About Me
Enter The Retaliators®:
I was born in a place where high intelligence is recognized and valued properly. Throughout grade school I was awarded and rewarded for it, but at the age of 12, I was relocated to a place where One Such As I is more likely to be ostracized and outcast for being into art and literature, rather than huntin’ and fishin’ and the like. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, I’m just different, and we all know how it goes for those who are different. Imagine Rembrandt or Shakespeare in Green Acres, and you’ve got the picture. An insecure person might be brought low by such a thing, but I already knew my value, and could not be shaken. I was secure enough in the knowledge that those who were drawn to me to denigrate me and those who were drawn to me to praise me had the one thing in common; they were drawn to me. I faced the obstacle of seemingly endless saboteurs, in the form of teachers who were jealous of me, and relatives who feared me rising about my “raisinâ€. In both cases, the real fear was that I’d rise above them. In 1990, I quit mundane work, to become the artist I was Meant To Be. My skill level still wasn’t equal to my vision, so it took a long time to get a painting good enough to my satisfaction that I could sell it. And, since I was here, where there is no art culture to speak of, it was a major effort to find someone willing to pay $300 for a work it took me a month and a half to complete. Following this pattern, I got very skinny. At some point, I was commissioned to do some artwork for a small local paper. I ended up working every job on that small paper, but did my best work as a journalist and featured columnist. Turns out that, for an artist, I’m a not-too-shabby writer. The paper grew to full size while I was doing that, and subscriptions went out all over the country. After some creative differences with the management, I split from the paper to go back to my art. The owner’s last appeal to me before my leaving was that I couldn’t make it without him. To which I responded that he couldn’t make it, without me. We were both right. The paper went out of business, and I was right back where I had been; an artist in a place where there is no market for art. Fortunately, I was “discovered†by a Chicago businessman, who owned a factory here. He would buy anything I painted, for $700, and would sell it to an art dealer in Chicago, for $3,500. Who knows what the dealer got for it. I was becoming semi-famous in Chicago, but other people were making the profit. Still, $700 per, guaranteed, is better than the previous $300 per, if I was lucky. But then, that guy was busted and run out of town, and I was back to S.O.L. Over the course of the next few years, I bought rental property and lost it, built up a retail business and lost it, and now I’m working on the internet. I recently had a conversation with one of my MySpace friends, Vagrant, about a song he wrote about people like us not yet being where we were supposed to be by now. It’s called “Dripping Time Awayâ€. Of course it wasn’t written about me, it was written about himself, but it applies to me. As it applies to many in our position. People who were given at an early age a vision of their Destiny, but during the course of the journey there’s a lot of “Are we there, yet?â€
I know what some of you are thinking. You're right, you're wrong, it's a long story. I used to have the details of it here, but I took it off, so the villains will have less ammunition to use against me. Watch My Writer Rant series on YouTube. It's on my personal channel, so if the bad guys get me there, at least they can't get my professional channel, it's squeaky clean, like my MySpace :-) No sympathy. They asked for this. They snobbed me, then robbed me, like I would just fucking blow away. Oh no, not I. No "Windshield Wiper Man" here. The way I see it, good enough to steal from is good enough to beat their asses. "Windshield Wiper Man Makes His Own Car Company" is more my style. This will not be a private behind the scenes war. Whether it's here there or elsewhere, every detail will be exposed to the public. So, they better play fair. Talent vs talent, as it should be, and God help them in that case. Ha! They're screwed in that area too, because He's on my side. Crazy? Yes, I'm an artist and writer, so that goes without saying. Irrational? No. I fight for what I believe in. Stand with me, stand against me, or stay neutral and see what the outcome is, there is even a miniscule chance of a truce. Allies are welcome, enemies are welcome, spectators are welcome. NO WHINERS! (My "Writer Rant" videos on YouTube get low-rated and criticized by people who end up subbing and friending me, after they realize I'm right.) If you’re gonna cry like a bitch because I’m fighting your heroes, go away and come back when you grow the hell up. It's like this in the real world, sometimes a line is crossed, and you just gotta damn fight, no matter who it is. Being the way I am, I have no other