All us sinners gonna pay the price
Even though we know it's not fair
Spend our time in this world alone
And I tell you, no one cares

Hey

This will be the closest thing this year to a Halloween edition, so, boo, boys and girls, wait, I mean, boo, motherfuckers, BOO (man, I love being fucked up). As for me, my life is horror enough, I don't need no fucking special day for it.

Not really sure where we're gonna go this issue, so lets just start with the mail bag, got quite a few responses to last issue, which one person compared to Charles Bukowski, in what I assume was meant to be a compliment (I know who Chuck is, never read his stuff). One person complained about how all these stories of the old days always end up with the guys and gals fucking one another over, well, sorry, that's how she went down (so to speak), not much I can do about it. You don't like the unhappy ending deal, how about this, I hooked Joe up with Laura in 1979, they're still together, I hooked Doug up with Rosa in 1986, they're still together, Chris and Debbie were a couple when I met them the winter of 1981-1982, and they're still together. That's about as close to happily ever after as I can give you.

Unfortunately, not a soul appreciated Joe's tit humor last issue, got a bunch of complaints, Doug in person, the rest in the mail bag, a terse "not funny" being about the nicest, Joe, these boys take their breasts seriously. Although I have to say, the one model Joe did include was quite the cutie pie (if she had a set of wings, man, I know she could fly), if anyone knows who she is (Joe doesn't) let me know, I wouldn't mind seeing more of her.

And I'd think you'd get tired of the Bill bitch stories about his parents and Al, but apparently not (ya bunch of sadists).

My Mom's been pretty much the same since last issue, losing eveything she gets within ten feet of- two days worth of mail, my car keys, her medication- as well as trying to burn the house down yet one more time, last Sunday I come in around 5:00 pm, after the canoe trip- more later-and immediately notice the smell of red hot metal, walk in to where a burner is blazing away on the stove, "Uh, Ma . . . ", "Oh, I must have left that on after I fixed your Daddy's breakfast," Jesus H, how many hours ago must that have been? Tina was even fucking here with them, but her idea of "being here" is to go upstairs into a bedroom and shut the door and not come out until I show back up, yeah, that's a lot of help there, sis, good job.

If Ma burns the house down while you're here, I hope you get trapped upstairs. And your little dog, too.

My Dad gets stranger by the fucking day, I can't tell if he's doing this new shit trying to be funny or if he's just going further nuts, but normally when I stand him up for whatever reason- to dress him, or bathe him, or so he can use that goddamn urinal, which at this point should just be grafted to his withered old man pecker- he holds onto my shoulder with his right hand- which is still a mighty, mighty hammer- to brace himself. The past week or so, though, instead of my shoulder, he's been clamping that meat hook onto my head. I was getting him out of the shower this morning and he does it again-

Bill: Grab my shoulder . . . no, my shoulder . . . that's my hea- ow, that's my fuckng face, stop . . . STOP . . . do you hear me saying stop? . . . dammit, quit SQUEEZING, you're giving me the fucking brain claw, STOP-
Dad: A brain claw shouldn't hurt the likes of you.

The likes of me, he says. On top of everything else, now its tantamount to getting in the ring with Baron Von Raschke just trying to get the demented motherfucker stood up.

As for the last of the unholy trinity, Al must have set some kind of record for shitting himself week before last. That Tuesday morning he goes to the bathroom- I've just gotten him showered and dressed and downstairs, he says "I have to go wee wee", whatever, Al, God, I wish he wouldn't talk like that- he comes out a few minutes later, he's shit in his hat. I'll give you a minute to think about that, and then I'll say it again. He shit in his fucking hat. Also in his pants, his socks, his t-shirt and flannel, as well as his glasses. Yeah, he shit on his fucking glasses, too, how's that look to you Al, shitty?

For some hell driven reason, whenever he takes a crap now Al's moved to stick his hands in it, and then paint himself pretty much from head to toe with shit. Why? Cos his brain has great big holes in it now, and the part that used to say "Don't smear yourself with shit, Al," is missing, I guess. I know if he was in his right mind there'd be no point in me staying with him, but this is gettng fucking ridiculous.

