29 July 2013

I’VE COME TO LOOK FOR…


addendum to Kodacrome.

 

 
 
No, no movie post to shill today, but a note…I knew that that rambling incoherent eulogy for Travon, we barely you yew man, was going to rub the fat cats who sue Erkle as a Roman Turtle the wrong way. They like his blackness to be a given and thus an excuse more than anything, and they don’t like it when he dares arose his hand to the patriarchy who so kindly let him in.

 

Ah, now he wants the stop and frisk guy to be the head of homeland scrutiny, we live here in a homeland on this new west bank, with only the chosen of Pluto as the chosen race sorts who can escape the grime. After your, as I nailed it, spasm of white girl self righteousness, and your blond attempts at niggeralia being resuscitated, with no fan fare, as the lip gloss melottos are paid to hosanna THE POWERFUL, and lecture YOU, another white man is ole blocked into the preatorium, by always accommodating apple polishing Dido, willing to be tragic queen again so as to allow the Turkish brutes to have their place. A Rudy GIULIANI appointee no less, not at as usual, any of it matters, but may I say as a   LOVER OF HATED AND DISMISSED Rome, like ole Uncle Bill, I am enjoying the mesa clay crumble. Now, as everything I thought would happen did, if only my genius could hit a number or learn to work a Movie Pro software, but still—I am enjoying the fall, the nip in the imperial air, as have known since the sons of Italy was decried for stating a discoursing word against the sopranos-- a fucking TV comedy that these people didn’t have the prerequisite Americanism to dislike, I have known there was nothing in thou place did I care a whit about, so enjoy Nigger Erkle and his growing band of merry white men, gals, as I get the money shot for which I was paying admission. I have to ask if the niggers who have been so tragic and singing goat songs since Travon got his guts strewn on the sidewalk, will Reverend Pig meat or any of the Greek cohorts say a word about partner of his labours white fellow made part of the Obama Spartacus assault on the haughty golden dome of the old senators,--- why of course not, they are financing it, just like the last time. I suggest a closer rereading of someone Roman about your hero Sporty Spurious Spartacus, you’ll have the time, as you’ll say nothing but hosannas about Ray Kelly, if you say anything, like how mad cops shooting Asian girls and terrorizing  Spanish maids was as close to a hero, even superhero, as you niggers get. Now not to be a bitch but would it be unseemly if after we hear what a boon to humanity another white man is, if Erkle was to raise a fist and say-- For Travon…? Him brining up Ho Che Mien made me think of Augustus calling himself a defender of the republic and all the senators laughing, until they realized he was serious. Oops.  

 

Anthony “Hitler’s nightmare” Weiner is made flesh, and nothing but, crawls up from the Levittown ooze, props to lovely Alex for noting that The romantic ideal of Weiner seemed like he grew up in Brighton Breach memoirs, and they run for mayor, shisksappeal abounds, and other things, as 4 out of five it seems are in dalliance with poverty, which make me feel just grand as we all see dad’s Regium receded in the mist as the barge tackles us to Sicily, if we are lucky. Call it Sopranos revenge, as they were the ones who you nickel and dimed not paying your virulent syphilitic gnomes the money you’d dutifully paid the fat faced Greek broad who you could see wince when hang dog David Shwimmer touched her. After the last few years I have had, being lectured by white girl’s whose love of jigbaoos and saintly street trash thinks that means they can trash everyone else with impunity, especially of it plays on Saturday, or Sunday night, I am pleased. So I’m sure again GE light bearers with forty watt intellects and lesser lanterns to revel the truth will dutifully call Ray Kelley an upstanding man, a man outstanding in his field and another republican that Barry had to turn to because he places integrity over politics, which after a while make you wonder why all the sex crazed perverts and filth seem to be Jews in the party of the plebs. As I said to the white woman horrified by my work, in  Roman Mythology, if the sopranos is true about Sicilians, then this is true about Romanism, and why that would bother a good white woman like you tells me much. A scene where Brutus kills his brother’s white trash girlfriend was most egregious, and I DIDN’T EVEN USE A WOOD CHIPPER. The Prussian aspects of Rome have always been something for the trash to adhere and aspire to, much more then the Fish and eggs and T and blond demons of the Etruscans and the Sabine gals. This time, in Clementine, the brunette, wasn’t sued as the example of what a cad was big daddy, whose gumaddis were always dark haired when I looked up, was levying his good honking bleach strength hennas wife at home to grumble amid the furs.
 
 

 

I got what I deserved as I say in this addendum to Kodacrome. My brother wanted to go to the local Office max and buy me Movie cut pro, but I thought the price unbelievable and expensive and thought I could again Jew out and use shareware, which has caused again a strange search engine not before heard of to appear on my computer. I am a camera, NSA, despite going to duck duck goose, I shade nothing really as will tell off Christi himself like a Roman governor if I had the change. Ecco Homo…more than you know Pontius. As my tooth pusses and bleeds, I have felt sick now for a whole year, as have some bug that will not go away here in Obama’s Messina, half breeds aren’t all they crack themselves up to be. Now that the tomb of Lorenzo, sorry Travon, has been ransacked by a watchtower for Ray Kelley, I think that I have been proven right again, not that that is any great shakes to me. I love Money much more than respect. But, as I was starting to tire of New Christine, as she, the cutest girl in television in eons, Julia Louis Dreyfus was becoming more skitzy than I liked, more neoteric as Television city likes its brunettes, who again since Lorelei has to somehow get her child into a private school, like many a Jewfish writer, away from the slave ships of shvatzas, here, so full of Episcopalians that no nigger mandated mixing order, like where Gore Vidal Went, would matter. In this show, like in previous CBS old lady sit coms, a show called Becker kept razzing on Neil Diamond, --who hates Neil Diamond….? Julia flaking off her cuteness still apparent though, was with her more Jewishy Seinfeld replacement, the ghost who hovers over that quartets every move now, a great actor of dead pan named Hamlish I think, and they kept hitting Teri Hatcher as an example of brunette sickness in what became Hitler’s replacement, the Reich were the bane stereotypes are alive and running in New York wards. I thought this was a bit much, and saw how ascertains spitting downwards and shooting the wounded always backfires, as Teri’s very name brought up Julia when still cute in the sauna, feeling Sidra’s Tits, when less Jewry Jerry was open and amenable to a Beatrice or two—hehe- among the blond whores that Pop told me looked at me if at all as a course of animal husbandry. He didn’t touch them, he told me as boy, they seemd waiting for him to beat them and run to their horrid mothers and so he was stoic as usual, and told me to avoid the American dishwater whores.

