Monthly Archives: January 2006

Pep for the the Zip Citee


I can’t stop talking about Babbitt, which I finally read a few weeks ago and am now selling door-to-door like magic vitamins; I’m like Tom Cruise endorsing Scientology, but pushier. Here’s a great take on the book from one of my all-around heroes, former Nation colleague Richard Lingeman. This is from a Sinclair Lewis Society interview with Richard about his fantastic biography Sinclair Lewis: Rebel from Main Street:

Babbitt is still my favorite. It achieves such a deft balance between realism and satire. It is funny in places. It evokes with accuracy and hardly a whiff of didacticism, the politics and power and the social anatomy of a typical American city, as well as the leading institutions, such as business and religion, and the Chamber of Commerce booming and the competitiveness, and the petty corruption and the power structure—the real rulers who pull the strings behind the scenes. And Lewis limns a brilliant almost tactile and surreal portrait of the central character’s environment, the “thingification” of his life, the tinny gadgets, consumerism, advertising and PR oppress him. I sometimes wonder if T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land influenced him. Has America changed that much since 1922?

A Map of Sinclair Lewis’ United States as It Appears in His Novels [Language of the Land]

Linda Gregg poem arrives again

A MamasInk writer digs last week’s Linda Gregg poem: “It’s the kind of poem that makes me remember that I do love poetry.” The full text is here, too! Bloggers wouldn’t have to resort to this if the NYer would put at least one poem per issue online. Poetry’s not being read—that’s ancient news. So how can you help, major literary tone-setting magazines?

“I never asked him to redraw”: Eldon Dedini

Eldon Dedini
New Yorker cartoon by Eldon Dedini

Obituary in the Monterey County Herald, by Larry Parsons:

Eldon Dedini, the Monterey Peninsula cartoonist whose artistry and humor graced slick American magazines for a half century, died Thursday of cancer at his Carmel-area home. He was 84.
Well-known for full-page panels depicting saucy satyrs and curvaceous, rosy-cheeked nymphs in Playboy magazine, Dedini was remembered as a top professional who blended his loves of life, art and learning into an immediately recognizable style.
“If 20th century cartooning is ever looked at seriously,” said Lee Lorenz, former art director at The New Yorker magazine, “Eldon Dedini will be one of the outstanding figures of American comic art.”

A King City native, Dedini was born June 29, 1921. He became infatuated with cartooning as a boy, when he would pore over “comic books” his mother made for him from the Sunday comics section in the newspaper. One of his favorites was Popeye, and he strived to imitate the spinach-fueled sailor.
Dedini studied at Salinas Junior College, as Hartnell College was then known, where an art teacher’s encouragement led to his first published cartoon in a Salinas newspaper. It depicted the city’s crumbling train depot.
“You’ve got to start somewhere,” Dedini said of that humble beginning. Within a few years, he was a staff cartoonist for Esquire magazine, where he worked from 1942 to 1955.

In Southern California, Dedini worked a couple of years doing storyboards for Walt Disney Studios, while sending off cartoons to magazines. His first cartoon in The New Yorker was published in 1950, the same year he moved to the Monterey Peninsula.

Dedini fashioned his cartooning from serious studies of art and human beings.
“He was kind of a scholar of human nature,” Carey said. “All his life he was growing and learning. He was a voracious reader,… always looking for clues.”
Dedini’s son said his father reveled in life and appreciated “food, wine, people, humor, history, travel, family, sex, beautiful women and the outdoors.”

A 1957 collection of cartoons from Esquire carried a blurb about those days by Dedini that still resonates for his son. It seems to sum up the gusto Dedini found in life.
“(He wrote) ‘With a small group of paisanos we meet in Doc’s old place and study wine, jazz and philosophy,”’ his son said, reading from the book. “That really fits. I like that.”
Dedini married his wife, painter Virginia Conroy, after they met studying art in Los Angeles. Their marriage lasted more than 60 years.
Dedini may have painted bawdy cartoons for Playboy every month that, as his brother-in-law said, divined the “essence of female femaleness,” but he was very much a Tory during the sexual revolution the magazine trumpeted.
“In his own relationships he was very conservative,” Carey said.

For nine years, his cartoons were the centerpiece of a campaign for Mann Packing Co.’s broccoli. A retrospective show on his career in Salinas last year was aptly called “From Babes to Broccoli.”
Dedini, the hard-working humorist, wasn’t thrilled with the show’s title, but the professional in him acknowledged: “It’s all right. It works.”
That’s what Dedini did, too. He worked and worked hard. And he always made deadlines.
“He had a heavy work ethic,” Carey said. “He knew that was the way things get done.”
Said Lorenz of his dealings with Dedini for The New Yorker: “He was tough to edit because he didn’t need much editing. I never asked him to redraw, which at The New Yorker is quite unusual.”
Dedini once dismissed the illustrative side of his art, saying millions of people can draw but a good gag — a caption that distills the drawing’s humor — is the elusive side of cartooning.
“That’s not true,” Lorenz said. “While a million people can draw, very few can cartoon well. To be a cartoonist you have to be a stylist, and that’s not easy to come by. It transcends any technique.”

