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12/11/05 DFZ Vs. The Holiday Spirit
Hey I'm not exactly back in town, not really having left, but I'm dropping that quote cos I've got it stuck in my head, seeing as how "The Boys Are Back In Town" is the theme song to the AWA-APEX TV show, which was playing on a loop all damn evening Tuesday in the locker room- beside it also being an appropriate sentiment for the time. First thing, since someone was trying to talk to me about it today- the operative word being "trying", I turned and walked off while they were in mid-sentence, I just don't have the time or patience for conversations like this anymore- this whole "Christmas" Vesus "Holidays" shit, as in "Holiday" tree, and "Holiday" presents- Jesus Christ, the world's falling down around our fucking ears, and people want to get worked up over this kind of shit? I don't care if you tell me "Merry Christmas", or "Happy Holidays" or "Kiss My Fucking Ass", I reaaaaally don’t. Ha, I accidentally held down too long on the "A", I'm gonna leave it like that, cos you know what? I REAAAAALLY DON'T. However- it's still CHRISTMAS, let's get that straight. All you too much time on your hands assholes wanting to change Christmas to- whatever the fuck you're wanting to call it, "Holiday" or whatever- you are all complete goddamn idiots, and get off of my planet. To address the mailbag- lotta recent mail- regarding last issue- hey, I'm fucking fine, really. I get like this all the time. Yeah, I'm deeply haunted by the ghosts of Christmas- not "Generic Winter Holiday", or whatever- you anti-Christmas people are IDIOTS, have I said that yet?- Past, and am quite manically depressed right now- nothing worse than a reaaaally- okay, I'll stop- unhappy guy bouncing off the walls, for all concerned- but I'll get over it. I always do. So far. And the day I don't? You'll be the first to know, cos I'll post my suicide note on here. Seriously. And this bad headache shit? It getting to where comes and goes. Mostly comes. I'll get over it or I wont. Got a letter from some guy who also obviously has no day job, wanting to discuss the hotties on the CBS soaps (what's to DISCUSS? I think you're taking this shit just a little bit too far), and wanting to know who's my favorite hottie. Well, not to be coy, but I don't really have just one, and I don't pay enough attention- I don't actively watch these damn things like you do, my little girlie man correspondent, I'll just stop as I'm passing through the room if something catches my eye- to really tell you any of their names. I think of them more as "Blue Lingerie Bitch" and "Tight White Pants Bitch", and "Supposed To Be Getting Married But I Don't Believe It Bitch". I don't know if the women on "The Young And The Restless" are any hotter as a whole-they make me pretty restless sometimes- or if it's just because I see more of them, as it's the soap that's usually on as I'm trying to get my Mom's weary ass together for the trek up to see my Dad- but it would be my favorite for overall hotness as a show.
Chris also sent me an e-mail in reference to last issue, wherein I once again noted how I liked the pin up look- Lord, do I- with a pic of Dita von Teese- you think that's her real name?- and commenting that it "looks surprisingly like your ex." Indeed it does- you people who never met Loretta, or only met her after she started letting herself go, have no clue how sharp and well built she actually was in her prime, I'm telling you. She could fill- and overspill- a corset like nobody's damn business. In fact I've got Loretta on video in a very similar outfit and pose, if I ever get around to having Joe put my tapes on DVD I may pull a still one day and A/B Dita and Loretta for your edification, and her glorification. For now, just enjoy Dita.
