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3/20/06 Better Things
Hey, It's me, your favorite foul mouthed malcontent, telling youth the truth for 170 issues now, and damn happy to be doing it, back yet fucking again. Although I don't think I'm gonna ride the whine train tonight (People all over the world/Join hands), hence this issue's title, if not exactly its theme. First off, mail bag (I always holler "Mail bag!" out loud whenever I type it, in sort of this "All aboard!" type voice- no, I don't know why, other than that it amuses me, which is why I do about 95% of the things I do, the other 5% I have no idea at all, I think it must be some kind of mind control), a couple of you have just hit the site since last issue and seen the new format, yes, Joe has done his usual excellent job updating it, I like it quite a bit, glad you do as well. As for you who asked- I assume you were being serious, not snide, and have obviously not read all the NL's, which I suggest you do post haste, or toot sweet, if you're a fairy, which I kind of got the impression you are from your e-mail- who is that strikingly handsome, beaming, tousle haired youth humping the little black dog in the photo atop the 2002 section? That would be our hero Bill, from around February or March 1985, obviously unable to see the future (and presumably enjoying humping the little black dog, as well). And that little black dog was Scout, whom I got for Loretta for her 22nd (Jesus) birthday October '81, and who was just a good, GOOD doggie, what a dear, sweet animal he was, and if there's a doggie heaven (and there damn well oughta be) I'm sure he's up there right now with his little doggie angel wings flapping around sniffing other doggie angel butts, with no roads to get run over on, and someone who loves him as much as I did to hug him up and hump him all day long. I'll talk more about Scout later, maybe. Also, no more correspondence from Ms. Doe since last issue, so I figure I've either run her off or called her bluff- (OR MAYBE SHE'S JUST GOT SOMETHING BETTER TO DO THAN SEND YOU RANDY E-MAILS EVERY COUPLE OF DAYS). I would certainly hope so. But she's been sending me randy e-mails every few days since Valentine's Day, why stop now? (SHE SOBERED UP?) Don't know. But thank God I haven't. Here's a recipe- I'm trying to go old school this issue- I haven't cooked a damn thing myself beyond brown rice and tuna for months so I can't help you, this is a smoothie recipe from Chris, who turned 50 last Thursday, God have mercy on all our souls, and, while no Death Falcon, still approaches FOFN status himself.
Sounds quite good. I used to make something very similar to this, only I left out everything but the protein powder and the skim milk, and never measured, just filled my great big Superman glass that Rachie got me up so far, and then topped it off with protein powder. And sometimes I'd substitute orange juice for the skim milk. Staying old school, if somewhat excessive and boring, what's Bill weigh? Fuck if I know, but I used to be obsessed with it the first year or so of this thing, I weigh- hold on- okay, as of right now I weight 207, up a bit after bottoming out at 202 a month or so ago, I was up at 220 as recently as November, fuck, I HATE trying to bulk up, it's a constant goddamn struggle, but the DF is just so much more effective, visually and athletically, the bigger he is. Had a bad week last week, though, woke up every single night with just the most horrific acid reflux, it felt like my guts were burning out, all the way up to the back of my throat, last Sunday night was the worst, I got up and threw up, and then shit, a rather alarming amount of blood from both orifices. However, it was bright red (dark red is much more a cause for concern, or so I've been told, anyway), and, even though the pain has been pretty atrocious since then there's been no sanguinary reoccurrence, so I figure it was just a passing fad. Just a brief mention this issue on what I'm sure is the main reason why I can't keep the weight on, also known as The Parents Of Doom (although if I'd only eat my mother's "cooking", shit, we've got truckers lined up down the street wanting to try her Canned Fried Everything, with a side of Lard On Toast, and how about some of that buttermilk that's been left sitting out on the counter overnight? You say that's not buttermilk?). My Dad's about the same, good days and bad, continues to gain weight, he's going to out patient rehab now- more on that in a bit- still getting stronger physically except for that fucking dead left arm, still way ahead of my Mom mentally as well, he and I were watching TV the other morning- Mom: What are you boys watching? My Mom is still