MY RATS ARE BLACK.
1. True story. I say 'true story' a lot, because I do a lot of what the Jews like to call "Shtick". In 1993, Oh, I think before even art school, or when I started there, or when I had just started, I was finagled for, to get an interview with the roving scout of a new company then called Pixar.
I was riled to get a portfolio up quickly and race to the convention centre, where a computer expo was being held, and this company, said that it was the future of animation, and was looking for local talent. My sister was an administrator at this near by arts school and was given a heads up that this company was looking for talent. Now, since I had been able, no fooling, to copy Raphael as a kid, as was Picasso, it was thought surely I’d be able to make the crap that these computer geeks wanted so made. Aha, but that would presuppose that I actually wanted to work.
Before recently, I saw portfolios and resumes as bushwah or Baptist, or a combo of the two. Needless to say, I wanted no part of some new Disney, as the old one seemed art crushing enough, but I have to, at least , as I learned from Machiavelli and as opposed to Democrats, make a show of it , and at least pretend to care. It was actually Ovid said, ''do not try, do or do not..." not me... I do nothing else but. I knew something as amiss, when as a fifteen year old I heard Ovid spit back at me from a Muppet…I knew we were in for it. Although nothing could have prepared me for years later when on Charley Rose, our Oracle of Delphi or Father Confessor, when Gorge Lucas, or was it Will Sasso, explaining how Darth Vader was actually Based on Satan in the Divine Comedy, as a residue of his lower passavante parrot Copula, to the host’s usual blasé deadpan bemusement.
I walked up the slope there to this airplane hanger, where Sony, Toshiba, Osaka Gamesspherah, and others all had bright posters and set ups, and once there, I was told to find the Pixar booth. This was less of an interview than it was that dehumanizing, deadening portfolio review as seen at deodorant less comic book conventions.
The scout, the collector of art, I am sure, was the fat blond, jelly fished eyed, slob who runs that fascistic dump, which even Walt Disney would say," enough already...!", and a near television showed some walking toy on a loop, and there were some nondescript furry like animals, with that just been raped glassy eye stare that Walt made famous and thus despaired American art with.
I had a chill run-up my spine of a Aldous Huxley sort, as if I were in the throws of a company here some poor slob would eventually come arcing out of some cubby hole and start over-dramatically screaming, Siolent Green is made of peeepleeee, its made of peeeepllllle....I just got a bad vibe here as the metallic shone of humanoids , which had a certain charm and cold war loveliness, which has been sadly replaced by a certain decline and fall love of the machine, or worse concurrent hatred of humanity, which is anathema to my Italianate heart.
2. They were all drawn with a computer, I was said to proudly, which explained their drearier flatness’s ---oooooooh, as the great Merv would say back when America still had a culture, --as that was all but of the world of tomorrow, such book of wonders magic then, and now is ice age and such, showing promise is always a bitch,... as which so all here at this fair, it seemed, this all had a creepy Hal 5000 quality to it. As I recall, I think I had heard Harlan Ellison was there, or such was as I had heard it was rumored, and I was stuck instead in line with these goofballs, about to be judged by someone I knew was just pure evil, as he and his geek's went on and on about someday, you too will drive a Japanese car, and paper will be irriminated from art. Banzai! It had a cult, like feel it did, and I looked around skittishly, hopeful that this was just a fad, as I don’t trust anyone who can make ART by issuing Office spreadsheet.
Perhaps because I looked Italian, the baby man said to me, You know this is the Brave Future of art and a new Renaissance, -- no fooling , he said Brave, as in Huxley, More AS IN Tempest, “in what Brave new world” can come of a mad Italian man after the rains…Yes, unlike those who adorate Shakespeare, like various house Jews and occasional Negros wishing to be esteemed, I, well, actually read that slop, and used to be able to quote it chapter an verse, usually , always, at the wrong time. As a young man, about Fifteen, alone and abandoned by all than who actually mattered, as an opposite Obmalala, hence my distaste of the Roman art form of Triumph, I took it upon myself to then read instead of another word of Shakespeare from the old book I had given to me by Jesuits, with all thirty plays in tiny type, and in four columns on the page, instead took it upon myself to read as much of the original texts of Shakie’s , from Livy, Plutarch, Ariosto and Boccacchio, even Friar Bede, which is probobly more than the croaking Crissy and or Rachel Mother Maddow has done, which frankly it was the Roman-Italian stuff I wished to see in the originals, as the English shit bored me to tears.
