27 June 2013


Collected here is a page of cartoons, and shorter off the cuff quick takes on things. In mid summer, I become wistful, tired, disdainful of various things, as I feel off put, with human gargoyles like Weiner and Obama, those who studied ethics under Milton Burl, who won’t give an inch and wont shut up, all makes me itch. I think of endless days spent in warm room,s trying to insert into my work the ethics of Boccaccio and Manzoni, drawing figures cribbed from Castelfranco only to be told by over fed white chicks that Italians are one step above the niggers they prattle about loving, as they clutch their purses. Now, Bammy uses the stage like a Ed Sullivan plate spinner, one can hear that piece of music under him, babababbababababbababbbababbabababaddaddaaddaaddaadaaah, dahhh dahhh dah dah….bababababababbabababababbababbabaababdbdbdbdbdbdbdb—an on in this manner as it is always a variety show with him, as the awful NBC becomes now the new york Enquirer of old, doing the usual tricks, lots of rape, lots of woman’s issues, lots of abortion, you know usual shit, so no one notices they read from the Dick Cheney script before they acted like June never happened. Its always winter there. Now its all twitter posts, smiling tap dancing, iPhones on live MSNBC broadcasts, or as close as they come, they have a seven second delay lest anyone come too closet to mentioning anything. And the tribune of the plebs again provide their scummy creed, and Bill Clinton, the man who signed the defense of marriage act now acts as instrumental in its being repealed, but then with him, all is a Chinese box and all is a gambit, as again he strikes me as unseemly as he seems to be torturing for sport. And as MSNBC sues both fagots weddings and occasional summer tempests, to never have to bring up the fact that sudden patriotic light bulb paid filth is going after Snowden, it seems that the patriot act being not only kept but escalated might be the last thing that causes the calliope to crash to the ground. Instead of central casting queers and lard bottomed Lesbos who now keep poking their dead parents in the eyes with their lifestyle choices, to me a married faggot is akin to a German dressed as Roman Caesar, it makes me antsy, which once, like an anathema to marriage our Liberal Virgil Meathead pointed out to us, I instead think back sadly of the priests, and again with anger at the fat white women who once, before fags were sanitized for their approval, didn’t want to drunk the from the same water fountains as queers, lest they catch their cooties. I hear the echo in each faggot telling me they cannot be hated for what they are born as, that the sottovoce implementation there is because, having studied well at grandpas Klansman knee--they are white. You know, not like Sicilians. As the Jersey state police are afield that the requiem for a Sunday night TV wop might start trouble as the dago versions of crips and bloods see the death train of Gumba daddy one as an escape for another riot, I warn the queers left behind, that having the assembly of queens on your side might not be the best of things for anyone, but then, as I recall hearing that Gonniff Shumare who like his cousin Bloomberg will speak incessantly about everything but banking crimes, who would show up at any Columbus day Pita Freita Booth, once declined the opportunity to show up at an opening of an Italian American museum in –no it wasnt Batavia was it...?, where an instillation was made not to the Mafia, but to Sacco and Vanzetti. And, in the late nineties, no less, the new man, new American, closet Jew still feared as a comedy team name he would rather avoid. And Hillary did go, as I recalled in Roman Mythology. Hmnnn….


11 June 2013


Yesterday, I renounced me Facebook account,which is kind of sad as Liked beieng able to see the goings on of Aaron, Cyn, Danielle, Valerie, Idrina, David the communist, and seeing the bulletins from devoted to types like Ian, Neal Adams, and others who I had come to know and be befriended by along the way. I negotiated seeing the works of others, as no uptight art goon me, I have never seethed at the works of others as have some. But eventually the day was begun by sitting down and seeing pretty girls and art school buddies posts be relegated to only seen going to recent posts, as Rachel Maddow big footed the page with a thousandths breathless bulletins all saying pretty much, Don't worry, choir, things aren't as bad as you think. I liked Rachel Maddow before anyone of you but alas she became less Steven Sondheim and too much Jerry Herman, if you get my drift. Right behind her was Alex Wagner, and when I noticed the usual 1000 responses to each post, well, dwindled down to a measly 300 or so a post. I have studied Roman farce under Fascist queens scine 1970, and I can tell when the door slamming has become , as Machiavelli warned, less delightful and more insufferable. Again, not enough Sondheim and too much Jerry Herman. I told the t shirt billionaire that eh had gotten his wish, and I took off, not to be beleaguered or censored again, and to send his undulated ads to hand money to Al Franken and Pocahontas Warren to some other shlub, as I try to be more Rocky Marciano than Ali. I don't loosen ropes, but sometimes, I come to the point of asking why bother. And today, Al, Al Franken, in the yeshiva class our Assembly of Queens have become, still though controlled by a south that dreams of raising again, or at all, or not, he showed up calling the emorphis Arabs out there as The Bad Guys, with a black and white self love and devotion hidden behind bad Plautus appropriation by such deleterious chosen as he since Masada, and which no Searchers has ever dealt in, but no matter, the cocktail party shant be un- frolicked as if he said the word Fag, as I'm sure he calls them something in Yiddish. He and all and which I have tired of , having known my share of Jews and Italian who hate Scorsese and sopranos almost as much as I do. But New Sicily beckons and the new york Slime actually spikes stories about Antinee Wiener, sounds like my address at an old Earthling account, and I was taken aback by this.,..this guy,,,the human Shawng, the celluloid Dickie, the magic eight ball, the human tampon, the refugee from guys and dolls, Inspector Levitt, has suddenly become our passavante ....? Have I ever mentioned my favorite line about Sicily and Dante, and why they were doomed...? I must have. So this blog is also not barred up, but closed while fags, hags spics, tricks, coloreds, dykes, creeps, dweebs, slobs, bobs, queers, jeers, coons and spooks, dirt and filth,now on cue all waving the flag and calling people bad guys, he hasn't had this much fun since Monica...

, --sorry I AM GETTING MORE ADMIRATION FOR CC EATON THAN IS GOOD, for the Summer while I try to check out the gracious ladies. And Turkey burns this year, the Arabs having burned out their kindling at Benghazi. It seems they just heard their poet laureate, a befuddled old man, plagiarized almost whole passages of his Laural book from Norman Mailer. Norman Mailer....? You know, the prize too good for Italo Calvino. Join me if you'd like for shorter works, and new pictures, hey the scanner works...!, at http://acriradiopictures.tumblr.com.

10 June 2013


1. My Mother and sister were watching what seems to be the often replayed on a loop showing of The devil wears Prada, as My Ma, a seamstress who made war era wedding dresses for local italic girls out of bleached burlap, gave up any thoughts of being an Italian hem maker for life as an American housewife. My father of middle-class stock, came to the golden door of his own volition but he knew and kept it as a credo that king Umberto did empty his jails and police these people on boats to America, which is why he stayed aloof of the rabble from Sicily, in that that he knew was here, and though as done by almost every central and southern Italian potentate, dammed the Italians to not only to Martin Scorsese, but to Sacco and Vanzetti and occasional Salvettis, as the pompous little white students never found 5000 Italian innocents paced in jail by Hoover as being anything that could tale the heat off of farm team colligates paying nothing to nigger gladiatorial summer stock.

