6/25/06

Superstar

Superstar
Don't you know who your real friends are?

Hey

Superstar though I may be, I definitely know who my real friends are, and it's all of you lovely, lucky folk who happen to be reading this (whether I even know you or not). Yes, I am in an uncharacteristically good mood, thank you. Enjoy it or gag on it, your choice, but either way, don't get used to it.

I also know that summer's here, and as has been said many times before, the time is right for fighting in the street, boys.

Since I'm already buzzing like a top-

(TOPS DON'T BUZZ, THEY SPIN).

-yeah, see, my whole fucking point, I'm so fucking buzzed I'm already mashing my metaphors. Now mind your own business, I don't have time for you right now.

Let's attack the mail bag (in the street, where the time is right), since last issue Chris informed me that Jason's girlfriend's name is Meagan, in whichever variation of the name it might be spelled, and also noted that if she'd been a stripper who could twirl her tassels in opposite directions I'd have remembered her name. Probably so. But she was a wendigo, so there you go.

Also got an inordinate, and vaguely unsettling, amount of mail concerning last issue's photo of that one time tassel twirler, Loretta (the current "big fat demon whore" as someone else referred to her, children, please), fuck, I told you in her day she was hot shit, what, you thought I was making that up? One mail bagger questioned how I was able to keep from impregnating her right there on the beach, well, I'm a man of great restraint, that's how, and another asked if Loretta had any Indian (the American kind) in her, as a matter of fact, yes she did, she also frequently had quite a bit of German/Irish in her.

I also got an inquiry from someone who obviously neither really read the NL, nor paid any attention to any of the captions- I get these really nut job, off the wall questions from time to time from what must be the truly brain dead, or at least illiterate, stuff like, "Do you drink a lot?" and "Are you obnoxious, or something?"- "yes", and "or something"- this time asking who the cutie was with me in the photo from the cookout. That was Chris. Oh, you mean the other cutie? That was Impetuous.

It wouldn't be a NL without my Dad, the real star of this thing if truth be told, so let's get his crazy ass out of the way. I took him to Lion's Club last week, Brad Morgan again trying futilely to get me to join, later he's talking to my Dad-

Brad: Bill really doesn't work?
Dad: No, hell no, not a damn lick. He oughta be the one singing that Johnny Payback song, "Take My Job And Stick It Up Your Ass".

Indeed I should.

We also got into a conversation earlier this week about Ozzie Guillen, the dumb fuck manager of the White Sox- said conversation already off to a shakey start cos when he first started out talking about Ozzy I thought he meant Osbourne- but finally we get established who he's talking about-

D: He called some guy a homophonic name.
B: He called him a what?
D: A homophonic name. Also known as a slur.
B: Homophonic, huh?
D: Yep.
B: What's that me-
D: Means he's afraid of queers.
B: Oh. You're not afraid of queers, are you?
D: Hell, no. They're people just like me.

He thinks about this a minute

D: Well . . . not EXACTLY just like me.

Ha. Still, tolerance thy name is Bit.

You know, actually, it is, I've always preached tolerance- no, dammit, I HAVE (look at my kids, and what they believe, they get that from me, straight up), cos I don't care even a little bit what you look like, or worship (or don't), or how much money you do or don't have, or what you like to do sexually, or even how smart or dumb you are, none of that makes a fuck to me when I decide whether or not I like you (or, more likely, don't)- nor does it impede me from calling you a goddamn piece of shit if you as an individual happen to be one, just because you're not a straight white male such as myself don't think I won't still call a spade a fucking spade, as I see it. And I got this from my Dad.

That's because when I was growing up it was never made an issue of. When I was a kid my parents had all kinds of different friends over to the house (my Dad was, and remains, a very gregarious crazy ass mother fucker) and everyone was all the same, which is a lot more real, and cooler and infinitely more effective than saying, "You know, Billy, black/Hindu/gay/Polish/Jewish whatever folks, they're just like us" cos the minute you say something like that to a kid like me, my first thought is gonna be "If they're really the same, then why do you have to tell me that?". Fuck, just treat everyone the same, and I'll get it.

