25 August 2008


I did a bunch of black and white pages for some comic magazine, and so much did I want another line on a stalled resume, that I in a few hours, traced the pages from old heavy metal strips. Of course, this indignity wasn't enough as it was , and a lecturing email came to me from The New Yorker, who whoever this was, explaining to me that I had to re do it, as Yur, you see, is spelled YOUR, and they don't know what a Bialy is...thank you, mister Buckley. I would have to take the scanned images, print them out, print out new diolog, paste that on, take those to Staples to be rescanned...oh to hell with it. I, the Heppest of cats, have been reduced to heavy metal bullshit...? All too Sad.

16 August 2008


When I was posting art to a site called Comics friends, or comics buddies, I cant recall, I was astounded by the list of Friends I had accumulated in only a few days. This included Gail Simone, Jamie Iglle, Drew Gershi, Occasional Ubergirls, Danielle Corsetto, someone named Quintin Tarantino, though, I doubted that one. I was befriended by French-belgian women who drew mater natura in watercolors, and by inkers for marvel who , like me, fondly recalled a man named Nova and thought it was marvels finest hour. I was befriended by guys in t shirts, yes, cute broads, older women, and lulu broads. Despite, or perhaps because of, my having called Sin City a nightmare of black ink and Dwayne reed band aids, I had people who emailed me with almost steam letting off emails who agreed with me about much of what I had said.

I was befriended by a comics loving buxom porno goddess, and amazingly to me, Didio from DC , no less, and too, the woman from Dr. Sketchy , Various Asian wunderkins named Lee, and a lot of Lucas film plebes who worked in that particular slaves ship, all with names like Darren, Troy, ect. I was befriended by a comic book writer whose picture was that of a forty year old man in a red engineerings star trek shirt, complete with sixties era Phaser gun at the ready. I said, that's the guy I want to go party with...I wanna party on the town with that bad ass, who has not just a jew blue, Lenny Nimoy shirt, oh no, baby dolls, dudder has a red, Cracked Magazine cover, Scotty, first nigger to die on Saturn shirt, cause he knows the score, and hes ready to do his bidness. This guy , and I want being completely snide, was old school, and had a shirt which only the green sarong which Shatner wore in the last season was more hard ass in its Trekkie joyfulness. I was added by Mike Grell, whose legion comics I once loved as much as Shazam, and for similar reasons. And, last but not least, I was befriended by Stan Lee, which like Quintin Tarentino, I doubted. But, I found I liked these people, more than I thought I would the blogger queens and their constant sneering, fan boy bullshit.

The only ones who refused my comic friendship were something called slg. Though, I thought their kelly girl who runs it was cute as a button, Jesus, enough with the Shakespeare Mishpucka, already. But, still, I found that I was quite both fond and proud of my comix work, which, to be honest, I always thought of as gutter shit, hoping to eventually make them into novels or screenplays. But suddenly, I was fond of my comic work, mostly Mister Stupendous, which I had brought back from his supendium limbo just then.

Within MS, as a ten year old, no less, I was doing things which the Warrens and the Alans and the Byrnsies of the world would take credit and build newsprint laurels for themselves, which they would attach themselves to, with almost crazy glue. At ten, I conceived of the epic Roman strong man again as comic hero, done as reclamation of Saturday morning serials, half a year before Lucas made such fun actual religion. A decade before the reboot of Superman, I had CC Eaton as a plutocrat enemy, more along the lines of a Doctor Moriarty, not poor Saleri, who was demeaned as a musical Salvetti, before the cool kids all flocked to more serious Bach anyways. I brought Jews , Italians, homos, Blacks and Greeks into my comics, where they were absent in professional land, and in a form they all helped create. I placed things like Harvey Milk and Moscone's assassinations as backdrop, and the killing of a decent parish priest pope was quickly replaced by a Nazi pope who seethed with rage at roman heroics, as Nazis always have, as they try to replicate it... and cant. And now, how did I know...?, a German pope, the ancientness image to me of a decline and fall, is true, and I only hope he ends the same way the predecessor Pope Boniface the XII--did in my comic arc, where Mister Stupendous, defender of the republic against all things Gothic, beats him to death with a Bernini statue of Saint Claire, the patron saint of Television.

I was always mindful of the ethics of Italic fairy tales as a template for the comics, as I instinctively knew unlike the later house spics who would get bags of accolades for stealing from Dante's Inferno, --or at least the lithographs therein--adulthood isn't seen in the diminution of everything and everyone as it is with the phoney baloneys of chick lit, and that the more evil you make the surrounding's, more noble the Roman lawyer as a guide has got to inherently be.

