Sunday, November 15, 2009

Steranko Effect

I've not been adding content to my blog at all, this has to be obvious. I've spent the week angry, like maybe kits a brain tumor angry. In no real order, I've had a dark squiggly cloud over my head because of these things. Carrie "Shut the Fuck Up Already" Prejean's book, $27.95 at just under 200 pages. And my agent thinks a memoir about myself won't sell. Maybe I need boob implants and start making solo sex tapes, the latter being no problem whatsoever. And don't get me started on Sarah "I'm the Anti-Christ" Palin. Yes, I'm still on my list. Cell phones. Who the Geronimo H. Baldheaded Christmas is everybody talking to, any why? Black helicopters, again going by after dark so I can't take their photos, the bastards. My weight hitting 170, that's right, I weigh 170 pounds, for the first time in my life. My cousin in Kentucky dying today, her son keeping her at home brain-dead for 27 days even though she had a DNR. Her organs are wasted now, no one can get them. One more blind guy who stays blind. These fucking "Obama-phone" emails I keep getting, a program first passed by Jeb "My Brother Is a Fucktard" Bush, and the person who started the email cannot even spell Google correctly. Yow, I've had a lot boiling in my head, huh? Can't help that FoxNews is on pretty much 24/7 in my house and I've come to realize how many closet racists I know. So on to fun stuff.

Jim Steranko and Jack Kirby were insane with their artistic output. Steranko was the first artist to just go balls out nuts with angles and crazy, beatnik-hippie designs. I recall one story title spelled out in the receding waves on a beach. Neal Adams did homage in a Deadman comic, if you look close at the purple wisps it read "Hey, A Steranko Effect." Good on ya, Neal. And the thing most people remember about Kirby, if you take a random poll, is the way the characters leap off the page, squarish hands and fingers grabbing out. And so when I was screwing around with the FX on my webcam, I decided to give myself Kirby Fingers. Ah, the anger recedes as I talk of artists of olden times. I'll be fine until I hit the streets tomorrow and almost get rundown by some asshole in a Suburban talking on their cell about tonight's episode of DESPERATE HOUSEWIVES.