Below is the latest The Pain -- When Will It
Thanks to big Jim, a.k.a. James the Large, for this weekís cartoon idea. I spent several days in New Haven, Connecticut last week, graciously hosted by Jim and Sarah in their new home in an interval during which I was, technically, homeless. I basically became an indentured servant there: I helped install a stove vent and clean the kitchen, swept their patio and raked their lawn, vacuumed the floors and their Arctic Cruiser, and, not least, shelved all their books by category and in alphabetical order. Meanwhile the goddamn City Paper sprang yet another early deadline on me, and after Iíd spent the better part of a day thrashing around unproductively, half-assedly sketching various bad ideas, Jim ventured: "W______s?"* "Aw for fuckís sake," I said. But a deadlineís a deadline, and in the end you go with the best thing youíve got, and some weeks, unfortunately, thatís gonna be W______s. The brilliant "wecall" idea was Jimís, but the haste and clumsiness of its execution are all my own. "Waxatives," the crowning touch, was also Jimís inspiration. I am in his debt. I already owed him a bottle of Percocets and have informally willed him a Cadillac when I die, but now he also gets an XXXL set of W_minals© wammable pajamas as a thank-you prize.
Fuckiní W______s, man.
Note to all those readers who have written me with sympathy and concern over the last few months: Thanks very much for your letters. Donít worry about me. Iím better now. I regret that the quality of my work appears to fluctuate in inverse relation to my emotional health. But Iíd trade in creativity for happiness any dayógladly and gratefully, without a single glance back. Itís a steal.
*See December 2006 letters page for a full explanation of why the name of the W______s must not be uttered in print.