A clean, well-lit place to vent
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Having been a 9/11 survivor, rescue worker, and finally recovery worker, I also say you nailed it.
Thanks for today's strip. You hit the nail completely on the head once again. Interesting how B.D. seems to be the character most often featured in these almost perfect slices of life.
Thank you for today's strip. It conveys my sentiments exactly.
I am hoping for a day with such a paucity of news that the Taliban will be revealed as little more than a shadow, full of sound and fury, a comic rendition fit only for derisive laughter. I am hoping. But thank you, GT, for today's strip.
Doonesbury has found a way to say the unsayable. Listening to the coverage this morning, (because I was driving and my radio's always on NPR) I heard Paul Simon substitute "Sounds of Silence" for the programmed "Bridge Over Troubled Water." Those words from my childhood took on, in this context, a meaning that, to me, invoked a Chomskyan view of the events of 9/11. I wonder -- was Simon also saying the un-sayable? Or was it only that, at pushing 70, he found the difficult "Bridge" to be un-singable? Doonesbury is often ambiguous, but not this time. Thank you.
I have been reading the strip for over 40 years, and have never had the impulse to write an email of this type during my 60 years on the planet. Today's 9/11 piece may be the best work you have ever done. Tomorrow I will go to work and try to approach your achievement.
Oh, thank you for your 9/11 strip. I so agree. Not only does all the coverage make us feel terrible, it likely makes al-Qaeda feel happy and triumphant all over again.
Re. 9/11 coverage: GBT, you nailed it. Thank you!
Thank you for the Sunday strip's point of view. I do feel the same way, though I was so moved and did listen to the Times' audio tapes of the early events through the air traffic system. Thank you, thank you.
Thank you, Mr. Trudeau. As a survivor of 9/11, I'd say you hit the nail on the head for how I and most of the other survivors probably feel right about now.
Thanks, Garry, from someone in B.D.'s second category. Nuff said.
I'm sorry for B.D. (and America). I'd say something, but this level of grief doesn't want to hear anything that makes sense.
Here's another one who cares. Happy birthday, B.D. You're one of my favorite Doonesbury characters. Sorry it's a belated wish.
For several months i have wondered what kind of strip you would run on this day. I knew it would be something special, but you completely exceeded yourself. The first three panels captured it all, and B.D.'s simple request -- as short as those two sentences were -- made every other comment redundant. Keep up your good work.
B.D. is one year older. Nobody cares but me. Happy birthday, B.D.
Uh oh, I hope Becca doesn't lose her job over this. Books (and bookstores) are getting rare, good editing jobs even more so. I hope leaking the Palin book was her plan all along.
Egad, Jeff's messing up big time, one more time. And like someone else said, he could at least have messed up by giving the Rogue galley to his dad instead of Hedley. But nooooo. So when I see him going down the same old road again, I get this feeling in the pit of my stomach like I want to reach into the strip and -- shake the boy silly! Then I remind myself these are not real people. They're drawings by a guy named Trudeau. But I wouldn't mind bumping into B.D. in a supermarket somewhere. He's become a real three-dimensional person, with shortcomings and humanity. Whoodathunk it?
EGAD raises an interesting point. Imagine if Jeff had brought the book home to Rick. Imagine Rick weighing what's left of his career on the one hand, and selling his son down the river on the other.
Besides eating the donut between panels one and three, he also slipped the serviette from under his coffee across the table and under Roland's coffee. Red Rascal really is a master spy. It's not just a fantasy.
Oh, Jeff... I now recognize as prophetic an old strip (mid-80s, immediately post-sabbatical, as I recall) where Jeff is a baby and Rick is chronicling the joys of fatherhood in the wee hours of the morning and notes: "I diaper his head."