09 June 2008


I have ripped open a scab on an old wound by remaking Mister Stupendous. Now that I have scanned 100 pages of it since dec 1st , and kept about seventy in sequential storytelling order, I relive how deep all those wounds really were, and how they can bleed again so easily.

I miss my father. I miss my art school buddies who I used to anger by deliberately calling quintin tarantino a fag. I miss Lesley, actually, though I never much spoke to her. Her lemony sweet tart sensuality was a pleasure just to be close to, i didn't have to do much else--amazingly for a swine like me-- as I was never a wop or a nigger looking to shtupp my way to some American dream. I miss zero mostel. I liked jews better when they were communists, as Doc Savage screaming about repentance out of the old holy writ 'tween the commercials for gold coins is really more egregiously stereotypical than the sopranos. But then, he eagerly does that what is respected.

I miss Eric Severide, my fathers voice of god hero, and all of Cronkite's boys, especially now, as a wounded baloney grinder salesman, jock licker Oberman seems almost hurt that madam wu and hubby seemed to turn on his ass, after so many fat jokes he made in their defense. They really don't make roman comedies like they used to, and Barack Trimalchio Obama, and John Miles Gloriosus Mac Cain have no real idea they are even in a comedy at all, which can take most of the fun of it anyway. I have a feeling these two credits to their races are going put the bullshit, self righteous-o- meter into teh red as each day passes. I miss Gore Vidal, who was shut up finally for being a roman historian and telling America about crying goats when the yentas of the senate were waving flags in everybody's face, and we got more hagiography about the previously ignored john adams, who took the place of the fallen jungle fevered Jefferson. I miss Patty Fairinelli, the aptly named Italian playmate with big tits and black hair when such wasn't seen as apostasy, now that this cadaver old pervert in a captains hat tries to convince us he is fucking a few meth head cunts between blood transfusion's.

I miss Capote on David Susskind. I miss Tom Snyder and Johnny Carson , especially as tv degenerates into fat little kids slapping their mommies who are incredulous that they are helping build better sociopaths on doctor Phil. There is nothing wrong with America a few nuns with rosary beads cant cure. I miss Dick Cavette talking to Mortimer Adler. I watched--studied-- that like a holy writ, and the few friendly people I had known in middle school asked me where I was running to at three in the afternoon each day, sometimes just skipping the last class to get to watch Cavette on channel 13 talk to , as I called him, Virgil, and I taped it on a cassette and kept it like a holy mass. Now I have to have faggots throw that heinous hero with a thousand mugs in my face, cause St. Georgie of Napa told them what mythology is. As, he learned it from Hal Foster somewhere along the way.

I would never have imaged that they aren't going to leave everyone alone until we all become flacks like doris kerns goodwin, but then, you dimwits , so anti Rome, so Judea in your self righteousness , deserve it. Stupidly, before the fags and the housewives and lesbians who cry out of their great big stupid glassy eyes about dogs and candidates and then cross picket lines like a fucking Carnegie, and before my Psuedelus Bill became another mommas boy breaking my roman heart , and before every horse faced woman with a bad dye job and a skanky look started to think they were Lynda carter, I actually thought that being funny was going to be enough.