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Greg Clarke/The New Yorker |
There is really no point, I have already decided, in even trying to pass myself off as a doctor, a would-be doctor, or a pint-size future version of my father. No matter how hard I try, and this is an assessment my father seems to share, I will never know as much as he does or be as intelligent as he is. “You are a very smart boy,” he has informed me, a few times now, after I came out with some unexpected fact or precocious bit of perception. “Of course, you’ll never be as smart as me,” he always adds, smiling in a way that seems apologetic and mocking at the same time."
Michael Chabon has a new piece in The New Yorker, "The Recipe for Life" about his father. You can read the rest of it here. Chabon's new book of essays Pops: Fatherhood In Pieces, is out in May.
I don't understand the weatherperson's last two panels. The cold will affect you indoors--you may hear creaks, groans, etc. Are they talking about people or the houses? Either way, it's kind of strange.
I'm shocked today's strip isn't about the Super Bowl.
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