When I see this show, which my mother enjoys if only for the cascade of clothes that the makers stably knew to showcase to effect, more than even Miss Steep’s perfect act as a monster woman, It make me actually sad. Who ever this woman is, I thought, as they knew enough to get the last brunette, doe eyed cutie pie Princess Anne herself Hathaway to pay this Danni, or Allie, or whatever feminine diminutive for a woman she was by fate named, where is she now, I wondered…? Where is the deep throat of seventh avenue now, who deigned to lectures us, Obamaities is spreading almost as fast as virulent aids, I noticed a commercial during this FX movie for the aids kit that they are telling their newlywed perverts to buy, as I saw it during V for Vendetta a lot on the bbc too, how Vogue was a nest of vipers. Well, there is a shock.

I haven’t liked her since hearing her, this seventh avenue scribe,Lauren Weinberger, or something, her voice matched acutely what I thought shed be, on NPR, way back, as she was compering her work to that of Petronius. It is engrained in the white chick's Psyche to at least memorize some names as shorthand for all corruption, if not haughtiness, as has to go through the road before the Flavian amphitheater, where the English said, control of the world rests. Raiding through Rome, Patton is said to have said, that without Rome, that bastard Hitler has lost everything, he made sure he filmed these images of him in ancient Italy surrounded as the new conqueror, are in colour I saw on a cable channel, seeing the divine Coliseum and penis helmeted American in the Appian streets. It is said, though I am not sure scared wop rat Coppola  admitted it in his script except in the end, that Patton said he was the latest Caesar in these streets, and that, the Germans had finally been vanquished with their darkness and their barbarism, and that, he said, If Hitler cant keep Rome, he cant keep anything, and that the scourge of Nazi Germany as reduced as it has been for a thousand years, reduced to the holy Roman empire again, no Prussian able to gain traction without the city by the river as a foothold to the sea. I heard this scene in the script Patton as taken out, too imperial, even with an M rating, as when the great Robert Mitchem, later to be recast as Joe, Mister Stupendous, by me, read that scene, eventually to be the voice over at the end, he tossed the script away. He by then had given in and was mailing it in, and told the Jews of then which they misinterpreted, that you need someone for this crap who cares. You need Gorge C Scott. It was beyond the great Film Noir hero now, he at sixty, to do this, though Herman Wolke’s cartoon of war winds was more something he could do without breaking a sweat. I actually thought of this line, find someone who cares, as not a put down as all is in Jewey Joke land, but as real meditation. AS I was watching the appealing and Gracie like Hathaway, cutie pie supreme, as she transformed into Diva quality hanger on, as she being put upon in the new imperial city to me still seemed charming, vital and something I would have done at the drop of a hat. To the various kinky haired ethnics in the film, the wasps go to noble savages who took the purses and then put on guilt trips, I have said be gone to people before, beat it, toots, and take that scruffy closet case with you, I am moving up in the world. Having dealt with an Italian mother, Italy-Italy not these whores here as MA ADVISES ME,  and not being wasp, believe me, the sottovoce breathlessness of Streep would be nothing, and I would unleash the devoted student and worker bee I might have been if not too early on I had been taught that it really didn't matter anyway.

I feel bad watching this Vogue movie, though Mother and sister caught in the awful hinterlands of Pirogi steam are captivated by it. They not even listening to the plot as much as transfixed by the cash and carry, pert-a-portier imagery. I went away, but feel bad that again as in usual films like this; the tinplate is always adhered to like a holy writ. The plot--, that some non black, middle class, creep gets a job at a useless meaningless thing, like Vogue, or The New Yorker, a place where Mayflower old man stink meets the always more commercial attitudes of a grinning streetwise Jew, as was here, and the good and honest decent student of white literature, who dreams of being F Scott without the foray into Hollywood to write for equally vicious and venial Jews like Dory and Jack, he-she works at the magazine of all things, racked and pinioned with guilt, or gilt, losing his soul a page and a perfume sample at the time, having to have their decency sold like baloney in sliced pounds, until, perhaps, redemption in found, they leave Gotham, to become a great writer, but since The Great Gatsby has already been written, they are summarily never heard from again. A Burr, hell, even Visit to a small planet, is beyond them, being loved is half the game, so they fade away. Bright Lights, Shitty Chicken.

2. This is a favourite among women and the house Jews who chase after them as audience and paramours, right up there with the actually heinous variation there of, a tired mildew class Bourgeoisie white chick, steered clean of that self same Manhattan, will pick up and go to Italy, Tuscany, when it as big, thanks to Gorge Clooney as a black Irish chairman of the commerce board, until Italy, no fools they, having done these political games for three millennia of years put up a law that some tracts of land in Italy could only be bought by Italians and Italian consortiums, it their word, like senator and Grace, and though that sound heinous to good white people here, who push for Immigration bills as to get someone in this country willing to clean toilets and raise chidden, in about that order, you are the ones who keep your Negros in cement cages, like a Tyberius did. It made my laugh when a woman, of course who had read Eat Pray Love, thought the new onrush of shysters looking for Italianate works thought that my Ancient Romance could be cataloged into this new on rush of Italy as hausfrau backdrop, and asked to read the book. What did I send...? Claudianus, Marcus and others in the Romans Shvitz, speaking of gone paramours, Clinton-Claudianus explaining the myth of Alpina, the dark haired Betty who was the first Goddess of Love to the Italian, before amusingly so, she tired of it and begged out. No room fir curt sentences there, the word sued by Sallust to explain his own divine and thus Amazon hated sonnets to a mad man, and I am not entirely sure if I ever received a response back. Somehow the relationship between pope Marcus and his favourite vestal, Gracie, if not between him an a witch actress he had made into a nun wasn’t the sort of heart warming thing women write, but then I always took it as an insult that this particular eating praying Loving woman had to as would befit a middle brow hag went to Italy for the food, Naples for the unbridled thievery joy, but had to go to Indja of course, for spatiality amid the dung, a delta that somehow gets away with its caste system because all the people are varieties shades if nut brown—Hey its Moorehouse college writ large. Hats Off!

Once, seeing one of these movies, and seeing a perfectly pretty brunette Italian girl in a white dress, an image of prettiness as seen in Mister Bernstein’s admission of the parasol girl in Citizen Kane, I thought, like Gene Siskel, what she was doing next, almost watching her walk off the screen and wondering more about her than the awful goings on here...?, back at the Fountain here I think human stereotype Danny De Vito was haunted by the glorious beauty of a pug nosed cream cheese hack goddess named Bell. I had only stopped on this movie seeing the small Tribune nutshell log-line in the corner and misconstrued the name of this late days blond in sexual hack bitch, the kind Jews like, with a tall drink of water short haired brunette who wears a bikini well, who in Jew town Hollywood has a career at all as to play an affable witch, so some improvement, around Halloween.