It's a little early in the issue to go down memory lane, that's usually reserved for after the "what's Bill been whatevering?" current events shit, but you know what they say about consistency and little minds, not to mention hobgoblins, so-

In my early years, on 78th Street- '59- '65- the guy that lived next door to the Smiths, who lived directly across the street from us, was pretty much the asshole of the world (when they moved in my Mom and Mrs. Smith took over a fruit basket, gave it to his wife, when this dick got home he threw it out in the yard cos it came from Protestants- damn near got his ass kicked by my Dad for it, too). His name was Bernie Lepre, Italian Catholic, relevant only to the story, and just a pure piece of shit, short, swarthy, greasy black hair- of course, pretty much all the men had greasy hair back then, Vitalis or Brylcreem or whatever, a little dab'll do ya, that's for damn sure- I always see him getting home in his white work shirt with the huge sweat pits under his arms and down his back, gristly five o'clock shadow- and just flat fucking MEAN.

He spent most of his time at home screaming at his wife, or at his kids- not normal parent yelling, but scary, evil, "You kids are nothing but a goddamn burden, I can't stand the fucking sight of you", yelling, which you'd hear coming from out of the house mostly, cos his two kids, a younger daughter, can't remember her name, and a boy a year or two older than me, Daniel- weren't allowed to play with any of the other kids in the neighborhood cos we didn't go to their church. They weren’t even allowed to TALK to us if, when they were infrequently permitted out into their yard, one of us would pass by.

Daniel seemed a nice enough kid, if lonely as fuck, I remember one week his parents went out of town for some reason and his grandmother was watching him and his sister, and she let him come out and play with us, it was pathetic how much fun this poor isolated kid had just doing the simple kid things we did all the time, and how heart broken he was when his Dad came back and he couldn't play with us anymore. I hope with all my heart that Daniel grew up to be the size of a house, and one fine day took his father aside and beat the GODDAMN LIVING DOGSHIT HELL out him, I hope he beat that bastard till he fucking puked blood out his goddamn eye sockets, I truly, truly do.

So . . . one day Mr. Lepre pulls up in front of his house as I happen to be walking past it on my way to- where else- Ronnie Darnell's house- and he sees me and hollers at me to get off his fucking sidewalk. Fuck, I'm like a 7 year old kid minding my own business and this dick has to scream at me for walking on the sidewalk? Well, I decided to debate him on whether it actually was his sidewalk or not- probably not the smartest idea, but I didn't have a hunk of watermelon rind, or a big chunk of cinder block to throw at him- and the crazy infuriated fucker chased me half way down the street.

I saw Mister Arscott out in his yard so I ran up to him, and Mr. Lepre wisely stops chasing me and goes back up the street, cos Scotty would've cleaned his fucking clock. I've mentioned Mr. A in here before- he's the one who pulled me out of the quick mud, for one thing- he was always a cool dad, like my own, kids can tell which adults actually LIKE kids, and he was one of them, I always liked him a lot, a lot more than his son, Bobby, in fact, who was a little sneak, and a thief.

Which is kind of ironic cos Mr. A was a DC cop, good looking guy, looked sort of like Robert Mitchum, he'd served in the Navy, and had a bunch of tattoos on his biceps, which I thought were incredibly cool, he was the only person I knew at the time who had any, I remember saying to him one time-

Billy: When I grow, up I'm gonna have big arms, and lots of tattoos.
Mr. A: Why's that?
B: So all the girls will want to kiss me.

He thought that was the funniest damn thing he ever heard, for months after he'd say, "Hey Billy, why you want them tattoos?"- "So all the girls will kiss me"- and he'd laugh his fucking ass off. I don't have the tattoos, but I still manage to get kissed up pretty good.

