26 March 2013
1. In reading about the disaster that is the DC new fifty two, as the Marvel now impact was lessened by Uncle Stan lawyering up and telling Marvel in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t going to some phantom zone where the national compilers and the democrats send the non people, who are UNNECESSARY feti or the victims of drones shown when they are in power, I saw the words that defined comics for me now.
I have had an unsure almost queasy reaction to comics book’s, having left them sanely back in at least 1995, when I was sending out work and a distinguished Gentlemen from DC, saw my work, and called it praiseworthy, …as long as done by someone else. I would never be seen on the pages of a dc or marvel comic, the white haired Jewish man abide me, not to be mean, just that I was hardly what they, he said with some distain, were looking for. He saw that my under drawings were as good as any, but the bloated men, the Herculeans, the wonder women of a Neapolitan heritage, this was not DC stuff. And he added, its wouldn’t be. But the word sued at one of the comic websites was that the superman of old had been brought down, remade, refigured and configured by Grantee poo, into something that fit not the bad ass of Jerry’s whooshing need for revenge and a champion, but instead was too much like our without empathy age. That captioned comics books perfectly, and too did fit our valued employees to a T. Did I ever tell my Jim Shooter story…? It always shuts up the snerds who wished to act like I didn’t know what I was talking about. I have known what I as talking about since ten, when on a show called Saturday night live-- with Howard Cosell, Howard went into the audience and introduced two old men who had made Superman, and were now, then, were living in poverty. The men who created Superman, Jewish immigrants children behind the golden door, ended up in poverty, the heirs trying desperately to gain some crumbs from this magical iconic character, from the house of the Warner Brothers, which suits America to a T, don’t it…? Perhaps Al Kida has a point, but then these Semites biggest mistakes was in not seedling their souls to the Principe as their cousins the Jews did, although I am sure with Jerry Siegel as a guide, they too will eventually get theirs. Well join you all soon enough Joe! I saw something that night that told me more than a thousand nuns, about America, lost and found, what it was and what it wasn’t , and how somehow you could cerate Superman, up there with Mickey Mouse and Dante, an incarnate image of their nations, and still end up in Shwartzland, --with nothing.
One of my big regrets is breaking the tide of some attention I was getting especially for a script called Roman Mythology, which had the great trifecta of then been dammed and censored by Zoetrope, Project green light, trigger street and a few other sites, But which soprano fatigued Jews found a wonderful satire of both America and the gangster film, which was strange coming as it did while Pollock’s were pretending to be wops were literally shitting on television.
[NOTICE: The Superman now wears a one piece blue unitard, with cape attached to the breastplate ala a centurion. The hair is now seventies puffy, with Gregory Peck bangs; I think they are called, falling into his eyes. Wonder woman now is more of a voluptuary, in a bodice and one peace, a bouffant with curls at the neck, thick thighs and two single stars, framing her crotch. And yet both look interestingly infantilised in Kirby land, in ways my creatures never do, as a certain faggy dimension is brought here, no fault of Lee, but necessary to a culture that thinks Batman would just have to be able to beat Superman, using gloves made of kryptonite, the equivalent to making Superman a bull whose neck muscles have been severed, and batfart back in his usual place as prancing dancing matador, in Mouse ears, and is a new coyote--did I use that right, a male cougar that preys on the new off the bus…?, --that makes slim look like a danger to children.]
This was a Jesuit like lesson as I have never forgotten, as when one is capable and worst of all sanitised, there is no depths they may not sink, sulfur as a sacrament, Satanism for dummies, and if one dares to bring the white women censorious class down a page, as did Gore and others when I was a boy, such is alkaloid in the dying empire where women are even willing to share with you some of their husbands if you are a once dirty and filthy fagot. Ah, but as the nun told me as a boy who hated white women even more than the priests did, the only romantic thing ever written for most of these women who hate Romeo and Juliette for its lack of a womanish approved ending, is their abortion bills. I let this all go and for quick résumé lines, the résumé is sacrosanct and a bit dusty now adays, I swerved and went too close to the inferno of Kirby dregs called comics.
