Book Review: FOWL LANGUAGE: WELCOME TO PARENTING

Title: Fowl Language: Welcome to Parenting
Author: Brian Gordon
Publisher: Andrews McMeel Publishing
Pages: 128








Fowl Language: Welcome to Parenting by Brian Gordon combines some of his best comic strips into a single book that you can carry about with you, and occasionally peer into too, when you want the comfort of knowing that you aren't alone in whichever stage of parenthood you may be in.

If you are a parent, be forewarned: Vigorous nodding ahead.

The cover page, "I used to be cool and do cool things..." is the story of our lives. All of us parents, and the change we've undergone since we had our children. The image shows Daddy Duck sprawled on his back, with a flabbergasted look on his face, while Duckling bounces excitedly over his protruding stomach. Just goes to show how far we've come.

It sets the tone for what is to follow and we jump into the rest of the book excitedly. The book deals with a gamut of issues ranging from the difference between our imagined dreams and reality, disciplining our children, the similarities and differences between our children and us, and how both drive us batty, playtime with children and what happens when baby leaves you sleep deprived, answering questions from our children, car safety for children, taking kids to the doctor, me-time, watching the clock. 

At this rate, I might end up mentioning them all.

The book also talks about the fearsome "Because I said so," which saves us when all options are exhausted, and the hilarious fear of Number 3. You won't understand that last one till you read the strip. 


The comics remind me of how they say that having two kids makes you a referee.

The best one is the one on the back cover when Daddy Duck explains the misery and magic of being a parent: "It's mostly drudgery and frustration, but it's still, like, the best thing ever." 


That won't make sense until you become a parent.

The only piece of lengthy writing here is the introduction. The others are comic strips, with the most minimum and yet expressive of blurbs, supported by the cartoon that says it all.

In the introduction, Gordon writes, "My hope is that this little collection of cartoons will give a little comfort to any parent out there who feels a little frazzled at times."


And so, here it is, comfort and laughter in a delightful package. Of course, you could get all the strips for free on the Internet, but this little book would serve as a cute and charming gift that new parents would certainly appreciate.


 (I read an Adobe Digital Editions version of this book on NetGalley.)

Dear X-men

To, 

X-men, 

C/o Professor X, 

Founder, 

Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, 

also known as the X-Mansion,

Westchester County,

New York, 

C/o Stan Lee and Jack Kirby

Dear X-men,

Who would have believed that a new idea could be born even in the midst of a creativity drought! 

There’s a lesson there for those of us who get caught in dead-ends in our lives.

Apparently, Stan Lee wanted to create a new bunch of superheroes but couldn’t seem to come up with great origin stories for them. After all, how often could you ship someone over from another planet, have them exposed to gamma ray explosion or bitten by an insect? The novelty would have begun to wear off after a while. The easiest thing to do was to decree that someone was born that way.

Your name was given to you by Charles Xavier, aka Professor X, who can control and read minds, and who assumes the trouble of banding you together. But X actually stands for the X-gene, the unknown gene that causes mutation, giving you something X-tra that us ordinary humans do not have.

And that’s how you came to be the X-men. Even the women. But actually you are mutants, a subspecies of humans born with superhuman abilities. I was in awe of you. Your ability to eat fire, walk through walls and doors, grow knives right out of your fingers, everything impressed me. And even though I knew that a number of you, or at least the world around, viewed your gift as a curse, I sometimes wished for a radical gift like that.

The makers sometimes got so caught up in the larger story of the X-men versus Magneto, the arch enemy of Professor X, that I felt that they lost the opportunity to make you human. To give you interesting back stories, and to show you struggling in a world that isn’t designed to comfort the likes of you.

What distinguishes you from other mutants is that you are trained by Professor X to fight for peace and equality and to envision a world in which normal humans like me and mutants like you could live in harmony without harming each other. It was a natural aspiration in the “Marvel”ous superhero universe.

What you didn’t count on was the level of difficulty you’d be up against. Don’t you know how much difficulty we have in harmonising with other humans? How could you even think of spiking up the mix with mutants and expect us to swallow it without protest?

But in doing so, you discovered the larger goal of fighting against prejudice and racism, the lust for power and the struggle of good against evil.

In recruiting mutants from around the world, the stage was set for introducing multi-cultural hues and philosophies, and for making the canvas of your world far more expansive than it was. And that too was a good thing.

