Ceridwen's story about her kid's estimation of good literature while reviewing Garfield just triggered a cartoon cat-related memory from second grade or so that has always given me guilt spasms. So a neighbor friend was over, one of those kids you are thrust together with due to proximity, and once you grow up and develop your own personality and interests, you realize proximity isn't always a great basis for a friendship.So we were in my living room reading, I probably a Judy Blume or Lois Lowry book (I was always a precocious and voracious reader). He was reading one of my brother's Heathcliff comic collections. I looked up from my book, no doubt tickled by some witticism ("A mouse riding a motorcycle? Preposterous!"), and asked him who his favorite author was.He looked at me blankly, then turned the book in his hands around. "This guy," he said."NONONO!" I explained. "You're favorite author can't be a cartoon writer! Who is your favorite REAL author?" If I recall, our reading session ended shortly thereafter, and I don't believe our friendship endured much longer, since I don't for sure remember, say, his name. But I've always felt bad about mocking his choice of Geo Gately as a favorite author. Because who am I to deride the font where another finds truth? I apologize, Matt(?), wherever you are. I hope you didn't become one of those people who only reads one book every two years, and even then, it's James Patterson.No, screw it. Heathcliff was worse than Garfield, and any 7-year-old who disagrees with me is an idiot.