Below is the latest The Pain -- When Will It End?
Updated 02/18/09



Artist's Statement

Sorry to be late posting this week. I had to turn this cartoon into the City Paper with only three panels completed (and a much less funny version of panel 3, with only one image of Past Tim). You, my internet readers, get the full version with an extra panel, complete with color! It took me until now to post because my colleague Megan Kelso was visiting town and I opted to spend all my time going to the Natural History Museum with her and her daughter or drinking beers and yakking late into the night with her instead of updating my website as I should have been. In other words, you, too, have now been inconvenienced and deprived by that self-centered good-for-naught, Past Tim. You see? You see how he is? This is what I have to contend with all the time.

This notion of being callously fucked over by one's own Past Self has spread and become a meme among some of my friends: Past Mike once again did not rinse out yesterday's coffee mug; Past Jenny got stoned and checked email again instead of doing any one of the hundred and fifty-seven things on her list. Oh, these selfish, thoughtless Past Selves, caring for no one but their own past selves, gleefully giving the finger to us earnest, hardworking folk of the future for their own short-term pleasure! It’s so useful to be able to blame Past You for all your poor planning and laziness and self-sabotage. Damn them. Damn them all.

I don’t have too much to say about this cartoon except that I am very pleased with the cartoon emanata I improvised to indicate “crazy girl you should not go home with”--dancing red flags about her head. It was something of a challenge to come up with semiotic indicators of craziness that were not the stereotypical orbital rings or floating cuckoos. A friend of mine once described the “stink lines of craziness” he could see radiating from a woman’s head in real life, but this seems too easily confused with the tingling of Peter Parker’s spidey-sense. I did give her what the late David Foster Wallace memorably called “hair fangs.” My colleague Megan urged me to draw a handbag jammed and overflowing with crap, but I’d run out of room and time. Houndstooth was a very poor choice for an artist already harried and past deadline and tired of drawing.

About the little sailor suit, I think we can all agree the less said the better.


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