She, the lovely watercolour brunette in the white dress on the peripheries of barbarian dominated Rome, was an accidental star as was found by Italian filmmakers when they, as even Scorsese admitted, made Tuscan verbs the vocabulary of film, but no more, walked off the screen, into a Rome, I knew was infinitely more DIVINE AND CORRUPT, decent and horrid, sewage and marbled, than whatever white girls fairy tale this shit was, until my brother, who had stopped short thinking I was watching another Coriolanus or some such things saw the grinning monstrousness Sprite from hell named De Vito, and the white chick his ilk has been domesticated by, and said, with disdain, Get this crap off of here. You’re going upstairs, I said, what do you care.…? Get this ashhole, De Vito, off of here, and let him nigger for white folks, like he wants to. Anger is Catching, but then who noticed the similarity’s of what was happening now and Orson Welles Julius Caesar in modern dress back in the snow, again that was me. It’s always me. Not that it helps. Had I been making that dreadful film, seeing here, as I think was done in the warm sepia days of defeated Rome, as geniuses again where on every street corner, an Italian way of doing things that the white barbarians can not ever really attain, I would have filliped that bored and middlebrow panaflex lens, spun passionately aright at her, and as if a pencil mustachioed suit and boutonnière wearing Italian genius as seen in I love Lucy, when Europe still had a Tennessean’s infatuation, before Gore Vidal Died and Britannia thought itself Mod, I would have asked her if she was willing to play in Bitter harvest. AH, but that was when Rome was Rome, America was America and we didn’t have to have Light bulb queens support wholeheartedly the idea of an American Praetor coming out to say that no one is reading your mails or listening to your phone calls. Whew, stupid me. But then, as I have said, you could all do well occasionally to see some Roman verbs and pages all along the way.

Were I allowed to be the last Italian filmmaker before the usual wop opera gangster hacks recede into the dullsville nothingness, and are replaced by no one, the scarlet plan for Italians since Greeks and then Englishmen wanted the peninsulas of their own, I would have stopped filming right there. I can see myself at times, in blue suit and thinning hair and shadowed ray bans as an Italian Master of ceremonies worthy of Fellini's Roma, at a well-stocked table as Father Gore explains the creation to us with ex pats and joyous gals, a lust for life repealed by the needed wantonness of now. I could see myself as a heir to Sergio, rather than the clay faced Clint, who undid all the reclamation he had done, by admitting the podium was empty, in me as rather a man who would keep Django an Italian blackheated hero, and thus get maybe more discredit from the spikes in the road than were eventually made. But like Orson and the italics, I cant be a mongoloid scribbling away furiously so no one sees its all crib notes, I adore John Ford, who wouldn’t...?, but a house negro and someone with a con to play. I adore the Searchers, which offends injuns seem to rail against most heartily, as injuns are shown in many more movies worse, alike how Asians rail against Charley Chan, and yet no one notices, but Gene Siskle again, that Peshi has made a lifetime of doing wop- minstrelsy.

I still see the adults of 1970 as the real adults, the last adults, seeing any first movie made as did the great and abused and wasted life of ex cowboy star Dennis Hopper, as the last movie. All ambition is evil in a land of counter jumpers, who at least dance on command, do you think I haven’t seen Ovbams the magnificent but in sepia face in catholic school before…? Is the hatred that Bobby Rush has for Erkle, any different from the hatred I had for smiling italic goons who played silly wop acts …? I think I got a like on Face book last year from The black Panthers no less for wondering why Sandy Hook so made our House nigger cry when twelve year olds getting their heads blown off while jumping rope elicited nothing but his usual test pattern stare, --Ed Sullivan Ed Sulllivannnnn Eddddd Sullivaannnnnn!- so, do you think I haven’t seen and felt like them before at the turgid handed wimps, they are always effete, you notice, that they bring behind the golden door…? Ah, but I have had my share of laughs, I have, to the wop fucks who held grudges against me for not being willing to dance with them at command or telling them to ride on huffy bikes because I couldn’t do that just now, or that I hadn’t learned to ride a bike yet, causing me eventually stupidly never to, as the gumba lords of Flatbush told me in so many words that the street to the candy store was somehow there’s. Ah, West side story road companies, without a girl. [DID you notice what I did here, by attaching images   of men, Hercules and shlubs like me, as the girl I wish to follow, is somehow again missing...?] They were, as I always suspected Obama was, lovers of white men so much that, well, it took its Greek course, beware the love of Batman, it says much, as they eventually hummed the soundtrack to Rent, if not did some of its death of Camille sissy takes. So, with the somehow engrained knowledge of seeing the old men and realities of my pop, who I had grown to resent, still, somehow, they engender in me the last breath of Italian American life, now as much as anything being trashed by a madmen show that I take it is tanking, as now, as people hear the clicking on the line was no time to demean the last great society America ever had.

So, I in narrow tie and Ray bans, I would have brought an end to the filming, and walked past the monsters handed to me by Central Casting, and walked to that girl, calling out to her all the way. I have done it before to bountiful brunettes, on the street no less, taken by the thunderbolt, to strike up conversations with stylish pretty black and peach colored exquisite gracious ladies, who would turn, and smile, actually it hasn’t been a boon to me to do so, but I haven’t been accosted or dismissed or defamed as you might think. The one I think of now, I followed out of a book store, she a penthouse pet caliber chickadee again in black glasses, who turned and reveled, on purpose it seemed with a knowing timing, a pair of stunningly sparkling blue eyes, turning out to be newly made channel eleven anchor girl-hostess Jodine Costanzo, who had started work as my art school life was running down. And there were others, and like that but this time, con gusto, and with the power position of being an Italian dictator, --I mean director, like senator that word meant something, Id follow that perfect ass, knowing that just filming her speaking to me, I am a camera, would be more engrossing and more cinematic than all the pratfalls and explosions and farces that Jews disdainful of the rubes think they have to stream roll from the assembly lines. In so much as I have been told, no less by some, a Plautus like admission of knowing the audiences, which when such was said by someone commiserating with me about how heinous the sopranos were, seemed more like a threat than anything. Not quite keen on the America this has become, and as an Italian knowing this was this man's business and never hold grudge as do the credits to their race, I wished the bald Jewish man well, as he did me, telling me with Virgillian keenness, Tony, somehow get it down yourself, bankers killers, at least then, weren’t popcorn material.

3. But, in the last few days, the cascade of scandals, which like ‘barbarian’, must be put in quotes by white women editors, has grown experientially. And now, the targeting of IRS on conservatives seems almost Bucolic, as it has been learned, from England of course, as Fat Candy is too busy crumbly chewing chips ahoy to understand her fulsome decency of all things Obama, that secret mined Erkle is gathering up all scads of personal information like V’ger, scared is our white knuckle queen that somewhere some rouge third cousin shall take down building and embarrass the lord of the manor. Oh maybe some people would be killed too.

