I don’t really feel very cool today, but I caught a few minutes of the Charlie Brown Thanksgiving Special last night, and, well, here he is. Or is that me?
My grandmother made clothes for my Snoopy. As a matter of fact, I think I still have the clothes she made for my Snoopy. He had a cape, and a Sailor’s hat. It’s in the garage where there are some artifacts from my boxed-up childhood.
I’m 36 years old. I still have affection for Snoopy. I find Charles Schulz to be a tragic figure though. Based on the interviews I read, he never fulfilled the ambitions of his life. Maybe I am misreading him — maybe he was self-critical, but despite having created the most popular comic strip of his age and becoming fabulously wealthy, he didn’t consider himself a “real artist” because his medium was not oil paint and canvas, it was bristol board and ink — and because his work was in the newspaper, not in a “real gallery.”
It makes me stop to consider my life. Will I consider it to have been worthwhile? I’ve been making changes toward what it is that I want, and it’s been a great transition. But a hard transition. Very damn hard. It’s hard to look yourself in the heart and figure out what’s there. But it’s infinitely rewarding too. It’s been a necessary process.
Yo kids, onward, as to war.