31 August 2013



It is now 2:02 in the morning, and I have just watched the Olbermann repeat, glad my buddy Keith is on the air again. I have Liked Keith since the old days when he was railing against the Cowboys, which I always found more decent and honest than what was done by wop hood human cheesesteak Tony Bruno, anyway. I think it is funny that he has skipped away from the wreckage that is the GE THEATER, he having sort of invented it, been fired and now is back at the toy department while the other cousins show do a pale imitation of him, and are languishing in the ruins. Now that’s farce! Anyway, am glad to see him back as already this loveable blowhard is giving the passavante hell, something I have always strived to do in what ever way I can.

I am saving the film ‘Wop like me’ again as was alerted by someone at AFI that the DVD I sent was un-operational, as am going by the seat of my pants here, and it seem everything I have , Sony , real player, windows, are all at cross purposes and un-linkable of being used together, causing me again as it seem I have always been, at wits end as the universe as usual is against me, or I am just not paying enough attention, or most of all, that none of this shit works together, as why would anything be easy. They are kind enough to allow me to re-submit, and since I had already started cutting back at the film with some ease and quiet that never lasts, I was ver shivistzed seeing that now had recued my film to various long clips for posting, and was all out of order. Aha, but using what I like to call masculine man brains given by the man sky god, I realized these clips could be coupled in a new file of Movie pro, frozen as they were in time, but no big whoop, and thus could recite this all even better by subsuming wholly made clips, and spin them around as so saw fit. I wanted to take a slow and leisurely aspect to this, but as deadlines mount up, packed it together and save it all as a snowballing cartoon, as scenes gather to themselves as resaved film. I wanted to take August off after the rush of workman like duties, but will try the same in September, as send off this second disk in a bottle hurled towards the pacific sea.
I was at the dollar general, looking for props, as I smart assedly told actual producers of film like Jack Rosen, Cyn Dulay and others I think that props are an awful thing unless they are found at the cheap dollar store. I have the black suit I bought at Saint Vincent depaul as the uniform for Brutus, should I ever make Roman Mythology, a suit of vintage and cotton and thick in the ways unseen as now, and it hangs there in a attic closet, because I am sad. Still, I think props are useless if made in foundries of mgm, like accoutrements and sold some on the idea of all you need to make a Indy film and give it heft and verisimilitude,  is a trip to the dollar general, and from there find the reality needed that props do not have. The first thing a Machiavellian is taught is the subtly between what is real and what is fake.
We went up to the forlorn cracked dried abandoned warehouse, where this store buzzes away with cheap enticements. I filmed all the way, as have used the local lack of color and the urban blight of the summer of Detroit to contsreoposto and countervail with the drawings I first used as placard placeholders and now see as the not only the vindication of my Jesuit loved arts against Scorsese and Coppola, but as antithesis of their ultimate Negros spiritualized chain gang uselessness. I was not taken in is the undercurrent here, and so Captain Magnus and the Cat girl and Canniolinus and Brutus, King Italius and Gracie all appear as a way to show that the herding and the controlling that the Hollywood minstrel shows tried to do not only with me but others was useless and these cracking walls have been sometimes plastered with my work, as a signage of my observer pride.
Up at the dollar general, I took out the camera, pretending to be Desica capturing a falling and fallen Rome, as saw a lovely brunette girl get out of a hatchback and saunter leniently towards the green walls painted store, as all is Freudian. Inside, I went to look at the Halloween stuff already out and up, and bought a muster of wreaths of autumn that can Easily be converted into Roman Laurels , and that can be strung back together into a cheap and available and yet somewhat more real than you’d find at zoetrope and its love of the gheppetto’s work house, as it was not meant for film, per se, and thus avoided that awful stink of self righteousness. This is the same reason I use stationary and sometimes expensive to make art and avoid the art school trap of blaming, or lauding, one’s tools. I looked everywhere for a sword I saw before, the Excalibur—must I repeat the Roman roots of that again….?, which would be held by the kingly eminence, who will appear where my cartoon of the king is placed in the long mp4 file that needs to be re-converted now. I picked up the glittery wands and tsarinas toys of little girl princess kits and threw it in the box, as come to think of it, this was not that different from how Rome was created, catch as catch can with whatever was had to make do. Holly leaves and thanksgiving plastering’s would be my Italian king’s grass crown.
A voice came to me. Are you looking for your size, bro…? I looked , and the long lean lovely woman was behind me, her exact mini me made duplicate little girl hurling princess one dollar ponies and fake barbies into the cart. I smiled as she beamed at me. Umn, I said, -always smooth-, No, I…I…I was as usual confronted by a lovely woman, speechless. Are you buying those for your little girl, she asked…?  I…said, I am not married, I’m putting together an outfit foir a generalized vestal, a Roman preostess, I said always talking downwards when meaning to do anything but. Yes, I know, she said, and I felt like the blowhard that I am and have never been able to monetize like our buddy Keith, whose triumph of the bawl make me feel there is justice, as the sinking ship of msnbc now goes back to Stan Savaran Ed, showing things are not so well in Light bulb land as they need a translator traitor to dee white wurkin man. Again, I know exactly what he is saying, almost as much as he does. I didn’t even know Keith was back, sadly on epsn and not on policies, as he was being decried again by the dreaded Glenn Beck, who isn’t as mad as he pretends, or is bought off enough to have trashed Newt when it looked like Newt could actually get the sash and win, as in Obamsla land all is a Chinese box and fraudulence is everywhere, and I hope you got a good number out of your shtick mad man, as there is only one mad man on this Romans street who knows the con is on and that’s me, as this dried out old booze bag can go play messiah victim somewhere else. Hed even vote for OBAMA over bungled old dirty Newt, the bag man’s bag man said, which should have told even the women what a fraud we live through now. Unlike now disappearing Glenn, who needs the almighty Jove and his every lightning bolt to keep him from the demon souse, --oh skip it, as Plautus said the best part of writing a farce is knowing when its over. Good on Keith for getting out alive. Like Keith another cable station goes and gets Newt, as they learned from Plautus, really, the first thing to do is get an audience, something GE has never understood, thinking people are always as fraudulent as you is the firsts tap step to ruin, or to losing a half of your sanctimonious audience.
