07 June 2012



In the making of that first comic book of mine Mistier Stupendous lives in 1978, I hit on several ideas which would alter be caught up to by more mainstream comic books, and in fact, by the greater society  at large as I could just sense then even as precocious boy where we were headed and towards what cliff.

1. Hercules as hero. Although great artists were abounded then in comics, like Neal Adams and Ross Andru and the Italians at Marvel, instead of the more Lithe and almost dancer like superheroes of their choice, I rather used a Michelangelo golden mean for my superman, MS. I was drilled in classical art by fascias since a boy, so, I utilised the Buonerotti  meter for my hero, smaller head, thirteen heads high, large pelvis and leg muscles, almost a living suit of armour as seen in italic folktales Bramante. A bulkiness affixed itself to my heroes, even heroism, to the point that this sort of ethic proportions  caused someone at marvel to say of my work that all looked black and colour in my universes, something they didn’t have to succumb tow when placing Obama on the cover of their comic magazines as he is slight and effeminate like they like their niggers to be...when trusted.

2. McComix. --Instead of issuing the earth two silliness to explain why The flash was in ww2 and then at studio 54, I merely made the superhero as franchise, no different than seeing comic strips like fumettis  in over sized comics of captain marvel, as it these were merely roles need to be filled by various chumps, as in a stock company. Miss Mary Amazon therefore was no real Amazon, but a pretty Jewish woman, sister of CC Eaton, who was originally from Yonkers, and who wore a outfit first worn by a forties actress based on the lovely Phyllis Coats, etc, until a street carnival shooting made her rethink her place as star spangled Amazon from Queens, rather than queen of amazons and she in turn shoved the new costume, also something later re seen, onto cat woman like Violet. This would later be seen in much of Alan Moore work, not to call it a swipe, but just to say it makes more scene to do that than have a thousand supermen flying about. Also, in the original, a madman becoming Rocketman--I had seen the Shatner brilliance done live in fact,-- becomes more trouble than he is worth, and is recalled by one of his own superman robots come to life who is more willing to full the shoes of the hero as Fee cee commix would like, showing a behind the curtain liken Hollywood confidential aspect done brilliantly in the cartoons of Chuck Jones when Daffy and Bugs are seen as RKO like contract  players, like Lucy, Orson and other great comedians.

3. Plutocrat as villain. Much like Mister Potter in the work by Capra, there is always to any Italian worth his salt, a natural inclination to eye plutocracy as villain, and so, in CC Eaton, financier and arms merchant I found a lovable Jewish rouge who would be, for me a reprise to Lex Luther and Sivana as arch villains, as a departure from the heinous Joker and worse yet, Joker without portfolio the awful green goblin, who seemed to think jet packs made for great villainy. CC returns the story to the kind of Mortiarty as showed by always in the end hapless genius villain who wouldn’t ride a jet sky or though a pumpkin if he was paid to do so. In the original, to show what a bad ass he is, Maven Eaton, on a pun of his appetite and too, a slight edge of self imposed pretenses, his baptismal name was always Artie Pinkus, and from the expensive papered I used once, when still had ambition, he kills or has killed the joker of the already in media res comic book world, Jackie Paper, to show he is the new Sherriff in town, and isn’t fucking around. 

Also, he is a arms merchant and loses a contract to the then still involved space race, --he dreams of privatising space, and having Eaton made Rama Like war ships encircling  the globe. This is a prediction of later Star Wars, though even I couldn’t really know that this mad mess on Jewish Gonniffs Eaton part, he is considered mad by sitting southern hick president --a prediction of Clinton, or perhaps a look back at LBJ, Black Jack McTaviosh,--and the Government still sane in 1978, wanted no part of his billion dollar boondoggle to weaponise space. Within ten years as was with so much, a goon named Reagan, our Constantine who allowed the born again to steal with impunity, as if having seen the first ash can editions I made, went out word that this was a grand idea, which each president has signed off on, as trying to hit a bullet with a bullet as Eaton said with my usual prescience of mind, is wonderful, when you are the one selling the bullets. But too, predicting Rush Limbaugh as his ilk, fat men paid by Eaton on his station UBS, daily shows, filled with laughing Jews and afternoon shock jocks, why not make ridicule a daily show subsuming the soap operas, really it was that perfect, are told by Uncle Eaton to destroy who he wishes to destroy, push what he wishes to push with both Jewish comedians at night recalling Johnnie Carson who is actually in the comic forced out for gruff dago-gumba Jew Pauli Saracmuchie, all eventually have ads and shows are made and sold to push Eaton’s dream of a rocket in every pot, a bomb in every garage. I am quite proud of this foreknowledge before GE bought NBC, that was where  were we were headed all along, despite CBS still holding out as a Tiffany amid Silverman’s drug stores, super trains and the 3 of us manage e foolishness. A student of Rome, CC knows comedy is king when one wishes to skim off the armamentaria’s top.

