Part 3 Of The Welterweight Title Fight!
MATADOR VS THE FLYING ROOSTER/ THE FIGHT Pt 3
Seems as though Rooster might have old Lucky Lucien’s number. Will The Matador find the answer to The Flying Rooster’s sugar sweet counters?
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Round 4…FIGHT
WELTERWEIGHT TITLE FIGHT 1977 #2
TOKYO, 1977 and the sweetness of the strap (covered in silver and gold) hangs in the balance. The fight continues and The Matador braces for impact as Japanese stand-out, Flying Rooster, continues to work his craft through the fog of the mystic ring. Part 2 of the ongoing web cereal, splashed in watercolors, by K. Hartrum and J. Tenney.
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War of The Independents
Lucky Lucien, the Matador has been picked up by Red Anvil Comics and will be making a cameo in THE WAR OF THE INDEPENDENTS. Red Anvil Comics is an indie comic company formed in 1997, publishing comics and graphic novels of various genres featuring independently owned characters in tales of adventure, humor, and horror such as Penance, Bye BiPolar & War of the Independents.
Issue 1 of War of The Independents was a 35 page book that was released in October of 2010 featuring some comics most beloved independenty published characters including Scud: The Disposable Assassin, Savage Dragon, Bone, The Maxx, Madman, Cerebus and plenty more . Part 2 is set to hit shelves later this month and The Matador has been said to make an appearance in issue 3 or 4. Below is an illustration of our boy The Matador by Red Anvil’s Dave Ryan. We are flattered, to say the least.
The Matador by Dave Ryan
Next week The Matador Will appear in part 2 of The Web Comic: WELTERWEIGHT TITLE FIGHT by J. Tenney and K. Hartrum
New Web Strip
WELTERWEIGHT TITLE FIGHT
Tokyo, Japan 1977
This week we’re posting the first in a series of weekly web-strips. Number 1 features The Matador battling world famous Japanese IQ wrestler in The Flying Rooster for the WELTERWEIGHT belt . This will be the first of weekly cereal covering the adventures of Lucky Lucien and all his cohorts.
The writhing Tokyo underbelly of the 1970′s and its illegal Vale Tudo circuits will be blown wide-open in this the new cereal from Bastards of The Infinite.
Ring, ropes, girls bar, grit, smoke, lights, chokes, locks, kick, knuckles, fuck, dirty-glass, splash, moonsault, tiger-mask, kometkind, death-defy, etc…
Silver Birds of Summer
Sucker Punch
Megumi Ogita Gallery hosts American Painter Sadie Starnes: Panmesia
Tuesday, July 12th 2011
7:30 pm. The night-heat of Tokyo had pulled us thin like melted taffy across the robotic arms of Japan railway trains, flying from one side of the monster to the other; the monster being the city and her long legged bitch hairs across our necks, tiny beads of sweat gathering at the back.
The warming air was thick as cake and everything dripped. Everything was muddled then with the summer snakes dragging their hot bellies across my skin, and I’d spit at vaporous incarnations of humidity like ghosts in the dark.
I kept my head cool and my mouth shut by swallowing cold cans of beer and highballs along the road to cool my nerves, forever lost in areas that were not Shinjuku, and sometimes Shinjuku with her glass reflecting blue off damp pedestrian faces through lights to Kabukicho. But tonight was a night for our young lady and her rich work on wood and glass. Sadie Ray is certainly on her way. (more…)
CAROLINA IN THE SPRING & SO WAS THE GIRL
Kris of Summer by J. Tenney
The town was thick with the smell of grass and earth. It was the end of April and I’d been back for nearly a month. Nights spent drinking Dad’s Millers and sitting on the big porch with Mom talking about the long ago in California, my childhood, her sisters and when she was a girl. I was weary and pissed about being away from the city and losing my job, but sitting out in the cool air next to her voice as she smoked those horrible skinny cigarettes and the lone cherry tree above us was comfortable and I knew it would be fine.
The great oscillating quakes of March 11th sent the gang in Tokyo scrambled in all directions, escaping to Hong Kong, Paris, London, South Korea and all the way home to the belly of N.C, where all the goons go to brood the impossibility of something else. The nights went on and blurred together. Things were the way you left them, and we were forever in a mode of return because of a refusal to accept our unhealthy attraction to the lazy pace of a day. It was no good, but I’d wake in horror at the thought of it changing.
I rode the white JEEP with its bad
front-axel down East Marion and crossed highway 74 to old Earl. The night sky (more…)
KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON
After the Quake- J. Tenney
One Account of the Tōhoku Earthquake, 2011
At that time, we’d been sitting in front of the computer screens and TV’s for so long that it seemed as though our watching had something to do with all the horrible images being shown from up north; the thousands dead and the raging walls of ocean water carrying some nameless, burning wrath that was sure to swallow us all. It had been 3 days since the Tokai earthquake had ripped apart the northeast coast of Honshu, and it was decided that our futures were tied to the rest of the country’s.
“Ok,” I thought, “This is bigger than usual.” It was. I stood in the doorway to my back porch gripping the frame with my eyes closed as objects fell to the floor from my desk, in the kitchen and the top shelves of my closet. “It’s a dream,” I thought. “It’s got to be a dream.” I was afraid. I thought about the great Kobe earthquake of 95, being crushed, suffocation, burning, children screaming and everything else I’d ever paired with the idea of the big one. (more…)
@2011
*REJOICE, because the sun rises in the tiny hours of the morning with the bull-stained troops continuing their chanting. Someone hollers “HAPPY NEW YEAR!” and then an echoing crack– balloon filling rapidly to a taught, purple end.
I wasn't there/ J. Tenney
It’s 7 in the morning on the 1st of January. The warm glaze from a bottle of Jameson paired with the salt-watery GHB retreats. A loud crash through a short table of papers, cups and glasses- hidden valley ranch dressing and carrots smash across the wall. (more…)
IT’S THE NECK
A fly sits on the cracked point of a black bull’s horn. The horn connects to the skull at a thick lump of meat. The bull’s head comes up. The insect lifts into the sky.
It is hot. The sun is going down. The dry dirt rises in sand colored clouds and carries past the fence to him. He’s dressed in yellow and blue. He says he’s The Matador, not a matador. People call him Lucky. He leans over the fence. The bull expands in the muddled air.