just CRUSHING me with her total lack of brain activity, she goes upstairs last night to empty the bedside toilet receptacle in the real toilet while I get my Dad squared away, she's gone quite a while, when I notice I'm hearing the toilet flushing repeatedly. I go to check and here's this goddamn Biblical flood (it flushed for forty days, and forty nights) of toilet water and soiled baby wipes and my Dad's fucking log cabin sized turds cascading down the steps at me. . . Bill: What the FUCK?! I go upstairs to find my Mom standing there vacantly flushing the stopped up toilet repeatedly while it overflows all over her now insanely revolting house shoes, across the bathroom floor, and down the stairs. At the risk of being redundant, I once again holler- B: WHAT THE FUCK?! It was honestly all I could think of to say. My Mom looks right through me. M: The toilet's stopped up. I actually have to take her by the wrist to get her to stop. B: STOP. Stop flushing the fucking toilet. So she does, and something as simple as asking her to empty a bedside commode turns into a fucking shitty, pun fully intended, half hour job for Bill. I'm not complaining, it's my lot in life right now, but Jesus, you wonder why I'm puking blood? Outside the house it's no better. As mentioned earlier, my Dad's been going to out patient rehab here in Cross Lanes the past couple weeks, everyone there seems quite nice and competent, and very patient with my Dad, while he rehabs I've been hanging out in the waiting room and talking with the receptionist, Debbie, not flirting in the least, but I'm often accused of flirting when all I think I'm doing is talking. Debbie's pretty hot, not a kid, late 30's easy, and not overly pretty, but she's built really well, and as stated in here multiple times, I'm a body over face man every time- (FIRST I LOOK AT THE PURSE). -but in all seriousness it's just been passing time, there's not a lot of common ground beyond small talk, she's all into motorcycles and a bunch of other stuff I couldn't give half a piss about, also, she's married- (AND THAT'S STOPPED YOU WHEN?) It stops me NOW, mother fucker. And from now on. Anyway, my Mom suddenly starts giving me shit last week for not coming back and watching my Dad rehab like she does, gets all pissy saying I'm hanging around in the waiting room cos I'm hitting on Debbie, no, I just want an hour away from your fucking asses whenever I can get it, let somebody ELSE deal with you for a change, fuck, they're getting paid to. So, me and my parents are sitting in the waiting room Friday, my Mom mentions something about my Dad's O.T., Heather, being cute, which I guess she is, me and my Mom's tastes aren't exactly the same, I think Heather's kind of on the big side, and without thinking, like an idiot I say, "I guess, but I think Debbie's better looking", to which my Mom replies, plenty loud enough for Debbie, not to mention everyone in the waiting room, to hear, "You just like Debbie cos she's skinny with big breasts". Jesus fucking Christ. Everyone looks at me, including Debbie, who arches a "say WHAT?" eyebrow, I just shrugged and said "I don’t know WHAT she's talking about" and got up and took a seat on the other side of the room, just fucking steaming. It was like being in junior high all over again, "Is THAT the girl Billy likes?" at the top of her damn lungs. After my parents went to the back, I went up to the reception window and apologized, Debbie took it well, even made a joke out of it- "So do you really just like me cos I have big breasts?" "No, I really like your ass, too"- I mean at that point, what else can you say? -but it could have been a really embarrassing situation, all because my mom's a fucking loud mouthed nut. Here's hoping that the days ahead Won't be as bitter as the ones behind you People been asking about Al, he's been sick as FUCK, spent a week in Cabell Huntington back in January, where they did their level best to kill his ass, swear to God, came home with a venous stasis ulcer above his ankle you could almost stick a fist in, been medicated to just damn near hell, been (and continues to go, I take him every Thursday, like clockwork) to a surgeon in Charleston- it's been hairy. Last week was pretty much his nadir, he'd just sit in his chair so weak he couldn't even stand and, in between pissing and shitting himself, he'd make those noises like Moe Stooge did when he ate the rubber pancakes, or the soap that he thought was cheese, while every now and then snatching an imaginary fly out of the air and stuffing it into his mouth. Which I agree, sounds entertaining as hell, and it is for about five minutes, but after that it just gets creepy. Bill: You all right, Al? Tommy's been helping