Artists, cats, and funnies

My comic Zevon quest.

Soon to be on a wall near me.

As a kid, I was a “comics first” guy, especially on Sundays when the funnies burst forth big and bold, with vibrant colors. They sat atop the rubber-banded stack that was the Sunday paper, easy to grab and devour like a mental snack. Even on weekdays, when they shrank into monochrome, I never skipped them. These days, though, I rarely read a comic.

I quit newspaper delivery years ago, when Connie, our perpetually late carrier, made home delivery more hassle than joy. I quipped that Connie was short of ‘Constance Late’ and canceled my subscription. Some folks switched to grabbing the paper at the store, but I didn’t bother—I just stopped reading. In my newspaper heyday, though, I was devoted, diving into the comics before savoring columns by Mike Royko or Dave Barry, whose wit felt like an extension of the funnies.

Toward the end of my newspaper days, a new strip caught my eye: Frazz, starring an elementary school janitor who spun slice-of-life wisdom with a philosophical twist. I read every comic back then—Peanuts, Calvin and Hobbes, Hagar the Horrible—devouring them like bite-sized mental candy. Why skip something that took seconds to enjoy? Though I teared up when Farley, the loyal dog from For Better or For Worse, crossed the Rainbow Bridge. But Frazz stood out, its cleverness a cut above, and I was hooked.

Years back, a Frazz strip dropped a Warren Zevon reference—a thrill for diehard fan like me. I fired off an email to the publisher: “Dear Sir, how can I get a signed copy of the Frazz strip from a certain date”. I wanted to add it to my quirky collection of treasures. Crickets. The idea faded into my mental abyss.

Then, a few months ago, Frazz resurfaced in my Facebook feed, sparking a memory: “This is the strip with the Zevon nod!” On a whim, I sent another note to a generic contact address: “Dear Newspaperman, can I get a signed copy of a specific Frazz strip?” Expecting nothing after my first attempt flopped, I was stunned when a reply landed in my inbox days later. The reply outlined options—contact the syndicate, pay a small fee—or simply send the request directly to the sender. It dawned on me: I’d reached the artist himself, Jef Mallett.

I was thrilled.

We exchanged emails about the strip’s date and logistics. I suggested picking it up in person next time I was nearby, and he shared an address. Since it was late January, I added him to our growing Groundhog Day card list. I am not making this up.

A friend, indulging my Zevon obsession, dug up three Frazz strips referencing him, which my wife formatted for printing. After some weather-related delays, I set my GPS for the Frazz Factory. Picture a cozy studio blending old-school charm with modern tools, lined with books and guarded by a cadre of cats. We chatted, and when I handed Jef the prints, he paused, studying his own work as if rediscovering it after 25 years of daily strips. As one of his cats warmed up to me, we talked for an hour about art, the fading newspaper world, economics, and even Carl Jung’s ideas—an eclectic mix that felt like a Frazz strip come to life.

Back home, I consulted my wife, my one-woman art crew, about framing the prints. Her only question: “What color matting?” After a quick pause, I grinned: “How about gray T-shirt material?”