SATURNALIA IN THE RUINS.

 

2 January 2024

As I spent most of Saturnalia, like most, under the infernal weather, it still was a fulfilling end to the year to me that i would get more words published here an there than I even did my usual pin up girls as therein are those in that sanctimonious cesspool that Ma and the nuns warned me of, who dislike both.

They do get angered, I noticed, that i keep telling them things like that their hero Biden was calling for the death penalty on Leonard Pillitere, as was against the needs of the republic, like he sided with Reagan and Chowcilla, even Mister Mike noticed that, as sadly for them among you from Hillary's always low rent buffet, and the white chicks that the nuns warned me of so long ago, I WAS, they told me as close as some of those suburban hacks, now the saints among us, not to Ma, to a negroid penis, I being a dumb wop, and all talk of any frescoes still does bother the tree dwellers and their inherent racism. But, still, they do get upset that i recall that past that one would have thought that big mouth disqualified himself from the praetorium at long ago, least of all for ever knowing when a man with a purple mantle is bets to suit up.

I was however glad to see house wop Minestrone maker Guy Fieri throw Whopopster, the Moms of now, that peanuts eating negro hag , -shes so ugly it hurts my feelings–got tossed out of his tratorea, as it wasn't the Italians in new Amsterdam they were not devoted to the genteelness agreements as Melvin Kaminsky, Albert Einstein, the reel life genius, not the one who repackaged Giodrano Bruno’s fifteenth raconteur genius ass his own Jewish need to make a bomb of all bombs and then hide in Princeton, and get laid with hopefully sandblaster-ed blond sluts, could have told you. I was glad to see her thrown out of whatever wop named dive this was, go eat your anti Adkins somewhere else in teh dying new citta, Whoops, as now you know how it must have felt to Joe Califano, whose only crime was finding after a lifetime as the company wop that my pop said they will always get even with, from Star Trek to Rudy, he couldn't in good consciousness vote for a hag who one actually campaigned against his master Lyndon Landslide, and Lucifer even thinking that this could be made a great society and not a Rome of weeds and toxic spills, diners and hamburger stands, pipes and drains, as my pop told me it was, all along.

I did in the cold Janus darkness, watch however, ONLY MURDERS IN THE HOUSE, which seems to me to be a much more sanctimonious and pompous than he should be Steve Martin doing basically when i noticed as a boy and his fetish to ape Woody Allen, I'm not shocked should he also have a life end up in tatters and shards with a vindictive ex wife egging on the Medea to make him a perverse, they we all are you know, everyone is a disposable except that Centaurus from Primary colors who right then and his Jewish Petronius i knew deep down , that Ma was right and that his ideas of living out a Roman parallel life , well, they were at right angles to each other and we would get, as Mussolini said, the inevitable intersection of a parallel  lives. The older I get that more I realize that Benito, little Ben was a sissy, as Gore called him and fellow journalist playing Caesar , Winston, who would try to save him, lest, you know, the letters would fall into the wrong hands an all, but he may have been despite himself, righter than not. Why did a show starring a man who snag King Tut when I was a kid, a show in New Yonkers drag lest anyone recall the arrow, and with an SCTV alum, and the darned Nathan Lane doing His less than Zero Bit, remind me of the Where Eagles dare attempt to save Benito Mussolini from the partisans who they at the OSS were scared to death would own the street in front of the Flavian Circus....who knows why.

I sat in the dark cold room of the theater of Janus, any nice December days they is gone, the Cold Mizer sings his Love Power Disk Shawn songs in the deep cold darkness, and i have to admit, always a fan of Martin Short and heart stolen by young and lovely unrepentant black haired , even the gvals at the New Yorker THAT ONE, brunette Selena as the out of place Girl of the peice, I found i rather liked it and will watch it again. I am not as Vito Stillino said when he told the dread Myrrtin cope that he was indeed voting for Earl Campbell as a first ballot hall of famer, could you imagine that Jew not …?, I am not an evangelist. 

