01 June 2013



When ever I feel guilt about the way I have lived my life, avoiding almost all work, poo pooing the chance to work at various comics outlets, turning my back on low end producers, even dismissing Georgetown, where the Jesuits wanted me to frolic, it’s the frolicking that worried me, I see a thing that makes me wonder if possibly I’m not even more brilliant than I even think I am, as I always had a sense of what in the water supplies of these various places. 

This is the first Post I am planning on posting to tumblr, since 2007, one of the first there, when pages of Rag Comix one, was torn off for showing a fight in which Uberman stride to send Vundergirl ah, Tumbling out of the sky. This was violence against women, or her tits were too big, or something like that, oh, How sanctimonious we all were then, as the Clinton Borghese were the ones who were too vile for Dowdy housewives. Like other blogs I was afraid I was too old even then to be part of it all. Having been moping around since I was fifteen, I feel the right now to say anything any way I wish.

But, as Tiger Tiger Burns bright again, being reunited with the arbiter of all decency, i.e.,  a white woman,  various epsn hacks, black bald mud bones and gahead gahead smarmy yids, have taken him back, all is forgiven, and actually show umbrage at the talk by Sergio and others that maybe this fraud isn’t the shining knight he portends. Why how dare you impugn the decency of someone who was shredding cocktail waitresses, two at time at steakhouses like Fredo. The same is now true of Erkle the magnificent as his own four lettered network stooges are so sure how dumb you are for seeing the black side of this less than black knight. Ah, but in works as sacred to Roman Bill and me, you must be true to your lies, boy, as once the lies come off and you have to stand naked there before the Romans, you are really in bad shape, as no one likes being connived, especially by themselves. I saw before any of you want a fraud this guy was, how did I know…?, please, and now that you must carry water for him, it seems worse than the Clinton love of Romans circus doesn’t it…?

The Romans, who he and I both love, and their vulgarity--it merely means in the voice of people folks, -- always seemed more decent to me than the born again Jews and their hidden love of stoning girls for stolen kisses along the way who usually as in all witch trials, something the old testament gives us, were usually older wives or younger mistresses who got in the way. But I hope this year, 13, the year of st. Anthony, as my Ma advises me, is the year that Roman and Christian merge again in the ways hateful to the money loving Luther, and I hope that Erkle, Romo and the mob wives, if not America itself, gets all it deserves.

As there is something venial and harmful to me as Erkle death grips at 48 percent at least until that last big pay day, the pipelines, the rosebud of this cock sucking administration, or at least until the new model year of drones comes out. You see, I and Roman Bill have sterner stuff in us, --hoo boy!- and I couldn’t be a first Italian president and be so gleefully and willing to have the soft landing be horrid white women on unwatched obstreperous droning TV, say that I was too incompetent and too befiddled to know what was going on. I couldn’t take fat pig men with loser resumes say of me, that the words Machiavellian and Nixionian and such couldn’t affix to me as much as say could, Incompetent, which has actually been said by someone I am sure commiserates with human spittoons about what a good Joe he is. MASTERS AND SERVANTS, it’s always in the background. I couldn’t do it, like my arms and the man Bill confronted by a censure warrant to be signed. Fuck you and fuck Nan, Barnee, Lahhee, Chuckie and all you all, he seemed to say, as our student of Plautus, he knew the only thing worse than a circus is the silence that seems to follow Erkle about like so much Smog. Or Smug. Wherein, the Romans loving Bill reached a seventy percent plaudit he shall not give up, as Dido again is in silent hell, dripping from a thousand cuts, as GE AGAIN FINDS THE STUDIOS OF IT’s NETWORK OF 21 SEEMS TO ALWAYS CATCH HELL WHEN PEOPLE ARE MADE AWARE  THE RIG WAS DONE.

I couldn’t do it, and the fact that Erkle is willing shows again, Jesuit trained, I was right all along. I have known since 15 in 1980, l when I refused to read the hundred years of solitude, and got an A never the less from a habitelss nun who respected that I knew that magic realism was Italian, and not spic at all, that moment of green laurel is always replaced, ddt'd, by having to sign on the dotted line, and refinance one’s soul. I can’t, like equally amoral, to white chicks, Bill, and I hope still that Erkle sends you all into a worse spiral than he already has. Spartacus has never been the hero in Italy, even when my mother was a little girl in Italy, that hero to me and other brethren of the wolf, Cattiline has. 

