29 October 2013


With the feast day of Ceres, the blond Roman goddess of wheat approaching, the true pagan roots of All saints day, distorted by Germans into Halloween, which after all is just dirt bag barbarian carnival, I came to end my filmed essay, WOP LIKE ME, as enlist a first cut. I didn’t have the wherewith all or money of almost anything to get it done as I wished, which again gaining admiration from Jesuits and Flavia, the last Nun of my schooling, I can make art out of anything, but then, those days of admiration and the like have been recoiled by dower business and atonement long ago. I could never find the Lear I needed, as Robert Di Nero and Marty find their wholly black arts palmed in the usual vomiteorium of Hollywood independent zombie movies and Halloween ghost stories, which have lost its punch now that they is all they make, as this October has been from hunger at the mouse factory, them not the first to find their dower little puppet shows as anathema, if not boring entirely, and becoming a middling product with lessening returns. Not surprisingly, the nickel plating icon status of Marty has begun to chip I note, and more and more people discover a certain empathy with how it feels to have been Sicilian. The usual liberal shit about American Indians now just seems dirtied and cruel.

Most of all, I am quite proud of my totems here, the first since 1979 to make a film, issuing only a small Sony consumer camcorder, a block of dick blick paper strong enough to make paper skies, posters, graphetti, the Romans art form, paper dolls of recalled great playboy Italians starlets before the Reich became insufferable, and less than five hundred dollars, the least amount one can spend on a movie at various websites, and made my argument not so much against Martin, but for me and my fathers race of affable scoundrels.

And most off I couldn’t find the vestals I need here the most for whom I caught the old coca cola chipping walls that I had, hoping to return to them with the goddesses in white sheer lace if possible, whose imagined storyboards in my mind I placed in the thing as placeholders to where I wanted their images to go. So, My film is complete and done, as much as it could be said to be, under these conditions . Still, as I completed the film mussing as much in the public domain to make my points, smiling black hand white shipping frescos of there own of beautiful gorgeousness like Jane Russell as queen starlet per excellance, before horrid Marylyn made Hitler’s dream real, sound effects of Orson with Jiminy cricket and the Looney tunes cartoons in the dole, the roman affectation of public domain another example of their impiety, by that meant that the nation that burned civilians alive in Hiroshima makes up for it by keeping Daffy Duck cartoons in vaults, I found enough to make my points, at a bargain.

Un willing to dismiss the Oviddian night dream as mere brain shitting at night, I had another dream in which remains of the vivid bludgeoning of the bright and shining leis of day meet and smash up against the recalled senses I have of Franciscan poetics, Italian artfulness, nuns and their holy cards covens of barley hidden sexuality, and the inamorata I so seemingly need. In this, in a Panavision age recitation dark poolside of Randolph Scott party preparations, surrounded by my inner recesses fakes and hacks and constructors of a cinecittta kind, a girl seen in many commercials now, twinkles like so much leaden laid Christmas tinsel, dirty and sad and plastic smelling, A blond too big and Blond to make that jump, in this Hollywood hills almost constrain era closet everything Capote era patio was aloof and distant and both resentful and toying with me, yellow pages of Cattiline bound under my arm. Jewish cartoons were everywhere, as sun drenched creatures spoiled around as I was in black suit and black ray bans ala Fellini, not a favorite again, so, again don't know what that signifies…

