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1/29/07 Cold Turkey
Hey Well, it's not all that bad, but then again I'm not a fucking heroin addict like our boy John, just a dumb fuck who once again, a lot like this time last year, only much, much worse, decided to take a chemical short cut to faux health and well being. Obviously, to anyone but a total ass, substituting speed for sleep and alcohol for food, (and not giving a shit for giving one) you're not healthy at all, physically or mentally, but you are always too fucking wired to notice just how sick you are and how much stress you're putting on your body and your mind. Until . . . I've always been a very strong advocate of driving fast till I crash, which is what happened in this case, as well. However, this time, I'm not just going to jump back in another car and start driving fast again. Time for some changes. Radical ones? Not really, I mean, you take a fish out of a filthy aquarium and put it in a clean one, first thing he does is go belly up, the last thing I want to do is kill myself with clean living. God, the fucking irony, you know? I've given up speed, hopefully this time I will take no more forever, I quit a few weeks ago, and they've been a rough couple weeks, boys and girls. I have to tell you- that shit is NO fucking good for you, the only thing worse than taking a lot of speed over an extended period of time is stopping. As for drinking . . . I don't know. Cutting back doesn't work for me- I'm an all or nothing kind of guy- so I'm thinking about taking the month of February off to give my liver and other internals a rest, been having an intermittant pain in my left side right under the ribs for a month or so now, pretty bad when it's there, don't know what it is. Don't like it, though. (DEPRESSION HURTS. YOU DON'T HAVE TO). Fuck you, smart ass. I'm also going to try and eat something every single day, cos I know going for days at a time without eating isn't good for me, someone asked way back if I was anorexic, good God, no, some days, a lot of days, actually, I'm just not hungry. And I don't eat if I'm not hungry. Simple as that. And all you nosy Parkers wanting to know the specifics of the cardiac problem mentioned last issue, it was something serious enough to get the attention of even my indestructable ass, and that's all I'm going to say about it. We're closing that subject for good starting . . . right . . . NOW. Someone who was there asked if I was under the influence of something other than alcohol last MC cos "even for you, you seemed awfully manic", yes, yes I was, good call. But that was then, this is now, and now, boy, now, I'm prepared to cast off all the fears that bound me, and lead a productive, exemplary life of health, vigor, and public service. Just like all you other capitalist running dog lackeys, woof woof, good doggy, heel, boy, heel. (YOU ARE SO FULL OF SHIT). And damn proud of it. Beats being a capitalist running dog lackey. We spent more than enough time on the mail bag the past couple issues, gonna skip it this time around and go straight to what's Bill been up to lately? Other than, you know, going straight, and all that shit. Been spending a shit load of time at Al's for one thing, for a number of reasons, one of them being that's there are just three of us damn fools trying to cover him 24/7. Al's lost a lot of his personality this past year, he can still respond, usually cogently, sometimes even wittily, if prodded, but he almost never initiates a conversation anymore, just sits and stares, and has forgotten all the old stories he used to drive me insane with just a few years ago by repeating them ad infinutum. Sad. We were at breakfast last week, Granny K's in Milton cos Robby is "bombed out" on all the places in Huntington, I'm not a big fan of Granny's, if you don't want a variation on biscuits and gravy you're pretty much out of luck. As has been mentioned in here before, Bill's not much of a biscuit eater. I CAN eat them, fuck, I can eat anything, I can eat radioactive biscuits with burnt raw rattlesnake and dirt on them, standing in the pouring rain riding on a canoe on top of a motorboat going over Aswan High Dam if I have to, but I don't really like 'em, even a little bit. I just get a big bowl of oatmeal at Granny's, it's good for me, even if it is bland- butter and salt only- I always get Al a couple pancakes, coffee, and a big orange jiuce, mostly cos he'll eat that, at Grannny's they bring the syrup in this big ass half a bowl thing, so I can understand how Al could get confused. Friday morning, while I'm shoveling in my oatmeal- gotta eat it before it sets up- out of the corner of my eye I see Al dump coffee creamer into the syrup, then pour his