4. MEMPHIS. In his trying to bollix up Star Lab, based on Skylab a beginning of the decline of NASA when I was boy, Eaton perfects with his ex Nazi scientists who he liked giving the old mach Snell to, like Spielberg as I said even then, the first supercomputer or wonder computer as I envisioned then, a master board of all commuters called Memphis. Like Hal, cubed, this massive machine was used by Eaton to stick his beak in every then burgeoning computer on earth he knew of and could--yes, hack into. I was friends  and acquaintances then with scientific minded geeks, who thought I was one of them--I wasn’t, not to sound uppity, but had no real inclination towards math and science, as Scorsese and his backers would approve, though to be fair, when taking the test for college aptitude I, like Rory Gilmore, found a higher score in math and science  than in verbal, which, mister Marincucci the Italian teacher, in the public schools whose own daughters dutiful were kept out of the nigger asylums, was hoping to get me as one Italian willing to go to school and not be a pool hall hanger or a butcher boy, said this as because to this day I can sense it I then and worse now wrote like a Jesuit. They had told me that science was the coming age, though then I was sure that that virulent Pneumonia was going to have a bigger effect on the culture as Jesuits and  Franciscans  were dying off I recall with unnoticed regularity. His master machine was a super computer said to find the beginning of the big bang, a s the super colluder was, though in truth was used less for that than to be able to calculate bills given to the government down to the half penny, and of course to shut down peoples credit card accounts at the speed of light. This was seen as a first showing in my part of Anti-Semitism, though all in all predicted Google’s rise and their reason d’etra to a tee. Eaton isn’t just another Jewish banker type, but a seething cauldron of a man, based on Father Ginnocius no less, smart and brilliant, and who, though MS had ruined his chance to send Skylab hurtling into Texas stadium and hopefully kill Cosell, he like all Jews and Italians adored a Hercules when he saw one. 

In this I preceded where the comics would later bring Lex Luther and even Dr. Sivana as rich man millionaire villain, again utilising trope less television than ancient Italic fairy tale even then. Again the diva of goblin on jet skis attacking mister stupendous amid the Bauhaus sky scrapers seemed unseemly to me, and wanted no part of it.

5. Dr Virgil I presume. --In the first six of the twelve booklets I had planned in a flying off to Mars, which sort of again has echoes of Moore’s watchman too it, or auguring actually, as mine came first unnoticed or not, but sent out my share of pamphlets, not to cast any thing like plagiarism as I have and will to Fixar works, just to show we both steal from the same places, MS goes to Mars and a crystalline city predating Superman now preoccupation with crystalline by months, where Joe, the perfect named every man hero, discovers the true forum of all the works he is and has done. Not Kane, the Orson like hero father Gheppeto of the thing, but instead , a enlightened Arthur C Clarke like wheelchair bound-before he was, delightful intellectual named Dr Virgil Cherrywood, like my mothers Pinocchio readings to me as a boy, Doctore Chilliage,  who tell MS what he is. This goes on for pages, I recall doing them between Sunday dinners, stealing imagery from Mort Drucker of all people, as this seemed too adult to me to just use Stan’s gumbas this time. Although then as now have no idea how to explain what or who MS is but a woodbine creature come to life, an Italian fairy tale trope anointer when Cordelli first had Dr. Cherry in his own what I must admit is a lovely line of the dreaded Christopher Hitchens --having clicked on an anti Potter link I has  seen him in the shower soaped up in a always promoting style is an image I would pay to expunge and wipe from my mind, actually said something sweet, there, in calling Ovid as a stolen from golden city predecessor to Harry Potter, without having to deign to use the name Ovid,--that JRR Wraring uses blatantly and incorrectly, “ the ancient charm of metamorphoses“ --then says she sues this delightful aspect like a club to bludgeon her audience, showing Ovid’s don’t grow on trees. As it were. 