Still, Dedini was a very good “idea man,” Lorenz said. “He had a wide-ranging imagination.”
Urry said one of the joys of her job was looking at Dedini’s cartoons that Playboy never published. “He was very funny,” she said. “I think it was wonderful he came down to earth for us.”
Dedini is survived by his wife, Virginia; his son, Giulio, of San Luis Obispo; his brother, Delwin, of King City; four nieces and one nephew.
Services for Dedini will be held at 1 p.m. Jan. 21 at All Saints Episcopal Church, Ninth and Dolores, in Carmel. The Paul Mortuary of Pacific Grove is in charge of arrangements.

Another Playboy/New Yorker career combination, like that of the late Rowland B. Wilson. There aren’t a lot of magazines that feature single-panel cartoons anymore, I’m sure, and it must give NYer cartoonists a chance to have a different kind of fun. (Playboy cartoons, like the rest of the magazine, are endearingly tame, don’t you think? They never change; they’re a fixed art form with infinite small variations.)
R.I.P.
Update: Here’s the Chicago Tribune obituary.
Photo above is from Christopher Wheeler’s pbase, an amazing resource for images of cartoonists that I must return to.
Dedini’s New Yorker cartoons [Cartoonbank.com]
Photo of Eldon Dedini [by Michael K. Hemp; Dedini is standing in front of his Cannery Row mural]
Eldon Dedini images [Google Images; includes magazine illustrations, some New Yorker and Playboy cartoons, a mask, photos, etc.]

New Yorker cartoon by Eldon Dedini

Let it s…no

An interview with Bob Mankoff during the recent Humor on the Slopes ski-and-pen-fest in Colorado’s Vail Valley:

Mankoff, now cartoon editor of The New Yorker, goes through about 1,000 cartoons every week, narrowing them down to about 35 before he meets with the editor-in-chief and the managing editor to select the 15 or 16 that get published in the weekly magazine.

Mankoff said he rejects cartoons that are too silly, too raunchy or even too funny for The New Yorker.

“I mean, picture this: You’re in the middle of reading a very important article in The New Yorker, and then you’re laughing because you got distracted by a cartoon, and you have to go to the bathroom because of all the laughing … come on people, please keep the humor at a minimum,” Mankoff said.

Mankoff said humor is an immensely important “counter weight” in journalism.

“I think cartoons basically say, ‘the world is ambiguous,'” Mankoff said. “They cut down to size all the issues that seem so big.”

You know, I thought these lower-case heds were so cute when I started emdashes (that’s lower-case, too). I think I’m going to switch to standard hed style, Majors Capped.

Pants on Frey-er

From Chris Lehmann’s Slate review of A Million Little Pieces (April 21, 2003):

Frey wants to offer a corrective to what he sees as the pieties (and possibility) of recovery—and to grant us an unvarnished glimpse of the gritty junky life. When a recovered rock star lectures his ward at Hazelden, Frey thinks to himself, “The life of the Addict is always the same…. There is no future and no escape. There is only an obsession…. To make light of it, brag about it, or revel in the mock glory of it is not in any way, shape or form related to its truth, and that is all that matters, the truth.”

This equation of “the truth” with the junky world’s degradations is the corollary of Frey’s view that all recovery theology is falsely comforting bullshit. It’s also what has already won the book praise from critics like John Homans, in New York, who marvels at Frey’s textbook-rebel penchant for “confronting the powers that be and winning every time.” But there’s nothing new or compelling (let alone heroic) about this pose: It is, in many ways, the classic arc of the genre Frey claims he’s boldly renovated—the conversion memoir. From St. Augustine to Rousseau to Dave Eggers and Elizabeth Wurtzel, readers of memoirs are invited to marvel at the incorrigible badness of a narrator as a sort of trust-exercise: Surely someone who conceals so little of their unpleasant behavior can’t be lying.

Assuming Chris stands behind his 2003 review (if he’s changed his mind, I’ll eat my laptop), I’m sure he’s delighted to be taking the side Oprah isn’t. Interestingly, in light of the current fur flying in Freyland, he ends his review:

[In A Fan’s Notes, Frederick] Exley also denied himself the cheap consolation of romanticizing his afflictions: He took everything about his life seriously and himself not seriously at all. Most of all, he knew a life’s story could never be squared with something as stark and unequivocal as “the truth”—whether or not the truth was all that mattered. That’s a saving wisdom all its own, even if it won’t fit onto a tattoo.