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11/21/04 I Keep A Close Watch
Hey And I don't. Play with guns, that is, which is not to say I've never taken them to work. Guns, like flying saucers, are serious business. However, momma never said a damn thing about barbed wire baseball bats. So I whacked Smokey C in Nitro just to watch him writhe. What's been up with Bill? More of that damn weird sobriety thing. How do you people live like this? Drank a couple beers at the wedding reception last Saturday, other than that, no alcohol has crossed these lips since the last newsletter (except tonight). Sorry, I told you I haven't felt like myself lately. In more not feeling like myself news- I can hardly believe I did this- I went up this morning and tested for a data entry job at the fucking Post Office. I know, Jesus, I know, I'm as disappointed in me as you are, but I really need to get some insurance, so I can get this shoulder, which is about to drive me OUT OF MY FUCKING MIND, fixed. The test was moronically simple- it was for government work, what did you expect?- I came in at the head of the class, in fact, so much so that I got called back in this evening for some paid training, which I went in for, missing wrestling tonight, which didn't break my heart (and Danny filmed me telling Allen I had to miss tonight for the documentary, oh, the drama) cos I'd pretty much decided to bail anyway. I'm not kidding, man, my shoulder fucking HURTS. The P.O. job isn't what I want, or was led to believe it was, part time seasonal, no benefits. so fuck that, you know. I'll still probably show up if they call me, but it's not what I was fucking hoping it would be. Restless as hell tonight for some reason, can't sit still with no place to go, what my Mom used to describe as feeling about to jump out of your skin, so I'm drinking some Booker's over ice, trying to sip and just chill- hard for me, cos I'm no sipper. Or chiller, for that matter. But this Booker's is ace, once again, cheers, Jason. I used to get like this sometimes back in the day, Loretta could see it in me and go "We're not getting any sleep tonight, are we?" "'No, we're not". And we would fuck like crazy till daylight. But since she's not around anymore, and I still haven't found an acceptable human substitute, hard liquor will have to do. Poorly.
Sarah took some pictures at the reception, Joe can put some in here, although I think she had her, "Lets make everyone's head look like Betelguese"- not the phonetically spelled (and mispronounced) ghost, but the star, which as we all know is a red giant, in fact, I think it's actually classed as a supergiant- filter on her camera. And to someone who I forwarded some of the photos too, yeah, the girls really are that big, and those are really my shoulders, you haven't seen any of us in a while. And I think Sarah got a real nice picture of Joe and Laura.
Unlike a couple years ago when I was on this kick about how bad Loretta was looking, then Jack ran into her up at the PSC when he was doing some security work there, and of course had to tell me about it. J: I have to say, Bill, Loretta's still a fine looking woman. Still, how she looks today- and I defy any of you to take up for how she now looks- is what happens to you when you get up at 4 am every work day, and spend a total of 5 hours each day commuting to and from your soul less hell corporate job in shit hole DC (the town of my birth). Fucking idiot, she's getting what she deserves. The goddamn skank. Also found out through recent conversations with Kathy that Beverly turned against me back when cos of a bunch of untrue shit Loretta told her about me. Gosh, go figure.
In more family news, my Dad had a cyst taken off of the corner of his eye week before last, I took him up there to have it done, he said after they removed the cyst they were going to carderize it. B: Carderize it, huh? The surgery went fine, other than a black eye and some localized pain (I stole a couple of his pain pills, so sue me, at least I actually took them for my shoulder, which, as has been mentioned before, is DRIVING ME OUT OF MY MIND, it's not like I sold them to Huntington hookers), he's doing fine. But in still more not feeling like myself stuff, my mom asked me the other day, genuinely concerned, "Are you mad at your Daddy?" B: Not at all, why? My mom took some church bus trip today with a friend of hers- and her friend's church, we don't do the church thing ourselves- to Wheeling to see their Christmas lights stuff, and a concert by the Oak Ridge Boys. I'm sure when I die and go to hell, I'm going on that bus. Anyway, she wanted me to stop by the house this afternoon and tape the Marshall game for her- she's crazy for sports, I swear- I thought that meant that my Dad wasn't going to be home, no, hell, he's there with a big old day planned for us, got in a bunch of snacks, he's even gotten some shrimp and fixed up some shrimp cocktail glasses- B: What the fuck's all this? Well, for all the making fun of him I do- and that's I do, you do it and you're taking your life in your fucking hands, believe it- my Dad's a wonderful man, and a wonderful Dad, I love him dearly, and he's been all worried about me cos of how blatantly unhappy and subdued I've been lately, so I hung out there with him for a while and ate shrimp and chips and cheese dip and some kind of green shit that's still burning a hole in