Got another note thinking I doth protest too much, and couldn't possibly have made as many fucking bad decisions as I claim to. Baby, you don't know the half of it- 90% of said decisions either involving following my dick down a snake hole yet one more time, or else getting really, REALLY pissed off and thinking, "You know what, I'm just gonna GO WITH IT". Someone also wrote in and asked if I was so upset last issue because- fuck, I didn't think last issue was that bad, Jean said it made her feel suicidal, you guys must've been reading between the lines or something- cos I was missing the old place out on Harmon's Creek. You know, not really. I certainly don’t miss the inconvenience of being out at the ass end of nowhere. And I have to say, that's the first place I've ever lived in my life where I never felt like it was my home. Don't get me wrong, it was a nice place, but those four years out there felt more like an extended stay in a motel. Also, now that I'm gone- don't talk about the devil when he's still in your backyard- that was a creepy ass place to live. Not always, certainly, but frequently. No, not even frequently- occasionally, if it was frequently I'd have never lasted four years. Rachel complained about it from day one, she NEVER liked that house, and I know what she was talking about. It was damn noisy out there at night. Every place pops and creaks, but out there I'd sometimes hear someone walking through the the house after I'd gone to bed. Pops and creaks are pops and creaks- footsteps are footsteps. And I'd always hear them coming from the other end of the house toward my bedroom and they'd always stop right outside the door. Which is exactly what Rachel would hear on the other end of the house, footsteps coming toward her room. Man, one night I'm lying there trying to go to sleep and I hear someone just RUNNING down the hall toward my room. I come flying up out of bed and out the door to meet it halfway, adrenalized as fuck- I don’t care what the shit you are, you are NOT murdering me in my bed if I wake up first - and- nothing. The foot steps stopped as soon as I cleared my bedroom door. Thank you Jesus. Other nights I'd just suddenly come awake with the absolute creeps. I don’t know how else to describe the sensation. Abruptly wide wake, with goose bumps, and this deep down sense of "man, WATCH your ass Billy boy, cos something's not right". I always trust that feeling- yeah, NOW, after denying it through the dregs of my marriage, to my everlasting enshrinement in the Dumbass Hall Of Fame - and my advice to you is, you should as well. Very few of us are actively paranoid. If something feels wrong to you, go with your instincts, seriously. I'd feel it outside the house sometimes as well. I came home there in the wee, wee hours millions of times, no sweat, no bad vibes. A number of times during the summers I lived there- twice accompanied, that was nice- I’d spread a blanket out in the yard and stargaze for hours, once when I had the ring set up I fell asleep in it and slept the night away, and woke up feeling wonderful. Then other nights I'd come home late and get out of the car- and it was like there was this voice screaming in my head, "Get in the fucking house, NOW!" And I would. Once, during one of those hurried walks down to the house it looked like I was casting two distinct shadows in the moonlight- or else there was someone right beside me that I couldn't see- and you better believe it was all I could do not to break and run, I'm getting chills now remembering it. Last summer, Sarah- who doesn’t have one fifth of the creeped out bones in her body that either her father or sister have- went up to the car after dark to get something out of it, and I noticed when she came back in she was out of breath, like she'd run back down the hill to the house, and was quite white faced. Bill: You okay? Quite a bit more- discomforting- shit than that happened, but you get the gist. So, no, I don’t really miss it, even though when it wasn't creepy, it was a nice place to live. It was just never home.
Holy fucking Moses. I saw in the paper the other night that there's a new place opening out Southridge called MaggieMoo's Ice Cream and Treatery. If that's not the stupidest fucking name for anything ever in the history of the fucking world, I don't know what is. I promise you, you will NEVER find my ass in that damn place, eating ice cream OR treatery (whatever the fuck that may be, I don't even care if treatery means pussy, and they sell it to you on a stick). I'd eat bees first.
