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A Hundred Demons and a Witch

 

At first I don't know what to make of Lynda Barry. Is she an iconoclast? A vegan? A bored middle class housewife? An enfant-terrible? A witch? All of these and then none? At one point I could have settled for one of those minor animist gods, but I don't know any -- or does a withered tree trunk count? So I started to worship her.

There are four Ps that can dissect a person without apologies: poets, philosophers, (p)shrinks and prostitutes. Of these, the last one has the biggest market, and probably the one that makes the most profit. Lynda Barry is neither of these -- arguments notwithstanding -- but can just as expertly handle a scalpel to expose any psyche.

Her expertise is the dark, the grim, the unspeakables: anxieties, bigotry, acne, body odor, smoking a stale cig, having no date, having a date. She deals with all of these with equal smug bemusement, the way a hooker deals with erectile dysfunction and fetishes -- right to ego, bruised or swelling. Call it illusion, delusion, illuminati; even if the hole in the ozone shrunk into a hole in the pocket. 15 minutes and you forget the whole world. Of course the world exists longer than 15  minutes but you go back to it renewed and much wiser. And with a grin on your face.

Never mind that the joke is on you.

A recurring theme in Barry's 100 Demons series is her Filipino heritage (she is 26.667% Filipino or somewhere around that percentage). Poking an itchy subject, Barry shows that yes, poking around on that subject can be fun, not just funny.

Barry could have been a kid growing up tortured by her heritage -- just like any of us. Hers is one though that abounds with subjects that need little - if any -- tuning for comic strips. From aswangs and other cultural fears, she turns to that other factor that can summarily set apart any nationality - never mind music, cinema or literature: smell.

I have, for three years now, a gnawing feeling in my stomach every time I attempt to fry tuyo or  pusit and it is not because of appetite or hunger. I have learned a lot of strategies to fry them in the shortest time, using a multitude of implements that include plastic wrappers, micowaves and a pair of hands and feet fast enough to swing the back door and run to the porch, a scorching frying pan in hand and a maddened yelping dog behind.  I maintain that one ingredient in cooking binagoongang baboy is Glade Citrus, lots of it. And yes, I am starting to be an expert on national identity based on a the scent of hair (unwashed), rugs, shirts and curtains. Except of course, on public buses. 

And you see, Barry made me aware of all of these, she might as well be Yoda, or some yogi, whichever one of them tells the truth and sooths your solar plexus.

It's quite a shame 100 Demons ceases for now, I was 27 short of exorcising all of mine. Who knows what I could have turned out if Barry continued to 127 Demons. 

 

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(Lynda Barry's strips still come out in Salon and in The Chicago Reader. Her books and other items related to her works can be found in Marlys Magazine.)