me take Al to the surgeon, it's just been more than one man can handle. Al was starting to perk up this Thursday, I could tell cos he ate a damn good lunch at IHOP, which I was overjoyed to see, cos his appetite hasn't been for shit lately- antibiotics will do that to you, particularly the mega doses he's been on- he's lost over 30 pounds since the first of the year, which is relevant to where we're headed, I tell Tom to take Al out to the car while I pay our bill, Al couldn't walk unassisted on Thursday- he was walking fine today though when Kat and I stopped by to see him, I think he may have finally turned the corner, at least I hope- so here's Tom being very solicitous, holding Al's hand while they walk across the parking lot- while Al's pants, with every step, slowly inch their way down. I see it, the register girl sees it, fuck, everyone in IHOP sees it- but Al and Tommy don't see it, so here's this very touching scene, this strapping young man helping this little old man shuffle across the parking lot- with the old man's pants down around his fucking ankles, his bright red boxers shining like to blind you. Norman Rockwell by way of Monty Python. Folks in the IHOP are falling out of their chairs, the register girl's laughing so hard she can't ring me up, it's not just this old man walking across the parking lot with his pants down, its how he and Tom are just both so fucking CLUELESS about it- I open the door and holler at Tom- B: Hey, Tom. He turns around to look at me, still oblivious. B: Check Al's pants. What's Bill been up to? Actually got out of the house yesterday (Saturday). Got back from Oak Hill TV taping a little after noon, that's the good part, the bad part being I have to get up at fucking 6 am to make it, who the FUCK wants to wrestle in a cold studio at 9 in the goddamn morning? (DON'T LOOK AT ME). Sure as fuck don't look at me either. I bailed on the spot show last night- the rest of those Apex guys are getting so fucking jealous, "Why don’t YOU have to work Sabine tonight?" hey, stand up for your damn selves and say, this is what I will do, this is what I won’t, dammit, don't blame my fucking ass cos my dick's bigger than yours. My sister was here to watch my parents while I wrestled, so I had her stick around while Chris and I went to the comic book store around 1:30 or so, it turned into quite the outing, after Chris got his comics we stopped and got some beer and cigars- I got Harpoon IPA, Chris got some Great Lakes Dortmunder Gold, I forget what cigars we got- then tried to track down certified CRAZY ASS Doug, who was out on that choppy and white capped river in his canoe while the cold wind did blow- finally hooked up with him and went to his house where we had an abbreviated movie club, watched- some music guys, Eatin' Haggis, or something, and decided in all seriousness to get/make ourselves some kilts. I get a hard on just thinking about it, honestly, fuck man, a KILT. Beside a kilt being the very essence of cool, there's just something about walking around in public with my shit all hanging free and instantly accessible that excites the hell out of me.
We also watched the remake- isn't everything these days- of House Of Wax, which was absolutely horrible, even buzzed, but MC is not about the movie, it's about the company. Taking MC on the road next weekend to see V For Vendetta, I'll let you know if it's any good. And if I can be allowed a moment of ween, I never miss Loretta more acutely these days than I do at Movie Club. Damn her sorry ass. And mine. Accept your life and what it brings What's Bill been listening to? Well, obviously, The Kinks, if I could only listen to one band for the rest for my life they'd be it, I've listened to most of their albums literally hundreds of times, and I never get tired of them, titled this issue after, duh, "Better Things", just about the sweetest damn song you could ever hope to hear, if Rachel when she was little could have somehow been turned into a song it would be this one. If a certified piss pot like Ray Davies can write such a simple, sincere, uplifting song of compassion and genuine good wishes, a certified piss pot like myself can at least listen to it every now and then and toss aside the bitterness and self pity for an evening. (QUIT HAUNTING THEM HOUSES WHILE YOU'RE AT IT). I'll try. Also been listening to some more SSSLB CDs, a best of by Canned Heat, all I ever needed to hear by Canned Heat was their singles, conveniently enough the first three songs on this CD, I always thought Al "Blind Owl' Wilson's quavery voice was entertaining, "On The Road Again", "Going Up The Country" as well, although I remember Loretta never cared for it, but my favorite CH song is "Lets