01 September 2021




This is an accounting, as I have been asked to make, for Duel,  but found it turned into a piece on its own. TO ONE OF THE PLACES suddenly looking for 'proof' that everything  anyone can say as in fact, I said the imperial coot would go from queen for a day to beat the clock, Our Fearless leader looked at his watch as stood there amazingly untouched, his molester ray bans attached to his dying scull,  catching the correct time after each burnt corpse was brought before him, so it wasn't quite BRIAN BLESSED SAYING BRING ME MY EAGLES WAS IT...? I had a feeling t would be the worsted Baggy pants farce ever, and so, while he was out of placidly angry and dyspeptic as the brunt bodies riddled with shrapnel were brought before him, and kept checking his watch, as if looking for a coming Bus, I'd suggest a Barge actually, I was watching that rerun station was showing a weekend marathon of Mayberry RFD, and this weekend because of Ed Asner,  sadly, will show a requiem of laughter called the Mary Tyler Moore show, ...Paradise Lost, I  said to one editor.  

12 AUGUST. 2021. Thursday. 


The last best hope on earth, two trillion dollars in debt, is spinning out of control, and all we can do is stare at a flickering cathode-ray tube as Ollie "answers" questions on TV while the press, resolutely irrelevant as ever, asks politicians if they have committed adultery. From V-J Day 1945 to this has been, my fellow countrymen, a perfect nightmare. "Ollie" by Gore Vidal. (1987) [Ollie = Oliver North ]

As my mother told me often of those, especially Italians, being stupid enough to carry water for the retainer collectors and Johnny Shnecks who perhaps obviously have out lived the Italian women they raped with impunity throughout most of her life, as a perfectly maned Delta appears as the Roman dancing girl that the creeps never see coming until too late sedate and seated there with their wives, I wonder did Hillary ever hang out at the Designing women set, and if she did, was a face made as it was at the Roman Mass when Hubby saw Melania slink by...? , as she would say , con Gusto when a wop came crashing to the ground, equally those who they hated spaghetti and Dante as a inoculation, Whats yew wants is whats yew gots. And Andie dear, there's always as your father said, When you walk with people who limp...

As the purple sashed start to meow like women and cats, I must say I shot a Leopard in my pajamas last night. What a dying Sicilian count was doing in my pajamas I'll never know.

I thought about watching A Face in the Crowd again on @moviestv, as I was the one who told @keitholberman that that, like The Best man and Network started out as teleplays for Playhouse 90, and old man Paley never let them on. When he saw it, Bill defended that Sheldon Leonard and Marlo's dad make a show as he knew the star was prefect for television. When he came to see the Rushes and saw Walter Matthau, old man Payly hit the roof, and screamed Bring me the Hick. Of course they let anyone on CBS now...Got a cartoon published in which my Moonbeam, Patty,  at her best said I remember when the Delta Variant was who Bill called on a lonely Saturday night…

Like I said at Keith Olbermann once, who sued this A Face in the crowd, like gospel, the next time you use a film to demean people, make sure it wasn't made by someone who actually named names of Jewish communists to the junior Senator of Wisconsin, as young mister bad ass Kennedy was a growler smiling with a perpetual knife, as his first chair, to save his own career of hanging on for dear life to censor the works of Tennessee Williams...as what bothered me about this film, even as early as when was writing essays that caught they eye of an early film school at Stanford all that while ago, he was just living his life as a bum and a drifter, when Patrica Neal made him into the icon he became, so unlike Clinton's and King Arthur at CBS, who were chomping at the bit since middle school, and too, he is only destroyed not because, as usual gloomy jew feared The 'Populism", in a republic no less , but because he left her for a younger baton twirler played by Lee Remick. Shit, who wouldn't...?

Again, when they realize that Illya, wasn't going the way Else and or Zero went, hectoring from a nudge, well, this movie becomes little more than a funnier version of No Time for Sargent's, that this channel played last month. I knew and told the film 'professorsat the west coast film school, that it bothered me, as though Griffith was great, still, it reeks of Pleb hatred. Populism openly seen as almost child molestation, which if you know anything about Senate history, the Clinton marriage, or Biden at the carnival, is a real stretch.

A funny thing happened on the way to the Vespers, girls, in that no one ever maned Cuomo, ever disgraced this country by being a freaking segregationist twelve years after the voting rights act.

Now, don't get me wrong I am enjoying the fall of Guvnor Boombutz, as it is a redemption of everything my father warned me of as an Italian in this quagmire. Still, I am ver shtvitzed a bit to know how right he was about you, as wonder why a man is strayed with the name Cuomo, who had a father who never once was anti Busing, molest anyone, threw Tfal in the Tyber, or most of all called American citizens animals, while he was doing interference for Ollie North. Some day maybe by someone you cant BS, someone, say with deepest, deerstalker, blackest Juno hair will ask you, how many nanas had to die for a segregationist...? and why did this rag find it easier to vote for a segregationist goon than it did for Gore Vidal's nephew, a Vietnam Veteran or the for first woman running ...well, Roman Bill, if every day of your life was Saturnalia up to now, I have a feeling Passover has just started and wheel see how many sanctimonious survive the plague once it hits the cribs...as noted this morning their usual pork laden summer AL CAPP SENATORIAH BILLS OUT DERE,WHY SHUKS SON, DEY FIRGIETS TO SPEND A DIME ON THE VA, too busy lecturing us about Polar bears and drag queens, no munnies left ovah fer THE BOX of wooden gondoliers broken and beaten after Georgey porgie and the rest of the chicken hawks don't play with them anymore. Paar for the course, sunnnn...

