Note: My friend Mishka has urged me to inform
the reading public that I now have a MySpace
profile. He assures me that I am not too old for this
to be pathetic. So feel free to become imaginary friends
with me via the magic of the internet.
Artist's Statement
For those who enjoyed Matt Taibbi’s essay
on the Sarah Palin phenomenon last week: I don't know
how much stomach you have for this sort of thing, but I
greatly enjoyed a very long debate
between Taibbi and David Ray Griffen, author of no
fewer than seven books on the 9/11 conspiracy. Sample line
from Taibbi: "I was greatly saddened when I read this
answer, because it forced me to rewrite the entire first
chapter of my next book, The 10 Most Retarded Things
I Have Read This Year." Just as it served as
a sort of mental palate cleanser for me to turn from the
Biden/Palin debate to the news story about a 7-year-old
boy feeding rare lizard after rare lizard to a crocodile
at the Canberra zoo, it was deeply cheering me to read
this back-and-forth. Good, healthy, cleansing laughter.
In deadly serious grim times, mere frivolity is no help;
the only effective antidote is absurd, hilarious grimness.
So I finally broke down and drew a Sarah Palin
cartoon. I regret it. Partly this was a time-saving maneuver
on my part, since I had two other deadlines this week and
a single-panel cartoon only takes me a whole day to draw
instead of two days. Also, I watched the Vice-Presidential
debate, against my better judgment, on the New York Times website.
Like all modern political debates, it was a pointless piece
of predictable theater in which talking points were recited,
dial words were repeated, no actual issues were debated,
and everybody went away feeling like their candidate had
obviously won. However, I had never seen Sarah Palin on TV
before. (For reasons of emotional health I did not watch
the Republican National Convention.) Something about her
voice and her face just about rips my skin off. Talking it
over with my friend Boyd this morning, we decided that, although
Sarah Palin is in fact stupid, she is pretending to be a
whole different kind of stupid from the stupid she actually
is. She’s condescending to affect the provincial, aw-shucks
simplemindedness of the voters she appeals to, but in reality
she’s the kind of a dumb cunning bitch who likes to
push people around on the PTA or church board. She doesn’t
know anything at all but she has absolutely no doubt that
God wants her to be the President. She is the new George.
I have had to coin a new acronym to describe her: she’s
a total M.I.L.K.
At least this cartoon makes no pretense at
taking her seriously as an issue and indulges in the very
lowest, silliest, most puerile level of humor. You know this
scheme would work. Every women I know who has ever personally
met Big Bill confirms the power of his mysterious magnetism.
And I also believe that there is attraction at the heart
of all aggression (and vice versa). (Cf. the disturbing faux
confession "I Fucked Ann Coulter," floating around
somewhere near the bottom of the internet, or the brilliant
cartoon from Player magazine, ca. 1960s, of a Klansman
on a street corner watching a hot black chick walk by and
envisioning her, in his thought balloon, as a.) naked and
b.) lynched.) Sarah Palin could not resist the filthy thrill
of giving herself up to that big loutish libertine, symbol
of the self-indulgent Sixties and wasteful liberalism, Slick
Willie. (The slang term “spend” for ejaculation
is archaic but the double-entendre was too ripe to resist.)
Plus you just know she would carry that baby to term, even
though it might be the one thing that would make the Republican
party rise up in passionate renunciation of its historic
pro-choice policy. Bill, where are you? This is a situation
uniquely suited to your superpowers, one last chance to be
an American hero. Into the breach!
I had to leave my apartment to draw this cartoon,
because at home alone I can mope and laze endlessly and ignore
the anxiety and guilt of not doing anything, but being in
public usually shames me into drawing. I ended up at one
of the few pleasant, quiet little bars in the east village
that’s not crammed with bellowing sports fags on a
Sunday afternoon. As I was sitting there sipping a Leffe
and drawing Bill Clinton giving Sarah Palin the old Shock-‘n’-Awe
treatment, a couple came in with their two little daughters,
maybe six and four years old, who proceeded to take the stools
on either side of me. The younger one was carrying a hamster
in a sort of Habitrail escape pod with a handle. The older
one immediately leaned way over into my personal space and
watched with unabashed absorption as I drew. The drawing
was already well underway and clearly recognizable as a couple
of figures fucking, if you were at all familiar with the
configurations of fucking. It made me pretty ill at ease,
having this little girl sitting there watching me, but, on
the other hand, I figured, I was here first, and it is after
all a bar, customarily an exclusively adult venue. (I have
no objection to kids being in bars but it’s sort of
like me being on a playground; it’s by definition their
home turf, and I had better have a pretty good reason for
being there, like accompanying a legitimate patron of the
facilities, and defer to them and not be an asshole and take
over the slide or something.) I thought, it’s not as
if I’m rushing up to little girls on the street brandishing
a dirty cartoon at them. So I just kept drawing. The only
thing the girl asked me was, “How come you can draw
so good?” (She had an English accent, which only made
everything worse.) I answered that I’d had a little
bit of natural talent when I was a kid, and I’d kept
doing it, a lot, for a long time, and so gradually I got
better and better at it.” “Practice,” said
her mom, emphasizing the moral lesson and politely ignoring
the fact that I was drawing people fucking. The girl just
kept sitting there intently watching everything I did for
a long time. She had a bunch of ATM receipts clutched in
her hand which she apparently cherished. I asked her what
was the deal with the receipts and she explained that she
was saving them to give to her friend Elizabeth, because
her name was on them (they’d come from the ATM in the
bar, which is located on Elizabeth street). At no point did
we discuss the fact that I was drawing people fucking. She
had a surprising degree of decorum for a six-year-old. Maybe
it comes from being English.
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