Some announcements for my New York readers:
1.) I don't know whether any of you even noticed that The Pain started running in the New York Press this summer, but it's already been dropped. I got fired, along with Niel Swaab, "Dategirl," and a bunch of other free-lancers in a mass purge following yet another coup in that paper's recent history of editorial turnover, which is increasingly reminiscent of late Roman Imperial succession. Neil Swaab rather poutily used his last cartoon to whine about it and urge his readers to write in to demand his reinstatement, which they have, by the dozens, whereas I went the quiet-dignity-and-grace route, and not one of you ungrateful fuckers complained. My passing went unprotested and unmourned. This is precisely the sort of thing that makes me feel like my work is for nothing and my life without meaning, and makes me sad. So if you'd like to see The Pain back in print in New York City, write the editor. Or, better yet, write the Village Voice, which is a paper people actually read, and urge them to pick up The Pain.
2.) I will be showing slides of and reading my cartoons at an event called Carousel, organized by Bob Sikoryak, on Wednesday, November 16th, at 7:30 P.M., at Dixon Place at the Marquee (356 Bowery). Tickets are a $15 "sugggsted donation." You can make reservations at (212)219-0736, x 106, or at www.theatermania.com. I will do funny voices.
3.) Finally, my new book is now being carried at the excellent St. Mark's Books, at 31 Third Avenue, in the East Village. Their small press buyer told me to "send your minions." You heard the lady, minions. Swarm upon St. Mark's and purchase my book.
Another sympathy-for-George cartoon. I don't know why my loathing for this man has to be twisted into perverse pity in order to be funny. In real life I am reveling in the unraveling of the Bush administration. By the time you read this Karl Rove, the useful sociopath who is by all accounts the only reason George Bush ever got elected to anything, may have been indicted by the special prosecutor Patrick Fitzgerald. Democrats are staring to worry that Harriet Miers is a dangerous Fundamentalist dingbat, "intellectual conservatives" (I assume this is a relative term, like "moderate terrorists") are disgusted because she's a dumb, inexperienced Fundamentalist dingbat, while those adorable social conservatives are still concerned because she isn't out of the closet as a proud, vocal, on-the-record Fundamentalist dingbat. I'm actually considering hauling my old TV/VCR out of the closet and hooking it up to watch Harriet Miers devoured alive by the U.S. Senate, and to scrutinize her makeup. (What is it with the evangelical Christian ladies and the eyeliner?) And just a few days ago former State Department Chief of Staff Larry Wilkerson gave a speech charging that Dick Cheney and Donald Rumsfeld form a cabal that makes all foreign policy decisions, in secrecy and without input from other agencies. When the disgruntled ex-aides start talking, you know you're fucked. This most notoriously secretive administration in U.S. history is springing leaks. They're going down. They will never recover from their failure to notice hurricane Katrina. Presidential appproval ratings are at Nixonian lows. Soon the ratfuckers will start turning on each other. A few weeks ago The National Enquirer ran an article about George falling off the wagon. The fact that this story could safely take as its premise that George is desperate, beleaguered, and out of his depth is telling. There's blood in the water. I love reading reports that the West Wing is "tense" and "anxious" these days, and that George Bush is even more thin-skinned and nasty than usual. Aides are afraid to bring him bad news, and these days there just isn't any other kind. In truth, I read that story twice, the first time for information, the second just for pleasure. It was sweet as Mozart's quintet for clarinet and strings in A. I love to imagine everyone who works there frightened and angry and frustrated, their agenda forgotten (remember social security privatization, and the repeal of the estate tax?), scrambling now just to salvage their careers and stay out of jail. They all deserve it, from the chief of staff to the littlest intern. I hope they can't sleep at night. I hope they have migraines and ulcers and nightmares. I hope George is drinking again and cursing Jesus. Eat shit, you two-bit Nazis. This is what it tastes like.
My own agenda, like George's, has been mostly lost, subsumed in tedious maintenance and troubleshooting for the last couple months. Webmater Dave is supposed to help me switch ISPs so I can finallly get off of AOL, which is like being forced to subsccribe to People Magazine. As it is I'm struggling to send large file attachments, such as cartoons, with my e-mail. I'm still calling Amanda at CompUSA to find out what happened to my refund check for $1300, which was supposed to have been mailed out over a month ago. And I have to take the motherfucking car back to the garage for the fourth time on Monday. And I didn't even get into our personal problems. George's, clearly, is that he likes to surround himself with brittle, sexless, half-bright women who have crushes on him, like Harriet and Condi. Mine are too complicated and awful to disclose.
You know who I do kind of feel sorry for? Saddam Hussein. I'm glad he kept his beard. It makes him look friendly and distinguished.