25 July 2013


I wished for this to be the summer of George, as I have said before, and it turned out about as well as it did for Costanza, as I was hopeful of getting some unhurried and needed work undone, perhaps not be a good American and watch the blood sport that is trial television as we hurl people not to lions but to the boys of Columbia, whose fangs are worse and from whom, unlike Daniel, showing the zeitgeist of the times, there is no escape.

Then, I saw in the middle of our summer of George, that of course a self appointed paragon of truth and life white girl spoke of George Zimmerman, and once you are made evil by the self announced self professed good white women, the Graces, or harpies, I am no scholar after all, there is again no escape from devils island. Here in twitter, the graffito of our time and tides, some white girl posted in the morass that is public etchings now, that the black girl who was on the defence team, and this from a white girl mind you, was a traitor to her race. I didn’t trust the white chicks who came out for thou fandango of self love that was the beatification of hoodie boy, yes the word where Beatrice comes from, as seeing fat girls crying at the verdict I couldn’t only think they were surmising in a world already mean towards them there was one less brother to date.

Taught by the Jesuits, they made me look out hateful grandmas for who called my father various names as he dared walk through a town he had been in for forty years, I always find it instructing hen a white anything calls me a traitor and or a credit to my race. AH, No moor than you hunnie, fat and or sickly white skinned brunettes THAT I AVOID, SAYING SOMETHING THERE, who take succour at the ghetto door. And she want on to show the spasm of strangely prinicpate love of the Prosecutors, they that lost one finally which pleased almost darkie me, that this was turned into as the Negros on dutiful watch, made a point of blotting out the Prism. The idea of teams and sides, and trashing a defendant as I haven’t even seen in Casey Anthony, never said for Jews outside of Skokie Ill, --I have freedom of speech, you bus my table, --that this woman was on the wrong side of history or herstory. Well the Jesuits were dead, after all, as I recall a more liberal Time, when the defence of anyone, yes even someone white girls and niggers, heavens to Betsy, don’t like, getting a fair trial and a defence council has been sacrosanct in America, yes even the left now replaced by a white man Salo, as was in Rome all the way up until Constantine, hint hint, gals, when he sanely, with God’s will, a jury trial, was soon to be gone from history until Runnymede in 1066. The idea of game show trails, for such is what this is, as I perceived a while back, was to evaporate the fourth and other amendments, with of course the preferred niggers as contestants, come on down!, Lets spin that wheel of Fortuna, ah Fortune, and justice, is something that Negros think they can buy like stock cheese from day massas, was to be replaced by HLN, sorry colleges of priests always on the take and willing to always come to an agreement that no rich mans daughter would be cast as witches or priestess of Satan. Like I said, Hln. There is always another Monica to throw into the pit, here in decent liveable Stossle’s America, and if they don’t have one, they’ll make one, they the purveyors of the commedia dell arte in ways that would make the Borgia Milanese blush.

What good side of history is this white chick on I thought…? I haven’t spouted in posts as was in the middle of film flaming and too my brother told me the goons are out and are looking for anyone to pillory, ah Snowden hit the sanctimonious hard, and they are on the outlook now for Personae non grata, my sharpie brother tells me, more than ever. Unlike Scorsese the fulcrum of the short digital piece, already I am on thinnest Como ice, my elders here all read Latin and Italian in ways I do not, maybe why I put on more airs than they do, but even still from the scent in the air I know to avoid any white woman talking about a defence put on for anyone as an anathema to her good history lessons taken from Negros good enough to be called on cups in happy meals where no italic can ever be, god kwnos, certainly not Sacco and or Ariosto. Oh, maybe Scorsese is a good banner for some Italians American parade where they can have a moment of silence for dead and goine porcine Jimmy. They are looking for escape hatches and thus have to caterwaul hard and loud, he tells me, they having studied ethics at Milton’s tower, harder and faster is always is the con, as the candy coating of that cunt Obamas is flaking off and the insufferable are looking again for witch trials. Too I have been tired and working diligently. I had eighteen days to make a film, having not touched a camera since 1979, a millennium ago, for god sake, and haven’t been like I was been with comics and or writing, doing my own variations there of, I had to realize I had a little over two weeks to figure out digital filmmaking when I hadn’t even done much of the old line stuff.


