LIME

I HAVE ABOUT 300 pages of RAG done in various states, but completing a first arc. These are pages of CM, VGIRL and Dore as he recalibrates the comic universe as it was being destroyed by horrid Jake the snake Shapiro. If I have ever disliked dear awful pied piper Kirby I do now seeing where he stole most of his work and how, allowing the lower brows, middlebrow is out of the question, to adore him as if a newsprint Ariosto, and how he liked putting Fox comics artists out of business, who appears in the book, as the genius of vicious Kirby knew that the barreled chested Steve Reeves type of Thors was an anathema to the Talmudic blue nosed crap he turned comics towards, to his utilitarian needy, credit stealing, and corner jumpered his way through the ghetto that was comics. Him, like a Shakespearean Jew, in having to have make weepy speeches far beneath an Iago, and thus never placed in the sorse material for Willie to transcribe. What…?

So, with these pages, about ten completed and some thrown away no matter how much I think they are pretty they do not fit, I cracked open the black dossier I had gotten as a gift from Amazon, and was glad and heartened to see there, as I say my epic in penciled placed for now, and didn’t want to hear the grand voice of Alan while cobbling it, that I knew James Bond and Mary Poppins were there, along with Prospero, but just didn’t want to have any Elizabethan aged or Victorian age shit even in satire form eek into my work just then. To put all of English literature in perspective as if a snide Gioberti, the work of Ovid, no less, like was said by someone rock critic, the fucking Who fer gods sake, Ovid no less, was burnt then as fat belated ugly queen mum and her Scotty would read out of the 'art of love' to each other on thick embroidered bedding, as again, the Italians know facilely how full of shit the saints in Rolexes have been before. There in the book a masterwork, if I might, of the funny book that don’t need the affectations some put on a usual batman pulp vigilante fair, without the bloody warmth, and there was my ante hero of all, the great and wonderful Harry Lime, showing despite what is said, I have a Jesuit like radar with can sense things that other like to think I am too stupid or dense to know are there, or at least as Machiavelli said, hope so.

Poor Alan, brilliant comic hack, so afraid for so long of Big Brother, only a British invention, as the Roman Italians and others knew , as you find out now, no amount of dogma is sufficient for a hungry dog. When the people are Hungry...he warns those conservative Tories  who come in to take bribes from Sullas of now, the people note your every brisket dinner dears, The people, hungry tired an decried start to sneer at up the blond Barbie’s Political playhouse sets, as fat brunette democrats go hummina hummna hummmna, I’d dint vote for himmmmmm, big brother comes crashing to the marble floor, as they washed up do, who now sigh to be admired for shingle parties to get electioneered again, she shows herself as the priestess of abortion, the hags too stunned by her blond hair and happy to see her to even hear of her concerned  woman’s of Ameriga taunts as a republican stepford cow onlt a scant few bushy interregnums ago. The over reacher liar over reaches and now even democrats tire of her urbane élan trash her for her cover girl pepsodent ethics Jerry’s kids ad, not giving the good over fed dogs the sanctioned of the life of between feedings. Need I say Orson appears in Rag as a still middle aged not yet Ghandalfed Orson named Odin Valentine, beardless and fat and genius like Orson was in 1970,not yet the broken genius turning down jor el and obi wan later in MS,  still filming,  still hopeful, still as Dore his friend said singing out the songs of the WPA and the golden age, fresh off the befuddled general he paled as if a Roman play he said, in Catch 22.

The only mention I heard made of Columbus day in some middlebrow acceptable we have the bullshit to English dictionary was the incredible Mr Limpet at Fox news in the afternoon, who pepper his war cry with the turgid bloody tawdriness that would make their fairy Godfather Hearst Proud. And I guess that says more than I can. Again placed this here as a considered anathema and antithesis of the hi how are whopping Indians, that I thought I’d hear more from, but alas like blacks desperate for camera time for their slow burn riots, NIAGRA FALLLS!--and Crummy amazingly no where in sight this hooting, hmnnnn, we are not so close to Columbus day anymore, as we are too slud close too near the Roman insinuated threat from election day, and so, all the dogma comes out, or better stays where it is, as the good men among us throw cakes at the filth, this time, struck aware it seems that sickened and disgusted Romans as sometimes happens, are throwing the cakes back. And fooled again, Cicero, a hero damningly now to the right it appears, he did after all monetize the post of senator in ways before which had been like a club of Jerry Jones’ like mere rich mans affectedness, a sash for my mantle, a club for us good guys, no the Jewish hack from the weeds made sure like now that being a senator was a going concern, as he bolts for the golden door, issuing the speakeasy trap door, an Italian affect no matter how pyrite or ornate the door, to see when the coast is clear. Heh.