So- what's Bill been up to? Let's do the parent stuff first. No, fuck, let's not, let's do it second. As we all know, Bill turned 49 last week. Big fucking deal. In a little while from now
This year, sort of took a three day run at it. Thursday, my actual birthday, I met Kat, and Jean and Tad (thanks, guys, I enjoyed the hell out of it) at Tidewater for dinner and drinks (4 big Bass Ales for Bill). For my entree- I know I never eat when I'm drinking, this was a special occasion- I had crab cakes, which I love, hey, I grew up- as much as I ever will- in Maryland, where the best crab cakes in the world are distilled- and these were absolutely the best I've had in fucking ages, just excellent (at 23 bucks for two, they damn well better be), they were so fucking good that, momma's little boy that I am, I only ate one, and brought the other one back home to my nigh toothless Ma, who is also a crab cake aficionado in her own right. And no, it wasn't cos I was saving room for more beer, these things were GOOD, and I wanted to share it with my Mom. Friday I was supposed to meet Danny and Brian and get my copies of the TV stuff, have a couple beers with them, then meet some more friends for still more celebratory birthday drinking. That fell through when Tina- not my Mom, Tina- got the date wrong for my Dad's Christmas- I said CHRISTMAS, dammit- dinner there at Meadowbrook, so I ended up there, instead. Nuff said. I was in a mood when I got home, so I came down here and drank a couple six packs of PBR. Saturday we had a Movie Club out at Joe and Laura's with all the usual subjects, stalwarts like Joe (my friend for 36 years) and Laura (my friend for 26 years)- together for 25 years, and Chris (my friend for 24 years) and Debbie (my friend for 24 years)- together for 24 years, and Doug (my friend for 25 years) and Rosa (my friend for 20 years)- together for 19 years. That's a lot of fucking togetherness, fucking centuries, man. And why respectable folk like themselves still want to hang out with a guy who at damn near fifty still has no fixed address, and who at his advanced age puts a fucking mask on his head and goes out and kicks guys half his age and twice his size in their stupid heads, is a genuine mystery to me. (MAYBE BECAUSE THEY'D LIKE TO DO IT, BUT CAN'T. SO THEY DO IT THROUGH YOU). Maybe. But I wouldn't put money on it. We watched Mr. and Mrs. Smith, which I didn't expect much from, but it turned out to be pretty entertaining, and definitely not just based on Angelina "she's so hot" Jolie- who I'm staring to burn out on, anyway, although I'm still sure she and (a chemically enhanced) DFZ could fuck one another into the hospital with smiles on both of their faces- and Sin City (seen it) and Land Of The Dead (seen it), and Revenge Of The Sith. ROTS wasn't bad, but not nearly as good as I'd have liked it to be considering it's supposed to be the end of Star Wars. I've got a pretty big (ahem) list of complaints, but easily what I dislike most is that whiney little piss ant Annikin Skywalker. This fairy turns into Darth Vader?. NO FUCKING WAY. Elmer fucking Fudd, maybe. What little Ani needed was to be bitch slapped and sent to bed without his supper, little shit, he projects all the menace of- damn, I can't say. I could, and did, but it would hurt the feelings of someone who reads this, so I won't. Say, that is, and I recant. Still, what a horrible, HORRIBLE, casting choice.
I didn't drink tons Saturday, but I did drink from 2:30 pm to 12:40 am- not a pimple on the ass of my best, I know, hey, I'm not well- 4 Harpoon IPA, 3 Harpoon ales, 1 Pilsner Urquell, 2 Newcastle Brown- which both tasted sour as hell, just like the pitchers Joe and I drank at Cold Spot did a while back, fuck, don’t tell me I'm losing my taste for Newcastle like I did for Foster's, that would suck- and 6 Great Lakes somethings that Chris brought, not the Edmund F's, the other stuff. Rosa brought some cigars and at one point we men took a nice smoke break- Rosa joined us for a couple puffs, I like a woman who'll smoke a cigar, I find it sexy- and went out on the - whatever that room's called- and all smoked them and talked guy talk, which pretty much consisted of how, even though we're a damn bright group of guys and we've all been with the same women forever- except me, but I still put in 25 years in the same fruit basket, so I figure I'm qualified in the LTR area- there's not a one of us who understand women worth a fuck. Big revelation there, I know, but still. A lot of times I think it's just me, it good to know it's these boys as well. We also talked a little bit about Bill's propensity for burning bridges, which I'll readily admit to, being that's how I've done business for fucking ever, but, in the case we were talking about, man, you can't burn what's not there. Spent the night at Joe and Laura's. I have GOT to go with them the next time they shop for a couch, what they've have now may be big enough for them, but they don't have a couch in their house anymore long enough to sleep a real man, and