The mostly black kitten sported four milk-white paws, a pale downy-soft belly and white markings around his face. Inspired, they said, by his slightly beady eyes, they dubbed him Calvin.
Calvin? A horrible choice, in my not-so-humble opinion. A good friend had taken to bestowing on her cats monosyllabic human names like Frank and Ray. No, thank you. I was not from the name-your-pet-after-grumpy-sounding-men school of labeling. So no cat of mine — he had, after all, been a gift to me — was going to be called Calvin, even if the title tyke in my favorite comic strip, “Calvin and Hobbes,” had inspired the misapplied label.
So, out of contrariness, as much as anything, I dubbed this tuxedo kitten Spiff, after Calvin’s intergalactic jet pilot alter ego, Spaceman Spiff.
As Spiff metamorphosed from kittenhood into full-fledge catdom, he grew to be the most delightful, handsome and, at times, exasperating of feline companions. One friend described his body language as a swagger. Spiff did not lack for self-esteem. I wouldn’t have had him any other way. Among his superpowers: a penchant for hopping on my car hood each night as I parked to greet me as I arrived home from work; contorting into the most preposterous positions on the carpet, then peering up at his human observers with an expression of utter nonchalance; and preferring to take his liquids from a water glass or running faucet (resulting in countless upturned water glasses!).
Spiff often insisted on entering my then-apartment through my second floor bedroom window. This required him to first leap onto a stone wall, scurry up a tree trunk, fling himself onto the roof, then somehow drop a good four feet or more onto the wide windowsill below. It was a fine system, except that not only was the window screen not designed for easy removal, but Spiff often found himself stranded on the window ledge for hours awaiting the arrival home of one of his humans.
Spiff didn’t go in for cuddling much, but when I’d come home in the evening, he’d graciously allow me to flop him over my shoulder where he would contentedly hang for a minute or more while I petted him and he purred happily. Aside from twining my fingers in his silky, short fur — and telling him how fabulous he looked in red, the color of his collar — I will forever miss the distinctive trilling coo sound he inevitably uttered anytime we reunited after an absence.
In honor of Spiff, I’d like to share a story I wrote for the newspaper’s lifestyle section in 2002 about a rare exhibition of “Calvin and Hobbes” art by its creator Bill Watterson, then on temporary display at the Cartoon Art Museum in San Francisco. Notice how I worked in a reference to Spaceman Spiff in the story. It was no accident, a move I suspect Calvin — and my dear Spiff — would no doubt approve.
Published Feb. 19, 2002 Oakland Tribune, et al (ANG Newspapers)
True Originals:
Calvin and Hobbes still tickle our funny bones after 6-year absence
By Monique Beeler
STAFF WRITER
``There's never enough time to do all the nothing
you want.''
_ Calvin lamenting summer's passage
As a kid, Mark Arnold of Dublin collected all of the ``Calvin and
Hobbes'' books and made a point of reading the strip regularly. As
far as he's concerned, the cartoon world isn't the same without the
spiky-haired Calvin and his stuffed tiger, Hobbes.
``It should be in the newspapers, but it's not,'' Arnold, 20, says.
``For it not to be in the newspaper, it takes away from what (the
comics page) could be.''
Cartoonist Bill Watterson quit drawing the antics of the incorrigible
Calvin and his striped pal Hobbes six years ago, leaving a hole
in the daily funny papers that some fans argue remains unfilled.
Was it his unabashed disgust for gloppy foods, cootie-ridden girls
and homework that endeared Calvin to a generation of comic strip
readers? Maybe it was his daydreams of dinosaurs piloting F-14s,
zooming through the universe in his own spaceship, or snowball
fights with ``snow goons'' come to life, that kept our eyes glued
to the page.
Thoughtfully written and creatively conceived and drawn, whatever
the reason for its success, ``Calvin and Hobbes'' entertained and,
at times, enlightened readers of many ages.
In the introduction to one 1986 Sunday strip, for example,
Watterson equips the precocious Calvin with an army helmet and
Hobbes with a dart gun.
``How come we play war and not peace?'' Hobbes asks.
``Too few role models,'' Calvin says.
