BUT I’M HIP
1. I find that I am still stuck on December 17th, 1977 in my recitation of Mister Stupendous. I know I have to get Orson, Miss Kitty as the newly minted Miss Annie Amazon and the hero, the ultimate guy named Joe, from the temple’s of Herculaneum where he is being born, Pinocchio style, to Beverly Hills. I have to get the three idiots from the side of Vesuvius to the side of Burbank, and that seems to be a transition, which is taxing to me. I thought of a cute whiz comic’s trick, where in the iconic image of superman lifting a green car was taken and satirically made to captain marvel famously throwing that car. To perhaps now using the image as the two creators of MS would be in the green car now carried from Pompey to Sepulveda, and to the Ed Wood like despair of the once great Androclese , but somehow I am finding it hard to transition, and that is strange for me, being as I am the king of segues. Perhaps I am just fatigued and tired, as I have now settled on a good 88 pages of MS, and perhaps even more so I just do not want to, as with so much else, even finish it at all.
2. I HAVE A REAL FEELING THAT MISTER STUPENDOUS WILL BE A MARK FOR THE ANNIVERSARY OF MY LIFE FALLING APART , BUT WILL ALSO BE THE LAST TRUE EXAMPLE OF THE ART I HAVE BEEN ATTEMPTING SINCE AT LEAST 1985. By mistake, I wrote 185 there, which says something as a kind of Freudian slip of the keyboard. I am noting that as I do this booklet making , exacting pages, redoing them, tearing bits of pages apart and reassembling them, tearing others apart, that it all might be a last true attempt at what I expected and endeavored my arts to be. This booklet might be a last true delineation and excelling at my own fusions of various influences of my art form, which I have been playing with since I WAS A TEENAGER IN THE 80’S AND STARTED TO MAKE TUSCAN EXAMPLED HUMAN BEINGS, with long simian arms, round faces, caught in frozen dances and always seeming to glide thorough the surrounding air. And while doing this, I had a flash of sorts to
when I was little kid and recalled every so often buying 100 page dc spectaculars, usually with Neal Adams covers of superman’s family, or shazam. Now, a comic book can be twelve pages of bad photorealistic art and about three hundred words, but these book then were compilations when comics actually more followed the rules of literature with three act arcs , a more literary and drama intoned , even fairy tale like devotion to the story more then , than they do now, that they have insufferably become literary to so many. But I had that flash recalling these comic pages and wanted to so much get if not the exact adulation of that work, better than anything now, but the feeling of getting these comics, as best as I could. I recalled the best comics I loved then, the legion of superheroes. I read that book fanatically and adored and thought of how despite being without the strange overt panel layouts and without the murky muddy colors now considered so hip, how they were a brilliant little distillation of a colorful comic dominated youth, and how I wanted so much to get that feeling in my own last attempt a long overdue coda to a strained and starched and overdone apprenticeship which even I can feel either is, or should be, frankly over. I wanted somehow to get that feeling of the bright sunny days of then into this work, for no other particular reason than it I feel I have to before I , thirty years removed, completely forget the ordinal; impetuses to even wanting to make these earthen Tuscan wall works at all.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
I SWEEP THE FAIRY DUST BEHIND THE GOLDEN DOOR
1. There was an attempt on my part to evade and avoid politics lately, as my man Niccolo had it right when he said that ''Politics is a feast of rotten food, fed to people with no teeth''. There is a high crap quotient to politics lately, and there has been for as long as this creation of cnn, Mabel, has been smiling and lecturing the world. But again to quote the blackest saint, the real one, ''human action does have meaning'', and now, desperate to hear some glimmer of actual truth and forgo the Missus Obamala hagiography, even liberals have deserted Wolfie and The autumn wind is a raider Andy, and of course, have left my beloved Campbell in the dust too. Really, she is wasted there and is certainly pretty enough for Fox. The weekly enemies keep coming, a bit less like Bill's dire and disjointed attempt at a Marcus Aurelius epic than say, to be more correct, the Batman sixties show you all hate, and in this mess, it is my man Dante, of all people, again was proven right. ''The sower of discord'', He said, ''will often find the ravens of chance bring to him the seeds for a bumper crop.'' Oh, of course, cnn and Jewey Jon are briskly doing interference, but after a while, a man is what he does and says and is nothing more. When a smiling insufferable president Flip flies from espn bracket walls to late night Broadway openhouse except with a Morey Amsterdam who isn’t that funny, well, when he emits the gas he does, and starts telling retardo jokes , I say, the princess is getting what he deserves. Aint we all...?