that sleeping on the floor gets rough on these old boners. Ha, I typed "boners". I took my mom to the Poca Foodfair the other night- this place is probably smaller than your house- and spent almost two hours there. It would've been longer if she wasn't wanting to get back for Monday Night Football. How do you spend two, or almost three, or even four and one half hours in a store? Well, the first trick is to only take a single step at a time before coming to a complete stop, and staring at something on the store shelf. It doesn't matter what, doesn't have to be on your shopping list or anything, just stare at it like it's the most captivating can of peas or whatever that you've ever seen in your entire fucking life. After a couple minutes, take another step. Stare at something else- or hell, for no farther than you've moved, keep staring at that original damn thing, it's still basically right in front of you. After every fourth or fifth step, actually pull something off the shelf and hold it up in front of your face. Woggle your head back and forth at it like it's got you hypnotized. When the white is showing all around Bill's eyes, start to put it down, then don't. Hold it back in front of your face some more. Ask Bill what it is. When he says, "It's a damn can of PEAS", say, "That's what I thought." When he says "We ain't HERE for peas", tell him not to rush you. Even though you've raised and fed him and been around him his entire damn life, keep asking Bill "Do you eat (fill in the blank)?" It doesn't have to be anything exotic, it can be something as simple as carrots, or as generic as "meat"- B: Do I eat WHAT? MEAT? Why the fuck would you even ASK me that, you
know I eat meat. Jesus Christ, Mom. In fact, if you can name me two things
I WON'T eat I'll kiss your- I'll give you fifty dollars. Any cart that comes within two aisles of yours, ram into it, while looking in a completely different direction to the one you're pushing your cart in. Stare blankly at the person whose cart you've rammed, as if they've got you hypnotized. Make no effort to disentangle your cart, or get out of the other person's way while they do all the work of getting the carts apart. Since there's none on display, find a clerk and ask him if he has that coffee in the red can. When he tells you that all they have is what's on the shelf, look at him for a minute like he's got you hypnotized. Then ask him if they've got that coffee in the red can. Repeat until he tells you "Let me go ask somebody" and goes and hides in the back of the store. Or else, if you happen to be at Wal-Mart, ask the clerk if you can put a sales item in layaway. When he says "No ma'am"- you got it, do the hypnotized thing, then repeat the question as necessary until the clerk retreats, no doubt wishing he'd finished high school. Ask Bill 700 times if you're getting on his nerves. 699 times he'll grit his teeth and tell you no. On the 700th time, when he says "Fucking hell, YES, you're KILLING ME!", tell him to stop swearing in front of his mother. Stare at Bill like he's got you hypnotized. When he informs you that you're getting sleepy, then instructs you to act like a chicken, tell him he's not funny. Tell him he's just like his Daddy. When he says, "Enough is enough", and threatens to leave you in the store and drive off, tell him you were just kidding. When you're safe in the car and on your way home, tell him you weren't just kidding, and he really IS just like his Daddy. Tell him you forgot to get some things, and need to go shopping again tomorrow. If I had a nickel for every time I've involuntarily made that noise like Lurch used to make on the Addams Family since I've moved in here, I'd be a millionaire. Okay, now for my Dad. He was in rare form last weekend, they had some lady from some goof ball organization come in there last Sunday evening to see who among the residents were veterans, as they were going to give them something for Pearl Harbor Day (Pearl Harbor has always pissed me off on a deeply personal level for some reason, I remember when I was a little kid, before I started school even, and someone told me what Pearl Harbor Day was all about, I got rowdy as hell- "They did WHAT? Those mother FUCKERS. Let's get 'em." "Well, first thing, Billy, the war's been over for years, and second thing, you’re only 5 years old" "I don't CARE!")