MEET HOWARD BEALE.

 

MEET HOWARD BEALE.

25 MAY 2023.

So, as I was watching my new favorite show, which I had somehow been avoidant OF, until a gal who accepted my cartoons told me it was really up my alley and I, having brusque with Jesuits at GEORGETOWN, would like it, like the old commercial for alka seltzer when  was a lad , I had watched and fell for #ELSBETH, A lovely show , which again is as good a query, but eyes wide open smarter than the usual l white trash ITALIAN as good as I am ever going to get. See previous post about trying to get a book I thought as merely the kind of pulp fictions that my brother collected in the attic when I was a boy , and are still, too human and humane to be electable here in Scorsese WORST amphitheater ever, Newkerk -land. AST IMPORTANT TO REMEMBER WHEN THE OVER FED WHITE WOMEN ARE NEVER ALAS WOKE, and who is never allowed out of the place where one must jettison their hope, if not Pride, isn't abandoned first.

I HAVE NOTICED THOUGH, commercials for Steverino Colbert that are shown incessantly during the 48 hours that my brother watched, I don't know why, they all have the same endings like Com-media dell arte or Tolkien, still, I noted what a mini Marathon on delightful ELSBETH, who has lost her husband and his teacup dogie, and is at liberty as they say, one of the figures I much liked in the Good Wife, who appears my already in bad shape spec script I did about Rachel Maddows hinted at dismissive so as to give GEORGE WILL MORE AIRTIME THAN ANYONE HAS HAD SINCE CAPTAIN KANGAROO, --this never happened as it seems to be on television is the dream we all dream when we are caterpillars or whatever they are and able then to be liberal and not only be paid by a war proffer, but vote for a segregationist, as more than just recalling him a Hyde amendment gadfly and a pervert and a family annihilator as so evil was her, a lack of empathy and all of that, I've known what a bag of shit he was, without having to watch him like Mistress collecting Clinton in his perpetual cold. I do notice though, like the Masters on the day after the crime shows, the police gazette without the warmth has infected now not only the NEWERKER but too the island of the cyclops, his face didn't appear cone behind the all knowing, all seeing Polyphemus eye, not once, all night, and I only took one piss break, as I noticed my brothers targeting to watch it with me, the one Robert Culp like guest star, about the black woman killer, both tonight were alas black and the victim an always scheming wanting to assent wop, not like Seinfeld ever was, shtick where somehow all wops on JERSEY CITY don't deserve the protections of say drag queens, but them , I'm not the one who staid the Romans didn't exist and am not still screaming about being caught dead in the undertow of less than the Mendoza line in politics of being under the waterline, allay the VENICE OF THIRTY percent approval, though, am I....?

Therefore, instead of reading the end of “The neon Bible”, or starting the Uses of literature by Calvino in my hauls from the great middlebrow river of Amazon, I watched the great caricature actress playing Elsbeth transplanted into NEW Amsterdam, AS SOMETHING I COMING IN in medias res AM NOT SURE EXACTLY WHY SHE AND AND ANOTHER PRETTY HALF BREED MULATTO police woman are involved in the best crime show since Steven Botchco had Max from the great race and Daniel J Travanti as once again, Italians who weren't just miserable stereotypes. Again, not once I did I see his face, not that they use it once, but the Germans I believe call it De Passe, and I became engrossed in the story enough to not even so much watch for the jarring face of a Monsignor with a half watermelon smirk, as pop called it, that wasn't there again all night, as I believe this is called gilding THE LILLY.

