AT THE REQUIEM FOR LAURA.

In 1980, instead of doing anything that I Was asked for, or was supposed to do to become elitist, or be given, I thought paternalistically, scholarships from Stanford and Georgetown, I instead, wrote in a genera of television writing not only that was but then cancelled, but non existant, even then. 

I had a book edited by my beloved Petronius Gore Vidal, called The Best of television writing and I got my share of diminishment and demeaning, as usual, when I said that some of the plays I read in there and had on a RCA laser disks of the best of the golden age of TV DRAMA, was equal to anything that say a bore like Thornton Wider wrote. This was seen then, as a love of the pixies and the witches of Publcia Ovid, seen as heresy, but then in the Christmas of the Epidemic, Pan again is too faggy and Greek for Roman Me, my brother playing with a hand me down IPad, saw indeed Penguin Classics did indeed have a book devoted to at least Reginald Rose and MARTY TOO AS EXEMPLARS OF 20th CENTURY WRITING. 

I saw once, the creep who stole the New Yorker from the crossfire Gimp, shilling a book on Charlie Rose, when the father confessor of the Curia was still on, before was a first wave of victims to the anti Trumpets, have the stall effects of Middlebrows’, a word hated by the previous feeble priest thereof, and made a book about the fifties where the words, Elvis, Alfred E Neumann, rock and roll, and Paddy are nowhere to be seen. And television seen by me once as a oracle worthy of the work of Giants like Carl Reiner and Neil Simon, was reverted back to as it was called by a stock pantomime of television player who was the Margret Hamilton of the sixties, Eleanor Audlea, everyone’s mother, and or in law, old enough then to be Roman senator Eddie Albert’s dreadful Freudian mother, at the Cyclops, back to being a Television Machine. I resolutely started getting Decades back, and see Dick Van Dyke as a time capsule to when American policies would never have accepted, no feminists worth their Bella-ed class, a segregationist as standard bearer, not this aerially. 

And I saw the one done where Dick, i.e., alter ego of Carl, and Laura, I think in real life Meatheads mother upon which she was based, whose slightly less obvious than calling her Beatrice, Famously Carl was one of the first Gumba Jew college boys, a resentment of them I felt even in letters from STANFORD, WHICH A PhD NAMED Alan told, if it even wasn’t all in my mind, I shouldn’t have let anything so petty stand in my way. Ah But the Italian Machiavelli, Giucciardini, iconoclast, said Pettiness destroys the petty, and what would you call someone who as writing skits to the armed treehouse at 8-h  instead of keeping up with making the Jesuits impressed with knowledge that Sonnets were Italian, and again something else Shakespeare didn’t make up out of the blue. 

I felt a real unspoken resentment over the Laura’s of the world last year, the ladies all here before my mother, war brides my mother was not, Capri pants and all, they were wearing them decades before whatever hags thought to wear men clothes, and thus not getting the wrath of unmarried staddabubbas who like their Italian women as plain as them, if not raped and quiet about it, was as usual an Italian girl from the deaths of the Mort Drucker illustrated Inferno. Both pilgrims in the malebolgoas of Robert Moses, is invited to a New Yorker swaree, where he feels he is out of place. 

I, even as a kid, thought it was conceit, now at alleged maturity, it feels a cop out that naturally, in the happy ending requited from Plautus to the all seeing Cyclops eye, that eventually the master for Gore, and a paratrooper shot on from Citizen Kane, Mister Bernstein himself as barely concealed Carl Sandburg, he playing the Virgil as spirit guide to Rob Petrie. Or as close to the divine Virgil, as one could get in a land where they actually sunk an Elgin like Roman goddess given to Jefferson as a gift for the new republic, from the papal states, and which after it was already Roman and thus priceless, was submerged, the land of Poker as an art form, the Third Praetor with Italic affectation and his King Numa charms, was alerted in bill form, New Republics are a dime a lira in old Roma, and that thought priceless, being Italians, they were able to round it to the nearest dollar, and Sally’s common law husband paid the COD charges out of his own slaveholdings. As we now venture in our skiff down the Styx, and towards something called Armed forces day, as we give the Vets everything but aspirin, And as I’ve been saying since got the wrath of people who swallow hard as my mother warned me about, you too, Glenda or George can as stories about the Enola Gay which pepper my Goggle feed, look it up. 

