ROMANTIC, PERPETUALLY...

I

I HAVE DONE MUCH WORK AS A ITALIC requiem to my Mom, and have in deed gotten acceptances i never thought id get, and in  actually  art magazines which as i said showing my forever brilliance, i had sent them drawings in black and white. But getting  accolades for my Orcheck Rodrequez even Decarlo like monochrome i guess  had I sent on e of my over saturated color pictures in may not have gotten accepted, but how can one know. Still, perhaps as dually back into something as was taught by Franciscans jurists to do as I feel myself, perhaps a conceit, but feel myself a heir to Chayefsky, Gore Vidal, Budd Shulbergh, and Reginald  Rose,  as a mid century satirist, even scold as much as anything, as perhaps have more ethics than all the censors out there and the miss Grundys who in deed were making Monica Joe-ks by the bushel and charging for each and every one. 

Hell, I see myself as a heir to Petronius as much as an anything even using a cover of his famous once seen as a scurrilous and filthy book as a poster in a Jewish editors office at the Knickerbocker magazines i made a stand in for a dying Jew Yorker, to the point i was asked why would a Jewish editor so admire this Roman book, which i said back, had anyone there now had a even slightly inkling of that book maybe Rachella wouldn' t need the talcum powder now, which again as usual got silence. As said, on new years eve watching Paul Lynde of all augers and spirit guides whopping us where one has been shows us immediately where they are going, as Virgil said to Dante on the road to hell, or was that Gore in  an inscription to broken hell raiser Julian, the perfectly named Apostate who sadly and tragically thought when he was called a folk hero on no elss than the Simpson's thought these Jews actually meant it, Ah but at any moment Alice Walker is told indeed bullhshit walks, and is pilloried for having recalled at all that Leviticus doth made cowards of us all. So say all this as perhaps will minded write that spec script to Good WIfe of whatever, as recently saw 12 ANGRY MEN again and realized that America of Jack and EG and Henry and Ed and Jack was indeed gone as Whoppy explains to us again to eye rolls no less, that she saw the angels are indeed, ironically, white, and Moms almost arbitrated her last which it be a better or at least an ironic one had she just keeled over the same year that The Color Purple returned to its Roman scurrility affectation and line or dismissal as much as anything. This showing again, I never bought any of it as i don't take dictation and I don't tap  dance for nobody as no anything am I. Next year , a good Roman year and how now, with an even number, like god helps those who help themselves rabbi Medved, and the natural law, that isn't biblical; its Juvenal, hummmn, all the grand bizarres will be alas out, all the Stromboli will be in fine form as Coppola Scorsese and the Sopranos  have all been marginally sued back into the st Patrick days parade called Bidding's last chance as he makes Hillary look like Joan D'arc. So good luck unto you all as maybe big bird might need to bring back the San Generio  festival out, as Columbus day might this time not even cut it...

As I use The good wife repeats never watched before as a salve, as losing even a elderly mother as though i am a stoIC, was almost a body blow as much as anything. I was excreting and marinating in recriminations all terse early days, and seeing a sister watching this show for perhaps no better reason that there were brunettes in it something the circus OWNERS haven't understood since the excavator Norman Lear cast not only Beatrice the Jewish yenta, and too a Vindicated Rizzo as her daughter, see elsewhere here for that hold on boyish Tony, I was captivated by images of the Della esque , as I called her Lemuel Gulliver of Beatrices, Julianna, again a perfect passel of names almost like in something I have written myself as Calvino said to explain the brilliance of Manzoni as if and later echoed by Goire it was so damn brilliantine one feels like they in fact like Dante's man watching the ship on the curvature of earth, yes he calls it that in 1300 kids, so many the Italians  have never been the affable killer fools   in laws would so love me to have been, as fathers. brothers have warned me as nuns too, fearful of an earth in which Abortionists are asking to be admired for their cutlery. See i think i could get a reaction even from Gertrude-ish left behind mother superior Christine Barnasky as Frankly she seems like echoes everywhere, every nun i ever had for good or ill. I think having seen both 12 angry men and the brilliant Defenders last year, that I could indeed cobble and strict something together that as i said in  a piece called The Plautus Project, return the art of satire and cartoonist-ing to something better than the residue and third cousin marriage that the talking bra  felt in against her better judgments or at least  my magpie warnings to our virginal heroine lost in the Caudine fires, as aren't we all...?