I, Having the heart of a Jesuit and you can take that to mean anything you’d like, sometimes wish to show my allegiance to the ideal of the worker. Hard work never killed anyone, as nuns would say, so sometimes in my leisure something may come up which causes me to show my devotion to Vulcan, roman God of fire and labour, as he appears in Ancient Romance, in Tuscan version, Sethlands. In this, he has a crew of diligent walkers, all Sisyphus like, who with Herculean stretch roll balls of mud up the fields of the night, to cement, this being an Italian myth, the creation to the inevitable spheres of the universe, which it, seeing the earth as a infringement and a incubus, as does brother God Jove, who fears Sethlands, often shown as a black god in china induced Italian walls and reamed Satan by always affable and money launderers from Semitic lands, wishes to repel. This idea of the universe kept in harmony by the both moving of the universe always outward and it being repelled by the divine, appears in linen scrolls in Tuscan mounds eons before Albert Einstein couldn’t quite figure it out. But then there is nothing really in Einstein one cant find in Bruno, the one of many Italian heroes you don’t know enough about to sick the middlebrow fem studies white women on, and haven’t heard enough about to diminish totally. With this as a ethic to go back to, wishing sometimes to nail creation to the ballasts of night out there, I will occasionally take upon me a task to get something done, again, the getting of something done, its own and sometimes only reward. SPOLIER ALERT!

I do this to some consternation, but it is all true and in fact have done things that eerily mirror things done later by money grubbers and circus owners without my panache or my grace, or even the flair I show when pulling things out of my ass. In 2007, around the time of getting into comics again to get a résumé of some, hell not heft, even substance, for note at all, I sent a screenplay to a horror movie maker in of all places as I recall Georgia. It was a satire of Chillier Theatre, one I have mentioned before a staple of Pittsburgh television when I was a boy. It was a triple header in this play, as he, chilly Billy sometimes showed movies that were so cut to ribbons as a kid, sometimes it was just as a collage of filmmaking I would imbibe these b movie schlock classics, eat them up, as one imager went into the next, with Zsa Zsa on Mars turning into a Sam Spade film noir not done by John Huston, to kung fu movies, of entered dragons and frying girrotines, and an occasional Hercules from Steve Reeves addled Roman theatres. Cinema Paradiso. So I sent the script in and it was about a man and wife tv anchorite on Saturday night showing these bits and pieces of movies, b- movies, included here were Bikini Dracula, eventually made fuller and its own movie, but with some of the same aspects, Hondo Joe, a spaghetti western done during the sad industrialization of Italy, and The Bounty, a satire of star trek in which the always missing fro the Enterprise Italians under a man named Romulo took off to destroy the happy little space ship of collected good credits to their race, a bit like a satire I write as a boy that has echoes of the Star Trek Wrath of Farrakhan skit that is a classic. The newest found then images of a sports by brooks goddess named Wendy was the model for a ensign girl in pony tail who rebuffed the advances of the ZAPP BRANIGAN LIKE KIRK, but who fell for always invading and always recompense needful Captain Romulus Zapperone. This was so long ago, it was before I took that name and handed it to Joe Mister Stupendous, as a pseudonym which he would use when in unromantic street clothes, a date for Miss Kitty at happy news years 1978 at Eaton‘s penthouse.

The reader loved it, the associates too, but the Peachtree owners here were that Fangoria type and again, like compassion, satire gives the game away and is something the sanctimonious don’t engage in. When asked what I need to make this film, again realising I can make art out of anything, or at least hope I learned as much from parents and jurists who went through the open cites of American expansionism, I told them I would do this quickly and succinctly and cheaply, just again, to get it done, something of a punch line now, but not the worst sort of ethic and or rubric to write on the wall. All I need I said, to accomplish this was a shit load of Kodacrome and some super 8 cameras.