cup of coffee- he'd already drunk about half of it, or we'd have had coffee overspill all over the table- on top of his pancakes. Good one, Al. He tucks right in. Bill: How are those pancakes, Al? He takes a drink of the creamed up syrup. A: Too damn sweet. And the oppositional old fuck drank down that cup of milky syrup. At that point I figure what the fuck, it's all going down the same hole anyway, if he wants to drink his syrup and eat coffee covered pancakes, I'm sure I don't even care. Robby the history buff was asking Al that same morning if they had any trouble with Indian attacks when Al was a kid- I thought Robby was kidding, but he was apparently serious, cos when I said "Nah, Rob, the dinosaurs scared 'em all off" he said, "No, seriously, when did we tame the Indians, anyway? It wasn't till after Al was born, was it?" Later on, after Robby made a comment about "This is as bad as being in the Back Ages," Al asked, ""Lord, Rob, how many stupid things can one person say in five minutes?" I don't know, but there's not a doubt in my mnd Robby holds the record. The past two Mondays Al and I have gone out with Robby, first to the VFW- I go cos Robby buys, been drinking Absolut and cranberry there, picked a taste for it back up, not a bad drink- in fact, I think that's what I did the last NL on, but that bottle's long gone, just drinking Rolling Rock tonight, thanks for asking- last Monday the bartender- Sarge, we've talked about her before- just left the bottles of vodka and juice on the bar in front of us, told us to make our drinks ourselves and keep track of them, we'd settle up at the end of the night. Cool place. Dear Gay Steve liked his mixed drinks, and talking about drinking in Huntington always makes me think of the dear lad, so we're going to digress for a paragraph or two- but dear God, the shit that guy would drink (and that's not a couched reference to his being gay, either, I'm talking about the alcoholic abominations he'd swill). Steve: I can't help it, I like my drinks sweet. Just like my men. And brother, he wasn't kidding- about liking his drinks sweet, not about not liking me, he loved me, and I him, he was a good boy, our Steve, and I truly hope the reports I heard long ago about his demise were greatly exaggerated. Sometimes I'd go wth him down to Rebels and Redcoats, this bar in a bowling alley, and get Singapore Slings cos- you guessed it- Steve would buy, I don't know what's in a Singapore Sling, although I used to, I thought they were about the sweetest thing a man could drink, they were the least sweet thing Steve would drink that didn't come out of some other guy's dick When we'd sit around the room and drink together, I'd usually just be into the beer, every now and then whiskey or gin if I was miraculously flush- and I forgot, there for a while we'd go in together Thursday nights on a fifth of vodka and put it and some pre-sweetened Kool-Aid lemonade flavor in a half gallon jug, fill it up with water and drink it while watching the Waltons (?!), we'd play a drinking game where every time crabby ass Grandma Walton said something pissy you'd have to take a drink, the jug never made it to the end of a single show- she was a bitch, that Grandma Walton- God love her heart. If it wasn't Thursday, Steve'd more often than not make his own pina coladas- I KNOW, if there's a worse drink out there I don't have any idea what it could possibly be, one time he turned his back and took a slug out of the can of coconut milk, then turned back around with it running out of his mouth, "Hey, look", "Jesus CHRIST", and people say I'm disgusting, I think his pinnacle- or nadir- was one night when he fixed himself a sloe gin fizz- sloe (ugh) gin and 7-Up, and added a couple packets of powdered sugar to it. Steve: Where are you going? Here's to you, Steve, you girly mother fucker. Wherever you may be right now, I hope you have a sweet drink in one hand, and a sweet man in the other. (COS YOU'RE TOLERANT). You damn straight I am. Getting back to the VFW, I don't drink that much there cos I am offcially on the clock, I hold it at three (mixed stiff), I also let Robby buy Al a beer, he nurses it all night, Robby'd push more beer on Al if I let him, but I don't let him. We've also gone over to the Aristocrat- that place definitely does not improve with age, what a goddamn disgusting dump- these past two Mondays cos again, Robby buys- the beer, that is, again, I let Al have one, I hold it at three. I won't let Al go upstairs anymore even though Robby, once more again, tries to push it on him, a couple years ago I figured Al was still competent enough to make that decision for himself, but no more, so no nookie for Al on Bill's watch, sorry, sport. I think I'm going to make Robby drop us off before he goes over there from now on, that place gets more depressing every time I set foot in it, the girls the first time at least had a bit of personality to them, this recent crop have all been fucking (so to speak)zombies, low IQ or drug burnt, or both, either these emaciated ribs showing alley cat types, or too many fried taters- (AND TOO MUCH BISCUITS AND GRAVY) -down at the trailer park white trash porkers, wildly unattractive girls any way you slice it, too much so even for Rob- B: So why are we sitting here in this absolute shithole drinking