my stomach, and he talked, and I listened, and while what he said didn't make a whole lot of sense, other than, you know, hang in there, the sun is going to shine in your back door someday, just the fact that the loved me very much came through, and that was really nice. For some reason I kept flashing back this afternoon while he was speaking to me, to my Dad's "the birds and the bees" speech to me, all those years ago. It was the summer of '68, and I was helping my Dad run a fireworks stand, this guy that lived down the street, Mr. Arscott (from the Billy and the Quickmud story) sold fireworks during the two weeks before Fourth of July, and for a couple years, '67 and '68, my Dad would run a stand for him and I'd help my Dad. The stand we had in '68 was prime, there on a street corner in DC, but not a real busy one, DC in '68, at least this part of it, was pretty laid back, not rural, but residential, not this fast paced place like you'd think of DC being. The stand was back up under some trees, nice and shady, there was this great little shopping center right behind us, with a deli and a drug store and a hobby shop and stuff, so when I'd get bored selling fireworks I'd go down to the shopping center for a while and hang out. I was supposed to go get lunch for us this one afternoon but I got sidetracked, went into the drug store to read some comics, then, since no one was paying me any attention, got into one of the "Men's magazines", which was what I was looking at when my Dad found me. D: I thought you were getting us lunch? So I went over to the deli and got us a couple of these fantastic subs they used to make, and since that was the first place I'd ever been in where they gave you a cup and let you get your own drink- very forward thinking for '68- I was drinking an orange/grape/cherry/Sprite/Coke, every bit as good as it sounds, and as we're sitting there in the stand having our lunch I can tell my Dad's got something on his mind. It was the dreaded "birds and bees" speech, which I figured I'd avoided, since I was already 11, and had finished the sixth grade. Think again, William. D: You know why you like looking at those women in those magazines? He proceeded to tell me, anyway. It was actually quite appalling, torturous and rambling and shockingly graphic, I think he said "ejakalate" at least half a dozen times, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry or just run the fuck away. Finally, dear God, it was over. D: So . . . did that help you out any? I still like that part. What else has Bill been up to? I went over to a friend's house Thursday before last for some pizza and beer and it ended up not good. If that person happens to be reading this, you know what, you get mad too damn easy, for fuck's sake. And people call me hot headed. And no, I'm not interested in making up. My burgeoning friendship with Danny Boyd is going great guns, first off, I like him cos he's a damn great guy, very cool, very interesting, done lots of very, very neat things. I also like him cos he thinks the world of yours truly. We went down to a WOW show in Whitesville last night so he could shoot some footage for the documentary, it was hilarious, they were all like in my face as soon as I got there, "What the fuck are YOU doing here" "I brought this guy who wants to film you for this movie" "BILL! Sweetheart! How've you been?" Buncha double faced pukes if you ask me. Danny also gave me a bunch of autographed DVDS of his movies, plus some pre-release stuff from his next movie, very cool but the best is still to come. He LOVES the idea of a feature length Death Falcon movie, loves as much of the script as he's seen- his words, not mine, he's going, "You realize people are going to be laughing out loud at this", OF COURSE I DO, he's gonna help me get it all set up, boys and girls, it's finally a GO. This guy is the real fucking deal, and "You Can Call Me Death" is going to start serious, professional filming after the first of the year. I'm over the damn moon, seriously. Anyone wanting to audition, let me know, this is 100% serious, especially you ladies, as the Death Falcon is fueled by sex and alcohol, there are 7 different make out scenes in the movie- 3 of those have already been cast, that still leaves 4- as well as two full blown actually sticking it in sex scenes, which will never make it into the movie, but I DON'T CARE. (ME EITHER. BOY FUCKING HOWDY, HOW'D I LUCK INTO THIS?) Because you're mine- (I WALK THE LINE. GOT YA. AND THANKS). No problem. I'm also going to attend Danny's graduate level scriptwriting class next semester for free, we're going to work on turning "Down in the Drains" into a screenplay. How fucking cool is that? Way cool, I say. You locals are probably aware of this, but since we have an international audience here, there's been this local little toadstool of a pervert with the too perfect name of Mucklow- his name is MUCKLOW- who's been- I'm sorry, give me a minute while I roll around on the floor LAUGHING MY ASS OFF- who's been calling into home health care agencies pretending to be his own mother (?!) and getting women to come out and care for him as a supposedly mentally impaired guy, in diapers (?!) and when they show up he feels them up and tries to mouth their tits and shit. I'm sorry, I'm rolling on the floor again. I know it's sick, but I think it's goddamn hilarious. Jesus fucking Christ, I