I was alerted then 6 years ago, that Kodacrome was done, finished, that digital was the way of the future as uncle FF had decided sadly, as the flat digitalization process of awful movies by Jackson and other monster movie makers leaves me cold. But it was cheap and quick and fast, I was assured, and could be done on a computer. Auger that I am, I kind of figured a lot of my waiting and a load of my turning way from opportunities was to allow for the coming age I was told long ago was the future, computers doing everything, an Asimov dreamland, in which the gates and towers of the Zoetrope’s and worse, were not only not needed anymore as a certain Republicanism took hold, the graffiti on the wall, as it were, which is way hangers on of that old emblematic epoch of speech codes, bell ringers and sackcloth and Monica caretakers like Mo Dowd cling happily to the gate keeper island of Doctor Pauline Kael, as if one isn’t anointed by the new York times, they somehow melt like witches, unseen and unnoticed, like a Dantean apparition of demononology. In two weeks and some I would have to face that future I heard about from a friend in the debarred from Jesuit high school in which I abandoned forthwith, a good kid I was becoming friends with, son of a local detective, who saw the computer as the magic box that would rape television in its ass, he said, and almost everything he told me, breathlessly as If I a dweeb at heart, and smart could understand what was going on there. This was a call to a future then unheeded, as fat chicks I had known since middle cesspool public school were now freed of the St. Joe’s low calibre wops now entombed in public schools as the tuitions went up, were still playmaking things like seven minutes of magic in their parents freaks and geeks era closets. This was I took it, as my chance, all this time later, the Canon non contest, a meteor coming out of the sky, one ridden by Richie Cunningham, of all people, and I was to be come at least, devoted to the cause as not having done before.

I worked so here, quick but not fast, taking my time, diligently and circumspect, piece by piece, line by line, slicing thru days at least with looking up a essay called Life of Brutus because of a well timed virus to hit my computer the very moment that I attracted the attain by accident of the jersey Maloccio of the Scorsese troopers. I was careful as I can sometimes be, at times too careful, not just quickly whipping something up as I did with Rag, somehow amid the diminishment I feel is my usual go to with such types as these, still, a comic snerd did manage to say my comic done quickly in four hot summer afternoons was better than most of the shit that marvel spews out. Outtasite!

I downloaded windows movie maker, unlatched in this latest computer, of course, my Emachines which showed all movies and opened all works files now in a landfill, and learned on the fly how to do this, instructing enough as files called Flv were unread and unseen by it, losing two days as switching from the camera access to the small memory card, as I was told to do in a tutorial, no shit, caused nothing I had taken and co-opted to pixels had stuck or at least would stickle to Wmm. Then I realised around July 12th that movie maker didn’t make movies per se, it made templates that had to be made into movies. In the first weeks of summer I called this all together, shot by shot, scene by scene, slowly I turn…I awoke at dawn to catch the decay of rotten unhidden Pittsburgh in golden hour light, I walked outside shoeless in the middle of the night at one to catch the apostolic waxing moon of saint Francis, over the dark lines of black trees. I avowed to avoid Zimmerman and the balloted pigs of American minstrelsy, with a passion only catching enough to have my Jesuit heart warmed by Garagos, who shows the middle earthed Mediterranean ethic at its best, as black chicks and Jews now play whom do you trust as good and sanitized christened as stators Torquemada’s, that pejorative to the prosecution table a remnant of three priests who placed me in Jesuit pre law early on, demanded I read Hercules in fourth grade made in me a slow assuredness, image by image, take by take, wall by wall.

The contest made you collect a passle of other men’s photos to sue, with Ron Howard’s a single leaf, actually the best image of the bunch, and spoiler alert, that bit of apple polishing may be meaningless, and I clicked one image after the next that I thought I could sue, dilapidation, a river, a golden girl vestal, etc. This was a bit much, I think a few images from Ron would have been enough, but then we are selling canons here, which I have nothing of theirs, all the photo equipment down to the sound mixing is Sony, the kodacrome of now. I like Fugi Too, but alas film is dead, cant you tell by the flat earth we see now around us. This time, instead of the mad dash rewards genius and or destruction I always use, the doors of heaven and hell as they say, this time I placed in with industry and aforethought that which I enacted to show, not as enamoured with the shock of the new that I am always trying to show myself, as I am assured my mistakes are better and more deep and more assured than the thoughtfulness of others, having read too much Mishima.