“Hey boy,” he says. Nothing. It doesn’t move. He whistles with his fingers. The bull looks up. Snorts. Shakes it’s head. Lucky sees the thick veins at the bull’s neck, like writhing black-snakes.
“Christ,” he mumbles. The bull goes to him. (more…)
all my sins today
So today.. Christ Im too drunk. So last night a very dear one was over and im happy for that, kinda made this all better. / im eating a cheese bacon sandwich its 8:26usa nc/Im in love and I hate.
I drew this on the swing, and we talked about god.
FLOWERS OF HOMECOMING
RETURN:
Kazushi Sakuraba battles Marcel Duchamp! By Fireball Lee
Tokyo, Japan– birthplace of the sun, and a land of complete civility. I cannot express my gratitude for this location, having just returned from a 2 week jaunt through the beautiful and harrowing social jungles of Thailand, out the back-door of Shanghai (thought I’d have been slaughtered like a duck), plopped back (sickly) on my sweet-smelling grass-mat floorboards and restless nights ahead.
There are no words to describe the level of surface kindness tucked tightly around the solid heart muscles of the casual Nihon-Jin. I battle the desire to shake hands with strangers as I shuffle through Narita airport. “Praise Buddha for blessings upon Tokyo! I’ll never leave your warmth again.”
I carry myself from the NEXpress train to the cozy cove of Shinjuku station and I am relieved to inhale the familial scents of it’s comfort and convenience-slow-witted and delirious from weeks of drinking, travel and sleeplessness. Dry-mouthed, I approach a vending machine, colorful lights blinking, etc… Cold, bottled green tea at my disposal with the swipe of a train card against it’s smooth surface–the clinking sound of falling beverage greeting me at the flap.
“Okaeri,” it murmurs, rolling–label face-up. “Welcome back.”
“Thanks, vending machine. You are a pillar of modern comfort in this garbage heap of a planet.”
Freshly delivered, I sprint, taking two steps at a time. WAS AN ADVENTURE, I think and consider my exit, slightly baffled to be back. 24 hours in the Bangkok International airport: paranoid thoughts breeding unhealthy actions and movements. Nodding off with eyes open. Sweating onto hard plastic, all the while avoiding any sort that might seem overly helpful (bastards all). I had it comparatively easy.
Plenty of the others swore they’d been marooned in Bangkok’s tyrant clutches for nearly a week. The toils of flying standby on this side of paradise during the busy Japanese Obon holiday–a Buddhist ceremony to honor the dead turned familial reunion. Ball-ache of the decade.
“Never again”, I whisper looking towards the rafters and through the glass to the dead air above.
“Where are you trying get to?” I ask a young man standing nearby. He is in line, looking to get on the same flight.
“Iowa. I’m from there.” He is dark-skinned and very tall. He talks to me like we’re bros. “Everyone is trying to get outta here on standby, man. No way back. Fucking sucks. Might just have to buy a ticket.
God damn standby,” grumbling.
Everyone flying Delta has to get back through Tokyo. Fuck me. I live there. Just let me on the plane, dammit. I’m nearly broke. Bought two packs of gummi-worms and a cup-ramen–stomach all twisted up.
My cookie crumbles and I’m forced to buy a ticket on credit. What an inconvenience. I haven’t paid for a regular ticket in years. Been flying off of Grandfather’s buddy passes since I was a kid. Bite the bullet.
40,000 yen and 20 hours later, and I’m on a Chinese airline to Shanghai. The flight is relatively short. I arrive at Shanghai’s immigration counter and am surprised by their level of congeniality. A control panel on the desk of the customs agent which reads RATE MY SERVICE blinks green and red. I mash the button under KIND AND HELPFUL and he smiles. I exit and am quickly convinced I’m to stay at the nearby Shanghai hotel.
“I’ve only got 4,000 Japanese yen,” I say. “No Chinese money.”
“No problem, no problem,” the guy says and snatches the wad of blue and sand-colored bills from my clenched fist and leads me outside and into an old teel van. The driver speaks no English. There is one other passenger sitting in front of me. He looks to be about 50.
“Hello, my friend,” grasping my hand. “I am (something unintelligible). I am from India.”
“Hello,” I say. “I’m Kris…an American.” A young couple on a motorcycle rides by the window, drowning me out.
“I guess we’re both in the same boat,” he says. “I missed my flight this morning. Now I’m in this van.”
We’re both in the van. This van will carry me to my execution. Through the window I see twisting highways, roads and street signs in Chinese characters. In the distance, the heart of Shanghai.
The hotel is an old, 2 floor building along the highway. The carpet is stained. A plump woman is working the lobby, eating pan-fried pork fat and drinking a coca cola. She is sweet and smiles the whole time. Loves her pig. I am thirsty, but I’ve got nothing but an empty check card. Graciously, the Indian man buys me a bottle of water. I give him a snack cake. He is hungry and a vegetarian.
“Good luck, son. Safe travels,” he says.
I retire to my room, shower and fall asleep hearing people screw in the room next to me–paper walls, Chinese TV drama, dreams…
POST-SCRIPT:
Do not allow the above tone convince you that Thailand was anything less than delightful. It was Colorful and dynamic, with a fiery cuisine that matched the sincerity of it’s people, but near the end of the second week I had to make a dash for door. Here now and slightly departed from the beautiful loneliness of brief and intense travel, I gather my rosebuds and convince myself to a swelling for production. Nothing but drinks and laughs for the past 3 weeks. The spirit of summer rolls on. How many more? 10 before it’s all washed out?
About a year ago, I told of few of the boys that we (Goons, Bastards,etc…) were losing our Summer Culture, which was a way for some of us to explain a prolonging of freedom from the shackles of some unnamed suffering. It appears as though we continue to grip the rope for for our sweet lives. I cannot honestly decide whether or not it will lead to a wasting. As they say, time will tell and the curving backbone of it will whip through the snow-white foam towards the top of the break like some monstrous megalodon and the gnashing of razors on meat at the end.
For now, we will continue to argue the the value or lack there of in authorial power, the undeniable importance of the mother we call NARRATIVE and the nature of flying leg locks– pitting the great IQ wrestler of our hearts against the surrealist behind our eyes. It is an exhausting forever war. It carves us into into pleasing shapes– sliced pears, gold leaves.
I Recently heard a few of you are searching for the heart of the world. Like the corpse of Dracula it was split into 5 parts. Reawaken the warmth of the heart to lift a curse.
