Partisan Heroes: Bill Watterson

If you wish to pet a cat you must first create the universe.

The cosmos woke me up this morning. Rude, considering it’s 4:30am. But then again, I suppose it doesn’t really care about little things like the human perception of time or sleep. It had something to tell me that in turn I need to tell you. You matter. You also don’t matter. The universe listens to you, but only the good stuff. It’s big and old, so it easily affords ignoring the dumb shit. And man, let me tell you, we’ve got a lot of dumb shit to ignore.

But that’s not why I’m here. Not really. Or maybe it is, and I’m just too out of it to get it. No matter, the coffee’s ready so I’ll have some of that first.

Gosh, is it just me or does that first sip get better with age?

OK, the universe. Sometimes, when you try and force things they annoy you and you’ve got to let them go. The piece I’ve been working on this week about Bill Watterson, Calvin and Hobbes, and his fight to keep it from licensing is one such thing. Listen, it’s really not that complicated but I was trying to make it that. Here’s the deal you should know, such as it is.

Bill made the best comic ever. People wanted to make a ton of money off it and he said, “No.” The man left $300 million dollars in 1990s money on the table because if he couldn’t control what Calvin and Hobbes meant then it didn’t matter to him anymore. Then he went on sabbatical, came back and did the greatest work ever, and in 1995 left on top never to be seen again.

We’re talking proper Jim Brown arc, people.

Well, besides the book he released out of the blue 27 year later. It’s called The Mysteries and you should check it out, but I digress. The point of all this is simple, and I was trying to make it complex. Why? I have no real idea, but I think part of it was a bid to impress you all.

And frankly, I don’t care to impress anyone. Why should I? Pardon the snark my dear reader (because you are actually dear to me), but who the fuck are you?

Who the fuck am I? Or better yet, who the fuck should I be? I’ll let Bill tell you the answer.

To invent your own life's meaning is not easy, but it's still allowed, and I think you'll be happier for the trouble.

I’ve been doing this my whole life, even since I was a little boy. Am I happier for the trouble? Sometimes. I’m not sure. Yes? Let me get back to you on that. How about we circle back in 20 years? I’m buying. In any case, at this stage, I can’t really make my point any better than that.

Invent your own life’s meaning.

It’s still allowed.

You’ll be happier for the trouble.

This morning that meant finding my cat, Bobbie, sleeping to my right. I pushed her out of place so I could properly position my pillow. Once she laid back down, I put my arm around her until she fell back asleep. She purred until she didn’t and then the breaths were deep and heavy. Then I got up and wrote this.

That’s my meaning. The universe is too damn old and too damn big and it put me here to care for an innocent creature. And sometimes annoy it.

I’ve heard it said when the universe needs a knife it makes a knife.

I guess when something innocent needs help it makes me. In case you’re wondering, yes, there’s much more in my life to care for than a bobtail cat named for Bobbie Draper but I’m trying to be pensively poetical here. Muhammad was big on cats, right? Why not me?

Whatever the case, fine. So be it. Just grant me strength to see it through.

And maybe let me sleep in next time.

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