This week The New Yorker magazine published this drawing by yours truly. Giving bystanders, witnessess, spectators, early readers, critics and the like, the impression that this is the latest offering from Hughes. A cutting edge up to the minute ink oratorio and in the process, after last month's proclamation concerning Hughes's New Yorker life, making him look like a complete flea grooming, scarlet arsed monkey. Dear follower this awkward appearing caricature has been dusted down, buffed up, nose wiped, poked in the back, had it's ear twisted and tweaked and pushed from the wings onto the page without my prior knowledge. Not a how's your Father? Not a good morning, not a even a sweetie caked in fluff from a scrunched up little paper bag long forgotten from a flannel grey trouser pocket. It's from the museum of fractured nibs. The thing has risen from a grave deep in deepest, darkest, six digit Norfolk, East Anglia, England. I rented a Thrashing Barn in 2005 - this is where this apparition squirted from. Long forgotten by me, but not by them across the farmyard pond. No scrunched up little paper bag of gold coins. I should read the smallprint. I should scour the document. I should become a shelf stacker.
Thank you to Kyle T. Webster, if not for his posted comment I would have remained in the state of ignorance. I would not have been inspired to add my shovel of dirt here. Meanwhile I continue to hunt down a part time position in the nation's supermarkets. Chipping Ongar?