23 May 2008


STRIKE A POSE

I received a return envelope in the mail addressed back to me from a nondescript new york, or in this case Syracuse NY, publisher. The inside held a light , 18 pound typing paper quality page note, and I was sure it was destined to be another rejection's letter. At least, unlike some lately, these people had the decency to use the return postage which I had paid for to send me back the twelve pages of THE MAKING OF MISTER STUPENDOUS. As Cliffy's smarmy self righteousness made me , for a first time, damnned if I wast going to get some cartoons published , even in left wing rags and places like Bam or Shot crock whatever, I am again Romanly devoted at whatever march it takes to getting these essays published.

Suddenly, as I read it, I was dumbfounded. It read, Anthony, --in comic book deadlining I am more used to HEY Asshole, --We here at , lets call it Persephone Press, loved your memoir beginnings of TMOMS, as it was heart felt and sweet and kind. It held a magic we don't often see here, and had a legitimate and decent representation of Both Italian Americans life in the new world, and a usually unheard of positive treatment of the priests who upheld their classical values to help guide you as a boy. We here at Persephone press are devoted to the finding and heralding of the best new gay voices in literature, memoir, science fiction, thrillers, detective genre, anything which shows the whole panoply and diversity of gay life here in post modern America. Please send us the remainder of this memoir printed in courier or time roman at 12 pt, and send it to this address in care of.....

In moments I was printing out parts two and three of The making of..., and was delighted that someone with taste , as opposed to the snoopy lovers at --then it hit me like a Italian or Armenian's turn of the century laid brick , meaning substantial, in the back of my cow licked head. Gay...? I had found this Persephone press in a long roll call of agents and publishers one can find on the internet, held and collected by bitter jew haters. I didn't know they were a gay publisher, as I didn't even really know what that means. Reprints of the Iliad, perchance...?

Now, if anyone could pretense to be gay, or pass for gay , or spring gay, it could be me, and those priests made me realize that sometimes one has to take one for the team, to use the jock vernacular they adored as much as Kennedy or Nixon. I was reading Capote and Tennessee back when I was twelve, hell, I could probably be a better queer than these fags who suddenly want bush-wah marriage like a bunch of freaking man crazy broads, who cant wait to snag a man and BOOM, its sweatpants all day watching All My Children eating the Hagenendas and growing, in every size imaginable, to hate sex. Are you sure that hell is what you fags want...? I can attest, when a broad thinks she's got you, your head is first thing lopped off, if you know what I mean.

Then, I thought, part two has some very detailed and Answered Prayers-ish accounts of my early schoolboy sexual burgeoning with a cute brunette girl named Lynda Neopolitano, and parts of it are less Romeo and Juliette, --of course, Shakespeare's horrid subversion thereof--, than they are Penthouse letters. That is the best part, actually, and I thought, Gays were always perverts anyway, at least before they became as innocent and hand cleaned and pure as Jews ....If pressed, I could rewrite parts and tone down my love of feeling up this chicks chest in seventh grade, make it like I wasn't on cloud fucking nine , or that I wasn't fingering her up like Perelman on a de Gesu...I could say how yucckie it was, and edit words like Nirvana and Empyrium and delirium out of it. I could, if Necessary, as a mimic, go along with this, and maybe if they had to meet me, I could just act queer, just act like Leonardo De Caprio, if pressed. It could be a great gag. Lots of Fun. But then, I would be stupid and deck some old fruit and, bam, its over.

I emailed the man back and said I was sorry,and hope I didn't misrepresent myself , but I was not gay, at all, as I have the saved windows media files of Kim Kardashian's naked Tuchus to prove it. My story did revolve around how a cute chick with seventh grade tits may have sent me into a tailspin of overwrought romanticisms from which I never overcame, and I couldn't bullshit my way out of it. The editor was quite nice and emailed me back, well, no one is perfect, Tony. But he said, He did like the classical sheen I gave those priests and how, he said ,I touchingly saved them and made them decent, after they have been demonized by a too pure and awful protestant America. He liked that the wicked witch was a nun. And, It was still better than a lot of the WEEPY, DIRTY, FRAUD, shit they receive there, and its triumphs like that which I live for.

