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12/23/05 Death May Be Your Santa Claus
Hey Well, I resisted for 3 years using this title for a Christmas time NL, this year it got by me, it's just too fucking perfect, as well as being the title to one of the best songs EVER by criminally underrated NL favorites, Mott the fucking Hoople, that overdriven organ sound they get on this, Ian's snotty, sneering vocal, just the whole crazed feel of the song- no home, and certainly no home at Christmas, should be without it. So, let's hit the ground running on this one, the mail bag again has been just damn near full to overflowing- keep those cards and letters coming, kids, more nudes photo, girls, seriously- I got an e-mail just today from a reader who says, "a song about you is okay, but I found a band named after you. They're called Goblin Cock".
(AND COCKS). Yeah, really. Well, God knows I'm all about mine. (IT'S A SHAME MORE PEOPLE AREN'T). Isn't it, though? An aspiring researcher into the supernatural wrote in pressing me for more information about the creepy goings on out at the old place, specifically, did I ever see anything (other than that ultra creepy double moonshadow thing), or was it all "aural manifestations". Well, as I seem compelled to reply at least once an issue anymore, I think you're taking things a bit far, it wasn't exactly Hill House I was living in, but no, I never saw anything. Rachel did once, she fell asleep on the couch not too long after I'd moved in there, and since she was sleeping soundly, and to all appearances peacefully, I just left her there when I went to bed. A couple hours later I hear her whooping, and then come running into my room at just under the speed of light. She said she woke up on the couch, and as she opened her eyes there was a face about two inches from hers. She made me promise to never, EVER leave her sleeping on the couch again when I went to bed at night. And I never did. As for did I ever hear anything besides the footsteps, yeah, once, one typical sleepless night I was lying there in bed when I heard the sound of someone eating- you know, the sound of silverware clicking against a plate- coming from the kitchen. In and of itself that's not a frightening sound at all, in fact, it's more of a homey, comforting sound, but not in the middle of the night when you're the only person in the house. I got up to check it out- my personal opinion is that docility will get you eaten many more times than direct action will- priming myself as I get out of bed with, "Man, what if we go in there and find this demonic looking something sitting at the table eating a baby, or a human head, or something?" to which I answered myself, "Well, we'll balance how scared we are with how pissed off we are (cos as frightening as something like that would be, it would also piss the living shit right out of me, "What the FUCK are you doing bringing your scary ass shit into my house, don't you know I have kids that stay here, not very often, I'll admit, but sometimes they do? I think someone needs to FUCK YOUR SPOOKY ASS UP, and I think it's ME") and just take it from there" That was if it looked solid, of course. If it's all transparent and ghostly and shit, well, you can't fistfight something like that, may as well run away and go to Joe's house and drink all of his beer. Hey, that doesn't sound like a bad . . . Joe, I think I've seen a ghost, buddy, I'll be over in a little while . . . Anyway, to anticlimax the spooky eating story, I went in the kitchen and turned on the light- the sounds stopped about the time I got out of bed- and didn't see a thing.
A couple of you wrote in worried about Rachel, or about me and Rachel, I don't think it's any big deal, so calm down. Like I said, she's sixteen, and has had a turbulent past five years, and that says a lot right there. However, I'd be lying if I said her recent aloof, materialistic, if you don't agree immediately and completely with everything I say no matter how unreasonable it might be, then YOU'RE being hateful and hard to get along with, ways, all of which have Loretta tattooed right on their ass, didn't disturb me, not so much for themselves, but because they're so reminiscent of some of her mother's genuinely bad attributes. Still, things seem to be going well for her, she likes her (ugh) job at the library, she's making good grades at school, and she still calls me- not a fucking word- "Daddycakes" as (I presume) a term of endearment. She and Sarah are coming in late tomorrow evening now, instead of Saturday, Rachel is still going back to Baltimore with her Mom on Christmas Day, which is lodged right up my fucking ass, with spurs on, but since I can't do anything about it I guess I'll just be PISSED OFF over it. And Sarah turned nineteen (as always, dear Lord) yesterday (the 22nd, it's after midnight here). Man, I still have bad dreams about that night, and I know Loretta was still having them up until we split, what a fucking, fucking NIGHTMARE, but after the original disaster, things turned out far better than I had any right to hope for. Nineteen years and one beat of my heart. Time's a funny thing. Happy birthday, sweetheart. Doomsday deferred until 2010. The Japs lost contact with space probe Hayabusa (Ya think? If it wasn't those space monster eggs messing up reception, it was Bill beaming his super anti-technology thoughts out into the ether for the good of all mankind) and were unable to fire its jets during the window that would get it back here by 2007. Now they’re hoping to get it back here by 2010. Guys- leave well enough alone. I mean it.