I have never seen a single episode, thinking super boy inst someone this interesting to see this long, graduate to the cape already, damnnit, still, in SmallVille, Superboy is taken to see a dying Christopher Reeve who is playing a caricature named Dr.Virgil Swann, again to show I was stealing from these wells before you knew they had water in them, and well before you poisoned them. Down to the wheelchair, I saw my own hero now a man, a new man, confronted with the older man, a palimpsest of Arthur Clarke, who had tired of his own foreknowledge and was telling the wooden toy-man who he was and where he came from, which of course was a neat trick as to this day do not know it all myself, expect to say, like Shakespeare if its in Ariosto that’s good enough for me.

I recall watching the Great Tom Snyder Tomorrow show in 1978 from where a lot of the impetus to make MS came from, and he did a show I have heard others mention about Superman, down to having old men Jerry and Joe then on, blind and feeble and fucked over by a company who in some years would act as if they had come up with the idea for superman and action comics number one themselves, like Nero rewriting Virgil as he did, sure he could punch it up and give it the happy needing all women yearn for. I prefer Growling Augustus when asked if he had fashioned his own tackle on the Pharsalus and his own commentaries, begged off and said Anthony had alas wiped hisself out a second time on his sponge. He could not in good conscious strike out Antony again by pretending he was good enough to make Antony an epic hero, though again it must have been better than what Shakespeare  plagiarized Antony Into. And I heard the guests then speak of the unknown they got to play the man of steel, and how he would knock peoples socks off how prefect a pair of living cartoons these two unknowns were, and I saw them speak of then the real and only true Action Comics number one, the one you cant buy on Amazon, ever. And I have used MS to if not relive those days, which isn’t what nostalgia really means, to almost --vindicate them.

Today I went out and saw Doctor Emily for my infection , as she is a lovely Italian doctor woman I got by accident, who works for a doctor who looks frighteningly like Michael Richards, as I was shocked to see a look-alike to Kramer walk through the halls when first there. AS she is a lovely woman, with hair as red as Patti’s pig, Irish looking with bright blue eyes, showing there never has been such a thing as the white girls speak of looking Italian, though Meagan Fox and even Angelina were close enough for government work. I have reached the page thought of years back in MS, when he saved MMA Violet, which I would see done later on, Superman the movie, when Superman’s saves Lois Lane. Altough in mine, before a crowd in west Hollywood and all the attached stereotypes involved, as I said, its good enough for Italians, its good enough for your sanctimonious protected sorts. In this page, He saves her from, being killed, supposedly though she had become super -powered by the auspices of Sly Sylvia Schwartz as the new Wonder girl, still he doesn’t know that, and saves her from being crushed by a giant kosher Penguin signage, where a man named Marty Slotnick sells kosher dogs and ices. The little girl next to her who he saves by accident is, I knew from the beginning, a little girl to grow up and become Vundergirl as an older Violet hands off the tiara to her as her predecessor Sylvia did previously.

And today as they have upped my ampicllian quotient--I couldn’t bring myself to tell lovely Emily of my urine additions, still, I am diligently at work to finish this booklet and its reaming pages before my birthday earlier if need be. And today, Bill Clinton was forced as they always are to come out and apologia for having told the truth, Machiavellian or not, as Obhamaluch seemingly does little more than flits from one big money rain dance to the next, though outdone of hooker face hag women and Clooney who likes playing Randolph Scott, the big moneys seemingly is waiting for the interregnum to come to a demanded and forewarned close. I know what Bill Is doing, and better than not, there is consigliore Dick Morris admitting that Roman Bill said to someone he has at that Neutered point six months to save --The Republic. I was half joking when I said he had to expunge Obama from the record as if crushing a Roman candidate plate full of passvanate grapes, and I was not complete serious when I said he thought he was as champion of the Republic. Then again, maybe not. And so, as the Wisconsin primary shows that democrats are as good at lousing up ad hoc elections as they are at the regularly scheduled ones, I note that I have been looking up Superman returns lately, that monstrosity which allowed me to cut my teeth and  make my bones as a measly sneered at blogger, as a new Superman is being readied, as it seems as I have said, Stan Lee is our national poet. Like me, he saw the end of American coming way back in Tom Tomorrow times, but at least made it  work for him. I am in that Limbo between good health, and having been worse. And I see where Singer a kind of allowable fag we have up our ass now, as the Jesuits are dead, that he gave in too much to the mythology of Superman when I have argued he did no such thing at all, and is just naturally boring. As I thought at first having bought a comic adaptation  of Superman returns  from Barnes and Noble as I try to push Maddowly AR there too, for three bucks from goodwill as I am want to do, seeing it is done by the gorgeous artist Alex Ross I think, worth the money, as Jack Warner is dead and I don’t feel literally so good myself, if he was so enthralled with the mythology of Superman why on earth was Superman dog in one of these boring scenes, not a greyhound...?