I recalled, why am not sure, maybe it as reading the sad book written by John Kennedy Toole, as I too recalled entertaining the idea of scholastic contests, some of which I've actually won, forty years apart, almost thrown by Jesuit newsletters and Amazon, to overdo things, like one at Amazon of all riverbeds, with the Etruscan, but not with the gigolos, killer bankers, or roman supermen that no matter what I got in , never got in until Biden started a third act worthy of either Marcus Aurelius, or Leoncavallo, we aren't sure. When I was there at that mausoleum with even less respect for that Quaker pantheon of hillbillies than I have now, all which my pop warned me of so incessantly I thought he was just paranoid, once in those worst days of carter Ism TO WHICH WE HAVE RETURNED, BUT with a not merely incurable and incoherent and Rabbit fearing born again amid the fagots about to salute you as they were about to die in the hallways of left behind discos, Sister Matilda, looking like Shutzie the big armed maid at the Brady's, did like the way in those halcyon days of golden sunshine and new as opposed to non , journalism, that I can turn a phrase like a knife, as I guess as an Italian I can be expected to do nothing less, I recalled being in that hall of heroes, segregationist some, eyes for a under-aged boys and barley legal girls, poker and demon rum they've always been, that assemblage of Jethroes, as show my sister still likes to watch each night here in the ruins of Joe Blow's wreckage, as my Father thought he didn't understand politics as was in over his smiling toothy head, but knew that Cuomo hating Biden was no damn good from jump. I was there in that mausoleum, I didn't think the epiphany maunders when far enough Catullus as golden doors and senate Halls were always meant for at least red paint, and the number thirteen, in living color, but then who ever said we had the incessant and inherent dignity of Catiline's war, as once more Romantic Roman Bill called it, once. We, some kids who may have mistakenly thought I knew were we were going, got into a elevator in the pantheon, this temple the rustic trash has buildered to itself with the unkindliest marble carrera ever burped out. HERE, I SAW THE IMAGE OF THE THEN SEEMINGLY BALANCHINE basis of Howard Beale, Daniel Schorr, the anti Cronkite as he was seen by my Father's immense yellow immigrant's eyes. I decided to be gouache, and speak first as he summed to me to look-i-like, a doppelganger of the grades nun at the time, Sister Cecilia, with a all around whiteness, and pop bottle glasses, and a thicker pout lower lip that seemed to hang there, hair wavy and graying but may have been blond on the last living furrows by that there was. Excuse me, I said as he snapped looking up, as I was a Leslie would call me, a burgeoning oaf, even scary as much even then.

Hellow,...Mister Schorr,...?, I asked, smiling, but had to add him to the catalog of ships who I had met along the pre Jesuit, pre law way. There was no death penalty when i was prelaw, Rachel dear, remember that at the armimentarium , and remember do, who you call bigots at war inc when in fact it was men with names like Biden, Tallmedge and Thurmond and Helms who would in ten years take the Cyclopes island sadly from Willie S, that hero of answered prayers, and bring back the death penalty be signing at least Kelly girls and clerk written amicus briefs proffered to the court to recount and redeem leftists, by brining back hangings and gas chambers. Just as JERRY BROWN HAD RUN ON, look it up, hoping to get all those votes and prayer envelops from Orange county.

I THOUGHT HED BE PERTURBED, or UPSET, but no he was affable to me and the others here, kids to him, in the way that he seemed as much as anything a stand in for all those Franciscans, who dared in a Lutheran world, to believe in something. He moved his coat and attache, and a copy of the New York times, and a copy of a magazine that had on its news print covers always a cartoon of some political figure which looked like it was cribbed from Punch, and held put his hand agreeably and with great grace. Hellow, my boy, girls, he said with a smile I wasn't expecting. Mt name is Anthony Acri, this is Michelle , Denise and Harry, I said, mentioning their names, and he smiled and took their hands as if he was a born ambassador for this prison island that thought itself a new Venice, an atoll of Warren G Harding's tomb landscaped by the Abscam troops, and care-tended by Wilbur Mills and his two bot blond whore of the wading pool. Well, he said nicely, what do you think of our New Vaticannus, Anthony...?, he asked when a girl with me, was it pumpkin-face, no her blond friend as usual for her ilk, Michelle, to which she said, U GOT THAT RIGHT, mister, What is it, Shore...?, I'm sorry I don't watch the news like Tony, she said. Again i was astounded how when speaking of me i was Tony, but again when speaking to me I was Anthony. I am, I said, Underwhelmed. He laughed, you know I am repeatably meeting young men and boys and girls, going to college, he said, They who place on affectations and say things like that, trying to be blasé when they would kill to work at CBS, but you, young man, Something about you, young Anthony, he said, Makes me think you are telling me the truth.

