1. My Mother and sister were watching what seems to be the often replayed on a loop showing of The devil wears Prada, as My Ma, a seamstress who made war era wedding dresses for local italic girls out of bleached burlap, gave up any thoughts of being an Italian hem maker for life as an American housewife. My father of middle-class stock, came to the golden door of his own volition but he knew and kept it as a credo that king Umberto did empty his jails and police these people on boats to America, which is why he stayed aloof of the rabble from Sicily, in that that he knew was here, and though as done by almost every central and southern Italian potentate, dammed the Italians to not only to Martin Scorsese, but to Sacco and Vanzetti and occasional Salvettis, as the pompous little white students never found 5000 Italian innocents paced in jail by Hoover as being anything that could tale the heat off of farm team colligates paying nothing to nigger gladiatorial summer stock.
When I see this show, which my mother enjoys if only for the cascade of clothes that the makers stably knew to showcase to effect, more than even Miss Steep’s perfect act as a monster woman, It make me actually sad. Who ever this woman is, I thought, as they knew enough to get the last brunette, doe eyed cutie pie Princess Anne herself Hathaway to pay this Danni, or Allie, or whatever feminine diminutive for a woman she was by fate named, where is she now, I wondered…? Where is the deep throat of seventh avenue now, who deigned to lectures us, Obamaities is spreading almost as fast as virulent aids, I noticed a commercial during this FX movie for the aids kit that they are telling their newlywed perverts to buy, as I saw it during V for Vendetta a lot on the bbc too, how Vogue was a nest of vipers. Well, there is a shock.
I haven’t liked her since hearing her, this seventh avenue scribe,Lauren Weinberger, or something, her voice matched acutely what I thought shed be, on NPR, way back, as she was compering her work to that of Petronius. It is engrained in the white chick's Psyche to at least memorize some names as shorthand for all corruption, if not haughtiness, as has to go through the road before the Flavian amphitheater, where the English said, control of the world rests. Raiding through Rome, Patton is said to have said, that without Rome, that bastard Hitler has lost everything, he made sure he filmed these images of him in ancient Italy surrounded as the new conqueror, are in colour I saw on a cable channel, seeing the divine Coliseum and penis helmeted American in the Appian streets. It is said, though I am not sure scared wop rat Coppola admitted it in his script except in the end, that Patton said he was the latest Caesar in these streets, and that, the Germans had finally been vanquished with their darkness and their barbarism, and that, he said, If Hitler cant keep Rome, he cant keep anything, and that the scourge of Nazi Germany as reduced as it has been for a thousand years, reduced to the holy Roman empire again, no Prussian able to gain traction without the city by the river as a foothold to the sea. I heard this scene in the script Patton as taken out, too imperial, even with an M rating, as when the great Robert Mitchem, later to be recast as Joe, Mister Stupendous, by me, read that scene, eventually to be the voice over at the end, he tossed the script away. He by then had given in and was mailing it in, and told the Jews of then which they misinterpreted, that you need someone for this crap who cares. You need Gorge C Scott. It was beyond the great Film Noir hero now, he at sixty, to do this, though Herman Wolke’s cartoon of war winds was more something he could do without breaking a sweat. I actually thought of this line, find someone who cares, as not a put down as all is in Jewey Joke land, but as real meditation. AS I was watching the appealing and Gracie like Hathaway, cutie pie supreme, as she transformed into Diva quality hanger on, as she being put upon in the new imperial city to me still seemed charming, vital and something I would have done at the drop of a hat. To the various kinky haired ethnics in the film, the wasps go to noble savages who took the purses and then put on guilt trips, I have said be gone to people before, beat it, toots, and take that scruffy closet case with you, I am moving up in the world. Having dealt with an Italian mother, Italy-Italy not these whores here as MA ADVISES ME, and not being wasp, believe me, the sottovoce breathlessness of Streep would be nothing, and I would unleash the devoted student and worker bee I might have been if not too early on I had been taught that it really didn't matter anyway.
I feel bad watching this Vogue movie, though Mother and sister caught in the awful hinterlands of Pirogi steam are captivated by it. They not even listening to the plot as much as transfixed by the cash and carry, pert-a-portier imagery. I went away, but feel bad that again as in usual films like this; the tinplate is always adhered to like a holy writ. The plot--, that some non black, middle class, creep gets a job at a useless meaningless thing, like Vogue, or The New Yorker, a place where Mayflower old man stink meets the always more commercial attitudes of a grinning streetwise Jew, as was here, and the good and honest decent student of white literature, who dreams of being F Scott without the foray into Hollywood to write for equally vicious and venial Jews like Dory and Jack, he-she works at the magazine of all things, racked and pinioned with guilt, or gilt, losing his soul a page and a perfume sample at the time, having to have their decency sold like baloney in sliced pounds, until, perhaps, redemption in found, they leave Gotham, to become a great writer, but since The Great Gatsby has already been written, they are summarily never heard from again. A Burr, hell, even Visit to a small planet, is beyond them, being loved is half the game, so they fade away. Bright Lights, Shitty Chicken.