I get him back upstairs to the bathroom with a shower in it, cos no damn way I'm touching his ass to get him undressed, he's literally covered with shit.

B: Get in the shower, Al.
A; With my clothes on?
B: Yes.
A: You want me to get in the shower with MY CLOTHES ON?
B: Yes, goddammit, get in the shower with your clothes on.
A: One of us is nuts, and it's not me.
B: No, one of us is covered with shit, and it's not me. Get in the fucking shower, Al.
A: That's crazy . . . but you look like you mean business, so okay.

Someone also- it was a full mail bag this time around- wanted to know if in honor of Halloween I'd tell some more ghost stories about the place on Harmon's Creek. I don't have any more, how about a mouse story?

When I first moved in out there (over five years ago, mother of GOD) it was infested with mice. Don't ask me why, no one had lived there for at least six months before I moved in, so what they were living on during that time I can't tell you, but there they were, and in force, you couldn't turn the kitchen light on after dark without sending a dozen of them scrambling for the baseboards, you could hear them scratching between the walls at all hours, and find their droppings all over the counters, the girls were flipping out (mice, Daddy!), and I wasn't too happy myself.

I went in the kitchen one night and gave them a sermon, I'm all about live and let live, but if you little fuckers don't clear out in a week I'm buying some traps and I'm gonna flat fucking eradicate your asses. I was trying to be nice, but you just can't talk to vermin.

(DON'T I KNOW IT).

They didn't leave, so I trapped the place all up, and in a little over two months I (fatally) caught 31 mice, (you damn right that's a lot) and then I guess they got the message, or else I killed 'em all, cos they disappeared and I never saw another mouse the entire time I lived there.

However, one night while we were in the midst of this mousey final solution, I take a shower, and whiile I'm doing so, a mouse crawls up on to the towel I have hanging on the towel rack. Why? It's a fucking mouse, how do I know. Shower done, eyes closed, I reach over and grab the towel and slap it on my head, trapping the mouse between the towel and my scalp.

I scrub a bit, think, hmm, this towel feels funny, God bless, it feels alive, actually, what the fuck, I lift it up and open my eyes to see this disheveled mouse jump off of my head and run away, man, that's a fucking new one. I got out of the shower and got my list, put a check next to "Dried head with a live mouse", then finished dryng off.

No, it wasn't a ghost story, but it's the best I could do. And if you know someone else who's tried to dry their head off with a mouse, let me know.

We took our float trip last weekend, we being Bill and Doug in one canoe, Joe and Charlie in another, and it was fucking GREAT. Doug took some photos, I'd just put a couple with the newsletter, Joe, and then do a link so folks can look at all of them if they'd like.

Saturday was just gorgeous, we stopped and had lunch on an island, which I immediately claimed in the name of Bill, and which will henceforth be known as "Bill's Fucking Island" (gotta get them to add that to the maps, who do you see about things like that?), left my mark- "D. Falcon kilt a beer on this tree"- for posterity.

After lunch I left the driving to Doug for a while and lay back in the canoe and took a nap, we stopped around 4:30 and I drank beer while everyone set up camp, then drank some more beer while Doug cooked dinner (Doug is the King of Camp Grub, just like I'm King of the Wild Fucking Frontier), we tried to drink some brandy (Doug says it's a traditional camp drink, okay) but some cheap fuck had passed on the $46 bottle and gotten the $9 bottle, it was rough stuff, even for a king, then we passed a very relaxing evening around the old campfire, no yetis or werewolves or anything showed up looking for trouble-

(THAT'S COS YOU'RE KING OF THE WILD FUCKING FRONTIER)

- yes I am, crawled into my sleeping bags about 11:30 and slept like a baby with a big titted mommy (and that's sound).

