24 August 2013

THE AMERICAN SCHEME.


 
 
 
 

 

The redacted and censored variation of Wop Like me part 4. Haven’t felt well enough to closely follow things, but kept up the original clip up until could link to zoetrope in filial pride that I had at least been devoted enough to the dead priests to not slink away from the boiler room vineyard swamp which is Coppola’s dump.

 

I awoke , not feeling wonderfully, but had a lucid dream in which a saint-goddess who looked immeasurably like a certain Italic starlet came to me amid the weeds and the dead trees and warned me to excise the images of the godfather out of my opus,  no matter the intention. In a monks robe, the black unfunny comic who thinks he is doing such avante guard work in the charnel, minstrel house was running around catering like a goggly eyed buffoon,  which aside white robed angelic Turan girl to say, You see….!, as I irritably fell through the floor. A bit out of it, still will replied and reciprocate to all who have added me graciously. A tooth pain has caused me to miss an Italian American picnic where I wished to get some views, and too am in the process of missing the full moon I wished to get and sued a cartoon place holder in my film. I for one have gagged on sanctimony and euphuism, and their amazing floating N word, which like all in America, sometimes matters and sometimes doesn’t. I just take warmth in how the white trash starched Martin Scorsese when he actually dared say and Italian master of film deserved credit for that given to Cecile B Demented and Dw Griffith for their Klan movies. I am beyond shock.

 

I received a Google alert from a gaggle of Gonniffs, alerting me that I must cease and desist the sue of any Godfather imageries in my hardly for profit film essay Wop Like me. AH, finally a victory, as I am the first man in America to stop at least a moonset second of the Coppola insult of his Livien gangsters on our sensibilities. I take whatever I can get. No big Whoop, as Audrey my yenta consigliore would say in brookleynsese charm, I don’t really want my work polluted by that shit anyway, and of course, as a Jesuit student know the ins and outs of the res publics greasy law’s probably better than boys from Columbia do, the layyyyers as the delightful Michael Savage calls them. Unlike other radio yids Sage Mike  knows the score and isn’t as willing to wave the flag, as is sunken eyed Levin and others always willing to play out their lamebrain songbook.
 
 

 

But on those days when Martin Luther Queen, as he was sneeringly called by RFK, before the transfiguration or the martyrdom, whatever,  is sanctified and justified and beatified again, --oh lawdeee, when we reach dah nort star Emiline, and be almost a human as dee white women’s on cable television, hun…?, I like to always recall  Sacco and Vanzetti, who unlike many a nigger was killed by  the state—I know I am  overdoing for effect—and wasnt killed by a throng of rednecks who might included a future democratic senator in love with viaducts and or bug eyed closet queens of national reviews. I saw, as MSNBC gives us wall to wall coverage of a nigeralia in death throws as the news mounts up with miscreants who were not cast  by Coppolla for their blue eyes, as white alderman and union thugs stand at the almost laughable Romans parodies of mausoleums that seem to be all scaffolded earlier than they should have been, all unable and unhallowed to decay into the sadness of Roman vistas, and thus spiritually dogged and ponied, like Arabs structures. I recall my own saints and don’t need yours. I would have thought that per chance word should have went forth among the noble savages to keep the feast day of MLK pretend as was he, white as sheets, and as mistresses, and that perchance the bludgeoning could have been kept to a moratorium minimum. AH, no such luck. Now we mist be lectured about what is racial by fat women with blond corn rows, as black as you is allowed to git in Obama’s nightmare, with English Mike Douglas’s who lose their whopping audience to duck dynasty reruns, and on Cable, they lecture us fresh from listening to tapped into burners given to rape victims and royalty maids. You think your lie was the nigger shit, which is why Rachel and that crowd hits on inclemently, Let Roman Tony teach you the score, it was never the niggers ghost con, it was the pacifist shit, the anti Bush shot, which I knew was over when Bob Gates kept the role of Imperial Caesar, look it up again I am right, and now even the American fools catch on and he as Dido slips into a pagan hell, him without the decency to keep his yap shut. A old veteran killed by roaming black dogs…? This close to the feast of the black Madonna …? Oh its isn’t racial dears, and you know so, my alleyways all go back to Rome, and thus can recall when Romans asked with anger, you mean Sulla had his vengeful dogs kill a old man senator who marched with CATO the aged at Cumae, …? Oh that can’t stand, and Sulla might have to go…ask Copolla about the Sicilian law of the 1000th man.