2. I took a ride just to get out of the house and it wasn’t even the urban holiday of check day,--though I Romantically rail against the welfare corrosion, shit Negros, I’d steal as much as a diamond Jim or Diamond Jamie as I could, as your national health means nothing to me. I tried really to watch the 300, but it appears I WASN’T THERE, AS THE Crushing process after a while as I would have guessed, stated to hurt my eyes, easily on a midlevel end plasma screen we bought for my Ma for Christmas so she doesn’t have to squint at a small picture as she rails against various sorts she is sure like a old witch is, are perverted and the end of republics. I couldn’t quite take this, though its orgy is an ancillary to the times I adore, classical, though the Spartan sweethearts and their mean fag aspect, like they did to Livy, leave me cold, a comedy tonight every once in a while is a good thing to throw at the folks, before the smell of blood mixes with seamen, and a strange de facto fagginess makes everything look awfully dire and dower and vicious and cold, the idea of babies being drowned for weakness, and sometimes in Greece that meant not having blue eyes as they tried to convince themselves like the Jews they weren’t Mediterranean, well, its too batman for me.

True to his calibre of genius, Frank Miller made the gay Spartans stand up as paragons of virtue, while the Persians were shown as Arabesque, if not bronze skin blacks, when in fact, if literate, or only read Creation, he would have known that Persians, like Sparta, where of the same Aryan Stock, the people he liked demeaning, had been pushed back into the grand pre Naples called Baghdad, and didn’t really give a damn who won this latest world war the Aryans foist at and about these selves, as they have, as The Romans, noticed, hate each other madly and intently.

SO, I went to the far off comic store, the closer one having shut down is sad enough. And it is a shelpp to get through the woods there, and have only been there three times or so, since I found it near the water treatment plants and smokestacks that still strangely here smoulder away. I had been in my lethargy, and thought of trying to draw something not that demanding as MS, but still in such a vein, as was starting to become listless. I asked the affable bar man behind the counter, as they have become friendly to me, if they recalled a comic book I had seen as a kid, old copies sold in bags then, Gold Key I thought, called Son of Vulcan. Boy, the guy-kid said, as I find them all, despite the hilarious strip seen on the web was quite kind and very nice, as a bit standoffish with me, polite, as I have been told I am intimidating when just standing there, or laughable when I am trying to intimidate. He thought to and started walking briskly towards a quartet box I think they are called, a long open file box in which it seems a thousand comics are kept. Moreover, you can buy any box in the store you want, for fifty bucks, easily the new fifty 2’s true it Bomb’s by the day, it has not been the unmitigated successes it would have seemed at afternoon meetings. Son of Vulcan….mnnnn…, he said, looking like the type sort of featured player one would have seen in the Sarah Silverman program, before it became a latest road kill in then yellow brick road to another Seinfeld, eschewing cute Jewish for Jewish jewish, and who needs that…?

He walked me past the shelves of comics, and into this long box he pulled out a glossy comic, which I knew couldn’t have been it, as it as glossy with that afoul vomitorium image colouring that is supposed to make warmed over Gene Colan art seem hep, and which looked like it was put together with some left over Norad computer, bought cheaply after the end of the cold war. This IS A son of Vulcan, he said, fussing his thick black glasses and handed it to me. 20.00, which seemed much, but I knew it couldn’t be the cold war era artfulness that I was looking for. Can I open it, Guy…?, I asked, and he waved his palm, as if to say fine, as he said, this isn’t an in demand comic.