I smiled nervously  , unaware she was this close, and me being a …what is the word…?, Sauvé…cool, sophisticate, man about town, man of action, avenate guard, bon ve von, --no…shlub, I was sweating like a fat chick. She took a similar tiara as I bought and handed it to the cute little girl, who looked at me blackly as if with some sort of telepathy, black cartoon eyes realizing the effect her mothers front had on me, not different than she had on her. This was sweet, but annoying. I tried to calm down, but was in rush mode anyway, as wanted to get this all done, and now was confronted with this lean lovely in summer cloths. barely cleaving to deep dark summer tan skin, with hazel eyes shining out from a mixed race sort Italian loveliness. I gathered myself to speak, as was putting giant leaves in a green box, and was looking for that sword I knew I had seen before, even a Pirate anything, as what were the Romans after all but pirated souls sloping for a new land, away from Greek staid corruption, as Romulus invented to Greek and Jewish eyes the anathema of the Asylum. The idea of the barbarians repealing regnum’s that come apart from corruption and complacency and welfare, don’t forget welfare crumb boy,  was said by newspaper Caphius stooge communist who worked at Enron, beady eyed house shnoror times Kruman to be a Arabs invention in the 1200’s taking away from the italic again one of the few things they are allowed to keep. Really, an Arab noticed this…before or after Cornelius Tacitus , Kruggie…? As frankly another Semite is caught whistling past the pantheon, hoping to color his world in less than sepia tokens of sadness and decline. Rome was pirates, as was America, before various Severus rumpled the jolly Rodger with rainbow or christer flags, not Nazi or confederate, but whose bloodiness is acceptable to the white trash and the coloreds who have sold out to the war constrains bulletin service. So I spoke to her as best I could, but still wanted to furnish this coming Rome as best as I could not gridding the props from Rome at various Indy websites, that seemed to me cheapest eye--what is the word…more expensive and yet infinitely less real.
My brother came up to me and told me not to tell anyone what I was doing, him I guess seeing me schmooze with the lovely woman, as telling people around here you are making a movie makes you look like a wanna be porn miester. He gave me a twenty and told me to get whatever I saw I need, he was getting out of here to buy a newspaper and I would be alone, something he likes to get me to do and be more independent. I kept speaking to her, as the little black haired girl was steady in the steel carriage, and gave me the stink eye. I gentlemanly allowed her to step before in line before me with her haul, as to better see her ass and look at that back of hers that held up small white straps of bra against dark peach summer skin, as I can find the sexual in almost anything, as opposed to the perverts who wish to conquer the earth, and wish to be admired for their vices, when one is admired for getting laid, the bar is so low as to be subterranean. They now, who find the sexual in nothing, perversions being merely a way to keep from becoming absolute nothing. On the news is a horrid story of a white beard, old man bald headed girlie armed  myopic judge stooge who allowed a child rapist to get way with parking ticket time as bought the less than Jesuit pre law argument that this poor white man pervert had been lured by the sexy wiles of a girl who wasn’t blond enough to get Nancy actress attention once. A girl who looked as an average student and girlish as usual was off putting to them as anyone not a white is now, and the white judge had to publically apologia as someone woke up the coven of double stuffed lesbians whose usual caterwauling had been mere emotional musack no one was really paying attention to anyway. As I sad as the thesis’s of my film, new Sicily is here, and Bill Ares shall restore amends.
I stood behind her, and watched her go out as the little girl watched me back with distain all the way just sort of defying the two fingers to the eyes things as her mother walked her out on her shoulders. The blond guy at the check out and me were both silent and stunned as we watched her walk out, and he shook himself back to awareness and apologized about stopping hurtling my dry goods take into thin plastic bags. I understood, as the blond man was taken with her as I have found usually happens with lovely brunettes who are unviable to dower Hollywood. I should have asked her to be my vestal,  I thought, God is my casting director, unless he wants paid, even if she thought I was a cretin, she was the perfect vestal, specially around here. He was friendly towards me and asked if I found the sword I was murmuring about. He told me the pirate stuff I had seen was gone, a mother having complained to the Goldman sack owned dollar apalooza, and count Hugo Blankfiend always aware of the white women, recalled the swords with one color ninja japenese swords that couldn’t be mistaken for weapons, as Duvall’s police has a collective itchy trigger finger and GE SENDS Out the word to its coloreds you’re for stop and frisk like the democrats are, bubs. No toy guns, though, as we drown in guns and flame throwers, I said, eliciting a laugh. When I got home, I saw I had not a single image of the girl at the dollar store. I guess having been too stunned to actually hit record correctly, and only and half of what I thought I had, almost nothing all the way up there, which was some good blight.
The joke of the day was seeing Erkle the God standing at a Roman mausoleum, it seemed the new less than eternal city is drowned in Pope Julius scaffolding… too late I thought. He prayed to the great black Virgil with the credos in less than the public domain, and I thought of the last will and testament of Vanzetti a cbs radio sonnet called by one white woman a screed against America, as they always show their colors. Unlike Virgil and Sacco, Fleisher’s best Superman and mother of all bombshells Jane Russell, All in the public domain, Martin Luther King, strangely like Mickey Mouse, if one wants to show the earth gods black Tasus speech to the Muslim shepards, one must first pay up showing that in his heart, Martin Luther King understood America all too well, as did Spartacus understand Rome. Although to be fair he didn’t, and all the senators who he came to try to over threw the pricnepate and return to his position as a Sicilian Princ , the story is always doomed or amended  from where you start it as MARCUS SAID, the rough hewn faced slave never understood no an armed as Senator was about to let a slave or a Sicilian give him orders. Its time for war everyone, and this time, the scheme of the blue ducks has come to pass and the spitting idiots of ge theater are pushing for it lest they be seen as the pacifist colored welfare cheats they have been corralling and hating since Publius. It was all a dream about Tennessee. Black Caesar with the rubber stamps of bloated black reverends and more importantly the initials of Alexandrian generals who found him playable and easy to work with, we punish the Arabs who have never really stopped being white mans burdens after all. I think of that when one named Negros on ge theater are amazingly quiet as we build up towards war. This time for reals.
The joke was in seeing the new noble laureate preside over the ashes and ghost of the old, as at that moment gun boats were steaming to the eastern Mediterranean showing both were closer to Servetus smashing plates than Virgil spinning silk, toward where the spiders keep their nests. I thought of The girl. Of Johnny football and how what was a capital offense to Dez Bryant and brunch, is nothing now, less than nothing when epsn ahs a game stupidly called in September that has been pimped since Xmas last. The passavante always eventually go too far and elicit anger and resentment no matter who many Negra bishops play shepherd, which always as it ash in Italy for three thousand years, made things worse. Going back to resave Wop like Me, the film took to the dvd after it was converted as all must be between Sony and windows a coldest war, which should be avoided at all costs. But going there it didn’t take, of course. I cant watch Rachel poo and the rest of the liberals who eat regular now, their truest activist creed, thanks to the war company, ask incensed questions that they are afraid to answer to full up the time with spit, if they say anything at all. I caught instead the new Sherlock Holmes from the bbc, which I thought would be terrible, like Holmes and Watson in ww 2,  going up against Himmler an the ss, and yet, I think its great, and perfect and more watchable than any other Sherlock crap I have seen. I am 48 now. Why was I flummoxed by this pretty girl…? 





















