11/3/04

All Tomorrow's Parties

And what costume shall the poor girl wear
To all tomorrow's parties?

Hey

What's been up with Bill? Nothing I particularly feel like talking about, even though, perversely, if that's true, why the fuck is this one is coming out pretty much on the heels of the last one? I don't know, and since you asked so fucking nicely . . .

(WOW. TESTY).

A little advice, big boy. Walk softly in this one, cos I am not in the fucking mood.

In fact, for those of you who have to deal with me on a face to face basis- well, I guess none of you have to, for those of you who choose to, for whatever masochistic reasons you might have- I give you fair warning, it's gonna be ugly here for a while. If you say, "How's it going, Bill?" and I tell you to crawl up your own fucking asshole and die, I don't really mean it. Well, I do mean it. But I'll get over it, hopefully you will too, and won't hold it against me.

You know, there's that expression, "numbing grief". I've never experienced anything like that in my life. I always get the type that cuts to the bone.

For those of you who know them, Kathy told me yesterday that Beverly is attempting a reconciliation with her, which is second only to Loretta attempting to reconcile with me in the "it can never happen" realm- the bad feelings were that deep. Amazing. Beverly also turned on me like a damn snake when she and Kathy dissolved their friendship nine years ago, (Jesus, where does the time GO?) I never had any idea why, neither did Kathy, cos its not like I took sides, until I was forced to by one of them, and Beverly never said why suddenly I became scum of the earth, I just was. Kathy said in the course of their four hour conversation the other night it came up, and she asked Beverly what she had against me, cos there was a time when Beverly liked me too damn much if you get my drift.

Beverly said, "I can't stand Bill's violence." What the fuck? Violent? Me? Bullshit. And old Bev didn't mind that violence when it punched out that fucking spic, pardon my French, Charleston Wheeler there in the old Anchor when he got all grabby and suddenly couldn't understand English, like "No!", did she. Personally, I don't believe it, I think that violence thing is just a smokescreen. Not that I fucking care, cos like I told Kathy, she and Beverly can reconcile all they want, I got no fucking interest. That was then, this now, just leave me out of it.

Went to Danny Boyd's wedding this past Saturday, nice affair, but these weddings are starting to take their toll on me. They make me want to jump off a fucking cliff.

Hung out at the reception with X and Booty, Shane Storm and his girl, plus local newscaster Kennie Bass and his (pretty damn hot) wife, Christie. The staff there at the Eagles Club (I'M GONNA BEAT HIM IN THE HEAD WITH IT!) were struggling to get the keg of free beer open, me and this guy at the next table, didn’t know him, were getting a bit impatient.

Guy at other table: They got a cash bar up there selling liquor. Let's get into that.
B: Not unless you want to have to call the police, and the fire department. I'm pretty thirsty.
GaoT: Yeah, but there's no free beer.
B: Keep your cell phone handy.

I got a couple vodka tonics, hardly my favorite drink, but all they had the makings for behind the bar, everything else being "downstairs", then switched to bottled Bud when they brought that in- at least they were cheap- then after about four of them, they got the keg tapped- I think they eventually resorted to C fucking 4- so I drank some free beer for a while.

I met Larry Groce at the reception, host of "Mountain Stage", and a pretty nice guy, but he has that annoying habit of answering a question with a question, as when I asked him "Hey, can I be on Mountain Stage?", he replied, "Bill, are you out of your fucking mind?". Remember, he'd just met me. People who know me don't have to ask.

I guess the best part of the reception was meeting Danny's father, Ned. The first thing he said when he saw me-

N: You look so much like your grandfather, it's scary.
B: It certainly chills my blood.

Anyone wanting more info about my Granddad, refer to "They're All Dutch To Me", or the upcoming, "Granddad Vs. The Angel".

Mr. Boyd and my Dad grew up together in Martinsburg, and apparently had quite the time, back in the day. When I told my Dad that Ned Boyd was going to be at the wedding, my Dad got all nostalgic for the good old days of horse drawn carriages and whirling jars full of bees over his head, wanted to tell me about the time he and Ned went hunting for groundhogs.