2. This is a favourite among women and the house Jews who chase after them as audience and paramours, right up there with the actually heinous variation there of, a tired mildew class Bourgeoisie white chick, steered clean of that self same Manhattan, will pick up and go to Italy, Tuscany, when it as big, thanks to Gorge Clooney as a black Irish chairman of the commerce board, until Italy, no fools they, having done these political games for three millennia of years put up a law that some tracts of land in Italy could only be bought by Italians and Italian consortiums, it their word, like senator and Grace, and though that sound heinous to good white people here, who push for Immigration bills as to get someone in this country willing to clean toilets and raise chidden, in about that order, you are the ones who keep your Negros in cement cages, like a Tyberius did. It made my laugh when a woman, of course who had read Eat Pray Love, thought the new onrush of shysters looking for Italianate works thought that my Ancient Romance could be cataloged into this new on rush of Italy as hausfrau backdrop, and asked to read the book. What did I send...? Claudianus, Marcus and others in the Romans Shvitz, speaking of gone paramours, Clinton-Claudianus explaining the myth of Alpina, the dark haired Betty who was the first Goddess of Love to the Italian, before amusingly so, she tired of it and begged out. No room fir curt sentences there, the word sued by Sallust to explain his own divine and thus Amazon hated sonnets to a mad man, and I am not entirely sure if I ever received a response back. Somehow the relationship between pope Marcus and his favourite vestal, Gracie, if not between him an a witch actress he had made into a nun wasn’t the sort of heart warming thing women write, but then I always took it as an insult that this particular eating praying Loving woman had to as would befit a middle brow hag went to Italy for the food, Naples for the unbridled thievery joy, but had to go to Indja of course, for spatiality amid the dung, a delta that somehow gets away with its caste system because all the people are varieties shades if nut brown—Hey its Moorehouse college writ large. Hats Off!
Once, seeing one of these movies, and seeing a perfectly pretty brunette Italian girl in a white dress, an image of prettiness as seen in Mister Bernstein’s admission of the parasol girl in Citizen Kane, I thought, like Gene Siskel, what she was doing next, almost watching her walk off the screen and wondering more about her than the awful goings on here...?, back at the Fountain here I think human stereotype Danny De Vito was haunted by the glorious beauty of a pug nosed cream cheese hack goddess named Bell. I had only stopped on this movie seeing the small Tribune nutshell log-line in the corner and misconstrued the name of this late days blond in sexual hack bitch, the kind Jews like, with a tall drink of water short haired brunette who wears a bikini well, who in Jew town Hollywood has a career at all as to play an affable witch, so some improvement, around Halloween.
She, the lovely watercolour brunette in the white dress on the peripheries of barbarian dominated Rome, was an accidental star as was found by Italian filmmakers when they, as even Scorsese admitted, made Tuscan verbs the vocabulary of film, but no more, walked off the screen, into a Rome, I knew was infinitely more DIVINE AND CORRUPT, decent and horrid, sewage and marbled, than whatever white girls fairy tale this shit was, until my brother, who had stopped short thinking I was watching another Coriolanus or some such things saw the grinning monstrousness Sprite from hell named De Vito, and the white chick his ilk has been domesticated by, and said, with disdain, Get this crap off of here. You’re going upstairs, I said, what do you care.…? Get this ashhole, De Vito, off of here, and let him nigger for white folks, like he wants to. Anger is Catching, but then who noticed the similarity’s of what was happening now and Orson Welles Julius Caesar in modern dress back in the snow, again that was me. It’s always me. Not that it helps. Had I been making that dreadful film, seeing here, as I think was done in the warm sepia days of defeated Rome, as geniuses again where on every street corner, an Italian way of doing things that the white barbarians can not ever really attain, I would have filliped that bored and middlebrow panaflex lens, spun passionately aright at her, and as if a pencil mustachioed suit and boutonnière wearing Italian genius as seen in I love Lucy, when Europe still had a Tennessean’s infatuation, before Gore Vidal Died and Britannia thought itself Mod, I would have asked her if she was willing to play in Bitter harvest. AH, but that was when Rome was Rome, America was America and we didn’t have to have Light bulb queens support wholeheartedly the idea of an American Praetor coming out to say that no one is reading your mails or listening to your phone calls. Whew, stupid me. But then, as I have said, you could all do well occasionally to see some Roman verbs and pages all along the way.