2. For all their pretences of comics as literature that was big then, as Kirby had become their Raphael, which was amusing to me as a boy I recall Kirby being liked mostly by marvellettes who spoke of smoking at ten, had dirty fingernails and who it was repotted that they tortured animals in the dark and dank woods, which called out to them, like pixies and or lesbians, and where they hid most of the day outside of school. I was shocked by the ascendancy of Kirby, as knew from art school encounters that dc was not found of Jack the hack, who pushily made people know how good he as in ways his mere art by which you’d never tell, as this was the hack who could not bring himself to draw Superman as heroic, not even allowing the spawn of Shuster to have the basis heroic qualities of his mister fantastic, or was that Bowie...?, who he like so many faces frozen at least close to a kind of Rock Hudson attitude, sottovoce elements not withstanding or allowed by our rabbi of the four colour bullshit pamphlet.
I was also shocked by the lack of grace they all had in comics Chudland, these submariners in all ways types. They seemed vicious more so than most of the kids I had met in arts school a decade prior, like the sad and depressed blond kid with glasses who drew like a mother fucker, and would give me an occasional smirk for something’s said by me funny, which was more than he gave most and who I take it had it bad for Lesley but was smarter enough never to bring it much up. The comics hags and fags of 2007 wow they were a grimy lot, mean and savage in that way that would give us the dying imperious of Onmabalauch, and they seemed for all their Warhol pricked-ness, devoted to every thing Stan Lee had ever done, but hated him too, as he somehow stole everything from the aforementioned Kirby, who did nothing before Stan, except try to steal Captain Marvel, this I know, and thus made Captain America, as a Jewish nightmare that was what superman had been if not for those two Jewish kids having loved Roman strong men like Hercules, and a book called gladiator, which as I have said informed even comics and a sweet Broadway musical It’s a Bird…It’s a Plane…It’s Superman. Down to the type of cape, shield, and boot allowed by national comics on Action comics number one, the only one worth a damn. Not only is Teri as Phyllis Coats as Lois Lane, not on the air anymore, sadly, but Lois Lane, based on the girl that Jerry Siegel liked as a kid, as if that matters, has been somehow relegated to non person, as Jim Lee, whose work seems to be drenched in a Clinton era vulgarity, as opposed to vitality, sees the promise in Superman and Wonder woman as some sort of Rhineland operatic nightmare. The twilight to Valhalla comes early, or late, as Alan seems to have been the Virgil that helped define their ’literature’, like white women I must reduce myself to the snide air quotes of the page to say what I mean without having to say it, and vulgarly, the steroids of youthfulness they have made into seventy year old figures is off putting, if not insulting, but then somehow the ghost of Jack Warner and his ilk have bought up everything, why not the icons of America too, and they’ll push this shit with their pushcart souls and dna aplomb.
Even as a boy when Mister Stupendous was first made, with an enemies list cared of people called then still generically Steel man, Ratman and Ms. Amazon, only the third taking hold, even then, the story of Miss Annie being tired of then called Definition comics, or something, so the letters dc could predominate, and her having witnessed the killing of Moscone, coming so soon near John Paul the first made my father think that America was going to get what it deserved as he saw it as the essence of all vulgarity and evil,--oh sorry does that put me on a watch list now…? Even Cicero said the first causality of war is truth, and he was a on the pad GE complier of his time. Sometimes the truth is where you see it. But, even then, as a boy, --do I go back over finished MS and rename the caricatures the generic names again, with white out and cut papers, do I ever finish anything…?--Jack Kirby disliked by me even then, was the Satan in this dank Styx water, around which the universe spun, like Dante’s, which says what we Jesuit students are taught deep down to think of the earth, and to people who think the world revolves around them, stint a compliment. But in this schoolboys dream of Herculean power and duty, which I am sure can and has been dismissed within the Batman days of now as somehow misconnect, the wooden boy was made not a son but a hero, a turn of Roman events even the Franciscans thought clever of me, again not yet a pejorative in coppaols world, even Jack Kirby arose as the demonian here, the evil figure, the Jewish villain unallied now as they roll their eyes at just the right times. They think the dogs of imperia won’t come kicking at their doors, but I beg to differ, as hasn’t Marcus Agrippa taught any of you a damn thing. Still here in seventies world, as mister stupendous still shows the puffy hair of the Glenn Campbell age, a better age than sanitized gay marriages now, when marriage was merely a piece of paper, the strights could be so lame…havent we all come far…and why cant fagots be given the choice to be queer as I given a choice, would rather chase after a Wendy, then have to cashed after the blond hags that most dagos are content to want to want but do not want, as I don’t want to spend my life beating women because I cant be attracted to them as much as they say I must be. Ah but such things were buried with Norman Lear, as Meat head, I saw today was pushing gay marriage on Boston charley, as I recall when he was the Pollock captain of that free to be Jewry age now so much aids bleach left interfered in their bones. Ah, play the card of your compasion and womanish slyness all you want but I, shyest me, recalls when aids patients were sometimes left in potters graves, as fine upstanding catholic and Jewish funeral games wanted no part of their cootied up corpses, but then I recall everything, and forget northing, more is the pity for me.
