25 December 2008

TALK TO ME

1.HAIL TO THE VICTORS...HAIL TO THEM ALL....

I saw where the usual bullshit lefty nudges came out and made a proscription against ''Christmas lights'' even, as being harmful to their precious Gaea. You know as opposed to the giant halogen 5000 watt bulbs which walls of such illuminate the winter nights, from now till past twelfth night, when Nobel savage, ie, Toni Morrison, indigenous types loving colleges give way to Roman stadiums filled with jeering mobs. During Roman minded gladiatorial games, the lesbians and the indigenous shaman fall silent, and Roman games are held rapturously, where npr is recalled by espn, and black men need not apply to head coaching jobs, as amazingly, the love of niggers and tolerance and quotas never seems to get all the way to the athletic department. The games of winter and the commensurate waste and joy of waste never harm mother earth, and they end eventually with the yearly sacrificing of a Ohio state slave to the gods of Thor, or is it Florida recruiting,...I am not sure. [A note; the recession has taken a bite out of the gate receipts to their joyous bowl games, bothering the communists of academia now no end. I heard a line in the always good for a sucker punch to the wops Simspins how America was worse than the Romans, well, you got that right, Harry and Hankie, at last, as see, The Romans Paid their gladiators actual coins, cash money, both Roman words by the by, and didnt just use them and drop them back into the ghettos.]





























2. THE JOHN SIMON OF COMIC BOOKS ISNT ACTUALLY JOHN SIMON

I was deleting many pages of saved sites from the ''favorites'' column in a hot to the touch, now less used, old laptop. Its a Milton Bradly, I think. So, I started going through them, like saved staples pages for the best pen ever made the Pentel sign pen, whose black luster helped make my first pages of MS better than these I have and tear up now, and Boob sites, A Shazam book I probably wont be getting for Christmas , some comic blogs I have tired of, etc, etc...I saw some comic blog I asked for a link , stupidly, and got no response, but he gave like, 50,000 words to some comic queen bitch who does reviews of comics which have an overuse of the word Fucking as an adverb in it, about every conceivable silly magazine. It has the ''I didn't read comics as a child'' shtick, really, then you have no excuse, hun. Wow, I thought I could commence... Jesus H, dear, does this come out in a leather bound edition, Mister Churchill...I swear I thought this thing had chapters...Christ, their just comic books, you hoity toity fruity bitch, I say when you have to put on airs about being superior to comic books you may be sinking faster than you think you are. I saw a saved blog which a woman comic book editor said proud fully that her mother never encouraged her to believe in Santa. Mother of the year. Well, dear, you certainly made up for it with your Obama posts...Stuff like that.





3. THE BURNING OF A ROMAN EFFIGY

Then, I saw a girl's name saved as a Google search. This was the girl-woman from the perspicuous dream post. The pretty, awfully sad, bruna sympatica who still haunts my early morning fit full sleep, handing me dolls amid revelers. I had tried to look her up previously, having heard things like she was fired from Disney after asking for a raise after a month, and such things as that. But, clicking on this again, I saw this name with a new link at the top of this meager paltry list, at least concerning her, which soon went into her similarly named Italian gangsters and opera singers.

I clicked on this link, and went to a site I have avoided called face book. Here was a barebones page with a small picture and familiar name, though Hyphenated in the awful way of blond married local anchor girls wiggling to use either a grandfathers of a husbands semi Hispanic name as a way to get their over shampooed essences into affirmative action hiring practices. It was obvious she had her own life, which was fine, I hadn’t expected her to somehow wait for me, Big Tony, to come and save her from what I had heard things about and which her sullen grace, placed atop a sizzling lithe prettiness did seem to corroborate. I conjectured all of this, a belief in a deep sadness about her, as I am Something of a armature Psychologist, --Freud, a lover of Machiavelli as am I, called most the Italian books I read a more important fixture of psychoanalysis than was Jung. I had sense a deep abiding sadness in this girl, and made a kind of silent prayer of devotion that if I could I would somehow save this girl from a Genesee constant winter of the gloom of Elmira. If, and when, you know, I could save myself first. So, I was not surprised she didn’t wait for me to save her from whatever horrid towers she was encased, I have never been much of the hero type, and every time I had a chance given to me I squandered it, for it would have been, really no fooling, ' Irroman' of me to be another Imperial gumba nasally whining and gesticulating for imperial peanuts, or be another Stromboli, or be another silly, smirking wop fool an then have the temerity to save someone whilst I myself was drown in middlebrow, minstrel show, spike lee buffoonery.