The old bag and interloper from Mercury as poet, as happens in the Persky Universe, couldn’t leave well enough alone, Carl was embarrassed by his pout put, as Plautus never was, come in to telex Rob in his monochrome new maderstadm office, that all is alright, and in fact, has as much a writer as Carl Reiner always hoped he was, and was beloved by the intelligencea already rotting in a hell that Capote of all people would tear the lid off, as another Truuuuman would say. 

I found that a cop out, to sue my siblings sixties words, which affected me more than a generation xer should have been, but then they and Virgil and Mad and Schoolhouse rock was my spirit guide in all of this, and who knew eventually, we’d be carrying a corpse around ala Bernie, and or an episode out of The Satyricon, where a corpse I believe, is made up to finagle or get away with something. Oh, I almost make a joke that this as one of the conceits we all know in our bones, a lesbian gal tells me I speak of thinks she had, as a Radcliff graduate, always a slight inkling of but it alas is at just beyond her finger tips, showing a wittiness I see in everything but late light of not by now, all television. A vast Wasteland…? More like Aftermath, by now, and the walking dead are those at CBS getting their pink slips, in a blue collar nightmare they thought two years of college would always, as it were, inoculate them from having to deal with, as unemployment insurance is so…plebians,…isn’t it though. 

I thought Carl himself, as I recall him on writing of the episode, having Rob brought into the fold of old crows in velvet hats and men with whips of blond gray hair and bolo ties as friends of Bennett Cerf, well, it was too precious for me, and I have always been a devotee of the Persky Danoff universe. I thought it was too cute a ending, working with the trainer of Marciano from a better Raging Bull, a film with amazingly a Blue eyed Jew’s empathy for the Guido’s, to happy ending of course, make a show about American Humor, with Mrs. Douglas there in all her Happy canvas brassiere, giggled glory, her fat ass squeezed into a dress, often better worn by a thousand Della’s, snapping and snooping with stilettos on the black rock floors. Humor, at least here in the weeds, in the Dacron Empire, is a bigger pane of shady glass than mere literature …I mean, American humor, is there any…? 

I always, even as a kid, thought it was a writing your dreams out on Carl’s part, that somewhere he did dream, elastically, exacerbated, Jewishly of being not in the Opera side of the chosen, not a clown, so much as middlebrow enough to be taken seriously by Those happiest of baseball Mudvilles, who incited worse Jews than Carl would ever be. Alas, it is all there since 1980, and I keep it all close to me vest, Like Maverick, as just cause you gave in Bill… and recalled as much as anything, and instead of that, heard echoes of that sort of thing when I took umbrage at brethren and hippies at two coasts of the Inland weedy empire, telling me, despite not being black enough or having blue eyes behind Hilarities myopic glasses that I too, could partake of the Samarian dream and get a golden ticket signed by soon enough to be dead Jesuits or Timothy Leary, but at least I had to read what I read, and thus didn’t have to take an oath of office from of all people, a man with amazingly still segregationist tendencies when I was in middle school, much less after I dropped out, and we thought such anti Bussing goons had been packed back into the weeds forever. But as I said, if I had to write a book about this furslungginer interregnum, this cockeyed Principate amid the hacks and the broods I first would have called it No Good deed, as again after Gore’s invocation to what a bitch Mother Fate can be, but now, as the cherry neo fascists rag asks the musical question did Bidey peak on Inauguration day…?, see “Paddywacked” elsewhere, there amid the hags at the graves and the devil wire to keep the plebs and their garlic stinks out, I have to say I think I would call it instead, NO SUCH THING. 

