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6/30/02 Will Frankenstein Never Learn
It's a good thing for me they don't bottle that stuff. Hey All right, here's the fucking deal. Had a couple of long, late night discussions this week with the fucking psycho Death Falcon (yes, I really did, and no, we're not going into it) and we both finally came to the same conclusion. No one likes a mope ass, and it's time to straighten up. Or as DF0 put it in his inimitable way, "You can suck it up, or just plain SUCK, you chickenshit bastard. What's it gonna be?" It got kind of ugly there for a while, he tried to hit me with a Falcon Arrow, almost gave us both a hernia, (you grab yourself by the crotch and around the neck and try to pick yourself up, then laugh) but I can't argue his basic point. You think I'm not lonely?, I told him. You think I'm not sick of still, after a year, thrashing around in bed in a half sleep, reaching for someone who was there for a QUARTER OF A FUCKING CENTURY, but who will never, ever be there again? You think it isn't still snagged in my fucking guts, that the former love of my life thinks I'm a fucking piece of shit? You think it doesn't suck being thrown out of the house you lived in for 16 years, that you bought with such sweet dreams of the life you were going to live there? I still wake up out here in the middle of the night sometimes and I don't even know where THE FUCKING HELL I AM, and then it hits me, and I get quite literally sick, like I want to just fucking curl up and die. You think I don't want someone who's heart talks to my heart, that I don't want to be able to say "I love you" and mean it to someone who's not a kid or a crabby old man? You think I don't hate getting up every morning and going to work for people I don't respect, doing a job I can't fucking stand? To which Mr. Falcon replied, I feel your pain. Now get over it. Okay, you lost a lot, but it is what it is, and all this crying and whining and drinking like a fucking alcohol junkie cos you somehow feel entitled because you've been hurt- fucking please. People that deserved it a whole lot less than you, been hurt a whole lot worse, and they got through it. You like to posture like you're some kind of tough monkey. Prove it. Count your damn blessings, you ungrateful fuck. You think there's not millions of people out there who wouldn't kill to be in your place, to have those kids and crabby old man (well, okay, maybe not the crabby old man). You're blessed, you stupid shit, you have two of the best children I have ever known in my life, that love and need you dearly, and all that flowery heart talking to heart stuff sounds nice, but mostly you just want to cry cos you're not getting your brains fucked out every night like in the good old days. And while you may not have that special someone right now, you're ungodly rich in friends, genuinely good people who truly give a damn about you, I don't have a clue why cos you're an obnoxious git (I'M obnoxious?!), but they do, they've stood by you through all your stupid and self destructive BULLSHIT, and they're there to support you now, okay, maybe she got the house, but you got all the old friends you'd made together, which is worth more to you? As for your job, you've got a sweet fucking deal, you're getting paid more than you're worth, and if you don't like what you're doing, DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT! You want to be a writer? Get off your fucking ass and write. You want to be a musician? Get off your fucking ass and play. You want to be a wrestler? GET OFF YOUR FUCKING ASS AND WRESTLE. Quit making excuses and just fucking DO IT. You're a talented son of a bitch, in lots of ways, and all you want to do is sit with a fucking beer bottle jammed up your FUCKING ASS, going woulda, coulda, shoulda, you make me SO GODDAMN MAD- right about here is where he tried to Falcon Arrow me. I love him, but I swear, the fucker is crazy. Anyway- I thank the Death Falcon for his good advice IN THIS INSTANCE, but he's still driving me nuts otherwise. He's all over my ass about going to Key West (there's THREE of 'em you dickless weenie, why aren't we in the car RIGHT NOW!!), and he still wants to go to Japan with FMW, I think the sick bastard thinks it would be fun (it WOULD be fun, I'm not afraid of ANY of that shit, I fear no man, I feel no fucking pain, and don't even TELL me you don't like the taste of blood, cos I know you do) and he wants to totally shave our head and get Death Falcon wings tattooed on our scalp (BIG ones). Lord help me. Anyway, again, I'm going to try to be more positive, both in the letter and in person, and in my heart, not just on the surface for appearances sake. Six months, 24 (counting this one) issues. Last issue was supposed to be titled Bummer Days (and Bummer Nights), and yes, dear Virginia, that was a take off on the old Beach Boys, Summer Days (And Summer Nights) album, I didn't leave it off because I was lazy, BD., I left it