This as funny, as to turn the knife, Rachel of all people showed the speech that gave us Barry, a thin high psyched squeal, nothing as decent or as sonnet like as Cuomo’s, but then Cuomo, as an Italian, didn’t have the Oprah Book club to fall back upon, as I think many Italian comics and or filmmakers of that day like using mother Dowd’s epithet of Hamlet for Cuomo, as he wasn’t so mad as to constantly ez pass the parkway over the Rubicon, or cross the river, as would be others from Texarkana with Roman delusions soon enough. Like those horrid comic hacks who make brackets of what hero could beat what hero, and somehow Batman always wins though he is surrounded by Hercules’s, If placing Bill against Cuomo, I well versed in comics and politics, the dirty art that eavesdropper snooper peepers creeper Obama thinks himself so much better than, I know enough always pick Mario, as I know Captain Marvel is the mightiest of heroes, as his magic can always beat the more Jewish somberness of Superman, something they admit to themselves, except when they’d rather not. In addition, I know Captain Marvel would not even need to keep poisonous gloves to cheat. In that speech where he like Christie was always looking ahead, and again like the baby let on Joe Fridays stoop he always has been, child he is, will say anything-- just don’t leave, Dad, Shane come back!--HE MADE a point, didn’t he always, of sidling...yes he’s a siddler!-- with some fat ankle Liberians against the patriot act, ah, but like so much that was different, it always is, and that as then, and this is my whip now, and on and on. And now you are stuck with that guy who said, watch out kids, that the IRS wasn’t alone or by itself that soon enough Narcissus would be, like Moe Szylack, pointing right at you. To Machiavelli second persona is all. Isn't it funny that again The Roman rules haven’t failed  me, the fag Jesuits teaching me pre Jesuit law to this day, isn’t it great that we now find out that the smarmy little nigger queen street side counter jumping other nobody, academician, shit faced, smarmy greedily little coon face is doing things to protect the patria that even the patrician George Bush didn’t do. Ah, it makes what Cattiline said to Spartacus, your Jewry hero put in perfect order and focus, that the shit of these streets are more patriotic to these, this, status quo than the senators ever were, as long as they are paid first, even in peanuts, paid none the less. Isn’t it Romantic to know that poor little Erkie poo is out there shredding the constitution with gahead, gaheads from yentas Jews who came out to applaud his turn coat work and spy on Arabs, and on anyone else how got too close to their stuff, and we now find out that Erkle the Margined has been spying on you all along, how much of that intell ends up in GE’s hands as they bring good things and burning toasters to light. Beware the praetorians, the Romans said, but beware the Radical,…more. The length he goes to protect the patria, all the white trash, the holders of gods and guns, a line I think people always remember when he waves his dirty orange and green parody of an American flag.

Now showing the vulgar ethics of white trash, suddenly the hangers on and flatterers who saw nothing wrong with the other scandals, suddenly they are ver shvitzed as this time, its important, this time it’s them. How dare you finger me, you Joe Valacchi twerp, they say en masse, how dare my papers and effects be riffled through, why you can hear them sing, we stood up for the Arabs shit, and this is who they pay us back…ah but in a decline and fall, the Jesuit taught me, the closets don’t rip open, they get deeper and I would love to to go through some of Larry the maffickers and The Human spittoons emails, as would Erkle, as he must, little boy he is, know what is being said about him in gym class when he with deviated septum is given a doctor’s excuse, as ilk always is. He must know, like Jerry Lewis, we are going up in our narcissism now, heyyyy layyyydeees!--, what is being said of him, no better like Costanza he shall leave a running tape recorder in the briefcase at the NSA and then well find out what they think of me. It’s the summer of George!

And now Fox news, the true Obama praetorian guard, who shit their pants when Newt showed probably with instigation by other Roman brother Bill, proved what politics is truly about, before it degenerates into the papal states, has to keep hitting the IRS angel, as the truly horrid part about discriminate spying is something they think they can live with, as long as not one of their Jewish button men messengers. They have to surf these waters carefully lest the north star be gone and they, as Columbus almost did, find themselves in the southern hemisphere, where hell is on maps of saturnalia age to  this day. But then my father told me wed all have better better off had Columbus went off the ocean’s edge an America be left the savage wasteland it was for millennia, though mow damningly once the blood sports of the Incas were found, suddenly the indigenous like less beings as tee pee deer eaters, as much as they alike comparing their stone cities to the makers of aqueducts before.

4. But going back to the true noble savages, the Romans, who the rest of the world likes castigating as corrupt when they take their very way of life and most importantly titles as their own festooning, there is a scene in the histories by Tacitus. We don’t much mention Tacitus anymore, though once he was FF Coppollas hero, once big Tony got it out there about Cornelius, whose name admits he couldn’t have been the Frenchmen that Frenchmen liked saying, although his fathers the Etruscans Empire once went all the way to the Rhone, he admired, the only fairs parts of France worth habiting, as Gibbon Englishmen snidely said later.

In the annals, somewhere I recall, when Nero was on one of his red binges, he took the work of a historian Tacitus said was the equal of the greatest of historians Livy, not saying Heroditas made me wonder how he got as admired as he was, I think It as Gaius Valerius, but not the one who survived of course. Gaius was brought to a public execution and was told he could spare his life if he burned his own work and rewrote the work praising Nero, as Caesars have always had a fetish about good writing in the way that Obama has about secrets or his wife has about over priced Shmatas. The historian worthy of the title, said a defiant no, standing there before Nero naked and chained, something like the pictures of Rachel Maddow that Bam makes sure are marked for eyes only. He told the prince, Temporary as all princes are, that the great God of Pork as he was called, for his insistence that he could only eat the top part of a hog, bringing the venial dietary laws of the Jews to Rome by way of his girlfriend, and say it with me kids, NEROS ARE GIVEN TO HAVING JEWISH GIRLFRIENDS--and the historian admired by Tacitus whose works at least partially survived Nero but not the barbarian invasions, put that in H channels pipe and smoke it, Tacitus with admiration for a spine he didn’t have, he was amid praising I think Diocletian, who remembers…, in this work, only dead Caesars were bad Caesars, and the historian said enough of you, a Roman affection. The man decried Nero to the people and told him something that arabesque potentates from Obama to Osama and Mubarak and his bullshit Moslem brudder Morrissey never recall. You may, the man said to bloated Nero, and wouldn’t Christie be a perfect president to lard over people, the Poor Soul barking as much as Obnama lectures the starving, I can’t wait!--You might kill a thousand men here today, Valerius said, but such wont change a hair of your head…You, he told NERO, SHALL STAY IMMUTABLY THE SAME MAN, you are doomed to being what you know you are. We are back to Nero, with writhing whores all about him, vulgarity written large and in every imperial salons crevice, the bloated fat piggish man still stands at a Roman window, watching an unnoticed girl washing her long think blue black hair in a pot, the tenement calling the palatial thug, as it always does, transfixed by the decent imagery he sees before him. Could Erkle be like his similar Nero, could he find the Angelia of a girl washing her hair a shining image of a Rome forgotten lost, unnoticed, while men in make up and women in beads dance and cum all over the magnificent  tiled floor....? Could Clerk Barry be still the boy with the brown nose, and how!, pressed against the glass to an America-Rome that he is departed from, his bellowing not withstanding, he is actually missing and never found...? Or is he just a cunt, secretive and smarmy, who looks through your shit, while we still cant read his Thesis, god knows what lies about Socialist bullshit he slathered that with, him always willing to Like Plautus, give the rubes what they want to hear. How come it isn't in the national security states interest to see the grades of an affirmative action stooge, could he be that dumb...? With that instigation by the writer, as Nero lordered over the prisoners, as he always did, finding more hatred for mere Roman writers than he did Germans, hint hint!--the Author was throat slit and thrown in the Tyber. But, word got back to a general, from the Tuscan Family of Vesper, named that because they were like wasps and always ready to buzz and flight, who thought surrounded by men asked to die while the imperial luaus went on, while Nero thought himself becoming a god because consortia that love infinite war said so, as men with out socks froze and were asked to kill like scarabs assassins, to which the Roman heart was not made for, if the queer effeminate writers have started to turn on Nero without fear, it was time to saddle up.