I opened it from its plastic sheath, and from the cardboard that held it up in the box, and flipped through what in reality probably as a late nineties or so DC atrocity of cartoon art. The blue cover was indecipherable to me, and I allowed two more to come spilling out, causing the clerk to laugh a bit. I am sorry, I said, that I keep bumping into things, sir, I feel like a bull in a china Shoppe in here, and am afraid Ill send an expensive action figure flying into the wall. He waved it off. This is all plastic junk. You have to ask for our good stuff which is much higher marked up plastic junk. What made you think of Son of Vulcan he asked, almost impressed as they get that I, though I look like thug, enjoy and admire comics books, no matter what Kirby acolytes say on aged websites that I have unlike Sanctorum, known how to push down in searches by a sue of linking and obnoxiousness, that Jewish gals on publishers row have been impressed by. I said that I am getting on a Roman kick, roman Roman, and not just drawing a hangdog massive man in Blue. Oh you draw, bro…?, he said, impressed.  

Before I spoke, my brother, not actually not antsy about being here, spoke up and said, like a Whiz. It was a loud and white and garish place actually, and crawling with dweebs, and wasn’t a spot that despite my needs was welcoming in anyway, with giants like fat head Kirby-ite Captain Americas seeming to bust in two dimensional creation out of walls. I liked Charlton Comics as a kid, we cant be that far apart, he said, in that he was 29, I am 47, though I have a boyish i.e. juvenal, quality, but as in art school, now we of at least thirty and above, recall a better America, than is now. So, I said, its twenty dollars for the four. No, he said, that is an old bag, we put heavy metals in, and those are fifty cents a piece, all five for 3 bucks at once. Get it, and lest beat it, my brother said, in constant missing a bus Time mode. Uh,….I said, making  him to roll his eyes, This isn’t what I thought it was, --I went into logistics causing him to sigh and walk way a bit, as I was shopping as I do. It was, I said, a Roman variation of Thor, there is a Nazi element to comics now, but it’s never been so apparent to me, I said. Then don’t buy the movie tie in superman, the man said,  he’s an  SS Fag now. Yes, in the shadows, wit still lives outside of GE coperoscopes that tell us how wonderful the Hal machines are, and how much they care. I handed the dc variation back, as is what happens at Detective comics, as it eats up worlds it burps out soot, and this was no exception.

It turned out, according to him, I was looking for a Charlton comic, which also was sold in bags, and probably bought old copies that were bundled for the getting rid of backlog. I liked son of Vulcan, as a kid, despite his yellow suit--The Etruscans strike back!, as it was they who wore a yellow armor and a saffron cape, from which we get the term a yellow streak down ones back, a purposefully mean Roman epithet as the Tuscans, even in decline, to defend their mother land, the only the Italian Romans had a fatherland, instructing enough, they fought like mad men, only the Samnites being more angry and , uh, vicious, you know like apart aches, as they started scalping Romans, as its all old old old, and I cry for no later Sabine’s, sorry, the kind adored by overfed white chicks, and save my compassion for the Sabine girls of then. He knew what I meant now, and went to another box and took out a copy of SON OF VULCAN 50.

On the cover the yellow suited roman man, literally named Mann, I saw as I flipped through it, was fighting, what else, the Roman symbol of all evil, the Trojan horse, but this one, with the light espirit of the cold war days, before the muck of self righteous now, was I take it breathing flames. How much I asked…?, 18 dollah he said, friendly. Humnn, I only have twenty, and ID LIKE TO EAT LUNCH…My brother had enough, buy the damn book Ill pay for it, he said, as he advised me to buy a Superman I was looking at, but declined on as he didn’t have his strong man underpants, and I felt cheated. Why the underwear bothers the comic creeps and the go go boots do not is too Satyricon or worse closet queer for me to unlock. 



3. But what bothered me the most in our Dan Diddio -Jim Lee world was that in the Charlton comic, a man named Johnny Mann, perfect name, it seemed, had been given the powers of Vulcan, the Roman God of the forge, and he went about as I flipped through it’s wonderful four colour brightens and it Warhol American age vitality, in his yellow mantle and his purple skirt, as a kind of lovely answer to the dreaded Kirby and his strange meaningless Thor of black and white circles, which even as a kid, and open to such fantasias, I never QUITE understood. I liked the helmet of Johnny more than the winged helmet of Thor, as Thor was always too Brun Hilda for my likes,too much the Nazi symbol, --who draws such a thing, the comic book man told me, not the one I met in art school from dc but another, when New York is filthy with survivors with numbers burnt into their arms...oh, I ill take comics seriously if you’d like, but then, you wont like it would you...? And I liked that there at Charlton they were owned by Italians and Jews, before multiculturalism--anyone can Hail Caesar, his actual answer to why he used so much German auxiliary, meant severe years of democratic politics were dismissed by Klansman grandchildren; Really you niggers should keep a keen watch of them, your champions--And I liked all he, this hero, represented. I didn’t like the later comics shown to me by the affable lad, as there, the hero was of course, and demeaned by that self same multiculturalism, the same I am curious [greedy] ethics, which the house of Schwartz did so become impenitent upon.