I began to become more in the weeds of it all, the green leaves of Ron became the emblematic ideal of the laurel. But too, the overgrowth of green and brown in a town being swallowed buck up again by the surrounding earth. As, abortion and porch monkeys on the take for electric companies having taken it toll. As I was doing this ode to decay, showing my masters touch, Detroit, like Tokyo was brought down by its own Godzilla, a lizard made monstrous from a hundred years of chemical dumping. Having studied Da Vinci’s colour wheel, not the usual one, there is no brown in the usual one, I noted and limitedly took hold of da Vinci’s studious colour theory, as green is the colour of spring, but also, in his genius amended, is the colour of poison. Now, the Laura was not only a signage of Victoria, but of forehead peccadillo as Dante showed. The leaf was symbol of earth, but of poison too, was that a poisoning ivy leaf I saw near the garage…? Did it matter…? In the over growth of green from incessant local rains, there is graffiti, the Romans art. Fuck you was spray painted by someone adds to a garage barriers asking that someone named Dre be freed, they are innocent, aren’t they always…?, as Juvenal noticed, don’t laud him gals, he’s a motherfucker. Ah, but Tacitus is dropped from the middle brow pantheon, I can always tell when sometimes has read as much as I have, or some, when they rat back away from their bellowed concerns, having turned the page. As I have mentioned to too many who count that he invented white mans burden when speaking of the Turks…!…and that he invited later phrases that Boccaccio found in that MSS, LIKE PORCH MONKEY AND WELFARE QUEEN, there is only so far one can go with a decline and fall after all, Juvenal becomes a rapier wit, a now beloved figure Romans as sinister and quoted by Grouchos on fox business network, where the wops and yids know their place, and staccato means what it was meant to mean, sadly enough for old Junius. In the green red lips of Beatrice, my logo --at least something came of it all, amid the emerald plants. Poster of Unusable unusable Inominata, boy I hate when house wops use the feminine of Italian like Coppolla, was Wendy Fiore. Here she was a truer Beatrice, posted up on the wall a crumbling red brick wall, red meaning both love and war, admiration and passion, a placenta and a stabbing, Da Vinci was no hack, and knew all in ways that still bothers the Groeneings to this way who think, because their robots and father idiots are given voice by Italian, that the whole raza is open to them to demean as Lisa lectures us with cafeteria knowledge of the Buddha’s. I, therefore by thought around July 14th I was on to something.

But the only places I could film I was ousted of downloading the guerrilla filmmakers handbook were falling through. The old lady I thought still the church secretary was long dead, the one who told my brother I could draw like an angel when I was kid. And now polish priests had descended upon the old schoolboy holy Mount as scrambled jets of piety. They are , the pole’s better god know than the Irish, who will at times be true to their stereotype by the numbers and ask a human milk dud in his fathers suit, how many times can I bash your head into a wall when that self same lawyer hyping for his spotlight and close up speaks of not that much blood commixing from Zimmerman’s nose. As the queer Jesuits taught me, everything can be reduced to millilitres if need be. It was late in the evening and I blew that room away.

Ah, but thing’s as of July 23, 2013, 3:28 PM are calming down, not for fault of fox loving showing revolting Negros wherever they can book them, as usual mister Wet Blanket came out and almost admitted to being black, causing my face book friend at one time Kordell West who once gave me a like despite my calling him Kordell, it was all in good Pun, and Im sure he got the joke, called the whole thing pointless and useless, with Tavis calling Obams spittle warm Kool aid. Now where have I heard that one before….? I always raise a Jesuit eyebrow when the Spartacus card, marked of course, is bottom decked sued by Amercing darkies, even the Sicilians, almost Jewish in their litanies, at least among themselves and ignored by the hbo boys who need a minstrel show to be excempt from their libertine aspects, ignore him. Ah, but Obama’s latest take on this ethic, to say after five days that “I am almost Like Sparticus“ sort of, as he has made a career of tap dancing away, it made me laugh and showed the underpinning of narcissi to it all. What scared you more, Travon’s death or the life of Travon, boy….I have an inkling. The Jesuits made sure I knew Spartacus had his own slaves, like later white men wishing to cry freedom, like how Mrs Mandela liked chocking little black kids, the whip is all, and it was never Spartacus who as adored as much as Cattiline, willing to be a mad senator, that best of things unseen now, when my mother was still a little girl in Italians hillsides.

