19 October 2011




Reaching par for the course again, I was alerted that my manuscript Ancient Romance was rejected by a “vanity publisher", of all things, showing I must have really said something worthwhile. Especially in looking over the fact that there is their share of gumba mafia low level, drain pipe empire alley way street lives gumba bullshit, and I have crashed a new high in my imperial American life. I was told that the editorial staff considered the sell-able aspects of this book limited,--again this is a vanity publisher, which shows the magic intent in Roman Tony--they do not like novels per se, and 377 dollars certainly isn’t enough money to them, after all, to break with Scorsese tradition, or to speak of a stylized city for whom the standing of anyone and saying I am Spartacus wouldn’t have gotten them dick, and thus never had black balled Hollywood Jews write of them.

As these earlier fourth century BC Romans hadn’t yet become so impressed upon by their legalisms and their own Jewry attributes, which the Italians have always had in spades, possibly from Arabs and Jews having mixed and married the aquiline italics a millennium before the Greeks stopped being snake charmers and preened their invention of civilization already having been done by the forgotten circumnavigating Phoenicians.

I then went back to some collected emails left from dealing with nice women who are at other self publishers, which I called out to do some comparison shopping, and asked them if they would still be open to ACTUALLY TAKING MY MONEY AND PUBLISHING A BOOK AS THEY SAY THAT THEY DO, FOR A NOVEL WHICH HAS NOT ONE SWEAR WORD, NOR VIOLENCE, --and quicker than you can say Barrack O’bama is doomed, well, many got back to me and of course for a higher quote, would be willing to be my best friend once the check cleared. Officiously, this put a kink in my Ceeduual, as it took a while to get the four hundred Shekels, now I have to find a bag of sugar to add to the brick of cheddar. This isn’t the first time I was dismissed as ‘Wordy‘, as it isn’t the first time an almost Medieval aspect of ink as a commodity was cashiered at me, though looking things up, at 315 pages and only 80,000 words it is less wordy and dense than is the Under the Tuscan Sun shit, to say nothing of a monstrosity called Eat Pray Love, and in fact, with all I have together, Tcoigods, Ancient Romance, TSASTROL, TBOTWS, and the Book of Italia, its all at 213,732 words, 555 pages., all of which is amusingly one word and one page too much saved and redone of the only noble savages that white trash cunts and sum bags like fagots like Kingsly Amis do not bleed for, as in this are immensely like Bismarck, famed German socialist who found the Etruscans too unlike the Prussians minded Romans who to Germans eye always look better when compared to other Middle earthed almost Jewish souls. But, I have reached out again and have looked up a myriad of presses willing to publish anything in our ugly days of cable Juvenals as after all, as I said to Coppolla I know why the Romans invented graffiti, after all. Unlike Caesar and his last week beloved minions, I do not, when the galloping reaches a nadir of 38 percent, --and who said that was coming before the ides of OCTOBER, KIDS?, start leaning for the exits and the trap doors.

I have felt as was had again, as was told I could resubmit should I go over it again and edit it down, as was told for all my pretences of being a preening wop, why, again, I spell Italee wrong, showing Chaucer is not as devoted to by his own race as he was interestingly by the now dead Jesuits, and again they love to sneer at me, as the lunkheads did in seventh grade when I pretended I was too dumb to understand how to serve mass hoping I could get out of it and go home and with Stan Savaran and the Penn State and NFL films, show and Blondie and Dagwood theatre and Looney tunes on a Sunday and not have to stand there under porcelain massacred men as various faggot boys skipped to my loo and drunk priests up far too early for their dispositions had to do rites of Dionysus done to even then half full monastery garages. See…? I cant help myself.

And counting it up as I have, do find it is nothing compared to the leggorea of shit like Twilight and or the dread Harry Potter, but if at first I was just Italian soothsayer warning where this was headed, now I am being warned about seemingly taking too much glee in the American autumn. Eventually I ruined enough masses that Father Ginnochius relented, wouldn’t let me out of this, but freed me from horrid things like weddings and funerals of wop mafia thugs, and when I had to serve that horrid mass was left alone on the side, where at least I could sleep.