I spent my birthday alone, as was told to stay and remain here while a brother took my sister to a doctors apportionment, and was to wait for the elderly couple who own the building for something called ironically, an inspection. Better they be doing that in Afghanistan my sharper brother said, as somehow, the Commonwealth of beady eyed Wolfie, is somehow marshaling building inspectors, or is it Chicken Inspector badges that thaw ear like Daffy...?, into and out of homes, for God only knows what.

At NIGHT, a kind of celebration of a gone boyhood, I took out a gift from the shelf. It was A DVD in a simple cheap jewel case, with a now dead cripple in late century stoutness then, in a red and blue shirt seen as exposed under a business suit used as a shell, A man named Reeve showed a heroic chest, and a insignia of an 'S' upon it,--it didn't stand for Hope, at least not when Puzo thought it up, egad!, as it read Superman 2, the Donner cut. And I watched the whole clipped tethered chapters, after thought of a film that night, to the end, coming quicker than I thought, as he sadly, was unhallowed to finish his two film opus on the man of steel, back when I was 15, and turning as much then, was asked if I wanted to see Supermen and his exploits against Zod, a great English actor, and Ursa, his lesbian henchman, whoa as such in the later fallen world of Nolan we would enter, she, and not Lois Lane, was allowed to remain a brunette.

We watched the film through, as back then at 15, that Christmas year ended as a epileptic, the one I got back to with Emma as the perfect recollection and the perfect Bioccaccio girl to recall. I would have a seizure as a boy and was unable to finish watching the Superduperman, as Mad called him perfectly , and when heard it would be played for laughed by a creep who made the three musketeers when I was really little, campy and frivolous, as I could take from a gayer Batman, wanted no part of and haven’t seen either once completely till now, and refused to ever catch Richard Pryor as a clown villain, as he is fresh then from a road to Damascus, or Zama, where he would amazingly lecture us about the word N*88er though he utilized that as much as if he had a copywriter letter with it.



I had to catch the film as it was something of an unfinished epic to me in many ways , ...back in 1980, when first fell ill with a swerve in my life that knocked me for more of a loop than I admitted then, I was at that catholic school I wasn't going to stay in this time, I did my forced march, as opposed to some.

And as Advent then was kicked off with a free HBO weekend, as was shown then that many waited in our bracket and our neighborhoods for, only the prissy , sissy kids of say mob lawyers at St. Pete's had HBO all the time to catch soft r porno at any time they wanted. That Saturday night, when Petonius, satire, and childhoods die, I was watching Sooperman when it was still young and fresh and Donner made it the perfect comic book movie unlike that 911 addled shit that the world of Stan and Jack so easily became the guidepost of the fallen age.

And that night, lost to me forever was watching Reeve and Hackman as the perfect hero and villain, as he payed the part of Lex Luther as well as anyone has ever played a comic book creature, as he seemed to play it straight. I was glad to know when Donner WAS FIERD UNCEREMONIUSLY BY A FAMILY BEFORE THIS WAS SOMEHWO TREID TO F OVER ORSON, ALL DOVETAILS, I have known out of respect for Donner, that Gene Hackman left the play sets made real that I had of the fortress of solitude and didn't return until SUPERDUPERMAN 4. I have now rave real empathy now for both Donner and the greatest criminal genius of our times, who at the end, had a lien he could not cross. Perhaps maybe like the original would have had had they not prefixed him to my boyish horror as a disco suit wearing go go booted dick who flew about as a parody of all he hated.

I had to watch Superman the one and half great movies as opposed to the two an half monstrosities they made, and I think as a 15 year old, seeing the burnt remains of Ricard Pryor, efface Superman as he started to lecture us all, as it wasnt me who monetized the word “nigger” as career move Rich, I think that started to make me turn in any Lenny like repudiation of him .I ever had as found him to be more American than I think he ever thought he was, giving into sanctimony, the evil opposite of satire and its worst enemy, and a way of thinking worthy of women who vote for rapists and segregationist and smile through it. Superman would get worse, Teri did attempt a Roz Russel reciprocation of Lois, but alas she had to get married as that was the last quiver in the Jewish materials, and now haven't even bother to watch anything of a next Lois and Clark as couldn't care less, but am not too old to ever see what was, like my life in ways, stunted back then, because everything most be played for laughs and or tragedy, which is why we have the Praetor we have dangling from your beloved statue of Liberty today. Superman III I SHALL NEVER SEE, AND SAW PARTS OF iv, WHICH BY THEN, even Hackman couldn't save, as it had lost its pulpy charm.