Were I allowed to be the last Italian filmmaker before the usual wop opera gangster hacks recede into the dullsville nothingness, and are replaced by no one, the scarlet plan for Italians since Greeks and then Englishmen wanted the peninsulas of their own, I would have stopped filming right there. I can see myself at times, in blue suit and thinning hair and shadowed ray bans as an Italian Master of ceremonies worthy of Fellini's Roma, at a well-stocked table as Father Gore explains the creation to us with ex pats and joyous gals, a lust for life repealed by the needed wantonness of now. I could see myself as a heir to Sergio, rather than the clay faced Clint, who undid all the reclamation he had done, by admitting the podium was empty, in me as rather a man who would keep Django an Italian blackheated hero, and thus get maybe more discredit from the spikes in the road than were eventually made. But like Orson and the italics, I cant be a mongoloid scribbling away furiously so no one sees its all crib notes, I adore John Ford, who wouldn’t...?, but a house negro and someone with a con to play. I adore the Searchers, which offends injuns seem to rail against most heartily, as injuns are shown in many more movies worse, alike how Asians rail against Charley Chan, and yet no one notices, but Gene Siskle again, that Peshi has made a lifetime of doing wop- minstrelsy.
I still see the adults of 1970 as the real adults, the last adults, seeing any first movie made as did the great and abused and wasted life of ex cowboy star Dennis Hopper, as the last movie. All ambition is evil in a land of counter jumpers, who at least dance on command, do you think I haven’t seen Ovbams the magnificent but in sepia face in catholic school before…? Is the hatred that Bobby Rush has for Erkle, any different from the hatred I had for smiling italic goons who played silly wop acts …? I think I got a like on Face book last year from The black Panthers no less for wondering why Sandy Hook so made our House nigger cry when twelve year olds getting their heads blown off while jumping rope elicited nothing but his usual test pattern stare, --Ed Sullivan Ed Sulllivannnnn Eddddd Sullivaannnnnn!- so, do you think I haven’t seen and felt like them before at the turgid handed wimps, they are always effete, you notice, that they bring behind the golden door…? Ah, but I have had my share of laughs, I have, to the wop fucks who held grudges against me for not being willing to dance with them at command or telling them to ride on huffy bikes because I couldn’t do that just now, or that I hadn’t learned to ride a bike yet, causing me eventually stupidly never to, as the gumba lords of Flatbush told me in so many words that the street to the candy store was somehow there’s. Ah, West side story road companies, without a girl. [DID you notice what I did here, by attaching images of men, Hercules and shlubs like me, as the girl I wish to follow, is somehow again missing...?] They were, as I always suspected Obama was, lovers of white men so much that, well, it took its Greek course, beware the love of Batman, it says much, as they eventually hummed the soundtrack to Rent, if not did some of its death of Camille sissy takes. So, with the somehow engrained knowledge of seeing the old men and realities of my pop, who I had grown to resent, still, somehow, they engender in me the last breath of Italian American life, now as much as anything being trashed by a madmen show that I take it is tanking, as now, as people hear the clicking on the line was no time to demean the last great society America ever had.
So, I in narrow tie and Ray bans, I would have brought an end to the filming, and walked past the monsters handed to me by Central Casting, and walked to that girl, calling out to her all the way. I have done it before to bountiful brunettes, on the street no less, taken by the thunderbolt, to strike up conversations with stylish pretty black and peach colored exquisite gracious ladies, who would turn, and smile, actually it hasn’t been a boon to me to do so, but I haven’t been accosted or dismissed or defamed as you might think. The one I think of now, I followed out of a book store, she a penthouse pet caliber chickadee again in black glasses, who turned and reveled, on purpose it seemed with a knowing timing, a pair of stunningly sparkling blue eyes, turning out to be newly made channel eleven anchor girl-hostess Jodine Costanzo, who had started work as my art school life was running down. And there were others, and like that but this time, con gusto, and with the power position of being an Italian dictator, --I mean director, like senator that word meant something, Id follow that perfect ass, knowing that just filming her speaking to me, I am a camera, would be more engrossing and more cinematic than all the pratfalls and explosions and farces that Jews disdainful of the rubes think they have to stream roll from the assembly lines. In so much as I have been told, no less by some, a Plautus like admission of knowing the audiences, which when such was said by someone commiserating with me about how heinous the sopranos were, seemed more like a threat than anything. Not quite keen on the America this has become, and as an Italian knowing this was this man's business and never hold grudge as do the credits to their race, I wished the bald Jewish man well, as he did me, telling me with Virgillian keenness, Tony, somehow get it down yourself, bankers killers, at least then, weren’t popcorn material.