I found I couldn’t film, on a camera now reconstituted to mirror real films as learned from the handbook set at 24 frames a minute, that is closest to film I take it for any kids out there wishing to recall the ancient palimpsests, and placed it on soft focus, toying with this though have always been a fan of Greg Tolland and deep focus. The day for filming the cheap tripod broke but was sued and thrown into the bundle, and was so small I doubted I could get anything but the curb side by keeping it anyway. And of course, into this, a nagging voice started to bother me. I was fifteen and making super eight films in an attic sued as a studio, more room than I have now, --thanks a lot Pelosi!-and here was in the dwindling days of 47 years old, good lord where have I been…?, doing something irrevocably the same, as was always too good and too much of a saint to back down and give any inch. Well, now GE keels backwards out away from another two bit nigger Cattilines ballooning about riots, marking this as against stand your ground, as even self defence is fungible to the law hacks, cardinals all, you know, lest someone who got Tarp be shot by accident as opposed to the mounds of dark flesh drug by tankers not barges by Charon each and every day in the hoods. They want assuredly out of hoddie wearers who were amid bludgeoning men’s heads into curb sides, so I guess sanctimony and beatification isn’t what it is cracked up to be, so to speak. No really I would ask Crumpie and the dude from the Eagle try outs in Its always sunny in Philadelphia, how may times can I bash your head into a cement wall, ooh wait that would be a hate crimes. The democrats I was warned by nuns always exempt themselves first. Google the words Canicattì massacre before you ask me to sanctify you least less than Ghandi like whip me beat me make me feel cheap negro saint Perpetua.


In two weeks I crated the seven minutes of film-or this approximation there of, and was complete. But I had no idea how films were made in the digital age, and started by hitting done and then clicked on ‘save movie‘. Film as something real, something sunken now as white women dance about having lost their curves amid weepy sob sisters speeches given by our lamentable Marc Antony over the body of Traven, as opposed again to black dudes who were killed by spics from the U who play gangster on Sunday Night Football. He like the victims of the wayward cop not a tin badge cretin fast enough, their bacterium of compassion in our college of cardinals’ is always emendable, second person as Machiavelli said is everything, as the roll of the die and the spin of the wheel never seems to go just so on 21 news game shows for them, and no Larry magnificent or not nor will chipee Alexandra, why did I think pretty half breed Alex was an Alexis...?, ever bring them up. Even a non-Jesuit taught creep must know that situational ethics, a catch all so that certain sorts can never be evil wrong or seen for hat they are, are no longer ethics at all. And your wackamole bought and paid for ethic mean nothing to me. How great is it to se the Pius the third scaffolding already up on the monument to Martin, how great is that I, for someone who was pilloried for every pun to know that America got his textus receptus wrong, if not on purpose, by dismissiveness, who showing our darkie incompetence is always below the surface like an alligator, or in my case Excalibur. Yes in Romans annals, a story appears where a sword is flung out of the water at an early republics hero, but then like Shakespeare and Christ, if everything Romanism was taken out of these authors again as usual you’d have barbarian slop.