choice but to fight for what I know is right and just. And, whether you believe it or not, or whether it makes a difference or not, I'm actually fighting for you. To give you something better. I too was a fan, once. So much so, that I took out three and a half years of my life to give them the best I had, by piecing together to the best of my ability the story that had been growing inside me all my life, a masterpiece, a literary work of art which raises the bar on how much thought will have to go into stories in the future, and got ass raped for my trouble. What would you do? They prefer fame over talent? Good. I'm gonna become famous as the Doberman who bit a chunk out of their ass! They lack the credibility to question my credentials. I didn’t put on the table the option to disregard my submissions. They never had my permission to not respond. The only “no†I accept are the ones I elicit, myself, in my own way, as a response to my Righteous Retaliation. Like this: “No, no, no! Oh, no!†Maybe they were too busy to respond ... ? Yeah, too busy sucking. I tried to help them with that. But now, I’ll be their most grievous error of all, which they will wish they could go back and handle differently. They can’t undo this mistake. If they apologized to me, I’d back off of this vendetta, but I wouldn’t give them my scripts. That boat has sailed. I’ve been on this side of the situation too long, I’ve seen the reasons why it’s best for them to not have me under their banner. Everybody reading this knows the claw guy, but how many of you know who came up with the claw guy? Some of you know, more of you don’t. You’d probably presume it was the same guy who came up with the web guy, but you’d be wrong. You could Google the claw guy to see who created him, but while you’re waiting for the results, my point might come to you in an epiphany. My Gift was Given to me, by a Divine Power, why should I give it to them, for a salary? With their name on it, and lumped in with all that assembly line garbage they’ve been cranking out all these years? Mmmm..., no. (I’m not really touting my skill at creating characters, anybody can do that, my skill is much more rare; the ability to make sense out of nonsense. Feasible fantasy; how often do you get to see that? It doesn’t matter if the character is Joe-Shit McGooleyfuck, if you can do that.) I'll never work for them, but I might end up owning them. If that is the outcome, I will either be disassembling them for parts, or "fixing" them. Likely the former. They would be very hard to fix. As glutton name hogs, they have wasted some very cool names on throwaway characters. Got my eye on some of those names... Not the characters, just the names. And, I don't even want the ones that've been used to death. I'd either sell those off, or trash them. They're old and worn out, anyway, and due to the rewrites of my screenplays that were made necessary because of this, I already have alternate versions of the best ones, ratcheted up to the next level, better written, and custom made for the new millennium, not just revamped upgrades of the same old shit. Almost like starting from scratch. Almost.
I don’t know if he still does it or not, but Stephen King used to amuse himself by, after completing a novel, submitting it to the publishers with an unknown name attached. Every time, it was rejected, or ignored altogether. He’d laugh over it, then resubmit it with his real name. I don’t even need to tell you the results of that, you’ve probably read the results of that. Well, the scripts I sent to a certain company were better than anything they’ve ever published or produced. I have some degree of admiration for the writer they chose in my place, and to some degree I have enjoyed his work. But, he is not half the writer I am. If my scripts and his were both laid on the producers’ desk, without names attached, mine would be the one chosen. Of that, I have no doubt. Stephen King (he’s not the writer who replaced me, I’m using him for the example of how clueless the corporations are) can afford to laugh about the blind mechanical methods of the corporations, but I am not in the position to find it humorous. If the corporations are not capable of discerning which story is the best, then they are not worthy to be the ones to decide. You are the ones who rightfully should decide that. I will be putting my story on your desk, not theirs. The story is complete in my head, and in my Works documents, but the complete story is not out to the public yet. What I have on this MySpace is just a keyhole glimpse, but it should give you some idea. When my story comes out, then you will know that I am right, and I wasn’t just bitching, I was fighting for justice. Not just for myself, I'll be gone someday, but justice for this awesome story, and its rightful place in history, and your right to experience this vision that was Given to me. This story is not just bigger than me, it's bigger than them, and it will be remembered long after I, and they, are forgotten.
