|
10/31/02 Midnight To Six Man I never see the people I know Hey I'm no Pretty Thing (or pretty thing) but just like that wonderful bunch of louts- the Pretty Things were to the Rolling Stones what the Rolling Stones were to the Beatles- I am a midnight to six man. What's been up with Bill, lately? Well, I've pretty much completed my transformation into a creature, make that Creature of the Night. Going to bed now usually around daylight, sleeping a couple hours- that's all I can do, those glorious relaxed days right after I quit work are distant memories at this point- get up and do-whatever, usually take a nap for another hour or so around 6 pm. I'm diligently back at work on Drains, it's become a chore, but I'm sticking with it, I still think I can have it finished by the end of the year. Still about 2/3's of the way through, around 40,000 words (no Stephen fucking King, I), got bogged down in this one part, kept rewriting it, still not real happy with it, but I'm moving on, makes more sense to finish the thing while I've got the time, and still some momentum going, come back and thrash out the difficult spot when I'm done. And hey, thanks for the continued kind words and encouragement, I appreciate it. Chapter 2? Swear to God I'll get it out, just waiting for everyone to forget Chapter 1, and/or lose interest in the whole thing.
Pissed off at Boomerang as well, they took off the Fantastic Four and Jonny Quest and replaced them with- I'm not making this up- Inch High Private Eye and Goober and the Ghost Gang. What the FUCK? Sometimes I feel like I'm on another planet. Got called a Martian the other day, by the way, which is cool, beat's what they usually say. The cartoon change was probably God's way of telling me, get up off the damn couch you fucking goober and get to work on your damn book. Least that's how I'm trying to take it. To compensate, Jonny Quest is on ALL DAY on Fridays, so don't be calling me on Fridays, hear? Going off the Xenadrine, at least temporarily. Give the old ticker a rest (don't want to end up with a dicky heart, do I, Martha?) even though it doesn't fuck with me like it seems to most people. Don't really need the extra energy boost right now, and the weight thing is an issue again. I was able to hold at 220 maybe a couple weeks, but the weight is dropping again, I was 209 last weekend at my parent's house, wouldn't be surprised if it's even less now. Still working out hard (I quit running with the bad weather, and my knee almost feels normal now, although it still makes these ungodly noises every now and then, like someone's popping corn in there) but not sleeping much, got no appetite at all, drinking very, very seldom- yeah, I know, I must be dying. And for whatever Miss Smarty Pants cracked on me a while back saying I'm obsessed with my body, well, I figure someone's gotta be, okay? Besides, I'm a hell of a lot stronger at 220 than at 200 (that would be 20 more stronger, wouldn't it?) which can mean the difference between picking up guys and throwing them down, and picking up guys and dropping them on their heads and killing them and getting my ass into trouble, so it's not (just) vanity. On that front, the trip to Hell, aka Martinsburg, that was scheduled for next week has been postponed until the following week, Loretta is out of town next week and the girls are here with me. Talked with John, he's gonna put me on the card in Hagerstown for the 14th, have no idea against who (but I'll bet it's not the little shit from last time). He also was real interested in making sure I had a place to stay (John, for those of you who don't recall from last spring- hey, don't feel bad, I used to have a drinking problem myself- is the 6' 3" ish Rambo type muscle man, who's speaking voice is higher than Sarah's, and who, when he's not in the ring, swishes like nobody's damn business). Hell of a guy, but I'm not spending the night with him. Staci, however . . . let's say she's looking forward to my visit. Laura once again asked the eternal question at lunch last week (Laura, by the way, can insult a person ten times worse not trying, than most people can on purpose) "What do these young girls see in you?" and again I have to say I don't have a clue. Half of me is still convinced she just wants me up there so she can slit my throat and sell my organs to cover next semester's tuition, the other half says there's only one organ she's interested in, and cut yourself some damn slack. Still not sure how I'm going to handle things with my dad once we get up there, don't really want to tell him I'm slipping off to wrestle, and have sex with some college girl, but I'm not sure how to get away from him if I don't tell him. Like I said last time, I'll figure something out. Dave and I went fishing last Wednesday, went up on the Elk to Whitaker Falls, fished our way back down. As far as the fishing went, it was a good sightseeing trip. It was a beautiful day to be out, and I enjoyed it for that, but the fishing was non-existent. I'd lay it on Dave and I being shitty fisherman if we both hadn't fished through there many times before and done really well. The past few times we've been through there, the river's just been fucking dead. We used to always see trout in some of the pools, even if we couldn't get them to bite, but the past few times- nothing. Depressing, and a little creepy. As far as my girls moving to MD, not sure what's up with that, Loretta is now saying she's not sure she got the job (the temptation to say something ugly here is damn near overwhelming, but I'm gonna resist) even though 2 weeks ago she told me it was a done deal. Whatever. I will say, if her lips are moving, she's fucking lying, at least in relation to me. Sarah confirmed something I've suspected for a while, that she sneaks and reads these (apparently there's a teacher who lets the kids get on the Internet