And while we were in Kroger the other day- only two hours, happy fucking day- I noticed Rachael Ray yapping at me over the store speakers, I don't know, something about Christmas and food, then she finished up with, "and remember, every day with Rachael Ray". I've asked this before, but every day WHAT, dammit? Socializing at the nursing home. Old Lady: Is he your father? My Dad won't be there much longer, though, as he's coming home in the morning. Which is why I'm drinking heavily tonight. PBR, and I'm pretty much hammered. Head's killing me, too. My Dad's excited as hell about coming home- he's been gone since they took him to the hospital August 3- he took my hand and damn near crushed it earlier today- his right side is still Ben Grimm incarnate, I'm telling you- and said "It's going to be a joyful day". Well, maybe for one of us . . nah, fuck, even though I try to hard ass it, it will be for me as well, he needs to be home, and when my head explodes from trying to take care of both him and my Mom, it just fucking explodes, so be it. Dad: Have you called the high school?
I had to be in court Monday in Huntington- more on that later- after I got out, it was a nice day, sunny, if pretty damn cold, so I walked around town for a couple hours, more, actually, from one till almost four, just for the hell of it, been a long time since I've walked around downtown- such as it is- Huntington, it reminded me of the old days when me and dear gay Steve would walk all over that town just for something to do, those were good, good times, he was a good guy. I went into the Empire book store there at Pullman Square and bought a bunch of magazines- Gearhead, Hitting' The Note, Giant Robot, The Big Takeover, The Dark Side, and Ugly Things. Some really damn good reading, and in some of them, some pretty hot pinups as well. Why was Bill in court? Well, scofflaw that I am, I haven't been street legal for some time now- we're talking tags, insurance, and defective equipment. Which is not a good idea when you tend to drive over the speed limit, with beer on your breath, a black eye, and a coat pocket overflowing with five different pills, none of which happen to be in pill bottles with your name on the prescription. In fact, none of which are even in pill bottles, period. I got pulled over twice while running this way, once by a Charleston cop, and once by a State trooper. The Charleston cop was what you hope all cops are who pull you over- courteous, professional, he gave me a ticket, but fuck, I deserved a ticket, shit, I deserved worse than that. The trooper who pulled me over off the Interstate in Huntington- hence my required appearance in court- was just a queen bitch, when she walked up to the car the first thing she said was, "You picked the wrong night to get pulled over, cos I'm in a really bad mood?" Say WHAT? I'm not going to speculate as to why she was so shitty, trying to compensate for being a very short female State trooper, I have no idea, but it got so bad I finally had to tell her "Don't make me have to get out of this car and whip your little bitch ass." Actually, I didn't, I just said "Yes" and "No" in this detached voice till she went away, which, if you're not armed and prepared to spend the rest of your life in jail, is the best way to deal with an utter douche bag like Ms. Trooper was. So, what did all this malfeasance cost me? Since I have friends in high places in CPD, the Charleston ticket cost me nothing. And since I showed up in Magistrate court in Huntington, and J. Edgar Hoover didn't, I got that dismissed, so it didn't cost me anything either. It's a shame my girl didn't show, though, cos I wanted to tell her "You stupid cunt, all you had to do was give me a breathalyzer and search me, you could've locked my ass up in a heartbeat." Nyah. However, I'm legal now, and all those pills- which I am NOT taking again, that's why they're in my pocket, if I was taking them they'd be in me, not my pocket -you don’t see me walking around with open beers in my pocket for just that reason- are now safely secured here at the homestead in case I ever need then in the future. Where'd they come from? People just give them to me. I SWEAR. Other than the previously mentioned magazines, what's Bill been reading? The Last Testament Of Dee Dee Ramone, sort of a tour diary of his last solo tour of Europe right before he died, funny in some spots, but mostly just sad, also Sable, a novel by Mike Grell, who I met once, briefly, and who seemed pretty cool, based on his 80's comic, "John Sable, Freelance", not bad, but considering it came out