26 August 2008


To be honest, I never wanted to be in this particular circle of this particular hell. I don't want to be in your low rent beehive, and to be honest again, once when I was in art school, and we all spoke of what we would like to do as artists, I said I thought being in commix, underground commix, would be fun. To which a world class artist named Mister Ciotti looked at me with horror, and which elicited a laugh from the class. He looked at me like I said I wanted to go into white slavery, or trafficking Mexicans across i-80 under pickups filled with Squashes and Honeydew melons.


And in my sprawling Hesparian epic, the birthday of Amerigo Vespucci, March 9th, was being celebrated by the always adaptable Italians. They have all really gotten tired of somehow Columbus being tarred and feathered for things which are easily forgiven and never mentioned as done for real when done by Mohammad, who As a Semite, which was a pejorative to Biggest Gayest Al, Electro-Magnetically hated niggers in a way that the Genovese did not, but then, that explains everything doesn't it...? Go Red Sox...! [I do notice how after the constant Injun displays on Columbus day, which amazingly never showed up for Cinco de mayo, or even for Oktoberfest, the always survivable Italians found the San Generio festival to be free of these dancing feather dusters, which is why they beat Hannibal and you redskins lost to the lowly Spanish. Adapt or die. No, Sorry, but when the Scared Jews of the media and Anglican priests, No Less, and even Burgess Meredith Chaney speak of their carefulness with Korans or love of immigrant spics, I think of all those burned pages made ellipses worth of centuries or eons, ... , in my copies of Livy, or of the broken necks of Venzettis, or of raped Connie Francis, and I even find I cant bullshit anymore. Plus, you Arabs are passe now, as there is a fatiguing quality to evil, as the old Clerk said, and now the Bear growls again, to the praetors tired of jihad delights. Like Captain America, with the defeat looming, Johnny Carson and not Brain Blessed calls his eagles home, and sadly, almost detestably, hunches away without honor, glory, decency, dignity, anything but the money his procouncil stole. And, Finally, they have found a blue eyed demon they can understand, like the Etruscans. Too, about Columbus day, I always knew where a Smilingly chiseling Clinton, or an Obama unless he's an idiot, can be found on October twelfth of every election year. ]

And, with some more regularity, I receive more emails advising me of things, contests, writings markets, to join comic space pages, but alas I am off, or was asked to leave, everything but this blog. An Italian American journal has asked to see my Statius piece, and I thank them, but frown. Number one, it hasn't yet been returned to me, and two, the point was to throw it like a flutter of bloody dove wings, at the persistent bishops of Shakespeare, as they circled their stygean looking Stonehenges.

I do note that Salman--who again, I rather like-- is pretty much doing his Calvino thing here, and note that it is funny, how the Moores and the Scorseses, and the Gaimans leading melloto cartoon girls through black and white existences, and the Coppollas of various generations, after decades of 'real', violent, dark, shitty work, all do seem to wish to return to Oviddian folk tale dances and tables wiped with mint Roman laurels. Thankfully, that is a place I do not have to return to, for I have never left there, and thanks to Dannie and Bea and Johnny, know that 'darkness' or 'reality' can be found there, whether in a woman scribbler hated hell, or in the pestilence only alluded to just behind the busty girls in ermine robes as ginny Scheherazade's in wreathes of holly, in spades.

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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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10 August 2008


I am in the throws of a strange type of recrimination. Did I do the correct thing by being so aloof and being so uppity as one person called it, in my stance of Roman centurion against the forces of barbarian darkness....? I was elected to nothing, and funny thing is, for the hurled crap at me of racism, sexism, ect, by Coppolla's fag phalanx, in my life, Blacks, Jews, Asians, Arabs and Poles have given me less of a hard time than some Italians have, most of whom seemed desperate to put on heirs, which my roman minded, anise sipping, parents found appalling. Which by even saying, seemed to prove my point. A black woman thought my work was important about Roman literature, another Jewish yenta agent type said to me in 2002, with BUSH in power, I MUST READ MORE ROMANS, and most wished me well personally, not in that form letter way. And yet, the Sicilian gangster movie maker wanted to call the cops on me, and had me exiled from his little artist colony-brewery-wine merchant villa, where Scipio and Agrapinna his brats, no nepotism there, are in the back, with her melotto feet stomping the Sardinian grapes, ala Lucy.