off cos I was drunk. As for you, Caroline, I didn't say you WERE a 300 pound jackoff, I said you were PROBABLY a 300 pound jackoff, jeez, lighten up. To answer your questions (you've also got a separate, more in depth- you'll learn to be careful what you ask for- e-mail coming your way) I'm not much for poets, what do you think I am, a sissy? I like individual poems by a lot of guys (and gals), but I only have one book of poetry that wasn't a textbook, it's the collected works of Yeats, moody Irishter that he was. My favorite poem of his, what else, "The Second Coming." Powerful shit, I think it's one of the best poems ever, by anyone. That, and the one that starts "There once was a man from Nantucket-" If you want to go high brow, I can, but to be honest, I'm more of a Heinlein and McDonald (Ross and John D.) kind of a guy. But if you DO want to go highbrow, that actually would be good, I already got people I can get low with. You familiar with Wilfred Owen? I like his poetry quite a bit. Got ragged on by something calling itself dreamdipper (somehow I don't think that's your real name) by e-mail this week, for being sexist, (to quote my buddy, Nigel, what's wrong with being sexy?) for "constantly" talking about hot women in this thing (as in Veronica last issue), something about equating worth with looks. Well, I could just blow this off, and I certainly don't feel I have to defend myself to a bunch of random dots on a screen, but missy, I think you've missed the mark. I don't just like women, I love women, I ADORE women, and not for their looks, but for their own sweet selves. I have tons of female friends, more than most males, I'd wager, and some of them are pretty damn ugly- they're all going right now, he ain't talking about ME- no ladies, I'm not, I'm trying to be funny, but make a point at the same time. I don't care what they look like, I love and respect women because I do, it's how I was raised and it's what I believe, it's that simple. (Any of my dear lady friends want to back me up on this, feel free). Now on the other hand, if you think I should apologize for saying I like looking at beautiful women, especially when they have their clothes off, and extra especially in real life, you're out of your fucking mind (and I should know). I think a woman's place is wherever the hell she wants it to be, and if that happens be under me- or on top of me, for that matter, love that, love the fucking view- then more power to both of us, is what I say. Don't want to be real hard on you Double D (ha, see I made a sexist pun off of your computer name, just in case you missed it), but you were pretty hard on (hard on- get it?) me, and you don't even know me (or, I guess you don't, these computers are easy to hide behind- that's not you, is it, Ma?). Just so there's no hard feelings, how about this, how about you send me a naked picture of yourself, and if you look good enough I'll have you over, you can blow me while you're ironing my shirts or something. Got a very sweet and uplifting e-mail from Steve S. last week, you're a nice guy, Steve, I appreciate the kind words. Hope you and Geri are just tearing it up in Italy right now, get in touch when you get back, I'll stop by for the video you're so graciously giving me, we'll do some shots of limoncello (hey, I said I'm cutting back- I won't quit till I'm dead). Tommy was complaining last week that his grandmother sent in his freshman (high school) picture to Marshall for them to use to make his freshman (college) ID. I should've been so lucky. For mine (why does this stuff come to the house when you're out of town?) she pulled out one of the family photo albums and sent in a picture of me taken from the front porch, with me standing way out at the end of the driveway in front of a big tree. Maybe she thought they'd crop it, I don't know, but they didn't. I looked like a white ant wearing a blue shirt. Of course, this was also the picture that was printed in the yearbook. Holy hell, and she wonders why I dropped out. Big Daddy stopped by the Charleston office last week, it was really good to see you, son, we're going to have to start getting together more often. He saw a sign that said "Try our MF BLT" (sounds kind of intimidating) at Arby's. On the way to the Huntington office is a sign saying "God Is Great Help Wanted". People. Oh yeah, and don't forget that favor you're going to do me this fall. Now might be a good time to bring up my employment status, everyone pray, or whatever it is you do, that I no longer have a job. To condense, the big dogs called Friday at 4 pm and told everyone company wide that we had to change our billing. Everyone was already done. It would have probably taken me 2 hours (there were no social workers in the Beckley office, apparently they went home after they finished their billing, why not, so I heard Jessie was going to have to do it all, if so, she was there past midnight, I promise- Jessie also baked me a cake when I went back there