 

With seven minutes of Tony Movie magic to pawn off, --no one may speak ill of the résumé!--I entered several contests again, I have before this done well at these , always in the top two hundred, out of thousands of Amazon entrances, any more would make me doubt myself, and as was told by one, my clips done in Sony handy cam DSCXR34 was far too –lets say republican for the élites you find in the ivory tower of indy filmmaking. Don’t I have an apple, I was asked…? I might have A APPLE, can your software core A apple…? I have yet to hear back. But with low grade fever watched a night of Day for Night, and downloaded Simon and Garfunkel, and Late in the evening, as felt bad that this America was gone, crippled by a negro toreador who was out to pen as many white bulls as possible, and ride them like a dude, as we are lectured to constantly by professors who hate America as their nigger king goes to the trouble to bring up Ho che Minn, the day the hated and hateful house re-upped his Cesarean powers, as reads our most mundane emails, old midnight Elijah made me sure of my Machiavellian sonar,  always looking for that turncoat he has been sure is out there since mother left him on Harvard’s porch and said raise the boy to be anything except a credit to his race.

 

 

25 July 2013

KODACROME.



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.

http://youtu.be/57RIlznOpDM

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.

 



Labels:

17 July 2013

I in a few days have gone from not handled a camera in years to now have seven scenes for the upcoming film, a heads up since July 1st the day of the email inviting me in not enough time for black suits and even low rent mariachi like Sergio Leone inspired gangster films. Sergio Leone,… ? Oh, Hell, why not, Ill take an italic genius in this earth wherever I can find him. Still, I spent a long time looking through each and every collected disk, floppy, thumb drive and collection I had looking for Life of Brutus. Then half way through recalled that a woman who worked for Scorsese was quite put off by the essay I had posted, LOB, on ARCCOMIX, deep in the weeds there, as I had answered and ad for new York filmmakers, and she told me as much, to be against Scorsese was un-American, I’m sure her never having much listening to Mortimer Adler’s line about the divine Dante on Cavett. She also may have had a gift in her emails as just then my old Emachines fall to pieces, and was wiped out by a sudden virus, not that I’d ever put anything past a man’s posse, who defames his own race for fun and profit. In as I can show they had amusingly tried to shut me up before, ah the Sicilian is always looking downwards to spit, for this is from whence they came. And I don’t say that like some activist, I literally am disarmed by his censoriousness, as deep down I have my own troubles, and only sue him as a exemplar like the Franciscan brethren did of some who instilled of all that is heinous. Frankly I don’t care bout him or the consortiums who created him. So, instead, looked up in search on a old yellow cd I accidentally sent to already suspicious of me Pixar, I think, instead of artwork, a passel of pin up girls collated, including Patricia Fairinelli and Karen Price, a txt file called Calvino, the hippogriff and the centrifuge. The art school business they have there told me from what they saw in this flood of pin up's and girls I was to make miss kitty, Pow girl or Turan, was quite nice. Bingo. Here unedited as it will have to be to make the ten minute time limit is the essay that had them toss me off wild sound, though my sonnets to Capote and Batman were seen as funny, this was too close to the bone, or to the suck able marrow there in. What is funny is that because I cant rewrite on disks these things are frozen in time, and thus, one can see alluded to here, my usual subjects, as I recall some white woman being upset that I was calling it a ‘mistrial show‘, did I mean minstrel show…?, she asked dismissively, hoping to catch me. You wish Hun, you heard me. Also, notice my distaste at Billo and his clarion call that were coming Rome, a catch all word in those early days, as will his upcoming ‘death of Christ’ answer the question if Rome was so evil why did his messiah say render under a Caesar, who then was cutting throats and hurling little girls into the Tyber…? And, note the breaking upon of the joke inferno, an imagination land and the clowns of fiction as in later South park, and I talk of a movie about super 8’s in 1979 no less. It isn’t all plagiarism, though my brother is sure it is, and after all, the dignified Jewish comic maker from DC, called me an idea man. It isn’t egotism, its just that as usual I’m always three steps ahead, unfortunate in a nation of viaducts. So the dream of the sneering CENSOR almost came true and in fact, a few computers burned up before I could save LIFE OF BRUTUS TO A THUMB DRIVE, BUT BETTER I HAVE THE ESSAY UNCENSORED BECAUSE IT WAS NEVER NAILED TO THE WALL TO BEGIN WITH.

 



 


 

 

 

 

WOP LIKE ME.

I TRIED there times to write a review of a film called ‘Italian American’ for a website I as just using to post my work and get that strange amorphous American dream called notice. I tied my self in knots, knowing what they wanted, and I thought the men who ran it thought I as an Italian American, must love Martin Soreseasy, as he is like so many, a Judas goat thinking all along he is a credit to his race, and teaches us ginners all who to get ahead in the soon to be Mexican landscape. I tried there times, tres biblical, but gave in, having seen this film, sadly, and what I turned in ceased them asking as they had to see future works, to whom I had sent some works purposed before about Batman and Matt Helm to not be so effervescent about me and my work, after all. See, as this time, it mattered to me, and I didn’t just play Simonized critic or smart ass which I of course could do, at which I am a master at--just not this time.