D: Yeah, me and Ned, we were out there in the woods hunting for groundhogs-
B: Wait, you don't hunt for groundhogs in the woods . . .
D: - we had our hatchets with us-
B: You don't hunt for groundhogs with HATCHETS . .
D: -yeah, and Ned saw one up in this tree-
B: Groundhogs DON'T CLIMB TREES . . .
D: -and Ned, he flung his hatchet and knocked that groundhog right out of the tree-
B: For Christ's sake, will you STOP IT. That's the damnedest story I've ever heard.
D: I can't help that.
B: You're gonna sit there and try to tell me you and Ned Boyd were out hunting groundhogs, in the woods- you know, they call 'em groundhogs for a reason, they live out in the fields, down on the GROUND, they' don't call 'em woodhogs, or damn treehogs- and you were going after them with fucking HATCHETS-
D: We weren't allowed around guns.
B: Yeah, well no shit, and thank God for that. And then you're gonna tell me there was one up in a damn TREE-
D: Sure, way up in there.
B: -and Ned threw, excuse me, flung, his hatchet at this tree climbing groundhog, and he hit it-
D: Boy, did he, right bang in the head.
B: -and . . . then what?
D: He took it back to his mom and asked her to make groundhog pie, but she wouldn't. So then we tried to skin it to make hats-
B: Yeah, I've heard groundhog hats were all the rage back then.
D: - and when that didn't work, we buried it.
B: You are making this up.
D: (Highly offended). I'll be damned. I'm not the one thinks he's Julius Verne. That'd be you.

Yeah, I guess it would at that.

My Dad was pretty sulky with me the rest of the day cos I didn't believe his crazy ass story about groundhogs living in trees, and his little friend Natty Bumpo whacking them outta there with flung hatchets to the head. Go figure.

So I'm standing there talking to Mr. Boyd, and I say, sort of smirking, "Yeah, my Dad was telling me about the time you two went groundhog hunting-"

Boy, his eyes all lit up, and he goes, "Man that was really something, we were out in them woods and I spotted this groundhog way up in this tree, and I flung my hatchet at him, not really expecting to hit him, you know, but boy, it sure did, right square in the head, and he come tumbling-"

I'm standing there with my mouth hanging open, waiting for a feather to drift by and knock me over. I still say that's the damnedest story I've ever heard. And now I've heard it TWICE.

After the reception I- me, not the Death Falcon, we worked out a deal where I could wear the mask, it seemed important at the time- then went to Joe and Laura's Halloween party. I was sort of struggling at it, I'd been drinking all day and had then made the mistake of stopping for about an hour or so, and so was starting to crash, also my shoulder was really bothering me- so much so that I've again had it looked at since last newsletter, to again be told "your shoulder is FUCKED UP", thanks, Doc, though I did score some drugs out of the deal. I've hurt it even further since then, punching something really hard, really hard, in that mature way I have of handling things (punched a hole in it, though). The DF's first XMCW title defense this Saturday is not going to be the most fun either he or I have ever had, I fear.

(YEAH, CHEERS, MOTHER FUCKER).

Anyway, I vacated the Halloween party pretty early, went out and sat on the dock, absolutely GORGEOUS night for it, I was joined by someone and spent an extremely enjoyable time out there, I can honestly say it's the best time I've had since I can't remember when. I had something real pissy to say next, but Joe's told me I may not know what I'm talking about- Jesus Christ, imagine that- or he may have just recanted cos he knows the mood I'm in and he doesn't want me to do that going off thing I do. Either way, pissy stuff removed.

I can always say it later if it needs said.

The Halloween party was fun.

Okay, I'll guess we'll get into the what's Bill drinking, etc, stuff, and the mailbag, and then maybe another story, and we'll be done with issue number whatever- getting close to #125, what's that called, anyway, does 125 have some kind of special name, like that goofy ass word for 150 that starts with "S"? If anyone knows, let me know.

So, what is Bill drinking? Well, in a very sincere attempt to negate two weeks of sobriety and semi-clear thinking ("I'll try to nullify my life"), lets just say "lots", and leave it at that. You try and cure a twenty beer hangover with anything other that more beer, I defy you.

Listening to? Nothing, lately, and nothing at the moment, either. Same with reading. Still haven't made it to the library, the books and CD's I ordered a couple weeks ago haven't come in yet.

Between phone calls, watched some more of my beloved noir on TCM Monday afternoon, "Kansas City Confidential", already discussed in these pages, also "The Scarf", totally contrived ending, but great dialog, like- "I come two hundred fifty miles to see that little filly, and that's the way it'll be, or else I'm gonna turn this moonshine parlor into mashed potatoes." Very Ben Grimm-ish, and funny. And John Ireland had just the greatest look, black turtle neck and fedora, brown leather bomber jacket. If I ever do a 50's period piece, that's my look.

Watched a couple more, "Beware My Lovely" with the great Robert Ryan, and "Sellout", I could watch this stuff all day, and often do, but come on, when they talk like this-

"We're gonna beat you, Johnson." "Yeah, but I'll maul you as I go down." "Hey, leggo. You trying to break my arm?" "Yeah". "Were you ever threatened in any way?" "They said they'd throw me to the kangaroos." (?!)

Good stuff.

