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12/30/04 And All The Roads Lead Nowhere
Hey Well, here we are, finishing up three fucking years of this thing, God have mercy on us all. The past two years I've done a New Years eve edition, why break with tradition now? Well, because normally the New Years eve edition is actually written in the wee hours of the 31st coming out of the 30th, and I'm not sure if I'm going to have the time, or the inclination, to do one tomorrow night/Friday morning, so I'm just gonna do the damn thing now. Nothing lasts forever, anyway, believe me. Unless it's my own goddamn stupidity, which is apparently eternal. As always, I hope everyone out there had a great holiday, unless you happen to be someone I hate, in which case, fuck you. Mine was okay, it's certainly been lovely to have the girls here with me this past week. What's Bill been up to in the couple weeks since the last one of these? Mostly breaking and tearing up things, like my hand and friendships and the Saturn and the heater here at the house. You know, the usual. We'll start with the hand, my left, which I broke in the match Saturday before last. I'd like to say I broke it in some dramatic fashion, like trying to apply the squint eyed mangle or something, actually I was just shooting my opponent across the ring to impact his head onto this chair I set between the turnbuckles for that purpose, and I fell awkwardly on my hand, and it bent funny, or not so funny as it turns out, and it broke. Any rumors that I broke it by slamming a backhand into the bleachers in a fit of pique after the match are just that, rumors. This is like real doctor diagnosed and x-rayed broke, not "Bill says it feels broke", broke. I have fractures in the two bones just below the knuckles of my first and middle fingers. Fortunately it wasn't one of those bad breaks where everything in there shatters and you have to have pins put in and all that, I declined to have it cast since I didn't want to pay out of pocket for it, those fucking x-rays are going to cost me enough as it is, so the guy wrapped it real tight and said keep it wrapped for at least 4 weeks, but it was hurting from where my hand was still swelling when he wrapped it, so I took the wrap off later that night, and have pretty much kept it off since then. My hand's still swollen, still tremendously sore for it to have been as long as it's been since I broke it, and I've got these weird hard knots in my palm right below the breaks. I thought I might have fucked up- imagine that, Bill fucking up- by not keeping it wrapped and maybe the bones shifted, but my own personal sports physician, Lori, looked at it over Christmas and said the bones still felt lined up right to her, what she sees as a problem is that the knuckle at the base of my index finger is recessed- I think that bone is the one making that one hard knot in my palm, I swear, and it's fucking SORE- and may have to be surgically pried back up. (THAT WOULD SORT OF LEND CREEDENCE TO THAT BACKHANDING THE BLEACHERS RUMOR, WOULDN'T IT?) Not really. You can see on the tape of the match where I fall on it wrong. It was pretty much a shitty match from start to finish, wouldn't have been as disappointing if I hadn't gotten myself all worked up for it, but the Falconettes no showed, as did my originally scheduled opponent, the Unholy- was it something I said?- and a couple spots, like the leg drop off the ring post through a table, got pulled cos they'd "take away from some of the later matches" so I wasn't too thrilled to even fucking be there. Sort of like I feel now about this planet. I ended up working Leatherface, or whatever the fuck they call him, that guy who came out of the casket last show, I worked him really stiff, but he's a big boy, he can take it. Besides the hand, I got cut again on the top of my head taking a DDT onto a chair, that's the third fucking time down there I've been cut THROUGH THE FUCKING MASK with that same move, I'm gonna quit taking it- shit, I even called this one- cos those guys down there don't know how to do it right and one of them's gonna end up cracking my damn skull. On a positive note, I came up with a cool combination move, a knee lift into this weird sort of cross face neckbreaker, looks really good and I've never seen anything else quite like it, I just did it off the top of my head, gonna keep using it. Went out with Joe and his brother in law Jay, and Chris and Ron for some post match beers, they're all good guys, I had a really good time with 'em. The subject of Loretta came up- I swear I don't think I brought her up, but I may have- and Jay, who's a genuinely nice guy and I'm sure can't begin to understand the raw depths of my hatred, asked "How can you still hate her as much as you do?". How much time you got? The point, though, is that Joe said he was still mad at her as well- "And not cos Bill's mad at her, I'm mad at her cos I'm mad at her", good for you, Joe, Chris and Ron said they didn't give enough of a shit about her anymore to be mad, and then Ron said, "I always just saw her as your Yoko, anyway" which cracked everybody the hell up, and has given her her new nickname. Yoko and Gandhi. Perfect fit.