This is an update of the entry above this. Since I wrote that, they have wiped the slate, just like on Dallas, when Bobby woke up, and the entire previous season never really happened. Which proves my point, they are too broken to fix. Too many inconsistencies, too many loose and entangled ends. Not only do their comics not match their movies, their comics don’t match their other comics, and their movies don’t match their other movies. Did that armor get built in Viet Nam or Afghanistan, huh? My comic stories are based on my screenplays. Act 1 starts in 1985, Act 7 ends in 1992. Since I’m now going back to the origin, a completely different origin from theirs, by the way, the story now begins in 1982. That’s 10 years of Retaliators that’s already written, already decided what happens. All the revisions have already been made. There are no inconsistencies, everything relates and fits properly. No uh-oh’s, nothing that just doesn’t add up, nothing that could’ve and should’ve been done better. It’s already perfect, before it reaches the public. In further defense of myself, I’m not the only one copying, it’s reciprocal. A lot of my submitted material has shown up in their movies. Since I stopped submitting to them, they’ve copied stuff from this very MySpace page. For example, I created Captain Superhero, based on a similar character of theirs. I changed him a bit, gave him a sidearm. Well, they’ve now given their guy a sidearm. But, I will still win, because when they copy me, they make my material worse. When I copy them, I make their material better. When I say copying, I mean the old stuff. The new stuff does not inspire me, I don’t bother keeping up with it. I hear about it through the grapevine, mainly in the context of you guys coming to be as disappointed in it as I am. It’s their policy of only contracting known writers, which once may’ve worked for them, but will now become their downfall. Because, what they end up with as a result of that policy are writers who chose the profession because of the prestige, not because of a calling. (It never occurred to me to aspire to be a writer, any more than it occurred to me to aspire to breathe when I was birthed. Only when I saw how others struggle with it, and how venerated the comparatively inadequate are, did I realize what I was. “It’s not this easy for ever’body? Oo’kay...â€) Any policy which would afford greater respect to, say, Octo-Mom or K-Fed, than to One Such As I, is a policy that will and should fail. I believe in Destiny, and I believe there is a reason why I’ve been put on the hard path. Many successful people credit a supportive family for their success. If I’d had that, instead of a scum of the earth lowlife backstabbing sabotaging swindling stealing conning family, pulling me down and holding me back, particularly my immediate family, my birth family that is, bitches all, who unfortunately probably won't see this because they won't have a computer unless they steal one of mine, and they wouldn't have it long because they'd trade it for pills (“birth family†means, you know, the nuclear family, not to imply I had an adopted family, oh God I wish! I’d’ve had a fuckin’ chance!), I’m positive I would now be complacently working for this corporation I’m talking about. And, they’d be getting the glory for my gift. I could name a whole list of contracted creators who could tell you a long story about creating legends for a salary. Frustrating as it may be, I believe the hard path was given to me, as a blessing. I have no key to the door, no pass code. My knocks go unanswered. So, I have no other choice but to make my own damn door. The hard path conditioned me for this, because I will make that door, the same way I made it across the hard path; tooth and nail. Pray for any fool who tries to stop me. Because, after clawing my way out of the pit, trudging across the wilderness and knocking on their door, only to be robbed by those who should’ve welcomed me as one of their own, I am not in a good mood. They would deny me my Destiny, so I will take theirs. I am the Successor. All that came before me were merely failed attempts. When it comes down to it, it boils down to who is better, and that’s me, and they can never equal me. (Let me stop to address any non-believers in the next-level, any steadfast and faithful followers of the formerly great: I don’t want their unconditional fans. If you are an unwavering, unquestioning fan of theirs, and I’ve friend requested you, it was a mistake. Drop me, I want you to. Blind followers of the blind are not my kind of people, anyway. I’m looking for non-fans of theirs who outright think they’re stupid, and free-thinking, intelligent fans of theirs, who have enjoyed them to an extent, but are unsatisfied, and yearn for something more.) Let them wipe away all their mistakes and start over. Maybe they will be starting over without you, if I can offer you something better? They came before me. First isn’t better, in fact, as attested by history itself, first is usually screwed up. Better comes along, later. I am not an inferior imitation of them, quite the opposite, I am what they tried to be, and fell short of being. Trust me, believe in what I'm saying as the truth that it is, and I will take you where they promised to take you, and failed. I know the reason it was Meant To Be for me to be delayed by the hard path. When I was younger, I knew I had the potential to someday be the best in the world in my chosen field. But to venture into that before I was fully omniscient would mean that there would be inferior samples of my work lurking about, causing me to cringe and regret. It’s bad enough, knowing I have imperfect paintings out there in the world. I would be totally mortified if I had imperfect comics and movies out there. I don’t know how those other writers can bear it! I would be so embarrassed to have my name on their shit. But I’m finally perfect, ready to humiliate my inferiors, the only thing holding me back now is how long the artwork takes... God, when I get this ball rolling, I’ll hire a ton of artists, to free up my time so I can write. I’m a trickling faucet of art, but a mystic wellspring of literature, as the seemingly endless text on this page would attest. It also attests to my self-proclaimed perfection. I wouldn't say it, without showing it. It’s not conceit if it’s true. Don’t hate me for being perfect at my craft. I worked hard, and sacrificed everything else for it. It’s all I am and all I have. But it’s all I want to be and all I want to have. Think of your purpose or purposes in life. I have only one, and this it; to find and share with you, the next level. I've already found it. It's wondrous. Wanna see it? I don't even give a shit about personal acclaim, only about sharing my gift. From my perspective, the acclaimed are only a tad ahead of the deluded. The deluded being severely retarded, the mediocre being middling retarded, and the acclaimed being only mildly retarded. And most of all, the presently acclaimed are full of shit, for thinking they’re better than they actually are. Such conceit. Self-importance, that is. I, whose shit actually stinks, am not so important, but what I'm doing is, very. I’ve spent my time, in former lives, as the mildly retarded acclaimed. I’ve since evolved to perfection. When I was Shakespeare, I was only practicing for the day I would someday be me. When I was Hemmingway, I killed myself because I couldn’t wait to be me. Three years later I was born, and here I am, to show you how this shit’s s’pose to be done. Look around this page, see how I have taken the inconsistent nonsense of Roman mythology, and made it make sense. Not only that, look at how I’ve taken the nonsense of super powers and made it make sense. This corporation is such a non-visionary, they have only stolen a few cool lines, and a few cool plot points from me. Those are nothing, compared to what I was offering, which they lacked the vision to perceive. My true gift is my ability to bring clarity to the big picture, to tie up all the loose ends and make it all add up. What they’ve done is the equivalent of stealing the hood ornament off a Rolls, to spruce up their clunker. Failure to recognize is their sin against me, and all the proof I need that they are unworthy of me. They wanna play? Let the games begin!