While I was in art school, there was a creepy scummy foe in a class in which I had been sent into for various reasons, some including, perhaps maybe having hurled a drafting table into a wall. There was a creep here in this class who was the perfected comic creep, but with affectations of art, down to a goatee and thin arms and a nose like seen on jug head. Every construction I made was met by vindictiveness by this drawer of racoon's, this low rent cretin who made variations on Audubon Society duck paintings. But, I brought in some pages I had done in Neal Adams style of my renamed hero, Megaman, then, who was the previously pictured Mister Stupendous. A small crowd gathered, and some were quite impressed, as by my attempts at creating textural gritty roman wall art works, they were not. But now, it was seen I could draw, which some had guessed all along anyway, and wondered why I didn't just slavishly copy as it seemed I could anyway.

But I noted the goatee boy, a miscreant slob, who to this day a buddy of mine from then refuses to mention his name, and like the word Satan in a Neapolitan church, will not name him out loud. He stood there, almost mind you admiring, or at least impressed, that I could ape Neal Adams, or could then, just to show the caliber of art which passed for good in this pit of Spiderman drawers. There was no commiserate shaking of his goteed head from Modigliani over here, no snide remarks, from this creep who acted to Clevanger and the red headed bitch girl as a always affable stooge partner in crime. And by crime, of course I mean, their white knuckled art. What bothered me most about this shlub was his new found quiet, his deference to me, his silence, as if shocked, and his now acquiescence to my talents, which I despised more than his sneering, shaking his head or snide remarks. It was he who actually once, when one made a real effort to speak to me and said, bless her brunette cheerleader--the best kind-- little heart, that my work was vibrant and colorful, this asswipe was seen by people who would befriend me later, as actually shaking his fucking goteed, hef pipe smoking, yes I said pipe smoking, head. I immaculately begged the roman gods for justice and hope, to this day, that he is slaving away in some comix book or other like low life guttural sweatshop, of course, drawing varmints, as Yosemtite would call the flea bitten creatures. Hmmmn... Why did I edit that out the first time...?

"NO COMMENT,..." I asked, " On this art, this time from the Robert Hughes of Steelerland, TODAY...Gee, I am allowed in the mouseketeer club now, pals...? "I don't think anyone else there even knew who Robert Hughes was, and I would fleetingly meet him when he came to Pittsburgh to trash the Warhol art museum and bowling lanes, saying it didn't have any art in it.

He was stunned by this, and feigned a slimy smile, and again shook his head and sauntered away. The Room was quiet, everyone had only known me from repute, including my Roman art, admired by Flavia and Ciotti--[though I think neither really liked me as a person]--but mostly perhaps, as I have said, occasionally hurling drafting tables in to walls upon which the prints of the incandescently dull Pointillists and Kandinsky--great wrestler that Kandinsky--, had been pinned up. I saw the reaction I got, from some who would become friends, for in the previous year when I was in another room egging on a couple of buddies to do ace Ventura rifts because the rest of the room found it insufferable, this creep had smarmy and meanly been something along the lines of a cheerleader amid the dorks, and thought he was bulletproof. This time, he slimed away, for he was what the great Classy Fred Vlassey called a pencil necked geek, and I look like captain Lou Albano, more or less.

Every time I wonder if I should have just spent my life copying Neal Adams, or should have become just another comic hack, I think of these mists of recalled memory of doing roman punitive battle with zoetrope and comics queens, and I am reassured in my devotional place as defender of the republic.

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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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02 August 2008


I saw once that Maureen Dowd, the queen of middle brow white women with delusions of actual literary merit, that she went out of her way to sneer her constant nasal sneer at Ovid. Fine, what would one expect from such as she, as the broad is a white woman, therefore I was taught by over read gays, in many ways she is incapable of poetic thought. And too, I knew why she went out of her way to not only defame poor Appennine Ovid,--why, they cant even pretend he's British-- but even the admiration his sonnets attract now, which has grown since the days when Queen Victoria, her archetype, wanted them burned. Now, some scholars place him above Virgil, as in white trash America, in the days of Obama the good, in the empire of tokenism, two Romans can not be seen as good or even genius in this arc, at the same time, as that is too much for them to bear. After all, Maureen Dowd is the one who called the stairways to God social-climber , called him , uh, 'Paul of Tarsus' , which is par for the white chick course, but just in calling him that--no skin off my Roman nose, I despise him and his gay lover Timmie--she totally missed the point of his entire Roman adoring, look it up, life. All I know is that Saint Paul never compared being a Christian to being like a Jewish Soldier...