I note that Steve Erkel and Old Man Battleship Mac Kane don't tackle any unraveling, unwinding, eighty word questions from any Jesuits or Franciscan monks on cnn, do they...?As a priest told me once, and I have used as a compass for almost everything, "Tony--", I was told by a fat old Italian, Ariosto adoring, Priest who liked me very much and loved my father and my mother as exemplars of the italic decency which Martin Scorsese tries to hide , if not arson away so people buy into his bloody puppetry shows. And it was this priest, when a German nun tried to expel me for no bigger thing than the fact my father wast rich enough, like the mafia princesses pops, to pay suddenly demanded tuition to keep the blacks and jews even out, said she would leave before I would. He wanted me to be Jesuit in everything I did, as a defender against Luther's demons minions of Gothic slop, "--Just because something is beautiful and bright and shining and romantic and heroic, doesn't mean its a lie, and ergo, just because something is awful and venial and ugly and dower and cold and vicious doesn't make it truth. "

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06 August 2008


I finally opened a book I received for Christmas, called Shazam Showcase. The art, even the later stuff by Shaffenberger and Bob Osknar, is a primer of how to make seventies era comics, and the early stuff is, of course, wonderful. But the stories are crap, as if written for and by retards. It is much easier to write for Batman than for the resurrected and again destroyed Captain Marvel, in that a certain amount of whimsey and joy is needed for the latter, where as any bed wetters fantasy can be a good batman story. The brilliance of Otto Binder , and the lovely satire of the inherent stupidity of such a story, and Captain Marvel always made more sense than some of this funny book shit by just delving into Egyptian and medieval magic as an answer and a rational, is gone, replaced by out and out indignity. I read it almost crestfallen, mostly by they having not added the reprints which beguiled me about King Krull and hell when I was a kid, and I read the story of the gelatin monster which finally made old CC say enough. It was like watching Emmit Smith as a cardinal.

I felt sad, as I once went to a website for finding comics book help wanted, called the Engine. Not knowing of the proprietor there, the famed Warren Ellis, nor having a true understanding of his beady eyed , feigned bad ass charms, I was looking to replenish, actually create, something of a resume before a scheduled meeting with a woman producer who made b caliber vampire films. I wanted to have some kind of resume to show her, lest she think I was as lazy as I may be. I went to this thing called the Engine, which is a red flag when someone names an art colony for a soulless mechanical mindless internal combustion machine. I posted a picture of Vundergirl looking over a wall. A black lipstick wearing troll woman , coven drone, tore it down, explaining that the miserbale Maestro doesn't like Superheroes. Fine, it isn't my site, do as you please, what am I a hectoring lesbian, who tells pother people to think like me...you could never keep up, and your sides would hurt...

I then made the mistake of actively answering anything to these dimwits in their chat room, placed there, ostensibly so as all these collected dweebs could look upon the beady eyed face of this bald creep in the middle, and thus be warmed by his grace like Paradiso. They asked, who is your favorite comic strip character...? I answered, unaware that this a trap that Torquemada lays for heretics between high balls, that mine was Captain Marvel, saying, with that wit for which I am becoming known, --and hated, as usual--that any cartoon with a tiger in a smoking jacket and as ascot is bordering on genius. And, I was not lying, either. Soon, I then get an email from Field Marshall Ellis, ASKING ME ABOUT MY SANITY, TELLING ME TO COME BACK TO HIS PRECIOUS SITE WHEN I STOP DRINKING. In Ellis World, it is a dower, ugly, Stygian place, filled with Drunks, like he, as so, if you disagree, ergo, you are both wrong, and un-sober, for such is life in the sub urba of the dank sin city these comic trolls inhabit, which is somewhere between the Lethe and Saturn...New Jersey.

I thought this was a bit much, as in big peoples adult world no one ever seemed to be so touchy about things as they were in the comic book hells near the Styx made of India Ink. Who walks around always at def com 3 like this, except someone who is marinating in their own self righteousness which, Kids, the nuns taught me is juts a repositioning and a rescuing of ones internal lack of self worth. God, Papa Hemingway, take your site and your lesbians and shove it, I thought,.. but then, as usual, I thought the better of it. I never even heard of this guy and looked him up, finding that , as usual, mister I am a camera, I am a Writer, I am too good for comics books, sold his soul to the house of Stan and helped write a toxic spill called Civil war. That is the one where Captain America, proves true to his name by starting a war and then, at the last, giving in, showing he would make a wonderful democratic speaker of the house. This guy, This Guy, doesn't like The Brilliance of Captain Marvel, ...? Oh, that’s right, no checks possibly coming from Fawcett anytime soon.

Listen, Lillian Hellman, I told him, In the middle of aping Harlan Elison, and badly I might add, and instead of using the word Fucking as a adverb in every sentence, I told him Buy Captain Marvel's Archives, or the famous first editions seen on ebay. Luther Loved Ovid, Da Vinci adored Apulio, Adler loved Roman Fabulists, and even Michaelangelo loved Statius, meaning, you don't have to be a bad ass completely, always. Socrates spent his life translating Aesop, speaking of talking tigers you so hate , from old into new Greek, and thought it was the Greeks prize literature. And, mostly, I thought of my pop, and the old men Jesuits, who had me reciting these roman books which Shakespeare would strip mine, in whatever English barbar language he used, and how they enjoyed Captain Marvel, and unlike you, pal, they were truly literate.

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