Don't Be Sad For Assad

He has friends

Good morning from American soil, and to be more specific, Baltimore.

Six decades of oppressive dictatorship collapsed Sunday as Syrian rebels entered Damascus and sent tyrant Bashar Al-Assad fleeing to Russia. Russia and Iran were the backers who kept the Assad regime afloat and now have eggs on their faces for betting on the wrong dog.

Syria was Russia’s toehold in the Middle East and Mediterranean as they have two bases in that nation. If Russia wants to keep those bases, they’ll have to negotiate with the people they’ve been dropping bombs on for the past 13 years. They may feel some kind of way about that. For Iran, it could limit its ability to spread weapons to its allies in Syria, Lebanon, Yemen, and even Gaza. For Syria, this brings an end to 13 years of civil war that pummeled cities and left hundreds of thousands dead. Refugees from all across the region and Europe may finally be able to return home…maybe.

Even as a coalition of rebels liberated the capital and freed thousands of prisoners while promising to build a coalition government, American forces were striking known Islamic State camps inside Syria. Israel sent its military inside Syria to protect its border along the same region it captured from Syria decades ago. Some of these groups in the coalition are considered terrorist organizations by several nations. One of the groups was al-Qaida’s branch in Syria, but now they’re all wearing smiley faces. These groups, backed by Turkey, are saying, “Trust us. We’re the good guys.”

Vladimir Putin granted Assad exile in Russia, but it’s not like the former Syrian dictator will be sleeping on the Russian dictator’s couch. Assad left Syria with about $2 billion in assets that should belong to the people he ruled over. For them, Assad left cities in ruin along with a devastated economy. His people are suffering, but he’ll be OK.

I wonder how much American money Donald Trump will take with him when he flees for exile in Russia.

I’m home.

I’m home, back in my country. Not home home, like back in my apartment or even my city.

I woke up at 5 a.m. because my body still thinks it’s in the London time zone. Sleep has been fighting me for the past two weeks and I don’t think it’s ready to quit yet.

Yesterday morning started in Reykjavik as I got on a shuttle at the Reykjavik Creepy Arms Inn, which took me to a bus station that took me to the Keflavik airport, about 45 minutes from the capital…which was just overrun by Syrian rebels. Kidding.

Keflavik Airport was built by the United States military after England invaded Iceland during World War II. Why did England invade Iceland? So the Germans wouldn’t. There wasn’t any fighting when England invaded. They just showed up in four ships one morning and took over like it was India or something. The British built the regional airport in Reykjavik during their occupation. The “invasion” rescued Iceland from the Great Depression as there were just as many foreign soldiers in Iceland as Icelanders. The United States took over occupying Iceland before it entered WWII so England could use more of its troops to fight Nazis (who we used to think were the bad guys before we started voting for them). I think a movie should be made about the invasion of Iceland and it would be a comedy.

I started this cartoon in the airport where NONE of the electrical outlets work. There were dozens of tables in the airport for passengers and each one had at least four outlets…and none of them worked. I charged my phone by draining power from my iPad during the flight, that is, after I had drawn the day’s cartoon of course. I finished the cartoon during my flight and I probably freaked out passengers who walked by as they saw me drawing skulls. People are always sneaking peeks over my shoulder, and often regretting it.

Where I started the cartoon. Every retailer has to scan your boarding pass before they can sell you something, like someone’s going to sneak into the terminal while fighting off the very dickish Icelandic security guards (oh, they suck) to purchase one of the Icelandic hotdogs. You’ll see.

On the plane, I shared a row with a young lady and we started whispering to each other as the plane filled up with people, hoping that nobody would take our middle seat. We were counting the passengers left in the aisle and praying for the doors to close. I was like, “If someone does sit here, don’t let it be another fat guy. Please god, no fat guys.” Nobody did which made it a more comfortable flight for both of us. I had elbow room to draw and she had some extra room to nap. It was a long flight. My back still hurts.