I saw Italian American on a cable channel and mentioned it, it couldn’t have been laudatory, causing one of the men who ran this movie gaga film site to ask me to write about it, again them probably thinking I would do it as an admirer of it, not knowing I had held a grudge against dear Marty as he calls himself, purposefully echoing the great Ernest Borgnine in the best thing ever written about Italians, the playhouse ninety teleplay called Marty. I held a grudge against him, as I did Copula, as both seemed given a pass to make sure that the good liberals of Hollywood could give awards to films about Auschwitz and or Ghandi and still could sell minstrelsy eagerly to an American jaundiced mezzanine, that had been weaned upon them. In 1978, as I was endeavouring to still cerate my Roman Superman, as many an Italian I was stupid enough to believe in the dimmable lie which is the promise of America, and didn’t know my only way out if not a tight end, which some thought I should be, was to be a lovable Gumbas criminal or Alderman and sergeant in Tyberius tenements. It could be done vulgarly as the Kingfishes of cable television do, or opt could be done with the poetic tiquette of Dante as was done by Mario, but then one seems gone and the others wont go away. As despite being called names by the polish starlets at zoetrope, in spam folders I still get emails from the Prince of the Napa Valley, and updates on his own new 16 millimetre operas di arte, as someone should have told him as my farther warned me, no body likes a sad old clown. No Romans sadness here, our transvestites laugh until the very end and no one is wistful for a fallen Ansonia, god knows.

Then, in what a last summer of youth, as opposed to childishness, my father, a stoic Romanised man told me that I was in the bloodline of Gneas Julian ACRIGOLA, AS I CALL HIM IN ANOTHER OF MY OPUSES, BUT WHO IS AN ACTUAL HISTORICAL FIGURE. Why would he do this, you know, throwing out that it might be true…? Because, he, as a stoic worthy of Adolf Caesar in a soldier’s story, saw what were the Gumbas of even that innocent time, the mean streets and the longest islands and the Milvian bridges of America was a constant minstrel show, a giants cir--no too Romans, a caravan, no, I say, a carnival, yes, much betgter much more Venetian and bullish. He told me to recall after all things, a Yalee professor, not Italian had told him my , his name , was ancient and the rarist in Italy, though like many a Roman figura, Gneas raped and or seduced his every slave girl and local concubines, like Augustus, aforesaid that his blood line would peter out amid the mass murder now called by Fox news libertines and librettos, socialism. Ah remember when the Romans were fascists still, before vicious consumer hacks on gop tv and his groucho ilk got into their masters links and the jockey club…?



 

How is it that a society that is so circumspect and touchy about its drag queens and its midgets allows for the wholesale diminution of the people of the Romans republic, the Sicilian school, the quinticento and the divine comedy…? When did Beatrice become a busty trucker raped girl in a Max Bear film….? Why is it that your wholesome dyspepsia your nobility and your self righteousness never comes to be scattered upon the italics, who wrote this joke book that you seem lost in right now. It wasn’t Hannibal or Paul who came from a republic, dying or not, and to be fair as Hadrian saw the Caesars and the Legions did nothing to others that Greeks pretending to be god didn’t do in Naples, not that any of those brother thieves ever cared much. What Gaul, so to speak, to perpetually in our greasy res publica showcase showdown, to trash the Romans and Italians Romances and cafés, Farce and epic, criminality down to having senators, whose farces you love to laugh at once rewritten to the poisonous cask that the sopranos now dead calls itself a satire, what doesn’t…?, and why of all sorts are they who have become the clowns of your minstrel shows…? When did Dante and Beatrice become recalled by fat girls and moustache jokes and gumbas and fried dough…..? As I recite this a crew of lunatics are protesting they that Archie, a false character, a fiction, has married a longhaired brunette bitchy goddess all boys dream of looking out there window and seeing, Veronica. Baba Oreilly IS spending television time discussing this marriage while foreclosures are exalting across America. God bless and good night and Dante and Beatrice is dead, and women hate Romeo and Juliette, as the nuns told me the closest thing to love letter they get is the bill from their mandated by a husband abortion provider.

A Romans toast of beer, they brewed it, sorry, before the Germans who have hijacked TACITUS, THE CHRISTMAS TREE AND THE HAMMER AND SICKLE, ALL Roman as Roman can be. An astute tip of the pint to the Beatrice, and to the Kitty, the Juliette and the Sophia. I RECALL as a boy and sexually impressionable a Girl named Patricia Fairelli in playboy, before that magazine and America gave into the transvestites creed, women who studied make up and cosmetology under Pallacchi, the drag queens screed is now imperial ,again, , and she was stunning and beautiful was this lasted Romans goddess, and still radio boys like Adam Corolla recall her as the one that got away, the one that only matters. She was the intoxicating mixture of red and peach and black and a human Italian painting come to life, a roman not not cave, wall paining, in which she as the vestal came alive, a Plaustys fiction and a Terrance story plot line eons before Harold Lloyd not to mention purple roses of chairo. She was the white rose of Naples, I think if I call right she was the stock there of, and her pictorial wan opening and closing to Americans sexuality to me, was called fittingly abbondanza . Buts soon enough RAGING BULL would come out, and as italics, a vulgar little gnome of a man decided what our American dream was, as of course, his actual masters would lecture us all about the polish jokes, and cry for beaten Rodney as the local dragnets made a perimeter around their Beverly villas. The goddess of Americano, this girl was , not to be seen again so much, a slight dalliance was had with Teri, as a gellotto to cleans the palate after the cowboy jerky of Baywatch cows, but still, the age of the Helga had come, the fat balloted drugged up bunnie made sure that Wicket Wanda’s and even playful Patty was as ancient as her race. She was the Beatrice unredeemed, recalled by trannies, she males, sex with the lights off and gay marriage, …I , as a Romantic in every sense of that word is surrounded by the Sicilian hooligans, I a Flaminius at heart, roman , a touch of Neapolitan knockwurst in me, a love of the gentlemen thief, not the romanticized street gutter pimp for whom out is hard out there, poor the white boys who ape that true mistrial show of guns and whores and gangsters, I am left pining for the moon.