We are just… he said, this is where the Italian part comes in, We are just doing what Michelangelo and Da Vinci--[as if!]--had done, by utilizing the modern day accouterments of the time we are in to recalibrate and revivify art, as they did, he said.
3. Well, not to be a bitch, I, being a big yapped MFer, said, I don’t thinks so,…but again, with more let us say Gusto to keep the analogy going than I perhaps should of. He looked at me with pop bottled eyes, and seemed as if I had called his mother a whore. What do you mean…?, a compatriot of his said, rather interested. I was though uncharacteristically silent. He, Chief of Sprinkels and warn hearted on cue schmaltz, nodded though big lip’s puckering there, and I again looked around. The pretty girls I had just then noticed at school were no where to be seen, as Darth would say of the comic con, all the broads there were nothing but dawgs.
I cleared my throat, feeling another of my patented, no kidding, I have copywriten a book in which I have stuffed my every shtick called “American Decameron‘, the kind of Arabian nights book which somehow Arabs are entitled to burn, one of those arias about to come out.
So, sheepishly, almost like Gleason with a revolving hand of cum se cum sa, explained that Michelangelo, Raphael, --who I note bothers both Jesus freaks and the pompous,-- and Da Vinci, who like all Italianisms is just waiting to turned on and Turned again, [ as he would be a few weeks later in the re-put on without the spark Futurama] as by now it seems Michelangelo bless him, has become not verboten now, perhaps the gay thing, perhaps his towering genius, who can be sure.
I said The Temple of Minerva, which was to be Nero’s Hanging gardens, left unfitted, like commentaries for similar reasons, had just been found there in Renaissance Roma, and a young man named Bonerotti had come to see it excavated, before its treasuries were scooped up by the venial Vatican and either to be resold to English deacons who , like fat Henry, couldn’t pay enough for artifacts and women from Italia, no fooling, before Beatrice became a cable punch line, or were used for to festoon the tombs of thugs like Boniface. The fresco, an Etrurian art form that they had seen there for the first time in a 1000 years was re-found, as were the drawings in perspective, and thus, it was again in Italy as a Risorgimento as much as anything. I think I heard Crickets. The fattish boy man instead exclaimed, we shall remove paper from art! It is true that Henry, like Lorenzo, wanted a blood, and I mean blood mixture of the Roman aristocracy, and his house of Guelph’s, and asked the duchess of Milan to be his wife, who had had grown to actually love, but alas, she is said to have said, she liked her pretty little Neck attached to her shoulders, they came as a set.
Okay, I didn't realize he meant, of course, the scripts first, in his dram of paper removal, as this shit of his...Sheesh, lest just say, I don't have a heart of gold, like them, its my hooves are made of gold though, old black sheep Tony, and I couldn't actually sit there, looking back, all day, writing or drawing bourgeoisie shit that would make Ebert feel Triste.
4. He, this goon, was diaper man, like from the Bakshi comic, who I mentioned as a hero, then, --so kids, when interviewing at Pixar, don't mention Bakshi, as I can tell you, though he is whom I love, as his name, it is anathema to the good whites who rule the Earth, and to their ethnic pets. Never call "American Pop", which I saw as a 15 year old and thought was genius, the best animation film you ever seen, as baby man seemed genuinely hurt when I said that.
So, I had no portfolio per se, instead kept all my paper 81/2 by 11 works in a mead fives star zipper trapper keeper , which seemed again to displease chubby. I am sure it was the man who ruins it now; I think his name is Pud Uchitel. Good God, I noted, he Fingered my work, No fooling, as it still sends shudders true me, Big Tony, as back then I was not as 'ALL together" as I am now, and such things unnerved me.