Kometkind, all of you–K
Of late with Joseph
So Ive been really winding down the summer with some kind of quantum calculated success, mostly my life isn’t feeling crummy beyond words. Hmm at the moment Im feeling very inspired to get to work even harder, Ive been spending a lot more time drawing. And Ive taken a very strong interest in indie publishing, characters like Johnny Saturn come to mind I love that guy! Scott Story is an amazing artist and his story telling has kept me drawn to Johnny Saturn, I don’t think Scot would mind if I was tell everyone that JohnnySaturn is a dot com. Im actually catching up on that today I think I need to start reading from book eight. Ive been so excited about this. I even pulled out some old ashcan I had for a comic group called 5th panel comics. Loved that Dystopia series they produced. Im really excited about indie publishing again. Kris and I are getting ready to finally print a book, and its itching in me. The Komet of course is still being drawn, its such a huge deal to me. But Im about ready to snap it done. The we can move on with Bastards! And PrettyBoyComix… that’s.. I don’t know if I mentioned that yet? Did I Jameson? Huh..well I am too excited about that to talk about it now. Mostly, just letting everyone know we are brewing them up stormy, and Kris is in Thailand this week, I think. Doing something cool I bet, with some cool kids like Duncan and Dan Herbertson probably Tal and Paul too. Maybe even the illustrative Sadie Starnes. Not me though Im holding down the western Carolina mountains mostly alone in my buggy old shack in the woods. But the reading is good. Take care everyone!
A FEW GOOD PLACES IN TOKYO
THIS CITY IS MADE OF GOLD
A Few Good Places In Tokyo
By Kris Hartrum
TOKYO, December 10th, 2011…
THE DAUNTING CROWDS walk at varying paces past the bronze statue of the once loyal Akita dog below exit number five of Shibuya train station in the thick, Tokyo evening air. I’m waiting for friends near an old green train car as nearby youth burn down cigarettes, beer and cocktails. A young man wearing thick rimmed glasses and a tiny dress dances and sings a poorly practiced karaoke in a tree until two eerily calm police officers gently ask him down, the crowds of eclectically dressed night-hawks clapping and hollering unintelligibly at his departure.
Recently, I was asked why I love the city of Tokyo. What is it about this giant machine of peculiarity that keeps me here, constantly reinvigorated by its many charms? Something more than cool, I think. Like most modern cities, the efficiency of Tokyo is as dazzling as it is nauseating. Over 39 million people live and work in the Tokyo prefecture which, by most standards, makes Tokyo the largest metropolitan area in the world. People have uttered things like “a blend of old and new,” and other catchy (overused) ways to try and build a simple mold of what makes this city so fine. The question is full of traps… what makes the beating heart of a true megalopolis pump its hot blood through the streets, and its (often) disenchanted people?
Now it’s just before midnight in Shibuya on Saturday night. People, young and old, scurry through the streets like so many of the well fed rats that live as kings through the garbage along the sidewalks and back alley shadows of the night.
After wasting plenty of time standing around and cracking wise, myself and a few friends walk through the busiest crossing in the world: a five way “scramble” crosswalk beneath massive 2-story video screens blaring neon-lit advertisements, marking the entrance to Center Gai. A path used by locals and tourists alike, the lively Center Gai is one of the major veins through which to reach some of Shibuya’s most idiosyncratic late-night delights. A four story video arcade stretches up ten floors next to a photo booth shop where girls dressed in school uniform and fake tans drink lemon Chu-hai (cocktails) on the steps. People sit and stand along the curbs, drunk, passed out, shopping and scamming one another until there’s nothing left, which rarely seems to be the case.
We stop at a convenient store called for beers, opening them in the street. As an American, I consider it one hell of a luxury to drink in public without being hassled, ticketed or worse.
“I’d get my head busted open for this back home,” someone says.
Two young men approach us and offer a deal on karaoke.
“All you can drink,” he says.
I ask him how much. It’s 3,000 yen for 2 hours…everything included.
“Not tonight,” I tell him. We’ve decided to skip the ceremonial singing to reach a party at a place called Echo. I’ve never heard of it.
I am reminded of our usual nights at karaoke: 4-10 people pile into a tiny room and pass around an electronic remote, irrationally belting out Springsteen, Queen, Bowie and plenty more in a disillusioned stupor of rock n roll glory and too much cheap booze.
A big rat scurries out from under some garbage past my foot, dragging a greasy wrapper back to nowhere. We continue up the road, passing high-end places, western pubs and yaki-tori stalls. There is no shortage of hustlers doing their best to get you inside anywhere and everywhere that costs a buck.
We reach the evening’s destination: a tall building near an oddly placed Outback Steakhouse. There are maybe ten or more pubs, cafes and hostess bars stacked on top of one another, all the way to the roof. Everything is crammed and smashed up against the next. There is no surplus of physical space. We take the stairs to the second floor. A man named Kato-Man runs two places. One is a small 12 seat bar called Beat Cafe, and the other is Echo: kind of a private party room with a small but adequate dance floor, a short bar and dark ceilings. There is nothing marking it’s location save a piece of torn notebook paper with the words “ECHO” written in green highlighter taped to a large, square door. We pay the 500 yen entrance fee to a man at a round table near the door.
The inside is wallpapered in reflective gold. The ornate vinyl floor is sticky and adorned with attractive patterns of blue and white, cigarette butts scattered about at random. Two Americans mix old soul and rockabilly classics. People stand at the bar and take shots. A pretty Korean girl in a aquamarine skirt and cream blouse snaps pictures of a couple sucking tongues on the sofa. Kids from New Zealand, Australia, America, Korea, China and Japan drink, dance and shout about nothing over the sound of the music.
One of the DJ’s approaches me. He has long, blond hair and he’s wearing a white t-shirt marked with perspiration.
“Where are you from, man?” he asks.
“States,” I say.
“Me too.” He says that he’d first come here planning to stay for a year. That was seven years ago.
“Same old story,” he says. “Met a girl just before I was supposed to leave. Now I don’t know what the hell’s going on.”
I head upstairs to Beat Cafe for a quieter drink. It’s a narrow 12-seater with plenty of character. I’m told these kind of tiny places are quite common in Tokyo. It’s the kind of atmosphere you would expect: warm, relaxed and intimate. Kato-Man is running the bar and choosing songs from his laptop. A muted Ziggy Stardust concert plays on a television at his back.