 

I looked for some public domain images of your precious Godfather, as I was told by Flavia I can make art out of bic pens and Typing paper if need be, never was I a Grumbacher needing whore. And I saw entreatingly that there was a scene in the godfather reburied from even the Saga, later made by Copolla, sadly starting to believe his own tripe. In this cue, which may or may not by sued, I resented now being told I must remove things after downloaded supposed rights  to get some sort of ability to use what is in the public domain—oh dere is dat Nord star beloved by Cyrus and Rufus alike, but might say a sore feh to all of it anyway, as can always do what need be done. In this Gordon Willis scheme, Michael returns to the golden door, and with a shotgun gun kills the Fabrizio who killed the Greek looking girl who was played by a Neapolitan girl—do get  this fat pig a history book please !...In this recanted scenes, Mickey kills, the only time he does for himself in the movie, and as I am well versed in Jesuits training I could guess materially that this minstrel  show in that scene had jumped a unhallowed turnstile, alas a man gaining revenge for an abused Italian wife was something they didn’t need in their burning Iagos of now. As was watching Old Christine when and rinsed by mouth out  with salt and looked up and saw the full moon shinning through a tattered plastic shade I keep meaning to replace. At this late hours, I went and grabbed the camera, and ran outside in night shirt and underwear, and with a mouth still stinging from the salt and in a late august coolness, took the shoot of the moon as it broke through want had been obsessive late summer showers all day. The film that begins with words said by Brutus, basically kill em all and let Jove sort it out--ends with a dialog of Puck and Oberon, as I as an Italian wished to show that always no matter the jersey barriers consecrated return to the Oviddian arcadia, as the Jesuit and my father wished. You remember Ovid don’t you, as various Italians operators try like Marco polo to always get back to mother China, and have set their gaze on the once fun and affable and delightful Hong Kong movie to ruin that too, Ovid was the one who said empire is another word for having no where left to turn. I have been called clever by the best minstrel show operators you have ever made.

 

 

 

 

04 August 2013

nice bright colors.

 




So I ask anyone out there who will send me a picture of you if you are an Italian and or would like to be involved, to send me anything you like that deals with this, at antonius865@outlook.com, or if you would be willing to post an image of mine anywhere you’d like send me a line. The soundtrack is brought to us by the great Italian stuff in the public domain, where it all seem stuck and left. I WITH THE COWBOYS BEGINNING TONIGHT SANS ROMO, meaning all hope is not lost, I can sense that things are falling apart even faster than I  would have guessed. Frauds everywhere like Bellicick, Fairy Barry, Wiener, the democratic party, Aroid, and maybe now Romo are falling asunder as anyone with a Clintons love of signora Fortuna could have guessed. I did make a funny and witty and scurrilous email to Zoetrope I hope it went through, as Sissy Copula again finds herself amid the mean girls desperate to be a brunette interpreter, as I SAID, a fool’s errand with that nose, I on the other hand have done well since being banished from the doges wine kingdom, scavaging found epics, and crafted my art about the Etruscans, no less, the fairy tales beloved by Grimms. The book was that the black scholar woman gave me the pride of being too good to be included in a book of noble savagery  that was already getting on her nerves, when she told me how much she despised Toni Morrison, telling me the Roman story from which she toiled the beloved, a woman drowning her Children when she was alerted that the Rubicon was crossed would be a better book than that nigger slop in Ebonics  that crazy eyed Toni dealt in, until the white tied Scandinavians said enough and started giving laurels to posers to Anatolian plagiarism. I went on in that vein but found I didn’t save it, before I could post it here, which tells me something, as with a bad tooth no less I cant stop eating 3 musketeers bars, every so often flossing my teeth of blood and then washing my mouth with an elixir of ambusol and orange juice, Yiee-eks! I still I have to do as much all day as I can as I construct Wop like me, and taking the time out to tell Zio Franchie his hopeful censorship did less to me than to Ovid’s, if the work survives, that I made it to the Romans, a not small endeavor, whereas I think the Germanicvs that I was sad to think would be made by that apocalypse there chump I know will be entombed in his trunk and his stationary and career and market drawers, still unmade when they lower that fat bloated fuck into the vineyard ground. Still it was a needed moment to tell Uncle Frenchy that Roman law I learned as a boy, that the always hat in hand, always threadbare, always nickel and dime, always hand to mouth, they don't censure anybody, and they shouldn't even try.
 
 

 

03 August 2013

MY NAME IS…



 

 

The filmmaking falderals and other time and bandwidth rich endeavors caused me to lose my high speed later than usual, but all at once around the 21st. At the beginning of the month when it kicks in again, I find myself trying to rustle it as best as I can but find myself more often than not going to watch the film of Jerry Lewis meets batman  at Christmas. It is  a thing, I kid you not as Paar would say in kinescopes when I was a kid, that me and buddies were actually doing back in 94 as I could do Jerry passably-heyyyygh laddddyyyyyyy!-come down-- the art school is the poifect placed for me to reveal my geniusssss-- and others could do Batman voice,  before that became a pejorative.

 

I do take a look and watch, reading her is out of question so shallow is she, at articles which collect like dandruff of Maureen Dowd. Her thoughts are about what you’d expect from the New Jork Times, liberal within always reason, a dollop of white woman suburban scum upon which she slides, here hair always capable of a sexless flip and glissando. But, had to this early day in August, I had to see what Her highness had to say about your friend and mine, Anthony Wiener. Since Clinton, as an Italian once said of Rome after Tyberius, Shamelessness hath become a virtue, and who mentioned that line when you were all watching Bammy be his own reveled Eucharist, as he out of professional jealousy struck out the word Christ, only allow able by the Mo Dowd Types as after all it was in the Latin surely dead now, along with the Jesuits who died of aids, allowing the earth to become that which it is.