unsupervised during lunch, they'll get on and among other things they shouldn't be doing, check out the BB website, Sarah told me a lot of the kids at Poca High School read it, Jesus Christ, that's all I fucking need, but hell, as long as I've got this forum, if any of you cheerleaders are already like 18 and-ah, never mind) when she asked me the other day about Mickey Watson, featured in Bill Vs. Baseball. Being the soft hearted child she is, she thought it was real sweet of her granddad to let Mickey on the team (easy for her to say, I say), and she wanted to know if Mickey ever did hit the ball. Well, I wish she'd asked before I finished the thing, because actually he did, and it deserves to be told. Somewhere near the tag end of the year, (Mickey only played the one), through sheer happenstance, Mickey's wildly swung bat, and the ball, ended up occupying the same space, and he clipped one over the shortstop's head, and into left. My dad shoots me this look, like "See?", Mickey takes off in the right direction, a miracle in itself, gets about half way to first when he slows almost to a stop, starts doing this squinch legged, knees together sort of shuffle. My dad's going crazy, "Run, Mickey, RUN," he's screaming. Mickey, all bent over, looks back at us over his shoulder and says "I'm peeing my pants." Oh, for God's sake. No happy ending here, the Mickster was thrown out while he stood there, pissing down his leg and washing away the lime marking the base path. For the rest of the game everyone going to first had to run around this big wet spot. Mickey's mom, who was always at every game, for some reason wasn't there this time, isn't that the damn way, this was long before the age of cell phones, so Mickey just had to sit there on the bench in his urine soaked uniform till she showed up at the end of the game to get him. The other team (the Jaguars, they were all shits- and I should know, in fact, their coach was the umpire I hit in the back of the head the following year) thought they were going to give Mickey a hard time, started mocking his ass terribly, and their piece of shit coach was letting them. One of my warm up pitches somehow got away from me, however, and went into their dugout and hit their big metal water cooler with a sound like a fucking car crash. They all looked at the big dent in the side of the cooler- and I looked to see if my dad was coming after me, for once he wasn't, in fact, he gave me a thumbs up- and decided to shut their fucking mouths, which was pretty damn prudent of them. Sarah told me her pal Dusty, whom we've talked about before, got in trouble for the third time at school for repeating a Mr. Bitnerism (and if he happens to be reading this- hey kid, CUT IT OUT, I don't care if you get your ass kicked out of school, just quit dragging me into it, dammit). I don't like Samuel L. Jackson. Don't know why, never met him, he may be a hell of a guy, but I can't fucking stand his ass. Maybe it's because I see too much of him- read somewhere he was in more major studio films in the 90's, 41 of them, than any other actor. Anyway, a while back there was a commercial on for the new Shaft (and for God's sake don't get me started on this REMAKE SHIT) with Sam L. as Shaft, he's not a fucking hair on the ass of the way cool Richard Roundtree (him, I like), so I start raging on Sam, "I hate that son of a bitch, he ain't fucking Shaft, he ain't even fucking CLOSE to Shaft, if I ever meet him I'm gonna pound his shit as flat as a piece of paper and wipe my ass with him". I wasn't trying to be funny, but Sarah thought it was highly amusing anyway. So she tells Dusty, so what does he say about this teacher he's having problems with, loud enough for her to hear? Yeah. Third times the charm, kid, mention me again and you're in trouble with me. And you don't want to be in trouble with me.
Also burning scads of his funk funk FUNKY early 70's house party rec room dance floor, shove all the furniture against the walls and GET DOWN children, dance dance DANCING greats. "Superfly", and "Pusherman", and "Move On Up", and the wonderfully titled "(Don't Worry) If There's A Hell Below, We're All Gonna Go" (and Curtis was a religious fucker!), and if you can not shake your ass to this shit, then you are definitely too fucking white white WHITE for ME (which does not mean the end, Joe is the whitest soul to ever fumble foot the hucklebuck, he's so white he's blinding, he's so white I CAN'T EVEN SEE HIM, wait, that's about the same thing as blinding, he's so white- damn, forget it, I lost where I was trying to go-but I still love him). Also burning the ultra sensuous "Give Me Your Love", stone cold PERFECT for that hugged up, bodies pressed together, hip swaying dance thing, do it right and it's as good as sex standing up, I swear to God. Sex isn't just about popping your rocks, boys (and girls), it's about ONENESS, at least for this child of his times, and when you can get that physical contact, head to toe, and your bodies are moving in unison, and you look into one another's eyes from inches away and you're both fucking right THERE- oh, Jesus. Give me your love. CD's burnt, and I've got it cycling on infinite repeat (just like the weapons that are going to be in our sentient, cybernetic Bolo Tanks of the far flung future, all that stands between us and alien invasion hell, Infinite Repeaters- of course, when the Bolo Tanks turn on us, all is lost) and I will continue to spontaneously break into crystal shearing falsetto, or leap out of my chair to shake it up (or down) till this issue is done. I'm your mother, I'm you're daddy I HEAR YA. What's Bill drinking? Well, Budweiser and plenty of it, but after doing the last couple issues sober I said the hell with it, half the fun of doing these is waking up the next day and reading them myself, it's no fun if I can remember writing them.