As for the DF movie, it's still a total go, although I think I'm just gonna have to swallow hard and agree to a bunch of shit- not all of it by any means, but I do understand I can't have my say about everything in this- and learn from this one, this will be the movie I have to make, in order to make the one I want to make. As for DFZ's year in review- while we were at the Cold Spot Chris noted "You look a lot bigger in the ring than you do in real life", no real mystery there, the Death Falcon is bigger than I am- he worked 23 matches in 2004 for four different feds, won two belts, and went 15 and 5, with 3 no contests. (GOOD FOR ME). Exactly. Good for you. Danny took some promo photos of the DF a while back, I'm sending a couple to Joe to include here. How smart are you In other news, I found out Miss Impetuous is getting ready to move to Colorado, which bums me out no fucking end. I'm not sure I exactly understand it, in fact, I'm pretty sure that I don't, but something I do understand is that people gotta do what they've gotta do, so go with my blessing, dear heart, not that you need it. Sure as fuck gonna miss her, though, because she's someone I've come to care for, and about, a LOT. I'm not going to use a certain word, but if you accused me of it, I wouldn't deny it.
What's Bill drinking? Anything he can get his fucking hands on, went through all the beer in the house, which was a considerable amount, now into the Booker's. Not too practical, I have to get up fairly early tomorrow, got some stuff to do before meeting Anita and Impetuous with the girls for them to all have lunch together, before heading out to meet Jason for a free lunch I'm sure I won't be able to eat. I imagine I'll drink my lunch tomorrow, so Jason if you read this before we meet, be forewarned (which as we all know, means being forearmed). What's Bill listening to? A Wipers DVD playing on the TV behind me, of a show they did in Amsterdam in '92, as I've gone on record many times as saying, I fucking LOVE the Wipers, plan on wearing a Wipers t-shirt at some point in the DF movie, gonna let Anita borrow some Wipers stuff tomorrow when I see her and see what she thinks. Only problem with this show is they don't do the awesome "Youth Of America". Got a bunch of CDs for Christmas, I gave my mom a list with about 50 titles on it, about half new stuff, and half stuff I wanted to replace the album I already have with the CD, I guess my mom was going by titles that looked familiar to her, cos I didn't get anything new new, just a bunch of stuff I already had the album version of. Well, the version of "Mott Live"- I'm also on record as loving Mott the Hoople, but you know, when you love something, you really can't say that too many times- is the expanded edition, two CDs, the additional material is good, but not essential. "Mott Live" and the Who's "Live At Leeds" always take me back to the fall of '76, when I first bought them both, I'd put them on my turntable every night for weeks as I was getting ready to go to sleep, then lay there and listen to them and think sweet thoughts about my new girlfriend Loretta until I'd drift off. Those were the fucking days.
Speaking of dead things, sorry to pass along the news that both Greg Shaw and John Peel have gone to their lonely graves. Greg ran Bomp magazine and record label, had really good taste, he put out the Flaming Groovies fantastic "Shake Some Action" single when no one else wanted to know. Don't know how he went other that that it was sudden, and he was only 51. John Peel was the enormously cool and influential Brit DJ who first played the records by tons of great bands, when again, pretty much everyone else didn't want to know. It was always a goal of mine to play a Peel session, but alas, it never happened. He was 65, had a heart attack while on vacation in Peru with his wife. RIP, both of ya.