The Ultimate Science-Fiction Series:
The story is like nothing that’s ever been done before. Bits and pieces might seem familiar, but the story overall? Yeah, it's unique. It’s like the “upright manâ€, in a time-travel movie evolutionary chart. Or, a time-travel theory evolutionary chart, for that matter. I took what others have only beat around the bush about, and I completed it. Which makes this story solely mine. I solved Einstein’s unfinished Chaos Theory, for the first installment of my Time-Travel Trilogy, and for the trilogy as a whole, I solved the Everything Theory. There’re baby geniuses out there, still working on that. Well, they can stop, I got it, already. I finished it for some movies I wrote. Chaos: “The Butterfly Effect†= “The Domino Effect†x every feasible contingency x Infinity. Everything = 1 Universal Recyclotron, made up of many smaller ones. It’s all about perpetual motion: Energy = Mass = Energy. Lemme expound: As Mercury draws nearer the sun, it becomes fissionable. When it falls into the sun, it will feed the sun. Not with ordinary fire, but with nuclear energy. “Nothing is lostâ€. That solar energy spreads out, and invigorates the remaining planets. A new planet is forming, on the outer edge, awaiting its turn, in the cycle. And as surely as black holes chew up galaxies and spit out new ones, the same thing is happening on a universal scale. There too, “Nothing is lostâ€. Oh, and to the “scholars†who theorize that the microorganisms found on Mars are the remnants of former life: Dumbasses! Those are the progenitors of FUTURE LIFE, duh! Which might come in handy, by the time Mars becomes the third planet, wouldn’tcha think?
Random Musings (A Runaway Train Of Thought, With One Side Still On The Track And One Side Skimming The Ditch, But Too Much An Irresistible Force To Be Stopped, At This Point):
In the late sixties, John Glenn and Gene Roddenberry met. Glenn took Roddenberry to the side, and told him, in effect (this paraphrase is embellished by my own coinciding beliefs on the matter): “I’m a fan of your show, naturally, but any alien visitors would have to be nearby neighbors. I believe the stars out there have people, but they can’t get here from there, and we can’t get there from here. No technology, no matter how advanced, now or a million years from now, can traverse the impenetrable void. It’s too cold and too far. If it were attempted, and everything went as well as it possibly can, in a few million years, a comet that used to be your spacecraft might reach the other side.†To which Roddenberry replied, and this is an unembellished exact quote: “Shhhh! Don’t tell anybody. You’ll spoil my racket!†But, NASA knew it, as NASA insider John Glenn was privy to the knowing of it, and that’s why the Space Program has since significantly lost its fervor. Some imaginative screenwriters have found a way around it, though. In “The Astronaut’s Wifeâ€, an alien arrived, in energy form, piggybacking on a radio signal. In “Slitherâ€, an alien arrived inside a meteor that broke from a comet. It was notably a chrysalis-form of its master-being, which was likely genetically evolved to withstand the perils of such an arduous journey, and menaced not with its own physical form, but by “body-snatchingâ€, just as the one in “The Astronaut’s Wife†did. No air-breathing flesh and blood being could survive a multi-million year trek through deep space, where it is not only immeasurably cold, but there is no temperature to speak of, because there is no sun, anywhere near. Presently, our hot regions; Africa, South America, The Philippines, etc., are regions of the third planet, as you know. But, so are the polar regions! What a difference, on the same planet! Even Pluto is relatively near the sun, compared to deep space. Think you can survive being nowhere near a sun? Try it! Bring your mittens! They’ll crystallize right along with you, as will any heat sources you might think of bringing.