to finish up some stuff last week, she is such a dear, sweet soul, if she were FUCKING BEAUTIFUL I'd marry her), but I didn't want to, so I didn't, I went home at 4:30. My supervisor is like, if you don't change your billing, I'll have to fire you. Yeah, exactly, make my fucking day, give it to me in writing so I can hit the unemployment office Monday. So then he backs off, well, I'll give you the weekend to reconsider and come back in and do it, it's not due till Monday morning. I asked him not to hold his breath, and of course, I never went back to change it. I need to go in to drop off my expenses in the morning, and hopefully they'll pink slip my ass. If not- well, how can they not, they told me to do something and I said fuck no, they've got to fire me, right? I'm still losing weight, and it's genuinely starting to bug me. Got on the scales earlier this week and I'm down to 207, that's too light for a Death Falcon, man, way too light. I'm one of those weird bastards (well, we already knew that) that when he drinks really heavy, instead of bloating, loses tons of weight. That's because when I'm on the bottle serious, I don't eat. Like, anything. For days. Well, now I'm off the bottle, (only thing in the house right now is a bottle of Wild Turkey, for medicinal purposes only, this is wild country out here, never know when I might get snake bit) serious, and looking to put some weight back on, get fucking horse healthy again (never know when I might be called on to do that stallion thing). Drinking a quart of orange juice in the morning before I leave the house with 6 scoops of vanilla protein powder in it (I'm normally not much for those body building supplement things, if you want to work out because you want to be hard and happy, absolutely, but those freakomorphic fairy fucking pump monkeys give me the fucking pip), eating 4 cans of tuna for lunch instead of 2, there's a bakery there in Barboursville close to the office, probably stop in there the days I'm in town and get a loaf of fresh French bread if they have it, eat that for lunch as well, dip it in olive oil and garlic, good stuff, shit, I forgot, I'm getting fired in the morning- went out and bought 10 (yeah 10) pounds of sirloin, gonna double slice it and eat a couple pounds of steak tartar for supper at least 3 times a week until I can get this weight back on. Also gonna pound on the peanut butter and banana sandwiches. You'll be calling me Abdullah in no time. Bill's recipe for steak tartar. Some people grind their steak, that's fine, I like to double slice it myself, add anchovies, minced (not chopped) onion, fresh ground pepper, and raw egg. The anchovies make it salty enough for me, if it's not for you, add salt. I know you're not supposed to eat raw eggs, but without it the tartar lacks a certain- egginess, I don't know. I do know it's not nearly as good without it. I'm not a wine drinker at all, but I do like wine with steak tartar, if you know wine, a nice dry red is what I'd recommend, if you DON'T know wine, which I don't, ask someone where you buy it to pick a nice dry red for you, which is what I plan on doing, or maybe I'll just ask Martha, she's a closet wino. I'll pick up a bottle this week, if it's any good, I'll pass it along. Time may be catching up with even a freak of fucking nature like myself. Chris and I were talking last winter about how he's had to cut back on his karate workouts cos the wear and tear got to be too much (of course, Chris is older that me). I've been running 3-4 times a week this past month or so, I only run in the summer, because I like to run outside, and when it's hot. I like to run without a shirt on, not because of any vain "look at me" shit, I just like the way that it feels, the sun on my back and chest, I like getting all sweaty without a shirt soaking it up, I even like breathing that hot air that comes up off the asphalt. There's a bridge a mile and a half up the road from here, I've been running up there and back, that's about the perfect distance for me, because I don't jog, I run. I understand pacing as a concept, I just don't seem to be able to practice it (in anything, actually) and 3 miles is about all I'm good for. By the time I get back, my bad knee (the left one, the one with no cartilage in it, the result of a fucked up baseball slide, I didn't like the son of a bitch playing second so I was going for his legs, when he jumped out of the way I realized I was going to miss the bag, so I twisted in mid air trying to snag it, which I unfortunately did, and my cleat caught- you could hear my fucking knee pop a mile away) is screaming, which I sort of expect. What's depressing is that so is my right one. I come home and get the gel wrap out of the freezer, and that helps with the swelling, and the pain, but it still sucks. I figure it's a no-brainer here, just stop running, but I'm not quite ready to give in yet. Gonna brag on my girls a bit, they got their final report cards for the year, only B on 