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4/10/04 Passion Is No Ordinary Word
Hey What's up with Bill? Sitting here seething, so instead of keeping it in, I'm gonna spew it out all over you. Went to the AWF show for little Freddie last night. What a fucking mistake (although I did get to meet the Fredster himself, and he thanked me for coming, so that was cool). The rest of it . . . I was originally supposed to team with Joe Trace Hannibal against Vito and VILE, hardly my idea of dream match, but compared to how it ended up . . . I show up, promoter Joe Clark tells me neither JTH, or Vito, OR VILE are making the show (he also said that JTH and Vito told him they were quitting wrestling, well you know what, fuck 'em), I got nobody to work, but not to worry, he's adding me to the Little Larry D/"Hatchett (sic) Warrior" Mike Roach match, it'll be a 3 way dance. Lovely- and I haven't even seen these guys yet. What he should've done when he found out the others weren't gonna make it is call me and say "Thanks anyway, Bill, but you can stay home". It's not like I was coming down for the money or anything. I meet my prospective match mates back in the locker room, and start steaming like a bitch. They're both these horrendous tub of guts shits, LLD goes 330 and I'll bet HW is fatter than that, when he changed into his gear I could see he had all these hideous fucking stretch marks across his stomach, fucking hell, I'm grinding my teeth thinking "no fucking way", I got NO respect for guys in that kind of shape, but Bobby taught me- and Brain D teaches his guys the same thing- that you show up, you work who you're told, you do the finish you're told, and you keep your mouth shut, anything else and you're not a pro, you're a punk. But still. Then I go check out the ring and it's a goddamn abomination, it makes Bobby's tore to shit training ring look like one of those million dollar WWE trampolines (or trammalines), no padding- I repeat, NO padding, the ring apron was directly over the damn plywood, and the "ropes"- you know that braided plastic shit like they use to section off the shallow and deep ends of a pool? They were made of that shit. I swear to God, I've never seen a shittier excuse for a fucking wrestling ring in my life. I should've just followed my first instinct and gotten the hell out of there, but noooo . . . Joe gives us the finish, Little Larry is supposed to pin both me and Hatchett, I couldn't keep it in any more, I hollered, "You're fucking KIDDING me!", I know LLD is local and sold some tickets but- fuck. LLD is trying to call the match there in the back, "Okay, I'll do these ten things to you guys, then you try to do this, but I cut you off, and then do these ten other things-" I'm thinking, preach on mother fucker, cos it ain't happening. As he was getting ready to go to the ring I pulled him aside and told him, "You know all that shit you called back here? I'm not doing any of it" He got all bug eyed, but his music was playing so he had to go out. The match was a goddamn Chinese fire drill, with one Death Falcon, and two great big fat ass Chinamen. At one point I went up for a double slam- it took both of their pathetic selves to get me up, bet if I was a goddamn 220 pound doughnut they'd have had no trouble- and then threw me down right on my fucking tail bone, in that shit fucking stiff ring, damn thing is killing me now, a simple goddamn body slam and they can't get it right. Assholes with no more athletic ability that those two do not belong in a wrestling ring, and they sure as hell don't belong in one with the DF. Oh for the days of JTH and Vito (or even Punkazz and Venum). I rolled out of the ring and yelled, "you two wallow your fat fucking asses around in there for a while", and they did, looked like that old "Makin' Bacon" t-shirt, two fucking pigs humping one another, while Joe C and I glared hate looks at one another, he sitting at the announcer's table. Of course Joe has the advantage of me there, cos his eyes point in two different directions, so while I'm glaring in his one eye, the other one can sneak up behind me or something. I finally roll back in the ring, they're both on the mat, so I kick 'em both in the head, really hard. Not as hard as I'd have liked to, wearing those soft wrestling shoes like I was, but still hard. Unfortunately the utterly moronic Hatchett was still wearing his eyebrow studs, and when I kicked him there- (I WAS TRYING TO KICK HIS GODDAMN EYE OUT). -it started bleeding, a big no no in KY, and the AC had someone there, so it was time to go home, LLD goes for a DDT on the DF, which I deliberately slipped, so that he goes flat on his fat ass, he looked like a goddamn idiot, I fall down anyway, kick out at two, and just go to the back while he pins Hatchett. Sorriest mother fucking match I have ever had anything to do with, bar none, these dickheads made Bucky look accomplished- and svelte. Once in the back I stripped off my Underarmour and start soaping up there in the sink, KAOS asked me what I was doing, "Trying to get this fucking fat boy stink offa me", he laughed, LLD