Interview: with BERKE BREATHED: A Hooligan Who Wields a Pen

Cartoonist BERKE BREATHED thinks reporters are "bloodsucking geckos." But then again, he says even his relatives believe his brain went out with last week's meat loaf

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A. I find the environment far more exciting to the future than politics. Politics is shockingly transient. The issues that we are so concerned with today are nearly forgotten in three weeks. Environmental issues are not going to be a moot point ten years from now. They are getting more acute. Discovering how to make them funny is a distinct and irresistible challenge.

Q. Why do you make fun of the environmentalists you support?

A. It is like my writing about boating in a satirical way. Extremists are extremist, no matter what. They are always funny. There are people who think I am the James Watt of the animal-rights movement because I still wear leather shoes and eat the occasional McNugget. They may be heading in the right direction, but they can act pretty silly during the journey.

Q. People have complained that your work is offensive. Some papers have refused to run various strips, and some people, like the Rev. Donald Wildmon, have demanded that you be fired for slandering Christians. What do such reactions tell you about your work?

A. People are reading, especially Donald Wildmon. They are probably angry, they are probably insulted, sometimes they are offended, but they read you every day just to find out how they are going to be offended for tomorrow and for the next day. Indifference is the enemy. When I've lost Don, I've lost the war.

Q. You have said cartooning is the last refuge of the mediocre and the stronghold of the lazy and strange. Why?

A. Probably because I was feeling uncharacteristically honest with myself at the moment. There are some of us being paid millions to do essentially the same thing that used to get us sent to the principal -- drawing our authority figures in an unflattering light, which in those days probably meant in the nude.

Charles Schulz said it once: you only have to be a halfway good artist and a halfway good writer to be a cartoonist. I know my limitations. I could never make it as a writer, and I could never make it as a fine artist. Thus the world of cartooning was waiting for me to come along. I have plenty of partial ability.

Q. What do you think about the current state of the comic strip?

A. The comic page is bogged down in tradition; it is weighed down with expectations. What I find so exciting is the possibility for gentle subversion, to be friendly and dangerous at the same time, like kissing your first cousin hello and lingering.

The comic strip is the Andy Griffith of literature. It is conservative, it is homey, it is comfortable, and it is in no hurry to reveal how smart it really is. My fascination is to see what Andy would look like in a thong bikini. Traditional and friendly, but dangerous at the same time, which is a likely description of Bloom County.

Q. What accounts for your warped view of the world?

A. Eating lots of broccoli. You know, it's not the weirdo cartoonist that warps. The real warped view is on TV every night. Sanitized reality. Our job is to unwarp as best we can by reflecting the truth back into your eyes. It's not warped that Opus ((the penguin)) gets a buttock implant. On the contrary, I think it's pretty trendy.

Q. You make fun of almost everyone. Is there anyone you like?

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