24 August 2013




The redacted and censored variation of Wop Like me part 4. Haven’t felt well enough to closely follow things, but kept up the original clip up until could link to zoetrope in filial pride that I had at least been devoted enough to the dead priests to not slink away from the boiler room vineyard swamp which is Coppola’s dump.


I awoke , not feeling wonderfully, but had a lucid dream in which a saint-goddess who looked immeasurably like a certain Italic starlet came to me amid the weeds and the dead trees and warned me to excise the images of the godfather out of my opus,  no matter the intention. In a monks robe, the black unfunny comic who thinks he is doing such avante guard work in the charnel, minstrel house was running around catering like a goggly eyed buffoon,  which aside white robed angelic Turan girl to say, You see….!, as I irritably fell through the floor. A bit out of it, still will replied and reciprocate to all who have added me graciously. A tooth pain has caused me to miss an Italian American picnic where I wished to get some views, and too am in the process of missing the full moon I wished to get and sued a cartoon place holder in my film. I for one have gagged on sanctimony and euphuism, and their amazing floating N word, which like all in America, sometimes matters and sometimes doesn’t. I just take warmth in how the white trash starched Martin Scorsese when he actually dared say and Italian master of film deserved credit for that given to Cecile B Demented and Dw Griffith for their Klan movies. I am beyond shock.


