ACTOR ALFRED MOLINA JOINS CHORUS OF CYNICS AND PRAISES ARBABSIAR AS GREAT ACTOR; NEWARK MOTEL, MY NIGHT IN HELL;

SECOND POST:  October 13, 2011 – MERCURY NEWS SERVICE CONTINUING COVERAGE OF PLOT TO ASSASSINATE SISSIFIED SAUDI AMBASSADOR JUBEIR – London, U.K. Algernon Snortley reporting –  In a news conference held today in St. Bumstead’s Hall near Ealing,  British actor Alfred Molina, who is of both Spanish and Italian heritage, extolled Mansoor Arbabsiar as a “man of his own flesh”.  The actor who is famous for playing Iranian husband of Sally Field in the movie: ‘Not Without My Daughter’, claims that Italians have an easy time playing roles involving people of different heritages and that Mr. Arbabsiar, accused of masterminding an assassination attempt on Saudi Ambassador Adel Jubeir, was “more proof that our people express themselves in inventive ways.”  Asked if he believed the American story about the plot, the British-trained actor responded: “Who cares anymore.  The result is almost always the same with the U.S. government dismissing charges. I really want to meet the man I know as Bruno Polumbo.”  The British government would make no comment about Mr. Molina’s statements other than: “We are a free country, even for mixed-up Italians.”  Christopher Lee, venerable veteran of some of the world’s most notorious horror movies and Hammer Film regular, who also is of half-Italian ancestry, applauded Mr. Arbabsiar stating in his patented baritone: “I think he would have made a good Igor opposite Peter Cushing”.  The seasoned actor also stated that “the Americans are putting on a good show too.  Maybe, they might consider coming over here for some training.”  American State Department spokewoman and ranking hermaphrodite, Victoria Nuland,  offered this in response to the British thespian’s unsolicited comments: “Our actors don’t get involved in British investigations, and so, Mr. Molina should just butt out.”  When she was confronted by Skye News Reporter Conrad Festry with the following question: “What about Mr Robert Ford, your ambassador to Syria.  He keeps meeting with Syrian dissidents and terrorists. Why do you condone that?”  Ms. Nuland turned around abruptly, and muttered audibly: “Suckin’ limeys”, and skittered off.  More news about this tomorrow.

The Newark Hojo Liberty Motel in which J. Proscia entombed me during our visit to the Big Apple has not been properly fleshed out for the SyrPer reader.  I don’t know where to begin. There are songs like “Hotel California” where you can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave.  There are movies like “Motel Hell” with its now world-famous billboard advertisement:  “Its takes all kinds of critters to make Farmer Vincent’s fritters”.  Well, there’s the Bates Motel where you can shower in black-and-white and stuff yourself silly. And then, there’s the Hojo Liberty Motel Where You Can Smell the Tell-Tale Intimations of Dante’s Hell.  Oh, come on, Ziad, it wasn’t that bad!  Yes, it was. It was so bad, that I feared pilfering the extra bottles of shampoo, rinse, skin softener, toilet paper, notepads and pens, shower caps, teeny-weeny soapbars and every other portable amenity available lest they bear the MARK OF BEDBUGS!!!  Well, Proscia paid for them and he’s too proud to assert his legitimate claim to these items.  I harbor no such sins in my soul. But, to this day, I am studying these items to insure no contagion will recrudesce on to the world. 

There is no refrigerator in the room.  The ice machine is on the third floor across from the exercise room,  a seeming two miles away.  The athletics room is one treadmill and two stationary bikes, with an everpresent bevy of ancient crones racing the Grim Reaper to the tune of “Dust in the Wind”;  my eyes looking askance in embarrassment at the Bosch-like scene of putrefacted decrepitude in Cinerama and Dolby Surroundsound. “Is there no Balm in Gilead?” I screamed out, my feet making haste without regard to the torso which normally accompanies them. I would reach our room always breathless, a wheeze eructing from the depths of my being.  Proscia, incapable of social understanding, without a mature spur on his bones,  autistically staring at his ingenious lap-top or PrePod (or something) gave no sympathetic glance,  no interest in my health.  Boorish, crude, brutish and self-important.  If he did not pay for the rooms voluntarily,  the situation would have been insufferable. 

Alcohol in its most saintly form, appears always when the soul is besieged by travail or bad taste.  I find vodka most salubrious when swallowed in large, cold draughts, the eyes closed as though embracing St. Cecilia for the last time, her breath close to the ears mouthing: `Weaken into bliss, my son.  Have another.”   
I smile more when I’m drinking.  This clearly indicates that I enjoy a good, solid, effective medicament to chafe off the barnacles which collect on the hull of every well-found ship. Even as I looked upon Proscia’s sullen frame bending walrus-like toward the screen of this or that technological abomination,  I warmed to his existence during those hours when spirits dominated my mind, in striking contrast to when I was in that abhorred mode of sobriety; cursing him all the while. Ziad