People ask me all the time how I survive (and damn well, at that) on next to no money, getting dressed Sunday morning part of the answer presented itself to me- from the skin out I was wearing my Dad's long sleeve thermal underwear, then a short sleeve t-shirt Bobby Blaze gave me, then a long sleeve Cubs shirt Loretta bought me (I only threw away all the souvenir shirts she got me while away on "business" since they didn't read "My Wife Fucked Around On Me In (Your City Here) And All I Got Was This Lousy T-shirt" like they should have, not the clothes she got me for Christmas or my birthday or cos I was almost naked- I will wear clothes till they are literally rags falling off of me and not think a thing of it), and then a hoodie that Kat bought me a couple years ago. On my head I had a stocking cap- toboggans are those things your ride down snowy hills on- that this girl named Michelle whom I worked with briefly there at CCIL in Beckley gave me, she just came up one day and handed it to me- it's a really nice one, too, insulated and eveything- and said, "Here, I bought this for you," I said "Okay, thanks" and put it on and that was that.

On my feet I was wearing a pair of my Dad's socks, the second day a pair of his tennis shoes as well cos the day before I'd gotten all muddy the army boots that this guy named Matt, who worked at the Dunbar Armory when I was running shows there gave me, also a pair of BDU's (urban camo) that again Loretta bought me, and a pair of boxers the girls had given me for Christmas I don't know how many years ago (and are pretty ragged and damn near falling off of me, girls, Daddy could use some more boxer shorts, also maybe some career impetus, no wait, just the boxers will be fine). So it's not like I spend a lot of money on wardrobe.

We had another good day on the river Sunday, and as I always say-

(SHUT THE FUCK UP?)

No.

(BUY ME A BEER?)

No . . .

(SHOW ME YOUR TITS?)

NO. What I always say is, it's not a float trip until someone tips a canoe over. So, about halfway through Sunday's float it officially became a trip when Joe and Charlie hit some shallow water and flipped their boat. Since no one got drowned, and no expensive equipment (or beer) was lost, and it wasn't my canoe, it was funny. To me, anyway.

Doug and I were talking Sunday morning about the Boy Scouts and I noted how I'd been kicked out (I'm pretty sure I recounted that tale in here already, if not, it'll have to wait for another day) and it started me thinking about all the things I've been kicked out of . . . the Boy Scouts, The Camp Springs Boys Club (which story may be recounted some day in Bill Vs. Boxing), they were gonna kick me out of Little League (see Bill Vs. Baseball) but out of a combination of respect for my Dad and the fact that we were moving anyway, they didn't bother, they just suspended me for the rest of the year.

I also got kicked off of the Nitro Junior High football team in eighth grade and the Nitro High School football team in tenth grade, got recruited hard and finally talked into running track in eleventh grade by the track coach (I wouldn't have bothered, what do I give a shit about track, but the track coach was also my gym coach, and I was consistently running quarter miles in gym faster than anyone he had on his team, so I thought I'd give my parents a break, who were always being asked, "Billy's such an athletic kid, why doesn't he play any sports for the high school" and them having to make excuses for my can't get along with anybody ass) only to get kicked off the track team by that very same son of a bitch not a week later, got kicked out of the United States motherfucking Marine Corps, out of Marshall University, out of jobs at both Sport Mart and Abraxas, out of Thorne's band, out of Spurgie's band (and Spurgie's a really nice guy, too) and biggest of all, out of my fucking marriage.

I know I can maybe be difficult to get along with sometimes, but that's a hell of a lot of being kicked out of ("and don't come back!")

So then I started pondering the various reasons our boy Bill was shown the door- Boy Scouts (fighting), Boys Club (again fighting, you'd think they'd like a kid who went to fist city at the blink of an eye in their boxing program, but noo . . . still went 3-0 before I got the hook, 2 KOs, 1 decision), Little League (hitting an umpire in the back of the head with a pitch . . . between batters, if not innings), 8th grade football (insubordination, aka running my mouth to the coach, but he was a mother fucking moron, Coach Wood, I know you remember him, Dave, tight assed prick- him, not you), 10th grade football (more insubordination, aka more running my mouth, "We're not gonna have any trouble out of you and your smart mouth are we?", well, you weren't, but now that you've gone and pissed me off-), track (okay, I showed up for practice drunk, but I could still fucking run, like the wind, I could, so what was the big hairy deal?).