She had a distaste for Ovid because my man, my Bill, my Nigger, my cugine, fellow Jesuit student Bill, like the Fathers who taught him, loved Ovid, and it was Bill who put Ovid's --no, never Metamorphoses, but his Letters from heroines and his Roman Holidays, on Praetor Bills list of favorite books. This was another swipe at poor Roman addled Bill, in 2006 no less, as she couldn't, like a Victorian actor who finally hit in a part they would never stop playing, let that farce die a natural death. She, like her equal opposite, Leno, still use Monica and all she represented as a kind of missing Muse, and so, as the world fell into ash around them, and a bloated stuttering king was, to me, something finally we could laugh at, they still incessantly fight the last, no the three wars ago, wars. Like the pentagon does, say. So much for all that Clauzwitz shit.

I emailed the Times that day, and send a letter, a missive from the roman front where Poor Befuddled Bill still stands Sad and forlorn, to the misconceiving White woman--what else--who runs that papers op ed page. And right into the ground, I might add. I told her that the mixture of this cunt's dismissal of Ovid, their famous op ed among Italians, that they at the Sons of Italy should grow spines about their dislike the sopranos--grin and bear it, like you did with Hannibal after all, as it isn't like the Times is touchy and jewy about everything which might bother them or fake bullshit constituencies, god knows--, and their addition of Bill Crystal and David Brooks to their rags, was going to destroy them, 'in toto' as Tranquillius might have said.

After they beat the drums of war as well as any neo con, after these Jewish rats who packed Administration propaganda on the first page, as they were afraid that some Arab swine somewhere would not be massacred--it is a nightmare which haunts Lieberman , that there is a twelve year old Arab somewhere not pinned down, it haunts him, that someone else wont kill for his right to not live in ancient Phoenicia-- and after they helped send privates and corporals in an untenable war, an unconstitutional war and them had them go to jail for placing underwear on miscreant cunt rippers heads, now, they want to place the neocon-men who were architects of this debauchery as mouthpieces...? Now, after this mess they helped create, after demeaning Hicks, spics and niggers in your less than imperial army--no compliment from Big Tony--you want to put these fox news ass wipes in your rag, and make up interminable fake campaigns and shove madam Hillary down our throats and go to your dinner reparteeing and salons, and act like Jewish rabbis and Medici art consumers, after calling him Paul of Tarsus, no less. After your scummy paper helped get solders placed into hell thrown in jail for not having the decorum of Jewish liberals wine attending cocktail parties and who were going to opening of Mel brooks musicals, now, you wish to act the part of town caryer and have Billy and Davie and Lilly Von Shtupp of the op ed crowd, that awful hag do the yelling...? Ovid, the poet Augustus exiled for calling him a rapist, is not good enough for this cunt who destroyed women for our own rapist praetor and his conniving , overreaching, queen...?

You will pay, I said, almost warning like an old roman in the middle of the festive, too festive, parade. Roman gods will come and alight on the banks of the Hudson, and demons of bitumen wings will fly away, scared , as they always are of Roman gods, which is why, in seven years of jihad, these Arabs scum bags that you love so much have found not a moment or any extra dynamite to blow up any of Gian Lorenzo Bernini's granite saints there along the walls of Nero's old Vatican hill place. No one , in this war of civilizations has found time to blow up the Neapolitan underground, which as I type that phrase think that it would take more pastique than Osama of Assisi could even buy. You shall pay, I said. I was told my email was flagged, of course, proving their love of Lucas-Osama era chaos theory and bomb throwers isn't as robust as they make it, but then, what is...? I, dear, --women like these are so afraid their incompetence is something from which they cannot hide or race away, I will have nothing to do with it. ROMAN GODS TITHE IN BLOOD, I was told, as your Semitic gods counting pennies sent to priests in envelopes means nothing to them, sweetheart. I warned them that they are all jinxed by that thing most hated by THE CLASSICAL PRIESTS AND THEIR GODS MOST OF ALL, HYPOCRISY. There is nothing worse.

The other day, I woke up, and saw free accesses to msnbc, though even without the goddess who is slurring, sultry, CAMPBELL , ME LIKE BETTER THAN CNN [and too, there is a well eye brow sculptured yenta named Rachel Maddow ON THIS CHANNEL WHO IS ROWRRRRRRR....!]. As the stories went along, I heard that the New York Times company, in one year, lost 89 % of its stock worth. Somewhere in this happy land, there is happy spot, where Pinchy cries like an arm has been cut off. And somewhere, Solly of Damascus, and some Jesuit student demeaned by this rag, not for his rapes but his love of roman stoicisms, laughs.

I am a Roman Auger. Today, I am 43.

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