I created a cartoon for a short story / comic strip compilation that I submitted to a publisher that actually may never see the light of day; the cartoon, that is. See, the cartoon is about boners. It is titled Bonerpalooza. I created the cartoon after a quick burst of inspiration, like most of my cartoons, and thought the idea was amusing enough to put down on paper. And like most of my cartoons, if it made me and a select group of trusted friends laugh, then I thought it was golden. But I've come to a realization that no matter how funny the cartoon is, most people are offended by cartoon dongs. To quote one of my best friends, whose opinion I don't take lightly, "Cartoon dicks are unprofessional." So, I was in a quandary. Most of the time, I don't really care what people think of me or my work. I've come to a point in my creative life that I cater to my cartoon / writing muse whenever possible. But I've been troubled by the reception of this cartoon. Everyone I've shown it to thinks it's funny. But they have all told me not to publish it. So, is Squirty McGirth offensive? Are cartoon dicks unprofessional?

EBook readers have been around for a while but, to be honest, I really didn't care. As a reader, I think I was too attached to certain things about printed books, things like their tactile feel, typeface, even their smell. As a writer, a book in print was where you wanted to be, especially if a publisher invested in the cost and marketing of it. In the last few weeks, I have completely changed my mind. EBooks rule!

A similar experience happened to me when iPods first came out. Once I discovered the simplicity of how the music could be purchased and loaded onto my iPod, I was in love. And I've had the same discovery with eBooks, thanks to the Kindle, the iPad, and some other similar (though not quite as cool) eReaders.

I first experimented with eBooks using MobiPocket on my Blackberry. I was skeptical at first but the software was easy to load and I immediately found a bunch of resources on the web with public domain books. They also had an eBook store, so I could search their store for authors I liked to read. In addition, they had an eBook creator called Mobipocket Creator. It was quite easy to use and, once my eBooks were created, I could publish them to their eBook database quickly for their eBook store.

It was the day before the end of the world, at least that's what the news media and the ancient Mayans believed. No one really knew what was going to happen at the end but it was going to happen, goddamn it. And no one cared about the details of how it was going to happen. The end was the end. The end. End. It just seemed so final.

A couple of years ago, I made a pact with my two best friends, Nolan and Jacob (I'm using codenames, by the way). We decided that we would spend the last night before the end of the world partying in my garage. We compiled a list of required items for the party: keg of beer, carton of cigarettes, liter of vodka, liter of spiced rum, mixers, ounce of weed, a pipe, a ten pound brisket, our favorite barbeque sauce, etc. And we agreed that if our lives were in a certain state by the time the world was going to end, then the three of us would convene in my garage, no matter what, and drink and smoke and eat ourselves silly.

And as luck would have it (if there was any luck left at all before the world was going to end), our lives were already ruined. So the party was on!

I've been having a lot of weird dreams lately. And I know exactly why it's happening. But rather than run through the details of why the dreams are manifesting, I thought it would be more fun to explore this topic through laughter. Check this out from the memory banks:

Oh, there's more!

New York, New York.  Before I knew it, I could see the sprawling metropolis from the airplane window spreading across the surface of the earth like a cancer.  But what a beautiful cancer!  The plane descended from the sky like a comet from God and I could feel the anxiety and excitement well up in me and throb in the pit of my stomach.  All of my dreams were finally coming to light, finally coming to fruition right before my eyes.  So many wonderful things were about to happen.  Besides my literary debut at the Barnes & Noble flagship store, I was supposed to meet my editor and her staff for the first time.  Through the entire goddamn publishing process, I never had a chance to meet them face to face.  It's true.  Everything was done over the phone and through snail mail and e-mail, from the initial submission to the first, second, and third revisions to the galley.  In case you didn't know, the galley is the first typeset version of the book that the publisher sends to the author for final revisions and approval.  Anyway, it was a long distance affair from start to finish.  Initially, I often wondered what my editor looked like, if she was attractive or not, a blonde or a brunette, thin or full-figured, lusty or prudish, with a fair or dark complexion (don't you think of these things?).  We spoke for quite some time without really knowing what each other looked like.  Of course, she eventually had the advantage because I had to send a photo of myself for publicity reasons (of course).  But I had the burning desire to find out what she looked like so I did some research and found a picture of her on the Internet.  I mean, it's pretty difficult forming a relationship with someone if you have no idea what they look like.  It's true.  How do you think all these women who write to prisoners actually get the courage to marry one of those bastard convicts?  At least with a photo, you know what you are getting into.  And when I found her picture, I was actually quite surprised to see that she didn't look anything like I had imagined.  From the sound of her voice, I had imagined a tall woman who looked and carried herself like Susan Sarandon, the movie actress.  You know, on the phone she seemed very smart and cunning and manipulative, logical yet emotional, and oddly attractive.  But what I discovered was that my editor looked more like Aretha Franklin.  I'm not kidding.  From the sound of her voice, I had no idea that she was an African-American woman with a hefty frame and not a typical inflection in her voice that would have given her skin tone and heritage away.  It's true.  It's really strange how your mind can mold images for you from clues and tidbits of information it takes in.  I guess you could say that my thoughts of her looking like Susan Sarandon could give some insight into what I think and like about women in general, what, considering that I really like Susan Sarandon's goddamn movies and all.  But it's also interesting how your mind can mislead you like that.  It's very interesting indeed.  Not that it changed how we dealt with each other or anything.  I mean, I'm not a racist or anything.  It was just a tiny revelation.  That's all.