“You know my friend, huh?” I ask him as he pours my beer into a plastic cup.
“Who’s your friend?” He asks.
“You’re dating her, I say. Roz, right?”
He shakes his head up and down affirmatively.
“These are some real good places. My friends are having a lot of fun,” I say.
“Thanks.” He smiles big and goes back to the music.
I drink my drink and head downstairs. Night blurs into morning and we’re back out in the streets as the glorious rising sun comes up over the metallic buildings, smashing out the darkness and into daylight.
We’re stumbling through Yoyogi park. It’s early morning and I’m holding a flat, warm beer. I’ve no idea why we’re in the middle of park. Kids in their early 20’s are asleep next to a public toilet on the ground. It’s the beginning of a possibly beautiful day, but I’m destroyed so I hail a cab back to Shinjuku, climb the steps to my old apartment building alongside shit side of Kanda river and fall to sleep on my flat, floral patterned futon.
Sunday, July 11th…
It’s around three o’clock in the afternoon. I’m sitting on the Maruonochi subway line towards Koenji from Nakano Sakue station. I feel useless after the previous night’s minor bruising. I’m out in search of a comforting, easy-going atmosphere and slightly greasy delicacies.
Koenji is part of the Suginami ward of Tokyo. Just 3 stops from West Shinjuku, it is host to a sort of alternative living style from the modern, forever accelerated fashion and club scene of Shibuya. Koenji was born from the effects of the Kanto earthquake of 1923 when people moved outward from center city to escape the ruins. I’ve been told that it was famous for it’s tea houses in the 1950’s 
and is credited as the birthplace of the Japanese punk-rock scene of the 70’s. It’s without a doubt, one of the most uniquely enjoyable areas of Tokyo City. Because Koenji came out of the war unscathed, the streets and shops seem to buzz with a genuine warmth that one finds few places in a city with a reputation for being (occasionally) sterile.
We exit Higashi-Koenji staion, making our way up Ome Kaido, one of the main roads connecting major wards in the city. Immediately I am struck by the amount of strange, seemingly useless shops: like a store dedicated entirely to selling old hot-wheels brand toy cars, the flaming logo splashed across the top of the roof. Next-door a girl wearing pink doll-inspired dress stands smiling behind the counter of a shop specializing in second-hand toy lunchboxes and teenage mutant ninja turtles trading cards from the early 90’s.
Near the main train station, we walk down a side street and find ourselves immediately upon the locale red-light district. Big colorful posters of scantily clad anime characters dressed as nurses, maids advertise PINK SALON in large, appropriately pink letters. The characters are drawn to playfully beckon the male passerby down the narrow staircases bordered with photos of the “virtuous” young girls who run the place.
“What is Pink Salon?” I turn and ask my friend Megumi. She seems to be a bit of an expert on Koenji. Her English is ability is admirable, as is her knowledge of the seedy, underground sex industry.
“It’s a blowjob parlor,” shei tells me with a straight face. “You pay to sit in a booth and get a blowjob.”
“Sounds like quite the time,” I say.
Nearby, we head into a cafe called Indian Summer. It’s a sort of bar/restaurant/lounge tucked between various eateries and affordable vintage clothing shops. Up the stairs, we are met by Hiyori, a young woman who serves us 400 yen happy hour beers and a 
bowl of edamame (steamed and salted soy beans). She tells us the place hosts regular party nights, and also doubles as a record label under the same name. The beers are cold and the beans are warm, but the music reminds me too much of some new age easy listening or bad jazz fusion. Overall, Indian Summer is comforting and attractive but too clean for my tastes, so we’re off again and in search of something grittier.
Megumi suggests a place called Hanbei, which we find just past a donut shop around the corner from the pink salons. Supposedly inspired by the Showa period of post war Japan, Hanbei is full of old movie posters from the times, excellent grilled chicken on a stick and black and white episodes of Astro Boy on 20 year old television sets. We order chicken skins, and breast meat on skewers (yaki tori) and dip fresh chopped cabbage into sweet miso sauce over short beers. The waitress is a pretty young thing with bleached blond hair.
I notice that almost all of the workers have piercings, tattoos and dyed hair, chopped in far-out directions. It clashes beautifully with the advertisements from the early 1900’s. It’s oddly appropriate. I tell the waitress I like her hair. She smiles and hands me the tab.
We pay and venture farther from the noise of central Koenji to a side street past some pachinko parlors. I see a simple door adorned with the names of some of my favorite American and Brittish rock bands from the 80’s and 90’s. The sign above simply reads October. Inside it is dark. A Pavement record spins on the turntable. I am immediately comfortable. Shelves of pristine rock and pop vinyls sit beneath rows of framed indie movie posters leading all the way to a lone, see-through cooler of beers from the four corners of the world. I order a cold can Sapporo beer and ask the bartender how long October has been around. He changes the record to an old pop song from the 80’s I cannot place.
“For ten years,” he says.
“What’s your name?”
“I’m Hiro.” He lights a cigarette and changes the record again.
“Why did you name it October?” I ask.
“At the time, I was really in love with U2’s second album. It’s called October.”
“I see.” I buy a pack of cigarettes. He lights it for me. What a guy.
PUNCH THE SANDBAG
MACH by J. Tenney. Original Photograph by Dan Herbertson.
The beat, and heading out fighters of passion have always weighed heavily on my mind. As a young boy I felt it necessary to walk hand in hand with these sorts of fictional men like my great affection for characters like Wolverine and Rocky Balboa who alongside the ninja turtles drug me through a relatively wondrous and happy, yet forever geographically transitioning childhood. Great men! golden men with far more to lose than their imperfect teeth;like pearly bullets guarding tongues from the world past their wonderfully sad, hacked apart chin-flesh. Pro wrestlers, boxers, karate boys, street brawlers and Judoka- all with an alternative notion of existence, competition and a striving towards the treasure of victorious. What in their star-filled heads drives these men and women to battle their lives away like noble piñatas gently rocking under the shady branches of an elm? Could it be something fictional? There are multiple reasons of varying degrees for each individual, but I know there must be a meeting point…some connection or mind changing dream-tub in which they were sleepily baptized in by their private, sacred waters and they’re shared under the veil of dreams, or something else fantastically pretty to think of.