I think Mr. A may have run around some on Mrs. A, as I now recall some conversations from back in the day between my parents I wasn't supposed to overhear, but like I say he was always good to me, where my Dad was more of a one of the kids kind of join in type- "you kids run get your gloves and we'll play catch"- you never see a bunch of kids out throwing a baseball around anymore, or at least I never do, and I don't understand it, cos to me at least, there something very natural and primal and deeply satisfying in the simple act of throwing a baseball back and forth- or going sledding with us, or whatever, Mr. A was more of a taking us places guy, he'd round up all the kids on the street and take us for ice cream, or to the police pig roast, or fishing- in fact, I'm about to digress even further from the point of this tale, but bear with me-

Mr. A went porgy fishing on the Bay one day, he gets back and there's all this commotion on the street- 78th Street really was sort of like a little Mayberry at times- word being passed from house to house "Scotty caught a shark and he's got it in his basement". Well, the instant I heard this I went running down there as fast as my little high top Keds clad feet could take me, and Scotty had indeed caught a shark, and it was in his basement.

He's telling the story for the I don't know how many-th time when I get there, how the sharks were so thick in the Bay that day that you couldn't even get a hooked fish in to the boat before they'd have it, and cut it off, finally, out of frustration, he took a reeled in porgy head, rehooked it as bait, threw I out and snagged this shark, which now lay sprawled and already stinking on the concrete floor of his basement. It was a thresher shark, and it was fucking awesome. Not a big one, not quite 8 feet from nose to tail, and a good half of that was tail- hey Joe, put a picture of a thresher shark in here would you?- it looked mean as shit, some know it all Quint from the neighborhood was going on about how they used that tail to slice things in half, if one caught you while you were swimming you were just shit out of luck buddy, whoosh, and you were sliced in half shark chow. I was busy checking out the shark while Quint was going on, and NEVER being able to keep my mouth shut-

Bill: How do they cut you in half?
Quint: With the tail, son. Weren't you listening?
B: Yeah, but it's not even sharp.
Q: What?
B: This tail. It's not even sharp.
Q: Well, that doesn't-
B: But it's not, not on either side. Here, feel it.
Q: I don't need to feel it.
B: But its not SHARP, this couldn't cut you.
Q: Things are sharper underwater, kid.

"Things are sharper underwater". Holy fuck, to this day that never fails to get me laughing hysterically.

However, while I may have unwittingly shown up Quint for the fucking know nothing wind bag that he was, I still paid the price, cos for months afterward my dreams were filled with trips to the beach, where I'd be having just a damn fine time flopping around in the surf, when all of a sudden, with a sound like a sword being pulled from a watery scabbard, this big ass thresher shark tail, razor sharp and glistening like Toledo steel (been there, by the way, got a sword upstairs to prove it) in the summer sun, would shoot up out of the water and home in on little Billy- ah, fuck

Okay, now go way back to the beginning, to where I'm running down the street, and run to Mr. A for sanctuary. He asks me why I'm running, I tell him, about then Mrs. A comes out of the house and asks what's going on and Mr. A says- "You know what that asshole Dago did NOW?" At this point safe from mister crazy man, I head on to Ronnie's, leaving Mr. and Mrs. A discussing how something really needs to be done about that man, he's not right, to chase a kid down the street like that. And I agree, although as far as I know, nothing ever was. Done about him, that is.

So, come supper that night, we're all sitting around the table, my Mom and Dad are discussing the events of the day, and wanting to join in, during a lull in the conversation, I pose the question "You know what that assshole Dago did today?" By the ensuing silence, I know I've fucked up.

B: It's because I said asshole, isn't it?
D: Not really. Its because you said Dago. Where'd you hear that word?
B: From Mr. Arscott. He called Mr. Lepre one, cos he chased me down the street, and I didn't even DO anything.
D: Do you know what it means?
B: I just thought it meant "asshole", too,

My Dad goes into this discussion, very cogent and direct, for anyone, not just him, about how it's not wise to use words when you don't know what they mean- good advice for everyone, actually- then explains how Dago is a disrespectful word for Italians, like nigger is for black people.