And on the last night of this week in August, a birthday week give or take, in which I try to do not that much and post almost nothing new, as am true to the Roman calendar, to the point there are days in which I will and wont eat chicken, fish, no fooling, as have the tides and tides of my mothers lives recalled and remembered like verses that lossless romantic then me gave up long ago to carry gobs and buckets through a new imperial road. This time, since do better with art than letters, made it a cartoon less alike the Heavy Metal I sent it to, another magazine of comics did make a point that they enjoyed it but...

I was sent a little green button in the cascade of gray disapproval, they really don't like having anyone recall what a goon they have ‘elected’ in this putz, anyway. I was told that the pages will be accepted, and green dot telling me i got a 18.50 dollar bounty for another sexy Bunny comic accepted somewhere else. I felt actually emboldened by this, as the month began with a snide answer from the middlebrows, and was glad to hear the latest acceptances. And as ironically, the corrals and the battalions of Taliban were moving in on Kabul, an invasion that is unthinkable to that bumbling human Bratwurst Biden who on July 12th said , and this us true, that the Taliban had been eradicated from THIS HEMISPHERE. HILLARY...IS THAT YOU GAGGING...? This is the droid who they thought of as more accountable than you. Hell, all the world is a Harvard after all. Oh my Gawd, a Yahhhllle mahhhhn!

Mostly I don't trust a man who could lose his family and still get re-entrenched months later, I mean, at least enjoy your catting around the Elsie bars of MTM age, i mean, Bill was, and he was married, at least legally so. Or, as i heard my pop even say then who hated Bidey as America incarnate and over his hatred of Mario Cuomo as too Italian to play Caesar much less Superman, did he kill his wife as he makes such a point of being a segregationist as a northeast lib, did he think divorce pre Reagan was a disqualification for the Praetorian...?

As I write this, I believe he is still at Camp David, Polaris for Lutherans, no pesky heresy bar whores and girls with big tits here, not as long as Bill has left, he is Still TRYING TO PASS THAT STONE, ...HUN, WHERES MY METAMUCIL .... shit TO THE COOLEST STORIES EDITOR CREEPS, BITCHES,  IF I WAS TRYING TO IMPRESS PEOPLE, again any disgracing word about domesticated wop Scorsese does upset the middlebrows who'd burn Dante if they can, I WOULDN'T HAVE RE- READ ALL OF MY COPIES OF VIDAL AND BASILE, AS A WAY TO SHARPEN THAT SET OF KNIVES I HAVE HERE... WOW.

And as the creatures that were in Guantanamo bay, I guess a relic Castro allowed like the Hemingway casa, were allowed freedom to go be cashiers and cooks and taxi drivers in the new empire Disney are now the imperial praetorian guard in Bactria, now really who could see that coming amid the parties given and the rappers bitching about having to eat a vegan menu, a sea of troubles bubbles and troubles up and id say you deserve it , but now even grandchildren are dying from the best golden bullet that Biden could think of as a way to shit in the planetarium, his life's long dream which should have been defeated sometime around Gary Hart, but, that now hindsight.

14 AUGUST 2021.

On television, though, there was Roddy McDowell, future talking ape with a Roman name, that never bothered the now lovers of dreadlocks and corn rows, but this time, in the warm summers afternoon, he was an orangutan named Augustus. No, he was Octavian still, the great enemy of miss tits Cleopatra,Liz at her most glossier like, again Macedonian invader queen of the ancient land of Kemet, which named the Etruscan's own blond demon , ah but that was an unliked epic five or so back for me, as my pop warned me, as the hags burn kiss me Kate now for returning the taming of the Shrew to its original Ariosto tale, these Johnny Bulls and John Birchers will take a thousand Guido-es, my father warned me, but did i listen...?, before have to be actually accosted with one Antony.










And, as Kabul is hours from being surrounded, an envoy from SPQR is amazed to find the barbaric not only at the gate but taking tolls, falling,and the word went forth from South-fork, to burn everything, i saw a few moment of the Roman Senate of Hacky Manchiewitz in CinemaScope as it was perfected to play out, from a play he and dreaded Volvo stableman, WE URRRRNNNNNN IT, how apt, in more ways than one, the paper chaser, i thought, they made a point that Orson would be allowed no where near it, but then, he did himself no favors by refusing to play Jo-rel and Obi Wan, so rest in Pax, Orson, and i sure hope the grave of Alexander the great doenst end up on Taliban hands. But don't the Perseid look lovely against the purple veils of Diana night, though...?

I watched a few moment of Antony and Cleopatra here, as recall it was playing when Andersen Copper was making the world safe for Arab protestations , or whatever that sprung was about, but again, who ever listens to me, as she was luminous in the part and could see why Lecher, Welshing Antony, the great drunkard actor Dick Burton saw in that Minerva, before him in a sea of Monroe's who couldn't in good conscious play Holly Go-lightly. I watched Augustan Roddy, a perfect day's encompassing, I thought, though still would like to someday make a Roman film, perhaps Agricola, perhaps the battles Caesar had with the street pimps, even a truer Satyricon, with an Italian caste, something that the Jews who are now so circumspect about race, never quite worried about for fifty years of sagas.

As, the English as Romans is a great erudition among the chosen of Hollywood, and I watched it as my mother's beloved name sake for me, Burton played Antony for all it was always worth, he , not Brando , is the honorable man who is a human furnace seeing it all go kaput.