and Hatchett didn't. Hatchett did call me a "fucking wannabe, like Ultimo Dragon on steroids", yeah, well if you were trying to insult me, try again. Got dressed, got my shit, and left, didn't stay for the rest of the show (we were third match out of 6). Had a scathing e-mail waiting for me when I got home from Joe C- he must've rushed right home after the show to dash it out- castigating me for my "unprofessional attitude", and saying he expected better from me. I sent him an e-mail back right before I started this, saying "And I expected better from YOU, ya cock eyed little shit, than to put me in a goddamn match with two total fat ass mother fuckers couldn't work their way out of a bag of fries. FUCK YOU. Oh yeah, did I tell you that you're a cock eyed little shit?" So I guess me and Joe C aren't friends anymore, oh fucking well, his Fed kind of sucks anyway, it was the dullest- intellectually and action wise- locker room I've EVER been in, buncha goddamn farmers and welfare homeboys with their chaws all stuck in looking at their fucking boots and trying to figure out if they put 'em on the right feet. KAOS was a pretty cool guy, best this locker room had to offer conversation wise, big boy, maybe 6' 3", pretty muscled up but starting to get a paunch, he told me he recently started working as a cook in a Chinese restaurant there outside of Cincinnati where he lives, and he gets to take home all the leftovers, we exchanged e-mail addresses, said he'd come to Charleston to work, we'll see. Joe, you made the right decision in not coming to Vanceburg. Wish I had, but what the hell. What's Bill drinking? A couple big Heinies- how appropriate, I said, a couple of BIG HEINIES, they're starting to kick in, too- I picked up at Go-Mart on the way home, almost broke the bank, but a good investment nonetheless. I gotta get up in the morning and help build a fence, but I'm not getting tore down, just trying to chill out, anyway, my work tomorrow is strictly mule, or more appropriately mole work, no brains involved. What else is up? Well the girls have been in for 9 days now, quite wonderful, although I'm sure I'm gonna go into relapse once they leave on Sunday, there are certain things that I hold to be intrinsically wrong and against the proper order of the universe, and one of them is visiting your kids. You don't visit your kids, YOU FUCKING LIVE WITH THEM. Goddammit, anyway. Went and saw "Hell Boy" on Wednesday, not so hot, wouldn't recommend it. As I've said many times in the past, no comic based movie that I've seen seems able to capture the fucking ENERGY that a good comic has. Went to the Huntington Mall Monday, bought the girls some stuff for Easter- I really miss dyeing eggs, and Easter baskets on Easter morning, but again, what can you do?- got myself a couple CDs that I'm listening to as we speak, Cream Live at the BBC, sort of split between that bluesy shit that they liked, and their own psyche originals, that I like, also the Guided By Voices Best Of, a steal at ten bucks, although the two songs of theirs that I like best, that I think are head and shoulders above everything else they (or he, since it's essentially a one man band) ever did, aren't on here. Still an awful good CD. Also sort of splurged and bought myself this big book, "Tales Of Terror" which calls itself "the complete compendium of all the incredible old EC comics including Tales From The Crypt, Mad, And Weird Science". Only skimmed it so far but it looks really good, tons of interviews with them who created the EC stuff, cover reproductions of every EC comic, and MORE. If you only know EC from that pretty lousy TFTC TV show, they were pretty over the top, funny and gross, sort of like those old Mars Attacks cards (the real thing, not that shitty Tim Burton joke). I remember this one TOTC story I read in a reprint my first year at Marshall, about this baseball player who kills a guy on another team by sliding into him with poisoned spikes. Why? I don't remember. The other team kills and dismembers him out of revenge, then goes to the field at midnight and plays a game, using him as the equipment- his head as the ball, his hands as gloves, his intestines as the base lines, his heart for home plate, other internal organs for the other bases, his legs as bats, my favorite was the catcher wearing his torso as a chest protector. I think that's funny as shit, but not everyone does.
Watched "The Sand Pebbles" for the ten millionth time the other night, struck again by how very pretty Candace Bergen is in it, if you only know her from that ghastly, self righteous harridan Murphy Brown- dear lord, did I hate that show- you'd never believe it. Also watched the very excellent "The Man Who Would Be King" for probably the thousandth time, with Connery and Caine and this wonderful, and touching, bit of buddy dialogue near the end- Sean: Peachy, I'm horribly ashamed for getting you killed instead of going home rich like you deserved to. Can you forgive me? Mike: That I can, and that I do, Danny. Free and full, without letter (?) or interest. Sean: Everything's all right, then.
