The Bill Bitner Newsletter

11/12/02

Groovy Kind Of Love

When I'm in your arms, nothing seems to matter
If the world should shatter, I don't care

Wanted to call this edition Free Money, but I haven't gotten the results back from my unemployment hearing. It was the 6th, seemed to go well- the hearing guy twice went "You're kidding?!", but really, who the fuck knows. Wish me luck, I really don't want to go back to work for a long, long time. If ever.

As for the other variable I've still got floating, still don't know what the fuck is up with Loretta and her new job and the move. She told me a month ago it was a done deed and she would be moving right after Christmas. She apparently told everyone else it was a maybe thing. Now when I try to ask her about it, all I get is, "It's up in the air." I wish she were up in the air- swinging at the end of a fucking rope, swear to God.

This is the Groovy Edition cos when I got on to write this I had an e-mail from Staci. Did I mention last issue she's looking forward to my visit? I think I did. Well, let me tell ya- she's REALLY looking forward to my visit. So am I.

Me and Nut Daddy are leaving for Martinsburg early Thursday morning- he has to get his pacemaker checked first, how appropriate- and so once again begins my descent into the maelstrom.

Not sure exactly what my dad's schedule of events is while we're up there, other than driving me out of my fucking mind. I'm wrestling Thursday night in Hagerstown, Staci is going to be my valet, bring me out on the dog collar and chain. Whoo. I'm set to win, so I'll be wrestling as the Death Falcon. I told John I want to do some of my Lucha moves, like the tope, aka the suicide dive, and a plancha, there's all kinds of them, mine's like a somersault over the top rope, so I need someone who's sturdy enough (body and soul) to stand there and take them, but not so damn sturdy I can't get him up in a Falcon Arrow. Yes, dear fans (and particularly you, little Ronnie G), as much as I love the Oxygen Destroyer as a finisher, I've got to do the Falcon Arrow.

John says its all good, I'm supposed to wrestle some guy called Damien. This isn't Damien 666, unfortunately, who's a luchadore and who would already know my shit, and it's not Damien Demento, who also wrestled as Mondo Kleen, fortunately, cos that guy was huge, and mean, and it's not Damien Kane, again unfortunately, cos he used to come to the ring with some siliconed up bimbo who was maybe wearing a g-string and a couple band-aids, and I wouldn't mind seeing that, you know. This is just some dude who wrestles as Damien.

I asked John, with that name, isn't Damien a heel (or bad guy, cos I'm ALWAYS the bad guy)? John says yeah, you'll just be badder. No fucking shit, I will. I'm looking forward like hell to this.

Hopefully they won't have the same numb nuts little skeezix doing photos that they did last time- I never did get the ones of my cradle piledriving Punkazz that I was promised from April- and I can include some cool rasslin' pics in a future edition.

I mean, I don't want to run around up there like some juvenile little dip shit, "Take my picture, take my picture," but still, if I'm going to flip over the top rope and out of the ring into who knows what, I'd like it preserved for posterity, so I can show my grandkids if nothing else. "See, there's where granddaddy got the metal plate in his head that he uses to talk to Venus. Which one of you little shits took my beer?" I wouldn't mind including a few of me and Staci together as well, (hopefully in a hot tub, and all you can see is me, ho). You guys will be impressed, trust me. She could be my legitimate daughter- Loretta and I were married May 79, she was born April 80. Jesus. (No really, I mean JESUS).

Gonna leave my dad in the motel room Thursday, or send him off to Donald's. Trying to wrestle, then get together with Staci, while also trying to baby sit my insane old man- just too much.

So- what has Bill been up to since last issue? Well, I think I've probably set the world record for most times doing a certain activity in a 24 hour period, but I think we'll leave that alone.

Also had a good week's plus writing on Drains- those of you who are subscribing to it (it's free if you want it- and I know ya) should've gotten Chapter 2 last night, the delay's not in the writing, I'm working on Chapter 9 right now, out of a projected 16, it's this piece of shit fucking COMPUTER. I hate 'em, and they scare me when it comes to putting extended works in them, you're talking to someone who lost over 65,000 words that I've NEVER been able to recreate, mostly because I don't have the heart to try and go back and do it over, back in '89 when I somehow blew up one of Doug's computers, lost about half of the Rogue Metal novel, two comics scripts, along with all of "Gone Where The Goblins Go", the scariest short story I ever wrote.

What else I been doing? Well, I've also been doing a lot of recording lately, some of it late at night- put down an absolutely blinding 12 string lead on "Jesus Says I'm Giving Up" about 5 am the other morning- got about 16 of the 20 songs for The Future Is My Enemy finished. Good for me.

Went by the Charleston Library Saturday before last after dropping the girls off at play practice, checked out a shit load of music books, many of them new.

If I can be allowed an analogy here, for me, books are like beer, television is like dope. Books, like beer, stimulate me, make me want to get up and do something (although not always the right thing). TV- not movies, either broadcast or video/DVD, they're lumped in with the books in Bill World- but the cable-ish cartoons/food network/animals/war/home repair blah fucking blah NOTHING- just keeps me sitting there. And sitting there. I watch it, and if I let myself, I'll watch it for extended periods, but when it's done I'm like, what the fuck, where'd the damn time GO? TV draws my brains out through my eyes and encourages me to do nothing. And you too, my friends. Turn off your fucking television and get off you ass. DO SOMETHING.

