Doonesbury's War

"What it is," says comics historian R.C. Harvey, "is breathtaking. Just a stunning body of work."

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SO, WHO IS TRUDEAU, REALLY?

It turns out he's not afraid of publicity so much as he's horrified at being perceived as the kind of person who wants publicity. He treasures his literary license to kill but feels a twinge of guilt that it isn't really a fair fight. He's a genuinely humble know-it-all. His regard for injured soldiers is sincere, his knowledge of their lingo profound, almost as if he's one of them; watching this, you can't help but hear faint, soul-rattling echoes of Vietnam, which he escaped, like many sons of privilege, by gaming the system. He's got the greatest job on Earth -- no boss, his own hours, enormous clout, public adulation, a seven-figure income, absolute creative freedom -- but he speaks with longing about a different career altogether, one that the huge success of "Doonesbury" ensured he'd never have.

Also, he's a smartass.

But you knew that.

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IT'S MONDAY NIGHT OUT FOR THE MEATHEADS, as they call themselves. These are Trudeau and some of his best friends, who assemble irregularly on weeknights in Manhattan to attend excellently terrible movies their wives won't see with them. Today's choice is "Poseidon." They're pumped for a real stinker.

"A lot of research goes into this," Trudeau explains, "so we don't make many mistakes. We get these movies when they're dying, so we have the theater to ourselves. We like to talk to the screen."

"And throw popcorn."

This is David Levinthal, 57, who looks like the manager of a Jiffy Lube but is an acclaimed modern artist. Levinthal's medium is plastic toys: He arranges them in unusual ways, photographs them in intriguing lighting and sells the pictures for thousands of dollars. Not long ago he had a show entirely of made-in-Japan erotic dolls.

Levinthal is not the most unusual guy here. That would probably be Fred Newman, 53, who is, at this very moment, barking like a dog. It's the best imitation bark you'll ever hear. Newman's a professional sound-effects man, author of a popular how-to book called MouthSounds and is a regular whistle, boing and honk man for Garrison Keillor's "A Prairie Home Companion." When you're doing a woof, Newman is saying, the rookie error is to blow out. You've got to suck in.