16 May 2008


NOTHING BUT A HEARTACHE...

I sent a six page essay about CC BECK and Captain Marvel, to a place called the comics journal. This place is a website which daily links to about the same seven names and overtly and ham handedly deals with the scholarly aspect of comics books, thus robbing them of any inherent joy as must be done even by the fags of a Calvinistic empire.

At this self deluded and self righteous site, one can find the awful grafted pretense of seriousness of cartoon books, mixed in with say, a love of fifteen year old magna being read by forty year olds, heads up on Danielle Corsetto's next PBS like pledge drives, long considerations about the need to get content OUT THERE, Marvels list price on wall street, links to weekly anger at some cartoon wonderwoman in a thong on some comic book cover from women who I would have thought wouldn't be so adverse to the open showing of sexuality of women, but then, what do I know, revaluations of Maus that never explains to me why my Jewish neurologist thought it was heinous, and of course, scholarly dissertations about The Batman, which never even touch on his screamingly apparent homo erotic underpinnings. No, it is the Franciscan ethic style of list making like that I just did, which put this guy off a five thousand word article about Beck, and he made that clear.

Again, I have forgotten that my old computer ,which is now a doorstop, holds all those articles and novellas which were written by me on Works 6, and which now are burnt away like so many Roman books upon which they stood for balance. If I have anything left at all, it is a ragtag collection of some first draft things in Rich text, which I never re saved in a more edited form, but, I got the feeling that that wasn't all of his argument, and this guy let me know that it wasn't just a few typos which made him aghast.

But, I didnt create this style, pal, it comes to me from a long line of Italic sensibilities, so different than how and why white woman write, that it has seeped into me, and again, I doubt a few typos and some unfinished sentances were what was really at play here. From the Prince, to Aquinas,to what is left of Rome, to Christopher Marlow, Chaucer, to even Francis Bacon, Gore, and parts of Capote as he tired of the aboriginals sex in the aboriginal city, it is truly list making as writing, piling of ideas and clauses to a desired, intended end. Stolen from Livy and Levi, a spic named Marquez took it and contorted it into something called magic realism, not understanding that neither magic, nor realism have anything to do with it. The awful New york Times thus gave this poor mans Octavio Paz wondrous reviews and trashed the medieval minded Calvino from which he stole even more than he stole from Paz, of course until Gabby went and , like rag headed Toni, stopped being a delightful and thankful ethnic for them, which Italians never are.

After a bit, I felt bad that again, I am always at wits end here, with unfinished essays, burnt out computers, redoing the same acts a thousand times, a sisters laptop which can accept one port at use at time, meaning I can use the mouse, or the hp printer , but never both, as a gray box holds a million words in a works configuration which no one can or even could then read. But then, I thought, what, No proofer reader on staff at NEWSVIEW , Mister Hollenger...? No, a gay Jew San Fran Liberal, who actually has printed my pagan minded The END IS NEAR work, has warned me how to read into all this stuff, and when the man at TCJ, or just THE JOURNAL as he vainly called it, referred to me as "A BLOGGER", this man emailed me and told me he is pretending to be a lower case NY TIMES, if one can think that low. I say this wondering how all those seven names which he daily attaches and links to would think of that admonishment, I wonder how the Johannas and the Occasional Superheroines would think of that line of demarcation, so cute coming from someone of the gutters as it does. I thought of all those who write stories about such scholarly ideals as who's been arrested for murder in the comics con biz or how the new Thors are moving out of stores, would see that distinction he made.