in 2002 at $24.95 and I got it at Dollar General (my Mom and I were in there for 35 minutes buying nothing but paper plates and cups) for 76 cents, I'm guessing it didn’t sell too well. Listening to? Dave Edmunds, got a double CD set of his best for cheap, it's not the comp I would do if I were picking the songs, some of his best stuff, especially early, is missing, with more of the later, tailing off in quality crap on here instead, but it's still a good CD and a great buy. I like old Dave quite a bit as both a guitar player and singer. Calling him prolific as a song writer though, would be like calling me even tempered, inaccurate at best, and his choice in covers, both new and old, tends to run to very fifties sounding stuff, Chuck Berry and the Everly's especially, so over the course of two CDS (at least these two, dammit, if they'd let ME pick) he can get a bit samey sounding, but the best stuff is still excellent. Like what, you ask? Well, like Love Sculpture's '68 take on "Sabre Dance" (the one by Khachaturian, not Bitner), utterly hilarious in it's Spinal Tap-ish over the topness, the sublime "I Hear You Knockin'", "I Knew The Bride" the best Chuck Berry song Chuck never wrote, ("He's got a real good job, and his shirt and tie's nice/But I remember a time when she would never even look at him twice") and which I plan on singing at Loretta- not to, at-during her and Paul's wedding- except by now I'd be very surprised if the damned event ever occurs, that free milk and the cow thing and all, cow by all means being the definitive metaphor at this point, although I'm not so sure about the free part, Mr. Bomgardner has dropped quite a few dimes on what used to be my (thoroughly pumped) milk, but by not getting married he has reserved the right to wake up on any given morning and say, "Well, that was fun Elsie, I mean Loretta, but I think I've had enough, get the fuck out of my house" which is not going to hurt my feelings any, just WAIT UNTIL YOU'VE PUT BOTH MY KIDS THROUGH COLLEGE. Seriously, dude. Also, even if nuptials do occur, I'm sure I won't be invited (I can't imagine why, though) plus, even if invited, I think I'll decline to attend, as much fun as it would no doubt be to sing that song (Loretta always liked it a lot, actually) during the ceremony, among other even less socially acceptable things. What else is on here? "Trouble Boys", the best Eddie Cochran song dear Ed never wrote, "Girl's Talk", a great live version of "Crying In The Rain", and the Famous Bill Bitner's Famous School Of Famous Driving's theme song, "Crawling From The Wreckage" ("Into a brand new car", you fucking got it, any trip to the beer store you can walk away from is a good one). A good CD, yeah, you can borrow it, just bring it back.
What's the Death Falcon been up too? (I THOUGHT YOU'D NEVER ASK). Well, since last issue- oh yeah, someone asked where were the match photos last issue, I didn't send Joe any, you want match photos, you got 'em, I'll send him some more for this issue, and thanks for asking- DFZ and Professor Danger started what was going to be a promising feud with The New Jivetones- Raw Talent and Ace Whatley- that I was looking forward to a lot, they're both real athletic guys who can work, and at 175, 180 max, I can toss 'em around like lawn darts, I hit Talent with an exploder right by the ropes on our side, he was still in the fucking air when he hit the ropes all the way on the other side of the ring, they both work really well with Danny- they stiff the shit out of him, but they're also of a size that he can work with them, Danny hit Ace with a Samoan drop that actually looked pretty good- but Ace blew it by no showing the TV taping last Sunday and getting fired. Talking about it Sunday- Danny: I think Ace has a fear of success. This upset Danny cos he didn't get to work this TV taping either, still stuck as DFZ's manager, so Brian went ahead and started this DFZ/Flex angle that should work out really well, so well I'm not even going to say where it's going. I like working Flex, he's stiff, but wants it stiff back, so that's cool, and just aesthetically speaking- call me gay, I don’t give a shit- if I'm gonna lock up with some guy and roll around all over the mat with him, it just feels a lot better to do that with some good looking muscled up guy, than with some 400 pound chunk of cheese like Mr. Black. Sunday's match we're just gonna go a couple minutes and then Flex is gonna hit me with his Dragon suplex variant he calls the Crossroads- it's a full nelson suplex, and it sucks, it HURTS man, no way around it, all of