Also, today has been weird, hard night last night, little sleep, been drinking pretty steadily today since about noon and what's it now, after four in the morning, but I seem to have lost from about 6 to 10 pm tonight. Seriously, I was back in my room playing the guitar, it was about six, and then, it was fucking ten. Like, instantaneously. Bizarre. If I passed out, you'd think I'd have fallen out of the chair, or at least dropped the guitar, but no. Maybe my playing put me into a trance, it can do that to people, but I'm more thinking maybe a fugue state. Like I said, weird.

Came in here to start this, it's been building up all day, turned on Rachael Ray behind me-we're talking middle of the night edition here- she was down in Texas tonight doing her $40 a day. At one point she was talking about "the rich oil millionaires", I guess to distinguish them from all the poor oil millionaires. She also rode a mechanical bull, not nearly as exciting as I thought it'd be. I don't know, I think I might be losing my thing for our girl Rach, cos she was kind of getting on my nerves tonight. Or it may be just my mood. Either way, she really needs to quit saying "groovy".

Oh dear God. Someone on Iron Chef just said "At last I'm feeling attack of the crabs."

To address the fan mail that's come in since last issue, Chris K. wants Joe to include more photos of naked chicks. Chris, check out last issue on the site for some photos of the truly primo Ingrid Pitt, no Polish joke, she. However, just like Playboy, you'd better be buying this damn thing for the writing, all a ya.

Speaking of photos and last issue, check out the one of Rachel, my Rachel, looks like she just got cast for The Osbournes, it absolutely drips "like I fucking care". That's Daddy's girl- and Mommy's little nightmare.

JayJay (the Jet Plane? who the fuck are YOU?) thinks the wrestling photos, particularly the one of Smokey all beat down bloody and grimacing, are fake. Well, first of all, who would bother to fake something like that? And second, come on down anytime and let me- or hell, you don't have to let me, I'll just fucking do it- give you the Crown Of Thorns with a big ass bunch of barbed wire, and let's see how fake you look there, little buddy.

(NO, YOU'RE NOT FUCKING VIOLENT. NOT AT ALL).

Hey- that's YOU does the Crown Of Thorns.

(OH YEAH. TOUCHE).

A BUNCH of people told me, quit being so rough on Al- ha, you guys are gonna love this issue's concluding story- but once again, my response is a totally heart felt, fuck you, YOU sit next to him when the waitress asks if she can take his plate and he says, "Yeah, take it and shove it up your ass". I can hear you laughing out there, but it's not funny. At least not when I'm sitting there with his cantankerous and very embarrassing damn ass, if it was you, it'd be a damn riot.

And the closing stories about Rick and his sister and election day last issue got a big response, thanks, seriously, more than one person- two, to be precise- asked why this stuff isn't in a book. Cos you guys aren't publishers would be my guess.

We sit along what might be the sea And your face wears a smile for me I was yours, you were mine That night felt outside time But in the cold morning light, I see That you won't be there for me

In the "close, but no cigar, Billy" column, I had something truly disheartening happen to me earlier this week, which kind of sucks, since I really don't have a lot of heart left, and which we're not getting into here-

(I THOUGHT WE GOT INTO EVERYTHING HERE?).

Yeah, well, we're not getting into this, so FUCK OFF.

(OKAY . . . DAMN).

I just thought for a brief moment- nah, fuck me for an idiot, I said we weren't getting into it, and we're not, let's just move on. Cos I am an idiot, useless IQ of (you'd accuse me of lying, or boasting) to the contrary.

(HEY. LISTEN TO ME. BY YOUR BOOTSTRAPS, MOTHER FUCKER. ONE MORE TIME).

Yeah . . . one more time.

Anyway, I handled this event with my typical aplomb and panache, meaning I got absolutely tore down drunk. I had to go to Al's that night, Monday, I first went to the store for him, while there I bought myself- with my own money, you should be ashamed for even asking- a case of PBR long necks. Once I got to his house-

B: You want a beer, Al?
A: Nah.
B: Good, more for me.

And by the way, I never drink at Al's house, since that's like drinking on the job, and unprofessional, but Monday night I have to say I just did not care, so fuck me. I know it was wrong, but I did it anyway. Starting to become a habit with me.

I sat down in one of Al's recliners and started power drinking. Other than when I was helping him with one of his innumerable crossword puzzle questions- "Dunno. Dunno. Yves Montand. No, Yves. Y-V-E_S. Dunno"- the PBR was really going down the old pipe, nine done in the first hour. I like to build structures, like Sarah's beer castles, with my empties. Don’t ask me why, it's just something I've always done. Maybe because it's the one building material I truly appreciate. With bottles it's a lot trickier, but I was working on this design I call the double diamond, you have to have a shit load of bottles to make it look right, but I knew that wasn't going to be a problem.