Also IN 1980 or thereabouts, I sent my work into a magazine; we had them then, called The National Lampoon. I received a letter back on stationary stamped with the ballooning type of the magazine’s masthead, as did once from Mad, on nicer paper than most now, if they even bother, when such things as stationary mattered, telling me what I’d hear on and off again up until almost now. Tony, I was told, my drawings were cartoonish, but Good, easy for my age, as I had a take of my own as wasn’t just sending on work that looked like other’s work. A man named Backshi would say the same to Audrey twelve years later. They said, I believe an art dispatcher by name of Gross, I think, but alas lost that talisman years ago, That I had a nice loose style, cartoonist in all but my women, which I rendered lovingly, as ironic was allowed to do then, before the dykes and the gasbags wouldn’t forgive us for their having to have voted for a clueless segregationist. Plebiscite by Death with the ghost of James Coco as Hercule Perot, or maybe it's Ross.  

My artwork was nice, far ahead of my writing, such a constant to this very day, as even during the epidemic, it was more drawn Crow's the written of ones that had the ravens quote, send more forever, more. But even in my stories, all were satires, as again like I’m Age and the work of Jones, Idyll, or almost every page of that magazine, were naked women. As way back, they weren’t seen as an insult to Archbishop Biden,- as fucking if!-or worse to the last living member of the Clinton marriage. I must say think Bill must have died a while back, and we are seeing him as Pope Clement zombie, as can’t imagine after forty years of working the rooms, I firsts aw him in 1991 at a SOI smiling and checking out the Brunette trade for later night work, I can’t imagine anyone that Machiavellian allowing his wife and distant relatives to allow Barry’s cup holder into a Praetorium he’d managed to stain with police dog shit between tumbles. Oh, mister Mike, it’s a golden age!

Since Ma went, I took much time not only with the Decameron I TRIED TO COBBLE TOGETHER TO BE TRUE TO MY Italic roots, and believe me recall despite this spasm of decay and decency among the New York Chosen, when the worst thing one could have was Italian Roots, I went at writing the sort of teleplay I used to often make on old Olivetti Typewriters. One was the legal procedural based on the cast of The Good wife, real and imagined, as had Virgil Girth, my Perry Mason, brought in to be the Georgetown golden child, as a faker than usual Rachel Maddow was suing a faker than usual NSMBC over her firing, which was science fiction to think she would ever go aground by piloting her ship anywhere close to the middle sea that GE would tell her the dragons kept their lairs. Also, again the auger here, had a white skinned white haired Irish Kennedy Lover, just here fired too, give the gals Friday, sort of smitten with Virgil’s Animal house charms the VERY FILES THAT PROPPED THAT THEY WERE AS ESTABLISHMENT AS ANYTHING THAT COULD WORK AT A WAR MONUMENT COULD BE, SO BYE chips, AND KEEP THESE CENSORSHIPS COMING, Joy, IF YOU KNOW WHAT’S GOOD FOR YOU. With this, and my own knowledge of Mister and Mrs. Tiberius Caesar, each permutation of, seems I’ve been reading Petronius or at least Anonymous, all my fucking life, and my own knowledge of Georgetown as a starting line and or mausoleum, as George Will is finding out. Everyone remember the poets of Academe, as Gore said, who gives them ten dollar gas liens…again. Sanctimony dies at the bread riot. 

Into that script, was also placed a pretty paralegal that my own barrister hero had as a taken Adie, from the chorus, of course named Della. Allentown…? And to or from that, as my brother told me, not to send it in to anyone, especially CBS, especially CBS cable, which believe it or not, in 1981, when they were actually thinking of doing plays again on cable, like porno such things as literary is for the rich, got some notice at their first cable venture of Polyphemus, before later Praetor Floyd R Turbo towed to help get Jesse Helms to steal Sicily aways from Paley, over bad notices for who my father called Palacchi King, Reagan.  So, whatever that spin off was, I had used the great remnant of AIDS again, Christine Branaski, as the feminine head of CBS in a play called “Tonight on CBS the Rope by Gaius Plautus”, on top which has been added a third act, concerning what CBS had become after the first attempt which was about How a man who slobbered after Happy Rockefeller had indeed run the island of the Cyclops. And of course, the confluence of parallel lines, the Virgil here was Carl Reiner, who narrorated the death of Dawn Wells in the play, she important as Donna Gentile in the first part, where the Smothers brothers are stomped on, and fake trees sawed down, as the beginning of an end I’m sure even Cuomo didn’t see as coming or even getting that close to him. 

