A new place called home.

I've moved. If you care to read any of the shit I'll continue to write, go here:

http://amotherfuckingwerewolf.tumblr.com/

Diabolik Vs. Fantomas

When I was a kid, my favorite superheroes were The Phantom and The Shadow. Something about the - then unknown - world of dark 20's-40's quasi-noir/pulp quality dragged me in and struck a real chord with me. I got Doc Savage and Alan Quartermaine, too but not in the same way. Those two were ripped muscle men with a Hemingway style, "Great White Hunter" quality - which I didn't understand when I was 7 - which made it less exciting. None of that was even possible in my world, in my life. Sure, The Shadow spent time in the far East, and the Phantom spent time in the Amazon - both in their late teens/early adulthood, learning the ways of mystical religions and ancient teachings about the mind - but they lived and fought much more in the atmosphere that was real to me: the decay of the city.

I still have a soft spot for both of those 'Golden Age' heros, despite the awful films they produced in the 90's. But in the age of information, colliding with the obsessive nature of my own mind, I found two European characters who eclipse the depth and bizarre of either of the aforementioned heros. Granted, neither of these anti-heros can be considered good guys and - if anything - their both villains. However, they're the sort of villains you want to cheer on, the kind of villains you want to be drinking buddies with.

The first is Fantomas, a cryptic, French pulp novel protagonist. Through disguises and other strange trickery, Fantomas is able to damn near bring all of France kneeling before him and seemingly for little more reason than that he enjoys it as a joke. Over 35 Fantomas books have been written, several films, and a black and white tv series. Given his amoral and extremely dark view of the world and humanity, I remain continually puzzled how he was so famous in France (and how he remains fairly unknown in the US.)

The second comes from Italy in the 1960's. Diabolik is the brainchild of two sisters, who apparently loved spy stories. He is - again - an anti-hero type who, with the help of his assistant, Eva, steals a bunch of money and valuables from rich people; but all in the name of making himself rich, there is no "Robin Hood" mentality here. The comics, unfortunately, haven't been translated into english (a horrible trend that needs to be remedied, we'll have to start with Diabolik, Baba Yaga, Dylan Dog, and anything Alejandro Jodorowski ever wrote), but from what I've seen they involve a compelling amount of knocking people out with rags soaked in Chloroform, driving around while looking bad-ass, and having sex on huge piles of money - it's pretty much everything cool in the world ever. In 1968, Mario Bava turned the comic book into one of the greatest examples of both the Psychedelic Spy and the 60's Euro-Trash genres ever produced. It also spawned a great episode of MST3K, but don't let that ruin the fact that this movie is pure fucking gold.

The Vanguard is boredom//with plans for infection.

The plague is already here. Specifically within the post-modern context, it's easy to realize just how empty the space we inhabit really is; full of all the junk, clutter, noise, and distraction. We're meant to see nothing as it really is and in return we get clever packaging and promises of a whole new you. Although the bargain really is about you shutting the fuck up and ignoring the fact that we live in a pre-fab, sterile world that's been made so safe and clean that anything even remotely dangerous or true eventually becomes just another market. It's all been said much more clearly by much better writers, but again: within the post-modern context this is exactly what I feel. This is what comes pouring out when ink hits paper, or fingers hit keys.

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And then it seems that I've become so goddamn frustrated that I just want to erase everything I've ever fucking written and replace it with, "fuck this." As though that will help me feel better. Not to say that a small act of destruction of my own creation may not be needed, but replacing anything with such a void and depthless expression merely veils the fact that the world hurts. Being in the world hurts me. I hurt when I can't express how I truly feel. I hurt because the world seems like a sick fucking joke played on all of us. Those who've really got it figured out end up laughing with the cruel joke, at their own expense, because that seems the best way to cope. So I fight for some kind of reason to not give up amongst the bullshit, within the vortex, outside of the abyss. Who knows, maybe my humanity is dying, but shit is starting to look more humorous as the days go on; but it takes a sick kind of mind to find this decay and excrement funny. The smell of rot can be beautiful, after all flowers emit gorgeous scents as they break down. Your love of daisies or lilacs or roses or orchids is a love of decomposing organic matter. There is an almost nihilistic beauty in this fact.

Fuck Art 2.0

I had some shading on the face problems, these are to be resolved once it all dries.