25 December 2007

Happy Saturnalia...
I woke up early on Christmas eve and went outside, though the back door, past the overgrown green shrubs, past the phone poles and the wire gates, and into the early daytime and the antenneas which stood like leafless tress in the air. Up the street were some tossle capped negro boy-men who are living out dey lives dat dey have had meant for them by liberal and conservative masters of america long ago, ie, killing someone not white and making not too much money in their american dream. Mixed in this street scene was the occasional blue explorer rolling down the stret, or even cadilacs they drove towards churches on this appporated roman holday, whizzing past the wool wearing nergos on foot. Past them, up the street was the line of demarkation between hoods and hoods, as the Negros were walking downtown toward the water of the gray river, back to where they had been demanded to be and go, by bleeding hearted powermongers long before little rock gave us fractured saints, no less imperially than the spanish and the portiguese had cut the earth in two in more ancient times. The blue and white tank like cars were all going up the hills towards the kmart and the fine liquer stores and the beer distrisbutorships where the better off did their last minute holday shopping. And the sky of off roman blue smelled of middle level cologne and perfumes, which came out from the open windows of the rocketship colored minivans.
I had a nice haul of old cheap dc comic paper, printer paper and flairs. I have now, of course, three interested in a script can not open on this infuriating laptop, which I hate. I may have venture back to Zio Frankie's fagtown doge palace of cracking cement, and have a few translations into pdfs again. I have to work quick, not only out of being noted by the glory hole gangster as verdian heroine crowd, but too, even being near Coppolas hell hole, as the imagery of his mixture of auturity and shilling dago red table grappa mkes me both sick and quite suspicious.

22 December 2007

My computer is ruined, crushed, burnt to a crisp, and all inside was arsoned away as if it were really nothing more than the leaves of paper which it all started as being. Pages all , in a moment went away, and without the romance of a single crackle or a swirl of white smoke. Now, these are the days of effortless destruction.

And amid this whole thing, I find myself becoming more admiring of Magna, which I thought would never happen. I saw a documentary about magna on showtime and found it all very interesting and well made. I also wish I had a book I had as a kid, from which I stole much of my ideas about art and all, a book bought by my dad called THE BOOK OF WONDERS. It was an ancient book back then, written and published in 1933, and bought by my immigrant pop back in the days when metropolis was seen as being an end in itself, and when people thought the world would be saved by crome and bronze and steam pipes. It was out of that book where mister stupendous and everything else I believe in came out, like a psalm of technology.But eventually, Uncle Hitler would apear with his usual germanic pervesrions and his usual german soot, and america would win and become a house of ubermenches itself, and would be a empire of plastic, leaveing the republic of crome and steam and red lipped brunettes away for good.

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15 December 2007


I really wanted to do a nice job on Mister Stupendous, going to places like dial b for blog to acclimate myself with the dc age of 1977, and its snow falls and its dollar comics, ect, as that was the backdrop of that first creation of mine. However, I have not heard from the person for whom I have done much of this art, not that it means much, nor matters, as I will complete it now that I have restarted it. Reading about the blizzards of 78, through which it was much written, reminded me of all which I had forgotten.

By the way, the posts heading is meant to be ironic, satirical, mean spirited, bitchy, anything but true. Though, to be honest, i rather like Adam Hughes, anyway.

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07 December 2007


Maybe the fates are trying to tell me something, but it seems that every time I am close to getting a job of any sort I have computer problems. Now, in the middle of a booklet I wanted to get made before Christmas, I have no scanner compatable with the horrid VISTA, and have no way to get pictures made into digital pictures.

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