Okay, so I went to the goddamn Yale Club again for some arts panel thingy, and the last time I went to the bathroom there, it took me five minutes to figure out how to escape the stall, because the locks look like they belong on safes and possibly require the usage of a stethoscope to crack them open. This time, I Houdini-ed my way out of the bathroom stall just fine, but when I went to wash my hands, I reached for what I thought was some shitty giant container of soap, which, upon pumping, I discovered was a form of generic Listerine mouthwash. It went all over the place, and confused me so much that I just left, my hands smelling strongly of mint (mint-handed? freshly minted?) . I feel really terrible for not cleaning it up, but I panicked! Why are people gargling mouthwash there anyways? Gross. This has been an angry internet rant. Thank you.
So I went into The New Yorker today, and I spotted an elderly gentleman sitting in a corner of the room where the cartoonists wait for their inevitable rejection by Bob. I was going to compliment him on his red letterman jacket, when I noticed that the name Booth was stitched in script across his breast pocket.
It was George Booth. My hero since forever, who is basically the reason I wanted to do cartoons. I do not get starstruck easily—as it turns out, it’s only around 90 something year old cartoonists (oh, and Bryan Ferry).
I awkwardly stared at him, and then thought to introduce myself,when he said, “You have perfect hair. I’m going to draw it into one of my cartoons.” I think that’s when my brain catapulted out of my skull and I turned into a blithering idiot (not a stretch of a transformation for me…).
Though most of his characters are kinda wretched, so I am not sure what he meant by my hair being “perfect.” Anyways, ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!