 

 

3 January 2023.

After Christmas a package did finally come from Amazon,as my sister did buy me a copy of The Neon bible, an early boyish attempt at tomes and new Yorkerese by the great John Kennedy Toole, that I had read in a Mellissa Morgan, Mindy Farrarr laden copy of Penthouse, whose girls from that era HAVE BEEN LOOKING UP AGAIN. John Toole, who was made to jump through hoops by rags and rag mercents who basically do nothing but venial suburban and Jewish wet dreams, coming of age comediennes and of course diet books, and all that coldest blood that was spilled everywhere. Also, a copy of Christmas with the superheroes, of dc variety did come, but as things were winding down, I let that stay in its smiling singing pack, and will take it out as lamppost an adornment next years. I sat as the ruins of Saturnalia have been swept up by us and a mother recipe for a immaculate Xmas fish cake is down to its oily dregs, I did lay down to wrath maybe a sports show, as a truly horrid all about eve creature named Kenny Pickett is playing out his hands with all due diligence and to the mezzanine who have been egging him on , while a good, capable Clark Gable lookalike named Rudolph vanquished as the tagger supposed winning coach, a affirmative action Tom Landry, whose bell curve isn't like the great Cowboy winning for twenty two years but having “non losing” seasons, which means he goes .500 most of the time and calls it as a virtue. John Facenda, he is dead.

4 JANUARY 2023.

 

I Was waylaid as were many, it seems even most, in Biden's latest wave of plem upon which to steer his Styx barge that is his show boat. It does bother some , I note, but it was Bill Clinton and his occasional pearls of wisdom without having to be seen through the lens of a man cosignatory telling them what they wanted to hear, it was Bill, the alter boy from Georgetown who said and told us all what Joe Biden, was and what he wasn't, all along. So hit out of no where on a Sunday night before the in rush of the holiday, I started to shiver and be cold, and covered myself in a Cowboys fleecy blanket unused before, as a station that still Binges through the weekend, did as a Christmas gift of sorts an over the air channel did show the whole run of the Dick Van Dyke show, as later learned an anniversary of his caused Bye bye Birdie and even wayward caper movies from that era like Fitzwilly be shown suddenly on all the channels devoted to the era of Technicolor American empire.

Supinely struck by the flu planned-demic that wont die, unlike your grandmothers, that Biden calls a political bandwagon, come on down to the river side, where we bury dead Pee Wee and leave the wretched as he is a lobster red and a penis tip causing the news media minions to laugh our loud and have their belly laughs be stricken from the RECORD,AS HAS HAD TO BE DONE ONE TO BOOS AND NOW IS DONE TO LAUGHTER SINGSONG A FARCE WILL OUT, MARCUS, AND WE ARE HEADED TOWARDS THE SULPHER FROM WHICH HE CAME, AS i HAD WARNED IN PACES i HAVE ACTUALLY GOTTEN PUBLISHED. Also fittingly, aging Jewish thief of circuses, Norman Lear died while we were all ill, not that a hundred year old man dropping dead is a tragedy or worthy of oat songs, but still, happening on the first day of Saturnalia as it did, it did show that Signora Fortuna does adore Ariosto's much more than any mere Paddy Chayefsky, or any Studio One, that that named channel has dropped, much less anyone who worked at the writers room with Melvin Kamminsky, Carl Reiner, or Larry Gelbert, who I, as a child, who had read ever MASH book available as if they were comic collections done by Stan first, didn't get the basic tenants of another show that celebrates its sesquicentennial, as do they seemingly all. It was fitting, the way he turned Christmas tough and sad enough, into a pyre on which to of all people, fag hating ERAS TO MAKE THE DEATH CULT KNELL AND FUNERAL MARCH FOR DRAG QUEENS TO AN America MY POP SAID THAT HE PRETEND TO HATE AS HE WAS ALWAYS AVAILABLE, like the others to give the mid Continental drifts and Prairiea its Plautus like due and always made sure as did the Roman playwright, that things by the credits were still always believe in as they were at the beginning, and that say what you want, it was always meathead who was the always biggest phony in the room. I was glad he died, actually and glad a Christmas was at least freed from him, and could turn back into Roman Saturnalia again, with Gore's adieu that wise career moves make me sound as viscous as i can be, as whatever God who drank all of that blood on the Gaza strip, as was said no less in a rerun of Arte Johnson in a laugh in rerun no less doing Mousche Dyan, wow, there ere still October wars that i was pilloried for for having seen come or at least gone in Roman Iberia, as they don't like knowing that I placed green eyes on Setoroius , all that while ago, but did take the heinous to over fed middle brow sensibilities , the line from fat girl hated Machiavelli out, but did just that to make sure Signorina Fortuna and her minions of Wendy's, that somehow flew despite and because of bumble bees, would take a certain Hesperia pity one me as she indeed has. Outside of a few blowhards and devoted Praetorian i have alas done well, with even Amazon lauded Ancient Romance about the Etruscan pope and his Wendy and Leslie like Dionnes and vestals doing well.