lukewarm $4 beers on your tab, Rob? God have mercy. What must his home be like, that he prefers the Aristocrat? I do have to thank that goofy ass Robby for something. I'm in Huntington a lot during the day now as well, last Monday afternoon Al and I go riding around with Robby while he attends to "business"- don't even get me started, by his own unashamed admission Robby lost $15,000 on the Omelet Stop he bought in 2004, and $14,000 on the hot dog stand he opened last year over in Catlettsburg- (AT LEAST HE'S GOING IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION)-
Miss Real Estate Agent- her name's Sally- comes in and damn, she's nice looking, tall- 5' 10"- built good, black hair, blue eyes, she looks young but it turns out she's 41- I didn't ask her, please, goof ball Robby did. She and Rob talk a bit, then Rob, being the rube that he is, takes a call on his cell phone. Being the type guy that I am, I pick up the conversational slack so the poor girl won't be bored, buy her a cup of Burger King coffee- they were out of syrup- and get to work. It turns out Sally's very nice, unattached, well off, has her own real estate agency, owns a good bit of property around town, Robby told me later she comes from really big money, her Dad owns most of Lavalette, including the golf course. She asked me if I golfed, and I was impressed enough with this girl I strangled my smart ass impulse to make a remark about my stroke and answered her straight. I came away from my conversation with Sally pretty impressed, so when she gave Robby one of her cards, I asked for one as well. "Oh, are you interested in some property?" she asks innocently. What the fuck, may as well be up front about things. "Nah," I said, "I'm interested in taking you out." She gave me a card, wrote her home number on the back, "By all means, call me" she says. So I did, the next day, and we're gonna meet this Tuesday, God and court dates willing, at the 20th Street Bar and Grill for some drinks (it'll still be January, so even if I go on the wagon for a month I can get this date in under the wire). Should be fuin. As always, I go in expecting nothing, and am absolutely 100% not looking for a romance (fools rush in), but if things work out, it'd be nice to actually date someone instead of what I normally do, if she's good for dinner and drinks every now and then, maybe come to Charleston for a MC sometime (love me, love my friends), I'm good. And if she wants to find out why they call me the Death Falcon, that's cool too, but completely secondary. (SUUUURE IT IS). Believe me or don't. I could not care less. What else has Bill been doing? They showed a rough cut of 16 to Life Saturday night over at State, I was happy with some things, not so much with others, I'll leave it at that for now so as not to prejudice any of you either way before you see it yourselves. Which you must. The premier is supposed to be sometime in April. We'll see. One thing I will comment on is how jarrng it is to see myself on film, in my head- you'd thnk I'd be past this by now, but I'm not- I'm still this trim, sweet faced, long haired youth, Romeo, not Romeo's ill tempered dad, and then I see myself on screen, shit, I'm not James Bond anymore, I'm the fucker trying to laser Bond's nuts off. Still, it is motherfucking COOL AS SHIT to sit down and watch a movie and fucking be in it. And how many of you can say that? Last week I also went over to State and read for the part of a hitman in some production they're doing this spring, guy told me today I got it, but like that other Huntington stuff last summer, if it even gets beyond casting will be anyone's guess. What else has Bill been watching beside himself? What else, more Ultra Man. Watched one a few days ago, all these kids are holding up crudely executed crayon drawings of their favorite kaiju, showing them to one another and naming the monsters, then this one kid holds up this well done charcoal on gray sketch of a well know composer- "Beethoven, yo?" You can't beat this show with a stick. What's Bill listening to? More SSSLB CDs, right now a couple Dave Mason best of's, got both of them (together) for