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11/19/06 The Aristocrats
Hey Hello, boys and girls a rare, living dinosaur rare, Bigfoot rare, Bill in a good mood rare (not that I am, by any stretch), second issue within the same week (although they used to be common as mud bugs). Why? Well, the short answer is, I feel like it, as for the long answer . . . well, that boils down to I feel like it, as well. So here we go. This will be this year's Thanksgiving issue, (this'll make five, Lord help each and every one of us), in year's past I've always done some sort of smarmy exhortation for all of us to be thankful for whatever, blah, blah, blah, this year, fuck that shit with a hammer, be thankful if you want to be, don't if you don't, it's all the same to me, I'm not your damn keeper. (I'M YOUR HUCKLEBERRY). You watched Tombstone again today, didn't you? (YEP.) Well . . . good for you. So, on to the crazy, unpredictable mail bag, some issues get little response, some get lots, like this last one, I don't think it has to do so much with the issue itself as it does with you folks out there just all of a sudden feeling like writing in. Got a couple of genuinely uplifting letters telling me I don't need to do the mea culpa thing about being such a crappy husband and dad, cos I wasn't at all, which, since they came (independently) from people who've known me (and Loretta and the girls) for ages, as opposed to people who just (think they) know me through this thing, was nice, and good to hear, but still . . . I can think of any number of times when I wasn't the husband I should have been, times I wasn't there, physically and emotionally, when Loretta needed me, when I said "Hey, you know what, fuck you" when what I really should have said was, "You know what, I'm really sorry" . . . and was what I meant to say, but somewhere between my brain and my mouth it turned into "Fuck you". (THAT SEEMS TO HAPPEN TO YOU A LOT). It sure does. As for the father thing, I don't know, that's something I worked very hard at- well, it wasn't work cos I always enjoyed spending time with my girls, never, ever saw it as any kind of chore at all- because it was important to me, and I guess in one sense I can take pride cos they're both truly wonderful young women, and hopefully part of that comes from all the time I spent with them when they were small, but at the same time, just like their mother, they took off to leave my ass swinging in the wind, see ya, would not want to fucking be ya, so how much could it have meant to them, really? But thanks for the letters, just the same. My parents . . . fuck. Had to take my Mom for all kinds of testing this week cos she's been having numbness in her feet and lower legs, she got to worrying it was blood clots, I wish, it's diabetic neuropathy, not too bad right now, and hopefully it won't get too bad, cos it can, it can turn into an untreatable burning pain that has driven people- including Al's eldest sister- to suicide. Like my Mom needed more wrong with her, poor soul. This dying a piece at a time is bullshit. Does your restless mind keep you awake? Do you lie awake exhausted? Damn straight. And Lunesta's not gonna fix it, either. What's Bill been doing? Well, I'll tease you by telling you Robby, Al and I returned to the Aristocrat- (THE WHERE?) -the whorehouse, this week . . . but first things first. What's Bill drinking? PBR, but only cos I got a bunch here at the house I have to drink up. If you recall last issue I was trying to discover if it was the PBR givng me such wicked hangovers, well, drank 8 22 oz. Buds last Sunday, woke up feeling not nearly as bad as I had after eleven Pabst two nights earlier. You'd think that'd be evidence enough, but I drank ten PBR last night- not out to get tore down, just trying to take the fucking edge off, and maybe get some sleep- went to bed about 3 am, woke up at 5 with, again, the headache from hell, another fucking brain hemmorhage . . . shit. So what am I drinking it tonight for? Well, for one, the best cure for a hangover is to get drunk again, for two, I stil got some edge needs filed down with a big dose of beer, and for three, like I said, I got this PBR to get rid of. . . had sixteen left when I started, the plan is to get rid of them tonight and move the fuck on. What's Bill been reading? While Dave and I were up fishing at Sutton a while back we went over to the outlet place there at Flatwoods, to the book store (which is closing, too bad), got an extra 20% off the already discount price, got two books that would have been $70 for under $20 (SSSLB), one a biography of Nick Drake, this (probably too) sensitive early 70's English singer songwiter, who spiraled down into depression and mental illness, finally ODing hmself on his antidepressants (imagine that, why they