I had a few reasons for reading Last Things this weekend. For one, I love graphic memoirs, in fact, they’re typically the only memoirs I can stand. I also tend to be in pressing-on-a-bruise mode around Memorial Day, and a very sad story of untimely loss fits that bill perfectly. But the main reason I picked this up is that Lucy loves this author’s middle grade books, and I wanted to see if this was okay for her. Verdict: That was a little disappointing, but I had to move a few bookshelves this week, which made me realize that I have a bunch of comics, graphic novels, and two Twisted Sisters anthologies hanging out in my basement, just waiting to be discovered by a certain curious tween. And where else to start than the funk queen of the galaxy herself, Lynda Barry? I’m so excited to share these books with her, because I have loved Lynda Barry for close to 30 years now. I love her so much, I still think of Matt Groening as the guy in Lynda Barry’s acknowledgments. I love her so much, my husband once told Todd Barry I was a big fan. I love her so much, my Lynda Barry original drawing is on the top of my list of things I’d grab in a fire. (Tied with my painting of Oscar Isaac eating a tuna melt.) I’m also really glad all this came up right now, because it reminded me of a time I told my brother to “come over, come over” and we tried to finish our phone conversation using only Lynda Barry titles, ending with “These good times are killing me.” Thanks for the memory, David, wherever you are! Hope it’s not too cruddy.