can't stop laughing. And someone just shoot this guy, please. Whoa. Well, this will stop me laughing. Another of the class of '74 done gone. Joe, did you know that Billy Warner was dead? Now, most of the '74 guys who's passing we've mentioned in here were pretty serious drug boys, but not Billy, not at all. Billy got married real soon after graduation and was an excellent family man, drove a fucking bus for God's sake, I can remember still being in college and running into Billy in Kroger while buying beer and him showing me a picture of his son, of whom he was so damn proud. I don't read obituaries but as I'm turning the page sometimes a picture will jump out, like Billy's did, and again unlike a lot of the guys we graduated with, Billy's picture looked just like he did in high school, slightly older, but certainly recognizable, it was on the anniversary of his death, which was last year, 11/11/03, and the accompanying note was very touching and heart felt, not some damn generic Hallmark-ish verse like you see so often in these things. Billy's family obviously loved him very much, and miss him very much. Makes me very sad. Rest in peace, Billy Warner. Not a whole lot of activity in the mail box of late, I did get a recent letter commenting unfavorably on all the Brit expressions I use- in hospital, bum, starkers. Yeah, so what's your problem, you some kind of nancy boy, or what? In the "Bill thinks it's a fucked up world" column, I was in Books A Million last week, ran into this girl I used to work with, her name wouldn't come to me at the time, I remember now it's Karen, we were standing there talking when this guy, who I also know, or at least recognized, but didn't know knew Karen, comes over, acts kind of like a shit- I stuck out my hand to shake, he ignored it- then walks off like he's pissed she and I are talking. B: What's up with that? Is he like your boyfriend, or something? You know, that's actually not the first time I've heard that "owed it to him/me" shit, from white and black folks alike. No wait, shit, it's not Karen, it's Kelli. Well, I'm not going back and changing it. Anyway, my thinking along those lines is, if I didn't do it to you personally, I don't owe you fucking shit for it, and if you come to me with your hand out, you better hope all I fucking do is spit in it. White guilt? Not this boy. You other white folks do what you fucking want. And I don't give a good goddamn about PC. Obviously.
GWUTCOH: Black and white movies are all boring. At least that wasn't boring. What's Bill been reading? STILL no new books and CDs, been over a month since I've ordered, I'm starting to suspect foul play. Got a new MOJO last week when I was at the Huntington Mall with Kathy on our way down to see Al (who's been evil on a stick lately, don't even ask), got a good long story in it about Johnny Cash, also a comp CD of Johnny Cash covers that I'm listening to right now. It became cool to like Johnny Cash in the last few years of his life, I liked him forever, hell, he been everywhere, man, we were gonna do the absolutely great "I Walk The Line" in the Tang Spoons, Joe figured out the guitar part but it was this hard, picky kind of thing, I had to tell him, "Shit, Joe, I can't sing and play that. In fact, I can't play that." One thing I always really did like about the Tang Spoons was our choice in covers, I don't know anyone who was playing out around the time we were who was doing Eddie Cochran and Buddy Holly and Bo Diddley like we were. Were the songs easy to play? Of course, but there's TONS of shit out there that's easy to play, we were doing them cos they were goddamn great songs. Although I will concede they were easy to play with 15 beers in you . . . I think we're getting near the end. I was e-talking with Impetuous earlier today about Italy, which led to my thinking about the time I got into a fight in Inverness, so I think that's what we'll close with. I think I'm an easy going guy, honestly, but besides all the domestic violence (ha), in my time I've been involved in punch ups with guys from France, Italy, Cuba (surprisingly tough, I found out later he was a pro soccer player, he had that soccer player's stamina, damn his ass- I still won, though), Lebanon, Thailand, Sierra Leone, and Scotland, plus wherever all those Hispanic Wheelers were from. I'm telling you right now, that Scottish fucker could've put all the rest of them in his back pocket. This was that same night in Inverness mentioned in a previous, but long ago, newsletter, Loretta and I were in that dance club with the Ferg(uson) boys and some of their friends, that place where they watered the beer shamelessly in an unsuccessful attempt to keep the brawling down, where I earlier saw that one Scot fucker head butt another one to oblivion- what they call in Scotland an Irish kiss, now how goddamn funny is that? Anyway, we're in there and having a good time, the male to female ratio is about 10 to 1, and Loretta was still hot as shit at that time, so half the guys in the place are asking her to dance. I don't have a problem, 99% of these guys are great guys, very cool, very respectful, and Loretta is enjoying all the attention, but this one drunk ass mother fucker gets way out of line out on the floor, then tries to drag Loretta off to a dark corner, I didn't see it, but Bobby Ferg did, he went over and broke things up and told Mr. Trouble, who's Christian