01 August 2009

It was June 13th , 1996.

I know the exact date for various reasons, most important of all is that June Thirteenth was once a Roman -Italian Holiday, was another RED letter day, like many, to be wholly consumed and remade as a Christian holiday. Its knowledge like that that makes me always aware of the hatred, the abject hatred, of Lutherans and Lutheranism and Calvinism by the gay monks , as they knew how much of this Jesus Horseshit was wholly stolen and grabbed from Roman edicts, and then, after Italy had to suffer under this Judaism for dummies shit, some Fat German had the audacity to act as if they, with the Flavian amphitheater still stained with perpetual Blood, that somehow the Romans were not pure enough for the Germans love of purity in everything, scarily mostly DNA...an in Germany even a Hungarian paper hanger can put on effects of superiority. It was a the day which had been recalled from a spring festival to Juno, to being the name day, the annomastico for all people named Anthony, and has become the fest day of Saint Anthony, which in Italy, is day more important than more Luther accepted adhered to holidays like even Pentecost or certainly saint Patrick. Saint Patrick, though being Roman, and who like Antony is a lovely Roman name, though Antony is Portuguese, is a feast day which is meaningless in Italy.



My family ,having tired of me moping around, as they were doing something of which I was just a pain in the ass anyway, gave me a couple of twenties and told me to leave for a while and amuse myself. I walked downtown, and saw a bus was coming at that very second. which would go on for Pittsburgh. Listening to some inner voice and some kind of impulse which flew into my head, I jumped on the bus, Gus, and rode to Pittsburgh. It was a beautiful June DAY, AS ONE WOULD EXPECT, for a saint Anthony day, which is a close rival in Italy to Christmas and Easter Italian holiday in various Italian cities, showing, again, To ever Ebert's smarmy, voyeur, laughter at wops, that thankfully the Christ shit in the center of Christianity is a good least part of Christianity, in perpetually pagan Rome, and you Arabs should get some pointers from that, as should Mohammad become ascendant in Italy, soon,whether you like it or don't, eventually some brilliant Italian faggot shall turn him into as close off an appropriation of Hercules. Hercules, dear Hercules, in the only true accepted foreign god in Italy, and they will take whatever new god ascends , near to him as possible, or as that any Mohammad can ever get. It was a little hotter than usual, and I began to sweat. AND, RIDING , I SAW THE NEARBY STRIP MALL, THE WATERWORKS, START TO BE SEEN ON THE HORIZON. This mall, next to the sewage plats, is halfway between the town and Pittsburgh and quite frankly has actually more and better shopping and the ability to find things than can be found in dower , ugly,smarmy, sootty and broken Pittsburgh, as at the waterworks, as opposed to Pittsburgh, there is actually less people who seem fine and okay with overt public urination, no fooling.


I, got off the bus,at the mall, which I noted was already starting to place up the early skeletons of wire rain deers, which would soon be Christmas decorations, much earlier than I had ever thought possible. I placed on my purple tinted, Prince Like circular shades, which I had gotten as a present, from new york a few weeks before, from a New York head shop, which still existed then. As this was the age when Giuliani, a good Italian fascist, knew that by making a black market, or an underground, is the only way a city or city state or empire doesn't take everything decent from the indecent, and thus make a decline and fall where women, usually white, actually deteriorate the state, by making all that is what should be hidden and underground, and preening a smarmy love of it all, and then Racial chicily all making it strangely an honor. But then, one should never be shocked of the hidden moralist of the frauds of the left, assassins sand bribe takers and puppets all, turn amazingly moralistic, in that one should never be shocked , as is poor Rachel still, at why the Sol Allinsky twerp kings then find things like gay marriage something they are against after their party seemed to push it so grandly, or that black congressmen are called by a sinking white house to back off of opposition to and they show a strange devoted adherence to ''dont ask dont tell'', as strangely a devotion which even a fascists like Dick Chaney, or Rudy , whose italic irreverences is much missed, has no real reason to continue to ascribe to. There is a bit of Roman graffiti, that I could put here, about declines and falls and oligarchs, but why bother, again...? Oh, sorry dears, but Women will destroy us all, as the fag priests so thought, and then, will be the first, having EMASCULATED Men , into simpering, faggots marrying horses and other silliness all men will do to void work and war in a welfare state, as they did in old ROME, to wear the burksas of whatever Constantine or Mohamed will come to save the republic's burnt bridges, so they should be avoided as fags say.