Also of note to WV fans of the old Big Time Wrestling, George Becker (of, Weaver and-), died, actually a year or two ago, Swede Hanson (of, Rip Hawk and-) died earlier this year, both still young, late 50's, but both obits listed cause of death as Alzheimer's. It's years of them fucking chair shots man, I'm telling ya. RIP, Mick Foley, dead man walking. No scan ins tonight, nothing I feel like adding in a pictorial way, right now it'd just be more of the same, and who need that? Joe, got some recent complaints that you've been slacking on the links and cool pictures the last few of these on the website (I know, I know, and they get the damn thing for free and everything), so do this one up good, okay? Seriously. Find a picture of Charlie Bill Lemon to put with this issue and I'll buy you a pitcher of beer. Though I've beaten you and flayed you Later Bill
|
Pissed off at AMC, Monstervision this year sucks. Here I am, staying
up all night, able to watch all these great horror and science fiction
movies- and they're showing utter dog shit like Halloween 3000, The
Return of the Revenge of the Great Great Grandson of Michael Myers.
They're also showing a lot of the old Universal classics, absolutely
great stuff without question- it's an iconic image now so most of us
just pass it over, but actually LOOK at the Karloff Frankenstein
sometime, that magnificent make-up job, and the utter menace conveyed
when Karloff tilts his head and glowers at these dumb shit humans-
THAT'S a monster, boys and girls-but I've got them all on tape, shit,
I've got 'em memorized, I was hoping for something a little harder to
come by. AMC can kiss my ass anyway, ever since they started showing
commercials during the movies, what the hell's up with that?
Did catch Count Yorga, Vampire, the other morning, it's been around
since '70, has a reputation as something of a cult classic, a lot of
movie review guys speak highly of it. I've never seen it before the
other day, I was pretty disappointed, didn't see much to it. It was one
of the "sexy vampire" movies of the early 70's, there were a
couple real obvious cuts in the print they showed on AMC, some for
nudity, and once when a couple female vampires were getting ready to
play a little kissie-face, which pisses me off. I don't care if that
shit's not in the movie, but if it is there- either show the whole damn
movie or don't show it at all, is what I say. There was one great line
where this guy asks the doctor why crosses bother vampires, and doc
says, "They fear what it represents, good, evil, etcetera."
Good, evil, etcetera. Holy shit, WHO WRITES THESE THINGS?
The Hammer sexy vampire movies were tons better, had those incredibly
arousing European hotties like Ingrid Pitt (Poland) and Yutte Stensgaard
(Sweden), Jesus, they could bite my ass any day, and gladly.
What's Bill listening to? Well, when I was up at Dave's I borrowed
his Curtis Mayfield Box Set, (all you Slipknot fans are going
"Who?", I'd feel sorry for you if you weren't so mother
fucking brain dead musically pathetic), am burning some stuff from it
now. That classic early stuff with the Impressions, "Gypsy
Woman", and "I'm So Proud", God, the man had a GORGEOUS
falsetto, which, as I've mentioned many times before, I do quite a take
off on, the only impression of mine more feared than my Curtis is my
Mamie Eisenhower (which some people confuse with my Moe Howard, it's all
in how you do the eye poke).
It's once again my sad duty to bring you more obituaries, this time
from the wrestling world. The first, and most disturbing, is that of Ted
Petty, or Flyboy Rocco Rock of Public Enemy as he was better known, last
month, at the age of 50, of a heart attack. I always liked him, he
struggled in the indies as The Cheetah Kid for fucking ages, always a
cool guy, though, very athletic, especially for his age (ahem), he was
one of the first, along with Sabu, to usher in the ECW moonsaulting
through tables type of moves that are so much a part of the Death Falcon
aesthetic. Joe met him when he was working for Fox, and P. E. showed for
that big Fox promo thing they do each year, the name escapes me at the
moment, Foxamania, or something. Joe said he was a nice guy, everything
I'd heard about him pretty much said the same thing. Heart attack at 50,
fucking hell.