For the past 25 years, I have begun my working day at 4.30am with a ritual self-flagellation as an offering to the cartoon prophet, Carlos Brun, followed by an ice bath and my first hot cup of rust water. I then begin drawing my silly pictures, using the traditional tools of sharpened, thorned rose stems dipped in octopus ink, drawing on matured custard skin. I try to finish before Midnight, but rarely succeed. All this, for the cartoonists' minimum wage of two groats per day, as set in 1792. We are permitted half a day off a year to celebrate Carlos Brun Day. I really have no idea what kind of dream world Peepsie inhabits.