under two bucks, nothing great, but a couple decent songs on each, Dave reminds me a lot of solo Eric Clapton- I like Cream, I like Derek and the Dominos, 99% of Clapton's solo shit puts me to fucking sleep- Dave does do a surprsingly good version of "All Along The Watchtower", but what I consider his best song, "Show Me Some Affection", isn't on either one of these CDs, naturally. There was a guy on my floor second year at Marshall that was nuts about Dave Mason, I could never figure it- "He's bland, Roger, what the fucK"- he's the one who gave me the Dave Mason LP I have, with "Show Me Some Affection" on it, trying to convince me Dave was good. If I can stay awake- my sleep patterns have been even more bizarre post speed then they were while I was abusing- I'll tell a funny story about Roger. And I heard a Buzzcocks song on an AARP commecial the other day. The Apocolypse is just around the corner. (I'M READY). DFZ went out twice since last issue, XMCW in Rand, and that EWE fed out of Parkersburg, which is pretty fucked up, I thought it was John's fed but the money people- you always need money people in this business- are a bunch of marks that want to pretend at being workers. We show up in Lubeck Friday night and the ring is full of these untrained, overweight idiots in street clothes talkng over thier upcoming "matches". Fucking please. I told John, toss 'em out and make 'em buy a ticket if they want back in, turns out they're the ones who've put up the money to run the show. Jesus and me smell trouble. At first it was gonna be okay, these mooks were all gonna "work"- like they even know the meaning of the word- the undercard- main event was me and John- used to be El Fandango, now he's Mark Savior, whatever- against Allen and Ace Prime- but then Owen, head money mook, comes up with the idea that he and his other mark buddies are gonna do a run in at the end of the show and do a beat down on both teams. Say WHAT? (I'M A TRAINED FUCKING PROFESSIONAL). I know you are. (AND THESE PASTY FACED FAN BOY DOUGHNUT HOLES THINK THEY'RE PUTTING THEMSELVES OVER AT MY EXPENSE?) I know. They had to be on drugs. As soon as I hear what's up- secondhand, Allen comes to me a mixture of outrage and incredulity, "Have you heard the finish for our match?!"- I go to recruit Ace and John, they both pussy out, the promoter's always right, they say, it's his money, no, not really. Allen, to his credit, is right beside me when I go to Owen. Allen and I both try to explain to him why wrestling psychology wise it makes no sense for his crew of numbnuts to come out and destroy both the top faces, and the top heels, in the fed. Owen's take is, it's my money, you work for me, I can do what I want. Bill: Here's my last word on it, Owen. If anyone tries to do a run in
on my match, I'm gonna beat 'em to a goddamn pulp. In the end it was all moot, cos the ring fell apart during the third match and the rest of the show was- reluctantly- cancelled. Owen: We're just gonna have to hold the rest of the matches outside the
ring. I hate that these dicks are running thngs cos this could be a good fed, next show, Hardcore Hell, 2/23- as long as the ring doesn't break again- DFZ is defending his EWE Hardcore title against the Juggulator, that should be a hell of match- hopefully he's not bringing that damnable tack bat with him- and they're talking about bringing some old school guys in, Jake the Snake Roberts for one. I had a long talk with John Friday before I left about him smartening Owen up, but I doubt if he does it, John is a good guy but not real strong on either brains or balls, I remember when I was telling Arpin to go fuck himself on John's behalf, "He doesn't belong to you, Arpin, he can do what he wants, fuck you, man. Tell him to kiss your ass, John, you don't have to listen to this fat fuck" "Well, now, Bill, Richard's only doing what he thinks is best- " "Yeah, for Richard!" all John could do was back pedal. So I don't see him doing much about Owen. Which could end really badly cos I'm telling you what, it's not a personal ego thing at all- no, really, it's not- I just have too much respect for the business to expose it by taking a "beat down" from a bunch of pimply faced 5'6", 240 pound jerk off dough boy marks out spending Mommy's money, it's not gonna happen. I'll put every goddamn one of them in the hospital first. Wrestling's not real? My sweet ass. Okay, funny story about Roger. This is not Roger Pritt, but some other Roger, he was from one of the southern counties, can't remember which, McDowell, maybe, had one of those twangy, bangy accents and a deep, year round tan, tall, thin, liked his pot, liked it a LOT. Nice guy, we didn't hang together much, but I liiked him just fine, he