THE CARTOONS OF THE PURGE.
2. I watched a Sunday show in a tired, congested, state, and saw our Peculiar Auger himself, house statistic Praetorian guard captain his own self, old David "The shoe store in the perfect place to reveal my genius" Brooks. He was so very Ver Klempt, for a wasp white bread sort, that his beloved Bammy had taken to tricking out against Bain Capital as he had, a presciently legitimate thing to do, at least Machiavellian-wise, but then as Monks taught me, if people would be more Machiavellian they would actually be more decent as at least then a certain Brooking slathered idiocy would be gone, and a calculation would be at the heart of the matter, rather than just emailing it up as one goes along, and demand to be admired for ones vices. He was upset that Amok would do this, as hed expect that from, awful vile Gingrish, but not from the saint who bows among us, Banalama. With friends like these, and of course, latest lisping effeminate for the left, EJ Dionne, who frankly I kind of actually like, he is glad to see Obama show at least a pulse, if not a pugnacious ness, as all know he is very careful about that Glass-Stiegel chin of his. Fearing not being pretty no mo, he is always one to bob and swerve and shuck and jive to the right lest a uppercut send him flying, as there is no left hook in his own arsenal of punches.
The fact that he wasn't this far with a legitimate opening is amusing--not in this dreadful unromantic year, where the pretense is as thick as thieves and the presumption is an only creed. I felt bad watching this fool, a low point he is, for the house of Dowd, which now has to think they were actually more decent and at least more important when they were allowing that human wig Dowd to use a paper to openly make fat jokes and reformed and attack a woman she had never met and only knew, like all Praetorian do, what she was told to wrote by --interested parties. But she got even by championing the cause of Obama , as Hillary for whom she did her scalpel work, was after all, corrupt, the swan song of a Sejanus who finds himself unable to do that last thing asked for him by Auspicious shadow, and so to save her soul she went with back bencher Bamoluch, to wash her hands, in Pyrelle if need be. I felt icky--hey I'm sick, the Chaucer words aren't at finger tips, as our robotic good fellow, David "Awesomo" Brooks seemed like a jilted lover when Bagman didn't do as he was told to do, though him having openly tap danced to Black Stone Grp. to again say he believe in nothing--you think they know that by now, well, it refastened his faith in Humanity, or at least Obama.
As once he went to Black stone, and admitted twas all bullshit suddenly The Kuldow division of GE Properties, a general partner of Bain capital, and don't you forget it, well, it was almost a little Saturnalia in spring, as they on cue said well things aren't as bad as they seem, as the polls plummet, but then who said the people have any say in this, as a doomed Tyberius would ask. The people are revolting, but useless, as forget SICILY, this is Liguria, and remember like Obama, when opus came to shove, the upset and noble Cornelius came trippingly to the army to push down a Liguria Revolt, shooing that he despite long winded books about decay, he knew which side of the Panini, yes the Romans were unsealing hot bricks to press sangwiches in Pompeii, where they found the Tuscan noodle machine, was literally buttered, and knew he wasn't a Ligurian anything, despite the best efforts to legitimize wayward Sicilians by saying they are all from Turin, still, he threw his red ball in the pot, and the first wrinkle of Empire is don't get in way, as Newt the Blocked last Roman knight could verily attest.
3. So, instead with a low grade fever, and using the inner calculus of my middle sea people --the Jews being the only ones that Sasha Baron Cohen is told are verboten to his satirical gifts--I have eaten mass quantities of various chicken parts each day, to use this fowl to beat back infection, like something out of Levy, if not Livy. I watched as the simmering conduct between the collected archetypes of dear mister Gonniff himself, that hagiographer from and of Queens, between divine witch Ramona and dull as dishwater calculating Drita come to a seeming head, but like every show this season I saw, the next week, ala Dick Tracy, the implicated stay tuned moment was forgotten as frankly seemed more episodic than serial and which at one point one eon the hags made a joke about not knowing what the word serial meant with a witticism about cocoa puffs. How cute. And it came out that in fact this antipathy between wicked witch with leggings Ramona, really a perfect imagery of a caricature of a witch in AR named Portia, it as uncanny, and Drita was in fact made by the sister who runs this show seeing the star quality of Ramona, who couldn’t be let on, disliked by over fed white chicks who are told to hate her ilk by Barbie buying mothers early on, and by Lesbians who like to see the butterfly aspects of the dreaded Marylyn Monroe, started the moment that Jennifer the Mob sister asked Ramona to save that tawdry show.