I sat there and thought of watching the rest, it had been on since noon I GUESS, on #moviesTV, A FREE MOVIE CHANNEL, and would be on until Match game or so, but saw this was the Ann and Donald in which he writes his mid-century Capote attempt at the emerald city and i had tow catch that one, though i thought it was the one her stern father dismayed at the parts he had to paperclip, I thought,as the father was upset to allowed it to be shown to a publisher that it was pornography to begin with.

By morning, it was apparent to even happy talk sermonizing Negros as J Fred's, that Kabul had fallen, without a gunshot, they were making their ways to the perpetually green palace of King Friday or Mike Hammer or the wizard of id, whatever Bidey and his fairy Godfather know of, as the Basile like Shady Groves and in ova woods of fairylands decimated by Tolkien and Disney, are an out there somewhere neither read enough Coriolanus to even suspect is out there. During the day we were told during Golf, an update that the Praetor, had in fact been informed of what was going on, and was in the belly of the beast, I'm sorry, the basement situational room, the Oliver North memorial closets, a war room less Stanley Kubrick or even fail safe than Hanna Barbara,

We are told that fearless leader, that hew as ‘monitoring’ the situation’ bewteen gulps of Iron suppliants, vitamin d orange juice and stool softener, and of course, medicine to either dissolve, as my brother said, his calcium deposits in his dick, or his brains, if not both. As he said, hitting the mail on its perfect head, Subpoena after all means..., anyway, as he said, prefect, he exists in a nuclear cloud of Gold Bond powder when he saw him trying to hear vainly, what the fvck, the wrong person he didn't mean to call on from ABC asked, anyway. Cue the great Greek Gods, Ted, in fact, as they fare more the pipeline Kerry had installed more than the generation of men's limbs and lives that now mean nothing, laugh it up with that cretin, Bush family heirloom, John Bolton, Steverino dear, have the ghost of Don Knots come on to say Nock knock, whores there, he could say. Ka, Knots would say, Ka who...? KA--BUUUUUUUUL! Well, say as you'd like, TIATIAN HAOERD HAGS, but Trump wasn't losing wars in such a style that was entrancement of the least dissidents you and meathead and Norman Lear have us, did he dears...so keep lecturing us through the bulletins, Nora dear, and do cue the Apache helicopters to flit and chop , with Candice Collins as pretty brunette playboy girl that Coppola, like black beauty thoroughbreds, and Oxen is fine with raping and abusing on the screen, cue the gun boats, Frankie, to fly though the pretty pretty Technicolor smoke, mister Coppola. But don't the Perseid's look lovely as they spark tailboards Terra in the last imperial dusk.


Meet me at the Hippodrome, ...like Columbia my early cartoon goddess in a first accepted cartoon to some more open to satire places than they will ever be now, I have seen this before. Twenty years ago we went into a perpetual quagmire because a doofus fool either maliciously, or worse than that, didn't much care, in went into one monkey ear and out the other, to hear that Bin Laudin was sending people to learn Aircraft maintenance and making a splash with it. And if I know from here that Afghanistan is falling as it has since "Creation" itself in pages that Jewish shysters on Publishers row, made Gore Vidal wait twenty years to publish, as they didn't like his PERPETUAL WAR FOR PERPETUAL PEACE EITHER, WE WERE ALL ROOTING ON THE CETURIONS THEN, WELL, it will be hard for Strom's Ave sayer to pretend he was unaware as he has been saying since made deals to send other people who he cheated with to the outsides of the tower of intellect, the Bologna new university where Marv Albert wannbes went to learn play by play arts.

And as things are in mid august crumbling, its so bad he may have to cut his vacation to Capri short, if only to be like Tiberius sent back, the #metoo hags and unmarried cvnts are to say that the name of Mario Cuomo is too venial, too vulgar , too dirty for a coot who now is showing how right Marcus the stoic, Maureen dear, really as, well, f off and my father was right, as Mario himself is below the competency of death threateners and midnight clowns who did black face. I said hed be destroyed by men whose Roman knowledge goes no more than a copy of Tacitus on the wall, which I guess, in a land that still hasn't learned the answer to Augustus where my eagles are fucking at!!!!, I guess that better than no Roman knowledge at all.






02 July 2021


This is not a picture of Wendy Fiore, strange as that may seem. I did utilize her as a antithesis and analogy, the Beatrice dichotomy at the banks of lake Como, at the Styx that self important cretins like Bidey and Cuomo stood up in, like Washington crossing the Lethe, that moderated the not so hidden deaths of the countryside, that only alluding to was what Italian giant of literary Italo Calvino was the most brilliant aspect of the original Decameron. 

This therefore is an earlier Dea of mine, Patricia Fairinelli, a beauteous italicate playmate in the already then dying Playboy, who played the same role for me during Doctor Doom Facci's last excursion to the swamps of the Duchy of Milan, way back when despaired women did drink Clorox bleach and what can diabolically bloated laughing buffoon on a Bigger check would think was a great punch line as is either too young, or too titties addled, or just happy to by on Guy TV, to have even or will ever bother to, care. 

