14 May 2012





IT’S RAINING MEN!

“How many times can one wipe the slate clean…without causing the palimpsest to break in half…?” Dore Duvall, owner of all star Comics. Rag Comix:  The Crisis of Infinite Pages.

 I don’t know why I have been reading old Superman’s and or Crisis comics, buying them used, if at all, at Amazon, but I notice that Marvel comics seem better than I ever thought, better than Dreck Cartoons, as I since I was right in those things I was doing in 2004 making fun of them Crisis comics, that would soon paper the earth. In that, despite lips service, the Marvelettes have eschewed and deserted Kirby’s inferno for the more lightness of touch, not quite Binder world of wise cracks and jokes, and that DC of all towers, has become devoted to Kirby’s gutters, in ways almost sacrilegious. As when I was a boy, as they wont admit, Kirby was seen as passé anachronism even then, ah but these were days before aids and bulimia, when goddesses like Jayne Kennedy and Lynda Carter and an even still gorgeous Raquel strode the earth with the gates of goddesses.
As then in those days of the ABC Tuesday night movie watched by all, his books were dense and ploddingly, his strange marvel apparitions were unsellable and we kids were right. Kirby now hangs over every DC comic book I see, and have read, an anti Virgil of feeding gasoline to wayward dogs to watch them die, Rag comic 4, and who saw that as the way empires die...? Me that’s who. As the Man, DD, said of the Acrivesre Kirby, ‘Shirtpocket note’ Arbuckle, “He hates cats, Captain Marvel, Tarzan and brunettes, as they seem untenable to this fraudulent hack…all are signals of Life and joy and anger and vitality, as he dreams of humans as Coffeepots.” As they are hated to his priests. Every few pages a brunette must die, while Power girl shows her busty pluck by merely being beaten with sticks. It’s a fan boy’s nirvana. I was right, and Kirby is the key to all of this, as he was the colonial Kurtz in Rag COIPAGES, making Anvil comics heroes burn in the sky, and found himself, like Orcas with a previous Turan, his black magic was useless against Vundergirl, who was a Veronica saved from a Jughead made mad by Arbuckle and his Nazi—what else?—hero machine. —I do note much of my shtick shows up in these things, but not quite the way I would handle any of it, thank God, and Jackoff is sentinel in a company who he hated, and who, an old Jewish man told me, hated him. I take it that in the end of this crisis, that the universe is split apart, and Superman is left to sue some Kirby machine—ha!—to somehow replace it all back together, ala Butters.


Ah, but I sued something similar when the universe was pulled apart by death seeking Kirby, made God, and an ideal intoned as early as Giordano Bruno, even captain Magnus to use a string, a clue, like in the Bruno experiment, as it was he who may have actually intended the pendulum as Galileo perfected, but still, uses the twine to pull the universe together from falling apart, issuing something just then speaked on, which Bruno theorized of, called Black Matter. I can show the pages if need be. But then I have been told my work is NICE. Just not____, nice. Still, I can not find myself actually even shelling out 5.99 cents in used paperback for this literally putrid rot like Final Crisis, as I save up to get the Lyndon Johnson biography for my mother’s later birthday. When she got wind of this, she exclaimed, no lover of Luciferian Johnson, --don’t you fucking dare!

After making My Ma a mothers day dinner, we all sat and ate while watching Mob Wives, as it galloped to a finish. It seems that translator white girl Drita, has been told to make up with the woman my Ma calls with distain, The Salami, Gravano. Of course this was to make the way for a much better in the Weinstein ways, villain out of the more perfect villainess Ramona Rizzo, who is pretty enough to be hated in our thug life Murder of Crows.

One could see this coming up Fifth Ave as they say; as such things owe more to Buck Rodgers in storytelling, than one would think. Sadly, the thing ended with a kind of celebratory dinner where the wages of either Walt Disney and or Martin Scorsese were on full display as one could see the camera, which adores Ramona, more than any one else in this stable, was being pervaded for her role as wicked witch against our Orange Dorothy, Drita. And, then in coming attractions, Ramona was shown in perfect Italian Folktales finery about to hurl herself at the rest. I would have said Grimm’s above, to show how our fairy tales have decayed or what they had suited as archetypes, but Grimm’s actually paid their debt to Neapolitan fairytales, and looking at famous old Mother Gooses, not everyone in them was blond, as this was something more excreted by later hacks like Uncle Walt, Our Stalin of the anthropomorphosis animal, that anti- Chuck Jones, that closet everything. Who like Michelangelo, his love of drawn blonds hid something as it would far more deep seeded and dastardly than either would admit to, lest commissions go out the door.



above, cover for Crisis on infinite pages 12.