 

 

II.

I watched this crap film, Italian American, sheesh, where in the relatively young in this game Marty--no relation to the great and wonderful Paddy Chieveski film, God knows, --made a plea for a course yet un-taken, as would a roman hero in those pages of unread by Sopranos lovers Livy books. I watched it and it had a strange scent to it, like shit mixed with dirty tap water, upon which Calcvin Klien pourre homme has been shpritzed, which had been missed itself with Citrus and mint, or which had pungent gathered white rose peddles mixed in with and against the clumps of shit, making a strong mixture of over powering in both directions. He wasn't that long at the game he had become an early master of, another Fra Angelico of, --as he himself said with enough of a wop sneer to make sure no one could sense his true hopefulness, as he had just made a few films and the film which my working, Mafia hating, godfather resentful, father hated the most, Raging Bull, was still merely a gleam in his always cleverly concocting and maliciously “Will Demean myself for Good Notices“, eyes.

He does have the sort of eyes, I note here, which are good for an American ethnic to have, and which, like a retinal scan, the gods of the heartland and the doges of the plains seem always on the look out for. They are eyes much like the clever gleaming conniving eyes of say Senator Lieberman, who looks out the corners of them with such a smirk, clever, Gyp ‘em down, Gypsy em down, gall that I am shocked that such a Byzantine conniver had made himself president yet. Well, maybe not. It takes a strangely self authored filled man to frequent the radio shows which had called you Loser man, incessantly, Loser man, Jew boy amid the fat bully mouth breathers like Seanie and Rushie, Loser man, only a cycle of elections before, who had openly used anti Semitism as a way to make sure that poor Al Gore, our American Pompeii, imperial lower prince, saint of the empire, was beaten by that stuttering king who has seen the dollar sign burning away in the pretending as Tiberian irroman night.

Ergo, the Scorsese's ethics of the world will take on anything, admit to anything, sign any loyalty oath, finger anyone, plead to anything's, say anything, for that most Sicilian of Eucharist's which there is, notice and fame. Oh and Money. Money is good and is everything, and you can always put a price on rage, its as easy to buy and sell as Pastrami, both marbled with slat and fat. He never even got that much money, or power, gods knows, and he didn't get the lauding he craves, an Oscar, until he decided to go up in class and make films about criminals with whiter hands, ergo, Irish animalistic new York thugs, Leonardo de Caprio as a apollonian cool boy whiz kid con man, and of course, Leo boy again as the miscast Hughes, but all of whom show Martin’s new love of more corporate and white collar and white skinned crime, but which is crime nonetheless. Nobility, humanity, decency is beyond him, as Cato said of Caesar, another exemplar and Romanticizing of Italic crime, and who called it art and literature. Still, he did turn being a Brutus into something of a cottage industry, and became the shill of credit cards, not caring if Americana was in a bubble of debt, just about to burst, but then, neither is the sanctimonious lesbian, and made himself the snickering voice of sharks on cartoons, as the people making more family friendly Pandas and penguins wanted, again, no part of him.

 

The film is nothing but his made up, partially lied of and the re believed and redrafted memories, which are of such a Lillian Hellman extraordinary literalness that they could have never really happened. He is here the Jon Boy of the brick wall dagos, a diarist of the American gumbas. Always clever, always conniving as American ethnic must be, he is sure to please his masters by telling them of the relative illiteracy of his family and how he grew up as a daisy of brilliance amid the always perpetual unread and un-thoughtful Italians, he a genius of the American art of ridicule, the Cumae gates upend up and the fake motioned demons of Tennessee’s joke book allotted a spaced to terrorize or merely bumble and stumble about out of the sulphur for your amusement and dining pleasure. This all showed me that the dog barks, but the carnival moved on from him, though it was he who was the first Barnum, if not Fellini, who attired the calliope which never seems to run out of puffs of steam, and seems never willing, like Daffy’s to fall to any ground. The American Italians, thanks to Marty, have been made the Palestinians of their neon circus, for reasons which even the likes of Ben Wattenberg, and even a kindly Steven Spielberg, both more suspicious of the whites who kept their parents and them out of Palm Springs than they can dutifully like Whoopee the haggard be about the race of Sacco and Vanzetti, never quite really understood.

His need for being seen, his pretentious creed, his act of a Sicilian pimp in the guise of a cinematic Modigliani , all that went away when he got his precious Oscar, so all was forgiven, but, there was still a domino effect to the sludge which he helped make and create and which now, he himself seemed to decry as a did the horrid Lieberman just hated to have to be so Augustan History about it in his mere hand waving off a results in a recent primary, now that he lost didn’t mean shit, which when he won them, was iron clad and now that he had not was no skin off his Semitic nose. I fear the age of the blond transvestite may be recapped by the fiat law ordinary time, but then perhaps the reason the Italians are so demeaned is that in fact, they know the tempo cadence of not only a good opera but a good decline and fall. In the same way, the awful Deeded Lieberman called his Caesarean cancelling of a democratic primary as being “unfortunate.” So , interestingly, did Scorsese, once compared his earlier work to Good Friday , for which "Italian-American" was a clever balance --no really, he seemed early on to say, we roman fascists call this foreshadowing, I love Italy, kiss kiss bang bang slap slap punch punch, blond blond, Pilate as blond as one of his inamoratas. And with the sort of ego allowed as his audience is by definition wafting and illiterate this mad man dares compare himself, literally I have heard it, to Italians, genius, like Modigliani and Fra Angelico, always a pejorative to him too, look that up, and yet they are Italian geniuses all, or maybe I give him too much credit and he can only now having lived his tick life on Sicilian blood knows his commission is there to be a least barbarian at the ruined gate. And he has gone so far as to make films of red neck tool and die billionaire weirdoes at cineretta studios, where they once made films of starving , Nazi shot, Anna Magnani, at Rome, of all places , and I can only hope, as they did to HBO, that he was gouged, as such is in the Mediterranean heartbeats of Italian, Jews and others who once, sorry, built pleasure domes and pantheons to themselves as Germans and the barbaric forbears of lionized queens would live in trees, not a ring to rule them all in sight, except perhaps on the signet finger of buried Pompeii.