 

It was about as middlebrow as id suspect, she is like her Aeneas, Barry of whom she sings, and she was more upset than anything that her clime to fame, much like Drudges’ Monica, was somehow to her backward truth the Clinton masterpiece, when in fact issuing Gore’s  thorium of what is said is always the opposite of what is true, was in fact hers. We live in a dying empire, even the Simpsons have seeded and stipulated to that, and here a sportswriter hair filliping hag can win a pries for doing fat jokes in a unread newspaper, the gate keepers as happen here in Pittsburgh first look about and wonder who put that lock on the wall when we aren’t looking. Ah The Roman have gone home, a worse thing than when they even came. What have the Romans done for us, as Monty Python said, to which a thankless Stossle would say nothing, again more than not becoming the Marcus Agrippa his ilk seems to always be. Personally I would like to see not that I buy or steal it, who good Irishman Billo gets around that whole Render unto Caesar thing….why did God baby Jesus see nothing wrong with the Romans empire and why did Tyberius seem to be something he was supporting, making Caphius the bad guy…mnnnn…

 

But it is making me laugh ,as Mother Mo finds equal old lady crone distaste for the girl who Carlos Danger reached out to as much as she does for slippery—a word I'm sure she got from grandpa—Tony Weiner, which may or may not have been an alias of mine at Earthlink.net. Of course in our Grimms without the warmth, no, actually she is more akin to Uncle Walt, her clean above it all spitting downwards as usual hides a heart that would make Petronius go Yeeech, the woman is as big a disgrace as a public servant using public computers to send pictures of his majesty to under age girls and getting away with it as did Spitzer!, who a savant in the dark arts of Newark politics knew this was moment that Machiavelli would call enter-- stage left. Oh we’re the boys of the chorus we hope you like our show—to always woman hating Maureen, like Clarence Thomas, SHE BELIEVES THE LADDER IS SOMETHING TO TAKE WITH YOU, the broad has to shoulder her badgered burden, now that the NOW coven has taken hold, amusingly, or ,maybe not so much, the democratic party seems fill of men who see women as toys, and low grade whores, again making you wonder what they think of others they have been besotted to serve, or serve up. Remember when barking canine women, the bitches of war, were screeching about the personal is the political, ah but then through death and retirements the whip became theirs, and Mussolini was a socialist once too, like Stossle now calls the Romans, and once called Mother, his shicksa girlfriends and half of Long Island. Insert line from VENICE JEWISH DISRALI HERE. Its as good as any.

 


I sent an email as I have before To divine Wendy Fiore, with my own shameless temerity asking if I could use an image of hers off of You tube in WOP LIKE ME, which like everything I touch resounds exponentially away from the ten minute hat in the ring it was meant to be, like how a four page dirty Wonder woman parody cartoon turned into Pow Girl and a script that was again almost made and a 300 page comic book. These are pictures an art director at Hustler called nice work, but too nice for the crap they do. Again, the magic of Roman Tony. I asked Wendy If I could pirate the moment of her in an awful crappy funny or die like you tube Cinemascope mammoth production, where she was Venus coming up and away from the Chevy Malibu that the producer had. She beams radiantly at a diner as another Clerks is attempted, but with never with the same warmth and humanity least of all by the guy who made the wonderful Clerks, as his output has, like national Lampoons’ been headed south ever since.

 

I asked her if I could use it as a snippet, as she again is a perfect antithesis to Copula and the Hollywood gumabs than I could ever do. Another Italian actress told me of reading for a part in a Mafia movie,  or a poor man version there of, ouch, and being told she was far to pretty to play the type of italic they needed, of course them being of the age of Maureen meant fat jokes galore, or Gabor as the case may be. I asked Wendy if not too much trouble if shed relay use a camera of hers to take a quick Venus shot of her in a white swim suit coming up out of a pool as That is the money shot point which the whole film could spin around. Of closure this is strictly business and will sue the short on the portion where Venus is mentioned, in the script, but shall perhaps keep a copy in a private reel for cold nights when I am so lonely. Her lawyer emailed me and told me 

 

 
they’d consider it, as every Italian pretty and or smart, knows all publicity is after all good. The Jews, our cousins think they know that too, but are always shocked by the ersatz results that come up. I am sending such emails out to get a modicum of help here, but with always credit given, and saw on my birthday that an artist named JR whose does graffiti is doing the same etching. And I laugh, this time, knowing that those sopranos that shrimp stealer comedy writers made at Home Box office was a farce, and these creatures, as Signora Fortuna is adored by Bum loving brunette seeking tie wearing Bill, are irrevocably real. The gods of drama are immutable, and the theater is as a temple.