'em was Sarah's in gym, and for her to get a B in gym takes tremendous effort, cos she wasn't born with a lot of physical gifts in that area, the rest of their grades were A's. All the shit those poor babes have had to endure this past year, and they were still able to hold it together enough at school to get grades like that. God love their little hearts, they make me so fucking proud. Rachel made the softball all-star team, quit after only a couple practices. I normally don't let 'em quit something they've started, but the combination of the coaches not having a fucking clue, changing times and places of practices pretty much daily, with no prior notice, you just go to Bancroft, where practice was supposed to be at six, to find a note saying it's now in Buffalo (almost 20 miles north) at seven, along with, how can I say this, "family dynamics", was going to make it real tough for her to participate, and her heart didn't seem to be in it, anyway. Couple obituaries, I'm sure you've all heard Who bassist John Entwistle is dead. The Who was the first band I ever really got into strong, the model Joe and I always held up when we were first starting out, I bought my first guitar, an SG, because of Pete Townsend, well, actually, Joe bought my first guitar, did I EVER pay you for that thing, wait a minute, of course I did, never mind. Also, wrestler Mike Davis died last Christmas at age 46 of a heart attack (my God, Joe, where does the time go). Even his obituary called him a "journeyman", what he was, was fodder, going out and selling every match to make someone else look good. I remember when he won his first match on GCW like it was yesterday, even though it was 23 years ago and I was drunk, he beat Rocket Monroe, came over to talk to Gordon Solie about it, he was excited as hell. Unfortunately for him, Ole Anderson was there, and he wanted to talk about something else, so he pulverized poor Mike for interrupting him, (Ole was always so goddamn funny, he was the most casually brutal wrestler I ever saw). Probably the highlight of Mike's career came in the mid-80's, when Kevin Sullivan, who was possessed by a demon at the time and had mystical powers (they don't make wrestling like they used to) hypnotized Mike into thinking he was Dusty Rhodes. It was ungodly hilarious, Mike comes out doing a spot on Dusty, lisp and all (but no growth on the side), and wins all his matches. Going to start a novel today (thought I was going to say tomorrow, didn't you?). Started 4 in my life, finished none. The closest I got was the 25,000 word "The Beasts Of Earth", which I sent to Isaac Asimov's SF mag. I still remember the rejection letter (not a form letter, a hand written note, still have it). It went, "This is great. Tough, fast paced futuristic adventure, with some real depth and bite to it- and totally unsellable at this length. Expand it to a novel and you've got a winner". The guy who wrote that, Gardner Dozois, also edited (and still does) The Year's Best Science Fiction stories. And he said it was GREAT. So did I expand it to a novel? No, I tossed it in the drawer with the rest of them, and drank some beer. It's no wonder the Death Falcon wants to kill me (or Loretta either, for that matter). Not going to expand it now, either, I'm going to finally finish "Down In The Drains" (only started it in '83, we were just talking about it last movie club) cos it's about 10 times stronger than "Beasts". Probably post the first chapter on the website in a couple weeks, let me know what you think, seriously (yeah, I already know, I'm sexist) It's very hard for me to write longer works though, cos my stuff tends to go- " . . . the monster gave it's last dying spasms as I turned and walked away. She was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. Her breasts were like-" and the reader's going, What the- he was just- oh well, and they read on, " . . . she gave her last orgasmic spasms as I turned and walked away. It was the most hideous monster I'd ever see. It's three slimy heads- " and again, What the hell? First he kills this monster, then he lays this woman, now another monster- what the hell happened in between? To which I respond, I DON'T FUCKING CARE. Make up that boring in between shit in your own damn head, I just want to write about the good stuff. Sex and violence. How in the hell Stephen King can go on for 30 pages about the postman's hemorrhoids when the fucker's just there to drop off a letter is beyond me. "I got a letter. Inside was the flattest monster I'd ever seen (or smallest beautiful woman, depending on what happened last)." That's how it should be done. Spent some more time on the Infernex this week, recorded "In Bondage to Death" top to bottom, just needs mixed, I'll let Joe do that, cos while he's probably the second worst mixer in the world, I'm the worst, I'll fiddle around for 20 minutes only to find I've got every damn dial and switch turned all the way up, it happens every time, may as well just start