your weight coming down right on the back of your neck, then Danny and Breeze are going to interfere, I'm gonna load the mask and bust Flex open, he's going to gig, Brian is wanting lots of juice for the camera, and Flex is a bit worried he won't color well, cos he's speeding like a bitch, and speed dries you right up, it's like a blood antihistamine or something, you'd think you'd gush while on speed, but just the opposite. The match starts out well, good and tight, I give him a good hard tackle, he bumps, I keep hitting the ropes, he drops down, then comes up with a really hard dropkick to my chest, and that's where things start to go aglay. He hits me so hard in the damn chest, I don't know, it compresses my chest and expands my gut? I don’t know, fuck, but he hits me with that drop kick and it pops every button off my BDU's. Seriously. This is the cut off, where Danny and Breeze trip him as he hits the ropes again, so I have a minute to try and finagle with my pants, but what can I do? There's not a button left on them. Have you ever tried to wrestle with one hand, while holding your drawers up with the other- on TV? Well, I have. I grab Flex in the OD and tell him- Bill: Take it home, man. So he does, my pants are down around my ankles by the time I hit- I've got a singlet on underneath, but still- and now it's time for the juice, and that also goes about as well as you might expect. I load the mask- one handed- and clock him with a big ass head butt, Flex hits on his face, I can see him digging around with the gig, he rolls over- and nothing. We'd already planned for this contingency, if he's not bleeding well when he comes up the first time, I'll pull him up for another head butt, and he can try again- which he does, and a third time, as well. I can see the damn cuts on his head, but they're not bleeding a fucking drop. I can hear Brian on the mike going, "Death Falcon Zero is pounding Flex in the head", so I knew he wanted me to do that old school knuckle out thing for getting juice the hard way, so I start pounding Flex in the head, hard as fuck, with my knuckle out- F: Ow, damn. OW, DAMN. Nothing. Danny: Are you sure he's alive. At this point I'm not sure, no. I look around there on the mat and find Flex's gig, "Hold still" I tell him, I cradle his chin and pull him up tight into my chest, and then just slice him the fuck open. I dug DEEP, and pulled it a good six inches across his forehead, "Fucking HELL" he mutters- and STILL he doesn’t bleed. I grabbed the lips of the cut- this is a cut that it took 16 stitches to close, by the way- and while pretending to bite his head, pulled them apart and finally managed to get a trickle, but fuck, he should've been spraying. Dude, wrestling's fake. As for the match photos- and again, thanks for asking, it does my ego good- they aren't the best, but I'll send Joe what I've got. Again, the problem is the photographer, who's a perfectly nice person, but who doesn't know wrestling, so she doesn’t know when something big is coming, therefore a good 75% of what she gets are all these really static shots, not much of the action at all. I was even trying to show her before the match we worked the Jivetones, "This is an exploder, when you see me grab someone like this-" and I grabbed her like I was getting ready to throw an exploder on her, which was a mistake, but I had not a clue at the time, if a girl could get a hard on, I felt her get a hard on then, "when you see me grab someone like this, get ready to take a picture, cos I'm about to throw them back over my head." That kind of leads into why it's not always cool being me, this girl has got a huge hard on for me- apparently she has had for the longest time and I've been oblivious, and this is not just Bill's oversized ego talking, Danny was like, "You could put her on a fucking leash, man". I'm not the least bit interested, she's not my type and I'll leave it at that, but she was talking the other day in the car when we were going to Oak Hill, Danny had stopped to get cigarettes, and she was going on about how she was now footloose and fancy free, "I'm just going wherever the wind blows me" she says, and "Have to be a pretty fucking strong wind," I think. And then realize I've said it out loud. I fucking HATE when I do that, and no, I don’t think that kind of shit is funny. She took it well, just kind of laughed and said "Yeah, really", but still. Hasn't cooled her off any though, she keeps sending me all these e-mails inviting me to all these Christmas parties, I keep telling her I can't, I'm busy here (which is true, I've turned