3. I should have known to leave the comics hacks alone, they could have only gotten worse, I noted a hateful little snerd in art school. One my buddys still shall not mention his name, this cretin always roiling his eyes at the goofballs like the one motioned before, always trying to bully in the ways that only the severely effeminate fagot thin man can, less like a hammer and more like a whip, the Wop-Jewish haired creep I have known of all my schooldays, mind and kinky and as tan as their hair, with thin girlie arms and names like Corey, as he sneered and tried that sort of stance perfected by niggers on liberal television, a chin held upwards as to make you look as if beneath his contempt, which I noted became more procured, not less, then he was speaking to Michael Moore, but that was along the liens of two wounded wolves sniffing the others had entered too close to their self appointed piss stained acre, and always beneath him.
Well, one day, not the day I was throwing chairs, but was curiously upset, this creep thought he was going to snicker and shoot his puss at everyone who he thought he had cowed, with my jaunt from class to class, it seems besides my bitterness, too did middle brow hacks sorts try to get me out of their class as to play artisan without me around, and my occasional Welles-Ian booming distress for all this shit become stagecraft too, as if I was even trying, but still, I was sent into this creeps class, where my buddies were having enough of his shtick, and one day, as he rattled and hummed and sneered and eye rolled, without my usual Verdi operatics, I had to ask, rather serenely who the fuck did this little twerp think he was….? Suddenly, the room was quiet, knowing of my predilection to hurl architect benches at the sprinklers. Who the fuck is this twerp, I asked, rolling his fucking dead eyes at everyone, this queer and his asides and his constant drum beat of how wonderful this faggot is. I had had enough, and as I am used, easily by the vicious,. His back was turned and quickly he ran to the dean and the head masters of this dump to make sure he wasn’t about to be hurled into a wall. Sorry its my roman training, but when one wishes to be a bully, one gets what they gets. I was thus respected, and he was fiercer broken then, like Obama is now, as once one shows they are full of shit, its over.
4. Despite of because unlike him and some creep who seemed to wear mesh t-shirts that tied around his balls, I didn’t draw in some Kubert style, at least not back then, and was still artfully and shamelessly doing the Etruscan works, or because of it, suddenly I was seen as a master of at least my own self imposed Roman artworks. And people whose styles were nothing like mine, came up to me to ask for and how and why of art, knowing I had some inner knowledge beyond the Kirby school of flat notes as they had learned was art. This upset the white women and the pigs who ran this dump more some than even my calibrated attempts to get out of this mandated entree into the world, Audrey thought it was less about my knowledge of art than it was to get out there and be in the world, sadly she thought it mattered then, as I know now it probably doesn’t, and it was about making friends, meeting people, networking, etc, all the things that Jews as she thought mattered or should matter to me. Sadly I was a natural hermit, I liked staying in a dark room drawing only when natural light allowed, electricity seen by me as an anathema at night as I listened to a transistor radio, of all ancient things, and reworked novels of 1000 page girth in my mind, sometimes acting out the part of a Romans Senator, an Italian cop, Machiavelli , or a space man superhero. And to be honest, I am sad It as so much fell thorough that this nameless witless punk got that diploma that for me, ME-JESUIT TONY!, has seemed as illusive as the Golden Fleece. I was a bad influence, many thought except some of the teachers, as I had in inclination to draw and make people draw ‘Blood and Rockets’, the human and the technological mixed and at odds, in ways am too tired to care anymore, and mixed them in ways that these comic book scholars didn’t much like.