I woke up this morning, just like yesterday morning, with my face in a pile of vomit.  I say a pile because when I sat up, the viscous mound rose four inches from the floor with a silhouette of my nose and face etched in its side.  No liquid whatsoever, just a lumpy mass, a nice likeness of me too.  But the smell, it was the smell of death. And do you know what death smells like?  It smells like regurgitated Jack Daniels.

My cat woke me up from my intoxicated slumber, licking my face after I first heard him nibbling at the pile.  He purred as he licked, sniffing then purring, purring then nibbling, like it was grilled salmon.  My first instinct was to scold him for eating the vomit.  Then I thought, 'what's the difference? At least the floor is clean.'  He finished the entire pile before I could get up and swat him.  He sprinted a short ways, laid down on the linoleum floor, and took a nap.

I told my friend Joel about the pile of vomit over drinks after my shift at the bar.  Of course, he knew why there was a pile of vomit in the first place considering he was with me the night before.  We were drinking whiskey at our usual pace, which is, as much as possible with no pace at all.  And even though he wasn't in my apartment with me when I fell asleep, he could visualize the scenario.  He had been there before as well.

"He ate the whole thing?" Joel asked.

This is a work of fiction, even though names, characters, incidents, and places are similar to real life. There really is a Mia Ryan and there really is a cat named Angel-Boy, though we actually call him Angey-Butt since he doesn't have a tail and all you see is his... well, you get the picture. I'm not aware of any ant named Anthony, though, and any resemblance to any ants with that name, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2003 S. E. Semegran
Illustrations by Scott

For Mia

Mia Ryan was a precocious little girl, with big brown eyes and curly brown hair, who lived in the heart of Austin in the middle of the big state of Texas. And Angel-Boy was her fearless companion, a little black cat with magic mittens and a stumpy tail. Mia and Angel-Boy liked to throw quaint tea parties, using her mother's fine china to serve the tea and baking miniature cupcakes to feed her guests. And her guest list always included her illustrious court of multi-colored bears. Everyone would sit around Mia's roundtable, wearing bibs and pointy party hats, telling stories and sipping sweet tea.

Angel-Boy, looking a little bewildered, asked Mia, "Can I have my four-morsels cat food instead of cupcakes? I do not like sweets. They make my paws sticky and my fur fall out."

"How rude, Angel-Boy," Mia replied.

In the past couple of months, I've experienced a great sense of pride when seeing my books in stock at two of my favorite local book stores. There's nothing like seeing my work sitting on the same shelves with other writers or cartoonists I admire. But yesterday I experienced my own little nerdy rock star moment. My books are currently catalogued at the Wells Branch Library. And I can see your reaction now (insert sarcastic eye roll). But let me tell you something, dear reader. Librarians know how to treat a writer.

The special day had arrived. I pulled into the parking lot, found a spot in the front, and ran in the party store. In an effort to save time, I had a concise list of supplies I needed to purchase: 12 napkins, 12 paper plates, one table cloth, and 12 gift bags, all with a particular Disney character on them. You know, the mouse? I also had to purchase six rubber balloons and one Mylar balloon to be blown up into a festive balloon bouquet, weighted down by a festive balloon bouquet weight. You know, because of last time? You don't know? Well, it's best you didn't know at this point. I was on a mission.

I found all the stuff on my list and waited at the balloon counter for the balloon girl to blow up my daughter's balloon bouquet. You see, it was my daughter's birthday, the most special day of all days of the year. Except for maybe Christmas or Halloween, a kid's birthday is the epitome of everything a kid deems magical: candy, cake, attention, ice cream, gifts, more attention, friends, fun, even more attention. It's the end-all, be-all of a kid's existence. And it was my duty to make sure it all went down in the most magical of ways. Shit, the pressure was getting to me. I only had a couple of hours before go-time. And I had to get all of the mouse-themed party supplies to the other mouse-themed place: Chester E. Cheddar's Pizzeria and Party House. I could only hope they served beer there. At ten o'clock in the morning, I already needed a pint, or three.