Artist's Statement
Our traditional New Year's cartoon. A
particularly lame entry in the "I Really Do Think
Things Are About to Turn Around for You and Me," series,
especially compared to last year's vision of Boyd's disembodied,
bottled head sitting nexxt
to me on the bar. Sorry about this, but ever since
I made the mistake of announcing my imminent retirement
the part of my brain that thinks up cartoons has brazenly
quit even showing
up at the office.
My friend Boyd and I have a dynamic going
whereby, anytime one of us is in a trough
in the cycle of depression/slightly less depression,
the other is usually on secure enough emotional footing
to
be
able
to haul him up out of it. One of us wallows in The Pit
while the other plays the obligatory role
of optimist--says, "Aw, c'mon, things ain't so
bad,"
whaps him in the head, and takes him out for
a crappy superhero movie and some nachos and beer until
he at least pretends to feel better. But lately, through
some unfortunate cosmic misalignment, he
and
I are both in what are euphemistically called "transitional
phases," meaning periods of unrelieved shittiness.
So now when Boyd says histrionic things like, "I
don't know, I'm
serious,
man,
I'm thinkin' I might die soon," instead of proposing
my usual solutions to all our problems--either becoming
costumed heroes or the long-postponed Great Eastern
European Fuck Tour--I just say, "Yeah, maybe you
and me oughtta
do a suicide pact."*
I'm currently reading the Henriad, the
cycle of Shakespeare plays including Richard II,
Henry IV, parts I & II,
Henry V, and Richard III. These are the plays,
as you may know, in which (among other things) the dissolute
young Prince Hal has to disown his old drinking buddy,
that irrepressible old rogue Sir John Falstaff,
in order to assume the mantle
of King. As Henry V, he goes on to glorious deeds
and
everlasting
fame, but it also seems like everything best and happiest
and most hilarious and human in those plays goes out the
door with Falstaff. As if there were no room in the world
for both patriotic valour and dirty, disrespectable fun.
It's been feeling sort of like that lately. I certainly
don't miss
passing
out sitting
up or forgetting everything that happened
the night before or being horribly hung over all the time,
and yet it must be admitted that life seems
about
4%
as fun
as it was back when I could freely devote hundreds of hours
to hanging out drinking four thousand beers and saying
hilarious things with old friends. Like there may still
be great accomplishments
ahead, but the good times are mostly behind us. Like Falstaff
is dead.
*Do not write concerned letters. No one is killing themelves.
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