I'm sure that everyone else has known who Chris Ware is--I'm usually a couple of years behind the times--except with 80s music, I was right there in the thick of it.
I buckled under The New Yorker's professional rate ($25!) and subscribed for 2004. This last week's was a double issue (February 16 & 23). There I was, on the MBTA Red Line heading to Alewife Station when I come to Chris' graphic story "The Whole Time." I don't care what you have to do--beg, borrow, photocopy, this 2-page story.
There I am, bundled up in my winter coat, bag slung at my feet, crying over a stupid comic.
I then went to a local comics store in Coolidge Corner begging them for anything that some person named "Chris" wrote--I made the mistake of not writing down the name...The owner asked me to describe the comic--asked me, a person that only reads Boondocks and Doonesbury. I said that they are very sad with clean lines, and he said, "Chris Ware."
Keep on Keepin' on:
I've decided that life is too short to not have dessert--calories be damned.