02 January 2009


This is the picture I did in art school, a quick cheap echo job of a Neal Adams cartoon, to which i added my own va va va voom, which I believe was based on promotional art of Shazam , or on a series of cards which were in wonder bread packages when I was kid.

My dad, god bless the stoic old peasant, I think now too late, knew I liked comics books, to his distatse. But, outside of shazam and Popeye, which he dutifully read, he hated them, but would turn the loaves of bread around looking at the card sometimes viable under the stagnant, awful, bread which my mother refused to touch, calling it semi warmed paste. He would look at the bottom, and the visible dc card, and bring home ones where he could see there was a caricature I liked, like Captain Marvel, or Superman at his Neal Adams smiling herculean bests, or Wonder woman, as I started drawing dames early, and he'd place back Robin, green arrow, green lantern , anyone ''green'' I said, or the egregious, even to me then, Batman. It made me smile recalling this, that my father, a man in his seventies then, would look at the bottom of bread loafs in plastic for me, throwing aside any one green or batty, and bring me home bread in which there were cards of Captain marvel or Superman---the latter whom he hated as a piece of Germanic lore, or would bring back loaves with cards with busty women in flag one pieces, with thick thighs then, like Diana or Black canary. Back then, as the Oprah age was just starting in gestation, and the i'm okay your okay , chariot of the gods, bullshitter's creed was just starting, I thought my father didn't give me ''enough'' because he didn't just bleed all over himself and me like Marlo Thomas, as many of the more touchy feely wop parents did with their brats and preciousness creeps...but then, most of those dirt bags now are either drug addicts or in the local outfit now....so,.... Too late sharp...too soon....[a note: It turns out through exhaustive reshurch this was not the picture which instigated this story with goatee boy. I figured that out, no shlouch I, by turning it over and seeing aa-jun. 97 written on the back of it. Great story though.]

I actually started to rage in the room at art school, already with a repute for such, when that thin, smirking, goteed fuck, who my buddy to this day still wont mention, seemed to be impressed by this marvelous work, which I did in a matter of moments to the interest of the new class I had been shuttled off to after a previous bit of hanging off a trapeze in the circus of rage of which I , Roman blooded, have always been fond.

It literally bothered me, this sudden quiet appreciation by this dimwit, causing some in this A list room, including the gal I shall refer to now as Inominata, thus now, as she who can not be named, and later to become buddies of mine saw and noted me seething. My hands balled up at this despicable creep, with his friends, Blue Duck, Green Hair, and Hef the pipe smoker looking on, to which the Virgilio guide, Flavia, took a look at me as the strangers to me, but not to my repute began onlooking at each other and she said, ''Woah, big fellow....'', with a laugh. I thought I destroyed this page, but found it in another folder, along with a placard I made for myself , signaling as I being no less than ''The Pin Ball wizard''. Like I would ten years later tell off the first conic creeps I had stupidly attempted to be friendly to, who was an exemplar to me of the comic inferno, where the Kirbies learned to stop worrying, or drawing for that matter, and start to love his bombs, I was copying Romita, the only Marvellette I liked, when I was ten, bitch. I was showing that I had the wherewithal to be in their Valhalla of peanuts and where all the Aryans again are mythological, and thought the better of it. So Fuck yew.

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