06 August 2008



ANGEL OF HAARLEM.

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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