I was itching and very Ver Shvitzed, as I almost never am, except when having to listen to Moat-zart. As an epileptic, his rococo shit bothers me, not to mention the fact I have taste. HE LOOKED THROUGH MY CARTOONS, --eeeeeeewwwwww! QUIT TOUCHING MY SHIT, YOU FUCKING PERVERT BITCH! God knew where these hands had been, somewhat like Uncle Walt's. --I had talent, he said, that was obvious--thank yew--almost begrudgingly, and was too fine an artist, and yet, but was too cartoonist, yes thanks, Uncle Walt,.…All i saw were his chubby little fingers holding my brilliant dismissed work.
5. And he kept handling my freaking work, with them big Vienna sausage thumbs, making me, already a bit skitsy in public, start to KVELL, I svare ta gawd.... In the booklet I had, no lie, a cartoon called "The Rats of Venice", about two wop rats, black, as rats were meant by God to be, always on the make, called Jimmie and Moe. I had an ec like cartoon called Nightmares from the Bog, some The Who Placards, the earliest collection and something called Roman mythology, a Spaceman in red of the space police named Col. Stone, started then, even then, which I as sure they wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole. Oh, I do still await the Pixie dust take on Rome, though, something tells me on that one, they wouldn't even try. Too much heavy lifting, if not metal.
And this guy, fat in that fat guy way, like a kid who wears a t shirt with a Mister Softie logo on it, had his glasses on a string around his neck, like a fucking woman, NO FREAKING LIE....! Well, I wanted to laugh. An Asian, what else, kid and another guy saw my work and, again, no lie, they both did a high five, which made him wince. The Asian kid, who I am sure must work there, had like puppets and models and clay made 3d dioramas and shit. Though Chairman Pete here was not impressed, though , after having taken out my work of the plastic sleeves which held the drawings, --I hate spunk!--he handed me back my mead binders, and said that I did, underneath it all--what...?-had a large, unwieldy talent, as he could tell from "Pieces here and there" ... if I could just “control myself.” I can't believe I missed Harlan Ellison for this, I thought, as I had no want to be a drone drawing , or sorry, virtually drawing, which I had never heard before, talking ducks all day. I did the speech from Patton. I was so over controlled, I thought, I was shocked I didn't like a propeller spin off into the sky. 'But I am GENERAL...I AM ....! ' I said in a growl, causing his stupid eyes to grow almost 'cartoonist-ly' large, and I said to this lard ass adult geek boy, 'I am ALWAYS UNDER CONTROL, I am the last Roman on the last roman wall of the last Roman campaign ...and if I am not VVVVVVVVVICTORIUS ....!!!' I stared directly at him and those vacant blue eyes, "--let no man come back alivvvvvveeeee". I got an ovation. I didn't get a job. Wouldn't it be great if I was President instead of Butterfly McQueen...?
I wrote this in May, and post it now as I wonder if I could have been wrong being as uppity, a word I noted allowed on the sopranos, just when not about blacks, but then ,what isnt...?, and having collected memories such as this,when perhaps,I should have just drawn on command the shit that they wanted. Was I wrong in the last twenty five years in trying to find my own style and bring something other to the now deflated comic book all that Italic sensibility which i had in spades in me...? Should I have just given in and drawn or wrote as say a woman or a dull man would, ..? I think of this as look over copies of Rag and old drawings done before I even particularly gave in, and I wish I had finished them then, as they are a delightful , to me, relic of an age that seems eons removed, as we settle in for a long decline of winter. Funny, but back then, I was castigated for thoughts now that seem to be more mainstream than not, a distaste of Alan Moore and darker comic books, All Star comics trying to stay away from the behemoths of fairytale land and its perverted owner Arthur Pizznae, what is now called decadence, and too, in hearing a review of a comic book anthology on NPR, the reviewer spoke of the drudgery of comics, and said a small spark of light was given off by the inclusion of a short lovely Captain Marvel piece.