D: You know Mrs. Andretti?

She lived up the street from my grandparents in Martinsburg, and was a very sweet old lady, who was exceptionally nice to the bizarre little kid who used to come to town 3-4 times a year.

B: Of course I do.
D: Do you like her?
B: No, I love her. She lets me play in the creek behind her house and doesn't tell Mom about it, and she fixes me egg and bacon sandwiches even if I don't ask, and she hugs me and tells me I'm a good boy no matter what everyone else says, and that I'm gonna be something special someday.
D: Okay, then. When you use that bad word for Mr. Lepre, you're using it for her too.
B: I don't mean to.
D: I know you don't. But when you use those words, you're calling everyone the same thing.
B: Then I wont do it anymore.

And I don't.

Hey Joe, (where you goin' with that gun in your hand?). Also, is my monitor about to blow up? The colors have gone all washed out and faded- black is now charcoal, deep blue is now powder blue, and sometimes everything flickers (and it's not just because I'm spinning like a bee hive). And if it is going to blow up, or otherwise soon cease function, do you have an extra one I can use? And if you don't have an extra one just lying around, will you go out and buy me a new one and bring it over here and install it? Bring some beer with you too, and lots of it- make it PBR, none of that Corona baby piss (Mexicans are good for two things, neither of which is making beer- one of them is wrestling and the other is a lot like wrestling- wait, three things, they can cook some excellent damn grub, too, that white cheese is the fucking shit). Oh yeah, and when you come over wear that little lace number you look so good in . .

So, NOW, what has Bill been up to? Well, today has been my first day off in almost 4 weeks, meaning no movie stuff, or taking my Dad to one of his multitude of doctors, or one of his therapies, no excursions to Kroger or Poca Foodfair or Drug Emporium, or dealing with Al, (who's a little piss pot, short and stout). So, what did I do with it?

I'd like to tell you I got drunk as Jesus- sorry, I said I wasn't going to say that anymore- I got drunk as Krishna- cos that would be so in character, and in fact, that is what I'm going to tell you, cos it's exactly what I did. I buy myself two six packs of Pabst every Monday ($7.46 with tax) when I shop for Al, they've been piling up lately since I haven't had the time to drink much this past month, got into them tonight with a vengeance, and am pretty damn pixilated at this point.

I didn't just get drunk today, though, first I worked out, then watched a couple Outer Limits, and then read three graphic novels, none really worth mentioning, although the best one was about Superman, who again, I must say, is extremely cool cos he's far and away the most moral of super heroes and I respect the fuck out of that, if I were a strange visitor from another world-

(I ALWAYS THOUGHT YOU WERE)

-yeah, you and a lot of folks, with powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal man, able to change the course of mighty rivers and leap tall buildings at a single bound, I'd be a lot less likely to be our sweet boy Kal-El, and a lot more likely to be General Zed ("Bring me all your females, pronto! Pronto? That's Kryptonian for 'right the fuck now!', stupid Earth man").

Speaking of the General, again, his local schedule is 7/8 and 8/12 for XMCW in Nitro, 9/6 for AWA Apex at WV State U (with Jim Cornette). His non-local schedule is just a couple of shows, one each in July and August, in Sistersville for WVWA. After that brutal AWA contract schedule, I (he) can use the rest.

16 to Life is in the can, a lot of work, but I have to say I absolutely enjoyed the hell out of it. They're hoping to premier it in Huntington in September, you're all invited. Got some coverage in this week's (6/21-6/28) Graffiti, photo of our boy, who's mentioned in the text as Bill Bitner (professional wrestler). Holy fuck. Take my job and stick it up your ass.