give these people- never mind) in '74. Sad story. Also a great big book about Ray Harryhausen, who should be familiar to all of you as the guy who did all the stop motion animation in films like, among many others, the excellent Jason And The Argonauts, which was on TCM earlier tonight, didn't watch it cos I've seen it a million times, also have it on tape (and maybe some far off day, on DVD) - it was one of the girl's favorites way back when- and for you not quite as oldsters, Clash Of The Titans. Very interesting book, although how this guy has the abilty to build these creature models, and then the beyond human patience to film them "moving" one tortuous frame at a time just boggles my fucking mind. Ray tells an amusing anecdote about when he was creating the giant octopus for It Came From Beneath the Sea, he went down to the aquarum in SF to do some preliminary sketches, producer Sam Katzman saw them and kept complaining about them, how they didn't look right, didn't look real, being a big pain in the ass, Harryhausen gets frustrated as fuck, tells Katzman he sketched them from life at the aquaruim and just what the fuck is wrong with them? "Well, the head part should be on top like this and the eyes. . . ", turns out the only octopus Katzman had ever seen in his entire life was in a Popeye cartoon . . . and this guy was a millionaire, financing movies Figures. Also, loathe though I am to admit it, I read a number of online magazines. The print ones I've read this month are Asian Cult Cinema, the Dark Side, Filmfax, Giant Robot, Mojo, Loud Fast Rules, and Shock Cinema. If ever a devil was born What's Bill listening to? No more new SSSLB CD's so I'm listening to the free ones I got with Mojo and LFR, not bad for free, also, you can hear some crazy ass shit on these comps, like this Cambodian band (or singer, I'm not sure), Sinn Sisamouth's "The Biting Song" which asks the eternal question "Are you biting me out of love or out of spite?". They (or he) have another song on here, "I'm All Skinny", well, of course you are, you're Cambodian. Funny stuff. Being way bored, I also borrowed one of my Mom's comps, 50s Jukebox, okay, I like 50's stuff . . . but not THIS stuff, pure ghastly shit by the likes of Rosemary Clooney and Guy Mitchell . . . yuk. However, amidst all the dreck is this cool Western sounding riff, and Frankie Laine bitching and moaning about "Jezebel", a subject I can surely relate to, as I've always been one to chase the dance halls girls to my emotional ruin, while the school marm who would have treated me fine and true stands pining, neglected and ignored, in the corner. Old Frankie goes from crooning to wailing and back again depending on how much Jez has got him worked up, pretty hilarious song, but also pretty fucking great, seriously. And I just listened to it ten times in a row, so I should know. If ever the devil's plan Haven't done obituaries in a while, one reason being that the magazine where I got a lot of them from, Psychotronic Video, is one of this issues obits, guy says it's just too much work for too little return trying to do a print magazine in this modern age. Thanks a lot, all you computer fucks. I try to avoid most obits you'd see in the paper (like Jack Palance, RIP, ya craggy ass bastard) and inform you on ones a little more outside the mainstream, that you might have missed. Like Sputnik Monroe.http://www.smokebox.net/archives/sport/monroe201.html Sput (as his buddies called him) was a killer heel whose prime was the 50's and 60's, he had greasy black hair with a bleached blond stripe down the middle of his head ("if you're gonna act like a skunk"- brilliant), he wrestled all throughout the South and even though he was mean as fuck he had a huge following in the black community for his "anti-establishment" ways, he was instrumental in getting integrated seating in the arenas he worked in Tennesee and Mississppi, he got his nickname when he came out and embraced some black wrestler after his match, which infuriated some old southern gal at ringside, who was then fortuitously interviewd by the TV announcer, she growls (I presume meaning to call him a Communist, but her pea brain was unable to come up with the word) "What he is, is a goddamn Sputnik!" Oh fuck, you gotta love it, in fact I got a letter this week asking me what a smart guy like me sees in wrestling- among many, many things, priceless shit like this, that's what I see. As for eulogies, Tony Fooshee said "He was my best friend. He used to cuss me out all the time", Robert Fuller said, "He really was just pretty much full of shit, but I learned an awful lot from him" and Robert Goddard said "He just drank and cursed constantly, but I overlooked it cos I liked him so much". And from the man himself, "I never left an opponent better than I