As for the USMC (forging my parent signatures cos I was underage, also I was drunk when I enlisted, which wasn't seen as a problem at the time, but which they wanted to make a big deal out of the next day when they kicked me out, fucking hypocrites, I got your damn Semper Fi right here).

In fact, we'll do our memory lane now instead of later, that whole fiasco came about cos of my . . . intransigence, I guess you could say, although Jesus, I SWEAR all this troublesome shit I do honestly seems like the right thing to do at the time. Summer of '74, I'm enrolled in WVU- got a schedule, got a dorm assignment, the whole deal. Then my mom, being the goddamn trouble making maniac that she is, she has never, EVER known how to leave well enough alone, gets the bright idea, we'll all go up to Morgantown- none of us had ever been there- to check out the town and campus.

Huge mistake.

We spend a couple hours cruising Morgantown and the various disjointed campuses of WVU, and on the ride back I inform my parents "I wouldn't go to school in that shit hole town if it was the last shit hole town on earth". I mean, I HATED Morgantown, and hated WVU. I guess I'd gotten my expectations too high, as I'm wont to do about many things, but once I saw that town, and that unimpressive, spread all over hell campus . . . no fucking way.

My parents were FURIOUS, but I refused to back down. No WVU, no way. I don't think I was deliberately being a fuck, although that's how they saw it, my Dad was like, "You better find something to do, bucko, cos your ass is out of this house come September, regardless" which he probably couldn't have enforced, since I was still only 17, but my position was, too damn right I'm out of here, and you'll be lucky if I EVER come back.

Later that summer Ric (him again) and I went uptown to donate blood, and then drink a bunch of beer, cos if you drink a lot after giving up a pint of blood you'll get buzzed up quicker, once buzzed we by happenstance drove past the Marine recruiting station . . . and you know the rest.

After the Marines gave me the boot I enrolled at Marshall University, who also in their turn invited me to leave (bad grades), then, who's next, Sport Mart, I'm taking them off the list since I think technically I quit . . . more memory lane . . .

Sport Mart was a chump job I took to make Loretta happy and make some bucks for Christmas '82, not my thing at all, this was still during my five year try to be a rock star grace period (Jesus, no wonder she still fucking hates me), but times had gotten a bit tight and Bob Massengill got me the fucking job so there wasn't a lot I could do to get out of it, I never interviewed or anything, just showed up one day to work . . .

Big surprise, I hated the place, the guy in charge- named Guy- and his little ass licking second in command buddy- named Buddy, I'm not making a word of this up- were absolute assholes, even for a retail place, I did work with Bret Sharp's Dad while there (I also fucked Bret's aunt Linda in the back seat of Torch's car -whiile Torch was driving, in the middle of the damn day, we picked her up hitchhiking one drunken afternoon and things quickly got carnal, wonder what those people passing us on Rt. 6o there in St. Albans thought of my bare ass bucking up and down in the back seat- in '75, but that's a different story- which I guess I pretty much just told), which is kind of strange, if I'd only known I could have told him "Twenty four years from now I'm gonna pound the pulp out of this kid you haven't had yet, in a pro wrestling ring". Weird world we live in.

They- Guy and Buddy- had this big thing where you were never supposed to stand around out on the sales floor, even if there was nothing that actually needed done, you had to do goofy ass busy work like folding, and then refolding if need be, the sweats and sweaters and shit, just stupid, one night a couple days before Chirstmas, it was maybe ten minutes before we closed, the store was pretty much empty, old Buddy (even for '82 he looked a mess, pudgy self important fuck with this horrific page boy 'do, he looked like he should be on the side of a can of paint) comes along and finds Bill leaning against the wall with his arms folded. Sacrilege.

Buddy: You looking for something to do? Bill: No.

Not the answer he was looking for. He scans the store, then-

Buddy: Go over to that table and fold those sweats.

Now, swear to God, even though he was just being a pin dicked fuck trying to give me some make work cos he was the "boss", if the sweats had needed folding, I would have done it. But they didn't, someone (who I presume didn't want to get caught leaning against the wall with their arms folded) had already been over there and folded them just fine, there wasn't a one out of place.

