The political speach implied in old 'made for TV movies'

< insert awful and ponitifacted essay
 here>

When you make humourous asides and
people mistake for them actual 'thoughtful
writings', then do you present yourself
as a baffoon to an audience of judgemental
sots?

All of the casting of who and why and what they
think ought to have the 'odour' of 
subjective 'putting on' of a pale
upon the heads of the living.

The framing of random movie shots
makes Massiello see the brillience
in early '80s made for TV movies.

Why couldn't the writers have had funding
to better cameras?
 lots and lots of laughter.  But it doesn't
seem funny to Massiello as his morning
becomes the production of ranty
story elements on an experiemental 
website hosted by an unemployed 
media wonk.
Is that what he'd called himself.
He's going to be a millionaire.
I'm going to make him into a millionaire.

And lost in the worlds of envious delusion
that he was (the author is a judgemental
douf, douf.

How do you write silence into a novel,
he wonders, the butter drips off the toast
and onto the cracked edge of a fine piece
of porcilin that he acquired at the 
Mattiese Fountain Gift Shoppe and
Bargain Furntiture Outlet (where they
have a coffee shop that makes the best
Capacinno Alfredo
West of Wartford and north of 
Petterbrookee.

My Father the Gaywad
A humourous movie by Kentin Schmittioni
(the half Italian half New Jersian
multi-ethnic story telling movie dude
with the short pants and the penchant
for media is the message
kind of effects (named after another media
sayer-about-it dude.

Massiello pulls over to the side of the road
(at an inappropriate and dangerous place)
He gets out and walks around in the dawn.
"Why are people so mean to me?" he weeps
into his hand.  "Why couldn't me and
Raymond work . . . oh why why why why."
Of course he says all of this in perfect
Castillian Portuguese (which he is the only speaker of) and doesn't even hear the
noise when the blaring horn of a truck
comes around that tight corner
and doesn't see his Acoora Insipid (a 
Korean car) which get's totalled instantly.

Implied political speach.  The overwhelming
'power of the man', which is a fiction,
but personified within this amusing movie and chronicled as some kind of
political relic.

The story of total and complete
social evil of the highest order
presented as a 'lighthearted parody'

It's a 'there not going to get away with this'
kind of movie.

Where is he
is he there?

Theft of life?
Health?
And you aren't even living in a house?



'I won't be broken', he rages.
What will happen to poor Massiello now
that he has to wait for the police to
come and the truck driver is bleeding
on my wool worseted suit (that Raymound
bought for me in Las Vegas, weep weep
weep)

Skid Row in a rich town
with a TV that you need to put
dollar coins into to keep it
running.
But you also need to put
silver coins into the antenna
to keep it running.
And you have to put nickels into a 
kevlo-furnace (pattented by Tree Hugger
in 2012) to keep the power on.

Valley views from high views.

the obligatory 'I need a job' scene.

Marselliello calls me from the grave yard.
And now, here I am, bad movie, his heartache.
And they are lost and adrift in the valley 
of money.

How does one rise from nothing and
create a life for oneself?
The phone rings.  It rings and rings and rings.
Marseillo lets it ring until the answering
message.
And the message says
"There ain't anybody here to take your call"  (the last part of 'call' has a resonance
that makes it linger)
"Please leave a message."

"Oh why why why?" Marselliello cries.

"Who will pick me up?"

Marselliello calls again.  The rain
has started.  "Please please please
pick up." he prays (with the real
heart feel of a true prayer)
and so . . . 

"Hey who's calling."
"YOu won't believe what's happening to 
me."  And the world 'me' has a resonance 
and a length longer than needed.

Oh, there is the obligatory jalopy 
on an LA street complet with blue smoke
pouring out of the exhaust.  What is one to
do when one's world view is crafted
by bad story-tellers.
"My car.  My car is destroyed." weeps
Marselliello into the phone of the graveyard.

Then he goes into his 'wow-is-me weeping phase, and an audible gasp and
whimpering high-frequency flectuations
of voice, a plea-sound that is actually
quite interesting.  Only he has
devolved into Portuguese and I can't
understand a single thing he is weeping about.

"A car?  The car Laudo bought for you?
Grave yard?  Bend in the highway?
Can you call me back, I've got
someone on the other line."

How could I have known his predicament?
Oh, the horror of bad cell phone reception
when coupled with inept drivers who
park in dangerous places.

Across the graveyard from the bend in the highway, and on a side road and down a 
hill from there, where there is a little
creek that runs back from the stone wall,
there is another road that leads up the
mountain from there (and down the other
side) that no one who doesn't have 4WD
would think to drive) so
Masseillo walks over there where there
used to be a gin-joint (when establishments
were labeled as such, now nobody knows
what that means?)
So Masseillo goes over there through the 
muck and muddy (next to the stone wall
made of giant pieces of quartz and granite)
and across the part with the big White Pine
trees (a glade) past the
wreaked cars that someone parked there
a long long time ago (and a birch tree
has grown through the broken windshield
of a 1940's or something wreak)

Envy, overwhealming envy.
the promise of goodtimes
the song of the old weepy gin-joint singer.
It's from a phonograph.  It's scratchy.
"That you, Tootsinger?" calls a scruffy
voice (scruffy was the word that Massiello
called the sound).
"I need to use your phone.  There's been
an accident."

Bad appartment cleche's.  Stairwell with
rats.  A stuck lock.
Break in?  the horrer of bad apartment
cleche movies.

How much money?
Who plays the guitar?


no bathroom?

The bathroom is pissing off the porch.

Standard of Living?