2. The moment which sealed the fate of president Lady gaga, was not mentioned much this week, but Oh, I just know a certain blue eyed demoniac noticed it. If one wants to know what is going though the many maliciousness malibolgaes and hidden torture chambers and ruined temples and abandoned roman castelli of our new Kemeter's head, they merely must watch Dick Morris on Fox. Dick is still Bill's papal nuncio, as the others , cellar dwellers like like Bagala are clowns on a dying, unwatched, network, and to the Americana Pompey, at least in his mind, being uncounted, and unseen, is the closest thing to non existence. While Obambi dithered and diddled and smiled and shuffled, and while the chariot started losing its wheels, he made a mention that soldiers returning from the watches on the new Rhineland --which he is exacerbating, sorry cripples and lesbians--they will possibly have to pay for their own medical treatment!! Amazing, that a man who wants a free clinic on every street to then go after true American needs like penicillin for pimps' vd and the closest thing we have to a sacrament in the dead country, the sainted abortion, and yet, doesn't seem to have money for men limping home from his great dreamed of Alexandrian war in farther Persia. Well, that's it, as even Bill would know, you are finished, nigger queen, as Dick intoned, and the Roman gods will devastate you now, as Bill, always quick with a salute, meaning earned salt, would know. But alas, Dido is as befuddled as Arabs always are. [I haven't heard back from my open submission of ''The Color Purple''even still, which frankly I don't care about, and would like to be rejected as to keep it right here,and not have to take it off and be packed in some hidden barely mimeographed lefty rag. And, to be honest, which I try to much avoid, though I took some heat for its snide Juvinalian attempts at satire--which is now left to smearing Nixon dutifully in crappy comics, yeah, that's right, fuck you Steve Ditko--I am not sure if genetic senator Dodd taking Barrackie by the pencil neck and hurling him across the street, when it was politically expedient, as Caesar did to the roman coward, is helping or hurting my getting it published. This is hard to believe but I can be insuffable in saying ,well, that I saw things coming. Also, how I know that Barracko is finished, beyond Dick Morris doing Bill's grunt work, is that also, after he said this about his own centurions, that he would somehow make them scower the countryside for bird's crusts, as Tyberius warned , it was funny, but the biggest bonuses of the week,those that were actually were actually paid by Merrill Lynch, and not by demonized AIG, and they by the grace of God and political contributions, were made EXEMPT from Dido's and Frank's and Doge Dodd's and Sister Gertrude and Garlic Breath Gonniffs like Brooklyn Chuck's college of Cardinals like admonitions, and also were cleansed of punitive taxation, don't yew know, as they have given even more money to the cabal and to drunks like Dodd than even AIG did. Oh...God bless America.]
3. Also, I spent time while not eating, either chronicly masturbating or even cleaning up the works9 files, which is all that is left, of ''Big Bertha'', as I was asked to produce it again for another bullshit inspection. They are all looking for another Sopranos, if that, although the critical response to an Italian film named Ghemmorah has some thinking perhaps the funny pages of mutt and Jeff and gasoline alley American Mafiosos as comic book, --which this book of my own started as by the way-- has been one upped, to Scorsese’s dyspeptic turn and look and ultimate fear. I did receive a letter back, strangely, in which in the 400 page book, in which I tried to show the heinousness of the local mobsters with a clear eye, that it was three paragraphs which bothered the ever so tough censors about how the two mafia cops, trying to avoid the big, bald, well dressed and polite and graceful and civilized, chief of detectives after them, and how the calculating one among them will not be caught dead going to Mexico, and makes it clear. They, he says, in Mexico, make shitty Roma tomatoes in fields of crud, and fertilize them with human shit; he throws in as an aside. It was funny to me that the dirty cop's love of stewed Roma tomatoes and their care and their cultivation was actually a thought had while they were on the lam. I had heard of such delightful practices when places like the northeast and then even mid west farms were being destroyed by NAFTA, despite all the Columbus days and saint Patrick day parades Mother Gertrude and rabbi Barney make biting their lips all the while being so close to the rabble. Funny but not top long after I wrote this suddenly, the spinach was considered poison, and wages, well they just dropped like a stone under the bush and now house negro imperia. This bothered this editor, a single spoken aside, in a large book of purposeful darkness shown, but never lingered over, nor sanitized, as was evil at its core, deceitful, Watchman. I shall respond, that I don’t drown my own children, as Cicero said, and that I remove nothing typos, and sometimes not even that. Also, I will ask, though it as a few sentences about Mexico, which I am sure this new York creep wouldn’t be caught dead in, which bother them, why is it whenever I see a gathering of proud Mexicans demanding entrance into the newest empire, and how they reek, as it Were, of pompous determination and show eagerly the smarmy self adulation of the oppressed, as they say, and when they speak LA RAZA, or ‘’ THE. RACE'' AS THEY DO, which coming from a white person would be egregious, WHY AM I the only persona who recalls Crazy Horse then...? I mean, when pompous wetbacks screech about their, SO laughable to the sons of Odin, racial exemplariness , why is it, unlike Columbus day, I see no mgm father duster foot stomping alcoholic Indians about when fat women and cabinet makers start speaking, as the spawn of blood drenched conquistadors no less, of this land as their lands...? I wonder. I guess they will show up the day that Barrack, having gotten over 200 large from them, makes Merrill Lynch give their money back.