I walked about the open mall, which was fussing and full, and interestingly was amusingly white in its every occupant of the bazaar, by the way, and suburban. I walked about in the sunny day, hitting various stores, having been told to get lost from home until about 6 pm. I saw ''Pulp Fiction'' was still playing at a two dollar theater, an art house there, and ducked in as it was starting. Of course, though I liked arguing with buddies about how it was piece of dreck, though I had not seen it, again quite the Pauline Kale I can be, and now watching it, I was blown away. I bought some comics and football magazines, and bought some Calvino, and a book called'' the tempest'' by Montale. I bought a great kind of cheap bond paper which I cant find anymore, and which felt like it was made of cotton itself, pens that had a deep color and a felt thick tip, and a bunch of Expresso pens. I strolled about, and was listening to a silver Walkman, which was a digital radio with ear phones, and was lost in the race music from WDUQ and its mix of liberal independent's new stuff, and r and b, all which i used to escape the then awful and incessant hootie and the blow fish Crud.


As I was walking along the brick walkways and the cemented acres there, I turned away from the corner bookstore where I had bought some titty magazines, and went to go straight down the walkway, and buy some food which I, still high from the pulp fiction experience had forgotten to eat yet. I was listening to , no lie, The Rascal's brilliant rendition of Wilson Pickett's brillante Midnight Hour, I recall that because I , knowing no one there, was fagging out, singing along quite full vocally, sure I was alone ,in he scene I was surrounded by strangers. I looked up and thought I saw something famillar, through the purple haze, to be Jimi about it, and saw a familiar face seeming to be stunned and both focused upon me. There was the face I had memorized, the face which I KNEW, THE FACE OF THE GIRL I NOW CALL Galatia. Here she was, the Galatia of Genesee, the Beatrice of Batavia, the Helen of Troy...Elmira and Utica. She was walking towards a dress shop with a gaggle of like , but shittier, shorter, big mouthed, silly, rounder, fatter, smarmy, bigger thumbed, graceless hags, less , what is the word... self aware, calm, quiet, loud mouth Brunettes. Wop daughters surrounded her, and maybe a fag, the sort who Capote like gravitates towards such a swan as she was, again, everything was purple and I wasn’t sure.





I was now aware of her being here, amazingly on saint Anthony's day, out of no where, at this same place where our various arcs , like those of shooting stars had intersected, and met by chance, or fate or whatever roman goddess one would like to mention. Bill is supplicant of them all, and lately, I would think Hillary is even doing their rites, at least hoping for something to befall a red rat leaving a sinking ship like Maureen deserves . I ducked into a bookstore, and then a Hills local like Sears store, as on the walkman , no fool-in, I hared the college station play the great Sinatra Song, ‘’I ve got a crush on you, sweetie pie’’, which had been like ''All the way'' and ''only the lonely'', perhaps the apex of his instrument, when he was the equivalent of the Etruscan god Cantur , whose singing kept the universe in equilibrium…thank gds that’s been replaced by left be hinders and Imams who call for the sacrament of dynamite, eh, America… This song, with ‘’My funny valentine’’ might be Sinatra ‘s masterwork, had as they say a resonance and a timing which like everything can only be seen in either the lives and or the arts of over heated, oversexed over read over wrought wops such as yours truly.