This place gives me the willies, a chubbier than not loudmouth named Renee, a Syrian girl, SAID. HE LAUGHED AGAIN. Doesn't it always , he luaghed again. Anthony Loves the Romans, Michelle said. There are worse he noted, and I smiled back at him. My father will be very pleased to know I met you sir, I said, As to him you were always a breathe of fresh air as compared to that windbag, big mouth commie pinko Cronkite. Heh, he said, Don't get me started about that, CBS just had its fiftieth anniversary, kids, They had I think. He said, A Pinkerton guard outside to keep me out like Monessen, that's where you are from right...? We nodded. But, he said with some older man resolve more than regret, I am doing just fine I guess, --again I noticed there was something about me, a born Petronius, which got the important more upwardly mobile men to confide in me , maybe because they thought it was indeed Monessen I was at, at least then. My father does admire you much, even President Crater, I said using a slur no democrats remember ever now making when Teddy vainly treid to avenge la famillia, He thinks is a Honorable man just in over his head. Nd then , he asked, I'm sure there are others, he said. Here, he took his attache, brief case is always a misnomer to pre law me, and he took a page of his Bosnewash rag paper, and he tore off a corner, which was shocking to me. What is your father's name Anthony,...? he asked. Jimm—i stopped myself, well, Vincent is his bapistry named. Here, he said, Give him this, I don't often sign autographs, IM NOT OFTEN ASKED, but I'm no star...he took a almost sixties to me style Scrip-to pen and wrote in a water-mans azure ink, best wishes, Vincens-Z over that s,o, Daniel Schorr. He then gave it to me. I wont know what to say, Mister Shoor, I was afraid I'd be bothering you, he shook his gray and white and blue veined head, Never one to discourage a fan...he said, Not in these  environs. Youn know, he said, I was just in New York and was at a metricating of Republicans, and they cheered Dick Nixon, like he was a lost centurion from the lost thirtieth legion. The fallen newsman in that age of Capote, he remarked with a story known to me and I didn't say, in a sort of awe of him anyway, about how both AND Gore Vidal, had connections back to that alpine legion of yore, but we weren't a Greek Tragedy that didn't know it was a Roman farce winding down then. He seemed to like to talk to us, almost like a virgule amid the hayseed hillbilly's in Roman drag.

...Dick Nixon, then a gal said, laughing and smiling as they, we, were enthralled, And, he said, I just like you did now, said to hell with it, it's not always a bad move, and went up to him, and he knew who I was, and wasn't some schoolboy from a rust belt mafia school, yes we know all about Monsignor Ficus and his ripping off the Mellon family. He said, AS HE DID INDEED KNOW THE FAMOUS STORY OF THE SMALL MOB TOWN called Little Chicago. I took the chance and I went up to him, and I said, MISTER PRESIDENT —ALL ex Presidents, like heavy weight boxers, HE ADDED, SHOULD always be called champ—Mister Nixon, I said, you may not remember me , but my name is Daniel Schorr and I want to say hello to you and wish you luck as they middlebrows and the phonies, to quite Salinger, KEEP BOTHERING THE MAN OUT OF SOME WAY TO PRETEND THEY ARE LIBERALS EVEN AS THE WHOLE OF NEW YORK IS GOING TO POT. I swear, he said, Oh Gawds, they will lose NEW YORK AND NEW JERSEY IN '80, Teddy might as well have drowned with Koepeckne, and they are still draining off that road. I, he said, went up to one of three dozen so so men to be an American Caesar, and I said I wish you no ill, as well, who knew...we'd end up like this. The Old Machiavellian, uni-vac, cold fish smiled, he said, He smiled. HE, STILL THE PRESIDENT TOOK my hand warmly, Daniel Schorr said, As he never was the cold trout that old apparatchik Don at 6o minutes said he was, and he reminded me that in fact in 1968, the San Clemente white house put out feelers to me to see if I would be the press secretary for the oncoming president as once again, when the secondments get all the levers of power watch out, the knives and the bribes all hit the floor. Nixon, Our Coriolanus, he said, REMANDED ME OF THIS, he said, And I said, well, Mister President, Had I known then that I know now, --he placed an older man's hand out to as if exemplify all which had happened at Blackock, try would become, When a president of the unite states was made a punchline on an All in the family show that used words like SLURS as ...he said with an elevators ride regret, I would have, he said, taken the job. THE bell of the shininess old elevator rang and he got up and wished us well and almost gave me a slight Roman salute as he walked away off the metal into the overdecorate, vainglorious, stagy cheap and weedy Etruscan senate, more ruins than the one they'd just found then a thousand years older than lathe golden doors of Tyberius, and he walked away as I think we made his day as he made ours. HE TURNED, HAVING truly enjoyed the class he gave us in true Roman Cynicism, beware the Trojan Eqquis and how, he turned looked back at us through his thick pop bottle glasses and with pout full he said, That's what happened at CBS, kids, tell you father Antony, Those sobs wanted me to go from being a liberal to a goddamned democrats, which I couldn't do. With that he quickly strode into the bad paintings and cheap imperialism of the Formica swamp.