Sometimes I wonder if there are mutants among us, people who keep their gifts under wraps for fear of inviting a backlash of hatred. Maybe there are, and maybe we are all mutants in some form or the other.

Dear Kit Walker (Phantom)

To, 

Kit Walker aka the 21st Phantom, the Ghost who walks, the Man who cannot die
Skull Cave, Deep in the heart of Bangalla, Africa
C/o Lee Falk

Dear Kit Walker

As kids, most of my friends were fascinated by you. The fact that you were 21st in a series of Phantoms going back in time to the year 1536 added considerably to your appeal.

The makers took pains to build on your ancestors’ stories, which I found fascinating, influencing my views about the significance of the back story. But there were several inconsistencies in history and storylines so I always skipped them in favour of you.

The idea that the first Phantom swore to fight evil on the skull of his father’s murderer was an interesting part of the premise. Each new Phantom accepted the responsibility from his dying father, swearing the oath, “I swear to devote my life to the destruction of piracy, greed, cruelty and injustice, in all its forms, and my sons and their sons shall follow me.”

Yours was a crusading tradition steeped in patriarchy, but back then I never questioned it. I did occasionally wonder what would happen if a particular Phantom sired only daughters or if a son refused to take on the legacy of crime fighting.



The skull was to leave its mark on many aspects of your universe, the Skull Cave and the Mark. Roughnecks learned to fear the mark left by your signet ring when it collided violently with their external anatomy. Legend said the mark never left.

You had another ring with the “Good Mark,” with which you marked those who were under your protection. Even the animals of the jungle recognized the mark. 

Where possible, you would be accompanied by Devil, your wolf, and Hero, your horse, but otherwise you were a one-man army. You had no superpowers; you were all too-human, and had to rely on your wits, your physical strength and intelligence and a few weapons to fight crime.

I wondered sometimes whether the skintight costume did not inhibit easy movement and how on earth could you see through a mask that had no slots through which your eyes could peek.


I used to think it was very cool to trick people into thinking you were immortal when actually you weren’t. I guess the costume was needed to maintain your identity. But didn’t you ever realize that you were compromising your identity by relying on the tom-tomming of the jungle drums for your communication? There was always a possibility that the secret might leak.

After all, no one but your family and closest friends, certainly not us readers, has ever seen your face unmasked. For jungle lore decreed that those who see your face will “die a terrible death.”

Those jungle sayings were a hoot. 

“Phantom has a thousand eyes and a thousand ears.” 

“Phantom moves with the power of a charging bull elephant.” 

“Phantom moves softer than a stalking great cat.”

I realize today that those sayings couldn’t possibly have been true, but they added to your legend, and that was all that mattered.





For those who came in late, the Ghost who walks still walks.

Dear Garfield

To, 

Garfield, 

Monday-hater, lasagna-, pizza- and pasta-lover and the laziest feline on earth, 

C/o Jon Arbuckle, 

C/o Jim Davis


Dear Garfield,

I’m not much of a cat person, but who could resist your fuzzy, orange attitude? Your hatred of Mondays and diets, and your obsession for lasagna, in particular, and food, in general, your live-and-let-live attitude when it comes to mice, but not spiders, are all legendary.

No food is safe around you. Your compulsive desire to polish off anything edible, except raisins and spinach, makes you the despair of Jon. Why he continues to tolerate you is beyond me, although the truth is that perhaps you tolerate him, though only barely.

You make fun of every one that you come in contact with. Poor Odie and Jon are at the top of your hit list, but Jon’s family, including his brother Doc Boy, and others aren’t spared either.

And yet you are endearing in your own way. I think part of your success has to do with how smug you are in your own perceived perfection. Where Jon might joke, "I wouldn't say Garfield is fat, but the last time he got on a Ferris wheel, the two guys on top starved to death," you continue to insist, “Breathing is exercise” and that “I’m not overweight. I’m undertall.”

In spite of your narcissism, your cruelty (could you go easy on kicking Odie off the table or on your efforts to pack Nermal off to Abu Dhabi?), your cynicism and sarcasm, not to mention your general obnoxiousness, you grow on us, with every pound you pack. I wonder why. Is it because laughing at other people is funny? Do we humans derive some sort of comfort out of knowing we are better than the Other?