I was again, trying to gain the attentions of this forever starlet , as I played player as heartily as I could. She was aloof as I SAY, demanding automation be paid to her grotesquely maden form, in commercials where she sells razors to men who actually price razors, she was not this fat, porcine even, sadly, enabled, squarely large form, a Marylyn of rots allowed to be a diva of carbohydrates due to the silver Anderson Fox tint of fake Argent in her helmet hair. Into this Altman esque scene,  to the Patrician delight of the Trimicilian crowd, a lovely nameless gal, rounded and sexual, but not in the vulgar bikinis and one pieces of the hostesses, but a maids outfit came in, I had been thinking about the cop maniac whose killings and pistol whippings of maids were not so anger enduing to smirking high yellow times tokens on dying television game shows, and stated giving out drinks to men who looked like Jack Nickelson in various stages, from the Raven to last detail to yearly Christmas old man star turn, of life. But this time, she had hair as black as night and cut like shit, cowlicky, and cropped as in a style Lucy Ricardo would call 'the Italian starlet way', allowing her to vamp in ways unallowed when one was a fallen American red. She asked me if I wanted a cocktail, all were Vodka, why who knows, as I said I am not so Cavalier to throw away the night buses of the internal mind. No thank you, I said, as she sat down tired and relived the venation of a round butt that was pored into a…of course what else…?, pardon of a maids outfit. Would you like to be in my Film, Doll…? I asked sheepishly. Are you kidding...? the brunette as even here relocated to maid reverie in Blond turgid Hollywood said. AT this, she tore off a black maids outfit, and reveled herself as a Venus in a white one piece, ample and supple, voluptuous and healthy. I had envisioned this scene before, --and even once for my film. The Jack Nicholson’s, of a sort all took notice as per usual, the queen bee found a rival to something more and other than the mere sugar daddies and old man stink, secret boy friends and sperm counts she collected. The girl went into the pool as a reverse Venus, and bobbed back up with smile and I took it all down in Sony DVC Panavision, as was my want. I do get a certain resentment to having forgone all I did to eventually find myself sneered at by lower case filmmakers, bullshit artists, and this was a dreamland reaction to always recall to stay true to my anti Blond anti Cicero polemics, and to always follow that girl.

The meaning of the film is that I was shocked to notice in the land of the free and the home of the bribed, that house bag men like Copula and his ilk, seemed almost insulted if anyone, or was it just me...?, dared say anything about their blood operas and over lit pasta bowls. After forty years of his tripe I have to show my bone fides by somehow watching what I say about the black bag artists and the white men in drag...? Well, I am this way because I knew a better class of perverts than those who smile and wink and dance on the Rachel Maddow Show. Big Tony wasn't shocked that more people go to health care looking for freebies than looking to pay, the praetorians are aghast, but is just Roman 101. As My brother told me I aint a guerrilla anything, and fly Cesarean flags too red for that. I now merely wait for Movie maker to take the hour and half, I really did sweat out and over do and recut only about fifteen minutes of film, but it was that last section called 'Cattiline' that made me feel as an artist, like I once was. I await for the slow process of making the clips and taped together images a Movie file, as Wop Like me, is done.