01 June 2012


1. When I felt a cold starting to come on, but worse, being a brilliant piece of Machiavellian genius at heart, I decided to avert the illness by taking massive quanta of orange juice, Red Hot, Tennessee Honey Bourbon, with an ampicellin dripped in-- and a shot of my own urine. I figured being massively endowed with brilliance that this would somehow start an equilibrium of sorts, sure in the knowledge of my inner opined brilliance. So, instead of a cold I have a respiratory infection. Now, you might say, well, Antony, that sounds less like you are brilliant, and more like you are along the lines of a massive idiot. But, I think I took the antibodies, which I normally avoid because my inner genius knew this was no cold from the first, and I think perhaps I have made it not as bad as it could have been as it isn't as horrible an infection as I had a few years ago, and am in not as bad a shape as I could have been. I am so ahead of various curves, that in fact, I am the one who at first looks like the complete moron.

2. I watched a Sunday show in a tired, congested, state, and saw our Peculiar Auger himself, house statistic Praetorian guard captain his own self, old David "The shoe store in the perfect place to reveal my genius" Brooks. He was so very Ver Klempt, for a wasp white bread sort, that his beloved Bammy had taken to tricking out against Bain Capital as he had, a presciently legitimate thing to do, at least Machiavellian-wise, but then as Monks taught me, if people would be more Machiavellian they would actually be more decent as at least then a certain Brooking slathered idiocy would be gone, and a calculation would be at the heart of the matter, rather than just emailing it up as one goes along, and demand to be admired for ones vices. He was upset that Amok would do this, as hed expect that from, awful vile Gingrish, but not from the saint who bows among us, Banalama. With friends like these, and of course, latest lisping effeminate for the left, EJ Dionne, who frankly I kind of actually like, he is glad to see Obama show at least a pulse, if not a pugnacious ness, as all know he is very careful about that Glass-Stiegel chin of his. Fearing not being pretty no mo, he is always one to bob and swerve and shuck and jive to the right lest a uppercut send him flying, as there is no left hook in his own arsenal of punches.

The fact that he wasn't this far with a legitimate opening is amusing--not in this dreadful unromantic year, where the pretense is as thick as thieves and the presumption is an only creed. I felt bad watching this fool, a low point he is, for the house of Dowd, which now has to think they were actually more decent and at least more important when they were allowing that human wig Dowd to use a paper to openly make fat jokes and reformed and attack a woman she had never met and only knew, like all Praetorian do, what she was told to wrote by --interested parties. But she got even by championing the cause of Obama , as Hillary for whom she did her scalpel work, was after all, corrupt, the swan song of a Sejanus who finds himself unable to do that last thing asked for him by Auspicious shadow, and so to save her soul she went with back bencher Bamoluch, to wash her hands, in Pyrelle if need be. I felt icky--hey I'm sick, the Chaucer words aren't at finger tips, as our robotic good fellow, David "Awesomo" Brooks seemed like a jilted lover when Bagman didn't do as he was told to do, though him having openly tap danced to Black Stone Grp. to again say he believe in nothing--you think they know that by now, well, it refastened his faith in Humanity, or at least Obama.