The Galatea I recalled, so slathered with almost heart wrenching insecurity despite the pretty face a thousand blonds would have carried to their perky male finagling and dominations, was now older, but actually sadly serene. Or, worse, played serene. The corkscrew hair which I thought was some gypsy woppish remnant of a roman gal --which her envious, racist, fish wife Celtic Mother had made her cut off, oh, how Calvino’s folktales cane you get--was now strangely docile, and pulled back into a widows peak, the sort sported by older Italian women in the old country or say, Richard Nixon. Her face, once a sculptor’s masterpiece of Italian catholic Gothic southern art, art, a face of shining beauty that held a profound sadness was now contorted into a more max factorish pretense of happiness, and she smiled becomingly, but seemingly falsely. The prettiness of the recalled girl was now retaken and reformed into that awful dream of suburban bliss which even out more perverted of dancing imperial parade road side faggots is told by their masters is there to want to get. In fact, where before had been a pouty, sullen Catullus’s Cynthia, there was now a barely recognizable ass spreading, glasses wearing housewife, with that strange squint of the suburban morass, and she went from being a beautiful tall roman girl, who walked with the agile of a goddess but with a seemingly perpetual balling of her fists, to being a pretty variation of the average Hillary Voter.


Beatrice was gone, recalled with the sort of woman, at first glance, who actually looked like someone who would be married in a ceremony in the woods to a big nosed natural blond, the barely attractive sorts admired by gay talk show hosts and honking wops for hire on CBS family hours comedies, as a fat woman or a San Francisco mayor would preside, reading out of little known, and frankly un appropriate, letters sent by Herman Melville, as mixed race women with vestal mustaches looked on and threw un-sweet, sugarless, natural honey candy at the fat woman and her pretty now available thanks to state wide legislation Obama is against, Bride. EGADS!


I was stunned and felt an electric charge go into my ample guts, through to my back. On some level, the Calvinoesque fairy story player she seemed to be, or which I made her into, seemed devastated as I was. I was alone, looking at the computer on a lull in Saturnalia, unable to sit through the film which is a retelling of Jean Sheppard, as for some reason this year, I found it all indescribably sad...perhaps the Darren Mac Gavin father reminded me too much of my own, or the Child's play was different this year of living stupendously. I sat there, dumbfounded, unsure at all why. I had told Audrey, my one time Yenta-fortune teller- astrologer-German hating one time jewess dancer Brooklyn sixties car hop now surgeons wife thank you very much Neurologist about her, and how, one time she dismissed me as an oaf, then would next crook her pink little finger at me. 'FEH, ‘’ Audrey said, waving her off, "Drop this gurl, dont play her Gahmes, Toneee...I have seen dis toype bephhaure...She’s playing witch chew...she knows yur a suckkka, no offense. She has come gumba, again no offense throwing her aroindt like a rag doll and she uses yew to be a sap who buys her cheese...[?]...No, Tony, dis broad, from what I gathah needs ten years of active therapies..."


I did not really care that she had moved on, though I was not that sure from what, as I had no real right to expect anything. But I thought about it and her, as I clicked off from this fall of Rome image which saddened me as much as a scene in a film about Michelangelo a few years back, --also a Christmas pbs special, like the one on Rome, too instructing and too entertaining to ever be seen again among the victor borga specials and the day long marathons of backing cookies-- , when the protestants used the Latin written in thesis’s of their great Luther as some excuse to all come into Rome and burn art and rape women, of course again, for Christ. Luther, though to give him credit, was amazed and apposed by this and strange into action, burying the works he had acquired in Rome and hiding his own copies of Ovid's Roman Festivals from his mob of dirty, awful, German Moonies. During this scene, Germans, as they are want to do, busted the famous David, because, really, who knows more about Christian Carita and Christ than a bunch of Germans? A boy named Sandro, that Sandro as a kid,, took the arm he saw amid the rapists and the revelers and the soccer thugs and the barbarians of Jesus and carried it in a red flyer like wagon back to the Vatican where it was reattached and the line can still be seen in this monumental image of more roman republican than biblical art. I felt a flashback to that scene almost immediately, and thought of how Turan, the pretty wavy haired brunette , busty, smiling image of Roman Love was replaced by Aphrodite , a long stomached red head who smelled like calamari by invading Greek fags.