Bill: They already are folded.

Again, not the answer he was looking for. He glares at me from underneath those ludicrous bangs-

Buddy: Maybe you didn't understand me. I said, go fold those sweats. Bill: They already are folded.

He acts like he wants to get in my face, it's late, pushing 9 pm and I've been there since 8 am, I'm tired and cranky-

Bill: You need to go bother somebody else, Buddy. Seriously.

He didn't threaten to fire me cos he knew I didn't give a fuck, do me a damn favor, you little Dutch boy puke, also they needed the help. However, day after Christmas, which also happened to be payday, everyone's talking about their Christmas bonus check- except Bill, who it turns out is the only geezer in the whole store who didn't get one. I see Buddy smirking at me. Okay, fine, I don't even bother with Buddy, I'm taking my complaint to the top, I go up to the mezzanine where Guy kept his desk-

Bill: Hey, Guy. How come I didn't get a Christmas bonus?
Guy: Because you don't deserve one. You've had a shitty attitude ever since you walked in this door.
Bill: Not true. Now, THIS is a shitty attitude-

And I gave Guy about as good a cussing as I've ever given anyone, Loretta included, calling him, among many other things, a "four eyed fruit cup" and a "spastic old queen", both of which he was- and hey, no one respects our gay brethren more than I do, but I'm also of the sort that when I get pissed off I'll call you any damn thing that comes into my head, I also spit in his coffee cup (twice) and threatened to knock him over the fucking rail to the main floor if he so much as stood up, it was cathartic as hell, then I went downstairs and punched the clock- and you know damn well I mean that literally as well as figuratively- and walked out, that's a quit in my book.

And Abraxas, that was shut down, everyone got the axe, not just Billy boy, so I'm not gonna count that one, either.

As for the rest, there was Thorne's band (musical differences), Spurgie's band (more musical differences) and lastly, my failed marriage to Loretta (all of the above).

Whew. Again, that's a LOT of being kicked out of stuff. Guess I better straighten up. Hold on a second, I'm laughing so hard my side is hurting.

We were also talking- you do a lot of talking on camping trips- about Sandra Lee, Doug doesn't like her, says there's all kinds of web sites devoted to bashing her, and her bizarre "semi-home made" concoctions, as I told him, I could not care less, I don't want to eat her fucking cooking, I want to eat her.

Winding up our trip, as Doug was giving me a ride home, he commented, "I'm not so sure about this Pabst (we'd been drinking it off and on all day). I've got heartburn, I'm all gassed up, and I'm getting a headache."

Bill: Yeah, that's pretty much the Pabst experience.
D: You might want to think about spending a few bucks more and drinking something else.
B: Actually, Pabst's not all that cheap.
D: Then why the fuck do you drink it?

A good question. I started on it as a lark, cos I was tired of Bud and I hadn't seen PBR in a long time, it's squarely an old school beer and I'm definitely old school, also, it's a he man beer, and God knows I'm a he man, I HAVE THE POWER and all that, but it is also a harsh beer (and the moon is a harsh mistress), I'm thinking maybe some of my recent stomach turmoil may be because of too much of this old school he man swill. So I may be switching brands sometime soon, if I can figure out what to go to.

But, as for tonight . . . you got it. Ten down as of this writing, should double that, easy, before we put this issue, and my sodden ass, to bed.

Got asked if I've stopped reading, since there hasn't been a "what's Bill been reading?" in here lately, not at all, Reading is Fundamental, also, my life, I read 2-3 books a week (especiaily now that I'm up all night two nights a week with Al), plus all kind of magazines, and a lot of shit on line as well- mostly wrestling-

Stan: I'm Stan the Man Hansen, from Borger damn Texas! I don't care about you, I don't care about him, and I don't care about that big boob up in the balcony! Gordon Solie: Mister Hansen, we don't have a balcony.

-and music sites- I just haven't read anything lately that's stood out good or bad, and so haven't felt compelled to mention anything by name.