As once he went to Black stone, and admitted twas all bullshit suddenly The Kuldow division of GE Properties, a general partner of Bain capital, and don't you forget it, well, it was almost a little Saturnalia in spring, as they on cue said well things aren't as bad as they seem, as the polls plummet, but then who  said the people have any say in this, as a doomed Tyberius would ask. The people are revolting, but useless, as forget SICILY, this is Liguria, and remember like Obama, when opus came to shove, the upset and noble Cornelius came trippingly to the army to push down a Liguria Revolt, shooing that he despite long winded books about decay, he knew which side of the Panini, yes the Romans were unsealing hot bricks to press sangwiches in Pompeii, where they found the Tuscan noodle machine, was literally buttered, and knew he wasn't a Ligurian anything, despite the best efforts to legitimize wayward Sicilians by saying they are all from Turin, still, he threw his red ball in the pot, and the first wrinkle of Empire is don't get in way, as Newt the Blocked last Roman knight could verily attest.


3. So, instead with a low grade fever, and using the inner calculus of my middle sea  people --the Jews being the only ones that Sasha  Baron Cohen is told are verboten to his satirical  gifts--I have eaten mass quantities of various chicken parts each day, to use this fowl to beat back infection, like something out of Levy, if not Livy. I watched as the simmering conduct between the collected archetypes of dear mister Gonniff himself, that hagiographer from and of Queens, between divine witch Ramona and dull as dishwater calculating Drita come to a seeming head, but like every show this season I saw, the next week, ala Dick Tracy, the implicated stay tuned moment was forgotten as frankly seemed more episodic than serial and which at one point one eon the hags made a joke about not knowing what the word serial meant with a witticism about cocoa puffs. How cute. And it came out that in fact this antipathy between wicked witch with leggings Ramona, really a perfect imagery of a caricature of a witch in AR named Portia, it as uncanny, and Drita was in fact made by the sister who runs this show seeing the star quality of Ramona, who couldn’t be let on, disliked by over fed white chicks  who are told to hate her ilk by Barbie buying mothers early on, and by Lesbians who like to see the butterfly aspects of the dreaded  Marylyn Monroe, started the moment that Jennifer the Mob sister asked Ramona to save that tawdry show.

Oh, fat bloated bag of donuts Big Angie was fine, she fit the part of loudmouth italic fallen prostitute with a gold heart, heart of we’re lucky, and her balloons fit perfectly this suddenly Sunday comic of a show. But Ramona, and again how great of a name is that, almost fairy tale or like Cartman literally meaning person of paper, that girl who I adore, she was more along the lines of sequence gowned Wally Woodian Martian goddess seen in Flash Gordon cartoons, a Sunday apparition no longer seen. Sometimes for Ma we buy out of town papers, the Pittsburgh Press is finished in more ways than one, and in the Washington post is the loneliest comics section seemingly like the boyhood days, and if it wasn’t for comics strips drawn by dead men, I’d recognize none of them. Half out of my mind I, late in the day, went to the aip portfolio I still keep all my work in, as I think one has to be a better or worse artist  than me to think of selling anything but a Xerox reproduction, and I was sweaty, then taking out pages from MS. Kept in a large white envelope the 200 pages at which I have been stuck for a while, were gone at by me with verve, and I took out each page done on beloved comic book newsprint and kept thinking through glassy eyes I must re do pages on acid free paper. I still have no idea what this meant or why at all I did it. The pages on newsprint, seemed the best ones, but my fever hath spoken.

After a day of collecting the visual wildflowers that are pictures on the net of Wendy Fiore--strictly for modeling the goddess of the purge walls purposes, of course,  and avoiding the poison toadstools of those other hags who I try to avoid, I sat down and railed to watch MOB WIVES, and their requisite reunion show. I saw that all day there was a Bob Newhart show festival on and found I couldn't sit and watch it, it in glimpses of sights  the lovely Suzanne Pheshette as an exemplar of the kind of sophisticated sexuality with grin, I had been taken with as a boy--good luck finding another of her out there among the braying hawk eyed gals of empire, as Ovid would have learned sadly years ago, and I found myself both in need of emotional salve and or expectorant, and had to pass on this. A few days before I had seen lovely younger shimmering short haired brunette fairy queen Suzanne in a story about Rome from the high noon of America, as Gore calls it, 1962, a sweet and  decent age that even the National Lampoon guys had nostalgia for back when, never finding another millue and setting that didn't make them the fathers of the intellectual snide smarminess, a sort shown in droves by scum like Bill Mahar today. In the old days, it helped to have a Harvard Education to bolster a certain grimy parody--satire is dead, but now amusingly any thug with having done time at various chuckle huts and ha ha factories, any Cabaret MC who has done Leno can call themselves a Juvenal, and so the dichotomy of the days of now and the relic of Carole and Bob and Emily hewing a hep quality and a socialization that aids would rupture, I wrote Rapture first to show where my mind is at, and seeing the even youngest Emily there as perfect wife of a kind eschewed by our marrying queens, our Sadie Hawkins faggots who dream of a more Donna reed destiny I said, I couldn't do it. Why...Because.