I saw the awful compilation movie, and his sanitized ideals of Italian film, of course, as how could such a porcine Beatrice, wet, vulgar and childishly in the dirty Medici waters of that bloated Fellini's work not be included, including the famed scene of trevi which was decried by Italians at the time as a heresy of some meaning, but then, nether Freddie Fellini, comic book artist extraordinaire, acceptable artist of Michelangelo race, nor his pupil know that story of the fountain den to uno notte, so why start shit here...? But I thought of a second, when I was a little kid and showed my father a fake plastic roman coin I had bought as a fake little talisman as I was then collecting roman things, which I could afford. The old man didn't seem to speak, but he nodded an ancient hearted approving. The old man, with giant eyes took the small somewhat more mgm than Liguria plain coin on which was a smiling Head of Caesar of all things and the date strangely shown as 33 ad, which of course, could never be, but I think it was a catholic toy thing. He made it go through his fingers as an old circus magic man might, and then silently packed it back in my small, much more white, yet till too dark for some Catholics usually Pollock -Italians at school, hands and closed my hand around it as though, just then, the un illiterate man, who read Virgil and Aquinas and Gore Vidal, had somehow made a act of alchemy which Scorsese's ugly vile, mean and nasty, and now suddenly Technicolor life, as he sets his sights on babbling millionaires and Moss gathered Rolling stones, films could never much approach.

 

My father in later 1979. I had set up the attic, as a studio, ACRI RADIO PICTURES, as had just seen Orson’s master work , The American, on Chiller theatre, yes Count Floyd lived for real and Joe Flaherty did keno of what he was speaking about as the late night count, who not by accident, but on whim, would often show Any Wednesday, sex and the single girl, The fortune cokkie, and Sleeper often as the Humanoids, if the news reporter in the first and only zombie epic had not seen it in a while. I took a wall long and flat and hard, upon which some childish scribbling in crayon had happened, and covered these with computer paper, which were I got I cant recall. I had a super 8 camera and began what I thought was my brilliant career in the dark theatre, but again never did a thing, as was my want. But back then I was unprepared to do what need to be done, Scorsese poisons had yet to colour my skin with green and puss as it would, as a Jewish woman told me, cause I let it as much as anything. I had a wall of white, to be Borges about it, and a super 8, but my old stoics father was not impressed. Movies were a puppet show to his Jesuits studied mind, and I, I had been asked to be scholar a Georgetown, a school of magic having procured Bill Clinton no Hogwarts can ever come up against. He wanted me to be a immigrant success, not a puppeteer, but like so much he let it go. I could gussy it up and say he tore down the silver screen I had made of glue and paper, or threw away my camera, but did not. I later write a play about this very thing, called 1979, and boys with a camera, later somehow posted and torn from to zoetrope, and funnily is to be I read made into an jj Abram’s thing by accident, a freaking moister movie. I did feel bad, and didn’t go through with any of it, never seeing art as films, or vice versa, as I love a good parade and can enjoy myself without being a god damn prick about it. And now desperately afraid that the even more vulgar sopranos have made him irrelevant and an actual ‘credit to his race’, another Ali finds himself non compis mentis, as usual happens, he now does the gnome, tell us how a silent Italian film called Calabia might have nativity -ied all modern film, that’s for Father Fra, though this is to the consternation of a film geek I have read who hates all things Romans, though probably just loves Triumph of the will. Its art, you know, Virgil is propaganda. Balanced though, to be fair. Maybe I WAS TOO SMART , dare I say even gifted, and too much of an artist for flickering images in the dark, not too far away from porno at any given time. STILL, seeing his disappointment that I would go to college if at all at usc to study men hanging off clocks and the pane and scan, instead of Marcus and Alighieri and Ariosto, and Father Agricola, I let it go, and thought yet, I must somehow be a Virgil, ergo sum, I must be a decent man. Lights out.

6 Jul 08

 

 

15 July 2013




I LOVE A GOOD ROMAN RIOT.
 