Meet me anyplace, or anywhere Racheal Ray said earlier today, "I'm just going to put some of my juice in there to spice it up." You do that, Rach. I don't really believe in New Year's resolutions, if you do, go ahead and make some. I need to write more this coming year- although I think all this recent typing I've been doing has a lot to do with why my hand and finger are still so fucking sore. I still don't think writing tons is going to be a problem, I've got the script for the DF movie to do, with a deadline, I work well to deadlines- although scriptwriting is apparently very regimented and outline oriented, anathema to a stream of consciousness type guy like me- and a couple other things that I've agreed to write, and I'm gonna be hanging out with other writer types in Danny's class, and I may be able to pick up some work, if not inspiration, from some of them. I'm one of those guys that the more he does something, the more he does it, if you get what I mean. Which is good when what I'm doing is something positive like writing or working out, not so good when it's something like drinking to excess, or being a stupid dick. Speaking of, I have done some shit this year I'm not too tremendously proud of that I really do need to put the fucking skids to, like fishing in other's guys ponds, cos no matter how you try to justify it, that's just way uncool. (THEN WHAT'S WITH ALL THIS BARELY VEILED "I WILL DARE" NONSENSE?) Yeah, well I'm still a pretty complex guy. (COMPLEX MY ASS. WHAT YOU ARE IS FULL OF SHIT.) That's kind of harsh, don't you think? (IF THE SHOE FUCKING FITS. WHAT I'M TELLING YOU IS, EITHER SAY ONE THING, OR SAY THE OTHER. I DON'T GIVE A GOOD GODDAMN WHICH, JUST DON'T TRY TO GET AWAY WITH SAYING BOTH. THAT KIND OF MEALY MOUTHED BULLSHIT IS BENEATH YOU. OR I FUCKING HOPE IT IS, ANYWAY). Fair enough- although I really don't need you to be my fucking conscience. I kind of resent it, in fact. (LIKE I FUCKING CARE WHAT YOU RESENT). All right, can the "I will dare" stuff, then. (SHIT. I WAS HOPING YOU'D GO THE OTHER WAY. YOU LIKE FISHING, I THOUGHT). Yeah, but I don't like feeling like a hypocrite and a creep. (YOU COULD GET USED TO IT). I'm sure I could. But, no. Why Bill Believes In Magic And Not Science. The girls and I got home from my parent's house Friday night to find the house here just fucking freezing. The heater's bust. It'll blow, but it won't heat. Bill's pissed. It's late, so I leave a note on Jacks' truck telling him the heater's broke, and we go back to my parents house to spend the night. Jack can't fix the heater either- "It's broke" he tells me. "No fucking shit" I tell him back. The earliest he can call a repair guy is Monday. Rachel goes to stay with my sister Lori, Sarah and I tough it out here, both of us sleeping in her room, which we were able to make barely warm enough with a space heater- if you didn't mind sleeping in hoodies and sweats- me on the floor in a sleeping bag. It was bearable, sort of like camping out in your own damn house, Sarah and I had some nice conversations, but by Monday night with the heater still broke I'm really starting to get tired of this shit. As I lay there on the floor Monday night trying to get to sleep, my drunken face was right next to a heating vent, so I started talking down it. "Listen, motherfucker" I started, and it went downhill from there. I cussed that heater like nobody's fucking business, called it everything but a heater child of God, and then just threatened the absolute hell out of it, "If you're not working in the morning I swear to God I'm busting you to absolute fucking pieces, and every goddamn piece of you- every goddamn PIECE, down to the smallest fucking screw- is going in the creek. Ask Mr. DVD player if I'm kidding. Ask Mr. CD player, or Mr. Wah Wah pedal. Oh wait, you can't, cos they're IN THE FUCKING CREEK!"