But I thought, I didn’t much care if she went on and lived out her Buffalo lowers cold windy show showers life, there in the Circuit between Troy and Elmira. To yearn to get back to her was much too Gigi Marquez for a rational Ariostolian like me. Still, I wondered , if she were so gung ho in her suburban upward mobility, what did mean then the fact that she had been calling me, at first incessantly and then sporadically, since 2000...? Hmnnnnnnnn. What did that mean, I thought, if she was building a life, as Coriolanus said, ''Out there somewhere''. What did that constant phone tag shit mean, what was she doing again crooking her little finger at me, and which finger was she really using...? I begrudge her nothing, I stew for nothing, I yearn for nothing with this broad, as Audrey said, but still, if she was out there finding her bliss as the heinous, awful Campbell said--and by the by, if you actually want better cartoons, ixnay on the Campbell and pick up some Mortimer Adler kids,...if she was out doing all this Buffaloed like middle class life, what meant the constant rings and hanging up after four of them, or the long breathy stays on the phone after I picked it up , or the quick hang ups with giggling heard before the click...? What did that mean, if anything.


But, it was Christmas time, like now a few years aback, and I didn’t have a computer yet so it was 2003, at this very time, Saturnalia, when I sat down to watch that years game of the century, a night time Football game on Saturday night, which , I guess is a boon to the owls and the bats and the critters of sainted tellus meter, the roman deity of of mother earth, if not to ABC and the ncaa, who , I guess are their prospectors...I mean protectors, like say Anderson Cooper, who now emotes in high def. The phone rang and I heard the usual tones, and how they signaling this perpetual caller, how they stopped at four. I had taken the phone out of my makeshift office and used it as a house phone since another broke and now I couldn’t so easily call her back at 1 am anymore. It rang again. Yes, but see Beatrice this is, like, football. I wasn’t in any mood to play, as after a while being so dismissed actually is straining and can take the fun out of you. It was amazing how eventuality with each click and sometimes harsher hang up I would feel worse and worse ...So, I decided to bring it all to a head, and demand that she either deign to speak to me or go fuck herself, finally finding thus her beloved and her soul mate at last. Well, when I called this time, there was a prerecorded message waiting for me, as gruff but possibly lovable poppa tiredly spoke to me and said…’ If this is Tony, the girl you are looking for isn’t here we dont know who you are looking for, you have a wrong address, please make a note of this, etc, etc.....'At first I winced with anger, Uh, Guido, its your sad lonely bitchy daughter who started calling me...SHE STARTED CALLING ME, ME...see as a Machiavellian, I know first second and third person is everything, pop… I was finally broken, as Audrey had warned me. I stood there, as the vibrant colors of a bowl game I had waited to WATCH ALL DAY was being played, as this droning old fuck was acting like he was doing a version of Six Days in May and was talking to the pentagon. THAT’S IS HOW SERIOUS THIS BAUFALLONIAN STOOGE ACTED. [I might have that wrong But I think Baufollo was a famous Italian clown in Roman post war films, and it from where we get the variety term ''Boffo'' box office and the like. ]But, even then, even deviated , Machiavelli boy thought at his Jesuit best, If you don't know who I am looking for, or who I am talking about, how do you know my name is Tony....? My private phone was a hand me down and was as a phone thrown aside and paid for , of course, by my sister, which she had brought from her home, so her name would be on any reverse number lookup, where in fact, I had found this number itself. I had moved on from her, really, then making time trying to pick up with syrian girls cashiers who chewed gum incestantly, and with cute, glasses wearing, blond chicks who worked at the local mall at the nearby rehab, no fool.ing, there is a rehab in the once Busy local mall, and who sat as we waited for the bus togther, who smoked like chiminies and who told me about how Indian drunk tank doctors were comming on to them. If this Brandy I seek, I called her Brandy, is not there, fine, but how do you know my name is Tony, I immediately conjured...? Alas, Daddy Anti-warbucks, they were I think hippies once, is another dago genius. They don't teach you how to think that fast in a madrassa, as you will all find out, soon enough.