04 June 2013


In that I am probably being hurled off face book anyway, the new clearing house for sanitised speech, remember this might be the last chance to get Ancient Romance : The Catalogue of Italic gods, in its first part wholeness. I am planning on listening to advise from some, and taking out the fairy tale portion of the book, written in Manzoni style, as the dichotomy of fairy tale and surrounding decline is disconcerting to some. I thought by now you’d all be used to it.

This takes out my greatest reinvention, Kemeter, the blond daemon and his love for goddess Turan, but if not a wise guy or a mad man, behind the golden door, there is only so much room to move. When I found again all mistyped, misspelled, and cockeyed 669 pages of AR, by accident on an old floppy disk, I knew it was make it somehow whole, if only as a way to save my soul from demons without portfolio or busty loves, Italian trash like Scorsese and the rest of the gumbas. As after years of writing silly little b moves and cop dramas, this was as close to being the scholar the old Franciscans wanted me to be, as I could get. You see there is only so much Etruscan they can take, as I am sure that word more than any slur is the epithet they hate. Suddenly there is a plethora of black winged horses and fairy tales, but they avoid the italics sensibilities seen  here and tack sure that a Ford modelling agency Reich Marshall mentality stays adhered to, and none have the brunette queens of Portia or Turan in them, they that makes a blond demon’s head spin, as do I.

I have gotten to the first hacking away here, wholesale taking out of thick Italic minded paragraphs in the style of Italian geniuses admired by CS Lewis and stolen from by clever men like GIGI and JRR. I have left now only those parts about the senator escaping his gulag, and retreating to Regium, the bare bones of the wrap around story that explained the fairy tales. I am down to less than a hundred pages in that, the clever princesses and burning demons and befuddled aged god and conniving ravens are out. This was done concurrently with the backlash now brewing about a horrid book for TV, when I was a kid, we had Shogun and rich man poor man, now every channel is the sci fi channel,  which reads like JRR written by a thirteen year old, awful warmed over Conan shit, and this intends me of who I asked the Jewish producer why I felt there was always someone there who was insulted by my very bringing up of subjects, like the fat white woman who seemed personally insulted that I wished to write a book, TROMS, in which everything about catholic school, as aids was a gathering storm, wasn’t played for laughs. This seemed to bother this cow, the sort who now pretend they are akin to Obamas side as they once pretended they were on Hillary’s side, and the affable Jewish man answered me as if a Particular Virgil as a guide, oh Tony, he said, there’s always enough room for more crap.

So, I guess in cobbling pieces back together again I can make AR’s first part a operatic like overture to the rest of the work. But I did see something that warmed me, to know that scads of baby boomers are so disconcerted with the American dream they have crated, that they like lemmings are now taking that dive into the Styx at a high number, all readying to go into that Danteaen limbo, where nothing men who were hypocrites, and lauded so, will spend eternity in strips of humanity flailing about following white flags akin to the republic of Salo a bearded thug tried to recreate on Italy. Until Bill Clinton of all souls, Roman lover, destroyed him, and sided with Proti. Suddenly, then, in1996, thanks to the incursion of Bill, the idiot MILANESE and his blond children Romano half breeds were struck in face by paid, of course, maidens in Milana, no less,  holding the tripartite flag of Vitorio Emmanuel and Garibaldi, dressed as vestals, black hair in ringlets, singing the songs of the patria, to the point that the seedily man, aren’t they always, was broken that day, as his white flag with a marijuana leaf, it appeared was on it, was laughed out of hand, and he eventually slunk away. And ultimately a conniver named Silvio made sure to never be seen with a Lombard loudmouth or plate of buttered poleneta again, and literally bought a home on Capri, boarding up his Turin headquarters. It make one wonder what Bill has planned for half breeds closer to home.

As I cant take the blue streak of happy talk coming from GE theatre now, true to its Regan creed of whistling past unseen graveyards, as one dimwit after the next talks incessantly lest they say something. But seeing Ed Klein, I saw him commiserate how the Clintons were fucked by Erkle, how he reneged on a secret deal, Dido fearful of dissolving always, hatred from white folks, making a fool of himself on 60 Minuets backed out of a deal, leaving Clinton holding the bag. Puhhhleese, does one think that Bill ahs not heard the master’s words, Ovid, who said, the reason he hated the Roman empire as opposed to the republic, was in an empire one is stuck with men who do not understand the sanctity of a bribe…? Neither Mohammad nor various Jewish praetorian Solly has ever said anything so pithy and right, explaining why we have the praetor we have now. And Two days after my admission that I couldn’t play gumabwopniggerjew and act befuddled as Resident in chief, why, Piffle, Hitler and other Hillary hating hatchet man Jews went forth to tell the house of Brokaw that why Erkle had northing to do with this stupid, stupid, manoeuvre, speaking in the base vulgar generalities and in unartful black and whites, and we ism of women and bribe holders. No, Bill, my man Bill, he read his Roman lot, and there is a scene… After giving in and making the needy and wanting Tyberius queen of Italy, Augustus, true to his mean wit, tells Tyberius giving him the imprimatur, to remember, the water of the Imperial retreat at Capri are cold in the morning. In five years, or so, Tyberius was such a disaster he was exiled to Capri at 44, where he lived until 88, according to Cornelius, Despised and despising.