So, I WAS I THOUGHT, wrong, stupid, and was done. But, in trying to covert these file to a film, which I stupidly a child of the millennium of Michelangelo thought as made and done and whole, was in fact merely a futurama phantasm of 1’s and 0’s and was nothing like Greek until a paid interpreter could make it all make sense, or sense enough. For two days, I kept trying to have the intent gods of tubes take this grainy film aping scenery and make it real, honest and true, which film itself would have de facto have been from the beginning. I kept hitting the all at 14 percent and needed three days to make a film a whole thing and I yearend for the days of 1979 when before the fall I was still at least dealing in things that were actual and real, and not yet having made magical to the point of electric non-existence. It took me a whole to download too the codex needed for this translation which Microsoft in its infernal ways of the demonical business dealings of the least bubble and fall, or as it the one before that…I am losing track as is my want…doesn’t bother to tell you. I think I took it as a given from the Charlie Rose shows about the age of enlightened this is, or maybe it as Zach and Miri, that Digital film was easier than this. Again I did not figure on theta first day in the Venetian harbour was not counted. There is a Spanish acceptable turn on Romeo and Juliette, which was sued often by white girls to hide their prejudice against the Gumbas who gave them welts and orgasms worthy of ice cream Shoppe’s, but it appears that this story like so many in Grimm’s was found in the dark Cresses of unread in Brittan and thus unread Babblers of Italians, so like so much in our Emily Latella world ahs been dropped. I may have mentioned or at least alluded to this is the movie file, Movie One, or Wop like me as Proposed to file it and send it uploaded to the Cannon contest an the Richie Cunningham who is the exemplar of an Gerry Marshall America that I never felt I belonged to or wanted much to. It as now starting to cut it close something I thought this time I wasn’t in the mood to do.

I set it up and disrupted to download at 9 in the evening on the 21st. I had lost three days playing with movie makers, where as if these were strips of film they were already made back when I was a boy. Then I was to add something about myself , oh little old me? …I so hate to speak about myself, --which something I usually can revel in, but didn’t feel like playing Franciscan barrister with a fool four a client this time. I had to place in the title. Wop Like me. Heh.

I was accosted by red letters, as red as the church that copula has defended das much as he ever railed against it, like good frauds like he and cable hostess do. Watch your mouth, I was told by the house of Opie, the variation sounding less like Hal the supercomputer and more like Francis Bavier, aunt Bee, Bea too, you know, Italian for the gingim for Mary Lou in the American vista that even Woody Allen has always both been repelled by and secretly dreamed of bettering with Diane Keaton as Virgil to explain these interiors. You have to be, as my buddy from arts school said, shitting me. I can’t edit this film now its nine o’clock on the midday before the deadline, or what I thought as the deadline, not exactly great at PCH time travel, tell me about it. So, always clever as was smeared by the gangster squad maker thinking isomer Ariosto. I PLACED IN : AN ACRI RADIO FILM, which due to my pretensions,, appears before the title Wop like me, my title, hops getting a figure on things appears only in a cartoon at a poster before--no wait, I’m not that smart. It does appear at the end in credits --thank you very Much Francis Fiord Copula and other evil eyes you’d like to push on, get me some rock salt to throw. Wop like me, it appears, was unacceptable to a man who made his career by letting a Jewish man play out lords of Flatbush until his retirement, so nice to know that finally I am avenged and having done reams on how ‘Wop’ as a word that the blue noses never seemed willing to censor was now, so the jokes as usual in America was one on me, but at least I wasn’t either a man bludgeoning a man made into saint and neither was I another of your sanitized victims whose stone monument had to be enclosed as it as yesterday so as you can resort to actual quotes. I wrote down ‘Life of Brutus‘, just to fudge things, and when I went and had to write down what I was doing and why explaining my work again too tired now for usual enjoyments, I found where I set own my thoughts of placards and posters and Romans street art, I found again, strangely I got another watch your tongue as I write down the word Roman. Well that does explain much.

I was crestfallen as actually placed much time and senses into this small film, as I have said, and was left with what seemed to be a beautiful corpse as something out of Boccaccio’s Italians sonnets or the line up at crumbling democratic television. I was broken down and felt awful as this time was hoisted on my own petard, as though knower of all things, in a Jesuit way I didn’t really have any facts on my side, and didn’t know it could take days to replicate a shit load of Kodacrome.