I heard a comment in the mall the other day that took me way back, some guy called a pair of boots "roach stompers". So I'll conclude with another story from my youth, a convoluted one involving Puerto Ricans and juvenile cock teasers and fighting and Billy's first sexual experience and going swimming. I don't think it'll be particularly funny- I'm not feeling in a very funny mood tonight, sorry- but it will contain sex and violence, so hopefully it will at least be entertaining. And if not, how'd you like the fucking price? When I was in seventh grade, we called a certain kind of boot "PR Roach Stompers", the PR standing for Puerto Rican, with the racist jab that PR's lived in dirty, roach infested houses. I don't know if they did or not, cos I was never invited to one of their houses, but I do know that the dozen or so Puerto Rican kids that went to my junior high- Roger B. Taney, named for a noted Civil War area racist, seriously- were uniformly mean as fucking shit. You can say it was because they were always fucked with, but I never really saw any of that. They had chips on their fucking shoulders 24/7, it didn't matter whether you tried to be nice to them or not. I fucking hated their goddamn guts. I grew up in an ethnically diverse area, with parents who basically said, "call 'em like you see 'em", which was very cool, because to do that, you have to see 'em first, which pretty effectively prevented pre-judging. So I tried to give the PR's- I'm not using the letters as a slam, it's just easier to type with my sore hand-the benefit of every doubt, but they were just plain ass shitters, the first people in my life I ever encountered who hated me BEFORE they got to know me, instead of after like most people, they just hated me cos I wasn't a PR, just like they hated everyone else who wasn't a PR. Now, to digress a little, in the alphabetical seating scheme of things- which is why Joe and I are friends to this day, if his name had been Smith I promise you we'd have never even met- in seventh grade Core class, which was like homeroom plus 3 combined classes as well, you spent most of your day in Core- I sat in front of the appropriately named Kathy Bom, cos she was, just an extremely hot girl, short dark hair, this exotic face with big dark eyes, built fucking great. She played my ass for most of that year like I was a fucking carp. She'd flirt and get me all wound up, and I'd ask her out and she'd say no, so I'd withdraw, and she'd get all flirty again, and this time she still wouldn't go out with me, but she'd dance with me at the school dance we had every Friday night, and which I was always a regular at, just fast dance, no slow, so I'd get all pissed off and not talk to her for a day or two, and she'd get all flirty and promise we'd slow dance this Friday, and so I'd be right there again, and . . . this went on for most of the fucking school year. A carp, that's what I am. And while I'm thinking about it, cos what I was working toward with Kathy was copping a feel, ladies, don't blame a guy for the first one. Whatever you may think, it's NOT a sign of disrespect, it's simply how we're made. Honestly. HOWEVER- if you say no to the first one and he tries it again, that's disrespectful as hell, and you should absolutely knock him flat on his ass. This is what I tell the girls, and I stand by it. So all this time I'm also paying not the slightest bit of attention to the very cute, and very sweet, Cindy Gates, who was right there for me if I wanted- she told me this when we eventually got together years later on a summer visit I made back to Maryland- and who at that time looked like Heidi, even down to the long blond braid, and who I'm sure would have been just a terrific girlfriend, and who I totally ignored, preferring instead to jump through hoops for the cat eyed little tease Ms. Bom. I've been a carp all my life. My chasing after the unattainable- for me- Ms. Bom came to an end at one of those school dances that spring, when I happened to come upon her and Mike- short for Mikhail- Viktor making out behind a coke machine there in the cafeteria. I don't include Mike in the international fight list because even though both of his parents were Russian, he was as American as we, or at least I, am. The same goes for Paul Utterback, who I also got into a fight with that year, he was an interesting looking kid, sallow skin with Oriental features, and spiky blond hair, and who was normally my friend, who was also American though his Dad was Dutch and his Mom Thai, and gorgeous, she came to school once for some