I received a Google alert from a gaggle of Gonniffs, alerting me that I must cease and desist the sue of any Godfather imageries in my hardly for profit film essay Wop Like me. AH, finally a victory, as I am the first man in America to stop at least a moonset second of the Coppola insult of his Livien gangsters on our sensibilities. I take whatever I can get. No big Whoop, as Audrey my yenta consigliore would say in brookleynsese charm, I don’t really want my work polluted by that shit anyway, and of course, as a Jesuit student know the ins and outs of the res publics greasy law’s probably better than boys from Columbia do, the layyyyers as the delightful Michael Savage calls them. Unlike other radio yids Sage Mike  knows the score and isn’t as willing to wave the flag, as is sunken eyed Levin and others always willing to play out their lamebrain songbook.


But on those days when Martin Luther Queen, as he was sneeringly called by RFK, before the transfiguration or the martyrdom, whatever,  is sanctified and justified and beatified again, --oh lawdeee, when we reach dah nort star Emiline, and be almost a human as dee white women’s on cable television, hun…?, I like to always recall  Sacco and Vanzetti, who unlike many a nigger was killed by  the state—I know I am  overdoing for effect—and wasnt killed by a throng of rednecks who might included a future democratic senator in love with viaducts and or bug eyed closet queens of national reviews. I saw, as MSNBC gives us wall to wall coverage of a nigeralia in death throws as the news mounts up with miscreants who were not cast  by Coppolla for their blue eyes, as white alderman and union thugs stand at the almost laughable Romans parodies of mausoleums that seem to be all scaffolded earlier than they should have been, all unable and unhallowed to decay into the sadness of Roman vistas, and thus spiritually dogged and ponied, like Arabs structures. I recall my own saints and don’t need yours. I would have thought that per chance word should have went forth among the noble savages to keep the feast day of MLK pretend as was he, white as sheets, and as mistresses, and that perchance the bludgeoning could have been kept to a moratorium minimum. AH, no such luck. Now we mist be lectured about what is racial by fat women with blond corn rows, as black as you is allowed to git in Obama’s nightmare, with English Mike Douglas’s who lose their whopping audience to duck dynasty reruns, and on Cable, they lecture us fresh from listening to tapped into burners given to rape victims and royalty maids. You think your lie was the nigger shit, which is why Rachel and that crowd hits on inclemently, Let Roman Tony teach you the score, it was never the niggers ghost con, it was the pacifist shit, the anti Bush shot, which I knew was over when Bob Gates kept the role of Imperial Caesar, look it up again I am right, and now even the American fools catch on and he as Dido slips into a pagan hell, him without the decency to keep his yap shut. A old veteran killed by roaming black dogs…? This close to the feast of the black Madonna …? Oh its isn’t racial dears, and you know so, my alleyways all go back to Rome, and thus can recall when Romans asked with anger, you mean Sulla had his vengeful dogs kill a old man senator who marched with CATO the aged at Cumae, …? Oh that can’t stand, and Sulla might have to go…ask Copolla about the Sicilian law of the 1000th man.


I looked for some public domain images of your precious Godfather, as I was told by Flavia I can make art out of bic pens and Typing paper if need be, never was I a Grumbacher needing whore. And I saw entreatingly that there was a scene in the godfather reburied from even the Saga, later made by Copolla, sadly starting to believe his own tripe. In this cue, which may or may not by sued, I resented now being told I must remove things after downloaded supposed rights  to get some sort of ability to use what is in the public domain—oh dere is dat Nord star beloved by Cyrus and Rufus alike, but might say a sore feh to all of it anyway, as can always do what need be done. In this Gordon Willis scheme, Michael returns to the golden door, and with a shotgun gun kills the Fabrizio who killed the Greek looking girl who was played by a Neapolitan girl—do get  this fat pig a history book please !...In this recanted scenes, Mickey kills, the only time he does for himself in the movie, and as I am well versed in Jesuits training I could guess materially that this minstrel  show in that scene had jumped a unhallowed turnstile, alas a man gaining revenge for an abused Italian wife was something they didn’t need in their burning Iagos of now. As was watching Old Christine when and rinsed by mouth out  with salt and looked up and saw the full moon shinning through a tattered plastic shade I keep meaning to replace. At this late hours, I went and grabbed the camera, and ran outside in night shirt and underwear, and with a mouth still stinging from the salt and in a late august coolness, took the shoot of the moon as it broke through want had been obsessive late summer showers all day. The film that begins with words said by Brutus, basically kill em all and let Jove sort it out--ends with a dialog of Puck and Oberon, as I as an Italian wished to show that always no matter the jersey barriers consecrated return to the Oviddian arcadia, as the Jesuit and my father wished. You remember Ovid don’t you, as various Italians operators try like Marco polo to always get back to mother China, and have set their gaze on the once fun and affable and delightful Hong Kong movie to ruin that too, Ovid was the one who said empire is another word for having no where left to turn. I have been called clever by the best minstrel show operators you have ever made.





