Spring in Roma--who gives a shit?

Spring in Roma--who gives a shit? 

I found that curious sentiment in a Joyce Carol Oates review in the New York Review of Books of the latest work by James Ellroy, the celebrated author of contemporary hard-boiled noir crime novels.  Ellroy said it, and here's more of it:

     Spring in Roma--who gives a shit?  My publisher booked me a boss hotel suite....I pulled the curtains and anchored them with heavy chairs.  I had an epiphany and began reading the Gideon Bible placed in the nightstand drawer. 

     I got half way through the Old testament.  Cancer cells started eating at me....

Ellroy was an equal opportunity critic:

     Amsterdam in spring?  Truly Shitsville.  Pot Fumes wafting out of coffeehouse doorways and horseflies turd-bombing canals. 

I turned to my secretary, this one a blonde in a clinging lime satin dress, and asked her to google "Spring in Roma--who gives a shit?" Maybe I'd dig up a lead. Moments later, she turned those red lips on me and gave me the skinny. Google's response:  "Did you mean Spring in Rome--who gives a shit?"

Bill