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1/25/03 The Pokey Is Friz
BANNED IN JAPAN! Not really, but give me about a year. That's Death Falcon chant #1 (#2 and #3 are too obscene to ever actually use). Your part, as the crowd, is to yell BANNED IN JAPAN with me and give the Death Falcon salute (I'm not kidding, I'll teach it to you). And I know that nom de guerre isn't over your heads, we all know it's Frog speak for "name of war", but they won't know that in Ashland, I'll wager. What's up? Well, as the title of this issue states, the Pokey is friz. The Pokey would be the Poca River for those of you not local, which runs close by my house, and all along the road you take to get here. Friz means it's covered with ice. Stopped in Poca Foodfair the other morning after dropping Rachel off-it's right across the street from Poca Middle, which is convenient, it's not a big store, not much selection, but if they've got it, their prices are way better than (sacrilege) Kroger or Wal-Mart. Some geezer was telling another about the Pokey (God, that's like sandpaper on my teeth, even to type it) being friz. FRIZ. Jesus. My water pipes are also unfortunately friz. I've had water out here 2 days out of the last 10. I kept it running in both bathroom sinks (when I had it to run) but I'm guessing that 4 or 5 feet of pipe coming up through the unheated area under the house is freezing anyway. Damn inconvenient, particularly since I've had the girls all this time, and they need to shower every day. The girls wanted to spend a night last week out at their mom's house, big mistake (for me), Loretta said okay (she was out of town, where the fuck else), I slept downstairs on the couch but it still stirred up a lot of shit for me I didn't need stirred, and Loretta made a bunch of smart ass remarks to the girls about it afterward. Never again. The other option, of going out to my parents, isn't a lot better. They actually have a really big house, but since Tina moved in and basically took it away from them (there's a fucking baseball bat in her near future, take it to the fucking bank, enough is GODDAMN ENOUGH) there's only 3 rooms really available to us when we're out there, the living room, where my parents are watching some horrible old folks shit programming so loud it takes the top of your fucking head off, the kitchen, where 2 seconds after you've gone in my Dad's looming over your shoulder going "Whatcha eatin'?" and the upstairs bathroom, where, again, 2 seconds after you've gone in there Mr. Pee Pot is banging on the door, "You about done in there?" "Jesus, I haven't even got my zipper down yet." "Well, don't be long, I might need in there." He doesn't even have to go yet, he's just scared he'll have to and won't be able to get in. Still, if that's the worst I have to bitch about . . .
Working out in the ring Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays, 9-11 am. It's kind of rough, the building we're working out in is unheated (goddamn, careful, you're head locking my toboggan off) and Bobby's ring will make a fucking man out of you real quick, no trampoline job here, it's just metal, plywood, canvas, my chest is sore from getting slammed on my back, swear to God. Still, I'm loving it. I went at wrestling just like I went at playing the guitar. "Think I'll pick up that fucking guitar and start playing it." Joe tried to give me some pointers at the start, but soon gave it up as a lost cause. Same with wrestling- "Think I'll just get in there and wrestle." Again, I got some pointers at the start, but mostly it was just- doing it. It's cool to learn the universal wrestling moves, which I'll have to if (WHEN, MOTHER FUCKER- WHEN) I go to Japan, cos as Bobby notes, you can't talk it over with your opponent before hand. He's been there an amazing 7 times. How cool. And this is no bullshit blood league we're talking- Michinoku Pro are puroresu, they're all about conditioning and execution, they don't give a flying fuck about your big steroid muscles, or how you work the stick (the microphone, not your genitalia) and they don't have the boss's daughter writing some putrid, puerile, horseshit soap opera that takes up more TV time than the matches. The other side of that, though, is they wrestle long (20 minutes is average) matches, and if you can't make the pace, or your moves are sloppy (Hulk Hogan, phone home), they'll ship your ass out in a heartbeat. I am so fucking there. I CAN DO THIS. As for Ashland, as I said, Bobby loves the Death Falcon. He's gonna talk to those mooks from Cleveland, he says they're crazy if they see me as a face. Yeah, no shit. As Bobby said, "We're just training, but I already know I wouldn't turn my back on you for a minute." Smart man. The only clash we're having is he doesn't want the DF to talk, he wants to maintain the illusion of this Oriental assassin type character, but I mean, really. Bob's wavering, cos he acknowledges I'm damn good on the mike- "You're pretty irritating when you want to be"- yeah, and sometimes when I don't. Bobby's pretty conservative and old school, so some of my suggestions, he's like, "no, not in my league", but he's still a good guy, and getting hooked up with him has been a fantastic boost.
Actually, two. Tad V says he's gonna get a falconry license, then he can accompany me to the ring with a real falcon, and we'll let a pigeon loose in the Armory before my matches and the falcon can kill it. I say GO FOR IT, and if the ASPCA has a problem we'll kick their fucking asses- or turn the falcon loose on 'em, you say you love animals, well, guess what, THEY DON'T LOVE YOU! Actually, three. Six hours a week, times six months. I'm going to be a wrestling fucking MACHINE. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot. That's Marine speak for what the fuck, as DFS noted in his last e-mail here, and was gonna be the title to this issue before the Pokey friz. Went over to his house Sunday for the pay per view, but as that's more wrestling, we'll go there a little later. What's Bill drinking? Green fucking tea. I'm in training. There's a Movie Club tomorrow- excuse me, later today- looking forward to it very much, and I'm not even gonna be drinking at it. Shit- hope I still like you guys sober.
