How To Draw Rat

A Film of Epic Importance

by Stephan T. Pastis.

Click HERE to view.

A New Video, and a Very Very Subtle Promotion

Just click HERE to view the video.

(Oh, and if you want to buy what you see, go HERE.)

Misanthropic Cartoonist, 41, Seeks Lively Discussion Later This Afternoon

The misanthrope in me is being temporarily set aside.

I am doing a live radio interview this afternoon to discuss my trip to Iraq, as well as other things.

So if you have a question for me, or just want to talk, or just want to tell me how great I look in those Iraq photos, call in.

I’ll be on the air at 5:00 pm (Pacific Standard Time).

To listen live, go to http://www.ksro.com/ListenLive.aspx.

To call in, the toll free number is 877-636-1350.

And be nice.  I’m very sensitive.

UPDATE:  One more thing on the radio interview.  It sounds like we may have some sort of contest where I give away signed stuff to one of the callers.  So call in.

Saddamapalooza, Day 4; or, To Hell With My Fellow Cartoonists

It is late night in Kuwait and we are getting ready to fly into Iraq.

This is the moment each of us gets our body armor.  A helmet and bulletproof vest.  A vest that weighs 32 pounds.

It is the first time I have had to do arm curls to put on clothing.

With the body armor on, I summon my inner GI Joe.  I feel very cool.

I pose for this:

I am immediately mocked because my camouflage does not match.  My helmet is one type.  My vest is another.

I am the military equivalent of a patchwork hobo.

I assuage my hurt feelings by telling myself that at least I look cooler than Mother Goose and Grimm creator Mike Peters.

 

Not to mention Baby Blues co-creator Rick Kirkman, who clearly looks like something that just stepped out of Hogan’s Heroes :

 

That’s to say nothing of Family Circus creator Jeff Keane, who is a mixture of not one, not two, but three types of mismatched camouflage.

If I am a hobo, he is Cuddles the Circus Clown.

Our mockery is interrupted by our USO host.

“Alright, everyone, before we get on the plane, I need to write your name on the tag on each of your helmets,” she says. “You are responsible for this helmet.  If you lose it, your trip is over.”

We all hand her our helmets.

“Write ‘Big Hot Stud’ on mine,” I tell her.  “The other guys will know who that is.”

Our USO host says nothing.

When she is finished writing our names on all the helmets, she gives them all back, and we proceed to the C17 that will take us into Iraq.

On the shuttle to the plane, Rick Kirkman takes my picture.

He is much too excited about taking this picture.

Something is wrong.

I take off the helmet and look at the tag.

Rather than tell you what it says, I will simply show you the photo.  But before I do, I want to say this.

Throughout the trip and throughout the re-telling of the trip in this blog, I have shown nothing but the greatest respect and courtesy to these, my fellow professional cartoonists.

And this is the treatment I get.

Saddamapalooza, Day 3; or, Stuck Inside of Kuwait With the Baghdad Blues Again

It is early morning when we hear that our flight to Iraq has been canceled.

The ten of us cartoonists have a free day in Kuwait.

With an entire nation to explore, a Middle Eastern culture to learn and the coastline of the Persian Gulf to roam, we take full advantage of the free time.

We play ping pong.

The table is in a small room at the back of the hotel.

I pick an easy mark.

Cartoonist Jeff Bacon.

Here is a picture of Jeff Bacon:

I don’t want to brag, because I think that’s in poor taste, so I’ll just say this:

I beat Jeff Bacon so bad I made him squeal like the little animal that produces his last name.

Four games to zero.

He did not win a game.

Nada.

Zip.

Then came the excuses.

“I think I’m still jet-lagged.”

“I am so tired.”

“My leg hurts.”

Explanations poured out of Jeff Bacon like he was the Excuse Piñata.

Not content with destroying Jeff’s ping pong aspirations, I then sought to crush his morale.

I did this by spinning in circles between shots.  I’d hit the ball, do a 360, and hit the ball again.

It is not easy to do.  And it should not be tried at home.

I don’t want to embarrass Jeff by revealing how he reacted to my acrobatics.  So I will just say this:

He almost started to cry.

Now, as I sit here, I almost feel bad for showing you his picture and potentially exposing him to more ridicule.

I know what I’ll do.  I’ll alter his identity.

Here:

Hang on.

That Saddam mustache is probably not enough to make him unrecognizable.

I’ll need to do something else.

I’ll change his shirt.

Now, before my fellow Iraqi-bound cartoonists get ahold of the comment section of this blog and start spreading rumors about something that may have happened later that night when we arrived in Iraq, let me preempt them by saying the following:

Possibly, allegedly, later that night when we got into our base in Tikrit, I may have played a certain Family Circus creator in a casual game of ping pong.  And sources tell me something strange may have happened and I may have lost three straight games.

But I don’t remember it.

Because I was jet-lagged.

I was tired.

And my leg hurt.