down every Christmas party I was invited to and that was six, not counting hers, just not into it at all this year, feeling WAY too evil to get drunk around people I don’t know- and love) but she doesn't seem to be getting the message. It's still good to be the Death Falcon, though. A month or so ago one of the LPN's at Meadowbrook (and she was a cutie pie, too) asked me "Are you the Death Falcon Zero?" I love how she put "the" in front of it. When I answered in the affirmative, she said, "Me and my boyfriend saw you in Smithers that time you and that guy were hitting each other with that bat with the tacks all over it. You guys are CRAZY." "Yes, we are. You still got that boyfriend?" "We're married now". "Too bad." We're also a big hit at the Exxon station right off the Turnpike where we always stop after the matches in Oak Hill, for the past month or so they've always given us our stuff free, it's just chocolate milk and all the leftover egg and sausage biscuits from that morning, but still, how much free food do you get for getting thrown down on the back of your neck, and cutting guys head's open with taped up pieces of razor blade? I was going to close by telling you about something really nice I did this week, but I'm getting very tired, and who wants to read about Bill doing something nice, anyway? Well, I don't care what the people may say Merry Christmas. Later Bill
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How long before you realize you've swayed 
Ha, ha very funny. Although on reflection, I'm not sure if that’s
supposed to be a compliment or an insult. I guess it depends on how you
feel about goblins.
People who know me, and my aversion for anything remotely smacking of
the ghostly, have asked, how could you, of all people, live in a place
like that? Well, 99 days out of 100 there was no creepy vibe out there at
all. I mean, none. But when there was, there was. I guess if creepy shit
had happened a few days running I would have had second thoughts (or
second doubts, as Robby would say), but all these incidents happened
months apart. Also, I'm lazy, and moving is a bitch.
I hope you all caught my girl SANDRA Lee's Christmas special, she was
dressed in this red off the shoulder thing like the Christmas tart I'm
always asking Santa to bring me (I'll provide the switches myself), it was
good, she's what I want for Christmas dinner, and that reminds me, every
time I see that Pro Activ commercial and hear Jessica Simpson say,
"My skin needed to be disciplined" I think the nastiest
thoughts. I got your skin discipline right here, Jess.
Al's not doing well, he's pretty much lost all control of his bladder,
Doc says that's just the way it is, he can't fix it, which would be okay
if Al would just wear a damn diaper, but of course he won't, he'll stand
there and piss all over his fucking self while you're looking right at
him, then swear to God he didn't. "What are you talking about? My
pants aren't soaking wet, you're imagining things". Right, Al. And
it's this vile, thick, dark yellow old man piss that stinks like something
you'd smell in the fucking zoo, I do my best to keep him hydrated while
I'm there, "Didn’t I just drink a bottle of water" "No,
Al, you didn’t, drink it"- yeah, it's making more piss, but at
least it's urine, not that toxic sludge he's been squirting out lately-
but I haven't been able to be there as much as I need to lately. There's a
new person starting tonight- or last night, whatever, who's going to try
and be there when I can't be, which is going to be pretty much all the
time for the near future, at least, but I'm not too optimistic. Then
again, I never am.
Haven't done obituaries in a while, chronologically by date of death,
Hideaki Sekiguchi (aka Billy), bassist in crazy ass Jap trio Guitar Wolf-
everyone should have at least one of their CDs, although two is overkill-
died back in April, age 38, of some unspecified heart failure. Ed
Kelleher, who scripted two really horrible horror movies in the early 70's
(Invasion Of The Blood Farmers and Shriek of The Mutilated, neither of
which was nearly as good as it's title), which he was inordinately proud
of, and who wrote a movie column for years for Creem magazine back when it
was just about the best music magazine you'd ever want to read, died in
May at age 61 of a degenerative brain disease. Which one? I don’t know.
And Jim Aparo, an EXCELLENT comic book artist for mostly DC- he drew some
killer Batman's in the 70's and 80's, he used to draw Batman's cowl with
these great, really tall bat ears- died in July at the age of 72. RIP, all
of ya.