3. But, in the last few days, the cascade of scandals, which like ‘barbarian’, must be put in quotes by white women editors, has grown experientially. And now, the targeting of IRS on conservatives seems almost Bucolic, as it has been learned, from England of course, as Fat Candy is too busy crumbly chewing chips ahoy to understand her fulsome decency of all things Obama, that secret mined Erkle is gathering up all scads of personal information like V’ger, scared is our white knuckle queen that somewhere some rouge third cousin shall take down building and embarrass the lord of the manor. Oh maybe some people would be killed too.
This as funny, as to turn the knife, Rachel of all people showed the speech that gave us Barry, a thin high psyched squeal, nothing as decent or as sonnet like as Cuomo’s, but then Cuomo, as an Italian, didn’t have the Oprah Book club to fall back upon, as I think many Italian comics and or filmmakers of that day like using mother Dowd’s epithet of Hamlet for Cuomo, as he wasn’t so mad as to constantly ez pass the parkway over the Rubicon, or cross the river, as would be others from Texarkana with Roman delusions soon enough. Like those horrid comic hacks who make brackets of what hero could beat what hero, and somehow Batman always wins though he is surrounded by Hercules’s, If placing Bill against Cuomo, I well versed in comics and politics, the dirty art that eavesdropper snooper peepers creeper Obama thinks himself so much better than, I know enough always pick Mario, as I know Captain Marvel is the mightiest of heroes, as his magic can always beat the more Jewish somberness of Superman, something they admit to themselves, except when they’d rather not. In addition, I know Captain Marvel would not even need to keep poisonous gloves to cheat. In that speech where he like Christie was always looking ahead, and again like the baby let on Joe Fridays stoop he always has been, child he is, will say anything-- just don’t leave, Dad, Shane come back!--HE MADE a point, didn’t he always, of sidling...yes he’s a siddler!-- with some fat ankle Liberians against the patriot act, ah, but like so much that was different, it always is, and that as then, and this is my whip now, and on and on. And now you are stuck with that guy who said, watch out kids, that the IRS wasn’t alone or by itself that soon enough Narcissus would be, like Moe Szylack, pointing right at you. To Machiavelli second persona is all. Isn't it funny that again The Roman rules haven’t failed me, the fag Jesuits teaching me pre Jesuit law to this day, isn’t it great that we now find out that the smarmy little nigger queen street side counter jumping other nobody, academician, shit faced, smarmy greedily little coon face is doing things to protect the patria that even the patrician George Bush didn’t do. Ah, it makes what Cattiline said to Spartacus, your Jewry hero put in perfect order and focus, that the shit of these streets are more patriotic to these, this, status quo than the senators ever were, as long as they are paid first, even in peanuts, paid none the less. Isn’t it Romantic to know that poor little Erkie poo is out there shredding the constitution with gahead, gaheads from yentas Jews who came out to applaud his turn coat work and spy on Arabs, and on anyone else how got too close to their stuff, and we now find out that Erkle the Margined has been spying on you all along, how much of that intell ends up in GE’s hands as they bring good things and burning toasters to light. Beware the praetorians, the Romans said, but beware the Radical,…more. The length he goes to protect the patria, all the white trash, the holders of gods and guns, a line I think people always remember when he waves his dirty orange and green parody of an American flag.
Now showing the vulgar ethics of white trash, suddenly the hangers on and flatterers who saw nothing wrong with the other scandals, suddenly they are ver shvitzed as this time, its important, this time it’s them. How dare you finger me, you Joe Valacchi twerp, they say en masse, how dare my papers and effects be riffled through, why you can hear them sing, we stood up for the Arabs shit, and this is who they pay us back…ah but in a decline and fall, the Jesuit taught me, the closets don’t rip open, they get deeper and I would love to to go through some of Larry the maffickers and The Human spittoons emails, as would Erkle, as he must, little boy he is, know what is being said about him in gym class when he with deviated septum is given a doctor’s excuse, as ilk always is. He must know, like Jerry Lewis, we are going up in our narcissism now, heyyyy layyyydeees!--, what is being said of him, no better like Costanza he shall leave a running tape recorder in the briefcase at the NSA and then well find out what they think of me. It’s the summer of George!