This is Patricia, the last playmate as no less than Hardy wop’s Ginny Stanley--I shudder even to type it, --Adam Corolla still mentioned as dream girl in the radio show he did with a TV doctor sketch come alive who would bring the wasteland of Newt’s to a newest low, now the come like sunsets, when he showed us old Taxi stars and porn stars taking the pledge and drying out after theses messages. And don’t forget this week's special guest villain, ---Tom Seizmore. 

Here SHE IS recouped and resurrected as Goddess emeritus, Mother of all pin ups, who I adored as a kid through Aids and who I thank God like my mother did with the Bush capos, lived at least one day longer than heinous creature of Blond funereal make up and emulating arts, Dorothy Stratton, who died for Hef’s sins. GAEA NOW, I BELIEVE IN HER MORE than some pesky lesbians on speed dial and leeches, exists in TAD COMICS, in a pen only sketch done a while ago, smile on her deliciously smart alek lips, being brunette, no matter how big her chest, they were smart cone before the Clinton excursions into Borgia weddings ceremonies. Look up her incandescing gatefold, she is long legged, peaches and cream skin, and of course, invaders blue eyes that patrolled as I’ve said elsewhere to lesbian admiration, less like crystals and or sapphires or colored stone used by witches in Italy since time immemorial, like the Medici were the first to import gunpowder from Cathay long ago, not that it ever, to throw how distain of Machiavelli as Lorenzo did, ever helped. 

I bring this up as I am charged with redoing a page my brother thinks totally fine, a nicer one I’ve done in all of these power sized images, the last page needed for day 27, in fact, of the Baron of the trees looking upon the bust of Monica… Belucci, the more things change, as his geraets concubine in his dream scale new Rome, let's call it a hunch, Party without bunny ears, sits up in an alleged Bed, as the Cloven Viscount--which way did they go…?- is seated in his stone Gormenghast, blood now dried and flicking off his Excalibur, which the Jesuits assured me, like Lady in the lake, being a signatory to old Rime for Arturo’s the roman general, again you can look it up, was an imprimatur on every sword sued by the Roman order of knighthood. But then, the Jews have for forty years more liked their wops in PT Cruisers and Cadillac’s than mention Camelot was indeed if one is heretically accurate just the last Roman colony that there ever was, and why, all the ay to King John, there was a real antidotes and hatred for those Viking creeps who striped soldiers from Umbria of armor, but left the red rags of capes and banners to dissolve and erode into blood soaked ice flows, rather than take these banners first as wear them themselves as English knights did, all the way to Churchill, if one was honest about it. But alas I am informed that I do have an impact, the reason have bacterially been censored first by a goon on CBS, who thought death THREATS was a wise career move, that along with Homer, thank God, now Cymbeline is a the lasted white man diary top be burned by the unmarried gals, and good for them. It's no skin off ,my Roman nose.

There was some consternation that I used pages, papers, even slips thereof, taped, glued chewing gummed together, it seemed, to make imagery, when I didn't need to, or didn’t do it well, that means not the way they would have done it. But unwilling to take advice from anyone willing to vote for a segregationist, I take advice and concreting more discriminately now, witch is saying something, as I fluffed things off more than many ever would before. Redo a whole page,…?Why, I asked, to what end…that all, be Xeroxed and then cced onto one of the pages of construction paper as far away sister had sent to the house from Duck Blick…? Why would I have to are that much,…just to be published…I have been more than the people who held that over me until admitted got things published in two color, counting black, harsh paper Jesuit magazines called Focus or some such thing, which is a type of paper I now ape and continue with Sun works student art paper, the best sort, why would I have to bother. Because it would get what…better…no, like the Democratic party …? party, it can only get worse. Didn’t you see Hillary at the soldiers’ grave, far more EC COMICS at heart than it ever was even warmed over Shakespeare, much less Hubby’s beloved Oviddio? But I actually thought about it and did Xerox the imagers of the page, The Hep Prince, Monica the Italian starlet profile in Roman adored portraiture, the crows, I’ve them flying lately, and of course, the Rose Red in Fredrick’s stain of the beautiful Patty, then as have said before but this time with more gusto, or less needed than before, I said, a thoughtful, to hell with it. 

Scripto part one was renamed AT THE REQUIEM OF LAURA, because of seeing the Dick Van Dyke shows lately more than they have shown in a decade or more, and the feeling of sad nostalgia that comes with them. At times, as I had said, easily in the Clark episode, a saddened Laura did have to think again the choices that she made, again going back to her broken foot, an exemplar of just how far this string bean living Mort Drucker cartoon was willing to go to get his way. And looking back more astutely at what was in Danoff era shows in which the horrid Mable Albertson plays the eternal studdabubba Mater in Legalis, there is a real upsetting quality I’ve noticed where people are carted like things to be guarded , affection, or appropriation, I think, as jealousy, true to the Jews who cobbled these shows never seem willing to as my Beloved Gore said of The last Temptation of Christ ever let so much as a weed grow in the cement as had happen at his beloved La Rotan Della as since Hadrian and before, African violets carried on Mediterranean winds would sometimes find themselves taking root in the silver aged Vita Novas, and terracotta’s and Villanovis, which the gumba Jews of now think enough devil wire will hide and protect the goons of empire now from everything from Violets on up or down as the case may be. 