So, the first great Love affair of Italy, which I found like Manzoni's wanted poster about an illegal marriage, merely alluded to on some intricate silver comb kept by some woman in a long gone Italian home, Kemeter and Turan is out, for now, but might find itself coming back up to the sunlight like those Bronzes and entwined skeletons of vestal and lover, Campaign season cups and arts, that like their money, the Etruscans hid in graves knowing the Romans, they feared ghosts more than anything. I was glad almost to hear that the most sanctimonious people on earth are taking the roman bathes, disenchanted and over sued and overspending and a fatiguing quality to evil, a demographic of Petronius’s, defamed and detested, as Spittoons and human Corns, bumble all over the walls they now have to read, and all of that. I was glad to hear it as now you meet the half cut foetuses, Injuns, Anzio rape victims where the war crimes didn’t happen, and Sacco and Vanzetti, and human Sicilian corpses you saw as impediments or as entrainment, to your sit com lives, in a miasma of less than Parnassus fields.


01 June 2013



When ever I feel guilt about the way I have lived my life, avoiding almost all work, poo pooing the chance to work at various comics outlets, turning my back on low end producers, even dismissing Georgetown, where the Jesuits wanted me to frolic, it’s the frolicking that worried me, I see a thing that makes me wonder if possibly I’m not even more brilliant than I even think I am, as I always had a sense of what in the water supplies of these various places. 

This is the first Post I am planning on posting to tumblr, since 2007, one of the first there, when pages of Rag Comix one, was torn off for showing a fight in which Uberman stride to send Vundergirl ah, Tumbling out of the sky. This was violence against women, or her tits were too big, or something like that, oh, How sanctimonious we all were then, as the Clinton Borghese were the ones who were too vile for Dowdy housewives. Like other blogs I was afraid I was too old even then to be part of it all. Having been moping around since I was fifteen, I feel the right now to say anything any way I wish.

But, as Tiger Tiger Burns bright again, being reunited with the arbiter of all decency, i.e.,  a white woman,  various epsn hacks, black bald mud bones and gahead gahead smarmy yids, have taken him back, all is forgiven, and actually show umbrage at the talk by Sergio and others that maybe this fraud isn’t the shining knight he portends. Why how dare you impugn the decency of someone who was shredding cocktail waitresses, two at time at steakhouses like Fredo. The same is now true of Erkle the magnificent as his own four lettered network stooges are so sure how dumb you are for seeing the black side of this less than black knight. Ah, but in works as sacred to Roman Bill and me, you must be true to your lies, boy, as once the lies come off and you have to stand naked there before the Romans, you are really in bad shape, as no one likes being connived, especially by themselves. I saw before any of you want a fraud this guy was, how did I know…?, please, and now that you must carry water for him, it seems worse than the Clinton love of Romans circus doesn’t it…?

The Romans, who he and I both love, and their vulgarity--it merely means in the voice of people folks, -- always seemed more decent to me than the born again Jews and their hidden love of stoning girls for stolen kisses along the way who usually as in all witch trials, something the old testament gives us, were usually older wives or younger mistresses who got in the way. But I hope this year, 13, the year of st. Anthony, as my Ma advises me, is the year that Roman and Christian merge again in the ways hateful to the money loving Luther, and I hope that Erkle, Romo and the mob wives, if not America itself, gets all it deserves.

As there is something venial and harmful to me as Erkle death grips at 48 percent at least until that last big pay day, the pipelines, the rosebud of this cock sucking administration, or at least until the new model year of drones comes out. You see, I and Roman Bill have sterner stuff in us, --hoo boy!- and I couldn’t be a first Italian president and be so gleefully and willing to have the soft landing be horrid white women on unwatched obstreperous droning TV, say that I was too incompetent and too befiddled to know what was going on. I couldn’t take fat pig men with loser resumes say of me, that the words Machiavellian and Nixionian and such couldn’t affix to me as much as say could, Incompetent, which has actually been said by someone I am sure commiserates with human spittoons about what a good Joe he is. MASTERS AND SERVANTS, it’s always in the background. I couldn’t do it, like my arms and the man Bill confronted by a censure warrant to be signed. Fuck you and fuck Nan, Barnee, Lahhee, Chuckie and all you all, he seemed to say, as our student of Plautus, he knew the only thing worse than a circus is the silence that seems to follow Erkle about like so much Smog. Or Smug. Wherein, the Romans loving Bill reached a seventy percent plaudit he shall not give up, as Dido again is in silent hell, dripping from a thousand cuts, as GE AGAIN FINDS THE STUDIOS OF IT’s NETWORK OF 21 SEEMS TO ALWAYS CATCH HELL WHEN PEOPLE ARE MADE AWARE  THE RIG WAS DONE.

I couldn’t do it, and the fact that Erkle is willing shows again, Jesuit trained, I was right all along. I have known since 15 in 1980, l when I refused to read the hundred years of solitude, and got an A never the less from a habitelss nun who respected that I knew that magic realism was Italian, and not spic at all, that moment of green laurel is always replaced, ddt'd, by having to sign on the dotted line, and refinance one’s soul. I can’t, like equally amoral, to white chicks, Bill, and I hope still that Erkle sends you all into a worse spiral than he already has. Spartacus has never been the hero in Italy, even when my mother was a little girl in Italy, that hero to me and other brethren of the wolf, Cattiline has. 

2. I took a ride just to get out of the house and it wasn’t even the urban holiday of check day,--though I Romantically rail against the welfare corrosion, shit Negros, I’d steal as much as a diamond Jim or Diamond Jamie as I could, as your national health means nothing to me. I tried really to watch the 300, but it appears I WASN’T THERE, AS THE Crushing process after a while as I would have guessed, stated to hurt my eyes, easily on a midlevel end plasma screen we bought for my Ma for Christmas so she doesn’t have to squint at a small picture as she rails against various sorts she is sure like a old witch is, are perverted and the end of republics. I couldn’t quite take this, though its orgy is an ancillary to the times I adore, classical, though the Spartan sweethearts and their mean fag aspect, like they did to Livy, leave me cold, a comedy tonight every once in a while is a good thing to throw at the folks, before the smell of blood mixes with seamen, and a strange de facto fagginess makes everything look awfully dire and dower and vicious and cold, the idea of babies being drowned for weakness, and sometimes in Greece that meant not having blue eyes as they tried to convince themselves like the Jews they weren’t Mediterranean, well, its too batman for me.

True to his calibre of genius, Frank Miller made the gay Spartans stand up as paragons of virtue, while the Persians were shown as Arabesque, if not bronze skin blacks, when in fact, if literate, or only read Creation, he would have known that Persians, like Sparta, where of the same Aryan Stock, the people he liked demeaning, had been pushed back into the grand pre Naples called Baghdad, and didn’t really give a damn who won this latest world war the Aryans foist at and about these selves, as they have, as The Romans, noticed, hate each other madly and intently.

