Frank Frazetta and Florida
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
My group, the DC Conspiracy, is having our first road trip on June 18th. We’re going to the Frazetta museum in Pennsylvania since we’re all pretty big fans of his work – it seemed like the logical trip. So we’ll be taking a few cars, driving up, taking in the artwork and meeting with Frank Frazetta for a chat.
Yeah, you heard me right. We’re meeting with Frank Frazetta. Matt Dembicki, DCC founding member and the man behind WASP comics has been working this for the past week with Mr. Frazetta’s manager, who just happens to be Mrs. Frazetta. Thank you, Matt. It’s not everyday one can score some face-time with a living legend.
___________
Continuing the week of stories about my mom's side of the family...
We used to drive down to Florida every other year to visit the family. By the time I got a little older Nanny joined Aunt Annamae and Uncle Auggie down there and trips to Florida were always coupled with a disappointing trip to South of the Border (yet we stopped there every time) and occasionally an excursion to Orlando to do Disney World.
Besides pre-planned breaks, my father never wanted to stop the car, making the drive down horrible. We would sometimes rest at a hotel and split the drive in half but usually he only pulled-over when he needed gas and we took care of everything during those breaks – bathroom and food. I have a vivid memory of my father yelling at me for being a baby because I wouldn’t pee in the empty water bottle.
Whereas the ride down wasn’t the most fun in the world, it was usually a great time being there. Go-karts, bowling, hanging out with my cousins and the obligatory trip to Weeki Wachi to watch the mermaids and go to the water park next door.
Cousins John and Jerry always made me feel a little more grown up than I was. I remember when they heard me curse, I said “shit”, and they just laughed about it. My cursing wasn’t bad, it was funny. I’d play their video games and watch horror movies with them and hang out with them and their friends – good times.
One summer Nanny got sick and my mom went down to help out. I tagged along, flew down with my mother. This trip was a bit different than the past trips.
There’s a moment when you realize that childhood innocence isn’t a viable excuse for stupidity anymore. For me, it was this trip to Florida.
I was playing around with a camera for the first time, learning how to shoot black and white on my pops old Pentax. I went with my cousins Auggie and Samantha down and around the neighborhood to take some shots. My cousin Auggie informed me that there was a bowling alley nearby that was recently shut down where I could get some bad-ass pictures. He was right; I got this one for instance, not bad for a 13 year-old (of course, I never really improved).
Abandoned bowling alleys on the wrong side of town isn’t the best place to wander into, however. Luckily for me, upon exiting the alley, I was confronted with the poorest excuse for thugs I’ve yet to witness.
They pulled up to the alley in an Iroc-Z, rolling four deep, thugs as white as my momma’s ass. They stepped out of the car, clothes all baggy and hats tilted to the side. The thing is - they were probably around my age – 13 years old, 14 tops. And I was a freakishly tall 13 year old and these guys were all at least a foot shorter than me. I didn’t feel intimidated at any point.
The ring leader, who was also the shortest of the bunch, wearing a Charles Barkley jersey and a Hornets hat, got right up in my grill and pointed to some graffiti on the alley wall.
“That shit right there. That means you were just trespassing on our property.”
“Sorry, didn’t realize it.” I was just trying to walk away peacefully, no beef with the humorous, cliched punks.
“Well, we’re gonna have to take your bike.” I was shocked. Even with four of these guys, they had to of known I could probably hold my own if not absolutely house them.
“You’re not taking the bike.” At this point, the ringleader grabs my bike and pulls the handlebar, I pull back. And he stumbles forward, almost falls. At this point his friend starts to say he should just let this one go. But he’s persistent, reminds me again what the graffiti means.
“Look, I’m just visiting from Brooklyn, I don’t know what your tags mean.”
“Oh, you think you’re hard because you’re from Brooklyn.” Short answer would have been yes. Long answer would have been, ‘No, I get my ass handed to me in Brooklyn. But bitches from Brooklyn will easily handle thugs from Port Ritchie any day of the fucking week.’
“Dude. You’re not taking the bike.” We stare each other down for five seconds and I get let-off with a warning. Auggie tells me that, next time, I should do what they say because all these assholes pack heat. I tell him a gun’s only good if you got the balls to fire it, playing up my hardcore Brooklyn roll I just slipped in to.
We get back to Nanny’s house and my mom is waiting outside for me. She tells me to get into the rental car; we’re going out for dinner. We go to McDonalds, by ourselves. She gets on the payphone, calls my dad. I’m in the car and my mom is crying. She gets back in the car; I ask her what’s wrong.
She tells me that everything is OK; we’re just staying in a hotel tonight. We leave town tomorrow, we’ll go to the airport straight from the hotel.
We sit in the car, neither of us saying a word but my mom is still crying. I ask her again what happened.
The family needed help. The stupid kind of help. The type of help that my mom couldn’t deliver on. Money stuff, but money for something stupid with a price-tag above my families head. So she said she couldn’t help.
And she got the business.
Talk of how she comes around flaunting her money, showing off. About how rich she was and how she can’t even help the family out when they need it.
About how she doesn’t care about the family, the biggest insult you can direct towards my mother.
As I said in previous conversations, my family sheltered me from this shit. Everything with our family was dandy and we weren’t poor. We weren’t rich but we got everything we wanted.
Truth was, I got everything I wanted and it was because my father busted his ass to shelter me from reality. But I didn’t know that.
“I don’t understand why you just can’t help them out.”
My mom couldn’t even answer. She just cried harder. We got to the hotel, she cried. I went in the pool, swam, watched some TV and went to bed. We didn’t say anything the rest of the night.