I kept the name of the remained epistle, but did some due diligence, and was not shocked to find that Petrarch’s Laura mentioned in the piece, was no Italian woman as Beatrice Portinari was, but true to form, she was a French lady from Avignon, like Eleanor in Lion in Winter and was the wife of a noble man in that careered Provence, and the low budget Corman rather than Lione Bice was indeed whiter than some mere Tuscan girl and from that draped empire of Franks, which the Romans, to Julian delight, called in their usual getting to the heart of the matter, called France Mudvilles, no fooling. 

Thinking of calling it the Requiem of Laura, and forgoing the life time diminishment award I had given Petrarch to the disdain of some overlay Romanticized they thought Nunneries and of course the occasional Jesuit who didn’t like me, all who all amusingly looked like Joe Flynn. But I thought against it as to call it at the Requiem of Laura De None’s, seemed a stretch for me, and then finding out that she indeed was a forefather to the Marquis De Sade, which kind of recall as the lesbian told me I have a knack to do to others as a carrier, I think I recall disgusted by knowing this as a fifteen year old when I said of my hated Italian Dante that white women can admire, now as opposed to his Uncle in law, Petrarch, now the crazy as Marquis De Sade, despite everything, he was a hell of a writer, like Cesar sometimes psychosis really lends one a gift of gab, and I heard he was , like a new Yorker, one hell of a dancer. Again to quote the Roman hero who my mother sort of saw through and a Georgetown law bubba didn’t, still, he was righter than not when he said to an idiot good fortune is as Good as a curse. 

But seeing it again that in fact that Arnold Roth Cartoon recalled at the same moment that Laura De Nones would Progeny that Monster, I had a great time despite everything Justine, I said I couldn’t in any consciousness give that name to any requiems, and left it be at Laura, mostly for MTM, than not.

Wanted to catch POLICE SQUAD! A Mad intended sitcom, down to the Kurtzman like exclamation point, I went along the channels of course today not coming in well, as was striving to get channel 61.something back in, as everything 1973 is new again. Get your WIN BUTTONS NOW, KIDS, AND REMEMBER “President” BIDEN AND HIS DOG Sandy-- I’m Sorry, I meant Killer--are really in it deep, so get your kicks on route 66, it's still a Milner world in the dead Preator’s fevered mind, and as we jet no not Jet, not ebony either, as we happy motoring down the trucking road, remember tonight’s secret double dog, the doge’s mutt is distempered shoot it, shoot it dead before it infects us all,…!--the secrete message is A 19 B64, e11 J67 h5 n33 and finally :112. It is s secret just for you stupid enough to think he was going to actually vote to up taxes on the wealthy and not find arsenic in his morphine drip…it means ten dollar a gallon gas is par for the course. 

I may or not have gotten up and lethargically Pissed all over myself and shit rather than in a toilet I am unsure, as was out of it, tired as I was, and went back to bed to sleep to get my full 12 hour or I’m good fer nothing. I went back to bed. Was almost run over by Ted Night, as returned to sleep, a fatter Nemo. Ted was seeming more like the judge in Caddy shack than Mary’s anchorman, and he, the man my dad called The Polloccio, meaning he wonder when I as a kid of Mary as indeed on, and he yelled back at me from his crown Vic, funnily as usual, as he was exasperated better then anyone, but I had pushed myself back up to the curb and against a brick red wall. As I continued on, it looked like a cinnacitta scene from 81/2 AS much as anything, though as I’ve said, I was never a biggest fan of once accepted ad Italian genius of film par excellence, Federico Fellini. Through the streets of a Leopardi like fall, in new Sicily, I walked towards a brown saddened building, with a portico that was antebellum as anything, and from which hung a red flag, which its not shaking to me why we speak of red flags as red flags , but as I said in a cartoon I got published in of all things a university press, Patty the bunny explains echoing my pop, that it wasn’t a Swastika, a hammer and sickle or stars and bars that as painted on the Enola Gay. 

And as Police squad! starts to actually come in well, bye bye Fred Gwynne here in 73 PERPETUA, I can't get both, but such is the American dread of Biden care, where the Eulogies are for the Dixie rats and the GV intoned Embalming fluid is worth a pound of prevention. Who did for this will be asked when the gas liens serpentine, like Peter Faulk, and he is doing even worse than Dole and Regan at the end photo shoots with the House of wax anthropomorphic Carter from the Disney ride, which may or may not stay open, as so desperate is, twosome Newsome is now, what the hell, trying the strategy of compassion. As opposed to other kings of Magna Greca now holding on in a smugness that makes Gergan’s burp. 

In the dream as vivid as anything lately, and have dreamed of My Mom often, well sometimes, but always with a special guest star like Julie Numar or once Delta in her 1984 glory, in a white one piece, bikinis are decadent I think Pope Paul said. AND NOW HERE, at a La Scalla on which were ageing and chipping posters for La traviata and the Clowns by Pirandello and madam Butterfly and boxing matches which the Italians did without gloves and bare knuckled my ma tole me as late as DeSica, I walked into the operas house.