found him, ever." God bless you, Sputnik Monroe, and rest n peace. As for Sputnik's bastard son, DFZ (and for those of you who asked about the different outfits in last issue's pics, the singlet is for the legit- well, you know- wrestling, and the BDU's and beater are for the harcore shit), he and Danny are still working the Chief Black Eagle benefit show this coming Saturday, there's been a big response, last I heard there were supposed to be 100- I know- workers showing up for it, some pretty big names, can you say cluster fuck, how you do a tag tournament with 50 teams and have it come out even at the end. . . .again, can you say cluster fuck? The tournament's now going two days, Hojo told Danny the Grapes were supposed to make it to Sunday, I don't really want to, to be honest. I wouldn't mind winning one and then going out in the second round (with Danny taking the pin, of course). Among others, our buddies from House of Pain, Parental Advisory (they left HoP under a cloud, just like the Grapes did) are coming for the show, we're all going over to Southern Exposure Saturday after our matches, I'd like to get tore down (I have a, uhm, bed in Beckley for the night) which I can't do if I have to wrestle again on Sunday. We'll see. Also got a call from Arpin, the promotor from NWA-Tri-State, who did the ring announcing for the EWE show last week. I was well surprised, as I don't like Arpin and he doesn't like me- our main bone of contention being that he thinks he's a big deal, and I don't- but its up front, he doesn't say shit about me behind my back, and vice versa. He was wanting to know if I wanted to work some shows in Ohio after the first of the year, I told him thanks but I was probably too busy, he then went on to tell me that after DFZ's match last week, members of the audience were comng up to him (he's well known to the fans up there) and insisting that he needed to call the cops, cos Danny and I needed ouir asses arrested for what we'd just done- DFZ: Arpin, do these people not know that wrestling is a work? It's only cool cos we didn't do anything of the sort, I have no truck whatsoever with the shitty practice of stiffing new kids (which is how one of them got his ankle broken at the show) even though Smokey's been around for ages, he's still a kid and I would never deliberately hurt him, it's that damn bullying shit that gets right up my ass, I got my eye on the fuck who hurt that kid, if I get the chance- and I figure I will- I'm gonna fucking blindside him. Punk motherfucker. Other than maybe a little tender spot where I popped him in the face, I'm sure Smokey felt a hell of a lot better the next day than at least one of the guys who supposedly pulverized him, to quote Micheal Irvin, "All both my knees are hurting", ditto my shoulder, and my head where the pop can got me, and my arm again got all swollen after I took the blade to it, I soak the gigs in peroxide (had to use razor blades this time, ran out of Exacto knife blades) before I put them under my wrist tape, then I clean my arm real well with peroxide afterward- just can't do Betadyne even though I know its a lot better disinfectant, that's what we had to scrub with before we could go in to see her, every day of the three months plus Sarah was in NICU, that smell carries way too much baggage, sorry- but the cuts still end up all red and sore and swollen, so I have to debride them daily- fancy talk for scraping the scabs off- and yeah, that does hurt like fuck, but it beats lockjaw (I suppose)- and clean them all out again. . . the things we do for love. So . . . me and Al are having breakfast with Robby last Tuesday morning at the Waffle House there on Rt. 60 in Huntington. Robby is a weird and obsessive fuck, he wants to eat at the same place every day, until he gets "bombed out" on it and switches, we used to meet him at the Cracker Barrel in Barboursville, not my favorite place for a number of reasons, for one I don't like the whiole yee haw decor and deliberate misspellings on the menu (I'm not yer fucking "cuzzin", cousin), also they don't serve omelets, which is what I usually order for breakfast in restaurants, (it's hard to fuck up eggs and cheese, plus I like 'em), so I'd get the Carb Counters breakfast, three eggs, I get mine scrambled, with sides of bacon and sausage, but I'd get double bacon, crisp- though it embarasses me to say it, those greasy ass sausages would fuck with my delicate eggshell stomach, also "lo carb", whatever, toast, and for three, (why I don't like Cracker Barrel in Barboursville) all the wait staff treated us pretty shitty since that was when Al was being really hateful, even though I tipped well (what the fuck, it's Al's money). From there we moved to Bob Evans, convenient since they built the new one right off the Hal Greer exit