I used though more the Cat-woman type i was slapped across the face with as watched this show, as saw 'the her' of this thing, Calinda and her leather soaked prettiness as a priestess of the signora Fortuna my Ma was a penitent to as much as anything. I watched her in a imbibing sort of way, her prettiness was a tonic to be the belladonna my mom told me was a kind of Italianate and only Italianate sort of woman who somehow became a constant Joke, despite somehow Anna Maria Neapolitano actually became misses Buddy Sorrell. I wondered why my eyes were dry as a snakes skin for Ma not that I wast hurt, but just not as devastated as someone said of me which frankly you ubiquitous hags didn't say a word to me when i was around, no matter what i was after or needed, probably just companionship more than a pussy,as  teenager wasn't big about having sex, as was always afraid of having an unwed child, not due to that church i have known was a cesspool of marble since at least Boccaccio and Dante, the first true Protestants, but due to my being afraid of availing a child as epileptic -ically whipped out as was I, then.  I wasn't looking for aftermath, the Roman practice of counting dead bodies, so there!, as Bill Clinton as the jurists could tell you, I am not. So when heard this from my sister that I was being talked about and saw my Antony Acri Google alert ring aways with some strange anti condolences, i said and thought, be gone you old crows, go back to your dreary suburban lives, as said, Be Gone, hags, as a certain plebei--Lesbian, ha!,  is crumbling before our eyes , being blamed for everything, but then i have gained admiration from gals for knowing and even gathering who and what would reduce themselves to Dyke CAMP DRAG. Can you be far behind Monsignor,  when the ghost of Boccaccio is taking his tolls...? A gal who at first turned down my Vundergals only because she was out kicking her coverage and thought the collected horde of germy ladies would hate my anti Stan Lee stuff, she rethought it and saw the sweetness within of a moonbeam made triumphant and too, to this day seethes about hatred for Colbert who was in fact in drag as a lesbian, as all is ridicule-able to the jaundiced eye, when dearie herself was just on the perfidy of wincing when Bloated Brother Bill was comping his medieval Italian wedding, the envelops go over in that sack,  to Dante and Beatrisa. God ill get you for that, I said at the time, and if not God, Signora for-tuna, as infected cunt Hillary, witchie poo, damnedest payment and punishment from Julian's hither and yon. Theres your Hook, my brother said, glad to see old Maddcow being left behind, sometimes you laugh at Elizabeth Ward Grayson and sometimes the doge hurls you from the moving town car, dear, as my brother isn't as enthralled with The good wife, as was i though was stopped shorty when said Calinda came  on the scene, in hip boot finery and did a double take with an italicate Whoa, who is that...? Ah the recantations that got under cigar store Beatrice's  lee press ons, another lesbian says i do this all quite well, I am a Fermi of ridicule amid the creation scientists of CBS, as he was stunned in that way Ma said wed always be, a way TV QUEENS preen don't exists, and which could make other Julianna green as the hulk. I saw first goof-ball Will die, and then she reduced to green screen apparatuses obviously as if she was in the millennium falcon, which had she been maybe somebody would have liked and gone to see Solo. Again as i said, to me the only Solo who mattered was in fact Neopoleon, as when i was a boy the man from uncle , his greasy lounge lizard demeanor, as Bond had gone from soccer  thug to Negro, which means he was, as Alan Moore would say nothing much true to begin with, but black haired, curled lipped, Robert Vaughn looking like my mothers cousin John from east Orange New Jersey, seems Italian enough to me to be a hero in a world of juvenile delinquents,  still undead.

And i got some nice accolades about Requiem, although the V and the magic realism as an Italian construct still boreholes some, amusingly as hard sell is our only Jewish sacrament, with a shemere of indulgences, after all. as ONE ASKED ME ABOUT BRINING UP THAT THE JEW YORK TIMES gave Robert Blake bad notices for In Cold Blood, and in fact the new yorker did a book selling old stogy cigar smelling, vodka and Seconal, old trash from the fifties to delineate the decade, but didn't mention either Mad or Elvis, same as it ever was,  NOW KEEPING THEIR SMARMY CLERKS FROM DEARIES DESK, AND HER OWN ATTAINMENT AT CARTOON FROLICS, PUPPET SHOWS, SOAP OPERAS AND WESTERNS as seen on the Kramdens perpetual TV set, Romantic Much...,?, they asked, strikingly unwieldy for a mere remembrance of a Mother who told me all about where she was headed when she looked at me wistfully, and taking my hand said Vae Bono, Nino. Be good, little Anthony boy. I teared up for Josh Charles when he was killed, but thats wasn't for her, that was for me, and the things i hadn't and wouldn't do. Romantic much... I emailed back, oh, niggers and white chicks, fagging femms and black faced TV wop pigs and drunks, and StIller fans and rapists and their acolytes in old confetti,  and masculine women,WITH THE MUDDY streets of Paris before me, A SCENE WHY Scorsese Justinian SHANT EVER BE MADE, BY JEWISH IN LAWS EVER, I READ THE BOOKS BILLY PRETENDS TO HAVE LOVED,the over under for Bidding caught sleeping to me is next April fools, as i said using an analogy admired by several women, all the trumpets on the Tyber shiers wont keep that coot awake,  I emailed back...