My dear friend Currado Malaspina lives in a dream.
From his idyllic balcony in central Paris the world is a fresh inspiriting bouquet of fresh pommes frites. On the page Currado is forever virile and dubiously desired. He draws an improbable version of himself that pretends toward a strapping indestructibility and a measureless erotic ingenuity.
From his idyllic balcony in central Paris the world is a fresh inspiriting bouquet of fresh pommes frites. On the page Currado is forever virile and dubiously desired. He draws an improbable version of himself that pretends toward a strapping indestructibility and a measureless erotic ingenuity.
I personally don't buy it for a minute.
First, let's consider his age. I know for a fact that he's older than me but even considering a lifetime of daily doses of resveratol the dude can't still be a stud.
Second, how about his arthritis. Some of those moves are straight out of Cirque de Soleil and all the yoga in the world couldn't get Currado to bend again like a rubber band.
Besides, at this stage of the game I know for a fact that when it comes to super-sex my friend Currado would almost always defer to the soup.
But I won't spoil the party. Let him pretend all he wants. The drawings are fine and it keeps him in the studio but as far as I'm concerned, I like the dog pastels the best.
Second, how about his arthritis. Some of those moves are straight out of Cirque de Soleil and all the yoga in the world couldn't get Currado to bend again like a rubber band.
But I won't spoil the party. Let him pretend all he wants. The drawings are fine and it keeps him in the studio but as far as I'm concerned, I like the dog pastels the best.
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