The Livian list making, the serpentine sentences, the clauses upon dizzying clauses, the asides, they are all the tools of a Jesuit education, and I eagerly put them to use. As much as they are an anathema to hair flipper Maureen, they are the basis of italic thought, as writing in any other less encumbered, simpletonii, lawyerly way is the role of iconography, fascism, or the church. Ironically, still, the piece wasn't about Beck at all, though it was a review of Shazam archives two, as much as it was a sad and sweet Antonian eulogy for a art and a time, which the smiling man exemplified, and was a critique not of a comic book, but a theme of a lost America.

And, 'Ironically' to use his rather misused word, it was written in a style taught to me by men in black robes and collars, and thus was probably the truly closest thing to a scholars old examination of something astonishing than his magazine knew, though it had nothing to do with longer articles which they have seen fit to print, with more words which are constantly about a strange diminution of web cartoonists like Corsetto who try saliently to be heard, and of course, money markets and how to use the internet for fun and profit, and mostly are about and lionizing the old comics to which they hold the Sunday funnies reprints rights to re bundle and re sell.

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14 May 2008



THE GRASS CROWN

Instead of watching crazed eyed Livia and her Inca--bloody And self rightious-- processional through hoopleland, I refreshed my tiredness by watching the last Rocky movie, only days after having watched somebody up there likes me. I thought Sylvester Stallone , the original 1977 body image and sad doofus god image I swiped for Mister Stupendous, was again playing out an italic creed of that story every wop worth his salt would know, beginnings looking like endings, and the triumphalism of heady days headed towards a decline, which just the staving off of completely becomes a greatest triumph of all.

I couldn't take watching some cnn praetorian fingering a blue screen as the mad woman spins and dances in her red shoes towards the edge of the roman wall which the ghost of Augustus wont let her take as her own. Does anybody really believe that Bilbo will allow his mommie to perhaps get that majority of Americans to lift her fat ass on their shoulders, and make her their champion.....nigger, please, I am not illiterate enough to be a democratic voter. I doubt it. And, more to the point, why are and were there so many undedicated cardinalis...sorry, I mean democratic minded delegates, if this was supposed to be hers as late as January...? Why didn't they, he , them, and all the incompetent liars, just get get all the uber-delegates sewed up last year, and make this year a referendum on her, as votes were cast in the kremilin and the Vatican and other fictional places....?

Oh, sorry to be Machiavellian again, did I step into the truth and get it on my shoe...? I couldn't take the idea of Mama Dyke and her half full gymnasium triumphal parade as her white assed loudening bigot faggots and unmarried woman waved t shirts of a man running for preator but shown as a monkey, acting like they were drunks at a nearby stillers game. Go back to 1948 your own self, Muther, I was watching the end of one of those great heroic images--not only of Rocky, but Stallone himself who made an italo-american masterwork amid the verdi gangsters, martians and the sharks-- of the lost brick republic.

The fact that they did take down the statue of Rocky at the bullshit mausoleum with delusions of grandeurs shows why Philth-adephia will always be a city of fat losers who live in Poland like decay.

12 May 2008


SIC TRANSIT

Speaking of Calzones, I like Kim Kardashian. I think she is a sweetheart and pretty and is a curvy, Mediterranean, antidote to those white trash , sex in the city like hags and their ugly, scrawny daughters who send naked pictures of their sexless barely legal bodies to the new substitute teacher in English class. But I was watching that show, and she was upsetting herself and frantically trying to buy back a bunch of calenders from from local big city news places. Waitaminute...sweetheart, I have several several movie files of you downloaded from Mexican websites for free saved to disk. I think I found her originally at EST TETAS EST GRANDE.BLOGSPOT.COM. I mean, reallly, ...some peekaboo playboy style pin ups aren't exactly akin to sucking more dick on film than Alexander the great could. ..Now, my only question is where the hell do I surreptitiously buy one of those, uh,"destroyed"YEAH , OKAY, right, calenders.

Its back to scouring the Mexican internet, for big Tony, and back to my boys in Warez .....! By the way, Kim, send the calender bill to Emmit, I hear he made a bundle at USC, while poor dumb Maurice Clarette was being destroyed by the bald yentas at espn for asking to go pro.

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