That was the moment that childhood innocence was no longer an excuse for my stupidity and I fucking realized how shitty it all really was.
Florida was never the same again.
Yeah, you heard me right. We’re meeting with Frank Frazetta. Matt Dembicki, DCC founding member and the man behind WASP comics has been working this for the past week with Mr. Frazetta’s manager, who just happens to be Mrs. Frazetta. Thank you, Matt. It’s not everyday one can score some face-time with a living legend.
___________
Continuing the week of stories about my mom's side of the family...
We used to drive down to Florida every other year to visit the family. By the time I got a little older Nanny joined Aunt Annamae and Uncle Auggie down there and trips to Florida were always coupled with a disappointing trip to South of the Border (yet we stopped there every time) and occasionally an excursion to Orlando to do Disney World.
Besides pre-planned breaks, my father never wanted to stop the car, making the drive down horrible. We would sometimes rest at a hotel and split the drive in half but usually he only pulled-over when he needed gas and we took care of everything during those breaks – bathroom and food. I have a vivid memory of my father yelling at me for being a baby because I wouldn’t pee in the empty water bottle.
Whereas the ride down wasn’t the most fun in the world, it was usually a great time being there. Go-karts, bowling, hanging out with my cousins and the obligatory trip to Weeki Wachi to watch the mermaids and go to the water park next door.
Cousins John and Jerry always made me feel a little more grown up than I was. I remember when they heard me curse, I said “shit”, and they just laughed about it. My cursing wasn’t bad, it was funny. I’d play their video games and watch horror movies with them and hang out with them and their friends – good times.
One summer Nanny got sick and my mom went down to help out. I tagged along, flew down with my mother. This trip was a bit different than the past trips.
There’s a moment when you realize that childhood innocence isn’t a viable excuse for stupidity anymore. For me, it was this trip to Florida.
I was playing around with a camera for the first time, learning how to shoot black and white on my pops old Pentax. I went with my cousins Auggie and Samantha down and around the neighborhood to take some shots. My cousin Auggie informed me that there was a bowling alley nearby that was recently shut down where I could get some bad-ass pictures. He was right; I got this one for instance, not bad for a 13 year-old (of course, I never really improved).
Abandoned bowling alleys on the wrong side of town isn’t the best place to wander into, however. Luckily for me, upon exiting the alley, I was confronted with the poorest excuse for thugs I’ve yet to witness.
They pulled up to the alley in an Iroc-Z, rolling four deep, thugs as white as my momma’s ass. They stepped out of the car, clothes all baggy and hats tilted to the side. The thing is - they were probably around my age – 13 years old, 14 tops. And I was a freakishly tall 13 year old and these guys were all at least a foot shorter than me. I didn’t feel intimidated at any point.
The ring leader, who was also the shortest of the bunch, wearing a Charles Barkley jersey and a Hornets hat, got right up in my grill and pointed to some graffiti on the alley wall.
“That shit right there. That means you were just trespassing on our property.”
“Sorry, didn’t realize it.” I was just trying to walk away peacefully, no beef with the humorous, cliched punks.
“Well, we’re gonna have to take your bike.” I was shocked. Even with four of these guys, they had to of known I could probably hold my own if not absolutely house them.
“You’re not taking the bike.” At this point, the ringleader grabs my bike and pulls the handlebar, I pull back. And he stumbles forward, almost falls. At this point his friend starts to say he should just let this one go. But he’s persistent, reminds me again what the graffiti means.
“Look, I’m just visiting from Brooklyn, I don’t know what your tags mean.”
“Oh, you think you’re hard because you’re from Brooklyn.” Short answer would have been yes. Long answer would have been, ‘No, I get my ass handed to me in Brooklyn. But bitches from Brooklyn will easily handle thugs from Port Ritchie any day of the fucking week.’
“Dude. You’re not taking the bike.” We stare each other down for five seconds and I get let-off with a warning. Auggie tells me that, next time, I should do what they say because all these assholes pack heat. I tell him a gun’s only good if you got the balls to fire it, playing up my hardcore Brooklyn roll I just slipped in to.
We get back to Nanny’s house and my mom is waiting outside for me. She tells me to get into the rental car; we’re going out for dinner. We go to McDonalds, by ourselves. She gets on the payphone, calls my dad. I’m in the car and my mom is crying. She gets back in the car; I ask her what’s wrong.
She tells me that everything is OK; we’re just staying in a hotel tonight. We leave town tomorrow, we’ll go to the airport straight from the hotel.
We sit in the car, neither of us saying a word but my mom is still crying. I ask her again what happened.
The family needed help. The stupid kind of help. The type of help that my mom couldn’t deliver on. Money stuff, but money for something stupid with a price-tag above my families head. So she said she couldn’t help.
And she got the business.
Talk of how she comes around flaunting her money, showing off. About how rich she was and how she can’t even help the family out when they need it.
About how she doesn’t care about the family, the biggest insult you can direct towards my mother.
As I said in previous conversations, my family sheltered me from this shit. Everything with our family was dandy and we weren’t poor. We weren’t rich but we got everything we wanted.
Truth was, I got everything I wanted and it was because my father busted his ass to shelter me from reality. But I didn’t know that.
“I don’t understand why you just can’t help them out.”
My mom couldn’t even answer. She just cried harder. We got to the hotel, she cried. I went in the pool, swam, watched some TV and went to bed. We didn’t say anything the rest of the night.
That was the moment that childhood innocence was no longer an excuse for my stupidity and I fucking realized how shitty it all really was.
Florida was never the same again.
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posted by Jason at
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