It was inauguration day. Or again , as Ttacius said of reciting Virgil by barbarians and that honking nose verbs that he noted as early as the third century, Jesus however is yet to be mentioned, as close as barbarians can get. It is amazing how the good white devils who now think black lives matter do so hate my sonnets to Roman walls. XIII, XII XI X IX...So, Before a Citizen like placard that read Como, with a face worthy of Loki meets Tony Perkins, he was there in total meltdown, at the pulpit as again a cross between Billy Sunday and Zero’s Plautus, as mute to Whoopee Terence, or at least that he as black, or human as he famously said, wouldn’t have been played by Zero even in the days of Srg. Bilko, who was the original Plautus but begged off to play Seneca instead. 

I sat at the ticket at the churchgoer house, really it was as vibrant as anything Fellini ever did, though like poets and writers, like Pirandello, there are Italians that the her story professors have never heard of, to burn away, if I wonder if they were would. I sat there with a pretty girl who was, apparently, waiting for me, pretty again, not Wendy, or a Teri Hatcher type, but a woman whose face I can't place, but know. She was Italianate sexy, with a slight bulb on the end of her nose in a Liza Minnelli way that I’ve always liked, a bow lip, pretty, toothy, smiley, black haired, a good egg I guess you’d say. Pretty, and seated in the pew, really like a church ahead of mine. 

I, eventually and almost demanded in such dreams of incompletazione, as Ma would call them in rustic brilliance made boring by Roman buff Jews like Marx and Freud, thought to look down and saw my immense hard on. It was seemingly viable only to me, or as Mad said of Leif Ericson not reaching the new world, no one thought who saw it it was worth mentioning. I was visible but not so anyone would say it, as they all looked ahead. I took a cloak I wore, very medieval, and I THREW IT OVER MY distended member, I recall the porno for which I was told I had a knack for writing.

I sat there, talking with the pretty girl, as her friend turned around. A blond I knew in fourth grade named Laura, the kind of cute studious girl I should have been nicer to when I had the opportunity. I said to her, making the brunette laugh, I’m like naked here, can you go,--I gave her a twenty, showing this was a dream--Go to The Viking club, think that was a place when I was a kid, And buy me a pair of pants, Laura. Sure, she said and got up and waned and left, as Cuomo was bloviation personified, blathering away on a stage wearing a crown of thorns and his polyester electric blue suit shining through a Dacron man of the cloth bishop’s cloak. Behind me was a bemused Obama, who went I looked back I wondered if he was even awake, and of cruse, with Patty in her own 1981 beatifications, was Bill Clinton, a cross between Bond and Boss Hogg, which is where I got the idea for the cloven Viscounts mistress. Then up from behind me came, of all people, Martin Scorsese, in his own sweaty, venial, hepped up, taking too many Greeneries before he has to pitch, charm. Hey, you, he nervously ticking away asked stammering, You’re name is Antinee right, Antinee, Tony, right…?, he asked. 

Yeah, Antonee, I know yew, I’ve seen you , your work yours stuff, nice drawings, better than the words you write, right, yeah I know, yeah I know yew, yes I do, that’s right, that’s right, he said. I gave a slightest nod as if not to be a nun hated rude, which I was inculcated never to be. I saw, I mean, he said, as the pre Sanka coffee achiever pre meeting Mis Olsen or Robert Young when I was a child, I know, he said, I know who you are, right, I,…I…I…he said as he urged the spirits for a word perpetually avoiding him, as I can guess the girls to him, did when he was at p.s. whatever it was. I said…, he said, with a old mans tired smile, I was astound now much he seemed to become the old man in 1985 that was my father, who told me amid his blazing hot tomatoes garden, when I came out at Ma’s behest to speak to the old man, she knew witch she was that he was dying, and in fact would be dead by Christmas, but he wouldn’t either let on or care, hearty stock he was. And he actually did apologize to me, as if he had let me down, can one imagine that…? Ah but recriminations, like recounts, and recalls are something that winners don’t have to deal with when they are killing so many people that the river Tyber runs reed with the blood of radicals and scumbags and pimps, ah but the wise men of a senate not what it used to be always have the last word, actually when the belated or corpse like King lost seats already that night, weakening as I warned from jump, by the hour. He was almost a dead ringer for old Vincenzo, who tole me, as an antibody to this man putrid worlds that I indeed was in the lineage of General Julius Agricola, like so much demeaned, of course as a race, we Italians don’t get the crocodile tears that simpletons and war money-ists and Bush major Domos elite cry for elephants on Tarzan land. I was shook by his appearance being so…paternal, and winced in a half dream state at that. 

I, he said, I now saw your dick hanging out here in the church, right, sure, yeah that’s it, that’s right,…Oh, I thought he was going to tear what little covering I had off, as Cuomo was doing his one madness telethon, Timpani!, as Zio Andie was looking for a cure to the heartbreak of Psoriasis. He gave me a gray tunic. Here, he said, Take this, cover your legs with this, Tone, he said. He snaked a actually sad touching smile, of an old man who outlived a nation willing to wallow anymore in anything he liked to wallow. He asked me, Tony, did you see Lebro walk off the court with ten minutes left to play. I guess when you parrot an idiot like Olbermann you can not be pilloried for things that destroy Dez, eh…?, he said. Quietly while Doge Como was either now giving a Roman invocation, the kind that George Will would rather have devils wire shamelessly put up than ever have seen, Como was reciting something in Latin from Cornelius Tacitus, or singing a selection from Easter parade. 