As Blow hard bull silent when he needs ta be Cartoon Al plans  a myriad of rallies, --against a trial outcome, which of course was sacrosanct when it was OJ, I take a moment to notice that this is all happening to the peacock as it is. I personally am hoping for more riots as these niggers write checks their mouths cant cache, as usual, as want to see where Captain Courageous ends up now that –horrors—Spartacus has dun become praetor. The screeching about a trial verdict, from the Latin emanating True said, or Tu Dat, makes me in mind of Baba Oreilley and Nancy Grace demanding another virgin for the television city volcano,. If not gallows. AH, BUT ALL MOTION IS RELATIVE, AS Sir Isaac was stealing already minted aphorisms from an Italian genius, no not Galileo, but Machiavelli, said ages before. Having seen the Obama sort all my life, did you really think that Bammy would, seeing a verdict made by this many white women go against his natural wombs for rent…?, the local  Sons of Italy it seems will not allow me to film a scene from something called Roman mythology in their hallowed bingo hall dago Garibaldi Club, so think what can I do quickly to make a quick film, why,…there is that essay which caused them to shit their pants at Zoetrope, WOP LIKE ME. There,  as I eviscerate Martin Scorsese like the Jesuit I was to be. Like how I would have fucked  over that awful prosecution by Clinton- ing up, always make things worse is our motto, and I would have asked the Prosecution, never like a nigger is Roman Tony at the Prosecution table like niggers like Shaptoon, be true to your lies, fatso, is now eating’s scraps like the milk dud boys, I would have asked, are you telling me, --I can be quite cute—that a Hispanic man isn’t allowed to defense his home, like white folks do everyday, and nothing is said…must he as a Hispanic, I as a bastard would have called him nothing else, live his American dream out in the barrio to gain his humanity from the National Biscuit Company, nbc…? Boom. [I see since writing this no fools in fact, O'Mara and the legal team are targeting NBC, to the Bomb companies dismay, --see, even CNN that survived Eddie Shultz, is getting Newt signed up, as there anit nothing like someone who can fill seats--] Ah, nbc is getting what it deserves, as Keith was  a lot of things, but don’t need to be infernal to get an audience, as he wasn’t willing to set himself on fire at kids parties like Homy the barrister. Then again, the Jesuits adored me because I was a bitch, and did not mind I went gaga over curvy girls, unlike now that the fags recruit like the marines. But, to the niggers who despised targeting over dere now, I recall  as a boy, my father, an old man then, walking me through town, as fat bloated white women, the arsenic like mothers of Obama voters, telling him to go back where he came from or who would follow him, stupidly honest, as I HAS SAID, around the gc Murphy’s afraid this negro skinned wop would steal their crap, when they didn’t try to overcharge my mother who had a Regium quality of often buying things to hurl them then at the wall. But my father stayed stoic as he was told, as was I by white trash to get along, and he never big fanned anyone. After the filmmaking I will Jesuits boy I am, explain it all to you, Rachel, as like you. But America isn’t what it was on new years, a hint there, and so I tell you there are creepy Latin epigrams that fit well, better than you’d know, like Ex Uno Pleura, which if I recall right should be our now motto, it means succinctly as all Latin does, Things are falling apart.
 
 
 

 

 

12 July 2013

T*O*N*Y*





I HAVE DONE ABOUT  AS MUCH AS I CAN DO ON PAPER TO MAKE THIS TEN MINUTE MOVIE FOR THE Ron Howard Canon camcorder contests, though I might pull a Robert Rodriguez, within reason, and just keep make the entire film once started with the Cattiline scene. Above is my Indica, my logo made for a simple resume line where a teacher got me the opportunity to design a neon sign for a local Pittsburgh strip house. Seeing the sketches, the man nicely said, that’s too nice for what we do, and told me to save it, and too, if men come in heifer looking for that type of woman,  they’ll be sadly disappointed. I did this en toto with primscolors, as is alluded to, by the way, not again seeing a big difference between them and crayola markers bought at the local thrift drug.


I must make as much as I can as I had said I cant afford yet the roman wall or the roman girl, someone akin if not herself a Wendy italic sweetheart, but the delineation of Patavium New York is already well around me, AND I learned that abandoned buildings are a treasure trove for cinematic sets already designed and weathered, so, Patavium awaits. Still I must start with this, as am unsure whatever it is a narrative film they want or something more experimental I am not sure, but can take my share of video of decaying regions here and placed them into the film as a larger entity when need be. The folder is full with that which can be done as paperwork, setting things up and printing legalistic forms to fill out and it is getting late to do this. Still, though am somewhat waiting for a twenty dollar camera seen on a website, which as I figured would, is so cheap that it apes the grain properties of film where as the seven hundred dollar Sony which I do not have won’t. There is a lesson in that.

I am doing this all day every day, as the thought of watching the some cable television trial, so much better than Romans blood sport, of trial by television makes me as a Jesuit student sick. The crowd that ahs loved looking down on Romans cine still played by Englishmen and rag mans sons, doesn’t seem to get their own joke, the essence of self-parody. I have no desire tow catch this live, as black chick and fat faced boys from the bus discuss how suddenly with the egregious souls of a Torquemada, suddenly they are as a circumspect and as outraged as any defence lawyers, losing what little pit bull junkyard dog dignity they had. I saw the aging fat kid on CNN, full face and always weighing things out, how he backs down as a stipulation whatever Garagos, brilliant gonniff supreme says, sometimes agreeing with him clearing his throat, really I have seen as much as that, and saw how he has a penchant there with shiny Anderson to say Or-- a lot. Or this could have happened, or that could have happened, not that things like equal projection, probable cause or god knows reasonable doubt mean anything in the new America. No, this Tobin is a superman with Jewish mother and father which is what makes it go from mad magazine parody to tragedy, is always willing to as she says, give you that, as in I give you that, usually the nut of the case, hell stupidly give in late to the giving in on a major point, like say how Zimmerman has grass stains on his back, once proved Sunny Delight says a usual, who cares, she has her mind up, and has since law school, but Jeffery will, as usual Give you that, but such things are meaningless to a prosecutor who has his eye all along on becoming Greta Van Sustren who started this legal television but at least did wit with panache, back when Jeffy and Sunny where admitting into ev--i--denssse unpaid light bills and ten year old duis and all of Michael Jackson’s computer files as back when as prosecutors, they were always on the look out for a depraved mind as their ilk since Torquemada always has been. There is scholarship now that Torquemada might have been a safaric Jew, from Cordoba, a hot house for Semites, and if course that Savonarola was queer as the ace of spades which proves the roman aphorisms, scratch a sanctimonious prude top hard Cum comes out, as there a reason the Jesuits taught me for being that big a pain in the neck. As with Obama, someone is trying to hum loud enough to escape the ghost of mother, or father, just not Virgil in the storm-plumed curtains. --[I have taken out the barrister-foghorn leghorn like cadence in many places here, as I have been told I can sometimes when trying to be cute be a real pain in the ass.]