I was beaten down, but had until 6 am and allowed the film to unroll into their severs, saddened more than angry or anything else, that the time I should have actually been at a horse trot clip the day I should have been more Cattiline I was more Bruno, looking literally as the phases of the sun, something he thought up before anyone, sure that the sun wasn’t stationary but turned like the earth, something he was as burnt for at a stake, and so cannot be mentioned even ironically by Martin Soreasy, the Charles Foster Kane OF MY MARCH OF TIME HERE, who likes to act like all Italians are in his varmints personae and god help you if you think it isn’t so. I was afraid of being shut up again, shut up by him again, as he is nothing but the recitation of the principia, like a good hatchet man is, a good clown is always paid by the circus who uses shim, no one is a clown for gratis,-- except maybe me. And like I have said, I am more akin to the madman in the Romans street, wearing twigs and piss stained mantels and issuing poison oak as a crowing of not so much thorns, as that a too fixture in Livy long before Paul or one of the Jew babies scribes stole it, as who would know better than them how to skirt even rudimentary copyright laws of the Romans state. I was psychically ill, and not just from a constant diet of lemon heads doing a childhood number on my guts and making my teethe inflame. I sat down sadly owning I had just fucked up another opportunity at which I am great, as being made into a granite slab in a fashion the Romans called a frieze and which often then not was sued to show demons coming up and out of, remember Gregory and Audrey in Roman holiday, kids,…? was not my hope ever. I sat down and was not in the mood for a boy from then bus named Stossle to ask if Ameriax, the going concern in more ways than one, US STEAL, I could go on, was becoming Rome. You wish, I SAID, OUT LOUD AS A STUDENT OF FATHER GORE. You wish.

Like a cheat figure using banking as a catch all for the divine as his sort of Semite always does, sorry mob wines has buckled my inclination to see too polite, these Semites are so dependable as he trashed Rome before an audience of Christers and Mormons who look like what Tacitus called the barbarian class, when he got too close. Here, Groucho Stossle, late of 2020 after the mugging that shows no matter what you think, the republicans will never disappear in a nation that is getting irremeably old, no matter you Cicero attempts at cosecant youtt and viga. I WAS SURE that I fluked ups something I didn’t even know about three weeks ago, coming in late and unprepared, as usual. Why didn’t I make a student film, a student anything, as after all even in arts school with no less than Dorian Clevenger who I tried to befriend before I heard how hack -ish he thought I was, me beneath his heavy metal arts. Shit Tonto, Ill be friends with anyone. And wishing for compatriots who are good as you is middle brow and too womanish for me. I think, a teacher told me, it was something else, and if I were as incomplete as he presented me, as students would race to see what madness Old I had brought in now, as Ciotti called my purple heart and other story boards and comics better than marvel, see I’m sued to it, --well it was something else, I was assured.


I have been sire of my Welles-ian attempts at beginners luck all along. Why didn’t I at least figure out the basis of the art and lave the notes of Zimmerman to the peanuts gallery. Because as a Jesuit I am a friend to the friendless. And recall I lost an opportunity to have something made a year ago but a July Fourth post creed against Nancy Grace and pro Casey Anthony called Graceland posted elsewhere, made me too close to a criminal to enthused white folks, which as an Italian I was probably there already. Now I see on the newsroom that suddenly everyone recreated what a witch hunt this was, equally to s ay now that Nancy is like Ackerson and Rachel, seeing the new umbers coming in, speaking of being crestfallen. But then, I don’t and never have played to the tenth Row, so they not turning out in drives isn’t a cut to my spleen as it is to dismantling Barry. It was nice to s ee the jury system be stood up for by Greta Van Sustren, of all people, as somehow, suddenly Rachel sues a Sonora Fortuna, yes that's  justice in Jesus freak America, behind her at all times. I was pulsed to see, with my Jesuit heart, this sneering pouty defence lawyer with a true career, having been one of the few who gave oj an even break, he not so willing to be the complete Trapea you enjoy, causing the democrats Sharptoon and cnn to always shoot the wounded and the poor since then. It as nice to hear her tell some melotto, if I might us the word the new York Times, or was it Tom Shale’s..?, sued to show his gratitude at the sopranos, a girl who looked like a cross between a TV cable layer and a penthouse pet, to back off and that law is law, and social justice, is something Christ came up with between hailing Tyberius Caesar, which he famously did.