And now Fox news, the true Obama praetorian guard, who shit their pants when Newt showed probably with instigation by other Roman brother Bill, proved what politics is truly about, before it degenerates into the papal states, has to keep hitting the IRS angel, as the truly horrid part about discriminate spying is something they think they can live with, as long as not one of their Jewish button men messengers. They have to surf these waters carefully lest the north star be gone and they, as Columbus almost did, find themselves in the southern hemisphere, where hell is on maps of saturnalia age to this day. But then my father told me wed all have better better off had Columbus went off the ocean’s edge an America be left the savage wasteland it was for millennia, though mow damningly once the blood sports of the Incas were found, suddenly the indigenous like less beings as tee pee deer eaters, as much as they alike comparing their stone cities to the makers of aqueducts before.
4. But going back to the true noble savages, the Romans, who the rest of the world likes castigating as corrupt when they take their very way of life and most importantly titles as their own festooning, there is a scene in the histories by Tacitus. We don’t much mention Tacitus anymore, though once he was FF Coppollas hero, once big Tony got it out there about Cornelius, whose name admits he couldn’t have been the Frenchmen that Frenchmen liked saying, although his fathers the Etruscans Empire once went all the way to the Rhone, he admired, the only fairs parts of France worth habiting, as Gibbon Englishmen snidely said later.
In the annals, somewhere I recall, when Nero was on one of his red binges, he took the work of a historian Tacitus said was the equal of the greatest of historians Livy, not saying Heroditas made me wonder how he got as admired as he was, I think It as Gaius Valerius, but not the one who survived of course. Gaius was brought to a public execution and was told he could spare his life if he burned his own work and rewrote the work praising Nero, as Caesars have always had a fetish about good writing in the way that Obama has about secrets or his wife has about over priced Shmatas. The historian worthy of the title, said a defiant no, standing there before Nero naked and chained, something like the pictures of Rachel Maddow that Bam makes sure are marked for eyes only. He told the prince, Temporary as all princes are, that the great God of Pork as he was called, for his insistence that he could only eat the top part of a hog, bringing the venial dietary laws of the Jews to Rome by way of his girlfriend, and say it with me kids, NEROS ARE GIVEN TO HAVING JEWISH GIRLFRIENDS
--and the historian admired by Tacitus whose works at least partially survived Nero but not the barbarian invasions, put that in H channels pipe and smoke it, Tacitus with admiration for a spine he didn’t have, he was amid praising I think Diocletian, who remembers…, in this work, only dead Caesars were bad Caesars, and the historian said enough of you, a Roman affection. The man decried Nero to the people and told him something that arabesque potentates from Obama to Osama and Mubarak and his bullshit Moslem brudder Morrissey never recall. You may, the man said to bloated Nero, and wouldn’t Christie be a perfect president to lard over people, the Poor Soul barking as much as Obnama lectures the starving, I can’t wait!--You might kill a thousand men here today, Valerius said, but such wont change a hair of your head…You, he told NERO, SHALL STAY IMMUTABLY THE SAME MAN, you are doomed to being what you know you are. We are back to Nero, with writhing whores all about him, vulgarity written large and in every imperial salons crevice, the bloated fat piggish man still stands at a Roman window, watching an unnoticed girl washing her long think blue black hair in a pot, the tenement calling the palatial thug, as it always does, transfixed by the decent imagery he sees before him. Could Erkle be like his similar Nero, could he find the Angelia of a girl washing her hair a shining image of a Rome forgotten lost, unnoticed, while men in make up and women in beads dance and cum all over the magnificent tiled floor....? Could Clerk Barry be still the boy with the brown nose, and how!, pressed against the glass to an America-Rome that he is departed from, his bellowing not withstanding, he is actually missing and never found...? Or is he just a cunt, secretive and smarmy, who looks through your shit, while we still cant read his Thesis, god knows what lies about Socialist bullshit he slathered that with, him always willing to Like Plautus, give the rubes what they want to hear. How come it isn't in the national security states interest to see the grades of an affirmative action stooge, could he be that dumb...? With that instigation by the writer, as Nero lordered over the prisoners, as he always did, finding more hatred for mere Roman writers than he did Germans, hint hint!--the Author was throat slit and thrown in the Tyber. But, word got back to a general, from the Tuscan Family of Vesper, named that because they were like wasps and always ready to buzz and flight, who thought surrounded by men asked to die while the imperial luaus went on, while Nero thought himself becoming a god because consortia that love infinite war said so, as men with out socks froze and were asked to kill like scarabs assassins, to which the Roman heart was not made for, if the queer effeminate writers have started to turn on Nero without fear, it was time to saddle up.