reason and I made the ill advised comment that I'd like to fuck her, not in front of him, I'm not that coarse, but it got back to him anyway and instead of denying it like I should have when he asked me about it, I responded with some gusto, "Hell yes Paul, I'd love to fuck your Mom", like he was offering or something, and he took offense and we had a fight. Which I won, even though I was in the wrong. Discuss that in your philosophy class. So, I come upon Kathy and Mikhail all hugged up and am pretty damn sick about it, since she and I had gotten to the "slow dance AND Billy can rub his hard on against me" stage earlier that night, so with all the outrage I felt I holler, "What the hell's going on here?" She just gives me this "fuck you Billy" look and grabs Mike by the back of the neck and pulls his face down to hers and sticks her tongue down his throat, and I just damn lost my mind. I slammed a fist into the side of his head, hoping he'd bite her fucking tongue off but no such luck, she runs off across the cafeteria screaming theatrically "Billy's beating up Mike over me!" - I still love that "over me" part- and which wasn't the case at all, in fact Billy was doing well to hold his own, cos Mike was a pretty tough kid to start with, certainly no one I would've picked to start a fight with if I hadn't, like I said, lost my fucking mind, plus, he was incensed that I'd interrupted what looked like one hell of a kiss with a thump to the head. They had to pull us apart, about a half dozen dads who were there to chaperone, and even though my brain really didn't want any more of that damn Russian hardass, some part of me did, cos I kept going back after him. I think it was mostly misplaced lust, cos I had the hard on from hell, I can STILL see that saucy look on her face, and her little pink tongue shooting into his mouth, and it gives me a erection to this very day. Like right now. What, you're probably, and rightly, asking, what does Kathy Bom have to do with PR Roach Stompers? Well, one day not long before the fight at the school dance, she agreed to meet me at lunch in what we called make out hall. There were all kinds of halls at lunch, like greaser hall, where all the greasers congregated to smoke their cigarettes and talk greaser talk, and if you weren't a greaser and didn't want a damn ass kicking you stayed out of greaser hall at lunch time. I remember I hadn't been going there too long when I inadvertently went down greaser hall and got grabbed by a couple of 'em, these weren't some lame ass poofs, like that weak joke Fonzie, these were some truly bad guys, mean eyed, malnourished, acne ridden white trash with about a quart of oil in their slicked back 'do's, wearing white t-shirts, and black leather jackets that probably weighed as much as they did, and I was quite frankly scared to fucking death. Fortunately, Terry Schuler's older brother Mike was one of 'em. I'd been to his house a million times to see Terry, so he let me off with a warning not to come back down greaser hall again, and you'd better believe I didn't. Well, make out hall was this one hall that for some reason none of the teachers ever patrolled at lunch time, so it was were you went with a girl if you wanted to make out at lunch. So, I go to meet Kathy in make out hall at her invitation, and you may have trouble believing this, but she never showed up. I'm a mess of raging hormones and confused disappointment, so when I finally realize I've been set up AGAIN, I don't really pay any attention to how I'm leaving make out hall- which is how I end up in PR Roach Stomper hall. The leader of the PR's at Taney was this big assed hairlipped guy named Jorge, I wasn't even aware of my error, I'm walking around with my head down mumbling disappointedly to myself, when I hear Jorge yell, "Get the -" -I wish I could remember what they called non-PR's but I can't- and get me they did, about six of them beat the damn crab dip out of me. And I'm telling you what, those fucking boots could be used for stomping more that roaches, those goddamn things had points on 'em for fuck's sake, and when they kicked you with them once you were down, it hurt like hell. I never got any payback on Ms. Bom, but I did get some big time on Jorge, since I was lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time when Jorge stupidly went in the non- PR controlled boys bathroom one luckless day for him after school. Eddie Genthart saw him, Eddie was in 9th grade and another big mean guy, but he and I got along fine cos we'd played baseball together for years, Eddie