What's Bill been watching? Got in another shipment of cheap DVDs, the timing was good as Al's cable was out for about a week, Snow Creature, which I first watched most of on "The World Beyond", which came on Tuesday nights at 8 pm on Channel 5, I wasn't allowed to watch it at the house cos of Doc Doom's pronouncement, so I watched it at Ronnie Darnell's whenever I could, had to go home before I saw the end of this one, wondered about it all these years, all I can say is that it was a hell of a lot more entertianing when I was seven years old, the Snow Creature looks like some tall skinny ass guy in wool pajamas, no doubt because it's some tall skinny ass guy in wool pajamas.

Also Devil Girl From Mars, love her outfit, plasticine cape, cowl and miniskirt, DG's got one of those pointy Brit noses that can take an eye out if you're not careful, but I don't think I'd mind much once she wrapped those long legs around me, this movie also has what must be the worst special effect of all time, a (slowly) shuffling refrigerator box foisted off as a robot, makes Ed Wood's paper plate flying saucers look like Star Wars.

More, Death Race 2000 which I first saw with Loretta and Joe at an afternoon matinee in Picadilly Circus (yeah, that one) and God Told Me To from '75, we all know how I love stuff from that era, strange, strange movie, by Larry Cohen, who later did It's Alive, which never did much for me, killer mutant babies, ooh, scary, and Q, which I liked, also a couple independent films which I thought I'd check out cos they were filmed fairly close (one near Baltimore, the other in Newark, NJ) and because they'd gotten decent reviews (which HAD to have been written by their mothers), The Ghosts Of Angela Webb and The Ironbound Vampire, both just jaw dropping in their overall awfulness, and this is not me being overly critical like I'm so often accused of being, cos I wanted to like these two films, I really did. But fuck, they suck, top to bottom, I'm sorry.

What's Bill listening to? Well, before we get to that, I want to bore you old timers by once again going on a bit about the Tang Spoons, talking last issue about them and their possible resurrection next spring sparked some interest among the new folk, got asked once again for some info about the TS and what they "sounded like", which you know plays right to my ego, (and since I have no idea what back issue to direct them to), I'll address one more time the legend of. . .

The Tang Spoons were a fucking rock and roll band, period. Our set list was split pretty evenly between originals and covers, although when it came to covers we didn't make any attempt at playing anything remotely "current", we'd cover Bo Diddley and Bob Dylan, Leadbelly and Lennon, the main criteria- beside them being great songs- was that Bill could perform them while still being three sheets to the fucking wind, my stage persona being one of drunken sloppiness passed off as charm.

(THAT WOUKD BE YOUR OFF STAGE PERSONA AS WELL).

That it would.

Intespersed with these covers was an exceptional, if oddball, crew of original songs, what I think of as a tremendous body of work, honestly, but since I wrote them I would, still, you had songs about rampaging space aliens (Heavy Planet Man), atomic war (Atom War '50) and shark attack (A Threshing Of Limbs), about cheating spouses (Goodbye, You Asshole) what sometimes happens after (Revenge), and what sometimes happens after that, (Since Daddy Came Back From Hell), about sexual obsession (I Can't Get It Off My Mind- "They tell me something's wrong/They say I must be sick/But I can't help myself/Can't stop thinking with my dick"- this was the song that broke the country camel's back when the TS played the Roxy Theater in Clendenin, after being mortally upset by my casually drunken swearing on stage at an all ages show- hey, you bring your kid to see me at your own fuicking risk- the arbiter of taste that the management set in front of the stage was sent barreling back to the concessiion stand exclaiming "God help us, now he's singing about his DICK!" Hey, you find me something better to sing about, I will, otherwise, leave me the hell alone).

