Touch That & You’re a Dead Man

“Generally speaking, I reach out to Addison (the artist formerly known as many other things) by email, asking him if he feels inclined to send Tim (Weekly Hubris’s Assistant Editor) some ’toons. Then, they are forthcoming, or not (no verbiage, or very little, appended), and go up on what we at the magazine call The Dashboard. At that point, Addison (Mark, by any name) has drawn the cartoons, gathered them up (like a bouquet of exotic blooms), sent them to Tim (up in New York state) AND Tim has seen and coded them. I, however, have simply asked for work(s) . . . and waited, in the dark, to be surprised. I am always, I assure you, surprised.”—Elizabeth Boleman-Herring

Addison

By Mark Addison Kershaw

ATLANTA Georgia—(Weekly Hubris)—1 April 2022—Editor’s Note: Generally speaking, I reach out to Addison (the artist formerly known as many other things) by email, asking him if he feels inclined to send Tim (Weekly Hubris’s Assistant Editor) some ’toons. Then, they are forthcoming, or not (no verbiage, or very little, appended), and go up on what we at the magazine call The Dashboard. At that point, Addison (Mark, by any name) has drawn the cartoons, gathered them up (like a bouquet of exotic blooms), sent them to Tim (up in New York state) AND Tim has seen and coded them. I, however, have simply asked for work(s) . . . and waited, in the dark, to be surprised. I am always, I assure you, surprised. And always, I assure you, I learn something in lifting the toon-bouquet towards my sensory organs. This month, for example, I learned to my surprise that: 1) I have long, long been on The South Bitch Diet without knowing it; and 2) Mark (or Addison) has seen me in real life, standing in a queue somewhere and asking a perfect (often diminutive) stranger to dance; and 3) my photo album (and surely your own) has many, many deckle-edged black-and-whites that might be captioned, “At the (pick a destination), beginning my descent into madness (or other altered state).” So, here’s your April bouquet, out of Atlanta, by way of Rochester, lately of Pendleton, South Carolina. Dance, and descend, with me: the canyon’s just grand.