Watching ole’ Van dykes though, I noticed a real distrust of certain types i had not sensed nor seen as a boy who just fell for the YOUR SHOW OF SHOW QUALITIES of that show, and its New Rochelle illumine and the idea of having a Laura to take the evening train to back then, which was admittedly below being a Donald Holliger type, and tolling around the emerald city, really, with Ann in my Ford Galaxy. But sated there in the cold as the Saturnalia tree twinkled and hummed and lit against barbarian darkness that year more than most, I saw within episodes and a night given over to it, a hatred of brunette Laura that no blond wife seemed to have to go through. HERE, was a hated of New York-er like mush mouths played by Carl, double talk and pigeon English meaning nothing, and then to a Casey Kasim like Hef whose Empire, and thus Roman echoing, magazine was seen as an anathema to wedded American Jewish then to pretty Italian wedded bliss. It all sickened me, but i did notice that for all her set speeches about the statistics of marriage, that Mary was again back to being Sam Diamonds gal and Della street, and she was placed in a whoopy pajama era white vestal dress that showed off, irrevocably, her gorgeous legs and dancers figure. I studied ethics under Gay Talsese, and wish I was allowed to write that obit play for Bill and Hillary as it was always going to be less The Best Man man by Gore and more Love, American style anyway. Jo Ann Pflug as the missing brunette.

My brother came into the front room, as we grew up calling the living room. He held a small phone. Will you, he said with some unexpectedness, Tell this Lisa Ann Volocheck, or-whatever her name is, that you accept her friend request at one of those social sites, ….? Thai is like the seventh time i have seen this on my phone, he said. You said, I said, I could use that particular phone for my , uh, I said, Business dealings…I think, I said, She is an editor at one of these literary magazines, I said.

Christ, He said, It took forever to get to January 4th. Its the feast of Janus, he said, as i have said sharper and more classically minded than I was, and he as, to be fair, ways suspicious of my admiration of Sweet ole Bill, calling him, as a a satire of my admiration, Byzantine And not Roman Bill. I take it though eh wthgat copy of Roman lives, like the brunette I have gathered was in and at and kept at some well, buried like some vestal worthy of the madness of Numa, was left far far behinds, and that as i wrote in a piece that bothered some goon lit rag, who got back to me with a terse antimissile at two am in the honing on the useless week between the day of the indomitable sun and Janus day , the first, which puts the lie to the idea that Romans, unlike Jews and Asians didn't make January 1st the first day of the eyar. That they had to almost erverel in Biden aged disdain for such shady Groves back at the dead of night whne i may or may not have had a nightmare that night about the revealed dirtiness that in ways botched me anyway, i was sorry that I darkened their foyer with a song of ice and Fiore, as i sometimes do, and being a bitch, I sent in the whole essay that I have sent out hither and yon, “Acceptance letters in the decline and fall”, anyway. Somehow, though, though not wanting to chase my losses as I learned in a Saturnalia season in which I was the only one who saw , as opposed to Cowturds that Huck Finn is not the messiah that Urine-town, or at least Casto Street thinks he is,and how i managed to make some wayward street shackles, uncut into by betting corporate partners of the always watching NFL, and took the under and the money line against the forty niners in all the games i had a hunch they were going to, and that they did, lose. But, but sending in the whole 11 k essay at its best to me, I did get an answer at that very page of google docs and a gal with her own attempt at a magazine and breaking off and away from the pompous rag mentioned before, as they asked if Id like to resubmit it to her that time, and that was exactly what I did.

5 December 2023.

I had to take a certain medicine during the season of Saturnalia, which did not jive with an ingratiating in pain medicine, like Tylenol or Ibuprofen, so the casehardened Saturnalia festival since Ma passed was made all the more hard by me having to not even being able take over the counter pain reliever to at least mitigated some of the leg and neck pain I have has as an Arthritis condition has over meddled me the past few years, mostly since i hit that side of 50 years old. I trudged through the Saturnalia season and adhered as best as i could, thinking I could have been a real bitch and moaned and bitched all December, but then what sort of Roman would I be, and that that was far too Lutheran or too Savonarola, at least in my Mas eyes for me to ever be. They always go after Saturnalia, do the pompous elites and commie pinko hags, then they find, the revere at the circus Maximums or Chappiqua cellars will always will out.