All the little fagots are so snide and pasteurized and refreshed and goggled and clones it is just sickening to me, who recalls the queers in their Oviddian loving glory before they became kookier, woman accepted Jerry Helpers and friends to fat broads like Maureen Dowd. I feel bad about this turn, as I do recall the old black wearing brothers, rs making me read more than I had any right, or need to as a boy, a true abuse that could never get the under desk woody that is the annotate that tells Andersen which way did they go, which way did they go, as our shining Murrow decided what stories he shall like a more effeminate cnn Graceless, plow like Romulus into the bloody earth. See it as stuff like this that made the barely known Jesuits who had heard of me in 1980, try to get me to Georgetown, but alas I was too smart for them and ended up here.
I think perhaps instead of gay marriage since even Darth Vader like Dick Cheney is now willing to see their humanity should they be after all married, and thus three times more likely to vote in ways republican—oh I’m sorry did I go Jesuit on you all again, with that pesky Machiavellian thinking that you don’t ever to worry about when Negros placed on the air as gate keepers after the death of Ed Shultz, must emcee sure they come out quick and reveal that, no, in fact, no fidelity to the race and the struggle here, when a white woman is involved, no matter how drunk, they are sacrosanct, after all, and you as a ge bought and paid for nigger must act like the rest of us for went and forgone any thought of but the immaculate white chick, as if anyone did. Ah, more sanctimony making arguments against arguments unmade, the only kind these flatlanders can make with there always clever thoughtfulness. I say instead of gay marriage and white chicks dating for fatsoes, I say true to my heritage and my training that we packed up on your imperial lawn, near the misquoted, cheap ass MLJ ride, a exact duplicative of the bathes of Curricula, with all attended and adjacent… uh, attendants, and make it flaming and queer and faggy for all its worth. Oh, please, save us from the butch bulldykes klieg addicted, Rachel, who is becoming less enchanting to me, by the say, as she gives into her screwdriver creeds, Girls with slingshots that short burning rage, or maybe a fire thrower, something only a lover of soldiers could love, --do put up a pre Roman ruin worthy of the name, and the brand, kids, place up a bathhouse, please, before we all drown in suburban douche, the cunt after all, the Jesuits advised me with more sorrow than anger when they knew I had it bad for Catherine, the first of my Beatrice’s, though they thought it rather cute, is the hole left where a man is indeed by nature and God to full up a woman with spunk, if not ideas, to make the giggling bitches a bit more whole.
5. I did notice, as a page of mine that got much distress was when Mister Stupendous tells the almost by now inhumane Batman-[Mr. Mockingbird], who exactly appointed you anything, a rich man beating up junkie’s, a line of mine that has been oft sued by comic hacks, and on the back cover of Rag, also disliked by the bic pen Armanda. This all did tell me though that I had sued up all my schoolboy powers and indeed as some fat chick, they are as equally insufferable in comics as the girlie armed dweeb, said, I was indeed too old for this, especially if I wasn’t groggily making pennies on the dollar and eking out a frugal apprenticeship, as even 60 year olds in comics seem to be filers in of Michelangelo’s, if not Neal Adams lines.