Get Together", I can really see the Tang Spoons (this kind of song was our bread and fucking butter) grinding this out with some go go booted girls gyrating in cages behind us while a beer soaked audience just tears the dance floor UP. Jeez, I almost forgot, got an e-mail since last issue asking "Who are Tang Spoons?" Oh dear. For those of you already in the know, forgive me, I'll try to keep this brief. First, it was THE Tang spoons, don’t leave off the article, second, like I told the other fella earlier, read your back issues, but basically, the Tang Spoons were Joe and my band after The Sabres, and before The Texas Catheters/The Gorch Brothers. Live, you could best call the TS "erratic". When we were on, we were hot as fuck, sincerely, a killer mix of originals and an eclectic slew of covers, excellent, EXCELLENT versions of the Velvet Underground's "Sweet Jane" and "Rock And Roll", "Don’t Slander Me" by Roky Erikson, "Stop Your Sobbing", "Get Together", "Sweet 69", "We've Gotta Get Out Of This Place", "Gloria", and far and away the best version of "I Don't Need No Doctor" that wasn't Humble Pie, and that's just the tip of the fucking iceberg. However, a lot of how well we sounded while playing out depended on whether Bill (guitar/vocals) was (quite literally) falling down drunk or not, and to a lesser extent whether Joe (bass/vocals) was also drunk as a lord. Sober, Joe could sing a decent vocal, drunk he made Neil Young sound like Johnny Mathis- flat, dear Jesus, like you've never heard- and of course, like any self respecting drunk, the worse he sounded the louder he had to sing- not to mention whether Bobby was on organ (great) or guitar (suck city). We did one CD, which consisted of a psych/pop single pissing all over ass kissers, a surf song about shark attack, three songs about being an alcoholic, two instrumentals, on one of which the lead instrument is an electric mandolin, and on the other an overdriven SG played with a beer bottle, as well as three covers, two by Bo Diddley, both recorded live, "Roadrunner", which barely finishes before Bill passes out into the drums, and an almost 20 minute version of "Who Do You Love" which features some impressive improvisation musically by the band, and lyrically by Bill, and lastly, a revved up take on Hank Williams country gospel classic "I Saw The Light". I have no idea why it didn’t sell millions.
The Tang Spoons broke up cos it got to the point where I couldn't stand the sight of Bobby's fucking face. But maybe someday Joe and I will rise anew with a new backing crew and record those songs, which I sincerely hope, cos they're fucking ace. Chris shocked the damn life out of me yesterday by saying it would be really cool if we could have a big outdoor party somewhere this summer where Joe and I could plug in and play. Say what? And he even used to come see us back in the day, he knows what he's asking for. And then Doug shocked the life out of me for a second time when Chris mentioned his Bill and Joe idea to him and he said that sounded good to him as well. Holy fuck. Hey, I'm all for it. I got the old acoustic git box out and strangled out a few tunes (with able vocal support from Sarah) at the cookout last summer, but a full on electrical assault, with drums- oh YEAH. What's Bill drinking? PBR, as per usual when I write a NL anymore. I'm struggling, though, cos the bottom line is I'm TIRED, tired as a mother fucker, not just my physical fatigue, which is considerable, but worn the fuck out by the psychic weight of knowing that at any damn minute, day or night, I can be called upon to clean up some huge shit stinking mess not of my own making. Fuck. (BETTER THINGS). I know. No DF news this time around. That okay with you? (ACTUALLY, YEAH). Danke. I've been reading sometimes in the evenings this old time wrestling nerd site, where you can't even discuss anything that happened before 1989, just wrestle geek city, but it's also a treasure trove of old school wrestling trivia, found out on it that before he was Mr. Wrestling II (and as we all know, there's only ONE Mr. Wrestling II), Johnny Walker- his real name- wrestled as Johnny "Rubberman" Walker. I don't even want to think what his gimmick was. I keep trying to do a Comics Corner, Dex, I swear, but I just keep running out of steam. Hawkman, I know, and it flatters the fuck out of me that you're actually interested in what I have to say about him, (I don't mean to be cruel here, but have you ever considered getting a life? Just a suggestion) but pretty much all I could give you right now is Al speak- Eep eep brrp. Have I mentioned anywhere that I'm TIRED? I can honestly say I've never been this consistently tired in my life. Fell asleep Friday