Not even a full formed Jesuit, even I could see how this was a farce made for television blowhards dream, from the jump, as a station seeing that salad days of ANDERSON AND OTHERS WITH CASEY ANTHONY--The Tarpeas come fast and furious especially when powerless, its all in Livy but who among the ge crowd has read that, maybe Rachel not that she admit as much now. I had no desire to watch the whole circus, instead watching a recap on Anderson Copper, no fool he, he didn’t break a trot off his dancing horse life to even much mention gay marriage, as this is the business we have chosen, that nice enough he seemed to say, but knew which side of the bread he bloods for the hungry dogs. No actually, this as how Caesar trained his dogs, really, to rip apart the men in his cadre he decimated, no fooling,. He fed the dogs bloody bread as to give them a state for it. I’m sorry A Taste. Like I said, Jeffy was far too vacillating and Pilate like for me, on one hand this, on the other hand that, always keeping a little bit of Syosset Wiggle room for things, as you cant Jew down from the top now canya. HE just kept saying Or, or, or, all days, a bit incoherent for a prosecutor but then who smart does one have to be to be a prefecture in America where 95 percent of cases go to jail in some time, jails are good bidness as they ere when Casanova was alive, and that even dimwits like he and the black chick can get prosecutions when the land of the free has more incarcerated than China. No not per capita as I thought, more incarcerated heads than China, which isn’t fair to point out,  as to be in China as Marco Polo might have said in Calvino was to be incarcerated already in one form or another. But it w as the ors that bother Jesuit baby me, or or or,… or what,…? What is your point, reasonable doubt, are you kidding……? Or, or, or,…like oars in the water? Is that sign say Styx…or something else.

So you here in the land of the golden door you start putting people in jail with and by reasonable doubt, with the bald goon Sipowitz the practitioner having to do the job of toreador, no less and keeps having to make his own witnesses hostile, as they are hostile by telling the truth. I feel badly as to know that poor mush mouth pig meat markem hisslef old Reverend Spike, Piggy Markim, wid the scamming dat comes from te veins and dee pulse of the noble savage, can have done this travesty to the justice system, why don’t wez all just sandblast off the Latin epigrams, creepy to chirping Rachel's ears, and recalled it wiff Ebonics, as old Pig meat hisslef found his latest con and gambit, the people he picks out of the morgue as the worst sort of layer an He be, a hearse Chaser, always looking fo dee promiced land if not dee folding monies, he stated this the same days that a Chicago set of cops I believe blew away some black folks who was having dee audacity of going against sonny steelgrave, he ex of the bag man Pretoria his own self.

Again like with Sorkin I come buy my dislike of Pig meat honestly and with self assuredness, as I can recall and have said before, this bloated bag of corn mash here well, back in 97 or so,  aback kid was beaten to death on Pittsburgh streets, named Johnnie Gammage, and though black folks sodomized wif plungers can always get him to ask his white secretary to hold his calls, it seems stat Old reverend mighty smog of joy didn’t have nuffin to say about a bunch of Brentwood cops badgering a black to death with cell phones and maglites. It appears he as driving his own cousin suv, and the IDEA OF THIS COON driving an expensive car owned by a Steeler, eagerly allowed those themselves, the white Pollock cop was sure this car was stolen and was again as cops have been want to do since Chuck Noll showed up, do the bidding of the Ronney’s, and so this black kid was beaten senseless, and not a discouraging word was heard from pour Solicitor Cahooooon. No, he didn’t say a woid out dere, as the Mara family and the Rooney’s payee off the noble savages, always ascared of them shining white knight badges more than you’d think, and so Pittsburgh black activists named Cynthia and JT from the hill ere shown the dark side of messiah hood. As Uncle Nicola said, if I am to become strong and rich and powerful as your champion when will you ever not be weak he asked, a codicil to the hated Prince, explaining why its best unread.

So I know this hustlers’ game, as Livy too aid, the champeens of filth are made and charge by the word they do not say more than the words they do. Its all very Romans and thus displaceable to good Jews white girls fags and the rest of the good white folk now so disturbed that Soldier Kordell west must be slammed down for speaking out against gay marriage, or even that it isn’t that important, as when a champion of the filth one must know their placed. Yes its Roman and diabolical and vicious and all, but Bill Clinton, nothing but a sleaze ball, it wasnt he, breaker of Glass Stiegel, who found himself coming back from the girls room with him crumbling towards les than 40 percent in the polls, it was our last two mirror images president unmachiavellian,  incompetent and straw men who did that. As in Arab Lands, which we sadly mirror more than Rome, the upset is hokum, the rage controlled by an applause sign as we all play you bet you’re life. As Sharptoon thinks he has truck jacked the judicial system something he can not do at the dais set as she quietly sits there allowing his pucker to be his argument, remember Johnnie Gammage along with the little twelve year old black girls who get their bards blown off by American minstrelsy gang baggers, and are all collateral damage as he was the nigger who didn’t bark when he got the gratis giant tickets and the Cowboy helmet phones, he is that cheap, showing how after Keith, Ge thought they got a bargain. I’m not so sure.

I hope for race riots after this, as you deserve them and I have been wanting them since Newt was destroyed as was in Cattiline war. I cant with the blood sport, so all day has been taken up with downloading of free software to cut a film, story board guides, and other tricks of guerrilla warfare film techniques I think I can sue better than most as Flavia the great teacher I had was amazed I made art out of the cheap unmarked up pigments that I used. Readying to make this film, I am more diligent even than I was when making the novel ,as now each thing I do has taken on the shape and feel of the moral imperative seen and mentioned before. There are enough wops braying on command as silly little gumbas of the imperial parades, always have been, but I get these jokes and well, and no part of decline and fall is lost on me. This week unable to really catcher the more grievous blood sport of trial television, Id rather see a good Roman boxing match even with the bloodlessness that Gödel likes to pretend that your sports are without, sanitised for your approval, still, I have watched my share of films to get the feel of a movie, as the greatest film student ever, Orson Welles did by watching stage coach to him the perfect film a myriad of times, to underhand its clockwork. The man who made Citizen Kane, Touch of Evil, the Magnificent Ambersons and Chimes at midnight loved and adored John Ford, whereas the man who made Jackie Brown, from dusk to dawn, four rooms and a shit load of Eli Roth films, thinks he is a racist lest the Negros boycott his nigger as a word adoring film. Mongo hath spoken. You make the call.