Oh, fat bloated bag of donuts Big Angie was fine, she fit the part of loudmouth italic fallen prostitute with a gold heart, heart of we’re lucky, and her balloons fit perfectly this suddenly Sunday comic of a show. But Ramona, and again how great of a name is that, almost fairy tale or like Cartman literally meaning person of paper, that girl who I adore, she was more along the lines of sequence gowned Wally Woodian Martian goddess seen in Flash Gordon cartoons, a Sunday apparition no longer seen. Sometimes for Ma we buy out of town papers, the Pittsburgh Press is finished in more ways than one, and in the Washington post is the loneliest comics section seemingly like the boyhood days, and if it wasn’t for comics strips drawn by dead men, I’d recognize none of them. Half out of my mind I, late in the day, went to the aip portfolio I still keep all my work in, as I think one has to be a better or worse artist than me to think of selling anything but a Xerox reproduction, and I was sweaty, then taking out pages from MS. Kept in a large white envelope the 200 pages at which I have been stuck for a while, were gone at by me with verve, and I took out each page done on beloved comic book newsprint and kept thinking through glassy eyes I must re do pages on acid free paper. I still have no idea what this meant or why at all I did it. The pages on newsprint, seemed the best ones, but my fever hath spoken.
After a day of collecting the visual wildflowers that are pictures on the net of Wendy Fiore--strictly for modeling the goddess of the purge walls purposes, of course, and avoiding the poison toadstools of those other hags who I try to avoid, I sat down and railed to watch MOB WIVES, and their requisite reunion show. I saw that all day there was a Bob Newhart show festival on and found I couldn't sit and watch it, it in glimpses of sights the lovely Suzanne Pheshette as an exemplar of the kind of sophisticated sexuality with grin, I had been taken with as a boy--good luck finding another of her out there among the braying hawk eyed gals of empire, as Ovid would have learned sadly years ago, and I found myself both in need of emotional salve and or expectorant, and had to pass on this. A few days before I had seen lovely younger shimmering short haired brunette fairy queen Suzanne in a story about Rome from the high noon of America, as Gore calls it, 1962, a sweet and decent age that even the National Lampoon guys had nostalgia for back when, never finding another millue and setting that didn't make them the fathers of the intellectual snide smarminess, a sort shown in droves by scum like Bill Mahar today. In the old days, it helped to have a Harvard Education to bolster a certain grimy parody--satire is dead, but now amusingly any thug with having done time at various chuckle huts and ha ha factories, any Cabaret MC who has done Leno can call themselves a Juvenal, and so the dichotomy of the days of now and the relic of Carole and Bob and Emily hewing a hep quality and a socialization that aids would rupture, I wrote Rapture first to show where my mind is at, and seeing the even youngest Emily there as perfect wife of a kind eschewed by our marrying queens, our Sadie Hawkins faggots who dream of a more Donna reed destiny I said, I couldn't do it. Why...Because.
Even the awful Bayhar had to at least admit a kind of fondness for ice queen --it isn’t a insult coming from me,-- Ramona, she of the perfect name, the daughter of ramparts. She shimmered there, an Acriverse heroine come to life, Calm and cool, like an Assassin--no better than that, as when he was told that the Persians had an elite force of men trained to kill on command, a disgruntled Caesar said, yes,we Romans call them ‘Soldiers‘. It bothered Caesar this sort of elite force shit, as Obamala is marinating now as he gives out names of his assassin crew, so Ted Baxter like is his need to be seen presiding over the birth of six baby Busephilies. No , she was a watch of the Rhine sort, cold and cool and one could see our dear Camilla, Italic Amazon, look it up, as even those predisposed to dislike Virgil on general principal are moved, like Dante’s snow moon, to admire his passages on her, the beauteous witch-warrior girl, italea incarnate, who is seen more in italic fairy-tales as the collections of equally despised Calvino than ever seen in Walt’s perfected fever dream of utopian main street.
And then strikingly I saw a commercial for a movie about Snow white, this is three this year no…?, FROM a company logo’s who told me not so long ago that AR wasn’t the sort of thing they do at all, at least not if not in the public domain. Oh, niggers, I know that trick, but with me there is secondary aspect of not so much fencing the Etruscan vase to the blowhards at the Moma, but showing it off in my own home as stolen by me, as Brutus does to the marker pikes he steals in RM. And pretty south African blond, too cute for the middlebrows, plays the queen, telling a truth of things, as a good actress wasted in twilight times plays Snow white, who I know as said as much to them was an epithet wise crack, was a name coined by the first poet to be called divine, yes Virgil, imagine that, who called Helen Snow White, as it was the worst epithet he could think of. It is telling issuing the Machiavellian calculus I try to attune all my t- squares to, that the bitch goddess queen in this, as it was in “Belladonna” a film version of AR, the perhaps original Snow white, as Grimm’s as opposed to Calvino hating white trash was not afraid to admit to, I had sent in to interested parties who always take a pass, is played by a truly lovely blond woman , thus still instilling and receptacle of hatred as she would have to be by the crones in the mezzanine.
