Monday, January 12, 2009
"Clark Bent" today. Hobbling from spittoon to spittoon. Fruit flies following me.
And I'm talking to myself at night
Because I can't forget
Back and forth through my mind
Behind a cigarette
And the message coming from my eyes
Says leave it alone
(But) the feeling coming from my bones
Says find a home
A flu of delirium and near hallucination, coughing up big oysters, like MAD's version of "Clark Bent", flies hovering over him, hobblling from spittoon to spittoon, finally given this big backhander by Lois Lane, her tight skirt hiked up a bit with the effort to reveal the lines on her Forties nylons, as she yells at Clark Bent, "CREEP!"
Clark Bent today. No energy to become MAD's Superduperman, right down to Guaranteed by Good Houskeeping somewhere on my tights.
I am beginning to understand how comic book authors sometimes take some weird drug to get them into a fantasy state nobody's been into before, to come out with Superman, and with MAD's versiion, Superduperman, and even Prince Violent, who is a complete incompetent like Clark Bent who, when sensing danger, Picks up bow, drops bow, drops quiver, drops chain mail pants.
Ah well. I may have done an old thesis on Mad Magazine, but the scene has changed so much these days.
I had done my thesis in l967, but so much more was to come in the development of comic books, and even satire.
There is, for example
French artist, author, and comic strip illustrator Jean Giraud, who achieved his greatest fame and influence as Moebius - not so much a pseudonym as an alter ego. In 1975, his comic magazine Métal Hurlant shook up the world of bourgeois French comics and American superheroes, creating a new "grown-up" way of looking at the comic strip art form.
And who could have missed Saturday Night Live and Belushi and Jane Curtin, Dan Ackroyd and his constant jibing at Ms. Curtin with the now nearly immortal line, "Jane, you ignorant slut."
Delirium over here. And now out of booze, I fear it will soom be dellirium tremens. I begin to eye the nyquil not entirely for medicinal reasons. My son could have said, at one point when I was drying out, "Nothing stronger than pop for him now...but Pop is apt to drink just about anything."
So high on nyquil with ideas and themes popping about, I think I'd better quit while I'm behind.
I had meant to do a piece about horror comics, which, perhaps Charles Gramlich would have dug, but the flesh is weak, though the spirit stirs a bit.
Maybe Charles, a blogger who knows his horror genres, coluld do a better job on the graphic novels that some comics, especially European comics, had gotten to be.
Damn. On blogging today, all I seem to have is the desire.