On the eve of my 27th year, I was fortunate enough to spend a rainy day with one of my old prize fighting heroes in Hayato “MACH” Sakurai, at his gym here in Tokyo. I wrote up a 2,000 word piece on the experience for http://mma-japan.com/, which has received some moderate thumbs up. With some luck and a dash of my own cool hand I’ll continue following these gifted mashers of muscle and bone, so that I might find something resembling an answer to the reason why I find them, simply put, so beautiful.
EXCERPT:
“THE MACH DOJO is a small rectangular room on the bottom floor of a short building North of Shinjuku at the Sugamo train stop. It is a damp afternoon. There are piles of shoes, sandals and boots scattered under the awning of the gym and spilling out into the wet street. It has just finished raining. Two older Japanese journalists stand at the door looking up at the sky talking about the weather. “It’s not going to stop raining,” one of them says.
Today the iconic Hayato “MACH” Sakurai is doing a live training session and press conference at his gym in Tokyo, Japan. It is a one room gym with low ceilings. The floor is bright yellow padding and the soft walls are lined with beat-up training equipment, photos of fighters and popular Japanese animated characters. A signed picture of Kinikuman, a popular wrestling comic book hero sits above the glass doorway. It is quiet. I am talking to a young, attractive interpreter about Sakurai’s mood as of late. He has been grumpy, apparently, from having to cut weight.
“He hates cutting weight,” she says. “Makes him testy.”THE MACH DOJO is a small rectangular room on the bottom floor of a short building North of Shinjuku at the Sugamo train stop. It is a damp afternoon. There are piles of shoes, sandals and boots scattered under the awning of the gym and spilling out into the wet street. It has just finished raining. Two older Japanese journalists stand at the door looking up at the sky talking about the weather. “It’s not going to stop raining,” one of them says.
Today the iconic Hayato “MACH” Sakurai is doing a live training session and press conference at his gym in Tokyo, Japan. It is a one room gym with low ceilings. The floor is bright yellow padding and the soft walls are lined with beat-up training equipment, photos of fighters and popular Japanese animated characters. A signed picture of Kinikuman, a popular wrestling comic book hero sits above the glass doorway. It is quiet. I am talking to a young, attractive interpreter about Sakurai’s mood as of late. He has been grumpy, apparently, from having to cut weight.
“He hates cutting weight,” she says. “Makes him testy.”
The Slipping day-Clouds overhead: BASTARDS OF THE INFINITE #4
script by K. Hartrumart by J. Tenneyletters by Daniel Herbertson
Heaven last.
The Garden
New Waves/First Kills
Lucky Lucien and the Horror (art by Joseph Tenney)
“New waves crash against the line of beach where you sit and watch out for great monsters in the deep who never come up from darkest blue to swallow heavy chunks of the real air in front of you.-”
Joseph and I recently dug up an older 4-pager that was first published as part of Bastards of The Infinite 3 called Crossing The Border. In this storyboard-styled piece, The Matador chases criminal and Mexican speedster, El Coyote down into Northern Mexico from Southern California. Old Lucky Lucien takes the issue to the grave only to uncover the aromatic flower of death, pure regret and a blissful “roll in the hay.” The story was originally done in a “no frills” fashion, and we decided the simple allure of the tale was appropriate at the time.
A year later we’ve come to the conclusion that the Mexican adventure was worth a second look. Joseph has reworked the art and I’ve rewritten a bit of the script, all the while keeping in mind the original “no-bells” kind of feel for the thing. The concept of redux has always been intriguing to me….a topic of controversial tigers and serpents. There is something to be said of a work’s original incarnation, but I think its a hell of thing to see where things end up when given a second thought. Here, we’ve posted both versions for your pleasure: The Matador #97: Crossing The Border- Revisited.
In the fair beginnings of spring, new waves crash against us while we continue to work for our precious weekend mentality. It’s been mentioned to me that motivation is equal if not greater to the importance of natural talent (granted, possibly a justification for a lack thereof), and because of this, a certain pairing of control and recklessness must be acquired in order to accomplish things freely and steadily. A pace must be found. Frank Herbert said something about seeking liberation within restraint. He might have been onto something. Rise up from the grave and claim your living, oh dead and buried!
-K
From The Boggy Banks of Unicorn Island…
From the boggy banks of Unicorn Island….
!Vamos a Mexico! by J. Tenney
…the modern ladies and gentlemen of Matador Sequential politely bow in the year of the Tiger, two thousand and ten. 26
fortunate years have passed since slipping through the vermilion gates on my dear mother, and I feel like the time is now to make damn sure it was all for something, at least that is what I demand, all the while seeing it as nothing more than a soiled diaper hanging from the hips of some degenerate 3 year old standing at the edge of a parking-lot smoking cigarettes in the blinding sun. It seems laughable that we start things off with an impossible amount of optimism…forever taking short jaunts up the considerable grade for a chance at real overcoming, but the rock tumbles down. It will continue to, and without struggle there’s nothing to say. So we should have plenty to talk about and plenty to spin dreams for. We reach a point of clarity-a moment of true sight, and everything seems to shine and sparkle. Silver bells ring. We smell cinnamon. It all goes down for a matter of seconds or even minutes, and then its gone.
Maybe it’s the post-holiday malaise that drives one to dissect past a future events…to weigh what one has accomplished vs. what is till to come. Motivation makes up for genius. “God, I hope so!” I think it now and my warring eyes across the fake wood paneling of a desk through the window against the neighboring building. Nothing to see but that faded green wall. “fuck it,” I think. Who needs a view? I’ve spent enough years seeking out the perfect view.
My own Christmas day was far from traditional and my noticeable sadness from having been away from the soil was overshadowed by the unusual terrain and flavors of the dead-creature booze left on counter-top at the coconut candy factory, having been lucky enough to spend 10 lovely days in Vietnam.
entry/December 25th, 2009….
“We woke at 7:00 in Ho Chi Min, and had a typical foreigner’s breakfast of omelet, bread and Vietnamese coffee, black as hell and I thought it tasted faintly of vanilla because of the condensed milk and peculiar silver brewer. Maybe it didn’t. I feel like I don’t taste right. Took a bus out to the Mekong Delta from Ho Chi Min City. The uncomfortable ride lasted nearly two hours. My stomach was sour from something I had eaten, so I was indifferent about the passing surroundings. They took us to a factory where crafts were handmade by physically disabled locals from the area 40 minutes outside of Saigon. They told us it was partly funded by the American government. All the pieces were over-priced and clearly geared towards tourists. I felt strange walking in the long lines past the short tables where people worked diligently, barely looking up from their chiseling, or scraping at the line of guilt-riddled travelers snapping pictures in awe at the lack of arms, legs, feet and distorted digits. I didn’t feel sad, but there was a sensation of discomfort at secretly finding it all so novel.