I was showing again a distinct and far reaching knowledge of television that my father thought, at bst, was a complete waste of time, but I made up for it, finding a stash of papers my Mom kept of my work, there with holy cards and rosaries and a list of Clintons Library…wait…? I did a form of indulgence by making a trove of kept slips of paper marked Emma and another marked Virgil, and rewrote them into at least Works, saved as Word, and got both published, here and there.

A crumbling house wop named Cuomo thinks he has the temerity to open the big Appall this springtime week, out of which I wanted to be a person once and take a bite out of, as did Ann say but her own chagrin in an Any Wednesday that never made it out of the brownstone rubbish. That house dago, who is less and less even the Jewish rags note isn’t doing an imitation of his father as much as he used to, thinks he is opening up the ergot emerald city by next Wednesday as I write this, in early May, speaking of which. Any Wednesday  now is as good as any other, as the Galileo’s of the liberal party, were once enthralled with stem cells, until it looked bad, like queers in the little girls rooms, and assuredly, GE was the first off, as it made people think of old lady Gummadis Pillotz drinking fetus blood to keep that Grimm and healthy shine. This turnabout I’ve noticed was the basic plot of This Gun for Hire, which now sadly exists all in my own head. There began the new life while you were wrongly at the hard tack and vinegar rallies. 

They are dark aged scientists, bleeders and palm readers, who take into account first not the orbit of planets, but, as we make lead out of gold, the numbers of bad jobs reports before any other givens they have got. Such was what doomed Clement VIII, you know. And here in Pittsburgh, a fellow house wop named Peduto[  a suffix --File , my sister tells me, is added by the boys in the Shadyside bands] is having much trouble tonight, as write this on primary night, as the polls are turning soft for him, as his perpetual love that all water carriers have for the patria is misplaced this year, as Signora Fortuna is from heard. Bill and Nicks beloved woman, shows her own love of Farce by placing against the sand blaster of Columbus statues through mock concerns, the fact is he is losing, according to no less a group of ass kissers as Group Wonderful, to a black man, no less. And woppy Santa’s homilies mixed with implying that the opponent is after all just a darkie criminal, isn’t playing well with the planted encores and the hags who are our bee sting bosomed lesbian vestals, who keep holding it against the goddess they were born with fly away hair. When we trashed you as White, Guido…

As the primary is tallied up, AGAIN, the Romans called it all Aftermath. So, upsets appreciate, as I wait for the spring time ass kissing that the sports dept. does as wait for the on again off again promise of training camp. A man who, as Italian women were dying locked up in Wolfe’s version of Cuomo’s archipelago of locked doors and perpetual Lemuria, was actually talking about Columbus statues, as to get a unrepentant segregationist elected Praetor, which was the desire of fattening goons on late night television, who didn’t bother to corrupt Ohio’s voting machines as this dead old coot had corrupted that river with Tfal run off, run off being the perfect word for a coot who now makes over fed black women cleanse their accounts, as sanctimony always turns to silent, as it must. Place cartoon Roman wall and its warning here. 

He will lose this election, in a May night no less, take that Boss, that is fated as a page of Virgil, as it appears, we are back, dangerously, to counting actual votes, the fake box tops of king Vitamin boxes aren’t going out for a mere Ginny Mayor, or Guvner either, I could have told you that, as there was in fact a reason I didn’t grab at the Georgetown scholarship as Anything for Billy did, or worse, women with blue eyes or as house everything for life Barry did, and this is it. True to my patria I was more willing to be a Boccaccio, or a BASILE than a Metternich or worse. Now if the black guy wins, which I do hope, can I pelt the door of the Office of the mayor with watermelons and fried chicken, cause the perpetual ghetto requiem for cops killers, pushers and counterfeiters, a shameless display for someone who called you all animals once, Steven, on that hallowed floor no less, vulgarity is job one, all despised only a few xmases ago, throw pizza boxes and hot calzones at him.  

