Tomorrow at 7 PM, a release party for the World War 3 Illustrated collected anthology. Happening at Bluestockings, 172 Allen St. in NYC.
From the Facebook:
Thursday | June 19 | 7 pm
WW3 Illustrated Release Party
With presentations by Seth Tobocman, Peter Kuper, Nicole Shulman, Mac McGill, James Romberger, Sandy Jimenez, Eric Blitz, Andy Laties, Steve Wishnia, Breeze, On Davis and Mat Metzgar
Join us for the release of World War 3 Illustrated 1979-2014 anthology! World War… 3 Illustrated magazine is a labor of love run for the 35 years by a collective of artists and political activists working with the unified goal of creating a home for political comics, graphics, and stirring personal stories. WW3 Illustrated 1979-2014 is a full-color retrospective of the magazine’s history covering housing rights, feminism, environmental issues, religion, police brutality, globalization, and depictions of conflicts from the Middle East to the Midwest.
Bold emphasis on Eric’s name mine.
My moods are fluctuating again today, though the sadness is dispersing now. I guess that’s a drawback to practicing mindfulness. Just as I’m becoming aware of more complex nuances in tastes, sounds, and colors, I’m also more “in the moment” for every tilting, out-of-nowhere emotion. The scratchy, fiberglass thin needles I sometimes feel coating my insides. Last night wasn’t this way. Last night I could feel Light emanating from every pore in my physical being, I wanted Light delivered to all those who suffer.
Yesterday I almost lost it when we met another old-school couple, with a tuxedo black-and-with cat that knew how to sit perfectly and regally perched atop the man’s head. After Eric and I stopped to coo and fuss over the kitten-bitten, he asked us for a cig. They were also asking other people for money to get dinner.
“How would you feel if you and your wife and cat didn’t have enough to get something to eat?” the man asked the crowd at large.
And one yuppie girl flippantly answered, in a manner that usually befits future serial killers who torture animals for a start, “I’d cook the cat.”
Though I couldn’t imagine this smug nose-in-the-air prisspot doing her own serial killing. Might crack a nail. Probably hire a serial killer to do it all for her. Probably insist he be the spitting image of Michael C. Hall. I felt no qualms joining the wife of the couple in a barrage of profane verbal abuse and threats of what would happen if the yuppie came near the cat, or our cats or rats, though they weren’t there. The yuppie and her slimy friends stiffened and quickened their paces as much as they could without breaking into an actually run, either a failed attempt to not show fear, or perhaps a greater fear of sweating in their designer outfits.
Eric and I gave them some money. The man hesitated a bit to take it from us — they asked if we were ok to give it, if we were sleeping on the street.
“No it’s good. We have a home.” Eric said.
It turned out they had just recently gotten into a place too, but were still getting on their feet. After a year of treatment in the place I’m at, I was familiar with the drill – folks who had been successfully placed into housing but were still getting their legs back. The woman had recently lost another cat, one she’d had for years and was very bonded with, so the yuppie’s callous remark had hit her at a particularly raw time, in addition to it’s overall cruelty to animals and disregard for human hunger.
Anyone who’s ever been in that low place – whatever might have created it – where your one solace was a sweet, uncomplicated loving pet, be it cat, rat, dog, bird, iguana, whatever type of animal you like, will get where I’m coming from on this.