phone-type device on him. My guess is that in the original version of the strip Archie had a pager, which puts the date probably in the late-ish ’90s. Because there was this whole trend of kids having pagers then, right? Am I remembering that correctly? Or maybe Archie is a drug dealer? And this is why Reggie didn’t sell out Archie immediately, as he normally would, because now he and Archie and Jughead are in a drug gang? The least terrifying drug gang in America?

Gil Thorp, 1/30/13

Have you ever looked at your hand? Like, really looked at your hand? Like, really examined all the weird nubs and fleshy protuberances, and imagined high-fiving someone with an identically freaky hand, big paws just slapping all meatily together, and gone into a gibbering fit where you want nothing so much as to saw your hands off at the wrist, so you never have to look at them again?

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Shoe, 1/29/13

I originally saw this strip a sort of sad commentary on aging. The surface joke prompts us to imagine notorious outlaw Billy the Kid — whose very name marks him as one of those figures who will remain forever young by virtue of an early death — as a stooped, doddering old man. Similarly, it must be the case that the Perfesser was, at one point in his life, young and vital, and yet now he slouches in his easy chair, his failing eyesight forcing him to sit far too close to the television, his living room strewn with garbage. But then I thought: maybe all the newspapers on the floor are somehow related to his bird-man nature? You know, because humans line the floor of birdcages with newspaper? For birds to poop on? Screw meditations on old age, I just want the strip to acknowledge that its characters are birds, just once, just once.

Crankshaft, 1/29/13

Speaking of old people, here’s Crankshaft shitting on his friend’s hobby, just to be a jerk.