20 August 2013

It was the wrong time to fuck with Roman-est Tony, here, as I have been up with now a complete mouth ache—ironical no…?, for three days and I worked diligently to get a dvd box once holding a copy of Ma’s Samson and Delilah with her beloved victor Mature and Gina Lollabrigida off to the AFI. A email came to me decrying my clip, which is used as a placeholder to make sure like at zoetrope—my Machiavellian ethics are always somewhat utilitarian, which bothers the shnooks who think their opinions are made of spun gold—that there was that pesky time stamp upon things that we need in our feral res publica of layyyers. So I wasn’t the mood and thinking this was an invective from You Tube, you see anti Semitism is always the go to when one hates the GODFATHER, a trick by the way started by Robert Evans when back when certain critics, like John Leonard, and even filmmakers passed on his Opera dell jersey, as the playbook has stayed insufferably the same. The Italians have been your new minstrels now since you had to pretend you weren’t bigots, and the dagos stupidly believed in the crap of your America scheme, which is why as I have seen bemoaned that there isn’t any great Italians Boxers worth their salt anymore. It’s a sad time.


It turned out that in fact, ME NOT the sharpest shiv in the cell, that this wanst from anyone on You tube, where my fifty fifty split that I encourage and makes me feel I am doing the work of the Lord, Janus, was on display. I made that mistake and then took off my comment but didn’t hurl it to the tow bit guerilla warfare filmmakers—ie unemployed dreams and finaglers—from which it came. It is amusing how spite can dissipate  when one is in need of oral care. Leave it to the Americans to disappoint Roman Antony by taking the fun and the subtlety out of all things low class vulgar and threadbare. The least sorts who should be censorious should be those who call themselves guerillas, but then the overfed fact hags who are swept away by the advent team for College Game day every Saturday wear Palestine checkerboard scarves between Starbucks runs so you all make me sick.  


The American dream is that there will always be tenements for those who give their power of attorney to Bag men like Tyberius or Barry or whoever is created by Carlyle group, as Gore said the mgm powers made Ben Hur. First, they built a fake circus maximums, then they built a fake Nero’s palace, then they built a fake temple of mars, then they built Charlton Hesston, and we were off. So our masters now are GE and its Buckaroos, and the Italians mistook the life of Marius, and that a barefoot man could get ahead with enough gumption, only, as Coppola would attest if they had blue eyes, An of course I noticed as things spiral out of control  so much so that Ge AND ITS ASSORTED SOCIALISTS wish to copy write a new word instead of the now decartelized drones,… might I suggest Happy Obama fun bots…?, that I have been as said basined from the Rachel Kingdom, as I always go one marble fawn too far. I was using, I was told, the present website to push and gonniff my own work, a no no in the land of paid advertising. Yes, that must be it. However, my mouth hurts WOP LIKE ME IS DONE, AND Jimmie can crack corn because I don’t care. Like Wendy amid the fat chicks, I have always shone a bit too much amid the double stuffed Oreo eating pool boy needing white girls of that mess. I knew I had enough when some Ebert hanger on after an essay I posted about Spartacus made a point to tell me that his hero Stanley Kubrick, another American ethnic allowed in the dream factory of Technicolor and cleavage, didn’t like the idea of a grandiose Spartacus, that this was contractual and nothing more, and I had of course as an Italian no right, in the land of the free and the home of the bribes to hate another Movie. I love when even there movies are above reproach. Well, fuck heads, I say with blister on my tongue from playing with the pain, this is your dying republic not mine. And, I WAS NOT shocked by the number of Italians and Jewish names who have variously given me kudos for WOP LIKE ME, a sotto voice element that you have all missed. BUT THEN, THE Hollywood goons can’t even make a Lone ranger anyone wants to see anymore as the dream factory becomes a revenge of the psychotic white men, Elm Street not what it sued to be. But then what is...? If I want to hate martin Scorsese  and Francis Copolla, your minstrel show Stromboli's who have the love of white guys in need of an Amos and Andy that can slip through, fir diminution  of the race of Beatrice  and Pirandello, the Sicilian school and the fresco, in a country where Citizen Kane and Dante get one star from trolling Visigoths and white girls dammed it I will.

[Thirty pages or so into Mister Stupendous, I first saw Italian actress pin up par excellence W. on sports by brooks and wished her well as an antithesis, as I wished to be to gumba championship wrestling, she was to all the fat girls of the sopranos. Even for me then in 2007 or so, my realization and dramatization of the heroine was complete and changed.]