I liked the early, or Mid century, American Roman hero here, the answer to gold awful eugenic Thor, who was the original villain in MS, before I just threw in the towel and went with Lumberman Ubermench, and seeing their excretes be remade because the star eater of dc had bought out another universe, and look what happened, and it made me sad. Why was the affable name of Johnny Mann recapped by the heinous Miguel, a spic, others self appointed, self asked, self everything, as how is it that the descendants of Cervantes are somehow to be pitied and corralled and caressed in ways that the descendant of Dante, and yes the true sons of Vulcan, are left to their own devises, unheralded or wept for by Jewry jonnie and his all All- American boy- ism that came the moment he was allowed in the jockey club. This bored me in the same way it bothered me, that a thug named Quentin Tarantino, and who thought he last this long..?, there is alas decency to the fall of Orson no pug faced woman could understand, who has taken the works of various Italian, always Italian, as now suddenly he is not a plagiarist --Tolkien Rules--and takes the anti heroes of Italian pop and low brow and high minded crap and joy and makes the heroes into blatant and horrid blacks and Jews.

And those self same blacks and Jews, they don’t like it, and they often rail against this lantern jawed fool for mucking up their homilies of self righteousness, which have been accosted by Italian who knew the score since Sergio. This bothered me, and why I was glad , as such forays into multiculturalism always do, it fell asunder , as after a while people wonder of the effeminate girlie armed white man who smiles in their face, and tells them how noble their savagery is, what’s your angle…? From what I gather even with SOV coming out in 1965, before Cronkite told America what is up, there is an anti war sentiment to this comic, the underlying ethos that has been in Roman literature since Virgil, and which the later hacks like Kirby and Lucas and Tolkien misread, and redo as a strange tuton-jew love of staid and strict presumption, a lot of Thane, Thy and These taking hold from a dees dems and dose varitype, the long islanders always wishing, like Haveyyyy to put on a little class, yak now huh…? By the way for those who put down one artist after the next, I received as a gift an Essential marvel anthology and threw it away after a hundred pages because the Jack Kirby Art in it made me sad.

In a comic sewer where every two bit sliver age caricature seems to have a mythology just ready to be plumed and picked over by self appointed guardians and librarians of the floppy books who think Jerry and Joe got what was coming, you know, he just loves who pays him, I think it would be nice if the companies now consumed themselves by larger entities as they did the fictional worlds of companies where like black baseball, Italians had the nerve to consider themselves as editors and creators, and not just grunts, would leave various sons of Vulcan alone.

4. Like General Pompeii in Plutarch, a sign should be put up in scrawled by a man sadly, scibbled on a bent twig, --here lies the last King of the Romans, or at least one worthy of the name if not the title, nothing as usual that Jesus and his Jewish writers didn’t sue for themselves, and that the pull exerted on Kirby and even Uncle Stan by the Edda, elder or comic booked, had less Stockholm seductions, to the Italians of the cereal Box presses from which as usual even an Italian can make art, high or low or neither. I am not schooled, nor surprised, that a comic group headed by Uncle Stan and white trash loving Kirby couldn’t find a place for a son of Vulcan amid the love of stature jawed junkie beating episcopalism’s, but am neither shocked that there was no room for such in a Direct Competition being run by men named Giordano and Infantino, either. I am shocked nor by that, as by 1968 and the publication of the godfather, my die was cast, and even Cha cha as spoke of here before, had to ask some DC hack who was on the late lamentable Joey Pinto Show, why there were no Italian superheroes in their now pantheon of negro robots and bustier amazons who, ‘looked Greek’.

