cartoonist_empathy epitome of incomprehensibility You can't just walk around killing them, even in Paris, and expect me not to care. It was shock borne of an impersonal personal connection, like how my brother was shocked to hear that Marion Zimmer Bradley had been accused of child abuse. There, the link was that both my brother and the author had written things about the King Arthur legend. Here, it was that I've drawn cartoons, even if not well or diligently. A couple of them were published in a student newspaper: a student complains of a lack of "Conservative Arts"; there's a Vitruvian Stickman; something about aliens. Those were mild and bland, if striving for surrealism. When I was a teenager I tried to draw offensive cartoons. These were pro-terrorism, or at least anti-brother. Age 13, in the year 2001, not-yet-e_o_i draws a little girl building towers out of blocks and a little boy, her brother, throwing paper airplanes at them. The caption: "Ben Ladin as a boy." I waved it in front of my brother's face to offend him, but he wasn't impressed. He pointed out my spelling mistake (it's bin Laden) and turned up his nose. My brother was unimpressed with me, and through cause or coincidence, I'm less of a cartoonist now but also less of a terrorist (less abusive is what I mean... not like Marion Zimmer Bradley, but I think hitting people in the face deserves the A word). Very well, I'm not exactly a success story, but I'm more ethically careful. It wouldn't hurt to go back to drawing a bit more, would it? Unless people try to kill me. If they do, I'll try to die unimpressed. However, if they say, "We are from the Cult of Priapus and are very offended that in 2006 you neglected to give Vitruvian Stickman a penis," I might be a teensy bit amused before breathing my last. 150108 ... e_o_i "Veni vidi vici!" the toga-clad cultists shout, brandishing their phallic rifles. "The Vitruvian Stickman is avenged!" Then, while newspaper staff cower in fear, they nab a new package of permanent markers. On their way out, they pause to draw misshapen dicks on the hallway walls. 150108 ... e_o_i Take 2: E_o_i looked up from her laptop screen as a shadow fell over her shoulder. The Presbyterian Zombie King, John Calvin, pointed his sword at her heart. "In your spoken and written words, you have repeatedly denied the doctrine of predestination," he rasped, one eye dangling off a rotting thread of ligament. "Yes, so?" said e_o_i bravely, because that's totally what she'd do. "Well, you need to stop fantasizing about people killing you for doing mundane things and do something productive. You're not so special, you know." "But you are," e_o_i replied, smiling bravely. "You are Zombie John Calvin and that is certainly unique." "I doubt it," he wheezed, rubbing his black lip, dislodging part of it from the skin around his jaw. "Now I've got to go back and embody that blond-haired brat with his pet tiger in that comic strip. Go wash the dishes and finish your novel outline and write that thank-you note and that letter you've put off. Tomorrow you'll be working seven hours and you won't have the time. I predict it. Goodbye." And with a creaky flourish, he vanished. 150122 what's it to you? who go blather from