that way and save the 20 minutes (and before anyone accuses me of child abuse, I don't let the girls even hear the hardcore stuff, much less sing on it). Oh, and by the way, Joe, you know those speakers you loaned me? I blew 'em up the other night, you'll need to bring me some more. If you don't have any more, I guess you can go buy some. Go buy my own speakers? Now you know why I'm so mean to you, dammit. Also finished "We Found It On Venus", had all the instruments done already, had a fun time putting the other stuff on, jammed a mike up to the TV speaker and taped some Japanese language commentary from one of my wrestling tapes, some shrieking from an Evil Dead tape, Martian attack sounds from War Of The Worlds, even some moaning from a porn tape- I, uh, borrowed that one from . . . somebody. As for War of the Worlds- Jesus. Almost 50 years old, and it's still the best invasion movie of all time, just fantastically well done, great script, great acting, I've always sort of had- feelings- toward Gene Barry in this movie, never could figure out why, found it pretty disturbing, actually, and then it hit me the other day- in this movie he looks and sounds just like my dad did when I was little, hard to believe when you see him now, but my dad was a good looker in his youth- and those Martian saucers are the coolest alien vehicles of all fucking time. And those Martians! You can stick your Aliens and your Predators where the sun don't shine, those WotW Martians are the baddest space monsters ever. The 3 nice guys at the beginning, wave the white flag, wanna be friends. The Martians slaughter 'em. The Army shows up, the priest goes out to try and prevent bloodshed, "If you're more advanced, you must be closer to the Creator for it", yeah right, the Martians slaughter him. Then the Army attacks, and they slaughter the Army, even the guy in charge, that never happened in those old movies, they shrug off the hydrogen bomb, the fucking HYDROGEN BOMB, which I grew up fearing like religious kids do God, and they come into L.A. and kill everything, those Martians were stone evil and invincible. I remember I first saw it in the sixth grade, and no movie had ever scared the hell out of me and pissed me off like that before. I'm serious, I barely slept that night, and went to school the next day still worked up as hell, yeah maybe they died at the end, but WE didn't kill 'em so to me that didn't really count, I went up to fat, genial Henry Scheingrub in the hallway, still so damn mad I was cross-eyed, said "Pretend you're a Martian." "What?" "Pretend you're a Martian." "Okay . . . I'm a Martian." Then I hit him in the arm as hard as I could, which set him crying, and me to the office. I apologized later and bought him an ice cream, Henry loved his ice cream, he said it's okay, you can't help the way you are. And if you're saying, oh right, Mr. Hardass has to go hitting on some poor fat kid, why didn't you hit on a real tough case, who might have hit you back? Well, the thing is, when I went to school in Maryland, I was pretty much him (I went to school with a bunch of pussies). I was real quick tempered as a kid, and real quick to use my fists, and if I couldn't get it done with my fist, I'd hit you in the head with a rock (we're talking thrown, here). That's not just talk, I remember one time I hit David Sauer in the head with a rock, so he went and got his big brother, George, and I hit him in the head with a rock, so they went and got their dad, and I hit HIM in the head with a rock. I'm serious. So they went and got the police. The cop finally found me hiding in my closet, I scooted out around him and climbed out my bedroom window onto the carport roof, where Mister too many doughnuts copper couldn't follow. The whole neighborhood was watching, there's 2 car loads of Prince Georges County's finest there, my mom's in the front yard about to expire of embarrassment, my little sister Lori's crying, "Please don't shoot him, Mr. Policeman," the cops are all thinking, "Don't we just wish," and I couldn't resist, I started shouting 'Look at me, ma! Top of the world!" and then doing my maniacal laugh. However, all fun things have to come to an end, my dad was summoned home from work, sort of surveyed the scene and shook his head, then told me, "If I have to come up there and get you, I'm gonna kill you." Which he damn near did anyway, he spanked the living shit out of me with his belt right there in the front yard in front of everyone, nowadays that would get him arrested, back then, the crowd cheered, and the cops all shook his hand. I bet I'm the only 10 year old kid used to get death threats in the mail. From adults. Kind of rambled on here, reminiscing. What the hell. Bill- All right, on this one, I want everyone to play real loud. And
real fast. Yeah, but I love this fucking life. As the King once sang, "The future looks bright ahead." I love every mother fucking one of ya. Bill
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