First was Blues Rock Explosion, probably more relevant to you older folk, extremely well written (I'd rather read a well written article on a band I don't give a shit about, than a poorly written article on a band I love- along those lines, I just got back my retrospective on GCW from Wrestling Then And Now, rejected, cos they said I called Dory Funk Jr. a pervert, which I never, I said he LOOKS like a pervert, which is a totally different thing, and not my fucking fault, he does, so I'll probably essay it out to you guys here in the near future).

The blues don't do a lot for me, never have, in fact you'd be pretty close to the mark if you said Bill hates the fucking blues. They are fun to play. I'll agree with popular wisdom, you got to be damn special to play a great blues, but the other side of that is, you gotta suck hard as shit to play a bad one. To go another personal analogy, playing the blues is like eating mashed potatoes. Satisfying, but not very stimulating.

Anyway, checked out the book because a lot of the blues rock bands of the 60's morphed into the hard rock bands of my wasted 70's youth.

The Pretty Things. Went on about them last issue, I just love 'em, great early R&B/Rock singles like "Rosalyn" (tell me where you been) and "Don't Bring Me Down" and "Buzz The Jerk", on to great late 60's Brit Psych like "Defecting Grey" and "Talkin' About The Good Times". They were also absolute insaniacs on stage, to wit-

"Unshaven drummer Vivian Prince ruined heart throb singer Eden Kane's act by laying down shreds of carpet at Kane's feet and shouting at Kane to step on them, crawling around the stage with a lighted newspaper, setting fire to props, breaking furniture, interrupting headliner Sandy Shaw's act with various pranks (VARIOUS PRANKS?), and swigging whiskey from his shoe."

Dunno, sounds pretty entertaining to me, and, hey, Viv, pass the fucking shoe, man.

Also- "They looked like five delegates at a Nihilists Conference (WHY CAN'T I GET REVIEWS LIKE THAT-bb). The drummer, Viv Prince, jumped on balloons, terrorized the others with swipes from his king sized sword (?!), and finally went berserk." FINALLY?

One more remark about the Pretty Things and we'll move on. Did you know they once had a bass player whose actual given name was Walter Wally Waller? What the fuck kind of name is THAT? I think his dad stuttered, and the nurse just wrote it down, and old WWW just got stuck with it.

Also listening to the lovely Rory Gallagher, a sweet, even tempered Irish singer/guitarist, who would just pound the hell out of his guitar. He was uneven, but his good stuff was fantastic. "Souped Up Ford" from the excellent Against the Grain, what a fucking SLAMMER musically, with hilarious lyrics, my favorite being "Gonna drive on the sidewalk/End all the small talk/Good God, that's for sure." Later, he does this blues song that starts out, "I ain't no doctor, ain't no doctor's son/But I'll fill your prescription, baby/Until the doctor comes."

Went to a second Chris and Debbie karate workout last week, and I'm hooked. Sarah was there with me, and she whole heartedly concurs. "That's you, daddy." she said I don't know how many times, while we were there, and on the way home. If I can one more time in this edition be allowed an analogy, (what's that make, fifty?) I'd say the difference between C&D karate (it's Seibukan, but I'm not sure if I'm spelling it correctly) and the Shaolin I've been doing, is the difference between gymnastics and dancing. Not saying at all that one's better than the other, cos that's stupid, I just feel more suited to the karate at this point. At lot of what Chris and Debbie do in their workouts is similar to Tiger style Shaolin, by FAR my strongest school (I was a killer Tiger, a decent Dragon, a real lousy Snake and Crane).

Also, I like both Chris and Debbie tremendously, they're two of my oldest and dearest friends, and with out being a gushy bastard about it, it would be really nice to hang/work out with them regularly. And they take no fucking prisoners in their workouts, and I'm absolutely with that. Also, Chris drinks GOOD beer, gave me a Harpoon IPA last week, can't beat that.

Me switching schools is going to upset Death Falcon Sean, and I'm sorry, but he'll get over it. Particularly since if things don't work out with me and Staci, he could someday be my father in law. He's got this elfin little cutie pie of a daughter who is right on my lap as soon as I'm in the door. She's six, maybe seven, but that's okay, I can wait, and I'm telling you, if I could charm the old ones like I can the young ones, I'd be a made man.

In fact, I'm going to include the picture she gave me last time I was over there, Joe did a dead damn BANG UP job on the last edition- check it out if you haven't, Yutte, topless, and Joe, shit, keep up the good work, do you hear me man, KEEP UPTHE GOOD WORK- but a lot of you have been complaining that I haven't included any personal scan ins for a while, so okay (and you know what, seriously, thanks for asking).

First scan in is from my girlie, Tori (my favorite part is where she's written Cool Star on her t-shirt).

Second scan is of me and my dad, I have a much funnier picture of him shit facing the camera (he was smiling, I said, "Damn, you're ugly", he made a face, I took the picture), but fuck it, here's one of RWB Editions II and III. The bandage on my head is from wrestling. The look on my face is because I'm sitting next to a crazy man.