``(Watterson) hit a nerve with Calvin and these characters,''
says Jenny Robb Dietzen, curator for the Cartoon Art Museum
in San Francisco where a rare exhibit of Watterson's original
drawings is on display. ``It's just universal what Calvin
experiences _ it appeals to older people, it appeals to children,''
she says. ``On top of that, it's funny. It was subtle enough, yet
he's still making statements.''
Carter McLennan, 13, of San Francisco was too young to read
``Calvin and Hobbes'' in the newspaper, but his friends introduced
him to Watterson's books a few years ago.
``I like the different characters. In this one he'll be Spaceman
Spiff and in this one he's a different character,'' says Carter,
as he studies a strip on display at the museum. ``And the whole
idea with Hobbes being a play animal who comes to life and they
do everything together.''
After a successful 10-year run as a cartoonist, a period in which
Watterson stretched the possibilities of the medium _ and at
times the patience of newspaper editors _ the artist announced he
would end the strip and turn his talents toward painting and music.
Dropping out of the spotlight, however, hasn't killed off interest
in Watterson's mischievous duo, whose treehouse club was called
G.R.O.S.S., or Get Rid of Slimy Girls. Bookstores continue
catering to Watterson's fans by selling copies of the 16
``Calvin and Hobbes'' collections, which have sold more than
30 million copies.
At Giant Steps Children's Books in Fremont, manager Leona Hoegsberg
and her staff pride themselves on stocking only books and toys
of high educational merit. This includes the catalog ``Calvin
and Hobbes: Sunday Pages 1985-1995,'' developed to accompany the
exhibit of Watterson's original art. Published in September, the
95-page book has sold 350,000 copies.
``They're more literary than the regular comic books,'' Hoegsberg
says. ``We try to have some cartoon books. Especially the kids who
are a little older like to read them.''
When Watterson disappeared from public view in 1995, he tucked
his original sketches and watercolors of the comic strips into
his personal collection. Curators at the Ohio State University
Cartoon Research Library last year persuaded him to dust off the
artwork for an exhibition looking back at ``Calvin and Hobbes.''
The exhibition ended a four-month run there in January and headed
for the Cartoon Art Museum, where it opened Saturday <cm Feb. 16>
and continues through April 14. San Francisco is the only place
the works are being displayed.
``This is the only exhibition he's ever authorized,'' Dietzen
says. ``This is really a once-in-a-lifetime chance for people to
see these originals.''
For comic strip buffs or ``Calvin and Hobbes'' devotees, the
show provides an ideal opportunity to stand within inches of
the original artwork and admire Watterson's hand-drawn panels
executed with pencil, pen and india ink.
Considering how elusive the artist is _ Watterson gives few
interviews and won't be making any Bay Area appearances _ this
is as close as most of his admirers will get to Calvin's creator.
``There's something different about seeing the original,'' says
Dietzen, leaning in close to examine one of 36 black-and-white
drawings on display. ``You see his sketches, sometimes you see
the Wite-out. This is the hand of the artist, which you miss in
reproductions or in the newspapers.''
As a practicing cartoonist, Watterson pushed the art form
further than his contemporaries.
Hemmed in by a strict newspaper format that dictates where
breaks between panels should occur in a strip, most cartoonists
must make their plots and visual action accommodate these rules.
Around 1991, Watterson pushed for a change in the rules as they
applied to his Sunday strips.
Given his popularity, Universal Press Syndicate, which sold the
strip to newspapers, agreed to market ``Calvin and Hobbes'' as
an unbreakable half page. The change in format presented a layout
headache for some editors, but it gave Watterson new artistic
freedom.
Whether or not his readers noticed the innovations, they
appreciated the capers of his flawed, life-like characters.
Pressed to choose a favorite, Mark Arnold picks Calvin.
``He's like a 3- or 5-year-old kid, but he talks totally
intelligently and comes out with these big words,'' says Arnold,
half suppressing a laugh. ``He's always up to something no
good.''
``Calvin and Hobbes: Sunday Pages 1985-1995,'' runs at the Cartoon Art Museum, 655 Mission St. in San Francisco, through April 14 [2002]. Hours are
11 to 5 p.m. Tuesday through Sunday. Admission is $2 to $5. Call (415) 227-8666.
