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.