But, I have noticed that Batman's legion of boychicks has been defanged, it isn’t the cashe among the sissies and the freaks he was before Batman fan numero 1, Bozo himself, is now about to cop a plea, so again no one is as mad or as devoted as they pretend to be, Machiavelli one oh one, and he was left to take the fall and hold the bag as sudden like all the batman minded vicious queers,who had no less than started sending weirdo missives to Rodger Ebert had backed away. I think I went back to comics as much as anything, again for the first time since Jim Shooter praised my work, something more than the usual comics queers get, as I think, Auger that I am, I noticed where America was heading, as the comic book of all things became our sibylline scrolls. I think I saw Stan The Man becoming our Dante, our national poet, in ways Capote could not. I saw the comic book the reversed implement of the truly vulgar, in the Latin meaning of the whole, unadorned and thus unfastened with fakery and silliness, was going to be re-sized and remade into our national creed. I had to go back, not just because dealing with a television producer when he asked me if I had a resume, I was startled thinking merely my brilliance would carry the day, I felt I had to get some sort of curriculum under my feet, at 38 years old, and had to get a semblance of a resume, as couldn’t just blue sky my way through life. If I am right that the Batman Meme, --not even sure if that word is used right or if it is a word--is the overarching legend of our times, if that old dower closeted depression era Zorro has become our Hercules, as we sing of him as the Romans sung of Ercule, then I felt an augers need to speak out and up with Rag comics, and the Lass who dominated it, that I wasn’t part of it and was not going to be one of the wards of the rich faggot, nor was I latest in a line of Jokers who appeals to the cable divas who mark the cards. I had to somehow be true to that very page, one of the first done even back then at the catholic school, where the blue massive figure tells the night vigilante that he is about as repulsive a figure as Lee J Cobb was to equal republic defender Henry Fonda was in Twelve angry men. Like America made flesh Henry, I had to say I had enough of being screeched out by blowhards like this keeper of justice.
In a replay of that page done back when in 1978, I felt the need again to have my Hero, Mister Stupendous, More Lou Ferrigno than any of the latest queers playing superman, almost defend himself to the deeply disturbing Bat-Queen and mean drunk known as Batman, who I then noticed had to Virgil us towards the aids hell, as a vicious little Reagan era supporter, Gordon Gecko in satin, later to become Kevlar, and for me to say to the Valued conservers as he did to The Mocking bird, You’ve been acting like a self appointed avenger since you showed up. I AS AN ITALIAN can take and sign off on good old fashioned vendetta, but free floating rage in what was an Andy Warhol costume and now is a swat team rubber suit makes me nervous.
Best moment in comics book ville, some dimwit thinking he was putting me down, saying he saw worse stuff than Mine at Marvel comics. This recalled in me dear sweet bitchy Leslie, with as much compassions she can muster for anyone telling me, when Ciotti said everything I did was the best thing I had done, I had somehow scratched her own empathy and she touchingly sadly said to me, Dude, I think he’s putting your stuff down. Doesn’t matter I said, as the magic of RT, Roman Tony, is that even the insults they hurl to me fare better than their pompous blathering at their heroes. This comic creep saw worse stuff than mine at Marvel, I said, I should certainly hope so, as they are a business meant to sell to creeps a lowered common denominator sort of filth and I, I am doing the things I do with a flair pen and 24 lbs copy paper. Perspective, I said back, since Gioberti has been a bitch. A cute woman who worked in comics saw my iconic image of Mister Stupendous, hovering as much as anything, man on watch, downcast face, hair falling into brown eyes, something I note Superman has eschewed the spit curl for, in as a comic writer called out perfected, the word that for me distilled my comics misadventure, our ‘less than empathetic’ times. Why so Glum Chum…?, She playfully asked me, why was my hero so glum and sad, to which I answered that was the cause of all Roman heroes, to do ones duty and shut up about it, the flag waving and the boastersness was a jewie up that was beneath them. Beneath contempt. Do your duty…or Not. It was my duty, I assured, to recall that. Too Intense,… for Funny books, she said. I am just glad I never gave in, after it all, I am glad I didn’t become one of these comics hacks who on one hand sneer at the Herculean image and then make it all seem capable of being so fascistically Batman, hero to the closeted. I am glad my heroes have been dower, better that than to have mouths constantly in the satire of pretending, growling with glistened teeth.