SO, I went to the far off comic store, the closer one having shut down is sad enough. And it is a shelpp to get through the woods there, and have only been there three times or so, since I found it near the water treatment plants and smokestacks that still strangely here smoulder away. I had been in my lethargy, and thought of trying to draw something not that demanding as MS, but still in such a vein, as was starting to become listless. I asked the affable bar man behind the counter, as they have become friendly to me, if they recalled a comic book I had seen as a kid, old copies sold in bags then, Gold Key I thought, called Son of Vulcan. Boy, the guy-kid said, as I find them all, despite the hilarious strip seen on the web was quite kind and very nice, as a bit standoffish with me, polite, as I have been told I am intimidating when just standing there, or laughable when I am trying to intimidate. He thought to and started walking briskly towards a quartet box I think they are called, a long open file box in which it seems a thousand comics are kept. Moreover, you can buy any box in the store you want, for fifty bucks, easily the new fifty 2’s true it Bomb’s by the day, it has not been the unmitigated successes it would have seemed at afternoon meetings. Son of Vulcan….mnnnn…, he said, looking like the type sort of featured player one would have seen in the Sarah Silverman program, before it became a latest road kill in then yellow brick road to another Seinfeld, eschewing cute Jewish for Jewish jewish, and who needs that…?

He walked me past the shelves of comics, and into this long box he pulled out a glossy comic, which I knew couldn’t have been it, as it as glossy with that afoul vomitorium image colouring that is supposed to make warmed over Gene Colan art seem hep, and which looked like it was put together with some left over Norad computer, bought cheaply after the end of the cold war. This IS A son of Vulcan, he said, fussing his thick black glasses and handed it to me. 20.00, which seemed much, but I knew it couldn’t be the cold war era artfulness that I was looking for. Can I open it, Guy…?, I asked, and he waved his palm, as if to say fine, as he said, this isn’t an in demand comic.

I opened it from its plastic sheath, and from the cardboard that held it up in the box, and flipped through what in reality probably as a late nineties or so DC atrocity of cartoon art. The blue cover was indecipherable to me, and I allowed two more to come spilling out, causing the clerk to laugh a bit. I am sorry, I said, that I keep bumping into things, sir, I feel like a bull in a china Shoppe in here, and am afraid Ill send an expensive action figure flying into the wall. He waved it off. This is all plastic junk. You have to ask for our good stuff which is much higher marked up plastic junk. What made you think of Son of Vulcan he asked, almost impressed as they get that I, though I look like thug, enjoy and admire comics books, no matter what Kirby acolytes say on aged websites that I have unlike Sanctorum, known how to push down in searches by a sue of linking and obnoxiousness, that Jewish gals on publishers row have been impressed by. I said that I am getting on a Roman kick, roman Roman, and not just drawing a hangdog massive man in Blue. Oh you draw, bro…?, he said, impressed.  

Before I spoke, my brother, not actually not antsy about being here, spoke up and said, like a Whiz. It was a loud and white and garish place actually, and crawling with dweebs, and wasn’t a spot that despite my needs was welcoming in anyway, with giants like fat head Kirby-ite Captain Americas seeming to bust in two dimensional creation out of walls. I liked Charlton Comics as a kid, we cant be that far apart, he said, in that he was 29, I am 47, though I have a boyish i.e. juvenal, quality, but as in art school, now we of at least thirty and above, recall a better America, than is now. So, I said, its twenty dollars for the four. No, he said, that is an old bag, we put heavy metals in, and those are fifty cents a piece, all five for 3 bucks at once. Get it, and lest beat it, my brother said, in constant missing a bus Time mode. Uh,….I said, making  him to roll his eyes, This isn’t what I thought it was, --I went into logistics causing him to sigh and walk way a bit, as I was shopping as I do. It was, I said, a Roman variation of Thor, there is a Nazi element to comics now, but it’s never been so apparent to me, I said. Then don’t buy the movie tie in superman, the man said,  he’s an  SS Fag now. Yes, in the shadows, wit still lives outside of GE coperoscopes that tell us how wonderful the Hal machines are, and how much they care. I handed the dc variation back, as is what happens at Detective comics, as it eats up worlds it burps out soot, and this was no exception.

It turned out, according to him, I was looking for a Charlton comic, which also was sold in bags, and probably bought old copies that were bundled for the getting rid of backlog. I liked son of Vulcan, as a kid, despite his yellow suit--The Etruscans strike back!, as it was they who wore a yellow armor and a saffron cape, from which we get the term a yellow streak down ones back, a purposefully mean Roman epithet as the Tuscans, even in decline, to defend their mother land, the only the Italian Romans had a fatherland, instructing enough, they fought like mad men, only the Samnites being more angry and , uh, vicious, you know like apart aches, as they started scalping Romans, as its all old old old, and I cry for no later Sabine’s, sorry, the kind adored by overfed white chicks, and save my compassion for the Sabine girls of then. He knew what I meant now, and went to another box and took out a copy of SON OF VULCAN 50.

On the cover the yellow suited roman man, literally named Mann, I saw as I flipped through it, was fighting, what else, the Roman symbol of all evil, the Trojan horse, but this one, with the light espirit of the cold war days, before the muck of self righteous now, was I take it breathing flames. How much I asked…?, 18 dollah he said, friendly. Humnn, I only have twenty, and ID LIKE TO EAT LUNCH…My brother had enough, buy the damn book Ill pay for it, he said, as he advised me to buy a Superman I was looking at, but declined on as he didn’t have his strong man underpants, and I felt cheated. Why the underwear bothers the comic creeps and the go go boots do not is too Satyricon or worse closet queer for me to unlock. 



3. But what bothered me the most in our Dan Diddio -Jim Lee world was that in the Charlton comic, a man named Johnny Mann, perfect name, it seemed, had been given the powers of Vulcan, the Roman God of the forge, and he went about as I flipped through it’s wonderful four colour brightens and it Warhol American age vitality, in his yellow mantle and his purple skirt, as a kind of lovely answer to the dreaded Kirby and his strange meaningless Thor of black and white circles, which even as a kid, and open to such fantasias, I never QUITE understood. I liked the helmet of Johnny more than the winged helmet of Thor, as Thor was always too Brun Hilda for my likes,too much the Nazi symbol, --who draws such a thing, the comic book man told me, not the one I met in art school from dc but another, when New York is filthy with survivors with numbers burnt into their arms...oh, I ill take comics seriously if you’d like, but then, you wont like it would you...? And I liked that there at Charlton they were owned by Italians and Jews, before multiculturalism--anyone can Hail Caesar, his actual answer to why he used so much German auxiliary, meant severe years of democratic politics were dismissed by Klansman grandchildren; Really you niggers should keep a keen watch of them, your champions--And I liked all he, this hero, represented. I didn’t like the later comics shown to me by the affable lad, as there, the hero was of course, and demeaned by that self same multiculturalism, the same I am curious [greedy] ethics, which the house of Schwartz did so become impenitent upon.

