Callahan: He Won’t Get Far On Foot

I told him once I envied him.  He thought that was funny.  So, I explained. 

He said so much in so few words and the art seemed to flow from him.

From December 7, 1988. – JDW

“My only compass for whether I’ve gone too far is the reaction I get from people in wheelchairs, or with hooks for hands,” John Callahan said. “Like me, they are fed up with people who presume to speak for the disabled.  All the pity and the patronizing.  That’s what is truly detestable.”

Who is it – George Carlin, I think – who talks about vuja de?  You ever had that experience?  You know, the strange feeling you are now in a space you’ve never ever previously encountered in this or any other lifetime.

Me, too.  That’s just how I felt when I got this letter from one of my closest amigos, the ever erratic and erudite Barker Ajax.  It’s his report about an interview he did for me with Portland’s finest cartoonist.  John Callahan covers more ground than that, according to Barker.  Apparently, Callahan is a piece of work.

Dear Jack D. –

You know, it’s not like he’s paralyzed on purpose now, is it?  And it’s not like he’s weird and cynical and driven and open and creative and unique and talented on purpose.  You see, it’s just like… that’s who John Callahan is.  He is who he is.  He can’t help himself, if that’s the way he is.  He couldn’t be any other way.  Stage whisper: And I wouldn’t want him to be any other way.

(Doesn’t your back crawl, like someone’s scratching a blackboard or sucking a cold wet terry towel, when you hear that expression?)

Anyway, I love the way Callahan exposes himself to his readers, the way he lets me see into his mind.  I get a big kick outta that warped, almost child-like view he has of the world.  I’m a fan.  Have been for a long time.

And then I walked into a dark ground-level Northwest neighborhood apartment about the size of a 32-foot Chris Craft Overnighter, the House of Callahan.  His actual lair.

I was surprised at the humble setting.  I had expected something more Stephen Kingish.  King’s the guy you’ve never really read because you are already too scared to even start one of his books.  Now that’s my idea of a horror writer.

I am here to tell you I walked into Callahan’s home expecting much more of it and a lot less of him.  This is clearly good.  It’s my fault I was surprised, but I’ve already figured that out, thank you.

The first thing I found out about Callahan is that he has a compulsion to draw and communicate.  It’s easy to understand why he’s so compelled.  He understands it himself.

“It’s my way of asking people if I’m worth something,” he told me.  I told you he was open.  He also conceded “it’s probably not too healthy” to invest so much of his self-worth in his work.  And then he showed me a drawing he had just completed.  I could see he was looking for approval.  I gave it to him.  It was a funny cartoon.

Callahan seems to be the purest artist I’ve ever met.  It’s almost like he’s channeling for someone else.  The work just pours out of him.  “What makes me click is creativity,” he explained.  “It’s sort of a curse.”  Actually, what I thought I heard was that message from the depths of every truly creative human, that cry from the guts of his or her being that screams I AM SPECIAL.

Callahan, the one name is sufficient as far as I’m concerned.  Like Sade.  Or Iman.  Maybe as big as Charo.  Almost that big.  Cuchi-cuchi.

Where was I?  Oh, mind you, Callahan is not a name that comes up on my list of guys you want to go jogging with or go drinking with, or argue politics.  Except perhaps to change his mind with reason.

He is not a man you want as jury foreman if you’re ever tried for an assault on an old lady or some other innocent.  Not that all old ladies are innocent.  No, not by any means.  And you know who I’m talking about.

Of course, that day I could tell he was about a quart-and-a-half low.  It had been raining for maybe ninety-six (96) consecutive hours in a row, one right after another, and it was practically pitch-dark at noon.  Callahan admitted he gets a little crotchety when the sun don’t shine.

Other than that, he seems like he is a man of great strength.  And clarity.  I don’t really think he always knows what he’s doing or drawing or writing or talking about.  However, I will remain convinced – unless I see different – Callahan is one helluva guy.

And the news is about to get out.  As you well know, John is a regular in about twenty-five newspapers across the country.  His cartoons appear in Penthouse, Omni, National Lampoon, Hustler, Cosmopolitan, and the Utne Reader.  He has sold his work to The New Yorker, and he’s recently been picked up by Harper’s.  Roll that over your tongue a few times.  Feels good.  Picked up by Harper’s.  Pinch me now.

In April, Mother Jones will publish a complete chapter of his autobiography.  That’s right.  William Morrow will have a hardcover out this spring, entitled Do Not Disturb Any Further, which will be a compilation of a couple hundred of Callahan’s greatest hits.  Oh, yeah, and this probably won’t surprise you, there’s a line of Callahan coffee mugs, calendars and posters appearing in stores by next summer.

I’m trying to imagine sleeping on Callahan-licensed bed-sheets and pillow cases.  Wouldn’t that be bizarre?

I think it’s about time Callahan got the recognition he deserves.  He’s paid his dues.  He’s been cartooning seriously for five years.  His two-page story-in-pictures about alcoholism is nothing short of brilliant.  His large body of work is consistently thoughtful or thoughtless. Either way, it makes you stop and think, which is all it’s supposed to do.  And I find myself amused more often than not.

Callahan likes the intensity of drawing something on the edge.  He also told me he doesn’t set out to achieve anything other than to please himself.  Sounds to me like a sure-fire formula for success, don’t you think?  He’s not trying to reach the masses, just a smart mass here and another smart mass someplace else.

And, this is cute, Callahan is worried about his job.  “Somebody could always come along,” he said, “a little younger and a little sicker.”

Jack D., let me sum it all up for you this way: Callahan reminds me of Sam Shepard and Gary Larson.  And people who can’t take a joke should have to winter for eternity listening to Richard Simmons sing Christmas carols.

Give my best to Norman Louise.

Chow,

Barker