I this week has seen the Great Cohen Bros. master work from a master work, True Grit, in which the undervalued and wonderful Jeff Bridges plays a role made famous by John Wayne as does out with equal brio and verve, and it loses nothing. I was glad to eye, having read the Charles Portis masterpiece as a boy--why cant all westerns be this grand...?,…you’re asking me….?-- and the returned the play it is truly muddy and backwater and violent roots, as  I guess that John Wayne had never died on screen or some such thing, but it had more impact this way, with Rooster Cogburn before  needed for a truly awful and unneeded sequel, could die as he did in the Virgilllian like book. As much as anything I wished to do in RM and Ancient Romance, as much as any, to do to the gangster epic and to the roman history what Portis did as I have said, to the western feeling that anyone who thinks that the unforgiving was  first revision western ell, Blazing Saddles was more in the vein of a western recons trued or not than that harangue was. I am eager and will watch anything even Toy brokers , than to subject myself to the unravelling augments of political television.

But there as I was doing all of this, downloading and cutting and pasting and figuring how to s ave movie files yet undone, I really should get on the stick about that, though think I could do well in just yoking my share of disowned towns brick walls. And late on Sunday night a high number station I don’t normally visit,--Sundance--these movies stink, was showing the important and terrific Altman masterpiece itself, M*A*S*H. This film meant much to me, more so as a film addled kid, watching it on chilly Billy’s local afternoon movie, studying it as Rapheal studied pictures of Michelangelo’s that had been made out of paper and had been tacked to the wall as yet to be colour in, as this seemed to be to me, more than any godfather, what films might have been if not for the zoetrope goons making the spectacle of the gangster Movie or the Space opera into their new waves, fir which neither should be forgave. This appeared to me s a boy hen allowed to watch  it by immigrant parents who seemed to be fine with me watching this adult and the cautionary movie, it as the essence of filmmaking, but too, adult filmmaking which as more important to me than any cartoons or other kids fair solemn enough all film would decay into being. I read that in the kid stays  ion the picture that the godfather producer first approached the great Robert Altman as the all knowing eye of The coming Godfather, but like Larry Olivier, couldn’t bring himself to making the godfather a comedy about likable criminals, and in this was a similar attitude held by Robert Wise, and Burt Lancaster backing out, and on the waterfronts Elia Kazan, which showed what art was cone and is no longer. Altman who was fine with a book, MASH he called absolute trash, and cowboys, might have done something to the gangster epic which may have made it not the go to bible of every cretin wop killer in jersey, but he refused.

And I watched MASH again, as it is delineated here as to make it apparent this is the film and not the television watering down there of, which was so shtick, that Richard Hooker wanted his name taken off if it, seeing it as having been somehow dedicated to meaninglessness and Grocuho cadenced platitudes. But, I came in late, at the last supper scene, as the dude from Macmillan and wife was taking poison, -this film was stocked with great actors by Altman, all but radar saying no to the TV show, sure it couldn’t work,  giving actors a chance, as he, the polish dentist, Painless, with the giant shwang, really one can not write this way anymore as a gaggle of lesbian watchers make sure each word is gone over and over by their blue nosed legion of decency, harpies owned by GE, never seemingly spoken of as  corporate master, watch each word, sometimes literally, always ready to sue for damages. I had to watch some of this, as it was terrific, and sad I missed the parts I did, and lovely nurse Dish, a brunette pretty girl of the sorts unseen now, Jo Ann Fluge, is sent by the more droll and less magpie like Hawkeye, as my favourite of the doctors as a boy was brother look-alike and act alike smart ass Elliot Gould, as Trapper was in fact in the book a better surgeon and wit than was his buddy pallid Hawkeye, the Dish sent to reawaken the polish fairy John Shuck. She lifts the sheet higher and higher, to give the joke some punch as she is over taken with dirty filthy and wonderful truth at that moment, like the twelve chairs snap of the curtain, the godhead of Apollo as it were, available and shown to the blue nosed biddies who asked Rodger Ebert why the wild bunch was even made. The lovely girl in this quagmire of mud and wooden fence post, and overtaking and under acting, tenets and jeep tires, is then in morning after stupor, sent home, glad with a slight smile that she was kept over one night in hellish Korea. That’s scene was worth all the fucking of apple pies by jug heads in vulgar comedies that have replaced it. I learned from Altman the die of Setting existed, that the 4077th LOOKS like an army hospital, it is its own creation and character, and that should I ever be able to make the gangster movie come head to head with that feeling, I will have done something worth writing home about.  As I was taken and fascinated by the Johnnie Gammage case, much more than I am with any Travon, as the saint as dead Neapolitan rings too much in my ears of the line by Metternich, again mute to the GE theatre crowd--and he's WHITE!--who spoke of why the Neapolitans were do devoted to theirs saints as only a dead Neapolitan can be worth anything. But then it isn’t Neapolitans who tore him down and made his name such and anathema he isn’t even an adverb like our friend Uncle Niccole. Sad, as you find your black burnished messiah, which you cant spell without the Mess, the extra S for savings,  seem to be fleeing their nickel plating lately and Tiger and Obams find their bribes and mistresses aren’t as enjoyable fun as was Bill’s. I write a play about this, or this was included, called Saturnalia, in which that beating happened but off screen. This as apposed to some liberal dirt bag, the priests warned me never to accept the ladled out soup kitchen decency that white trash give out like so much government cheese, a white effeminate fuck, who wrote some similar play about Gammage, but unlike mine his preformed at a LA theatre that actually considered mine --must I always be funny?… I was asked, as satire gives the game away,-and had unlike mine, a blow by blow shake for shake acting out of the police report with every hit and every assault done to him , whereas mine was just off stage, alluded to by Black Adam, the quarterback the local football team was smearing as a fag on the radio. I have shocked people since the nuns with sometime I am a blowhard but sometimes they note I can be quite judicious.