Man-Size (man_size) wrote,
Man-Size
man_size

Running Bases

Early Wednesday evening, accomplished Spanish painter Felix de la Concha [http://www.absolutearts.com/artsnews/1999/07/17/25532.html] and his pixie blonde Brooklyn pal, Heather, swung by my home to pick up a stack of art show catalog's which had been mailed to me for his short NYC trip. Heather was quitting her job selling parachutes. Post 9/11, major companies were investing in parachutes for their skyscraper offices. Get this: seems that corporations housed in very tall buildings across the nation were looking to furnish employees with parachutes so they could JUMP OUT WINDOWS in case of terrorist attacks. Heather stated that this was a terrible rescue tactic, as most folks would need to be trained for such a jump or get crushed against the building by furious winds in their decent, and that it was a ridiculous solution. This concept blew my mind. Terrifyingly ingenious in one respect and utterly foolish for so many reasons. Anyway, I know Felix through his wife, the lovely comix scholar/critic/poet -- Ana Merino, who I met 4-years ago at SPX/ICAF [Small Press Expo/International Comics Arts Festival] in Bethesda, MD. Ana and I share an unrequited love for the comix form that has brought much debate and passion between us. She is one of the stealth warriors who helps expose and expand the industry, from Madrid to North Carolina, and everywhere in-between. After a beer and some encouragement to storm the Soho galleries with his wares, Felix & Heather split and I hopped my bike for an SBX snuggle sandwich.

Keeping head colds at bay, we chilled on the couch as SBX shared job woes. She feels that she is a glorified technician, making expensive and beautiful binders for drug companies to switch and bait respectable physicians with. Getting doctor's to buy "Pepsi instead of Coke." It's a gross endeavor that yields, at best, a nifty paycheck, but at what cost? She abhors her job and the politics of the corporate drug world is worse than advertising. Clients rule and you get shit in the mouth. Steadfast, I encouraged SBX to think about the things she loves to do and manifest those elements into something fruitful. SBX loves books and publishing and art and education. In order to take action and change her course, she's got to figure out her annual overhead, lean on love and support, share responsibilities, and manage her time better. Get to that place where waking up in the morning to go to her job is a pleasure. Imagine it. I told SBX that I often imagine myself as another entity when I propose ideas and make promises, especially when negotiating an editor, art director, publisher, and/or, a stranger at a soiree. I create a profile that is beyond my scope, challenging myself to carve the next step into that stairway that builds our character, reaching for that brass ring. If you can sell yourself to yourself, then you can sell yourself to the president of any authority. Gotta put game in your name. That led to the eternal question and origins of confidence and self-worth. It's so weird to witness within, no matter how grandiose and shiny your resume can be, and the conviction and temerity it takes to accomplish impossible goals, we're all one bad hair day away from crashing chin first into the gutter of never ending wallow.

And speaking of bad hair...

Thursday morning, I got a haircut, struggled with penciling NIGHT FALLS ON YANCY STREET, and took in a movie with SBX. We saw RED DRAGON, the first installment in the "Hannibal Lecter" trilogy and it was quite pedestrian. Never scary, not once, and I guess it didn't help for the proposed mystery and horror that I knew the story inside out. Whatever. It should have been good and, even though Anthony Hopkins rocks that thousand yard stare, I couldn't care less this time around. Michael Mann's flashy 1986 version, MANHUNTER, was much better. Better use of Lecter [played to perfect pitch by Brian Cox], creepier/better actor for the bad guy [Tom Noonan], and one of the scariest lines ever delivered by a serial killer, "Here I...am?"

Had a mollifying pow-wow with Evan Dorkin on Friday about NIGHT FALLS ON YANCY STREET. When talking with Dorkin, be prepared to segue into any and all topics. He's a natural at holding court and has well informed thoughts about the comix biz, the art of storytelling, pros & cons of the super-duper genre, etc, etc. We rang off on cover ideas for the four issues and with batteries charged, I finished penciling pp26.

Decided that I MUST, MUST, MUST complete THE DEVIL'S MUUMUU and signed up for a weekly online comix site called MODERN TALES [http://www.moderntales.com/] to do so. Launch date to be determined. I have 20pp out of 48pp completely drawn and this regular schedule will force me to turn around one new page per week, on top of my Marvel work, and help me put this book in the can for Top Shelf to release.

