WHITE. AND.......

Ok, one question down, nine to go. Come on y'all, I CAN'T HEAR YOU.

So, now a kind of answer in another. The White Doberman Pinscher.

If you go looking for information on the COLOR VARIANT I beg you to ignore the DPCA.

Pogroms and genocide are ugly things for a national breed club to endorse, but in my opinion and that of many, many other really fine breeders it is totally unacceptable.

QUESTION AUTHORITY.

Photos posted.

On to something else. It seems I have a face book page.

I'm telling you I am not in any way responsible for it nor does it have my blessing.

I just wish whoever put it there had asked me. Ok?

Right then....lets get them thar questions in...just make 'em good.

peace,

M.Z.

AH, HE'S AT IT AGAIN......

Ok. The only reason I'm back here while essentially having nothing to say is most likely I probably do and I simply don't know what it is yet.

As I type this I'm listening to Bob Dylan's "Series of dreams"...a sort of personal mantra followed by "Jokerman'....which is so Blakeian and rich in imagery that it shakes the foundations of my self.....maybe a level I aspire to in my own work. Funny, I take more inspiration from music than other visual art forms.

Hmmm....what to say?

Ah, got it....( two minutes passed before I just wrote that.)

At one time, a good decade before me and comics collided I had a chance to become a world class wildlife artist. But a move like that requires in equal measures, connections, luck and a big spoon full of personal support. One thing throughout my artistic career that has until now has been a total lack of personal support.

Ok, another idea.....lets see how it flies. If it doesn't work, that's ok, if it does I'm in for some serious writing.

If ten people, all different, write to me with ten good questions, I'll answer them all right here as best and as honestly as I can. How's that? I figure ten questions about just basically anything shouldn't be to much or to difficult.

Go for it. I'm ready.

Love to all,

M.Z.

FOR LACK OF ANYTHING ELSE TO SAY...

Well, here it is, almost "thanksgiving". A few million turkeys down and a new crop coming up for new years day. Pass the antibiotics mom!

Ok, really, nothing much to say. We're getting by, and the stuff of daily life happens and we get up and do it again. Century Guild will be doing a "Universal Boy" limited edition tee shirt at some point. I voted for the lunch box, who eats lunch any more? Someday, when I'm all grown up and stuff, and I am out and about signing a book here and there, I think I will insist in my contract that a dozen roses be on the table next to me so I can give them to people. Well, at least a dozen people anyway.
Seems like a nice thing to do. I may leave the thorns on.

I hope all of you are alright and making do.
I guess I'll be back when something exciting happens.

Love ya all.

M.Z.

PEEKABOO.

Ok.

If you are even a bit curious about the so called, "BOOK" I keep rattling on about you can have wee peek at a few pages over at the Century Guild blog.
Don't say I didn't warn you. Under sixteen must be accompanied by a parent or guardian.

Ta, must dash.. I'm accepting the Dorian Grey Memorial Deviancy award.

M.Z.

FOR THE FOUR.

The title of this post has to do with the fact that I have four "followers" that have taken the time to actually stand up and be counted. I consider myself lucky to have that many. So, from now on, I'll be writing for you lot. Thank you.

Lemme pull yer coat for a minute ok?
Look, there are big things happening here. Oh, nothing you can see yet, except that that from now on, the color of the text when I write here has changed. No, nothing for you to see yet.
Yet.
There is going to be a while before anything really new, anything that points true north, that signals that there is foreword movement coming. If I were so inclined, I might say that artistically, I'm on hiatus....unpaid leave of absence. "But why Mr. Zed" you ask?
Here's where the coat pulling starts......