So, Rachel dear can marinade in the theatrical ridicule, that proves she is smart and maybe not as bought and paid for as she ultimately is. Hey…, lets have a contest like cereals did when I was a kid, lest rename the death flying buttresses that Obams has used more than Bush did, as he has done everything more than Bush did , but paid enough naggers to whistle a happy tune and look the other ways. That on your left is the pantheon, all. I must take a break as have written this all with an ice cube in my mouth, as am out of AMBUSOL, ALREADY. I really have become my old joke of Petronius with a toothache. And the spray of the sanctimonious is meaningless to me, as I have said, their pumpkin smiles and uh huh huh huhhhh are meaningless to me, who misses Father Gore as wonder what he could have made of this morass. You see, in a stupor of fake aspirin probably concocted from left over petroleum,  and tooth paste and ice water, I still know enough to recall that all those Pollock’s who told my father to go back where he came from where always good Pittsburgh democrats. Tired I sat and watched the wonderful restored classic, the Great Race, when girls who looked like Natalie Wood weren't yet destroyed by these who though in gay culture such as this, took time amid the circus to deepen their closets even more and made Batman forever. I saw the grand  parody, Blake Edwards never so perfect again, with an almost unrecognizable  Jack Lemmon as my boyhood hero, Professor FATE! Dere dere, we gotta save da Prefssah... showing an actor can make something out of anything. Rah, oih Rah. Again what the guerillas--not tehw ay I think the word should be sued,  and filmisntas and the rest of the low trade count don't understand is that I am right and theater is dignity,  in the actual doing of something rather than to sit around and bullshit about what could be if you only weren't dying a thousand times.

16 August 2013


"'XIII ”

This chapter was removed to allow for the burning of the film to a cd. I feel bad that time and money constraints didn’t allow me to do all what I wished to do. I showed my brother who helped my greatly, even as a Camera man,  I had planned , especially about the film including images so if King Italius, the Italians Herod for whom the peninsula was named and the instance of a Roman vestal woman in the street liked decay of Pittsburgh. HE ROLLED HIS EYES, telling me that hell just go into the garage and take out his Roman caldarium, of course that Roman wall I envisions as an anathema to the Barbarians of jersey has queered the deal for me a few times before. And as for Roman vestals‘, he told me, knowingly, this is Pittsburgh, they call it the berg, I call it the Pitts,  there isn’t a Venus within a thousand miles of here,. Still, I am upset but used  the public domain where the unnoticed and un remarked upon Italics are left in a perpetual  pocket Purgatory away from our greasy Res Publica on its death bed laws and did the best I could. I offered a gal named Kartina five minuets of my time, in the film, that double my usual---anyway, if she would explain to me why a woman who tears up at Village people ilk Indian headdresses can be so lovingly for the minstrel show called Scorsese,  but have yet to hear back. I was hoping more for Wendy Though, but have to Spartan on. It all came together here, and now while filming saw that four out of five lamebrains are now living in poetry, which allowed me to do my refrain welcome to new Sicily. Also, they tried as they try everything, to make a big deal about the Redskins name, but again, as I told the Great Stan Savaran, sportscaster emeritus here, I would pay teams to drop those horrid injun names and to take more fitting and vaunted Romans names, as I did I think find I had something to do with Indian red so  despised in the crayon box of my youth to be renamed Tuscan red. I still have to OCTOBER 1st to get those scenes in there, if only for myself and will be taking a rode to the dollar store at the old abandoned jc pennies, and the weed covered broken mall, good pictorials there, and I shall buy a cheap prop sword, and an early holly wreathe, if I can actually find one of the girls of my dreams.