Bassist Greg Ridley of the wonderful, and criminally underrated, Humble Pie, recently passed on at the age of 61 from cancer. It's hard to tell much on the CD, you really need the album cover, but if all you got's the CD- and if you don't, get it, you'll thank me I guarantee it- check out the damn bend old Greg is doing on them thick ass bass strings in the third picture down from the top in the far left column in the back cover of the "Rockin' the Fillmore" CD. Impressive. I hope him and Steve Marriott are rocking out right now on "I Don't Need No Doctor" (cos we're fucking dead).
Lastly, John Siomos, famous as fuck to any of us who bought "Frampton Comes Alive" cos he was the drummer on it, at only 56, from unknown (at least to me) causes, he was found dead in his apartment is all I know. He was also a Yank, but what the hell. RIP. all of ya.
Another feature left out last issue was tough guy corner, so this issue we'll talk a little about Hans Ulrich Rudel. I have some pretty severe problems with his politics- he was an unrepentant Nazi long after the war, insisted there was no Holocaust, and that Germany was just trying to make the world safe from Bolshevism, to give him some small credit I don't think he was scamming, I think he truly believed these things, the misguided fuck- but when it came to balls, forget about it. Hans flew a Stuka- one of the most truly evil looking aircraft of all time, it looks like it fucking flew up out of Hell or something- on the Eastern front, first as a dive bomber- he sunk a fucking Russian battleship, The Marat, single handed, for fuck's sake- then later as a tank buster, where he destroyed over 500 Russian tanks. That's a hell of a lot of blown up stuff, and a hell of a lot of dead Ivans, but that mostly just means he was skilled, the balls part is that the fucking Russians couldn't stop his ass. They shot him down over a dozen times, he'd get back in another damn airplane and come right back. They shot his left leg all to hell. He got it casted up and kept on flying. They blew his fucking right leg clean off- here's how they fit you for a prosthetic leg in wartime Germany- "He sets the whole of my thigh up to the groin in plaster of Paris without first greasing it or fitting a protective cap. After letting it dry, he remarks laconically, 'Think of something nice.' At the same moment he pulls with all his strength at the hard plaster cast in which the hairs of my body are embedded and tears it off. I think the world is falling in. The fellow has missed his vocation, he would have made an excellent blacksmith." He put on his fake leg and kept flying. The only thing that stopped his ass was that the rest of Germany gave up, THIS mother fucker wasn't going to, you better believe. I may have name checked old Hans before, you do 101 of these things and you tend to forget, but even if so, he was one tough son of a bitch. In the mailbag, got an e-mail the other day from someone calling herself Impetuous (hey, hey), an utterly charming note it was, almost like something I'd wrote to myself in my sleep. It was so good, in fact, that- I started to say my natural cynicism, but that's totally wrong, my natural instinct is to be gullible as a damn six year old- "You saw Bigfoot? Really? WHERE?"- so let's say my learned cynical outlook is to think it's some one of you just yanking my chain, in which case I'll be grossly disappointed, but then again, not for the first time. Or, I'm sure, for the last. But if she is a real person and not just some Internet construct, then she's a very damn cool one, and at 126 pounds, right bang square in the middle of the Death Falcon's weight class according to the Cross Gender Conversion Tables (handy thing to have). Hold on a second, just got a dinger telling me I've got a new e-mail
from Joe C., let me check it. Godamighty, I'll never figure out people.
Now he says he likes and respects me too much to let a little thing like
this come between us, can't we bury the hatchet? He actually said hatchet,
with no conscious sense of irony at all, I'm sure. I'm tempted to tell him
okay, we'll bury it right in the middle of your cock eyed noggin, but I
think I'll wait until morning to respond. I also think I'm going to go to bed, since SOME OF US have to go to work in the morning. Or later this morning. Just two weeks till Martinsburg III. Later Bill
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Passion
is no ordinary word 
In
TV news, hippo beat bull shark as predicted last issue, wasn't even close.
Don't know who's fighting tomorrow night.
A
couple regular, if irregular, features were left out of last issue's great
big hairy giantness, one of them being obituaries. It's my sad duty to now
inform you of the swath recently cut through some of my, and maybe some of
yours as well, Brit rock heroes.
Also,
Tony Jackson, original bassist and lead singer for The Searchers, he left
'em right before "Needles And Pins"- great song, I saw her
today, I saw her face- but he was still on decent stuff like "Sweets
For My Sweet" and "Sugar And Spice". Age 63, from cirrhosis
of the liver (ouch).
Also,
for you fans of Hong Kong cinema- and who's not one?- sorry to tell you
that Blacky Ko passed out after a night of heavy drinking back on December
9 and died from alleged blood poisoning- maybe that's what the HK ME's
call alcohol poisoning, I don't know. Mourners at his funeral included
Poon Man Kit and Limpy Ho (I swear I'm not making these names up).