The remainder of the ride to the delta was quiet, with the passengers falling in and out of sleep. We had to change to another ferry to reach Unicorn, Turtle, and Phoenix island. The guides lead us through jungle paths where we tasted fresh picked papaya, pineapple and dragon fruits with small toothpicks and a mild tea sweetened with local honey. I drank straight from the bottle of honey. It was thin from the heat and very rich. A medium sized python wrapped itself tightly around a grey stone in a clear, glass tank.
“His name is Jeff.”
For Christmas lunch we ate a nasty looking creature called an elephant fish. The meat was pulled off the bones with wet fingers and wrapped in rice paper with vegetables. We drank a local beer called 333 (ba ba ba) and shots of Vietnamese rum that were scooped out of an enormous glass jar where dead snakes, birds and scorpions sat lifelessly throughout, supposedly holding medicinal and sex powers for men. On our way out we poured into long riverboats and rowed down a narrow, muddy river. They gave us grass hats. I put one on and felt silly. Along the banks, local people held out cupped hands… “…money. You give money?” I handed a pretty, young girl an American dollar.
The air was cooler on the ferry ride back. The tour guide talked about the local economy and how the delta was everything. Children jumped from a flat fishing boat and splashed into the caramel colored water. Their skin was dark-copper brown.
***
All things gather up in bright colors and then become quiet. Back to my Tokyo jungle.
J. Tenney and myself thought it necessary to connect the dots by tossing in Bastards of The Infinite 3 “I WON’T GO TO HELL.” This installment of our own up-hill jaunt was written and produced in 2008, on the verge of my return to the states. Down-trodden nothing seekers, Brutus and Ed find themselves filthy and broken, awash in a desert of grief, doing their best to achieve a cool hand and a hard touch as they deal with the American work camp prison, sentenced to toiling the highway under that devil of a sun for god knows how long. Comrade Joseph Tenney was always a little hesitant about this work, but recently found peace with it.
“ -Part three of our first Bastards arch is arguably my weakest work on our line to date, it’s existence has threatened my ego on a daily basis. There was so much turmoil going on both between Kris and I concerning our collaboration as well as my home-front ill-fated romance, much of my weak and troubled mind leaked into this story, however as I was scanning these pages and adjusting the contrast I became much more at ease with them. I feel like the art and story reflect the time in our boy’s lives. Resting assured that part four will blow you away.- J.Tenney
Please enjoy Bastards of The Infinite 3 (Read it online | Download the cbz). It is a very modest preface to part 4, which will be released before you hear the cock howl thrice. The future gains momentum. You feel that heat on the back of your heels? The hot breath of a mangy tiger dressed in designer white-pants paws up the sweet smelling dirt, bringing good fortune.
Have at thee!
…A mixed tape for muddle, or The Drunk Heebie Jeebies
“It’s in me right now. I can feel it sitting like an invisible, nameless thing deep in my guts. It stretches its unusual, mashed potato limbs through my nervous system and up to the skull, shitting into my toxic brain waste, and then it’s impossible to make the slightest decision…”
I enjoy being drunk, and there has been quite enough said on the grandeur of this vice over the years, for all its delight and down-trodden romantic misgivings, but the world of the booze hound and his consequences continues to delight and astound me. Maybe I’ve grown to unreasonably lust, like any man (powerful or weak), after it’s curves and its warmth, its whispered word locked inside a caramel brown, sea-like history …we peer out into the vastness of streets in the dark, holding onto to one another for dear life. We believe we are in this together. There is a good chance we still are.
A young couple appears from a deep wonderless sleep, bashful and thirsty, and into trousers and combed hair. I take a plastic container of cold water from under the long sofa. I clear my throat and nose into an undershirt.
“We’ve got to get up now, or there won’t be anything left to see,” he says.
Purple preview of page 1 of Bastards IV, by J. Tenney
He’s the Australian. They both are. The couple does their best to motivate us for action, but what good is action without resources and a decent set of pink lungs and youthful muscle on bone. We are wounded, but cuts mend. Ours run as long as we’ll let them. We manage out of the shadowy depths from the curtains and into the daylight. Since our departure, the winds seem to have turned cold. The mood is not cheerless. On the contrary, to jest is our involuntary guard from the boots of silence.
The birds follow us. They seem to be doing their best remain undercover…like a swarm of private detectives suited in oil-black feathers as they scrape quietly behind, and we sense their vendetta, but can not discuss it openly for fear of the invisible. I am reminded of a friend who was once tormented by the pigeons while sitting outside of a cafe, trapped inside fears…
“It wasn’t all at once, but they came up in groups of two and threes, and before long I could see their disease and the garbage around them and I feared for my life. Closer, and then more putrid with each soundless step. You would swear they were losing feather in patches, cancerous growths pulsating in the meandering dusk. I had to leave suddenly. I walked quickly away from the table without paying my tab and went straight home and crawled under my blankets to forget about the absurd pigeons and their damn cooing.”
The hours are a tipping boat. I am all but numb to the cool breeze carried in after the rain. We dodge in and out of sluggish taxi cabs and dark windows. I need to eat. If I keep the hole in my face stuffed with coffee, beer and food, I can ward off the foreboding. It distracts me from the jitters and the stillness of non-thought. We arrive at a cheap Italian diner and order 1 of everything, because it costs nothing and a big jug of sweet, red wine for 1,000 yen which is also nothing. The modern Japanese are guilty of drinking red wine on ice, which is nearly unforgivable, but I choke it down. With every glass the corners of my cheek-flesh twists from the uncomfortable blend of sour and cold, and I am eased. The noise becomes less violent and we are sitting comfortably. The Australian falls asleep in the booth. It is quiet. We’ve been here for hours.