It seems I have been banished from the Maddow Kingdom, what was it this time dear…? You know it doesn’t take a Oxford education to be a bull shit artist hun, cautiously that was said to me about a Georgetown education, so I’m just transference here, as I am not sure. It was the marble fawn that sent Scorsese over the edge, and talk of Patviaum reborn that bothered saint Anthony of idiots David Brooks. I do feel a certain vindication. I was after all warning of the dry kindling like opera stage wooden boards. After all, who was describing Coriolanus as a comedy last year and spoke of Buffos twinkling and bell ringing and tap dancing through Roman farce to the consternation of white chicks. I feel as played out as the Obama administration, having done this work all summer,-- the summer of George it was supposed to be, but that petered out and Sharptoon and various household appliance coloreds had to go back to the voting rights act, his test pattern  Ed Sullivan show when ever Imult gets ver shvitzed at his racial chic-edness and bloviating Minstrel show radicalism. The black draped faggots of St. Loyola warned me that people who keep hurling the word Evil at people whish to say something without having to make a pesky argument. GOOD LUCK AGAINST THE COWBOYS, EDDIE, but then the programming is political. Ah, but some, like me and my buddy Farrakhan,  and Kordell West we saw this coming, me before them, but still…With the devotion of a Roman Foot soldier, is in poem censored by white two baggers at football factories, I was on the crumbling bridge made my canto to myself and my poets, as Martin has become so threadbare and fallen, an old stereotype since 1980 fir Christ’s sake has been replaced by fan radio shilled documentaries about Jewish SPORTSCASTERS. Oh, Cope proved you all get yours, in the end anyway. But the worst part was that a bullrider clown had to be the last Tarpea, without which the good optimists are mute, victim of touted swine praetorian hatchet men, god forbid you nigger go after anyone in power ever, know thy place, y’all, as somehow like Lucas this last money boy hack cunt bitch Obama thinks he is not nobly above politics as he read as every email Google alert that says one doesn’t like him, but he thinks he above the laws of Farce and comedy. The world is comedy as Seneca said and Dante picked up on, and I thought of Augustus our patron saint of empire, was steady there as Virgil read his massive masterpiece, --the decrying of it and the sly diminishment of it would soon soon after as Augustus felt betrayed, and how he had to at least preened to take it, fuming all along. His wife, knowing the connections between Gus and Aeneo, and Antony and Turnus, whispered to her white knuckling husband as he sat there fuming, that his angry silence was the least he could do. Today as I write this Dido is at 38 percent in the polls, showing again, somebody should tell Tom Boy in mascara Rachel despite being a human drone for GE, nigger, you aren’t above shit. Who was binning up Julius Caesar in the snow of January, kids…? Sure it was Orson Welles and he was in modern dress, but like I said, it is the most Italian of stories that aint played on a loop like the Godfather…how a republic dies. What else is on...?




04 August 2013

nice bright colors.


So I ask anyone out there who will send me a picture of you if you are an Italian and or would like to be involved, to send me anything you like that deals with this, at antonius865@outlook.com, or if you would be willing to post an image of mine anywhere you’d like send me a line. The soundtrack is brought to us by the great Italian stuff in the public domain, where it all seem stuck and left. I WITH THE COWBOYS BEGINNING TONIGHT SANS ROMO, meaning all hope is not lost, I can sense that things are falling apart even faster than I  would have guessed. Frauds everywhere like Bellicick, Fairy Barry, Wiener, the democratic party, Aroid, and maybe now Romo are falling asunder as anyone with a Clintons love of signora Fortuna could have guessed. I did make a funny and witty and scurrilous email to Zoetrope I hope it went through, as Sissy Copula again finds herself amid the mean girls desperate to be a brunette interpreter, as I SAID, a fool’s errand with that nose, I on the other hand have done well since being banished from the doges wine kingdom, scavaging found epics, and crafted my art about the Etruscans, no less, the fairy tales beloved by Grimms. The book was that the black scholar woman gave me the pride of being too good to be included in a book of noble savagery  that was already getting on her nerves, when she told me how much she despised Toni Morrison, telling me the Roman story from which she toiled the beloved, a woman drowning her Children when she was alerted that the Rubicon was crossed would be a better book than that nigger slop in Ebonics  that crazy eyed Toni dealt in, until the white tied Scandinavians said enough and started giving laurels to posers to Anatolian plagiarism. I went on in that vein but found I didn’t save it, before I could post it here, which tells me something, as with a bad tooth no less I cant stop eating 3 musketeers bars, every so often flossing my teeth of blood and then washing my mouth with an elixir of ambusol and orange juice, Yiee-eks! I still I have to do as much all day as I can as I construct Wop like me, and taking the time out to tell Zio Franchie his hopeful censorship did less to me than to Ovid’s, if the work survives, that I made it to the Romans, a not small endeavor, whereas I think the Germanicvs that I was sad to think would be made by that apocalypse there chump I know will be entombed in his trunk and his stationary and career and market drawers, still unmade when they lower that fat bloated fuck into the vineyard ground. Still it was a needed moment to tell Uncle Frenchy that Roman law I learned as a boy, that the always hat in hand, always threadbare, always nickel and dime, always hand to mouth, they don't censure anybody, and they shouldn't even try.


03 August 2013




The filmmaking falderals and other time and bandwidth rich endeavors caused me to lose my high speed later than usual, but all at once around the 21st. At the beginning of the month when it kicks in again, I find myself trying to rustle it as best as I can but find myself more often than not going to watch the film of Jerry Lewis meets batman  at Christmas. It is  a thing, I kid you not as Paar would say in kinescopes when I was a kid, that me and buddies were actually doing back in 94 as I could do Jerry passably-heyyyygh laddddyyyyyyy!-come down-- the art school is the poifect placed for me to reveal my geniusssss-- and others could do Batman voice,  before that became a pejorative.


I do take a look and watch, reading her is out of question so shallow is she, at articles which collect like dandruff of Maureen Dowd. Her thoughts are about what you’d expect from the New Jork Times, liberal within always reason, a dollop of white woman suburban scum upon which she slides, here hair always capable of a sexless flip and glissando. But, had to this early day in August, I had to see what Her highness had to say about your friend and mine, Anthony Wiener. Since Clinton, as an Italian once said of Rome after Tyberius, Shamelessness hath become a virtue, and who mentioned that line when you were all watching Bammy be his own reveled Eucharist, as he out of professional jealousy struck out the word Christ, only allow able by the Mo Dowd Types as after all it was in the Latin surely dead now, along with the Jesuits who died of aids, allowing the earth to become that which it is.