Not sure if anything got through, as miss read The end point of the contest as 6:oo pm pst, you know close of business on the 23rd, but no, it was 6:00 AM PST, meaning either nine o’clock am or three am, who can tell…? And instead of this dying requiem for a surprised saint who talked with his fists, or hear white girls tell me that defence councils are the wrong side of history, or any of that shit, I watched True grit again from the beginning, as it was American as apple pie. In the days of attempt and carefulness, it was watching such things as Carson and Jonathan Winters, The Fortune Cookie in which the great Walter Mathieu plays a  huckster called Gingrich, the sunshine boys, True Grit, François Truffaut, The Third Man, Ray Harryhausen’s clash of titans with Olivier as Zeus, the birdman of Alcatraz, The twelve chairs, and other films. All which showed, which shows wither mutated gonnifs of Fox want to know it or not, bread and circus is a national reaction to sputtering Severus us, Agrippa self important imperial Jews hanging around middle school girls with pictures of his Wang, Jew II with black socks and tent pole again, who fall from grace , though who didn’t go to jail despite the dark haired Beatrice that I told you all middle earthers desire to get, whatever the Orielleys tell you dream of as postponed to the dishwater daughters they are meant to chase like MLK did thus cementing his place, as it were, the dark haired lovely he was always zeroing on fact did go to jails someone tell Rachel’s its as a man’s world. All the Janus’s were ignored by men, Romans Tony, as when I bring up Rome, its not a four letter word nor say it with a Marx Brothers sneer like assorted relatives do, all who bore me now, all who at the end, bloody knives heavy and resentfully held, are looking for the exists to that better out there.

Why I feel so discouraged is that this was actual a-1 stuff here, Ron Howard a gold standard impassable and unassailable to me. I have spent my time since 1995 and cold calls from cable television gumbas operations needing a “consultant.“ Which, Audrey my yenta neurologist told me if I didn’t poo poo the tv gumbas and their now dead Big Daddy, a name me and my art school buddies laughed about, Id hate myself all my life as I wasn’t like she said, Mel Brooks talking about the Romans, as I stole every gimmick mediated by Plautus. I loved Italy and should have been true to it. I have dealt with Rupert Pupkin types, checked sports coat wearers tax evaders who ended up issuing their ford fiestas and broken down old Cameros to hijack women who like Wendy, called out to them as a Beatrice among the dishwater whooers, so I haven't earnestly scaled the heights of Hollywood. Now I’m being censored for using the word Wop, possibly the first ever. I must wonder they would be pleased at Zoetrope to know I ma not the cleverer Jesuit that they were weaned on in Victorian literature when an Italian isn’t a day labourer MGM company Mario Bros. like affable wop slipping through stereotype time. And now Travon is rotten away again, not long as Americas sweetheart, see, as I SAID I would explain it all, as the priests warned me augers they were, that that prosecution table dint feel comfortable with the enlistee nigger Godling, or saying men who wished to be cops were somehow mad, and the divinity of the jury verdict is sued by them more than not, and there is something unseemly about a fat piggish white woman calling a man a murderer after exoneration, and so, the clown show is again closed for repairs. Like Wade, we miss yew Keith. Ah, this, the stuff of mine, that doesn’t get a shout out on RM, like Polaroid’s, within reason, from death in Venice made sub urba and lame. I said, I’d explain it all, Rachel, ah but the suits on the fortieth floor beat me to it. I said I have a certain espiritu that mad men always use their dirges to hide. I am dejected, as would have liked to somehow be seen and evaluated by that alum from Jefferson High, if only to show not every Dago was an affable Jewish clown like Garry and Penny and the rest, and that I have always loved the 61 Cadillac, a classic more than any hot rods. I take it the download didn’t happen in time or correctly as my dashboard is gone. One of my ebuddies in Miami porno sent me an email to show that Copula who we both hate, imagine that, is selling a red camera, worth 33,000 dollars for 10,000. American confetti.




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