There were also multiple songs about getting drunk as a motherfucker (Orangedriver, Drunk Every Night {For The Rest Of My Life}, Drink No More), and one (White Sky) that was becoming really popular right there toward the end with both the band and the audience, about the Rapture (obviously from the view point of someone who's been left behind- and this was well before those religious tracts posing as novels polluted this nations book shelves, besides, I like my take on it tons better- "White sky, that summer/We're damned, what of it?/Still time for some fucking") although I don't think anyone else in the band even knew what it was about, they all called it the Grateful Dead song, yikes, but it did have a lot of chords in it for a Bill Bitner original, hold on, let me count . . . six, Jesus Chirst, that's enough for three songs at least, spend thrift bastard, what was I thinking-

(YOU MUST HAE BEEN DRUNK)

-must have been, since I've never written a song sober in my life. There were also a couple excellent tunes that I was about to bring to the band right as we folded, one about my loveless future (Empty Ever After) and another concerning my observations as a CPS worker (Hanging Around- "Nothng in the kitchen/Nothing in the cupboard/Ma's under the covers/With some greasy motherfucker/Who's just hanging around . . ). Maybe some day . . .

So . . . what IS Bill listening to? Donovan, but hold on one second, I ALSO- fuck, there was a lot of mail last issue- got a letter from some surly oinker going on and ON defending Steppenwolf cos he said I said they sucked, mother fuck, if you're going to read this thng then read it, I never said they sucked, I said they had a half dozen good songs (a lot more than a lot of bands) but that for the most part I think they're generic, which they are. Dumbass.

As for Donovan, while exceedingly twee, his stuff is also good music to listen to when you're trying to wind down toward bed time, which is where I'm at right now, and he's got some undeniably excellent songs, "Sunshine Superman" and "Season Of the Witch" (which is only two chords, why didn't the TS ever cover that?- maybe this spring) as well as the truly lovely "Wear Your Love Like Heaven", beautiful and moving, unlike DFZ's truly vulgar "cover" version, "Wear My Love Like Jism"-

(I DON'T DO GOOD TASTE)

-obviously not. But the best Donovan song of all . . . I have a theory. Actuailly, I have lots of theories, and the drunker I get the more I have, right now I'm so theoried up I can barely see straight, but this one . . . escapes me right now. Fuck. Something about . . . shit. Nevermind.

Anyway, the best Donovan song is- dammit, this is connected to my theory some how, if I could only REMEMBER . . . ah, God. How frustrating. Donovan's best song is "Atlantis". Yes, that opening narration is a hoot a second- "though gods they wear"- though gods, they wear WHAT?- and he hardly sounds like he can be bothered when he closes it with a perfunctory "Hail Atlantis"- don't be getting yourself all worked up there, Don- ya fucking hippie. But then . . .

"Way down below the ocean . . . " oh man, from here on out this is some great shit, simple powerful, repetitive, when Don warbles "My antideluvian baby" like their already conjoined, sublime . . . you may think I'm making fun here, but I'm not, I love this song. TS should cover this as well (but someone else has got to do that opening monologue).

(I'LL DO IT).

Thank you, no.

All right, lets do DFZ news and then send this issue to sleep with the electroninc fishes. I got asked- have I already mentioned, I really did get a LOT of mail about last issue- about the photos of DFZ accompanying last issue on the site, commenting on his guns, which were most assuredly loaded in them- God, how's that for tortuous sentence structure?- how come in some photos DFZ looks so much bigger than in others?

Well, it's this very complicated formula that follows the eating/drinking/sleeping/working out cycle, divided by . . . sometimes DFZ is a lot bigger than at other times. By about twenty pounds. I know it's not healthy to jack your weight up and down like that, but that's my life.

It's back to the salt mines next month, I somehow let myself get booked to work every weekend in Novemeber, plus a few other dates as well, didn't mean to, and straight up, I've turned down a lot more than I've accepted, just wasn't paying attention, I guess. Imagine that. Should be okay, got a couple tag title defenses for APEX, going for the WVWA Hardcore belt- I presume, haven't heard from the promotor in awhile, I have no idea where this show is being held, he said he'd give me directions when I saw him at the October XMCW show, but since it wasn't held, who knows . . . also workng a benefit to help pay the burial expeses for Chief Black Eagle, how sad, guy's been in the ground a year and his family still owes, couple other things . . .

(I'M READY).

That's all that matters.

I'm done. Anythng you want to add?

(THE PAST WAS AN OMEN THE FUTURE'S A CURSE).

Amen. Happy Halloween, motherfuckers.

Later

Bill