The girl i re-met from the old days at the local dollar store at the cusp of the holiday did in fact get in touch with me at the various social places, though I had only given her my brothers phone number, she did find me on Facebook and other places, and I dutifully accepted all her requests as I was shocked that I came this far with her, I was sure it was at beast polite, and at worst a set up on her part, for reasons that I am still unsure why. I want back into the black bag I got as a portfolio at Art Institute, and the black Alcoa bag with in that, given to to me by my father as a place to keep my art and which is where i keep the oldest arts, heavy as it is with crayon, watercolor and primal color markers that I CAN FIND NO WHERE ELSE, BUT HAVE FOUND THANKS TO A YINZER OF FACEBOOK, AKAPAD, FOUND A EQUAL SORT AT FIVE BELOW, BUT OF ONLY THE MOST THROW AWAY COLORS, BUT ARE FINE WITH ME AS THEY GO THROUGH THE THICK PAPER,AS MY OLD DRAWINGS OF Virgil and Tagus did a good whole back. I found the pictures of sketches based upon her and others like her, many of the gals of penthouse, a magazine that so bothered Jerrey Seinfeld in ways that brandishing an Uzi doesn't, hummmmnb, shades of the Venus again and how Hillary and her ilk can be so decent as they drop bombs for the patriots at the drop of a three concurred hat, and there was the collected pictures i had some of her, back in study halls, hidden as WAS IN AN ALCOVE OF THE TOWERS OF THAT NOW TORN ASUNDER AND NO LONGER A RATS NEST SCHOOL, and the pencil drawings of her type that NEVER MUCH FINISHED TO THIS VERY DAY, THOSE ARE LEFT THAT IS.

I thought of the story that like beehives in Virgil buzzed and spun about her and her young girls sexuality sensuality and her mixed race Allegheny loveliness. It was a tale I knew of that even is in whatever shards are left of Beggillimini, a crime drama I also wrote then, what was i to do, homework, i had given up on all of that just then, as rededicated as a gal named Teresa Piccolo, she did recommend me of an Italianate girl more than whatever Coptic Ural princess she was, and it was created by me in the tale of a wayward maniac priest in love now made a criminal, Father Evon who was taken with her, and how she had returned from the cesspool of playboy, and skin flicks, and soft r rated movies and violets un picked up as i had heard then along the way. I thought of the story of how she was a latest, then, brunette lovely taken up and spit out as i had come to know or hear in the wings of all of this. RECALLED HOW I HAD HEARD THAT A LOCAL PHOTOGRAPHER, IN THOSE DAYS BEFORE A STRANGE SANCTIMONY AND UPRIGHTNESS COULD SLITHER OUT TO USE Mary McCarthy's word, , from the Ozarks then, there were certain peekaboo shots of her while roman Bill was at the fairs, shots and what is called Boudoir, cheese cake of Lisa Ann, [not her name as an editor with self aware dying praetorian torches, checks my Facebook for this name and doesn't see it, ah days of LIE AND THE DECENCY OF THE WASHINGTON POST I GUESS, though i recall what Biden had to say about Janet Cooke.] There was a world here in 1983, and I befall it vividly, so f --you Meryl Streep, I didn't call a rapist of brunettes a God. I went up to the scruffy photographer in that year of your lord 1982, that I had heard had taken these pictures, as he was doing a Seinfeldian sortie to Ridge Avenue Junior High, and I would indeed pay him for four overly glossy, over shining, images of the girl at Seventeen, unthinkable in the age when a familial annihilator pervert dares call himself Caesar of Du pont, that he took of her in lingerie, and a Fosse like hat and silk or nylon better shining shirts, and recalled how I kept those pictures for years in my own quiet and alone and lonesome room to which i had escaped along ago, and I wondered how and why we have gotten to the kind of a world where Bill Clinton and his perpetual I Claudius or Maggie and Jigs has left us behind. I finished one of the drawings I had cribbed out of Penthouse drawings still had and still kept, then in sketchy misapplied , Michelangelo Roman diaries scratchy anatomy, as in was certain that I had to make not only Lisa Ann, but the entire creation the way I had as a boy , had expedited and wanted it to staunchly have been. We are pretending we are in a world where Bill Clinton never jacked off to his beloved brunette as i did those warm days with these Penthouse pictures in the lonely eighteens, and as this d student still has no idea his perpetual smile will destroy him, that is sanctimony that is irrevocably sad.