name was Jimmy, he probably needed to leave. I came up on Bobby and Loretta while she was thanking him, I can still remember Bobby vehemently going, "He's no fookin' good, that one", they gave me the gist of what happened without winding me up, no mean trick, everything is still cool, except Jimmy didn't leave, and as soon as all Loretta's male escorts went up to the bar for more weak beer, he came back. I happened to look back and see him pawing at her- he was a big boy for a Scotsman, my height at least, but skinny, like all that malnourished bunch- so, figuring old Jim had already had more warning than he fucking deserved, I walked up and sucker punched him. I was aiming for his temple, but he must've seen me there at the last, or else his spider sense was tingling, cos he turned, and I got him square in the eye. While it wasn't the best sucker punch I've ever thrown, it still would've knocked an Italian ass over wine glass, and killed a fucking Frenchman. It closed our boy Jim's left eye, but that was about it, he squints at me out of his right and goes, "Oooh, so it's gooona be like THAT, is it?" And off we went. I was so busy trying to avoid one of those killer head butts like I'd seen earlier in the evening that he was able to pop me a couple good ones with his fists, fucked me up pretty good, in fact, I should've taken his ass to the floor straight away, but hindsight's always 20/20. Bobby and Davy Ferg, a couple of legit hard asses and glad I was that they were on my side, jump in and pull us apart, then, since Jimmy is still trying to fight, they both grab him and restrain both his arms. Oh yeah. Thank you very much, brothers Ferguson. I reared back and gave Jimmy a kick in the balls that would've dropped a goddamn horse, he went immediately to his knees, retching cheap beer all over everyone's shoes. It dampened his enthusiasm instantly, and considerably, and also gave me a chance to give him a second kick square in the unprotected face, both of which earned me the disapproval of everyone in the place. "That's dirty American fighting, that is" some fucker in the crowd muttered. "You're goddamn right it is" I said. "You want some?" Well, THAT was a mistake, because he did, and so did about a dozen of his ootraged friends. Fortunately Bobby and Davy hustled me out of there before I got pummeled by a bunch of livid Scots enraged at my skewed American sense of fair play. And it's a good thing that happened toward the end of our stay in
Inverness, cos after that Loretta and I'd be walking through town and we'd
hear people whispering, Yeah, that'd be me. In the SHANKERS. You fuckers are killing me. I guess I'm about done. What's left to say . . . (ONTOGENY RECAPITULATES PHYLOGENY?) Everybody knows that. (THEY DO NOW.) I know I had it comin' . . . Oh yeah, and I LOVE being called "that Yank'. Later Bill
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When I was just a baby 
Since I mentioned it up above, I'll go ahead and talk about last
Saturday's wedding now, it was very nice, lots of good people there (and
me), Allegra looked absolutely radiant, and jaw droppingly beautiful-
Anita and Alana didn't exactly make you look away when they walked by,
either, hot stuff, girls- I enjoyed it. Congratulations to Shawn- I guess
you looked okay too, buddy, but the bride stole the show, sorry- and
Allegra. For what it's worth, me and the girls love you, and wish you all
the best.
The girls were only in for a little more than 24 hours, hardly enough
time considering they haven't been here in three months. They'll be back
this coming week for Thanksgiving, unlike their mother, who's spending the
holiday in Baltimore with her family, a quote.
I was already in a mood when she came to pick the girls up last Sunday
morning, so it didn't take much lip from Loretta to start a fight (surely
a lot less than what she actually said). I'm not going into it, other than
to say that she is completely out of her mind, sincerely. It was still
nice to see Loretta, though, cos she looked fucking awful. Remember quite
a while back when I said she was looking fat, and tired, and old? Now she
looks much fatter and tireder and older. Starting to get these old woman
jowls, for God's sake. Sarah even said something when Loretta and Gandhi
pulled up to get them that morning, "Don't say anything about how bad
Mom looks", and I didn't, even when we had harsh words, so it's not
just me who realizes she looks like hell.
My dear and much loved youngest daughter Rachel turned 15 on the 17th.
I wasn't able to actually speak to her on that day cos this is a fucked up
world, but it's my sincerest wish that she had a wonderful day. She gave
me one of her school photos for this year when she was in last weekend, I
love it, she looks like Rachel Ramone, sweet and tough, instead of
scanning it in, Joe, I'll just give you your copy tomorrow when we go up
to Danny's and you can scan it in.
Watched most of "The Treasure Of Sierra Madre" ("we don'
need no steenking badges") out at Joe and Laura's last week after the
reception, Sarah did her Daddy proud by loving it. There used to be
someone who used to come out to the house here, but doesn't anymore, which
is why I guess I'm willing to crack on her now, who wouldn't watch a movie
if it was in black and white. Used to drive me crazy.
"
'Ees the Yank whot kicked Jimmy in the
shankers while the Fergies woz 'oldin, is arms".