Watching? Nothing, at the moment, watched The French Connection and Chinatown this past weekend, both excellent movies. Gene Hackman is absolutely CRAZED during that famous scene where he's in the car chasing the El, and Jack Nicholson (before he became JACK NICHOLSON in his own mind, and a shit eating asshole as a result) was an excellent smart ass (Jack: What are you doing here? Mug: They shut my water off. J: Oh really? How'd you find out?)
The ACTING is just so goddamn strong in these movies. Tough guys were tough guys, not Bruce fucking Willis, who Bill Smith wouldn't break a sweat wiping his ass with, and the people they had in supporting roles, guys like Roy Scheider and Harvey Keitel and Robert Duvall . . . man. Just great movies, if you haven't seen them, check 'em out. On that note, I lost my opera part- teacher said no found music, make up your own, so Miss Sarah's Friend is going in another direction, doesn't need my Jim Morrison impression anymore. Sarah's still in. To compensate, DF0 is speaking at Poca Middle School March 12. Swear to God. Apparently when they have early out days, they have some kid's parent come in and give a time filling talk about their job. Rachel said to her language teacher this week that her dad wrestles- so she calls me and wants to know if I wanted to come and give a 30 minute talk to the kids. Oh, absolutely. Teacher: And could you maybe address the issue of drugs? Now on to pay per view Sunday. Actually, it wasn't at Death Falcon Sean's (he's wanting to be called DF Sifu now, which is cool, but he needs to get his ass in WRESTLING GEAR again or get left behind) house, his friend Brian was too drunk to drive to Sean's, so they got the pay per view at Brian's. The matches sucked, but it was fun, about 15 drunk, rasslin' crazed rednecks hollerin' at the screen (and me). I sat on the couch next to Brian's girlfriend, whom I actually thought was sorta good looking at that point, she was pounded drunk as well, she'd holler, "I wish Triple H was here so we could GET IT ON." Later, "I wish Kurt Angle was here so we could GET IT ON." Still later, "I wish Dawn Marie was here so we could GET IT ON." Me- "Do you realize-" Her- "Dawn Marie's a chick? I don't care, I think she's hot. If she was here, we'd-" Me and her simultaneously- "GET IT ON!" She started to get tiresome after a while, then she wanted someone to help her get Brian, who was passed out and snoring in his chair, into the bathroom, so they could, what else, get it on. Me- "Don't you mean the bedroom." "No, I mean the bathroom, he's too drunk to take in the bedroom." Okay . . .
I got a immediate erection. Not because I'm so damn patriotic, but because back in the day I used to have a lot of fun photographing my girlfriend at the time, whoever she might've been, wearing nothing but that vest. Had a great HUGE stack of photos in my special drawer- yeah, of course there were more than one of the same girl- which is also where I kept my condoms at the time, and Loretta, when she came along, while searching for one, found the other. She wasn't pissed off, in fact they turned her on, and she said, we'll take pictures of me that'll blow all this shit away. And she was right, God damn, she was hot as a fucking pistol when she wanted to be. Where are all those photos today? Ask Loretta. DAMMIT. Been dreaming a lot again. Had this whole nightmare typed out, like 500 words, think I'll just condense it. Had a dream a week or so ago, this married female friend of mine (who's a real person, not dream) calls me, like 5 am, weird conversation, she's unfocused and vague, but I get the drift that there's a problem and she needs me to come over. I do, to find the house full of cops- her, her husband, and their 3 kids have all been murdered- hours before I got the call. I'm standing there totally creeped and chilling, I just got a phone call from a dead woman- when suddenly the cops are her and her family, mutilated and bloody, and she's like, "Why weren't you here when we needed you?" I felt like saying, next time, don't wait to call me until after you're ALREADY FUCKING DEAD, but I figure trying to reason with the undead is a waste of time, so I turn to run instead, and wake up. May sound funny, but it was scary as shit at the time. Had sort of a funny dream recently, I'll peg it in later (this issue). Also, Joe, jammed with our next (hired) drummer the other day. It's absolutely goddamn AMAZING how much time you have available to you when you don't fucking work. Makes me think of one of our old drummers, and a funny story (HEY, you asked for the variety). Scotty was the first Sabres drummer. He was marvelously fast and precise, and he and Joe and I could do these incredibly fast, Teutonic lock step rhythms like nobody's fucking business. Scotty couldn't swing, and he couldn't groove, but he could pound the hell out of his drums very, very fast, and in perfect time. And LOUD. We used to practice at this disabled farmer boy's place outside of Ravenswood. I remember the first time we met Scotty there I just took my little Stage amp, didn't want to be bothered carrying a big amp. I ended up with it sitting on top of a dresser, the speaker not a foot from my ear, totally turned up, every knob on the damn thing pegged hard right- and I couldn't hear it. This is no lie. This crazy guy who owned the practice farm, he'd lost his leg in a motorcycle accident. We'd get drunk and get out his spare prosthetics, one night we were playing with 'em, wearing them like a dunce's cap, we used to get so fantastically pounded drunk. Joe and I used to come back home around 4-5 am, driving back down winding Red House Hill, and I guaran-damn-tee you I could say I saw Joe driving that treacherous road passed out, with his eyes closed, and pass a lie detector test. Anyway, we're out there one night, taking a break, and the guy who's farm we're at hands me this shotgun. I don't know why, when I'm drunk, people want to drag out their guns to show me- must be that same impulse makes you want to jump off a cliff when you lean over the edge. Farmer boy: Wanna take it out back and shoot it? Me and farmer boy go outside, I was scanning the sky for UFOs-I always wanted to bag me one of those bastards- when I see what I think is this abandoned old building at the side of his house. Why there'd be an abandoned old building right there didn't really occur to me, because I've already gone into this Cagney/Manson/SLA holdout thing in my mind- Bill: Never take you alive? You got that right, mother fucker . . .
