Myron Kaufman’s illustrated ode to animal-human love continues with the second part of “Horse Scents.” Read Part I (with an introduction from his son Charlie Kaufman) before diving into “E-Male.”

Klieg lights painted inverted white cones of light on the polluted black night of Los Angeles. A brightly lit red carpet parted a sea of fans, photographers, and the curious. Celebrities were everywhere.

There was Peewee Herman, on the carpet, decked out in his plaid, snug-fitting blue and orange tuxedo. Two inches of white socks showed between the the tops of his shiny black shoes and the bottom of his trousers.

The movie Horse Fever was being premiered at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, and a gaggle of entertainment types had shown up to be seen and to show off their finery, jewelry and mammary.

P. Diddy was making the scene in a black cashmere coat with an ermine collar. Rosie O’Donnell, looking pregnant in silk tails and cummerbund, towered over little Danny DeVito, who was dressed in a blue sailor suit. Ben Stiller, his hair carefully disheveled, walked next to a bloated Doctor Phil. Dozens of familiar faces with names that don’t quite come to mind meandered on the carpet.

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Through prose and image, Myron Kaufman has crafted an uncanny, unhinged romance between man and horse. The story (and its author) are introduced by Myron’s son, filmmaker and screenwriter Charlie Kaufman.

When I was a little kid, I would watch my father playing with his toast crumbs on the breakfast table. He’d push the crumbs into interesting designs. My father was always artistic. He painted, he made sculptures from found objects, he fingered toast crumbs. I loved watching him do it: focused, creative, driven, even at breakfast.

A few years ago, I mentioned the toast crumb memory to him. I wanted to tell him how much his daily ritual had meant to me. He was quiet for a moment. It didn’t elicit the “Oh, yeah! I forgot all about that! I used to love doing that!” I had expected. Instead, he finally said something like, “I was probably feeling trapped and trying to distract myself.” I was floored. I hadn’t gotten that at all from watching him. To me it was just another example of the wonderfulness of my dad, the most eccentric and educated father in our blue collar neighborhood, an example of his boundless creativity: toast crumb art. Suddenly it was something else entirely.

I found myself both flattered by his honesty and taken aback by the abandonment of his fatherly protective relationship. It was similar to that day he started referring to my mother as “Helen” and not “Mom.” We are all adults here, it said. She is Helen now.

“Helen and I went to Vermont this weekend.”

“Helen fell and broke her wrist.”

Of course, had he told me as a child that he felt trapped, I would not have understood.

Of course, as an adult, I do. The nature of my relationship with my father has changed. Now here we are, both older, both parents, both still struggling to understand ourselves at this late date. Helen has died. Myron moved to California to be near Charles. His weekend painting became full-time painting. He doesn’t know what he’d do if he didn’t have it, he says.

In the last few years he has painted hundreds of paintings, written several stories, participated in handful of gallery shows, and had two solo exhibitions.

And I do my own version of toast crumb drawings now. Because I now know the secret of adulthood.

Here’s a story Myron wrote and illustrated.

—Charlie Kaufman

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Word Choice features original works of fiction and poetry. Through prose and image, Myron Kaufman has crafted an uncanny, unhinged romance between man and horse. The story (and its author) are introduced by Myron’s son, filmmaker and screenwriter Charlie Kaufman.

When I was a little kid, I would watch my father playing with his toast crumbs on the breakfast table. He’d push the crumbs into interesting designs. My father was always artistic. He painted, he made sculptures from found objects, he fingered toast crumbs. I loved watching him do it: focused, creative, driven, even at breakfast.

A few years ago, I mentioned the toast crumb memory to him. I wanted to tell him how much his daily ritual had meant to me. He was quiet for a moment. It didn’t elicit the, “Oh, yeah! I forgot all about that! I used to love doing that!” I had expected. Instead, he finally said something like, “I was probably feeling trapped and trying to distract myself.” I was floored. I hadn’t gotten that at all from watching him. To me it was just another example of the wonderfulness of my dad, the most eccentric and educated father in our blue collar neighborhood, an example of his boundless creativity: toast crumb art. Suddenly it was something else entirely.

I found myself both flattered by his honesty and taken aback by the abandonment of his fatherly protective relationship. It was similar to that day he started referring to my mother as “Helen” and not “Mom.” We are all adults here, it said. She is Helen now.

“Helen and I went to Vermont this weekend.”

“Helen fell and broke her wrist.”

Of course, had he told me as a child that he felt trapped, I would not have understood.

Of course, as an adult, I do. The nature of my relationship with my father has changed. Now here we are, both older, both parents, both still struggling to understand ourselves at this late date. Helen has died. Myron moved to California to be near Charles. His weekend painting became full-time painting. He doesn’t know what he’d do if he didn’t have it, he says.

In the last few years he has painted hundreds of paintings, written several stories, participated in a handful of gallery shows, and had two solo exhibitions.

And I do my own version of toast crumb drawings now. Because I now know the secret of adulthood.

Here’s a story Myron wrote and illustrated.

—Charlie Kaufman

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