But standing there was hurt me, stunned and quiet, and not only did I feel trapped into this by a few actually this time distracting rings, and not only did I lose any enthusiasm for watching the unfolding game, but that this was made all quite more sad to me as this day was the cold lonely anniversary of the death of my father. It was the anniversary of the advent Christmassy day and the season in which he died, leaving my mother pretty much to cancel any Christmases for three years or so, and which she has never felt joyous in again. To this day, the trees and small houses and railroads of cheap plastic and little cheap figures of precepios do not even hint at going up at least this day is past. I felt a similar physical reaction of charges strewing through my lard at being so bothered, as along the game, I had tired of playing in this road company of Sleuth, as being a roman, despite what Fellini thinks, such bullshit as faggy Greek sexual games are beneath me. Be Roman, you battered little girl, and tell me what you want, or what you dont. I had an awful Christmas though, as only days after this, a woman art school worker standong there with my sister the art school administrator, when I went back to the art school for the last time to go shopping for beer and wine and such for the Holiday , informed me that she had a call from someone who alerted her that Ciotti had given me a strange recommendation. He had told someone that asked for a recommendation about me that I was ''almost as smart as I thought I was, but, in actuality, a waste of time, lazy and they would be better off getting someone less inventive, less creative, and more a muddier like Dorian." When I TOLD THE VIKING LOOKING ALAN OF THIS, HE LAUGHED A BOOMING REDBEARD LAUGH, AND said, ''But you are these things, Tony...espaissilee lazzzzzz-eeey, ...Still...'', he said, ''he is on your recommended list on a slip of resume paper, not your priest ...it was none of his business to say such things...'' Oh, and this was the Dorian Clevenger who Poppa Giotto didn’t want me to draw like, by the way , only a few years before, when he held him up to me as a exemplar of slob art. The next time he saw my sister at the Christmas party , oh, Ciotti went ape bannanashit over board with such a admiration of me that she told me, snidely, it made her sick.

But, I thought, what had I done to merit this treatment suddenly, ...did they like it better, both of them, when their openly disliked and defamed by the fat assed, greasy pit marked skinned, black Captain American t shirt wearing comic creeps...? As both often had been…? Then Fine, I thought, go find roman allusions among the Comics crowd, or better be free of them entirely, be free of art as anything even remotely romantic, or creative, and watch your creepy buddies and creepier fellow students draw there incessantly sculls an drape and call it aesthetic. Then go to the among the Kirbyites as I started to call them even then, go to the pipe smoking , green haired, goateed, myopic, thin necked, three chinned, dirty t shirt wearers, then, and leave me be. This season written of here, only saved when I got a computer so as I could find jobs myself and not rely on anyone else, was more than any Scorsese or Princess Copolla or sopranos what stopped my being so dammed polite and sensitive and thoughtful and over concerned with things, and which started me me throwing punches and word balloons and roman epics with the abandon of a southern Italian anarchist, which I was born to be.

After the father droned on and on about this ''situation'' the beep was heard by me, as a signal to somehow, I think, apologies or fumble some answer. I THOUGHT, Now I WAS THREW WITH HER FOREVER, and have never parleyed into such silliness, again. I am actually quite good at that, vendettas, constant blood feuds, anger which never diminishes , etc etc, I think I get it from my over dramatic and operatic mother, as my father was more Romanly stoic and didn't really care about such shit. In stead it was a mark of demarcation to me, I recalled as I went on this now Christmas day and expunged her name from this blog as deftly as Prince Omabamabala does to mention of a black a family member, and I recall then saying as absolutely distillation of my new found attitude and belief system at the tone for all there to hear , ''Please, Call Me Anthony...thanks for nuttin, dear.''

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