Even the awful Bayhar had to at least admit a kind of fondness for ice queen --it isn’t a insult coming from me,-- Ramona, she of the perfect name, the daughter of ramparts. She shimmered there, an Acriverse heroine come to life, Calm and cool, like an Assassin--no better than that, as when he was told that the Persians had an elite force of men trained to kill on command, a disgruntled Caesar said, yes,we Romans call them ‘Soldiers‘. It bothered Caesar this sort of elite force shit, as Obamala is marinating now as he gives out names of his assassin crew, so Ted Baxter like is his need to be seen presiding over the birth of six baby Busephilies. No , she was a watch of the Rhine sort, cold and cool and one could see our dear Camilla, Italic Amazon, look it up, as even those  predisposed to dislike Virgil on general principal are moved, like Dante’s snow moon, to admire his passages on her, the beauteous witch-warrior girl, italea incarnate, who is seen more in italic fairy-tales as the collections of equally despised Calvino than ever seen in Walt’s perfected fever dream of utopian main street.

And then strikingly I saw a commercial for a movie about Snow white, this is three this year no…?, FROM a company logo’s who told me not so long ago that AR wasn’t the sort of thing they do at all, at least not if not in the public domain. Oh, niggers, I know that trick, but with me there is  secondary aspect of not so much fencing the Etruscan vase to the blowhards at the Moma, but showing it off in my own home as stolen by me, as Brutus does to the marker pikes he steals in RM. And pretty south African blond, too cute for the middlebrows, plays the queen, telling a truth of things, as a good actress wasted in twilight times plays Snow white, who I know as said as much to them was an epithet wise crack, was a name coined by the first poet to be called divine, yes Virgil, imagine that, who called Helen Snow White, as it was the worst epithet he could think of. It is telling issuing the Machiavellian calculus I try to attune all my t- squares to, that the bitch goddess queen in this, as it was in “Belladonna” a film version of AR, the perhaps original Snow white, as Grimm’s as opposed to Calvino hating white trash was not afraid to admit to, I had sent in to interested parties who always take a pass, is played by a truly lovely blond woman , thus still instilling and receptacle of hatred as she would have to be by the crones in the mezzanine.

It is telling that I had positioned the queen to be such an Aryan as the terracing demons and villains of AR, like the bible are always Blond, before Uncle Walt had enough of that. And plucky lovely brunette is shown in again Camilla Roman amour against the army of the night, which the awful Greek queen sued to destroy Turan, the wayward nymph eventual goddess of Love in my ancients romances. In the story I wrote, I did do my best to listen to advise to remove the fairy tale and scribbling Gracie from the wrap around story of a fall and decline of ancient Tuscany, which I thought my best work in dichotomy, akin to the layers of cake and pickled fish done so brilliantly by Giovanni, whose ashes make up the story. Somehow in 2009 this was passed on and again with prejudice, why oh why do I even then make asides to a decline and fall,  as despite Obamas then less insufferable American confetti, and triumphal rain dance, why do I still demand that fairy tales be the italic vessals they were to avoid censorship as they have been since the dower and awful Percales. Because. I found this instructing and knew just by the lovely real blond--that may be your first mistake--as Acid Queen that the collected Jews auctorial sympathies must be with her now, though the fat women in the auction don’t really like real blonds, as that to them is a gelded lily they would like to truly avoid. I cut away as much Greek hating is as almost unseemly for an Italian, and still it bothered some Hollywood goon, as I railed back in email, must I take Pope Marcus and turn him into Danny Kaye to make you gonniffs happy…? Gonniffs is a laced word I take it, I was cut loose. They thought I was told later that speaking of Danny Kaye was as usual virulent Antisemitism,  when what I was trying to say was I wasn’t turning Pope Marcus vestal fuking solder boy Turan adorer, Prince of signora Fortuna, into anything named Hans, which again like the word Kaiser has an instructing entomology, as does little mermaids.