Day to night and the swarms of doubt return, passing as frustration and short-tempered fits of anger that end in guilt before they reach a logical climax. This is the contorted face of my own non-motivator; the heebbie Jeebies, a phrase that was incidentally coined by the 1920′s cartoonist Billy Debeck. It’s no secret that this pairing of nonsensical words has been used to described the particular flavor of depression caused by the over-consumption of alcohol, but I am moved to declare that the term is most pertinent in illustrating my own (and a few brave men and women’s) determent from the the real beauty of creation. It is the separation anxiety from losing the closeness of intoxication. As we know, C. Baudelaire (that wonderfully lazy lover of harlots) teaches us to “..get drunk without respite, with wine, poetry or virtue, as you please,” but the gathered band of battlers who fall for the night to hunt loneliness with pike and song (marching to this very tune) often forget the the truth of the flesh; that we are here to enjoy it all- the dashing lights skipping across the tops of icy hills, the laughter of tongue kissed lovers and the attractive sadness of a cold and empty room. I can deal with it if you can, but I put this forth to you as a poor explanation of for my rather often creative inactivity. It is inexcusable.
It must be made clear that I neither subscribe nor condemn this popular, over-used concept of becoming the hopeless drunkard wandering through his malnourished nights as if the predetermined concept of aesthetics out-weighed the irreparable damage done to ones’s emotional and social well-being, but it is an interesting process to examine. That strange and mysterious “sense of impending doom that never takes place,” as Tal Clapp once described it. If nothing else it will be something that we will use as an unusual reminder of ridiculous longing, or maybe it’s nothing more thanan easily solved contradiction: stop getting so drunk. Regardless of your solution, or progressive non-solution to this trivial inconvenience, I would like to curl my fingers down and tuck them into my palm so that a mighty knuckle sandwich shines like polished silver and gold to these dastardly creeps that’ve been crashing our precious Sunday evenings for years, and scream from the rooftop of very high building: “I Will not be stopped!”
But then it is quiet again. The neighbors have their television set down very low and you can hear them whispering. Impossible to make out exact words, but it’s obvious they’re plotting. You can feel their meaning. The pipes rattle curiously. Any minute now nothing will happen, but you wait in absolute terror shaking your head and damning the lonesome night.
________________________________________
J. Tenney has just finished the art for Bastards 4, so wash you hands and go for broke. Just a few more moments…HAVE AT THEE!
Love, K
GOOD HUMOREDLY & The Blood Speckled Youth
Sammy Sayama by Kris Dyche
“The young guns from the critical world of published “real” work will inevitably take control of our waking life, dreams, and milk-shake boogies during these indispensable whiskey soaked weekend jaunts. What is one’s reputation if not a collection of over (or under)-hyped rumors and war stories birthed from the imagined existences of multiple shit-stained opinions? Is this something that you’re willing to destroy- to totally resign yourself to the ideal comedy? “
I was offered this question and slightly intelligible overture by a very dear version of myself 3 days ago, suffering after a grueling boxing session under the incomparable tutelage of Daniel “Snapshot” Herbertson, who followed his invaluable lesson with a bottle of wine and a carton of eggs. We want it all, of course, but the desire is not as attractive as it once was. We cannot get by on charm and voice alone. It got us laid, and for that I am eternally grateful, but the jig is up! The party’s crashing us now, so it’s time to toss everything into that bonfire of cool that burns on, regardless of all this sadness and the ever-deflating la-la land of our roaring twenties.
To do one’s best to represent himself and the lovers surrounding in every action – such is the code of Creative Villainy, as supposed by fellow raconteur Joseph Tenney, but is this not a series useless, damp torches scattered through the tunnels of shadow to cloak the family- a blanket of flowers against that condition of despairing? Melodrama aside, hopeful phrases are delightful enough to get us through till the sun drops low, only to rise again, and the shadows back to the holes they love. Camus says we cannot hope to truly depict ourselves in the work we smash into the nocturnal pulp night after night, sullen and staring off into the dull colors on the wall. So allow us to continue to give grace to our fellow friends and enemies, because who better to illustrate the depths?
!!!
After our recent and heinous duration of soulless inactivity, unavoidable transience, and slight personal tragedy, the boys and girls at Matador sequential are at it again- well-dressed in the finest linens, with polished fingernails and delicately oiled chest hairs to procreate for the knuckle sandwich of graphic tales, one which is destined to pack a punch. Straight out of the eccentric neon-lit streets of Tokyo comes the show-stealing bout of the decade as Japan’s ace wrestler, Sammy Sayama (a.k.a. The Flying Rooster), tests his gallantry against everyone’s favorite bull-battling crusader in THE MATADOR for an all out intellectual battle of glorious god-like physiques, sweat and two sets of rapidly firing synapses that are sure to bring down the sun with unadulterated speed and precision.
In lofty hopes of creating something new and explosively dynamic, we’ve stumbled upon the expertise of Jersey import Kris “Kintaro” Dyche to dazzle us with his loud, explicit approach to sequence, and his affinity for color and satire. It’s gonna be hot one in the old town tonight as the Bull Warrior hopes to take down Tokyo’s favorite blood-fucked Yakuza in an all out , knock-around , chin-kicked Shibuya, cyber-punk street war. The boys and girls back home better work on their ground-game: THIS ONE’S GOING FOR BROKE!
The Desert
Rotchester Kids, by Zach Durst
A digressive on Collaborative Relationships
Collaborations have a way of unraveling once the invincible-steel ego is assaulted to shiny slivers and reworked with large glowing ghost needles into a poorly knit scarf of childish lamentations, after winding you up like a mechanical dinosaur, rolling around on plastic wheels- eyes blinking red, ruthless and full of spite. Creative marriages are like any other relationship. They require the watchful eye and a sympathetic ear. It’s easy to slip and become terrified at the sound of your own voice, shaking at stick at the sky because you refuse to bend and then you watch the two-day flower petals fall down the stem of the long glass bottle and press the tip of your index finger into it, smashing the violet into the brown tiles of the floor.
Impossible to work with,” He says.
“You can’t imagine the silly egotism of this guy.”
“Artists!” he grunts, rolling his eyes.
Men and women are fiercely protective of what they believe to be their stake in the lonesome sand pits, venomous crawling things and all. Those who have agreed with the physical world of sensations are far worse, because they (we) have more to gain and far more to lose. The deserts are not livable environments. We lose ourselves at the limits of the steel wonders of the city and then wake in bitter resentment. Our hope is to populate this wilderness with beautiful, shiny treasures because what else is there? Nothing soothing- only dust and the need for inspiration, heroes and humility. City boys fall wildly in love with the idea. One hopes to become innovative and the companion must appear as the equal if they’re to have a fighting chance at the crossing, the sun beating down on the sad quiet sounds of mediocrity.