I've been more or less in the public eye for nearly a quarter of a century. My very first published work in the comics medium was Puma Blues number one, cover dated August 1986. Right now, that feels like forever, and few extra days for seasoning. I've written here recently that I've been basically bed-ridden for three weeks now with a really evil flu. One tends, if one happens to be me, to think quite a bit when my hands are doing nothing any more productive than blowing my nose, scratching my ass or changing the radio channel. This can be extraordinarily troubling if you have a boiling pot of pasta for brains. Throw shit at the wall and study what sticks. Throw anything, nothing off bounds, just whip it out and hope for something interesting to happen.
What essentially happened was that after absolutely nothing stuck was that I realized that after twenty three years of slowly, steadily being seduced into the artist I am today, I'm bone dry.
After the completion of Fracture of the Universal Boy, I had, in fact summed it all up, said it all and the only way to keep going was to keep re-plowing the same field until I either drop or go barking mad. Neither option seemed like it had a lot to recommend itself. As the saying goes, " I may be crazy, but I'm not stupid."
And so, the demolition began. Let me tell you something, (tug tug.) the absolutely worst, most devastating thing that that can happen to a true artist, ( as opposed to an entertainer perhaps?) is the idea of stasis. Of not progressing to someplace valid and true. Of simply giving them what they want, or expect or maybe even need rather than being able to reach inside and be surprised, and excited by new things, concepts and challenges. A sort of living death. Ok, perhaps I have higher expectations of myself, or it could be I'm just a pretentious asshole. But, after the Book was finished I found myself with a very clear choice: either go on singing "i can't get no satisfaction" until I get carried of by the nice friendly guys with the stiff white coat, or some very serious self examination comes down.
Just what the fuck I needed right now. Sick, broke and looking down a black hole of a future. Oh, yeah kids, I'm thrilled. Alas, we don't always have a choice in these matters, we must remain open to ideas when they come, no matter how distasteful. I believe it's called being a grown up.
The process of essentially stripping down twenty odd years of personal history to get to a point where nothing remains except the truth is not recommended unless you have the proper tools.
We humans have a near infinite capacity for self deception, and I'm no better or worse that anyone else in that regard. Eight years of therapy helps. trusting what skills one does have for real helps too. Eventually, if the courage to look yourself in the eye and see every line, pock mark and white hair without blinking can be accomplished you get to a place that is clear, unvarnished and open as a the thrill of first love.
That's about where I am at the moment. In love for the first time, and I don't know if she loves me back. Talk about nervous. Shit. I have butterfly's eating my intestines and my deodorant ain't working.
It's all about love. L.O.V.E.
The mystery's of life and the human heart. Awkward, pimple on the nose, aw-shucks every time I see her I get a boner.

I'm in fact, re- dedicating myself to the honest examination of heart and soul. Having decided that the old bag of tricks will not help me here, I've decided to just grow a set and ask her out.

Throw it at the wall and hope to God that it sticks. And brothers and sisters, I'm scared to death. But damn it, i feel alive.

Now the hard part......praying you'll be interested in what happens enough to be the fly on the wall and gimme an amen, thumbs up, you go dude....whatever.

Rather cryptically I'll leave you with this: Paris 1920.

Just wait.

Peacefulness...

M.Z.

BITS AND BITS AND BITS

I hate the fucking flu.
Three weeks now of slowly rotting on the sofa pulling enough of myself together to get to my doctors. I almost went second stage, ie: pneumonia. Not good. So I've busied my self with composing paintings in my head. Six so far, two of which I've practically fainting to do. But that could just be the drugs. I'm beginning to think that if I was forced to never, ever make pictures again I'd slowly suck up into my head and kill myself.

Another bit: I must have pressed a wrong button somewhere and deleted all my saved addresses from the web mail I get here. So, i you've written to me about something and I haven't written back, blame my creeping technophobia. Sod it, I'm sorry.

One more bit: I'm planning to finally finish the tattoos on my left arm into a finished piece. That is, if the artist I want to work with ever writes back. All our lives seemed to run by day planners.

Yet another: today is the day there has been sunshine since I came down with the plague. Things just get better all the time. I should have been an urologist.

And yet again: I'm burning all my old canvases tomorrow. I hate the sight of them. It's my party and the quest list is crap.

One last thing, and promise to go away: when I'm reasonably lucid, I'm plotting and researching my next book. This has lead my to finally come to terms with my birth in Louisiana and it's culture. Still wouldn't want to live there, but I'd visit in winter sometime. "native son returns" and all that.

There.....all(most) all off my chest, which hurts right now, but not as much as a week ago.
So, Pierre, if you're reading this by chance, send more Gauloises, PLEASE I'm back to work Monday and I owe you big time my friend.

I DON'T BELIEVE IN FLU SHOTS.....it's a paranoia thing.

Loveliness to all....

M.Z.

DREAMLESS

I suppose I should show up now and then. It's just a bit difficult when essentially I have nothing to say that matters. The book is done. Yay. The question I was absolutely unprepared for was, "what now?"
Oops. Didn't think of that. The bottom has fallen out of my raison d'être. Simply put, I just don't know where to go to re-establish my love of work. The old ideas and concepts seem stale, a bit mouldy about the edges and inedible. And just as perversely, I find that the idea of really painting again on a large scale is slowly becoming more and more attractive. This would be of course suicide, quick and efficient and very painful. I just can not hope to support my family by investing large scale in fresh painting gear.....couldn't afford it anyway. It will be early spring before I can even hope for any returns on the book at all. So, I seem to be facing a very long, cold winter casting about for both renewed inspiration and a decent living.

Everything I try to cast an eye towards in the way of fresh feelings comes back a vague echo of whatever I was hoping to find. A kind of "been there done that" vibe that alternately pisses me off of makes me want to just go hide in a hole. Part of the trouble lies for better or worse is the one salient fact that for ninety-nine percent of the "public out there sees me as strictly a comic book artist, when in fact I was always an artist that did comics. I have no real other mojo.

This HAS to change. I MUST have more options. Damn it.

I guess I'll just have to get through this part. But I'm not happy with things.

And writing it down didn't help.


Later,

M.Z.