The bottles start stacking up by my chair.

A: My gosh. You drink all that beer?
B: You ain't seen nothing yet, old man.

I keep drinking, and Al and I start to bond.

B: You know Al, this world sucks.
A: You think that's news to me?
B: No, I'm serious, this fucking world SUCKS.
A: I'm serious too. You think that's news to ME?

Twenty beers in, I'm done. Thought I could hit twenty four, but I guess I'm out of practice. Al's goggling at the double diamond of empties there on his living room floor.

A: Good GOSH! You trying to kill yourself?
B: Yep.

I get ready to head upstairs to bed- it's not even 11:00, like I said, I was doing the power drinking thing, so Al's gonna stay up for Iron Chef- and I make my mistake. This is a story about me, so you know there's got to be a mistake in here somewhere, right? I tell him, trying to be funny, I guess-

B: I'm going to bed. If the house catches on fire, wake me up, cos I'll never know otherwise.

Why do I SAY stupid shit like that? Because the devil lives in my tongue, that's why.

I don't know how long I've been asleep/passed out, but it didn't feel like very long- it was after Al went to bed, anyway, cos he's stripped down to his boxers- someone's flipping the light on on my room-

A: Hey. Hey. HEY BILL.
B: Whaaa?
A: What's this about the house is going to catch on fire?
B: Huh?
A: You said the house is going to catch on fire.
B: No I didn't . . . ah, Al, go to bed.
A: I want to know about the house catching on fire.
B: I didn't say that.
A: Yes, you did, you said-
B: I DIDN'T FUCKING SAY THAT!
A: Yes, you-
B: NO! Now go to bed.
A: But you-
B: GO TO FUCKING BED, DAMMIT, AL! And turn out my light.

Amazingly he did, both, but just long enough for me to drift/pass back out before-

A: Bill . . . hey BILL, WAKE UP!
B: Damn, fucking- what, Al?
A: Is the house on fire?
B: What?
A: You said something earlier about setting the house on fire.
B: Me?
A: Yeah, you.
B: Gonna set the house on fire?
A: That's what you said.
B: Well, I'm too tired to set it on fire right now. Go back to bed.
A: I can't, I'm worried about you setting the house on fire.
B: I'M NOT GONNA SET THE HOUSE ON FIRE, GODDAMMIT!
A: THE HOUSE IS ON FIRE?!

And he goes running off downstairs. I'm worried about him hitting the front door and just heading out for parts unknown- I mean for fuck's sake, his house is on fire- so I try to get out of bed to follow him. I get my twenty beer intoxicated feet all tangled in the sheets and stumble stagger across the room to ram my head, really damn hard, into the closet doors, knock one right off it's damn runner. At least it wasn't my shoulder. It makes a hell of a noise, jams the shit out of my neck and knocks me square on my damn ass, and then I start making a hell of a noise myself. Things are just not turning out the way I envisioned them when I went to bed. Wish I could say it's the first time that's happened.

At least all the commotion upstairs has distracted Al from running away, he comes charging back into the room.

A: What's going on up here, Bill, WHAT'S GOING ON?
B: I'm setting the house on fire.
A: You're WHAT? Oh my God!
B: DON'T RUN AWAY! I'm just kidding.
A: You don't kid around about something like that. Tell me the truth, now. Is the house on fire?
B: Do you see any flames, Al? Do you smell smoke? Al, are we FUCKING BURNING UP?
A: No.
B: Then the house isn't on fire.
A: Then why would you say such a thing?
B: I NEVER said . . . because I'm drunk, Al.
A: You're DRUNK? (He made this sound worse than if I'd set the house on fire).
B: Al, you just sat downstairs and watched me drink twenty fucking beers. What the hell do you think I am?
A: I think you've got a problem.
B: I've got LOTS of problems. You want me to make you a list?
A: No, I don't. I'm kind of mad at you right now. Why'd you cause all this ruckus tonight? You had me scared to death.
B: WHY'D I . . . I don't know why, Al. I'm sorry, honestly. How about we just both go to sleep, and we can talk about it in the morning.
A: Okay . . . you just going to sleep there on the floor?
B: Yes, I am.
A: You want a pillow?
B: No, Al, thank you, I'm fine.
A: All right then, good night . . . you're absolutely sure-
B: YES!

Thank God that fucking house wasn't on fire. At least for Al's sake.

That's enough, beer and typing, for one night, and VERY long and weird day. I'm outta here.

Is this the dream you're dying for?
Is this the dream?

(FUCK IF I KNOW, BWANA).

Fuck if I know, either.

It takes a second to say goodbye.

Later

Bill