Hung out with my ex-Russian/Polish girlfriend, JULIA D., for a couple of hours and caught up with the year since I last saw her. I dated her for 11-months when she was 24 going on 25 and now she's 27. She graduated Stern College for Women and took some terrible jobs in the financing world before breaking up with me to take make a career at BLOOMBERG, in Princeton, NJ. She now resides in deep Brooklyn and dates a computer guy. It was good to bounce in the energy of her sassy, trigger-finger verve. Julia D. reminded me of an energetic yet brash, immortal Man-Size, when the kicks of a Friday Night Get-Ill was coming to a harsh close. When dancing half-naked next to a drunken troop of sensual Santa's wearing diapers and fake beards in the basement of Williamsburg's RUBULAD, just wasn't cutting the mustard anymore.

And so --

I'M GOING TO PARIS with SBX for X-MAS!!! We're flying to London X-mas eve and hopping the Eurostar to mon cheri Paris. I am so excited. This will be my second international trip in close to a year. I'm jealous of SBX's international status. Having a home away from home [and I'm not talking about the home in your heart] yields an environment you can return to whenever you wish. Familiar territory in faraway places. Roots in other lands. My travel experiences have been limited to family car adventures and comic book conventions within the confines of the USA. When I was young I occasioned Florida, Michigan, Wisconsin, and California, but I have only ever dug roots in NYC [Upper West Side: 79th street/Broadway, Easthampton in my teenage summers: Three Mile Harbor Road, Westchester: SUNY Purchase, Soho: Thompson street btwn Spring & Broome, Alphabet City: 14th street btwn B & C, and now Brooklyn: Carroll Gardens]. Today, I mostly travel for business. I've gone to San Jose/San Francisco/San Diego - CA, Bethesda/Baltimore - MD, Pittsburgh, PA, for comicons and expos. I've visited a few other scattershot places for friends & family like Fire Island, Los Angeles, Chicago, Virginia, and The Catskills. My world experiences are pathetically anemic. I've been to Tijuana, Mexico, and London, once. I have a lot of catching up with planet Earth to do. And not just the one I see in the disaster films.

SBX took the girls to a friend's house in the Hudson Valley for the weekend, and I went to Casey & Gabrielle's party in Clinton Hill. Paying homage to the Man-Size of old, I bought a 40-oz. bottle of OLDE ENGLISH 800 to the party. Enjoyed Jim Beam with Doug B., Eric S., and Mike P. The divine host, Gabrielle, who is more beautiful than the optics can opt to handle, sports a healthy female figure with abundant hips and derriere, giving exquisite shape to her dress. She's a smart-ass and knows how to get loose. Her pal J, a beautiful 21-year old/androgynous looking chick who pops Prozac for her "disorder" and works at VOGUE, was compelling to parlay with and challenge. J had that bored yet gimme something to suck on demeanor. Lost, like a devious Catholic School Girl looking for something to fumble with and make wet, upped the evening's ante. Those kinds of girls make me crazy. They're emotionally scattered and bankrupting their soul. The tug of war of pushing buttons led me to busting out a mixed tape and prancing around shirtless to Herbie Hancock's "Rock it" [Eric S. dubbed it 'Black Kraftwerk']. It got knees and elbows locking while hips and necks swerved and gave the homos in the house cause for celebration while some of the less inhibited ladies took full advantage of the naked abandon. J kept showing off the bruise on her ass [looked like Jupiter], exposing the bush between her thighs. She knew what she was doing. Cheeky little devil girl. But, that wasn't good enough for her, and so for every snap I popped she revealed more flesh. Soon, breasts were out and ogled by the younger Don Juan's in the corner. One kid, who looked like Link from MOD SQUAD, got randy and was trying to get him some of that -- post haste. I knew to curb my aggro-moxie and play it soft 'cause of her possible bi-polar condition, but kept the tension of a Friday night fray at optimum peak. Doug B. took over and got comfortable with J, but had his mind on another candidate. Once the record player had nothing more to offer, we said our goodbyes, and me and the boys (& Eric's squeeze), got grub at the Kellog diner. My burger smelled like the bottom of Flavor Flav's feet, but I ate it anyway. Waited for that damned G-train and dragged my naughty, full, liquored up ass -- home.
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