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.