And, I recalled all of that as I watched the shows Elsbeth, and a undercurrent of anti Wokedness showed me I , like the nuns and my ma warned me, was never so be protected by the fat overfed pigs of the Hollywood Washington bullshit Axis to crazy eyed new York governesses who have a turkey necked, Mildred Pierce CRAM CALLING the poor darkies in Bronx as "clowns" cause no one will listen to them, and how another creepy darkie cvnt with Nora Desmond delights couldn't say Blue state Brooklyn without making it com out rubber baby buggy bumpers. And I was recalled of giving the torn piece of the new York times to my pop, now i am offed a week for thirty five cents, which is what a more literate Batman cost when i was a over literate, shoplifting kid, which sort of made up for my never having told him, as would later see sister Cecilia, that I had been published as a boy in 1980, in fact, about a paper about ROMANS, AND BLOODY PLOWS, BEFORE ANYONE EVER PUT ME DOWN FOR NEVER HAVING BEEN PUBLISHED BACK IN 2007 TO COMIC BOOK SCUMBAGS. When I got up the next day, the house was empty and it was almost 10 am and make room for daddy as I sue such shows to tell the time, and on my desk there was a recite and a card. A one Terra-byte card from Grindstone or some such company, for almost fifty dollars. My brother told me that viscous, VICIOUS, COLORED HATING, corpse Biden had , alike all snookers, --sorry censors, his carney greasy charms are in the well water, gone to just burning whole books and a local pretty Italian artist woman he speaks to, tole him that people are losing whole hard drives of work of the sound effects , i knew and said wed be recrudesce to Don Martin sound effects when there were too many HYDE AMENDMENTS AND EULOGIES FOR GE theater TO SMNIRK for King Vitamin, and who saw all this coming...?, and his mean careered, over lardy, cvnt henchmen who MOSTLY THINK SOMEONE RECALLS WHEN HE WAS INDEED, A CREEPY PIG. Put that in your machine, the brother said, You aren't losing anything anymore. Now, he said, NOW ITS Jewish AMERICAN MONTH...?, I thought, he said with sharpie aplomb, that Juno's days were the queers month of springtime for Alexander, he said, as we have never been as unwitty as David Chase could have made a wise career move. They will, he said, the lender to me of some nuns hated Decameron, DO ANYTHING NOT TO MENTION Sacco AND Vanzetti EVER AGAIN. You're not , he said, Losing anything again. I thought of Daniel Schorr, and how another of pops favorites, Eric Severide was appalled to see what he believed to be a hair to Rome, assembly of kings that had garbage in it like Tallmedge and the trash across the Po Aisle, that would catcall come to him defense and then call people crazy and stupid for daring ask why he'd be at a funeral for Robert Byrd. 

So, I say at this strange Chautauqua meeting down at the river Styx for the Authoritarian thunder god and the lunkheads who play him, I say, as a boy admiring Reginald Rose, Gore Vidal, and Daniel Schorr, as NBC is so in the Hee Haw steins and weeds that they'd bring back Comey, the Hank Kimbell of the superstate, of Megalopolis, that the nest time you sell your souls and the republic down the river, that was for you, Jesuit Boy Bill, I ma , as ma said, unbowed, unrepentant, unremitting and vanquished as more and more than Arthur Lake presidency defaulters, oh look, Di Nero is a hanger on the legal circus, a bad sense of direction, and a bandwagon Arafat, anything to make those people out there in the dahhhk forget black and or wop face, and e is screaming at the crowd, mostly pro trump, the Biden camp has lost its KAZOOS, but then all I need to know about politics I learned out of Plautus. So, as pop told me never be a house wop for anyone, and don't eat the onion soup. A next time you sell your soul, Colbert, captain Kangaroo, that you'd do it for someone who wasn't a superdeligate for George Wallace,... you didn't know...?, and that that river that those were sold down, wasn't the Mississippi as had always believed, but was in fact in literature long before Sam Clemens and his own barbarian love hatred with death, that it was in fact a river named...what else...?, The Tyber.