I liked the early, or Mid century, American Roman hero here, the answer to gold awful eugenic Thor, who was the original villain in MS, before I just threw in the towel and went with Lumberman Ubermench, and seeing their excretes be remade because the star eater of dc had bought out another universe, and look what happened, and it made me sad. Why was the affable name of Johnny Mann recapped by the heinous Miguel, a spic, others self appointed, self asked, self everything, as how is it that the descendants of Cervantes are somehow to be pitied and corralled and caressed in ways that the descendant of Dante, and yes the true sons of Vulcan, are left to their own devises, unheralded or wept for by Jewry jonnie and his all All- American boy- ism that came the moment he was allowed in the jockey club. This bored me in the same way it bothered me, that a thug named Quentin Tarantino, and who thought he last this long..?, there is alas decency to the fall of Orson no pug faced woman could understand, who has taken the works of various Italian, always Italian, as now suddenly he is not a plagiarist --Tolkien Rules--and takes the anti heroes of Italian pop and low brow and high minded crap and joy and makes the heroes into blatant and horrid blacks and Jews.

And those self same blacks and Jews, they don’t like it, and they often rail against this lantern jawed fool for mucking up their homilies of self righteousness, which have been accosted by Italian who knew the score since Sergio. This bothered me, and why I was glad , as such forays into multiculturalism always do, it fell asunder , as after a while people wonder of the effeminate girlie armed white man who smiles in their face, and tells them how noble their savagery is, what’s your angle…? From what I gather even with SOV coming out in 1965, before Cronkite told America what is up, there is an anti war sentiment to this comic, the underlying ethos that has been in Roman literature since Virgil, and which the later hacks like Kirby and Lucas and Tolkien misread, and redo as a strange tuton-jew love of staid and strict presumption, a lot of Thane, Thy and These taking hold from a dees dems and dose varitype, the long islanders always wishing, like Haveyyyy to put on a little class, yak now huh…? By the way for those who put down one artist after the next, I received as a gift an Essential marvel anthology and threw it away after a hundred pages because the Jack Kirby Art in it made me sad.

In a comic sewer where every two bit sliver age caricature seems to have a mythology just ready to be plumed and picked over by self appointed guardians and librarians of the floppy books who think Jerry and Joe got what was coming, you know, he just loves who pays him, I think it would be nice if the companies now consumed themselves by larger entities as they did the fictional worlds of companies where like black baseball, Italians had the nerve to consider themselves as editors and creators, and not just grunts, would leave various sons of Vulcan alone.

4. Like General Pompeii in Plutarch, a sign should be put up in scrawled by a man sadly, scibbled on a bent twig, --here lies the last King of the Romans, or at least one worthy of the name if not the title, nothing as usual that Jesus and his Jewish writers didn’t sue for themselves, and that the pull exerted on Kirby and even Uncle Stan by the Edda, elder or comic booked, had less Stockholm seductions, to the Italians of the cereal Box presses from which as usual even an Italian can make art, high or low or neither. I am not schooled, nor surprised, that a comic group headed by Uncle Stan and white trash loving Kirby couldn’t find a place for a son of Vulcan amid the love of stature jawed junkie beating episcopalism’s, but am neither shocked that there was no room for such in a Direct Competition being run by men named Giordano and Infantino, either. I am shocked nor by that, as by 1968 and the publication of the godfather, my die was cast, and even Cha cha as spoke of here before, had to ask some DC hack who was on the late lamentable Joey Pinto Show, why there were no Italian superheroes in their now pantheon of negro robots and bustier amazons who, ‘looked Greek’.

The comics man I think fluffed it off, but Cha Cha, my man, was not persuaded, and someone during fag night I think, or Jewish night after the yids all went to bed, said in fact, The Punisher was Italian, and this made Cha as ver klemt as I ever heard him, as he admitted, finally, this soprano hanger on, that half the cast of these sopranos didn’t due this for anything more than a pay check, despite the act put on, and that they have rather played cops, if allowed as said and done as some after the fall did attempt, and it never took. All I know about Smiling Jack Kirby is that the Roman suffix of --Us was placed on every villain of  name, as his passing fancy took its high point or nadir in the blond goldilocks of Thor, as like Plautus, Also Jewish, or at least Jewish Italian like Livy, lee and Kirby, More LEE, they always know their Audience, as Jack Roseman told me of RM, he liked it much, best script he had read in a while, I had a natural way of telling a story, --but Tony, I can’t make that,… they’ll think I’m like YOU! He wasn’t being mean, just accurate. I think of all the crap they made with Kirby’s dark art’s , he personally seemed to make the dc implosion, but I do recall, having had enough, Carmine, now being pilloried by the Kirby bots, cancelled Jack the hacks murder inc like comics, and In the days of the mob, all at once, having had, as we know from Roman history, enough. It was nice to know on his waning days, before the old man died, i take it, still, after having done more for comics than that credit jumping long island fat pig ever did, that Carmine had to be pilloried in his remaining days, Joe Paternoed by the always to be avoided self righteous, whose decency known no bounds, nor floor, as somehow it became known and noticed by the acolytes, the horrid folks, that he had to bring someone in to draw a superman that comported with the superman that had been known then for forty years, and who didn’t look like a steroid freaked, shining coffee potted variation of Martin Landau.

Do remember kids, when you think Roman Tony is a bigot, Against my Roman nature, as it was there at the comic’s consortium, recall, where I was the one who was told I had no respect for Mythology, and too, all my heroines looked like coloured girls. The mistake I made causing me to go into the divine trapper keeper sibylline books of my own, and take back the few pages of MS meeting wolves and finding the ex calibre--and to less sweet, Less professional, less decent white women then the one I paid to help me get AR:LOC INTO SOME SHAPE, The term Ex Calibre, like so much, is Roman-- meaning of the highest Guard, a Knight, again like so much made Aryan and awful and whitey, and shall replace that back in and be done with MS, this time for good. I should have left, though I admire him, Copiel’s Thor be what it was, and I shouldn’t have sued Marvel comics and or Conan as a template for anything. I found these pages left behind in looking for my hidden debit card, which I would place in a Eucharist holder if I could,… too Jewish…?, and saw the five pages of torn imagery, left behind, when MS started to swerve Away from what I wanted –imagine that….!  and me a narcissus!—to what I thought I had to do. But I never made him collectedly to be likable or admired by the comics journal fagots and weirdoes,  their valued customers, as I wanted no part of them since 15 either, but befriended many in ways that little half breeds like Otfama signaling Albrecht, closet queens with thin lips, would not. As a fat swine in Pittsburgh named Mark Madden still daily burns in effigy Joe Patreno, funny how he and Anderson have a similar doggedness hither and yon, again taught by real Jesuits I can sue innuendo better than any white house hack, as Joe having committed the offence of bettering his Polish hill teams, I say, leave the poor Italians skeletons, like the ones they find of cemented lovers, alone, and worry about captain Roofie who fronts the decent team and has press conferences about his latest rape trials, as if he just rolled out of bed, bed if were lucky. And the ir- Roman negro boy who targets the weak as his ilk always does, worry more about the cadre of white men republicans who you allow in the Pretoria as surrogate fathers, with the admiration of Howard the duck and nbc game show panel Jews who see every move as brilliant, as capitulation always is at Texaco star theater, as they, when they think the camera is off, look down at their feet. They are called Trojan HORSES, BUT AINT NO TROJANS IN THERE. And the disciples of Fat Jack, they should leave the Romantic ruins alone.