I walked along, almost half like a burglar, almost tip toeing, as not to be seen. I was sure that this poor dipshit had in her mind that somehow, I had followed or traced her here, though quite frankly I had surely avoided her as much as I did anything, hearing that Ciotti might have had me hurled into her class as to see what I ‘’could come up with in my drawing of the face we have all come to know and love’’, but am not certain anyone would care that much, and perhaps had just made too big an enemy of previous diva named Clevenger and his minions, who saw only room for one diva per room, even though I barely ever broke a sweat in these practically remedial classes. Audrey didn’t want me to go to art school to learn to draw, but was strictly to help '' mainstream'' me as a social creature, which has, seemingly, failed. Sadly the Jesuits and not marvel did that teaching of drawing, and when they called her asking exactly what my physical problems were, she , thankfully, told them to back off and that it was I, who she thought was already new York ready as an artist who should be teaching you cartoonist. I was sure she thought I had followed her here to this mall, did Galatia, which I had not, as I didn’t even know before twelve o’clock I was being kicked out of the house, as some silly thing like giant ropes of links of mixed pork sausage where being made , and I WASN’T NEEDED NOR WANTED IN THE MIX OF CHOPPED PORK, Anise seeds and paprika water. Oy. Now, though, I thought she had gone back to the grand confines of Batavia New York, that garden spot of the world, but, no she was still here, still in Pittsburgh, which is kind of like Venice, to hear the local Stiller dick suckers on radio speak of it, but where all the gondolas are made of vinyl deck chairs and the canali are filled with even more piss than the original Taliana citta.

Then, as I turned, she inner Cleopatra in full flower, sat there on a bench, which were packed about the busy mall hopefully where people would take food and eat and then go get more food and eat there more between shopping, was the image I had seen in purple a few moments before. Seated there on this bench was the girl, Galatia, wearing I think a cartoon shirt, a giant yellow tweety bird on her long thin frame, her hair in circles of back and blown dark brown and un tipped orange was up from her longer, pretty face, her eyes were giant, yellow and with massive irises as she was now, cat like , out of the sun and in the dark of an over hanging wall. She sat back and lounged, with church pew long legs, coming out of ragged daisy duke cut offs, and , to make things perfect, a Corsetto like affectation of a band aid was placed perfectly, on her left long thigh, perhaps from shaving.



She looked directly at me with a quizzical look, cause no air headed dumb brunette—oh, patent pending TM AND Copyrights by Maureen Dowd, yall—was she. There was a deep reservoir of brokenness apparent and available, in this little sweetheart, the sort of knowledge I was sure came from the humanizing attributes of abuse. She looked directly at me, corkscrew hair falling in that pretty face. I stood there, with Sinatra crooning away so perfectly, so eagerly seemingly to have been sent by the same roman angels which to this day are called thunderbolts by the always aware of creation Italians, of which we both were perfect manifestations of various types, despite her been partly made of the Irish trash the priests, usually Irish, spoke of. This was a funny confluence, especially this Sinatra song, as believe me I HAD THOUGHT OF THE SONG, AND ALL OF SINATRA , ESPECIALLY THE DIVINE LATIN RITES OF HIS SAD AND BRILLIANTE ‘’Only the lonely’’ tracks before, IN THIS ''SITUATION'' BEFORE. She sat there, sat forwards and looked directly at me and sat BACKWARDS AS IF RAVELING HER TORSO AT ME, ALMOST AS IF A WARRIOR QUEEN BRINGING BACK A BOW OR A SWORD, NO FOOLING, AS SHE HELD HERSELF BACKWARDS NOW, with a pair of long Tuscan limbs one, or I had seen on murals of volcano showered cities, a Tuscan limb, as if ready to pounce though she had hid her lips as if I was out to grab them off of her or something akin to that. She then sat forwards again, and hid her lips within her mouth as that seemed a affectation of hers, which I didn’t think, uh, augured well. She again turned, as she was fret at, summed something up, as though she silently had come to make some decision regarding me and then crooked her finger at me. But, this time, as opposed to once in a school reception area where they surely bade her a first face seen in a school of extremely weird and ugly people. I RE TURNED , this time, as I thought, who was I kidding…who was she…? Who was joking and who was fooling who as the song said …whose zooming who…? I TURNED AWAY, and walked across the long hot black half full asphalts parking lot, waited for the bus, caught it and eventually rode back home, where I emptied my bag of nudie busty rags and various pens which I use instead of the hated points of dipped India ink which I despise.