I think that must be it, because I’ve been reading you for years, and I’ve seen you change slightly from a cat to something larger-than-life (no kidding!) with your squinty eyes and your tendency to walk on your hind legs. But other than that, there’s been no real change in you. Your habits remain the same.

You trouble the neighbours and destroy their flowerbeds. You go against nature by conniving with the house mice to trouble Jon. You swat spiders, and occasionally flies, with rolled up newspapers. You enjoy annoying Jon, by eating his houseplants and his birds and fish, and teasing dogs and harassing Herman, the mailman. You pick on Odie even though he bears you no ill-will.

But you can’t get away with it forever. I’ve watched you get your comeuppance from your electronic scale, the only thing that has the courage to dish out to you a full dose of the sarcasm you so freely hand out to others. That doesn’t feel very nice, does it?

And how did you feel when Jon, who you are always mocking for not having a date, begins to go steady with Liz, your vet, of all people?

While I’m at it, let me burst your bubble further. 

Much as you hate Mondays, Mondays hate you even more. 

Why do you think they show up so often?

Dear Ethel (Big)

To,
Ethel (Big),
student of Riverdale High School, 
C/o Samm Schwartz, 
Character in Archies' Comics



Dear Ethel,

Today I’m older and Archie’s shenanigans don’t interest me anymore. But if there is anyone who could make me pick up a copy of your comics, it’s you.

I never liked the idea of your throwing yourself at Jughead like that. Before I met you, I liked reading Archies’ Comics. Those inane happenings in his world, Ronnie’s obscene wealth, Betty’s saccharine good-girl image, Reggie’s insufferable vanity, Moose’s lightheaded silliness, Jughead’s happy-go-lucky nature, they were all entertaining. Then you came along in one edition, the comic element, chasing after a boy who wouldn’t have anything to do with her.

I saw you trying to win him over by cooking for him. And even though I was a mere child of 6 or 7 then, I bristled with indignation. Why should a woman have to try so hard to get a man? Why should a woman’s worth be measured by the presence of a mate in her life? Why should buck-toothedness or a flat chest be an object of scorn and derision?

For a long time I was angry with you for the way you completely lost it in Jughead’s presence. How you behaved like a love-struck idiot.

I wished myself in Riverdale High, so I could put some sense into you. So I could tell you to love yourself before anyone else could. So I could tell you that you don’t need Veronica’s beauty or Betty’s sweetness to score with the boys. That if that’s what it takes to win guys over, they weren’t worth the trouble.

Before long, I began to get pretty fond of you. I saw, in one story where you went on a date with Archie, that you were funny and smart. There was nothing fake or pretentious about you. I realized that you loved science fiction, art and trains, that you were a great cook, and had a talent for creating dollhouse furniture.

You were blessed with so many worthy attributes. You were kind and sensitive, and fiercely independent. You never tried to change yourself to fit in with the others. Your personality always asserted itself in all its unpopular glory. One other thing I liked about you. You never paid cruelty back with cruelty, refusing to stoop to their level. Why couldn’t you be kinder to yourself?

I know you don’t like what you see in the mirror. Too tall, unattractive, gangly, with braces on your teeth – what’s to like? That’s what you think, your self-esteem in tatters.

Take my advice, girl. You’re better than them. Quit running after Jughead. Leave the meanness of that world behind. You’re only in high school and the world is just opening up for you. Seek yourself first, and build your own self esteem. Your time will come, and it will all be good.

Meanwhile, pay no heed to what your classmates say about you, and shut your ears to their mocking laughter. 

Remember, you are so much BIGger than their pettiness.


At least they’re right about the nickname.

Dear Dennis the Menace

To, 

Dennis the Menace, 

C/o Mr Hank Ketcham, and after his death, his assistants, Ron Ferdinand and Marcus Hamilton, 

2251 Pine Street, Carmel, California



Dear Dennis,

When I was a kid, I thought you were adorable. I admired the manner in which you sent grownups scurrying for cover. I marveled at your ability to blow up your own world (and Mr Wilson’s too, more often than not) with that look of pure innocence on your face. I thought Mr Wilson was a little too harsh on you. You were just being a kid. Sure you were mischievous, but you didn’t deliberately set out to ruin his garden or disrupt his coin and stamp collections or even to damage his possessions and property and other things that he held dear. It just happened.