Saddamapalooza, Day 2

I am sitting in the lobby of our Kuwaiti hotel.

I am a high-value target.

I am bored.

With no beer to constructively fill my time, I decide to do the next best thing:

Bring peace to the Middle East.

One person at a time.

I approach a Kuwaiti man.

“May I take my picture with you?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says.

But he has a request.

“Can I hold the Kuwaiti flag?”

I want to say no.  But I am a diplomat.  So I agree.

“That would be acceptable to both me and my nation,” I say, speaking for our nation.

We take the picture.

It is one small step for Stephan, but it is a giant leap for mankind.

And it is obvious to anyone watching that the gap between East and West, Islam and Christianity, has begun to close.

Bringing my Nobel Prize that much closer to my deserving hands.

And then it is ruined.

“Can I take a picture with you too,” asks the inappropriately jovial Rick Kirkman, co-creator of  “Baby Blues”.

He is oblivious to the diplomatic moment at hand.   And the history-making event is cheapened to a degree that words alone cannot express.

“Okay,” the man replies.

Reluctantly.

They take the picture.

Surely, I say to myself, this is not happening.

“Can I take a picture too?” asks Mike Peters, “Mother Goose and Grimm” creator.

It is a full-blown diplomatic catastrophe.

The Kuwaiti man forces a smile.  They take the picture.

More cartoonists walk over.

“One more and I charge you money,” says the Kuwaiti man, intuitively sensing that cartoonists are above all guided by their own cheapness.

“Oh,” the group mutters collectively and shuffles off.

The Kuwaiti man lights a cigarette and leaves.

The peace train is derailed.

My Nobel Prize, gone.

Saddamapalooza: Day One

When you arrive in Hawaii, a beautiful Hawaiian girl places a lei around your neck and says “Aloha.”

When you arrive in Kuwait, a security man with a gun under his shirt places you in a shuttle and says, “You are now all high value targets.”

Said to a roomful of normal people, the line inspires fear.

Said to a shuttle-full of cartoonists, the line inspired pride.

We had never been “high value” anything.

If there was any doubt that we were not in Kansas anymore, that was resolved by the high blast walls surrounding our hotel.  Most hotels I stay in are surrounded by Applebees and Barnes & Noble.

Then there’s the military ship guarding the coastal access to the hotel’s beach. And it’s not pulling any parasailers.

The entire picture is enough to make you understand why there is no “Rick Steves’ Kuwait.”

But the devastating blow was yet to come.

No porn.

That’s right.  Kuwaiti hotel rooms have no porn.  The closest any channel came was a Kuwaiti soap opera where a fully-clothed man and woman sat ten feet apart in the woman’s living room.  When the woman’s husband walked in the front door, there was dramatic music followed by a lot of close-ups:  of the woman, of her husband, of the other man.  This was the Arabic equivalent of “Girls Gone Wild.”

If that’s not enough for you, consider this:

They have no beer.

None.

No alcohol anywhere.

I don’t know what Muslims call this abstention from sex and alcohol, but I know what we call it.

A really bad party.

The whole thing is enough to make you rethink the first Gulf War.

If that’s not enough, the Kuwaitis place a four-inch-high wooden beam on the ground between your room and the bathroom.  Not sure what the design rationale there is, but I will say this — When you really have to go the bathroom in the middle of the Kuwaiti night, there is no greater joy than breaking two of your toes and doing a header into a marble wall.

Now I’m awake and hurt and angry and I have no beer and Arab people are yelling at each other on my television.

Somehow I find myself already yearning for our next travel stop:  Iraq.

You know it’s a bad vacation when you find yourself looking forward to a war zone.

Hope they have beer.

Mysteries Revealed

Just got back from Country X, which I can now tell you was Iraq. 

We spent three days traveling by Blackhawk helicopter and military planes to Mosul, Kirkuk, Tikrit and finally Baghdad.  We even spent the night  in Saddam’s palace.

I’m traveling home today from Washington DC, but I plan on posting all about the trip on this blog, complete with photos.

A Report From the Front

Got to fly in a Blackhawk helicopter over country X yesterday.

All was okay until the gunner on my left opened fire, followed by the gunner on my right.

This was unusual for me because on most of my prior commercial  flights, no one has shot .50 caliber machine guns.

The good news is I did not cry like a little girl.

I did, however, scream like a little girl, which is much different.

Jeff Keane (“Family Circus”) was also in the helicopter.   I was significantly braver than he was.

My Priorities in the Middle East

Spent all day lying in the sun at the edge of the Persian Gulf.  Was going to solve all of the Middle East’s problems, but decided to get a tan instead. 

Tomorrow I go to a new country.  I’d like to name it, but I’m not allowed to identify it until I get back home.   I’m like James Bond, but without the nice car.  Or fancy clothes.  Or hot women.  Instead, I’m with a bunch of pudgy, middle-age cartoonists.   

Stay tuned.