He leaned in, I read your Thesis, on the Magnificent Ambersons, he said, sadder than I had ever recalled him, back to the television cretin who in King of Comedy, one of his i actually watched and liked, and the jew shit too, biting the hand that fleas you, tells Tony Randall that a joke was funny to Love Sydney’s distemper. Did you see Lebro lose like Jordan never did, Antoine…he asked, Did you eye Signora Fortuna, he said, making my ears perk up, who WAS this brunette I asked myself then, She will, he said, Showing a pentads heart,she has come down from heaven,he added, as if a mason among the jesus freaks, a Cattiliner amid the senatiorail boobs and child molestors... I, he said, looking all a bit Patrice Fairinelli, you Goddess, he said, and she wiped up the floor with him, and in doing that showed me what was happening. 

This sort of thing, I explained, would have met much when my mom was alive , now couldn’t care less, I added, As I hope to see self appointed bishop Colbert be run over on the road to empire as his ilk always is. From the: if I’m lying I’m dying department, as I actually had an early morning dream where this hack to me, came up to me in a church like atmosphere had diligently guided me to look up on old astrology websites what it meant when one dreams of someone they dislike, as I had. And it wasn’t to transcribe it into a playable number. So to my brother, then, such scholarship without a clearest end and emans was mere foolishness, or as the Etruscans said so perfectly, I pray to the God who can answer me, which is why Jews in Italy are never Sephartic...

He mentioned a essay I had written at 15, that got the admiration of people at Stanford and an early film school there, and how saddened my father was, that as an Italian I as being heralded into a building where they taught an art form, the old man knew, which was a Jewish dating service, where more than a few later Sophia’s would be raped and left behind and girls returning home on trailways excused they couldn’t take the chosen’s Satyricon, a worse one than I was assured that the New Yorker was by gals again who always came out of the writers rooms pawed and spitted on.I sat back as the pretty blond Laura came back past the carved stone neles of the rather dilapidated concert hall ruin of the kingdom of the two sicilies this place had become. We were gathered here, beloved, for a parody of an inauguration for a somewhat dilapidated man. I sat back, assured that a gal from my ancient past who had left not too long after as even a blond Italian she had flowered into young woman hood, this was the maggot infested church, the church against the Match game and Mad when i was a kid, and she fixed her purple glasses on her round pretty face. You make the call.

I sat back as Martin watched, and said, I thought of how when I was fifteen i wrote a teleplay called “It doesn't pay”, an early Noir, about a button man I based on actually great actor Frank Sutton and his Marty hanger on life, falling for the girl who has doges wanted dead, a pretty italic girl based then on Karen Price, a summer of that last year, pre- Patty Fairinelli. A nun, I said to the clown fool prince who was more affable to me than not, Who admired me,  and had me meet the Hoddings and the Carters and the Dick Thornberghs at orchards of golden apples, she told me to send the work to Copoola and she, an Italian lady, I said, Was certain then he was looking for redemption. As if they ever are, I said, but remember the Ann B Davis lookalike findly, I do. Twenty years later, I said to the jittery man who seemed to be doing Fredrick March in Inherit the Wind, I was hurled off Zoetrope.com, I trailed off...Over You, I said and looked directly at him. i LOOKED AWAY AND SAW dOGE bILL, AS HE INSTATEIOULSY AS I HAD, LOOKED OUT A CRACKED MEZZOGIORNO WINDOW OF LEADED GLASS, AND THE BOYCHICK QUEEN PORCINE KING, SAW THE OPERA HOUSE AS IN PADDYWAKED, WAS STRUNG WITH DEVIL IWRE, AND I KNEW AS HE DID THAT INSTANT, HE FOR ALL HIS CHANCING HAD FINALLY ENTERED THE PRISON THAT THE TRIBUNE, THE BUSHES, AND his wife had prepared for him, all along. The artful dodger, I was assured now, was dead, as in the Inferno, where Dante placed the still living, proving that is the preeminent Italian book. 

The last squib had burst, I thought, AND with some shocked and even insecure gratefulness I took the pre Raphaelite, no better Guido Reni-esque, a giant, tunic worthy of Druuna backdrop charters and I eagerly paled it over myself more as it went down to the ankles, and finally, Cuomo had hit the time limit and started to Fight a chicken, with a massive gun. He dropped dead there, as if Brother Blue had lost all English and loaded dice. Now what the hell that that mean? I have no earthly idea. OH, I PRAY, Scorsese said, putting up an old man’s hand that had once been a film cutter as my father told me to be, and tricking the doctorates of celluloid, that didn’t make puppets, or anything close to art. He was shaky and broken and lost. I pray, he said with quivering voice, Each day that Signora Fortuna pass over me, I pray to Gnostic spirits, to her each day, I didn’t stop filmmaking because some bunny was shot in the weeds by a suitcase Pimp, he said, So, I pray that Signora fortuna doesn’t make me pay… 



01 June 2021


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.  


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.