was a big music head, so we'd frequently talk music when we did talk, he also had, for its time, an absolutely killer stereo system in his room (this was second semester, his room mate had dropped out at the break and Roger had the room to himself). One day, I've come back to my room after lunch, got my books, getting ready to go to my one o'clock class, had to pass Roger's room on my way to the stairs- some lazy fucks took the elevator, we were only on the third for fuck's sake, I'd have been embarrassed to- Roger hollers at me as I go by- Roger: Hey, Bill. Roger'd just gotten a new Babe Ruth record- an obscure, even then, mid 70's Canadian band, had some okay Roger Dean cover art, but musically I thought they sucked, another one of Roger's favorites that I just couldn't understand, he wanted me to come in and listen to it with him, he'd also gotten in some killer pot he wanted me to try, sure, Rog, if it's gonna make you happy, buddy. Somehow the ubiquitous Rick Ramell shows up- that kid could smell free pot like I could, and can, smell free beer- Roger lets him in and shuts his door, puts the rolled up towel along the bottom, and lights some incense. Candles were big back then as well, especially among the heads, and Roger had as elaborate a candle arrangement as he did stereo system, he had this fucking big wooden wagon wheel suspended from his ceilng by a rope, with candles placed along its rim where all the spokes met. Pretty cool. He pulls his curtain and lights the candles, we start cranking away at his bong- it WAS some killer pot, too- and listening to that crappy Babe Ruth album. At one point I go, "Mother fuck, I am TOASTED. This room just keeps getting brighter and brighter". Roger and Rick are both like, "Yeah, man, dig it . . . brighter . . . " Bill: And hotter. He looks up. R: HOLY SHIT! One of the candles has tipped over and set both the wagon wheel, and it's supporting rope, on fire. We're not talking some little Zippo shit here, we've got a fucking FIRE. Roger and Rick immediately panic. Bill starts laughng his ass off. I can't help it, it was FUNNY. Roger starts to stumble ineffectually around the room, "gotta . . . gotta put it . . . gotta put it OUT, man", Rick's fluttering like a butterfly between the wndows and the door, I guess trying to decide if he should jump or run- Bill: Hey, man look, the ceiling's catching on fire. About that time the rope burns through, and the flaming wheel comes crashing down, which for some reason sets me to laughng even harder. (WOULDN'T HAVE BEEN SO FUNNY, THAT BIG ASS FIREY WHEEL COME CRASHING DOWN ON YOUR BUZZED UP FUCKNG HEAD). No shit. But see, it didn't, so it was funny. (WHATEVER. CRAZY FUCKER). I was going to grab it and throw it out the window- my solution to pretty much everything back then was to throw it out the window- but Roger grabbed the comforter off of his bed and threw it over the wheel and smothered the fire, although at the cost of a ruined comforter. Nowadays we'd have been thrown in jail, or kicked out of school or something over an incident like that- fire in a dorm, hang 'em- back then we just opened up the window to air out the room, later that night I helped Roger go upstairs and swap out his scorched ceiling tiles for some out of the fourth floor hallway, end of problem. Roger put a throw rug over the spot where the wheel had burnt a hole in his floor rug, I don't know if they came after him for it after he moved out at the end of the year or not, cos I never saw him again, but I have to tell you, maybe you had to have been there, maybe you had to have been stoned- maybe you have to be Bill- but that wagon wheel catching on fire above our stoned oblivious heads is one of the funniest experiences of my life. Okay. Bed time for Billy. Wish me luck Tuesday night. (TAKE YOUR FILTHY HANDS OFF ME, YOU DAMN DIRTY APE). It was "stinking", not filthy. And I have no idea what you could possibly be referring to. Anything else? (YEAH. WHEN DID WE TAME THE INDIANS, ANYWAY?) Beats the fuck outta me.
"Peace. Peace. He is not dead . . . he doth not sleep. He hath awakened from the dream of life." (WE MUST ALL BECOME AS LIGHT). Amen. Later Bill
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My
body is aching 
-so
now his plan is to- yeah, open another hot dog stand- "You want to
run it for me, Bill?" "FUCK NO, ROBBY!", for God's sake, if
any one thing shows what a horrible head for busniess the man has, that
question would be it- this time in Huntington. We go with him to meet his
real estate agent at the Burger King on the West side not far from the lot
she's got listed that Robby's wanting to buy, to put his hot dog stand-
that he asked ME to run, Jesus X Christ- on.
Oh,
I'll be a good boy