https://youtu.be/aXjf78OLSrw

Still, that can of worms I allude to as being in Bill Clintons own stone soup pantry has been paying dividends almost since the first night, which showing the way this was choreographed like by a Machiavelli or a Tharp, wasn’t the first night at all. Someone has been, or fate itself, has been making sure and cretin that this coot got nothing, with Gene Wilder as Willie the chocolate maker reading Latin from the codicil is, as nothing he touched has not turned to laetrile shit. Vae tempesti, my Mom told me, on the just and the unjust as well, again liens that Shakespeare and Old coot Franklin thought they could place their sanctimonious names on, as both like Homer get burned by a family of goons who will accept almost any price you have to pay, for them to not be the suckers of history. But as the Medici showed us in the Rope, a story some editor was upset by, that stall awaits all who leave it, as the engraves to call to those who robbed them, eventually, always. And if George Will actually thought that the One Great Scorers digit, as Kiden called him, that Goddess that a lesbian gal in publishing was amused that I seem to believe in more than the other Girl Fridays and Auntie Mames out there, that she wasn’t going to get her pound of flesh, well then he pardoned to like Jews too much to know that The Merchant of Vaccine, sorry Venice, wasn’t write-in in German. Cum Grano Solis…

It will cost coot Bush, now trying to morph into his own Odd father ala the satire of pen and ink, him and Cher and galoots like Colbert even more to fill their gas tanks, their own bottomless pits than it will for my family and the small Ford we have. It will cost those more to pay for their sins as they have to pay out of their fixed noses for hors d’overs if they ever get back to the Parties that they lived within and can’t live without. You see, the price of Gas, like Corn and your souls, is fittingly and ironically, is a tax that they rich must pay as the plebs walk or take a bus, and their Italian made rocket ships parch for fissile fuels, as that corrosive bad liver and human skin tag named Biden, err make a point we’d all be better off with electric cars, as he did coined say, Gaea, that Coal indeed was the future of America, but then having to work that hard for an election he baked the cake himself with the kind of Negros who’d vote for a segregationist, that does seem to bother the over fed at submittable, shows that he fear the specter of Old Roman Bill, still and always will. Gas tanks aren’t like the human beings that Piozzi feels superior too, and germs respect no devil wire, old lady, as this time Cuomo relatives can’t just take the elixir that the queens of television tell the filth not to take, but black market. I bet that Berquas aren’t for the curia neither, as they all have had breakfast at tiffany’s which may or may not turn back into Christopher Isherwood, when no one was prepared for it. Gone like Elsie. 

By the Winter of 198o, I fell apart, but I never thought then or now this dying empire would end up in the hands of a segregationist. So for the last few years keep a roman devotion to the Whose afriad of Virginia Wolfe marriage and look, It's Caesaere and Lucterzia at a New Amsterdam eatery with poisoned ink I can smell from here.

I Feel exrusiating-ly bad for my mom and dad, not because they are dead but about when they were and my pop asked me to take pictures of my Prince Valiant to the rag that would become the Pittsburgh Tribune who thinks people won't laugh went the idiot they admire crumbles. And why did I have to write so many scripts to SNL...maybe it was the Vomitorrium sketch or the Bel Arabs that got me down behind the golden door.And I persist to somehow redeem that night I couldn't finish watching Superman the movie on free HBO, in a winters night, and a concerned father demanded the ambulance take me to Citizens general as was afraid I was having an anurism. I must finish Can't stop the boogie one day. On eBay, I saw a copy of that self same book I had as a teen, edited by Gore Vidal, with the scripts of Marty and Twelve angry men and the rest of the gems I saw then from Studios Ones and Philco playhouses and Hallmark hall of fame, all which I kept on an RCA laserdisc, like Kane and the Magnificent Ambersons, and The bicycle thief, and other films kept in a way so pristine that even Star wars geeks would have to traffic in them, especially  after Uncle Walt's Kelley girls tole them that it was chock full of vitamins and minerals. I may take the opportunity to buy the old thing, just again as a talisman, just to keep, though if my writing such plays for television in 1980 was almost prosaic and passé, by now, it has become a time, after so many bad television shows, and Seinfeld rip offs, and the WASTELAND, THE S.S. Minnow, itself and its love of banality, by now such a vocation has become almost like collecting antiques. If not actual re-collection of relics from times immemorial.  

https://youtu.be/NKX0_eq2dbo