It is telling that I had positioned the queen to be such an Aryan as the terracing demons and villains of AR, like the bible are always Blond, before Uncle Walt had enough of that. And plucky lovely brunette is shown in again Camilla Roman amour against the army of the night, which the awful Greek queen sued to destroy Turan, the wayward nymph eventual goddess of Love in my ancients romances. In the story I wrote, I did do my best to listen to advise to remove the fairy tale and scribbling Gracie from the wrap around story of a fall and decline of ancient Tuscany, which I thought my best work in dichotomy, akin to the layers of cake and pickled fish done so brilliantly by Giovanni, whose ashes make up the story. Somehow in 2009 this was passed on and again with prejudice, why oh why do I even then make asides to a decline and fall, as despite Obamas then less insufferable American confetti, and triumphal rain dance, why do I still demand that fairy tales be the italic vessals they were to avoid censorship as they have been since the dower and awful Percales. Because. I found this instructing and knew just by the lovely real blond--that may be your first mistake--as Acid Queen that the collected Jews auctorial sympathies must be with her now, though the fat women in the auction don’t really like real blonds, as that to them is a gelded lily they would like to truly avoid. I cut away as much Greek hating is as almost unseemly for an Italian, and still it bothered some Hollywood goon, as I railed back in email, must I take Pope Marcus and turn him into Danny Kaye to make you gonniffs happy…? Gonniffs is a laced word I take it, I was cut loose. They thought I was told later that speaking of Danny Kaye was as usual virulent Antisemitism, when what I was trying to say was I wasn’t turning Pope Marcus vestal fuking solder boy Turan adorer, Prince of signora Fortuna, into anything named Hans, which again like the word Kaiser has an instructing entomology, as does little mermaids.
4. I thought it was telling in a review I was reading in the dear House of babbling Brooks, the dark shadows of the New York Times, all came into sharp relief in a piece read for the Caro Book on LBJ. This is the paper which once derided Gore Vidal for having been gay and without a wife of any sort, and this acceptable house whatever she is, something with a vowel on the end of her name but not one that sounded like too Verdi for Punchy Pinchy or the other clerks, spoke of the massive figure of our new parallel life, Landslide Lyndon and how he could have been shown as Machiavellian, havens to Betsy, an American shown as Machiavellian, are they ever that deep…? See, but instead is just Shakespearean, as if to say , again lying but telling the truithw hen need be, alas middlebrow now no race or creed or sexual orientation boarders, that had the man with the vowel on the end of his name been stupid enough to show Purgatorial Lyndon warts and all, well that would have been too much for her little west side hart to bear, and instead she could in good, or at least NyeTimes, councils say that Lyndon was less a Mandrake than a poor political liberal thug who lost his way, as Opposed to the dared Bobby buck toothed Irish black hero to the catholic trash, who found his evolution from being an ape in the tree of the senator of blacklists leaving poor un yet Homo Roy Cohn behind, and that amid the banners and the war Spartan parades, amid the American confetti, a fall happens, never decant enough to be Machiavellian, and guess who dear gal, Shakespeare’s Virgil in fact as, you wont hear that from any apologist on Charlie Rose. An that in fact, as always, a funny thing happens on the way to the armamentarium.
I sent ON COMEDY into the place I was told to four years ago, and they were shocked that I had done this, the editor there then, is now long gone in the purge that delinquent Barry calls the golden age. But they looked at it, the epic called ‘On the roof ‘, WHICH I SENT IN-- AND THEY WERE QUITE --WHATS THE WORD....?, IMPRESSED. I’m NOT USED TO THAT. But again, here comes the caveat, they told me to finish it, like Jim Shooter telling me to go to arts school and learn the little things, as I did the hard parts like hands and perspectives quite well, but made Googly eyes and cartoon wax lips on everyone-- after having been tossed out. It should be a complete history, they said. See us back after the election, they said. They want to see what I make of it. I’m not holding out much hope. I am tiring of it though and think I will cut corners as usual and mere collect the assorted post I make here and say --Tada! on what is already being called “ Taxmeggedon“. Saturnalia may be different this year, why Kudlow is getting his shopping done now. I am thinking of placing a cross over book of AR --THE RAGE OF CANNIOLINUS, on smash words, for free. There’s that stroke again. And half way through Mob Wives, I was starting to fidget as it was decreed they all be hunky dunky about all things, with only cold and steely Ramona being an Italian in this in the truest Greek sense of the word. And I saw and thought for the first time, I was a bit loopy on cough syrup and nilla wafers as I was confined still in the Cleopatra’s doctors medicine aspects of vanilla, as the Romans thought Vanilla as an off shoot of aspirin and willow wood. As I eat these, why…?, who knows. And I saw that this was made by our friend Harvey Weinstein, it hit me, strangely, as I think I knew that, but in a fever cloud it is in allusions the realizations which do come. So, I thought, this is what we are reduced to tween the showings of vanity pieces of Coriolanus in modern dress as our Jewish Orson doesn’t get the joke, but sings along in time. As this is what we get between the sorts of films where Helena Bodam Carter, who I liked at first, but again found a lovely woman too shilling to play ugly for the mezzanine, an even more awful The Grafololo, who seems to be playing to type, between the hagiography of the merry houses of Guelph, as that name is a loaded word once one reads Dante, and so the more or less Romantic Windsor must be implicated. So, I take it Mob wives and this lower level of italic folktale seen and signed off by Gonniffs like Harrrvey, I then see it in whole, basically, its this sort of thing which keeps him from having to live back in Nyack.