The Vreckless Vrestlers series is a comic tribute to pop culture of the ’80s and ’90s – wrestling, toys, cartoons, comics and games of these times. Things which still give me lots of joy and will forever remain a great inspiration. For me, one of most important things about my comics is that I am doing everything myself, except translations. Script, design, drawing, preparing files for digital and print, promotion – I do it all without crowd funding or sponsors. 100% DIY. Of course, I have support from my wife and friends!
Issue #0 introduces the main players in this time-defying universe.
Do you know it’s in my nature to want, want people, places and things, not being fully satisfied but just always in want? Why am “eye” like this? Wanting just to be wanting, never ever really needing, just wanting?
“Eye” want my woman to love me, spoil me, cook for me, pamper me just want her to do something for me! Look at me, being as selfish as “eye” can be. When will my desire to want set me free? Is it that “eye” am just like other wanters in search of wanting and never really needing?
Harry Frankfurt, an American philosopher who has taught at Princeton Yale and Rockefeller Universities, explores in his lectures the idea that what one loves reflects what he or she values and their own self conception. Frankfurt believes that what we love and care about is a part of our psychic raw material and cannot be changed without intense personal examination.
“What took you so goddamn long, boy?” Margene demanded. “I been calling your name since the commercial.” On the big-screen television, a perky blonde with dazzling teeth cooed about the efficacy of scented douche. Whenever Margene needed another wine cooler or wanted to empty the ashtray, she wailed for her son, Dewey, to leave his computer and assist her. He shuffled from the back of the mobile home, past all the piles of cardboard boxes lining the hall, and into the living room where Margene held court. Cigarette dangling from her lips and remote control clenched in her grip, she growled for Dewey to complete the tasks her sloth made untenable.
For the past half century, I have never seen
A single frog in this city, not even in the whole country
But there are four big-mouthed frogs leaping around
Afar in a rice field of my native village
If Sam Axe died
on USA’s intense dramatic show,
I would have cried
for a character I always wanted to know,
and Burn Notice would have sighed
Three sisters that danced in the night
That struck the snow bloody white
One of anger, one of fright, one of spite
A dark deed out of sight
Now two sisters danced the night
One kissed the stars with her light
While the other slit her throat that night
Now one sister danced
Yet the rhythm she could not keep and death came in her sleep
Now we are alone
Some don’t like poetry that’s hard, dense like a Roman wall.
Others had to learn ways through that wall, so here I am
needing strange poetry to explain how I taste sound.
My way of hearing the world was always derided
by people who trampled the music that fed me,
the soft leaves and singing of the woods
that wrapped around me when all was lost.
Noisier, hotter engines invade the waters
in inner ears now; but some don’t care.
The world rolled up to his feet
like a soft wave,
and his words
whisper across each crest.
And knowledge drifted,
but as we sank in further
did our feet touch bottom,
feeling the jagged surface beneath,
I hate children. I think children are annoying little creatures who excel at getting adults into trouble.
I used to be a child, but that was a long time ago.
I once had my arm twisted by my friend to baby sit her kid for a night while she went off to a Neil Diamond concert with her partner. I never took up such an occupation before in my life but I foolishly decided to give it a go.
Now this little kid I had to baby sit was verging on his fifth birthday and I really did not want to stay up and talk toddler gibberish with him all night so I decided to put him to bed.