And the same day I now have to rearm and go back as singly I find time wasters lounge on every street in almost a Mexicali way, the suddenly resurgent Raiders needed to sign a body, anybody, as they lost their quarterback, and so signed a central casting bloke named Palmer. He, whose life and career was changed irrevocably when a rent a thug for the pain in the ass Pittsburgh Stiller’s made a point to roll up his leg in a glory days assault towards a super bowl which no one may speak of anymore, and which the head linesman and referee admitted five years later was something of a con. And being smarmy and clever in the true sense, a local wop on loan from Fan radio in new York, where insufferability is a virtue, hearing the words Bengal, Raiders, and seeing a over dramatic way to ingratiate himself to a crowd who has become more blasé with each game Rothlishbooger barely wins, made a point of haranguing this whole deal, done for utilitarian reasons. And with the Torch song trilogy act and verve always under the surface in all sports talk of this sort, and smearing Carson Palmer as the sort of man this tougher guy wouldn’t have on his team, you know, as opposed to Gentile Ben, who merely has multiple rape allegations each season, spits at waitresses and the food servers, flips off Bob Pompiani on camera, and of course, dragged women into toilets, where he can simulate necrophilia--this guy is top notch, --juts ask Mark Madden, who also vouches for him.

But, funnily, at seven o clock when I was listening, he got more than a few calls in a kind of rolling thunder coming to the side of a Bengal, no less, and comparing him favourable to Roethlisberger, who with each fumble --and they are legion--brings up the same Augustine line which Barrack O’bama, his equal in narcissism, doth bring up--that You, Cicero, backed the wrong horse. And at ten when I wet to listen to some disco music, heard this wop from long island, still screeching at people, over dramatically cutting them off, calling them ‘lunatics’ for saying still that Ben actually wasn’t that good, The Bennies use the same playbook as the Bammies, They are sacrosanct-You are wrong. But, he was certainly not good enough to throw away thirty years of collected bullshit for, as if Bennie has become “fearless leader” and can not be spoken harshly of, with a chorus of always “at least they won“, becoming a anthem akin to Arms and the Man, but then, Guido, he was never liked here, and all these poor mans Jim Rome’s-- edags ! --they should have done some reconnaissance.




Well, I have to now get my hands on a slab of ribs, some ringlets from the Roman Godess of hearth, Moneta--dockets, cash, balloons, hogs, chick peas, wah wahs, mambo, starch, Platt, do rei mee, --and am thinking about going back into the Gigolo game…I might have to accrue some balloons, go back to be a gentlewoman’s boon companion, you know, I might have to find various women of a certain age, of a certain weight, who are willing to play for gentleman companion ship --through the nose. By the pund, and I mean pound ladies. I have a recipe box with various women’s names and numbers that I have colleted being at places like the Saving Nun and the post office and gay cruises,--I AM ABOVE NOTHING!-- lonely loveable older women who need and want and have checking accounts….I have my box to return to--it like Glenn Garry glen Ross, I call them my leads…As what made me sad is seeing that hump Coppolla who now like your average wop, is in a thicket of regret and self recrimination, and says things he will make a film with a flip phone as to…what?… get noticed…? One shouldn’t be a student at 65 pal, I do not care what the white women tell you, by then you shouldn’t be so needy, pal, and the line, of course was mine, which has more heft coming from Roman Anthony than from the man, who as much as anyone crated the day of the blockbuster, though a Jew of course gets the, to my thinking, blame more than credit. There is a true Romanticism in my , at 46, being true to my words and sending out despised novellas as I do, all written in ways more Polizano and Calvino then ever like Gigi Marquez. And at night, suddenly I see Dick Van Dyke, Adam West and Danny De Vito have returned as if the angels in Saturnalia, warning me not to give in. A perfect backdrop, missing only Captain Miller, for me to bring Mister Stupendous Home, as I find again I do not want to finish anything, for reasons I am still unaware. As Galatia would say, Take that! Again I take these as badges of honour, as frankly have been gagging on admiration now since 1977, and the Jesuits then. And like Coppolla, merely wish, as opposed to the admiration of the venial, instead say something which I either believe in, or better still, dont make sick looking back on it.

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