It seems that an equal amount of forthcoming judgment and verbal affection is necessary to breed health in the partners who grind their creation gears, multiplying productivity and populating the vast neuro-deserts, located behind the eyes and stretching all the way to our under the sea dreams . I mention the desert because recently I’ve found it to be an unavoidable phenomenon. A train rolls by in the distance, smashing its wheels and harsh metal armors, quickening the gravity of my personal heebie jeebies, widening the arid landscape again and then restless dreams and sleeplessness. I find my hand lacks the necessary coordination. I wake on the floor of a friend’s room. The air comes in off the tracks and the tops of cold, gray office buildings. I think about the economy of my circles, friends missions and high hopes for cool.
“Cool is worthless and you’re the devil for mentioning it,” they whisper.
We were educated on the importance of leadership and reputation. I feel like leading but there are so many false standards that we end stabbing at the air in front of us like wild apes in the dark.
It’s needless to say that a certain amount of vigilance is needed in keeping our cools (there’s that word again) at the time of the great critique. Youth fights hopelessly for place in the jeweled belt of the star-scape. The breakdown starts a lack of communication: distance and a muddled translation from thought to speak. I write this as a love letter to all who’ve decided to take arms with soft-knights and as a petition for resilience and as a means of redemption. I (we) need to keep my claws folded and share the uncommon wealth that may yet to exist, and keep the bastards moving forward to battle the insignificant squabbles from the back of the bar, near the toilet laughing over the sound of the 9 ball cracking against the cue.
Keep yourself Alive! Love, K. Hart.
HEAVINLY BODIES
Bastards of The Infinite part 2 COVER
It’s been given to my attention that massive city machines resembling carnivals at all hours of the haunting night are among the most beautiful human spectacles I’ve witnessed. This previous weekend in Tokyo did nothing but reinforce this concept in shiny, purple spades, fashioned from sea-shells drying on the beaches of Fujisawa.
An authentic smörgåsbord of lights and music tucked into an unusually liveable envelope of 35 million sons and daughters, Tokyo smashes away my last hopes of being content in smaller, harmless cities. It is for the the love of the megalopolis that I offer you this humble update of the future that lies ahead, ours and yours, Matadors, bastards and all the rest.
With Joseph “Romeo” Tenney and “Honeyhole” Sadie Starnes working diligently in the dear ole United States, I myself am finding another sort of footing in progressing ahead with this (toddler sized) body of work. My physical move to the greater Tokyo area in October should lend a new flavor of metallic shave to my food and an affordable carbon monoxide dressing to my drink, but this will do nothing more than propel my sorry tukis towards all the bells and whistles of true variety, and the collective of modern mongrels living Tokyo side including the incredulous photographer Daniel Herbertson, impossibly cinnamon-hot fashion-tramps Nic Nic Lees and Andrea Bernstein, J-film starman Naoki Nakamura and a slew of hungry judokas, boxers, actors and self important dream weavers with varying intentions. It will be a blessing and trial, to be sure.
For your viewing delight, Bastard’s of the Infinite 1 and 2, the tales that started it all, are now free to read online or download. Join the forces of sub-justice in a caffeine-fueled romp through the hot nights of self-loathing, fisticuffs and semi-heroics. Spiraled, one horned mules, overcoming space-time, and plenty of gratuitous nonsense to last you an eternity.
Furthermore, celebrated comic stylist Kris Dyche will be penciling his heart from the confines of friendly Nagoya Shi (the city of sparkling wart-like uniformed pleasure), and is set to slice through the Matador scene next month with his take on the benefits of sexual molestation, substance abuse and importance of leafy greens. Dyche has taunted the hearts of devotees for years with his self produced comic titles and sharp witted comic strip Liquid Kids. Surely, herds of silver blooded Unicorns in heat will set the dandelions afire, grazing the nights away to their candy-sprinkled hearts’ content.
Keep your guard up, K. Hartrum
Damned if I don’t.
Sketch idea for new Bastards story - Amanda holding razor to Ed's throat- by Joseph Tenney
‘Clouds of soundless dust swirl. A star burns brightly in the distance…having been dead for a thousand years. Its here that life is slowly cooked and then extinguished. It reopens, like a flower or as an embryo might and grows, contracts, people kiss, stars become dying giants and then back to the infinitesimally dense grapefruit center.’
This thought cooks visions of future endeavors and comet related space ballads for tomorrow’s interests in barely science fiction, dynamite, and fast stories about pretty cool sunglasses. Recently we, as (wannabe) artists and frequenters of creativity, theoretically and later literally, have reached a bit of a big ugly fork in the road, not that we must decide which path to take, because it will determine anything very dramatic or serious but a fork, regardless of past phrases. What defines something as cool or worth giving a shit about? Is it the reaction it stirs in like minded evaluators, or does it lie somewhere in the intentions of the inspirations and influences surrounding it? It seems that we have been thrown back to the inception of our love for all the pretty things that should inspire in us that unmanageable warmth we swore like heroes to guard years ago along the rainy banks of back building creeks . What kind of process is left when inactivity becomes a serious issue? It must be a kind of forever struggle- as if some gray, untextured paper gel had been set between my brain and eyeballs, severing that ability to put beauty and cool into context, because after all, cool is a useless thing, if not another word for beauty, or at the very least some of its finer characteristics, and if the words of men like Keats hold any water, then that’s all there ever was. I’m sure there was more, but who cares to paint pictures about it? Let’s not to pretend to be rational at the very bottom of our guts. Efficiency is one thing to talk about, scribbling little notes about “to do” and “REMEMBER!” to ourselves so that we can figure it all out in the morning when we sober up and all the regrets take the shapes of wounded looks, etc…Of course this is off track. That’s the point. That’s what I meant to tell you. Its a hell of a thing to stay moving forward, on the same linear road you started for- not to reach an end point, just an exploration. Let’s explore something unreachable before the dying of that tenacious light. What else is there? What would be the purpose of all those meaningless piles of nighttime hours if not to fight with tooth and nail for a chance to see this piping hot sweet potato pie past the sun, solar storms and then settling in the nearby edges of proxima centauri?
Respectfully, K