The comics man I think fluffed it off, but Cha Cha, my man, was not persuaded, and someone during fag night I think, or Jewish night after the yids all went to bed, said in fact, The Punisher was Italian, and this made Cha as ver klemt as I ever heard him, as he admitted, finally, this soprano hanger on, that half the cast of these sopranos didn’t due this for anything more than a pay check, despite the act put on, and that they have rather played cops, if allowed as said and done as some after the fall did attempt, and it never took. All I know about Smiling Jack Kirby is that the Roman suffix of --Us was placed on every villain of  name, as his passing fancy took its high point or nadir in the blond goldilocks of Thor, as like Plautus, Also Jewish, or at least Jewish Italian like Livy, lee and Kirby, More LEE, they always know their Audience, as Jack Roseman told me of RM, he liked it much, best script he had read in a while, I had a natural way of telling a story, --but Tony, I can’t make that,… they’ll think I’m like YOU! He wasn’t being mean, just accurate. I think of all the crap they made with Kirby’s dark art’s , he personally seemed to make the dc implosion, but I do recall, having had enough, Carmine, now being pilloried by the Kirby bots, cancelled Jack the hacks murder inc like comics, and In the days of the mob, all at once, having had, as we know from Roman history, enough. It was nice to know on his waning days, before the old man died, i take it, still, after having done more for comics than that credit jumping long island fat pig ever did, that Carmine had to be pilloried in his remaining days, Joe Paternoed by the always to be avoided self righteous, whose decency known no bounds, nor floor, as somehow it became known and noticed by the acolytes, the horrid folks, that he had to bring someone in to draw a superman that comported with the superman that had been known then for forty years, and who didn’t look like a steroid freaked, shining coffee potted variation of Martin Landau.

Do remember kids, when you think Roman Tony is a bigot, Against my Roman nature, as it was there at the comic’s consortium, recall, where I was the one who was told I had no respect for Mythology, and too, all my heroines looked like coloured girls. The mistake I made causing me to go into the divine trapper keeper sibylline books of my own, and take back the few pages of MS meeting wolves and finding the ex calibre--and to less sweet, Less professional, less decent white women then the one I paid to help me get AR:LOC INTO SOME SHAPE, The term Ex Calibre, like so much, is Roman-- meaning of the highest Guard, a Knight, again like so much made Aryan and awful and whitey, and shall replace that back in and be done with MS, this time for good. I should have left, though I admire him, Copiel’s Thor be what it was, and I shouldn’t have sued Marvel comics and or Conan as a template for anything. I found these pages left behind in looking for my hidden debit card, which I would place in a Eucharist holder if I could,… too Jewish…?, and saw the five pages of torn imagery, left behind, when MS started to swerve Away from what I wanted –imagine that….!  and me a narcissus!—to what I thought I had to do. But I never made him collectedly to be likable or admired by the comics journal fagots and weirdoes,  their valued customers, as I wanted no part of them since 15 either, but befriended many in ways that little half breeds like Otfama signaling Albrecht, closet queens with thin lips, would not. As a fat swine in Pittsburgh named Mark Madden still daily burns in effigy Joe Patreno, funny how he and Anderson have a similar doggedness hither and yon, again taught by real Jesuits I can sue innuendo better than any white house hack, as Joe having committed the offence of bettering his Polish hill teams, I say, leave the poor Italians skeletons, like the ones they find of cemented lovers, alone, and worry about captain Roofie who fronts the decent team and has press conferences about his latest rape trials, as if he just rolled out of bed, bed if were lucky. And the ir- Roman negro boy who targets the weak as his ilk always does, worry more about the cadre of white men republicans who you allow in the Pretoria as surrogate fathers, with the admiration of Howard the duck and nbc game show panel Jews who see every move as brilliant, as capitulation always is at Texaco star theater, as they, when they think the camera is off, look down at their feet. They are called Trojan HORSES, BUT AINT NO TROJANS IN THERE. And the disciples of Fat Jack, they should leave the Romantic ruins alone.


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