I almost wished she would say, Feh, and walk away, ass bouncing like a perfectly tuned metronome as she learned her black arts of feminism well, as she looks like one of my heroines, enough of you, hopeful that she, like Wendy and Leslie, a cartoon of mine come to life, would have enough of a circus and walk away as some of my own goddesses have, if only to escapee to Malta rather than be a cog in some Harvey Weinstein farce. Ah, it is minstrel shows like this one which allow for the fat gonniff to play bloated Plautus at the opening night, as his hagiography of stuttering Princes, again like so much, done better by Romans, or by at least the less pushy less Automat Cicero English. And there is Joy C. Scott, old Mother Baher herself, who makes a point of walking off sets when someone mentions ARABS and terrorism in the same breath, but showing she has studied ethics under Warren Ellis, will show up here, with These Borgias of Staten Island, where the jewels are more likely paste, and referee with horror. In America, I was warned, even sanctimony ahs its limits, usually the edges of A Bigger Check. I also felt bad that these hags –something Estrogenic this way comes—has used the great Four Tops song, ‘Ill Be there’ as the background to this Bacchanal they were having under Jewish auspicious, as that song famously and greatly was used at the end of a film called Cooley High, a film I saw as a fifteen year old kid with my brother at one am, and which I was devoted to then to make an Italian American derivation of, as that film had been a gleaming jewel among the nigger shit. Easier said than done.

Although, I was the one who wrote a play for three guys in film looking for a movie satire, a play called Glissando, in which a Harvey Weinstein Figure wished a Martin Scorsese figure dead for his new found love of Romance, its always the way, and in it, the rat faced little Martin figure is seen in blue suit at a Latin Quarter big band sixties swaree singing “I love Paris in the springtime...”, then finds himself transported back to the dingy alleyways in which he lives, a closest thing to Innominato, and or conversion, that fink could come. And within a few years, he showed my prescience by, with all of Roman and Italian panoplies about him, races to make a film about Film, and like Woody, had to sue Paris, the Jews and wops closet Rome. Like a married Faggot, Paris is a sanitized Rome to the middlebrows, showed in how whether witch boy writers hags, or from pirating Praetors come dancing to be champions of Faggots, only after the last book is out, and or the polls close, showing having a champion is something Virgil and Machiavelli, agreed upon is something to avoid if one can help it. I certainly don’t mean to be a bitch, but do recall kids, that the first King to try to demand that queers be enslav—Enmire—matrimony into wedded bliss, was in fact Augustus, look it up, at which a true society laughed at him, and his needs for restoration, as it would take a much stationer and or weaker Constantine to close those particular bathes of Carricula down.

And I was taken how a perfect an Acriverse heroine this Ramona is, as she sadly, prettily, played at a deck of Calvino like tarot cards, One button undone making her more sexual and alluring than all the thin gaunt half naked angels in the incessant perfume and beauty ads on this show. And how she exacts a scene from Arms and the woman, a unsigned book in my Ages of one Italian family series, showing no matter how much soot Jew and wop gonniffs spread, especially with a  pretty Venus like she, there is something irrevocably calling all Italians souls back to the meteor which fell into verdant fields, to which Roman Hajjis were committed and demanded millennia before Mohamed, as this latest lovely Italian girl is meant to play the witch, and of course, Machiavellian, through to any Italian worth their salty dicks, neither is really a term of tire diminution, as it would be to any mere house Jew or Sicilian hack. Of course on cue as Women think, over fed hosuefraus with double chins came to the page for her on Facebook I looked up and as sun follows Creation, these Joans of Arc, umpppphmummmmphhh, just hate Ramona so, as they were weaned on barbie and wally, and thank god for gals like Ramona, or else the Blacks might know what the gated community henna heads think of them. But unless you work for GE, the distaste for Italians that they show must be telling of their un-Kosher Ham Sangwitches, eh...?


Different well meaning people tell me different things, one woman tells me to do one book, and nature it, a man says AR is getting more note than many things, strike while the iron is hot and flood the market with my shit, like tending a fire. Or an Eternal Flame. What was it that made me actually see any of this through…? Was it the great Recession, I am asked…? I never been that well off, nor that bad. It was, I think, being censored by Hack-Auteur Scorsese on face book, which I didn’t take with the artistic aplomb I did from Zoetrope, as this got under my skin. And I must show the Roman etching of graffiti and walls to this hack queen, who like Copolla, aren’t that better off than I, despite a lifetime of a head start. I plan perhaps a placing of Big Bertha on smash words, again not for money, or a prelude to AR, if only to know that the gates as that Martin and Joy and even Harvey think they inhabit, are rusted and broken, and swing in the wind, and they aren’t the Imperial censors that they convinced themselves they are, or for that matter sold out stupidly to become. I think it is funny that that slew of suddenly discovered Fairy tales on tv and movies is doing badly, and most will be cancelled, showing when some venture into those deep and dark woods, a certain Romance must be adhered to, lest it become a Cimmerian forrest, full of blood eagles, ugly trolls and or lead you to a road back, not to Laurentium, the Tuscan el dorado I first heard Art Bell speak to a old strega about in 1998, but instead leads one right back trod an exit to Bayonne.




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