I have again, and had then again, walked away from various exposed Beatrice’s. I say exposed, because her shorts were so short, that as she crossed her legs, absentmindedly, I saw the white and blue flowers patterned cotton of her panties, which both exited and shamed me. I, constantly on the make, I, Machiavelli boy, I raeder of Petronius since I was twelve, I boy child which makes Apatow and his latest Lucas mad man ego centric bullshit on Charley Rose bullshits look like Chaucer, I who have been a Hershey bar wooer in may ways, I would have loved nothing more than to have plunged my dick at around and threw this …I felt a kind of compassion for this girl that lusting after her as I usually did with broads, using her , taking advantage her in any way, would have made me seen a worse person than I would want to have to be…See, while Newsweek’s god was busily grasping at various straws to fulfill his destiny, and while he was slamming black women in the teeth, as to get ahead with that Lucertzia Gucci bag of a wife of his…I was somehow being honest and truthful, …’’against barbarian rage’’, I was…I recall being told by a new York Publisher, maybe it was Yale university press,…that RM was a delightful book, a bit wordy, I get that a lot, but lovely and all…but, see they were big shits and I was a cartoonist who self described himself as having drawn titty pin ups, and see, they couldn’t publish a book called Roman mythology by me….no, of course not as opposed to that scholar who is JK Rarwwring , and her castellos where she looks for someone to lend her a translator.

See, I THOUGHT OF HER AGAIN, GALATIA, AS THE OTHER DAY, I WATCHED THE LAST THIRD OF A MASTERPIECE CALLED ''THE SEARCHERS'', A JOHN FORD MASTERWORK, which is un made, in the days of Eli Roth and political correctness, meaning somehow all women are raped and or sexless blonds. Here in the film I watched, recalling my dad and me watching ''My darling Clementine'', re seen in the operatic, --heavens- cinematic brilliance of a Virgilian epic of Americanism, adored by no less pinkos, but honestly so, as Noam Chomsky and Garry Wills, there was Natalie Wood, as the object of John Wayne, the uncouth vulgar American bigot who in the end gains that least of American now attributes, mercy. Sorry, Doctor Bloom, but the line of ''a qualita of mercy'' appears in the, I think, Cantos about the three Graces, but like Jesus, if everything Italic was taken out of Shakespeare, shit Negros like Malcome x, you would have nothing. We, now, thank god the women and niggers have taken over, make films where a sicko audience stand in does torture women who dare look like Natalie wood. SHE WAS a lookalike for the tall girl and I thought of her again. I thought of how I did walk away , literally and figuratively, from her, again, as I walked away from so much. I was told, unlike Scorsese, who admitted he has the tin ear of a circus owner, that I DID DO GRACE POINTS BETTER THAN MOST, LIKE WHEN IN RM , BRUTUS WALKS THROUGH A USUAL ITALIAN , IE, LOUD AND BOIRTRESS FAIR, THINKING OF HIS BELOVED, OF COSRE NAMED…CLEMENTINE ….She, of course, who looks like Natalie Wood, and sings to himself as the loudness of fried dough gumbas recedes , '' oh my darllling, oh my darllin oh m darling Clementine…’’ After all, I was the one who was told by a press that though RM was very entertaining—a book called Roman Mythology written by an Italian cartoonist...could not be abided or shown in a soprano world, god knows, but the wrap around mafia story without the Jovian lightning bolts would be fine..... That is the opposite of affirmative action. ….and I….I…I….

I am recalling Beatrice on the park benches, and have become as 44 year old boy today. I am taking a leave from here a while and hope to finish this god damn comic book, which by now had become, like all Italian cantos , something father from mere art and closer to moral imperative.


Saturday, August 01, 2009



















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