- anyway, where the fuck were these people on Veteran's Day, this shit makes no sense to me, but this lady was thick as cheese anyway, so who knows. She comes rolling into the room, just barges in on this conversation my Dad and were having- Lady: Are you Raleigh? She looks a little baffled at our double answer, but presses on. Lady: Are you a veteran? She looks at me. B: I don’t know, I wasn't there. She writes something down. L: So Mister, uhm, Raleigh. What service were you in? Again, she looks at me B: It became the Air Force. AGAIN, she looks at me. B: Hey, he'll be here all week. Be sure to tip your waitress I don't know if that was all her questions or she just gave us up as a lost cause, but she bumbles her way out of my Dad's room and on down the hall. And do you know what my dad got from this crazy bunch on Pearl Harbor Day? NOTHING. Later that evening- I'm telling you, I spend so much time at Meadowbrook I feel like a resident myself- they had another damn bunch of similarly sweatered singing folk come in there- helpless old folks get sung at a lot, I guess cos they can't stop it. This bunch were singing some Christmas stuff, adequately enough, but my Dad starts hollering at them to sing "When The Saints Go Marching In" for some fucking reason. I've never known that to be a favorite of his, but what the fuck. My Dad got so boisterous with his request, the singing folk leader, this apple shaped guy in a way too small sweater, comes over to our table and asks me-nicely- if I could shut him up. Oh sure. And let me put some lightning in that bottle for you while I'm at it. Bill: Mister, if it was me, I'd just go ahead and sing it. So he goes back and consults with his group, and I'll be damned, they start singing "When The Saints Go Marching In" and my Dad's crazy, ravaged old face lights up like a CHRISTMAS ornament. He was so damn happy. I was touched. B: I had no idea you liked that song so much It's in my fucking BLOOD. Then, fuck, the next day we show up mid afternoon and he's out of his damn head, legit, he's apparently been on the phone all day trying to find out why we weren’t there yet, and getting a succession of wrong numbers, the first some luckless fuck my Dad said was named Charlie Faircloth- Dad: - and then I says, "Who the hell are you to move into my house while I'm gone?", and he says, "I live here, buddy", and I says, "Not when I get there you, son of a bitch", and then he says- It's flat out pitiful, but it's also got me in stitches, so as not to upset either him or my Mom by laughing in his face, I go out in the hall for a minute. When I come back in he's still telling my Mom about his morning spent harassing innocent people on the telephone. Dad: -and she says, "Sir, my name is Henrietta Buffet. With a "T" on the end". He stops to glare at me for some reason. Bill: Okay. Rubbery? For the millionth time, where does he GET this shit? His discharge plans have been changed once again, looking now like he'll be coming home the 20th of this month. Yeah, like week from this coming Tuesday. Look out below. For those of you asking about the girls and their Christmas visit here- well, Sarah will be in from Christmas Eve till sometime the middle of January. Rachel is coming in on Christmas Eve with her Mom- and going back to Baltimore on Christmas Day with her mom. Don't even get me fucking started. I've been worried about Rachel for a while, she and I have been having problems getting along, off and on, since Labor Day. I'm not winding all up about it just yet, every 16 year old girl is entitled to some attitude just by right of being a 16 year old girl. What does concern me though is that, more and more, she opens her mouth, and Loretta's voice comes out. Who, forget everything in the past, all the bad shit she did, ditto how well she used to stuff a corset, or me down her gullet for that matter, is, based solely on her actions in this day and age, a selfish, self centered bitch. Look, I've TRIED getting along since my revelation back in January- Loretta makes it fucking impossible. And on that "selfish" etc. description, I'm quoting someone else there, so it's not just me who sees her that way. And while I certainly don't see my baby girl in that light, I do see her getting more and more like her mother all the time. I suppose it's inevitable considering Loretta is who she's lived with for the past 2 1/2 years. But the thought of sweet little Rachie turning out like that hell spawned bitch of a mother of hers makes my blood run cold. Anyone know a good exorcist? What's Bill been reading? Bunch of graphic novels from the library, The Dark Knight Strikes Again, that picks up after the much better Dark Knight Returns, but still good, got the real Justice League guys- Barry Allen, Hal Jordan, Ray Palmer, Oliver Queen (what a name for a super hero)- so it gets a lot of extra points for that, the new Dial "H" For Hero stuff, not very good, a couple Spiderman, okay, not bad, not great. Also read Appaloosa, a western by Robert Parker, good, if predictable, mostly dialog, a quick read. Reading now this alternate world SF novel by Harry Turtledove, not really into it, slow going, but I'm gonna do my best to finish it. And Harry, jeez- I know it's juvenile to crack on someone for their looks, but you're a well paid, probably even wealthy, author, and that jacket photo of you is the best you can look? You look like one of the fucking Smith brothers. What's Bill drinking? PBR. After last week's wet weekend I felt rough on Sunday, boys and girls. Rough. But not that rougher than I was I already feeling. So, even though I laid off this week- no time- I'm into the PBR tonight, and all is so far well. What's Bill listening to? The Beatles, out