Met some very cool people on this shoot, got an offer to come up to Toronto (TV simulator Dominika had to be there Wednesday for some pre-production shit, and so missed the wrap party, mores the pity, but things still worked out) and be in a film that will start shooting in late August, but its a six week shoot, there's just no way I can be gone that long. DAMN it. I really hope I'm building up some good karma having to turn down all this great shit- wrestling in Puerto Rico and Nova Scotia, now movies in Toronto- to stay here with Lum and fucking Abner.

Got some new offers to act in some more local stuff, that was neat, and flattering, though I may have gotten myself kicked out of the The Brothers Of The Badge which is due to start shooting next month.

I'm at the wrap party, I'm staying the night so I'm all about getting hammered, I'm six into the Rolling Rock before I've been there 20 minutes. I'm having a very good time chatting up one of the- I don't know what, she carried a clipboard and took down all of the camera settings and light settings, I don't know what it’s called, she was a strapping, athletic lass, played basketball in high school and college, tall and buxom, I noticed her during the shoot, obviously, and we'd talk at times- she's also a comics fan, she said, totally unprompted, that I'd be great as the Comedian if they ever film Watchmen, which you have to know endeared her to me no end, but I was doing my professional thing as Danny asked. Also, she was always wearing practical shit during the shoot, party night she's dressed for the occasion, short black skirt, beige tank top that really shows her superstructure off to good advantage.

B: Damn. When you dress like a girl, you're hot.

She wasn't offended- I'm reluctant to use her name cos I'm never sure who's reading this thing, and some folks don't appreciate me telling tales out of school, which is understandable, but telling tales is what I do- we hung out for a while as I said, just chatting- she doesn't drink, some kind of health nut or something- she's got a bad knee herself so we were commiserating over how much joint pain sucks when this guy intrudes, says he knows me, which may be so, but I don’t know him, and I REALLY don't like guys butting in when I'm making time, especially when I'm toasted, first thing I say to him is-

B: Can't you see I'm working here, dumb ass?
Eugene: What?

He starts going on- I don't know if his name really is Eugene or not, that's what I kept calling him in a fucking with him kind of way, and he never corrected me- about how he's with BOTB, and the WV Film Institute, and all this other wank that just doesn’t mean a shit to me at the moment, I have far, far more important things on my mind, at one point he's trying to snow me I'm sure, but he starts talking about their next project after BOTB and guess what it's going to be? Yeah, exactly, ANOTHER serial killer movie, how terribly original, Christ on a fucking cookie sheet, and again, guess who they want to play the killer? EXACTLY. Fuck's sake, what is UP with this shit?

We finally ditch him, before he can come back-

B: Would you like to step out on the porch where it's more private?
Film Girl: I'd like that just fine.

Thank you, Santa, and you can keep the bicycle. But as I'm closing the door behind us I hear-

E: Hey, Bill, wait up.

Well, I didn't. I acted like I didn't hear him, which didn't stop his socially stunted ass from following us out onto the front porch. I'm patient with him for maybe two minutes, while he again starts nattering on about some self important bullshit that really has zero relevance to my life and desires at that moment. I can't take it any more-

B: Man, you need to go the fuck back inside.
E: What?
B: I don't know how they do it where you come from, but where I'm from, when a guy and girl go out on the front porch, we leave 'em alone.
E: Why?

Jesus. I was about to call him a homophonic name- also known as a slur- when Film Girl intervened.

FG: Eugene (and yeah, she called him Eugene, cracked me up).
E: What?
FG: GO AWAY.

And he reluctantly went back in the house, giving me a dirty look as he did- like I fucking care.

B: Thank you.
FG: My pleasure.

And it turned out to be. We stayed out there till the sun came up- maybe an hour or so- and I've had worse times in my life, I can tell you.

That's about all I can tell you tonight, as I'm knackered after all the beer- let me count the bottles- 16, feels like more than that, but I haven't gotten much rest recently.

In a week, maybe two, they'll make you a star
Weeks turn into years, how quick they pass
And all the stars that never were
Are parking cars, and pumping gas

Later

Bill