hollers "Dog pile on Jorge in the bathroom!" and everyone within the sound of his voice came running. And dog pile old Jorge we DID. Even though it was done by kids, that's about as savage a beating as I've ever see anyone take in my fucking life, it had a Darwinian brutality to it I look back on with something approaching awe- I still remember- and this is gross, and probably doesn't paint me in a very good light-swinging my foot in to kick fuckwad Jorge and the blood already on my shoe spraying all over the wall. And I sealed my reputation as a smart guy, at least in that time and place, by suggesting to everyone that we wash the blood off of our shoes before we left the bathroom, and we all did, and the only guy the police talked to about it the next day, cos Jorge went to the fucking hospital, and was in there for a while, was the only guy Jorge fingered by name, Eddie Genthart, and he said the cops looked at his shoes and said "No blood" and let him go, and Eddie came up to me later smiles all over and said, "Billy, you're a fucking criminal genius", and damn me for it now, but I felt proud. And if you ask me now am I sorry for helping dog pile Jorge? No, I'm not. Seriously. Fuck his goddamn Puerto Rican ass, he got what he'd been asking for, I honestly wouldn't give a damn if we'd kicked his fucking brains out. It's not cool to do something "bad", but what's a hundred times worse in my eyes is to do it, and then say, "Oh, I didn't mean to". Fuck that. I meant to. I get lots of requests to include different things in here, and one of the most requested- though admittedly not recently- is for how I got started in this sex thing, and since I'm talking about those days anyway, I'll include it as a bonus. Read it if you want, if it's too much information- although I pretty much figure everything in these newsletters comes under the heading of "too much information"- then don't, I guess. I'll spare the fine detail. We moved to WV the summer of '69. I hated it beyond words. So my parents let me go back and spend most of the summer of '70 with Bobby Davis, who still lived a few houses down from where we used to. He was going out with this girl named Teresa Reingruber- a clunky name for a pretty girl- whose parents, unusual for that time, both worked. Her best friend was also a Teresa, last name Pelligatti- there weren't a lot of Smith's and Jones in my old neighborhood- and she would come over every day that summer and stay with Terri R. Pretty soon, so were Bobby and I. It started out fairly innocent, we'd all sit around and listen to records and drink Coke till I was fit to bust, but pretty quickly we progressed to dancing- always a bad sign- then making out, then, like REALLY making out, till finally, Terri P asks me, "Do you want to do it?" Well, believe it or not considering how I am now, I was somewhat apprehensive. I was born December '56, this was the summer of '70, you do the math. I had a bit of performance anxiety, but I was also worked up to the point where there's not a doubt in my mind that there was froth all around my mouth, and I figured this was absolutely as good an opportunity as I was going to get, and I didn't see Bobby chickening out on "doing it" with his Terri- although comparing notes later, he was just as damn scared as I was- so we went to separate bedrooms there at Terri R's house and "did it". And I fucking LOVED it. As for the performance thing, I just did what came naturally- which is what I still do- and Terri P had no complaints. Things continued to progress rapidly that summer, to the point where we were soon all in the same bed at the same time, with tons of two on one stuff, which I guess is why I still like that stuff so much to this day. To lower the titillation factor a bit, it was all hetero- between the guys, not the girls. I didn't have the slightest bit of interest in Bobby, nor he in me. With all that female flesh there, you'd have had to be crazy. Or gay. I went from having done nothing, to like three weeks later having done pretty much everything. Which is not really something I'd recommend to anyone else, I think it kind of fucked with my head, sometimes I still have trouble gearing myself back, so I can appreciate the truly wonderful experience of simply making love, and not trying to turn every night into "this is what I learned in teenage Gomorrah". The problem is, I haven't made love much these past four years, just been a lot of fucking for the most part. I remember one day fairly early in that summer, before all the multiples got started, Mrs. Davis wouldn't let