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.