Sorry for not doing all this in chronological order. How long am I allowed to blame jet lag? President Biden blamed jet lag from two weeks before for his dismal debate performance. Maybe he thought he was still on London time and the answer to the next question will arrive in five hours. Anyway, I decided to eat something good the night before for my last meal in Iceland, and I chose well.

Readers LOVE the food pics. At least they do on Facebook. This is a haddock covered in horseradish sauce, and it wasn’t as expensive as I expected. It came with broccoli and potatoes over rice. It was great and there was something done with the potatoes I can’t figure out, but they were excellent. Most of the other diners were eating cheeseburgers.

When I was done, the waitress asked if I wanted dessert…no thank you…or coffee. Coffee? Oh, god yes.

Nectar of the gods, people. Nec…tar…of…the…gods. I almost cried. Of course, I got more coffee the next morning at the airport and I have two cups with me now that I took from the continental breakfast downstairs in my B’more hotel.

After the haddock and coffee (that could be an emo band name), I braved the weather and 55 mph winds (I’m still not on the metric system), and saw my friend Renata one last time and I met her coworker Isak, who was born and bred in Iceland but has spent significant time in Astoria. How expensive is Iceland? Isak thinks New York City is cheap.

The patch Renata is showing off is her football team in Brazil, which her family has been following for decades, something Americans can understand. Also, Renata is reading the blog. Say hi to her in the comments. Renata, there are hellos in the comments.

Renata told me I couldn’t leave Iceland until I could finally accomplish pronouncing “Gull,” a very good lager made in Iceland. It was a constant theme of my stay on that frozen island. I still can’t say it properly. If you go to Iceland, order the beer and ask your server how it’s pronounced. It will fuck with you.

And I was wrong. The haddock was not my last meal in Iceland. Take a deep breath before you look at the next picture. I don’t want to start a panic.

Admit it. You did a little jump in your seat. This is the Icelandic hotdog. Rene, my niece from Alabama, was in Iceland a few months ago and tried it. She hated it. I thought she was probably too good for hotdogs but gave her points for trying it, and then I tried it, and yeah…she’s right. I didn’t love it.

We invented the hotdog so this must be how Don McClean felt when he heard Madonna’s cover of American Pie.

This was purchased from Bæjarins Beztu Pylsur, who created this dog. They have stands in the capital and a couple in the airport. It’s not a large airport yet they have two stands for these things. As the young lady handed it to me, she either said, “Have fun” or “Have a great time.” I can’t remember, but I thought it was cute. I saw a few people running for their flights while carrying a hotdog.

So that’s a dog made from lamb mixed with beef (I think) and it’s covered in APPLE ketchup, sweet mustard, remoulade, and crispy fried onion. At least that’s what it says on the website (I research for you). I’m religiously opposed to ketchup on hotdogs and any red-blooded American caught doing so should be sent to Guantanamo to think about what he did, but I tried this. I figured if I was going to try an Icelandic dog, then I should try it the way the Icelanders intended, but even with apple ketchup, it’s still not right. My defense for the ketchup is that I was on foreign soil.

On my flight, I saw a young man with two slices from Sbarro, which is worse than putting ketchup on a hotdog. He probably thought it was real pizza. I saw a lot of pizza in Iceland and I was like, “Nope!”

Yes, I am a bit of a food snob, but I’m the kind of food snob who enjoyed that Icelandic haddock but can also appreciate a Whopper and will eat a hotdog (a real American hotdog) from a Manhattan street cart.

By the way, four things Iceland doesn’t have: Snakes, mosquitos, an army, or McDonald’s. For awhile, I didn’t think it had coffee either. I should also mention I never got coffee in Liverpool either, but there was tea. It sufficed.