by Al's house, and I can get an omelet there, with fried potatoes (they come with it, otherwise I'd pass) and wheat toast, and water, no coffee, even though I like coffee with my breakfast, that stomach thing again, in fact, last couple weeks we ate there I was getting oatmeal- and yeah I should be eating at Weenie Hut Junior. Now we're at Waffle House- where, funnily enough I was actually given a greasy spoon one morning- I get a cheese omelet, this weird spongy thing, well greasy, and wheat toast and grits, WH have the best restaraunt grits I think I've ever eaten, grits are about just two things, texture - not soup, not mortar- and taste- not bland, not Dead Sea salty- and WH get both just right. Also I like to watch the short order cooks there behind the counter, like a live Food Network. You not interested in any of this Bill's breakfast stuff, are you? If you are, you're nuts. Anyway, Tuesday morning Robby starts raving about this prostitute he was with the night before, going on about how hot she is and what a great lay, she's nineteen and Mexican and she'll be there on Thursday when next I come to town, how about we all go down to the Aristocrat, his treat (he's a retard, but he's not cheap). I think about two seconds, then say, "Okay". Not saying I'm going to, not saying I'm not. But I'm willing to go take a look. This move into hell has not only crumbled my financial empire, wrecked my health (got a number of comments on how sturdy DFZ looked last issue, I'll go with dear Jean's "fit and strong", which is true, his stomach is flat and his biceps big, but first, DFZ is not Bill, for real, as Chris once noted "he's bigger than you" which is the gospel truth, as well as, it's all on the outside, on the inside my brain is tapioca and my guts are knotted and loose) it's also absolutely clipped the nuts right off of my sex life. The last time- I was going to say I got it wet, but that's not really true, the last time I got the outside of a condom wet- well, no, wait, she did stick it in her mouth- whatever, anyway, it was last spring (no wonder I'm losing my mind, and am irritable as fuck) was with the Lone Ring Girl, and that wasn't all that great, hardly my horizontal pinnacle- As noted . . . I'm willing got go take a look. So, last Thursday night Bill, Al (who's quit crapping himself, at least for the time being, thank you Jesus) and Robby all three return to the Aristocrat after almost two years. We get buzzed in- the place still has all the ambience of a stopped up toilet- and the first thing I see is this malnourished- she'd have to put on weight, a lot of it, to be scrawny- black girl at the bar, looks like a stray cat, or a crack head, one. Bill: That her? We all get beers, on Robby's tab- Bud Light, all they had, and gone up to $4 from the $3 they were a couple years ago, highway robbery at it's worst. The black girl's talking to some Bubba at the bar, she looks our way, makes like she's gonna come over, Robby waves her off, fine by me. A little while later this girl comes down the stairs with a guy, he leaves, she goes to the bar before I can get a good look at her face, but from what I can see . . . Bill: That her? Robby looks. Robby: Oh yeah, that's her. I'm kind of disappointed, and kind of relieved. She turns around and I get a good look at her face. She ain't no fucking nineteen, that's for damn sure. Also- B: You say this girl's from Mexico? Robby gets the girl's attention, waves her over to the table. R: My friend and I have a bet- She does, she and Robby briefly shoot the shit- man, I am NOT seeing what Robby is seeng, no way, not even for free- Al asks "where we at" a couple times, then Rob and his Mexican dream girl go upstairs. I drink a couple more Bud Lights (on Robby) and tell Al what time it is every minute or two, till Robby comes back downstairs, and starts pushing this Mexican/Filipino whore on me- R: Man, I'm telling you Bill, she's fantastic. Half an hour with her
and you'll be a new man. She shrugs, and leaves for greener pastures and fresher fields, aka a new crop of Bubbas at the bar. R: You know, I'm impressed you could tell she was from Filipino- Thats not how it was, but if that how he wants it, okay (and trust me, Robby was not shining me earlier about that Spansih-American War shit, he realliy is that damn ignorant). And then we left. Sorry if this has left you feleng anticlimactic, no wild Bill sex story, or wild sex story of any kind, I will say this visit to the Aristocrat felt considerably sleazier than the previous one, where at least I spoke with the whores some, and learned their names, but whatever, it was what it was. Maybe another time. I'm tired. Good night. If ever a pair of eyes Later Bill
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As I was drifting past the Northern Lights 