of respect for the recent anniversary of John Lennon's murder. Although I'm not one of those worshippers at the altar of St. John, at ALL, that whole "oh, he was such an ambassador for PEACE" shit just makes me what to hurl, bullshit, I think he was a hell of a lot more like my Dad, just trying to see how much he could get away with. Which makes him way cooler in my book, anyway. He was also a highly underrated rhythm guitarist- you trying playing some of them songs- a good, expressive singer, and an excellent songwriter. And he was a fucking BEATLE. What's the Death Falcon been up to? Still laboring away weekly for AWA, though I have to admit I've pretty much phoned my last couple of matches in (including a pinfall win over 400+ pound Eric Steele). I was supposed to go to Michigan this weekend but didn't. Have a match this Tuesday in Oak Hill, then a TV taping this coming Sunday, the 18th, and then after that, I'm taking the rest of the year off. They're not too thrilled, at all, sorry, with my Dad coming home the 20th, nothing I can do about it. Haven't cancelled the Florida and Puerto Rican bookings, I'm thinking I'm going to try and make them if at all possible. I forgot to tell you last issue, DFZ is mentioned twice in this month's PWI Guide to Professional Wrestling, available at newsstands everywhere. Just by name, no photos, but as always, how many nationally distributed magazines were you mentioned in this month? Thought so. And speaking of anniversaries, last Sunday marks a year since the Flash Fury benefit show. I was gonna throw a sermon, but fuck it, the only comment I'll make here is, what a difference a year makes. And Flash is doing fine, thanks for asking. Think I'm gonna go, before I do, let me make a recommendation to you. Watch It's A Wonderful Life sometime between now and Christmas. I have every year since the divorce, and I swear, every year it makes me feel better. Not as much as making a bunch of do gooders in matching sweaters sing "When The Saints Go Marching In" against their will, but better. Jimmy Stewart- they absolutely don't make 'em like that anymore, Donna Reed in the best thing she ever did, corny?, not on your damn life, it’s a fine and uplifting movie, and if you can watch it and be unaffected, all I can say is you must be one Scrooge ass motherfucker. Sleep in heavenly peace. (YEAH. AND A DEATH FALCON IN A PEAR TREE). Later. Bill.
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If
that chick don't wanna know 
If
you held my feet to the fire to name a specific individual, well first
off, I'd fuck you up, but second, I guess I'd say Katie, (yeah, I caught
her name) from "As the World Turns". Even though she's not as
slinky ass sexy as some of the others, and she's pretty young, she looks,
other than eye color and her youth, a lot like someone I was once
infatuated with. No matter what I may say to the contrary, I never get
over 'em. Any of them.
And
someone who has obviously never read more than one of these, wanted my
phone number, so she can call me and we can "really talk". Uhmm,
no offense, but no. My theory on talking on the phone is that, if you aren’t
talking to me on it right now, that means that I don't want to be talking
on the phone with you, so don't fucking call me. A phone guy I'm not. It's
okay if you want to call and say, "You want to have lunch, or go
fishing, or go have a drink, or come over to my house and fuck me stupid
(or, fuck me, stupid)", but for extended conversations, I'm just not
much for it.
Anything
you people want to get done, I suggest you do it by 2007, cos that's when
the world ends. Or at the very least, that's the end of Japan, or at the
very, VERY least, the end of Tokyo. Why, you ask? Well, the Japanese have
set 
The
Japs'll get that space goop back in their labs and start dicking around
with it- maybe one of them will go, "Rooks rike . . . EGGS", and
then, sure as shit stinks, it's X The Fucking Unknown, some 800 foot tall
reptilian chicken in the middle of Tokyo, kicking over buildings (Oh no,
they say he's got to go) and shooting flames out his beak, or destructo
rays outta his eyeballs- it's just gonna be a damn mess, I'm telling you.
And
you can't buy grain alcohol anymore in WV (Purple Jesus, why hast thou
forsaken me?). Yeah, fuck, I feel safer, how about you?
I'm
trying to remember what other famous persons share my birthday, but the
only two who come to mind are Bette Midler, proof a woman can have
enormous breasts and still be fucking hideous, and Gilbert O'Sullivan,
(WHO?), he had a hit single the summer of '72, "Alone Again,
(Naturally), how very fucking apt, which is quoted above- and no, I didn't
look the lyrics up, I just remember them, in fact, let me tell you where I
was when I first heard the song, and what I was wearing . . . okay, I
won't. But I could, you know.
Watched
a little of The Mysterians, old Japanese SF from '57, but didn't get
through it. The trailer gets all excited, "Mysterious incidents of
unknown cause keep happening!" Yeah, welcome to my world, Fuji.