I’m a member of an author's group in Fredericksburg. I think the rule for membership is that you have to have written a book. My two cartoon books count and I was invited after I won my RFK award, when I officially became a big shot. Basically, all it does is have dinners every few months which are usually held at a nice expensive German restaurant next to the train station. There’s lots of schnitzel. There was a dinner last night and the leader of the group was pushing me to make it.

My plane landed at 5:20 p.m. in Baltimore and the last train to Fredericksburg was leaving at 6 p.m. I was gonna have to get off the plane. Anyone who’s ever flown can tell you it can take 20 minutes to get off a plane. After landing in London, an old lady was telling her husband to look in the overhead bin again to make sure they didn’t forget anything. She kept saying, “Look in the bin, Harold.” He’d say, “I did look in the bin.” And she’d say it again. “Look in the bin, Harold.” “I looked in the bin.” “Look again,” Harold.” “I looked.” This went on a few more times. As they were holding everyone up over this bin shit, someone still in their seat, unable to get out because of this couple, shouted, “Look in the goddamn bin, Harold.” Ok. That person was me. And guess what. There was something in the bin Harold missed. Anyway, after getting off the plane in Baltimore, I would have to get through U.S. Border Patrol and Customs, whose employees are a LOT nicer than the Iceland Asshole Patrol posing as airport security. I asked a suit-wearing security guy where my airline’s check-in counter was located, and he interrupted, saying “I’m security, I don’t take questions.” He wouldn’t even hear the question and as I tried to say something else, he interrupted me again, and again. Finally, I told him he was a dick which made him look at me as if nobody had ever told him that before which is impossible when you’re a real dick. I saw him again later and he glared at me, so I said, “And your haircut’s stupid too.” And it was stupid, as it was some self-inflicted mohawk-looking thing. Who wears a suit with a mohawk? And how did a guy with a mohawk get a job in security without it being in a place like a casino in Atlantic City? Anyway, after getting through Customs, which can take from two minutes to an hour, I would have to get my luggage from baggage claim, catch an airport shuttle (which can take longer than Customs), get to the train station, and catch the train. There was no way I was going to do all that in an hour.

I took a shuttle to my hotel and got to talk to a nice lady from London as if I knew London. Oh, yes…don’t get me started on the Tube. Harumph.

So, I spent the night in Baltimore. Unfortunately, because I didn’t want to spend a lot of money just to sleep over for one night, I stayed in the same inexpensive hotel where they once gave me a room they had already booked, and I ended up walking in on a large hairy naked guy doing things to himself. Thankfully, that didn’t happen this time, and nobody has walked in on me either…yet.

Listen, I don’t really hate large people and I kinda am one myself, but it shouldn’t make me intolerant if I don’t want to sit next to them on an airplane or walk in on one while he’s naked doing things to himself. Get a room! Well, he had one. It wasn’t his fault.

I was also invited to a lunch today hosted by the Fredericksburg Advance, the local publication I’ve been drawing a weekly (most weeks) cartoon for over the past year or so. I’m not making that event either. I have to take a train from Baltimore to take a train from DC, and that one’s leaving until 1 p.m. Hell, I should get moving now.

I grabbed dinner last night at Glory Days (think Applebees, TGY Fridays, Ruby Tuesday, etc), had an American beer (not Coors), and watched American football. I had fried haddock.

Now, that’s an American haddock. Eh, the haddock in Reykjavik was better.

Now, can I pat myself on the back to end this? I just spent two weeks traveling abroad and produced a brand new cartoon and blog EVERY FUCKING DAY while doing it. Am I insane or what? During my trip, every cartoonist back in the states took the weekends off. And, I think I did a pretty good job of covering the issues during those two weeks, which involved a lot of drawing and researching on planes, trains, buses, and other things.

Some of my colleagues say I’m the hardest-working political cartoonist in the business. Well, yeah. It’s not like I’m expecting a Pulitzer Prize for this, but can I at least get a cookie?

On that note, don’t you dare call what I just did a “vacation.”

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