Things have a way of happening when you’re in the neighbourhood. And for reasons beyond your control, you end up annoying your best grownup friend. Still, no big deal. If things got a tad bit too hot, your parents should have been able to handle it. It is their responsibility to discipline you. That’s what they signed up for. That’s what I used to think.

Before I had my own.

Now I’m a mother and while I am appalled at your behaviour, particularly at the thought of all the explaining that might be required and the messes that will have to be straightened out, I know better. I no longer judge your long-suffering parents. My sympathies to your mother, who will no doubt be reading this letter out loud to you.

But my affection for you remains.

Besides, you have your own challenges to deal with, particularly the one called Margaret. I agree with you; she’s quite insufferable, and too pretentious and self-important too. Who gave her the right to judge your manners? Or to believe herself qualified to improve them?

The good thing about living in a comic creation is that no matter how often you blow it, Hank Ketcham could make it all right again.

I’m grateful for that.

For the fact that the world can be set right again, even if for a brief while, while you load up your ammo (read: snakes, frogs and your slingshot) and prepare to assault us again. Unintentionally, of course.

I am also grateful for your wide-eyed curiosity, for your well-meaning efforts to help that somehow end up going wrong, for your tactless honesty, even if it causes the grownups to go ouch, your energy and exuberance, all gifts of childhood that we have lost.

Parts of our ears are still jangling with horror at the sheer loudness of the noise you can generate, when you sing cowboy songs loudly or when you bang your toy drums or blow into your toy horns. And there are department store Santas, babysitters, sales staff, barbers and postmen who suffer nervous breakdowns at the mere mention of your name.

Beneath it all, you’re just a little boy who believes in the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus,

Just a five-and-a-half-year-old boy.

And that’s why everyone loves you.



Good Ol’ Mr Wilson too, though you’ll never catch him admitting that.

Dear Clark Kent

To, 

Clark Kent aka Superman, 

Faster than a speeding bullet. More powerful than a locomotive. Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, Formerly known as Kal-el from Planet Krypton, before moving to Smallville, Kansas 

C/o Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster, 

Currently residing in the fictional city of Metropolis, where he works with The Daily Planet and saves the world

Dear Clark,

The rest of the world, including that dumb Lois Lane (what did you see in her?), might be taken in by your bumbling doofus act, but spectacles as the ultimate disguise accessory and the mild mannerisms don’t fool me. I’ve always known the real you.

I was entranced from the moment I clamped eyes on you in your red-and-blue costume, with the red cape flying high, the huge S emblazoned on your chest. When you entered the phone booth to change, my heart would skip a beat, in expectation of some baddie-bashing. It would thud louder when the absence of an unoccupied phone booth would prompt you to rip your shirt open to reveal the insignia on the costume you wore inside. Once, you entered a revolving door as Clark, and spun through it at an incredible speed, only to exit as Superman.

Sometimes, you would tell Lois that you had suddenly remembered something or that you were going to call the police. In the darkness of the movie hall, I would feel superior to Lois, because I knew your secret, while she didn’t. Meanwhile my brother would ridicule you, something about torn shirts, flying bed sheets and red underwear. I could hardly hear him over the din raised by my little-girl heart. 

Back home he would add that it was only the gravitational conditions on earth that permitted you to get airborne. If your planet had not exploded, you would have been a wimp there (his words, not mine). I remained staunchly loyal, although, to be honest, my loyalty did flounder a little when he made fun of your fashion quotient. Did you really have to wear your red undies on top of your pants?

I learned much later that the red undies were required to emphasise your, ahem, you know what I mean. In their absence, your costume would have given you a comical, completely unsuperhero-like appearance.

Of course, not that I minded. Your universe was mine. I didn’t care about where you hid your work clothes when you were out saving the world. Those inconsistencies didn’t bother me. 

What bothered me were some of the silly things you did. Like giving up your superpowers to lead a washed out, domestic life with Lois. How could you give up super hearing, heat and X-ray vision, superhuman strength, the ability to fly, a breath that can freeze, and longevity for her? Thankfully that foolishness didn’t last long.

You need both elements of your identity to be complete. The superhero cannot exist without the quiet reporter. I used to think it was incredibly smart of you to work as a reporter, to receive information about crime scenes and beat the stuffing out of the baddies. Truth and justice were your goals in both identities.

If only every job were a job for superman, this world would have been a much safer one for us, or at least for those who had the good fortune to reside in the fictional Metropolis.