us go over to Terri's house, she made us go to the pool instead, "I got that pool membership and you boys haven't used it one time." So we get our suits on and come downstairs so Mrs. Davis can drive us to the pool and Bobby looks and me and his eyes get all big and he's goes- "Holy shit, Billy!" "What?" "Your CHEST!" I looked, and realized it was absolutely covered in sucker bites, and out right purple-y bite marks, going all the way down to my navel. In addition, I had all these deep scratches down my back. Yeah, well THAT ain't no good. Thank God Bobby noticed before his Mom came in, I'd just gotten used to them, I put my shirt on real quick. I took it back off once we got to the pool, to snickers from all the lifeguards, and looks of outright disapproval from a bunch of the adults, this one old crotch kept giving me the evil eye so bad I put my shirt on and swam in it, something I hate doing, but they made me embarrassed and ashamed about something that up to that point I'd been perfectly okay with. But that was then, this was now, I'm back to being okay with it. So- that's how Bill got started down the path he's been on all these years. Aren't you sorry now you asked? (I'M SORRY NOW THEY ASKED.) Well, it's late and I'm done. Any last words? (LAST WORDS?) For the year. (YOU SCARED ME THERE FOR A MINUTE. OKAY, YEAH, HOW ABOUT- IT'S NOT THE IRON YOU PUMP, IT'S THE METAL YOU DRIVE). What the FUCK does that mean? (I DON'T KNOW. I THINK I SAW IT ON A MUD FLAP OR SOMETHING). Are you sure you want those to be your last words for the year? (MAYBE NOT- THEN HOW ABOUT- "THE BEST LACK ALL CONVICTION, WHILE THE WORST/ARE FULL OF PASSIONATE INTENSITY"). Much better. From my favorite poem, by one of my favorite poets. (THAT'S COS HE'S A GLOOMY IRISH SHITBAG LIKE YOURSELF. ALL YOUR GERMAN WENT INTO MAKING ME). I'd say you're right. (AND JUST SO YOU KNOW, ONLY FAGGOTS HAVE 'FAVORITE POETS'). Only faggots and gloomy Irish shitbags. Okay . . . guess that's it. See you all in (Sweet Jesus) 2005. (UNLESS I SEE YOU FIRST). Unless he sees you first. Any of you going out for New Year's Eve- I think I'm staying home, although I've got some invites- (YOU?) That's true, two of the three invites are yours. Still, I think you should stay home as well. Anyway, if you're out tomorrow night, please be careful. Not everyone gets as many chances as I've had.
And all the roads really do lead nowhere. Later Bill
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How young are you 
Left the boys at Cold Spot to go to a party at the house of the guy
who's gonna produce the movie, on Danny's invite, didn't care much for the
crowd there, I thought they'd be arty, they were money, which gets my
blood up, Danny's as well, although being there inspired the closing scene
of the DF movie where the Grapes Of Wrath crash just such a party and
bloodily kill everyone present. I did meet the guy who was the dead
swimmer in "Chillers", he looks just the same, creepy.
Oh man, you know what, fuck that, I HATE coy talk. I love Bettina.
There, I said it. Not that it fucking matters . . and hopefully I haven't
embarrassed anyone here.
My mom also got me some Frazetta prints, a fucking steal at $10 each,
I'm gonna send Joe the link and see if he can pull the pictures and
include them here, I like the one of Loretta and I honeymooning on Mars-
actually, it's John Carter and Dejah Thoris, but there's a definite
resemblance- and also the picture of us 25 years later. Actually, it's
Dracula getting his ass kicked by the Wolfman- I'm the Wolfman- but again,
there's a definite resemblance to me and my ex-spouse.
And speaking of John Carter (of Mars) like we were a few paragraphs
ago, I've always bitched that there's never been a John Carter (of Mars)
movie, well, apparently the same people who did "Sky Captain and
etc" are in the process of making a JC (of M) movie using the same
process they did on "Sky Captain". Hope they use the same cast
as well, and follow the book religiously, Angelina Jolie as Dejah Thoris
sounds about right, in the books Martian women went topless. Bradbury
wasn't shitting when he said "Mars Is Heaven".
I wake up a couple hours later, with something blowing on my face from
the floor vent. It was heat. Coming out of the broken heater. And the damn
thing's been working like a dream ever since. I swear every word of this
is true, and Sarah can back me on it and she, unlike Joe, never signed
that "everything Bill says is true" contract. Joe really did
sign such a contract, and if you don't believe me, ask him. Ha.
My love for you will never die 