It was about as middlebrow as id suspect, she is like her Aeneas, Barry of whom she sings, and she was more upset than anything that her clime to fame, much like Drudges’ Monica, was somehow to her backward truth the Clinton masterpiece, when in fact issuing Gore’s  thorium of what is said is always the opposite of what is true, was in fact hers. We live in a dying empire, even the Simpsons have seeded and stipulated to that, and here a sportswriter hair filliping hag can win a pries for doing fat jokes in a unread newspaper, the gate keepers as happen here in Pittsburgh first look about and wonder who put that lock on the wall when we aren’t looking. Ah The Roman have gone home, a worse thing than when they even came. What have the Romans done for us, as Monty Python said, to which a thankless Stossle would say nothing, again more than not becoming the Marcus Agrippa his ilk seems to always be. Personally I would like to see not that I buy or steal it, who good Irishman Billo gets around that whole Render unto Caesar thing….why did God baby Jesus see nothing wrong with the Romans empire and why did Tyberius seem to be something he was supporting, making Caphius the bad guy…mnnnn…


But it is making me laugh ,as Mother Mo finds equal old lady crone distaste for the girl who Carlos Danger reached out to as much as she does for slippery—a word I'm sure she got from grandpa—Tony Weiner, which may or may not have been an alias of mine at Earthlink.net. Of course in our Grimms without the warmth, no, actually she is more akin to Uncle Walt, her clean above it all spitting downwards as usual hides a heart that would make Petronius go Yeeech, the woman is as big a disgrace as a public servant using public computers to send pictures of his majesty to under age girls and getting away with it as did Spitzer!, who a savant in the dark arts of Newark politics knew this was moment that Machiavelli would call enter-- stage left. Oh we’re the boys of the chorus we hope you like our show—to always woman hating Maureen, like Clarence Thomas, SHE BELIEVES THE LADDER IS SOMETHING TO TAKE WITH YOU, the broad has to shoulder her badgered burden, now that the NOW coven has taken hold, amusingly, or ,maybe not so much, the democratic party seems fill of men who see women as toys, and low grade whores, again making you wonder what they think of others they have been besotted to serve, or serve up. Remember when barking canine women, the bitches of war, were screeching about the personal is the political, ah but then through death and retirements the whip became theirs, and Mussolini was a socialist once too, like Stossle now calls the Romans, and once called Mother, his shicksa girlfriends and half of Long Island. Insert line from VENICE JEWISH DISRALI HERE. Its as good as any.


I sent an email as I have before To divine Wendy Fiore, with my own shameless temerity asking if I could use an image of hers off of You tube in WOP LIKE ME, which like everything I touch resounds exponentially away from the ten minute hat in the ring it was meant to be, like how a four page dirty Wonder woman parody cartoon turned into Pow Girl and a script that was again almost made and a 300 page comic book. These are pictures an art director at Hustler called nice work, but too nice for the crap they do. Again, the magic of Roman Tony. I asked Wendy If I could pirate the moment of her in an awful crappy funny or die like you tube Cinemascope mammoth production, where she was Venus coming up and away from the Chevy Malibu that the producer had. She beams radiantly at a diner as another Clerks is attempted, but with never with the same warmth and humanity least of all by the guy who made the wonderful Clerks, as his output has, like national Lampoons’ been headed south ever since.


I asked her if I could use it as a snippet, as she again is a perfect antithesis to Copula and the Hollywood gumabs than I could ever do. Another Italian actress told me of reading for a part in a Mafia movie,  or a poor man version there of, ouch, and being told she was far to pretty to play the type of italic they needed, of course them being of the age of Maureen meant fat jokes galore, or Gabor as the case may be. I asked Wendy if not too much trouble if shed relay use a camera of hers to take a quick Venus shot of her in a white swim suit coming up out of a pool as That is the money shot point which the whole film could spin around. Of closure this is strictly business and will sue the short on the portion where Venus is mentioned, in the script, but shall perhaps keep a copy in a private reel for cold nights when I am so lonely. Her lawyer emailed me and told me 


they’d consider it, as every Italian pretty and or smart, knows all publicity is after all good. The Jews, our cousins think they know that too, but are always shocked by the ersatz results that come up. I am sending such emails out to get a modicum of help here, but with always credit given, and saw on my birthday that an artist named JR whose does graffiti is doing the same etching. And I laugh, this time, knowing that those sopranos that shrimp stealer comedy writers made at Home Box office was a farce, and these creatures, as Signora Fortuna is adored by Bum loving brunette seeking tie wearing Bill, are irrevocably real. The gods of drama are immutable, and the theater is as a temple.