4. I thought it was telling in a review I was reading in the dear House of babbling Brooks, the dark shadows of the New York Times, all came into sharp relief in a piece read for the Caro Book on LBJ. This is the paper which once derided Gore Vidal for having been gay and without a wife of any sort, and this acceptable house whatever she is, something with a vowel on the end of her name but not one that sounded like too Verdi for Punchy Pinchy or the other clerks, spoke of the massive figure of our new parallel life, Landslide Lyndon and how he could have been shown as Machiavellian, havens to Betsy, an American shown as Machiavellian, are they ever that deep…? See, but instead is just Shakespearean, as if to say , again lying but telling the truithw hen need be, alas middlebrow now no race or creed or sexual orientation boarders, that had the man with the vowel on the end of his name been stupid enough to show Purgatorial Lyndon warts and all, well that would have been too much for her little west side hart to bear, and instead she could in good, or at least NyeTimes, councils say that Lyndon was less a Mandrake than a poor political liberal thug who lost his way, as Opposed to the dared Bobby buck toothed Irish black hero to the catholic trash, who found his evolution from being an ape in the tree of the senator of blacklists leaving poor un yet Homo Roy Cohn behind, and that  amid the banners and the war Spartan parades, amid the American confetti, a fall happens, never decant enough to be Machiavellian, and guess who dear gal, Shakespeare’s  Virgil in fact as, you wont hear that from any apologist on Charlie Rose. An that in fact, as always, a funny thing happens on the way to the armamentarium.

I sent ON COMEDY into the place I was told to four years ago, and they were shocked that I had done this, the editor there then, is now long gone in the purge that delinquent Barry calls the golden age. But they looked at it, the epic called ‘On the roof ‘, WHICH I SENT IN-- AND THEY WERE QUITE --WHATS THE WORD....?, IMPRESSED. I’m NOT USED TO THAT. But again, here comes the caveat, they told me to finish it, like Jim Shooter telling me to go to arts school and learn the little things, as I did the hard parts like hands and perspectives quite well, but made Googly eyes and cartoon wax lips on everyone-- after having been tossed out. It should be a complete history, they said. See us back after the election, they said. They want to see what I make of it. I’m not holding out much hope. I am tiring of it though and think I will cut corners as usual and mere collect the assorted post I make here and say --Tada! on what is already being called “ Taxmeggedon“. Saturnalia may be different this year, why Kudlow is getting his shopping done now. I am thinking of placing a cross over book of AR --THE RAGE OF CANNIOLINUS, on smash words, for free. There’s that stroke again. And half way through Mob Wives, I was starting to fidget as it was decreed they all be hunky dunky about all things, with only cold and steely Ramona being an Italian in this in the truest Greek sense of the word. And I saw and thought for the first time, I was a bit loopy on cough syrup and nilla wafers as I was confined still in the Cleopatra’s doctors medicine aspects of vanilla, as the Romans thought Vanilla as an off shoot of aspirin and willow wood. As I eat these, why…?,  who knows. And I saw that this was made by our friend Harvey Weinstein, it hit me, strangely, as I think I knew that, but in a fever cloud it is in allusions the realizations which do come. So, I thought, this is what we are reduced to tween the showings of vanity pieces of Coriolanus in modern dress as our Jewish Orson doesn’t get the joke, but sings along in time. As this is what we get between the sorts of films where Helena Bodam Carter, who I liked at first, but again found a lovely woman too shilling to play ugly for the mezzanine, an even more awful The Grafololo, who seems to be playing to type, between the hagiography of the merry houses of Guelph, as that name is a loaded word once one reads Dante, and so the more or less Romantic Windsor must be implicated. So, I take it Mob wives and this lower level of italic folktale seen and signed off by Gonniffs like Harrrvey, I then see it in whole, basically, its this sort of thing which keeps him from having to live back in Nyack.