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14 October 2013


The fires of Romulus are starting to take hold, it seems, as a horrid yenta named Maureen, not a fat chick in sight, returns to her villain Chaney, to fill up meaningless words in a rag unnoticed any longer. The shameless monsters come falling down to their tin feet, shattering and breaking into parts. Rothliebnegfere is openly mocked on national radio by gals recalling various waitresses and bus boys and others the five easy pieces quarterback, the Nora Desmond of the nfl, spat at, while hung to by local yokels, as they were dissed by fat men, and is at 0 and autumn, though again like all Narcissuses, blames someone anyone else’s--which deflates the purpose. Romo now collapses a season from when he usually does, as real Cowboys like Prime time calls him the real Tony Romo, and it isn’t a compliment. Mister Mind Bellicheck is in a situation no amount of surveillance can get him out of, and Brady fusses through the remains of the monument of Cosell to act petulantly and sissified, without a Howard in the booth to dramatically ask what is meant by such as this…? Ah, but the operatic has been replaced by the sarcastic, never a wise career move. The Tea party as much a GE cartoon as drones which tumble out of the sky and burn not only Korans, but humans at Ramadan festivals unnoticed by the good folks at liberal television, they do keep their unread Korans pristine though, has eaten up the government, in ways unthinkably as done to LBJ, Clinton or even Nixon, BY a affirmative action clever cur who didn’t realize that no wants to know the Caesar of the east is held hostage, by Cleopatra or by hicks of the hinterlands. Jewey Johnny now sandbags Sibelius with his Long Island charm, having seen the numbers game as Arsenio takes ways the whooper’s, and now become less a water carrier than a man of the people, while his rival Olbermann, bless him, sees bread and circus as the road to recovery. The outage of food stamp availability told the Doges what it always has since the death of beloved Cattiline. And Keith gives great Cosell like highlights. And again, I was first to warn of Romans candles and how both Christ and Aeneas calm the seas in their various myths lest they look like sewers of discord, Render unto whom…?, and again with me it has less the insinuated theatre and nastiness’ of spittoons who speak to and for an assembly of vulgar queens. The same paper who said that anger by the sons of Italy and Jdl, no less, to the sopranos was overdone, now cries alone for Redskins, as names like Cowboy and Viking, those killers of western civilization are left sacrosanct. When that story peters out it will mean that Danny Claus has given various in laws and cugiens in the press the little extra this pay envelope they were hoping for. No less than our national tear duct, Elvish crusader, Hobbit triumphant Bob Costas is on the case, lecturing 'bout the poor pitiful Etrus--Injins, having come a long way since that Sunday night when Cosell died and he trashed him that night for three hours as being pushy , although who would enact rhapsodizing about the in field fly rule to be their epitaph. And Boo Boo kitty at GE wants a senate investigation, as they always do when unneeded and showy, into why she is being bludgeoned by dishwater fox Megan, an asserter like so much in Tacitus, in that Sejanus said one wont want to be the last hatchet man left to a hated king, right before his own sacrificing. To Top our shit sundae, Obama the magnificent, Erkle triumphant, is in the ditch, the sun chariot a sickbed, once a white curriculum of light now shattered and strewn across the south pole, as Ovid amusingly reports, dead star horse meat around him, in his Bo Jangles fog, and leis and 37 percent, menacing someone wants another go with that non vetoing robo pen, or else…I am glad to see the physics of Italian geniuses prove true again, as all the queens horses and all the queens men--do my gay slurs give me a show on cable , no…?, huff and puff and all the fairy tale tropes were Italians first as Grimm’s admitted. So while the spiders make their nests at time at Wal-Mart and the mob wilds for food amid the plasmas screens ,I say goodnight unto you all and Happy Columbus day, again. The trailer for Wop like me.