BLAM. BLAM. BLAM. Next dream. I have this dream that I have this girlfriend named Betty- who looks like the beauteous Kay Lyons from St. Louis, and who's been mentioned here before, and who I was a mother fucking IDIOT not to get together with when I had a chance. Betty lives with her mom, and her mom's pet kangaroo. Also, mom doesn't like me, and the kangaroo doesn't like me- I think they're jealous. In the dream, I stop by to pick up Betty, and she's not ready. While I'm waiting, the kangaroo keeps punching me in the back. I turn around and he's just standing there behind me, giving me the round eye, big fucker, and not brown like they're supposed to be, but brindle, like a pit bull or something. I turn back around, like a total dumb ass, and he pokes me again- "You better cut that shit out," I tell him- then turn away again, like a perfect goof, so he can keep poking me. After about the 3rd or 4th time of being jabbed in the back I've had enough, so I make a fist and spin around and clout him upside the head. He goes hopping off to mom's room, howling like a dog.
(And no, I have no idea what fist fighting with your girlfriend's mother's kangaroo means in dream analysis, and I don't wanna know) I was gonna, in the interest of VARIETY, clue you all in to some good websites, Chris has sent me really good ones, Steve as well, I've also got some, but- I'm tired. Next time.
Later Bill
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Death Falcon Zero is my nom de guerre 
One last thing and we'll leave wrestling for this issue. Bobby doesn't
think the Godzilla theme will play in Ashland as entrance music, so I'm
thinking of using Diamondhead's "
Listening to? Blue Oyster Cult. Been a fan for ages (we used to
frequently wind our asses up in high school listening to "Buck's
Boogie" on my old The Guitars That Destroyed The World 8-track and
why the fuck I never crashed and killed us all playing air guitar when I
should've been driving is beyond me), at least their early stuff. Good
riffs, singing, lyrics, guitar. They're on the DirecTV free thing this
month, other than looking appallingly old (and Allen Lanier, Jesus God,
get your teeth fixed, you look like a fucking street person) they sounded
great- they (Buck Dharma, mostly, but Allen some) played (and play) some
of the least boring extended leads around, for my money. And there's not
one single fucking 80's band that wouldn't totally fucking die for a power
ballad (long before the term was coined) as cool and powerful as
"Then Came The Last Days Of May".
I love those old cop/crime movies of the early 70's, maybe it's just
because it was my time, but I still think they're fucking great- besides
the 2 already mentioned, a short list off the top of my head would include
The Getaway (wonderful throughout, but the scene where Steve McQueen slams
the car brakes on, gets out, and cuffs Ali McGraw around when he finds out
she fucked Ben Johnson to get him out of jail is just so fucking REAL),
the Godfather, The Seven Ups, Dog Day Afternoon, Dirty Harry (he's a
cliche now, but that's a powerful fucking movie), and to stretch it a
little, time frame wise, (76), Taxi Driver.
What
the fuck else, we want variety here. I was out at my mom's looking for old
70's style clothes for Rachel to wear in their latest production- there's
a really good photo of Rachel, by the way, on the front page of the
Thursday (1/23) Charleston Daily Mail Entertainment Section (D), in fact,
I'm gonna get it from my mom and scan it in later for Joe to put on the
website. Came across this old suede American flag vest I won from your
current 
Betty comes out ready to go about the same time that her mom, in
curlers and this dirty white robe (these dreams are VIVID, I can see her
now like she was a real person, and this all really happened) comes out to
give me shit for clocking her kangaroo. She's going, "What kind of
man hits a defenseless animal!" while the kangaroo is crouched behind
her, looking out from under her arm and making mean faces at me, I'm
going, "You keep that damn kangaroo offa me, or next time I come out
here-" "I hope there isn't a next time, you bastard!" This
may look funny in print, but it got a little scary there at the end, cos
that kangaroo was making some dead evil faces at me.
Am I evil? Yes, I am 