night at 9:30, last night at 10:30, and trust me, that's not our Bill. Can’t tell any Scoutie stories either like I said I might at the top of this thing, I will close with an amusing dream I had earlier this week, and then it's bedtime for Bitzo. The dream starts out in Oz, there's me, and Dorothy, the Scarecrow, and the Tin Man, which I guess would make me the Cowardly Lion, only I'm me, and I have my ubiquitous dream Tommy gun (never leave home without it). We're holed up in this little peat shack, hiding from all these witches who are flying around above us, on the traditional broomsticks, looking for us. The hut has a single small window, and through it I can see the Emerald City, maybe a mile away, which is where we want to be, but can't get to, cos as soon as we leave the hut the witches will see and attack us. Finally I say, fuck it, this Tommy gun isn't just for looks, you guys run for the city and I'll follow and cover you, they say okay, so we start running across the field- not poppies like in the movie, just grass, and as the witches come down to attack us I lay into 'em with my submachine gun, very cool, firing red tracers and never running out of ammunition, one by one I hit the witches and they fall, flaming, off of their brooms, there's maybe half a dozen of them, and as I shoot the last one down I'm just mounting the steps to the City, where the rest of the Oz bunch are already waiting for me. The last witch hits the ground and rolls right up to my feet, her big old pointy witch hat comes off- ands she's GORGEOUS (not to mention pretty familiar looking). Holy fuck. "Stop", she says, far too late, cos I've already killed them all. "We're the good guys. We were trying to save you". I bend over to see if I can help her, then- oh NO you don't. I been suckered in by a pretty face TOO MANY times. Not this time. I turn my back on her dying ass and climb up the stairs to the big Emerald City door, which is slowly swinging open. I notice Dorothy and her buds are looking at me intently. D: What'd she say to you? And then Dorothy transforms into this hideous witch like thing, and the Scarecrow into a snarling, emaciated zombie, and the Tin Man into this Terminator looking thing, and I'm PISSED, oh, FUCK YOU BASTARDS, I could've been with a bunch of hot witches and you tricked me into killing them, I hold the trigger down on that Tommy gun and just shoot Dorothy and the two other sneaky sons of bitches literally to pieces, and then machine gun the pieces, swearing like a mother fucker the whole time, I know it was just a dream but JESUS, I was mad. I finally stop shooting- there was nothing of Dot and crew left to shoot- to see all these Munchkins, who've come through the now open Emerald City door- standing there, staring at me. Yeah, well fuck, their mistake. I'm in a mood, so I start machine gunning THEM, Munchkins are dropping like flies, they run back into the Emerald City squeaking "What did WE do?" with me in hot pursuit, and the dream ends with me chasing all these poor screaming Munchkins who never did one single damn thing to me through the streets of the Emerald City, gunning them down from behind cos I'm pissed off I got suckered into shooting these hot witches that I probably could have fucked if I hadn't killed them all. As always, I don't interpret this shit, I just relate it. Joe, I can't think of a name right now, but run a hot pin up in here somewhere, okay? That's if you can’t find Blaze, who loves me. I know you've got a lot of good things happening up ahead I fucking hope so, Ray. I really do. Anything you want to say? (MY WEEK EQUALS YOUR YEAR). Later Bill
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Here's
wishing you the bluest skies 
A:
Bddddddddddddp. Eep.
There's
a Moore tartan, and Chris is going to go with the Montgomery tartan, my
granny was a McDowell, so I'll go with that one- should be GREAT, hope to
have them by the big 50th birthday bash at Joe's this summer- I don't know
if there's a Blizzard tartan or not, you're welcome to share my McDowell
if you want to Joe, if you want a kilt as well.
We
were gonna do a second CD, since most of our best originals never got
recorded- "Someone Else's Dog", "I Can't Get It Off My
Mind", "Monster Zero Must Die", "Goodbye (You
Asshole)", "Since Daddy Came Back From Hell", "Bo
Diddley's Mustang Ford"- let me tell you what, that was (and still
is) some great, GREAT shit, the CD was gonna be titled Blaze Loves
Billy cos I met Blaze Starr- yeah, the real one, and she was STILL
hot, and she fell in love with me, seriously, I've got the photo to prove
it, Joe, if you still have it in one of your computers somewhere, run it
with this issue and shut these damn doubters up, okay?