04 October 2013

I am amid the making of the temple of Farce, the theatre of Turan , a 3-d diorama as I did in art school often, a cardboard recitation of the self same theatre that appears in Ancient Romance. I was told by a lovely Jewish woman that I understood the idea of synergy better than many more professional writers who saw their careers go up in smoke when they played out there melancholy creed and found dwindling recites and low box office causing them to realise they weren’t as powered as they thought. And yet I plan almost nothing out, seeing theatrics and varies cycles in things, on the fly and ad hoc, something like how our gummint works, with all apologises to Pogo who would be seen as a subversive now. Ah, But again, the age of the patrician never much lasts, and Obammy don’t seem to have the neck mussels to be a Vespasian’s jangling his ways into new Rome, no matter how many adverbs a petulant and bitchy Madam Lugosi sues to get even fir having to be Caesars cup holders in a war that Napoleon mute Bam didn’t have the ass to cache. A favourite of priests Napoleon quoted Caesar in saying the famed line about Vienna which in the original Latin said, when one goes to war one must decide to go to war, and Barry was a but to Survey says and timpani’….!s as usual not to look like he had again tired blood. I cagouled say as Roman Anthony that the reason that his various hurtling off cliffs never seems to work, no matter how many Irishman between toasts to the universe and singing aves deer for dead Kennedy’s seems to realise that Americans had been suffering for five years, him tap dancing to various bund rally’s, leaving nothing but a passvanate hoard who as Lorenzo could have told you is now starting to eat itself up as money gets closer to the Jewish empyrean known as Count Blank fiend, and LEGS DIAMOND, WHO ON CUE, APPEAR Farce stage left to demand to know why their bag man has a sudden spine, sort of akin to a Beckett, who will always not be so overwhelmed by baron von Munchausen disease that he wont say No mas and go to his neural corner hoping to win on points. Every time Baron Barry stresses to make things look worse he just shows himself as the captain of the Swiss guard he always was, shows why Caesar sued German officers as a way to undercut the opposition, and looks as effete and out of touch, as he has always been. No mater I am amid the puppetry of Cattiline, done in paper and marker, as who else would…? GE poles ask Barry to at least make it look good as the party of Wiener and Spinsters and black socks try to make it sound like they are champions of women and the wretched. Ah yes but not to be Nicollo about everything but you are getting what you deserve, in that the tea party was a lever that the democrats sued as much as anything to tourniquet Bleeding Caesar as he lied and saved him a senate which wasnot of much use as such assembly of queens eventually never are. You fed that monster, used it as sister Batrille and others sued Rape allegations --this the party of Byzantine Bill, --I save the moniker Roman for those who deserve it--if you hate someone hate them, Cicero, ouch--to win unelectable men seats, a dangerous thing for any party to find itself, as Sejanus said in a moment of acridity no matter the perks, having to be hatchet man for a hated man. So, that virus spreads, like passion, it is chancing, there aren’t many gambits one can really partake in when dawdling and slowpoke Gonzalez- ing at 42 percent in the polls. As Arabesque Barry stands on the bridge like a haemorrhaging Horatus, I must realize by now issuing the Romans to describe this crowd of Irishmen, blacks and Jews who hate each other almost as much as they hate themselves is a fools errand. The self appointed separations hateful of the people who their service too, even though fraudulent, does get on their nerves, made a point that calling it the affordable care act gets a better reception than calling it Obamacare. This will dissipate once again you catch up to me, if not Barry is already there, for such is a grievous fault to Barry the Queen, it is , to go back to the lords of farce and Terrence and Machiavelli, it denotes that the Erkle the God has become box office poison, and to a narcissus there is no worse sleight. He was not doing all of this for his health or yours you know. The palms are turning brown. Hens Cattiline -the Roman who has never barked, the name as anathema, in MGM musicals like The Robe. Instead of catching the GE minions and drone queens on television get a second wind as all the scandals and farces of the summer have taken their tolls, --human action has meaning--like with Rothlesberger the paid and the bribe takers blaming others has become dull and see through, I had enough. Instead of breathless Mahoney, Rachel Maddox and her still trashing Newt, usually its Nixon, --I haven’t read the new histories yet Flavius--she who studied Political science under Chester Gould, I rather watched Turner Classics and the multi part history of film, and Stage Couch and early John Wayne, and the great John Ford, who a human growth like Taranetino calls a racist, to be allowed by the censorious white gals to make his blood operas about others than Italian, we have moved up, an Mongo can then use Nigger as an adverb, showing who needs Rodger after all when I have the Sergio Leone collection on blue ray. And then, the 75th anniversary print of the divine Citizen Kane, like the equally divine Aeneid an insult to the middlebrows. I wish show like this were on a lot, like Batman before he became a  mean fag and F troop, although those are I take it in the vault where uncle Walt keeps his song of the south, the cashed check he paid Einaudi publications in Turin for TopoMiquelo, all the private stock of his surveillance of the various bathrooms at the happiest place in the world, and where they keep Amos and Andy, but not a dago serving dogs, and the sopranos are still on,--at 3 am. Cornelius Tacitus, not Lord Acton, said all republics are doomed because eventually the people shall vote themselves the servants who promise the most, and they shall bankrupt the nation, if not make a police state handy and needful. Lucian said all empires get to the point where they still the cutlass in their own guts, prodded by men who sell swords. Such is anathema now, if not insult. To a empire of fat women, what isn’t an insult at east in their own petrified minds…?