8/23/04

The Unfortunate Birth

It's a work, you idiot.

Hey

What's up with Bill? Still trying to recover from last issue's 53 beer weekend. I think that's some type of personal worst, that's far, FAR too much beer to drink in that amount of time, and it takes a true asshole to do something like that. Speaking.

For most of the following week I had the headache from whatever's beneath hell-probably my room- a truly alarming case of the shakes, which have thankfully dissipated- horrific acid reflux and gut burn, a really messed up sleep pattern, and a real fuck the world lethargy. No wait, I have that last one all the time. A diet of buttermilk for breakfast, poached eggs and creamed spinach for dinner- real invalid food, but it would stay down- has gotten my stomach as back on track as it gets, no beer since then has helped the head aches, the shakes just stopped on their own, thank God, but I'm still feeling pretty puny. Charlie came over to work out in the ring last Thursday, thought it would do me some good to try and sweat out some of this shit, man, I couldn't go 30 seconds without having to stop, heart just pounding, and for no more than I did, I was sweating tons, at one point Joe said, "Do you realize you're steaming?", and I was, just one big steaming mess, like a freshly dropped pile of dog shit.

However, this is not meant to sound like a "Poor Bill" deal, it's meant to sound like a "You stupid fucker Bill" deal. And while I truly appreciate the concern of those of you who wrote in and expressed it, as some true poet (who was drunk at the time) once spouted, "I don't deserve your pity, don't deserve your care/What I deserve is the fucking electric chair".

This issue's opening quote by my good buddy, Bobby Blaze-

(HEY, HE'S MY GOOD BUDDY TOO).

Oh, sure. You've just busted his head wide open with a big metal box, and blacked his eye twice with errant elbows, cost him the CPW Heavyweight title when you tripped him and held down his ankles when he was wrestling J.T. Lightning there in Huntington last year, and have jumped him during or after at least 3/4's of the matches he's had since you've met him.

(I'D SAY IT'S A GOOD THING I LIKE HIM. THINK WHAT I'D I DO IF I DIDN'T).

Whatever. Anyway- God bless it, you idiot. You made me forget what I was going to say about Bobby. Seriously.

(SORRY.)

Okay.

(NOT. HA! YOU REMEMBER WHEN EVERYBODY USED TO SAY 'NOT'?)

Yeah, it was stupid then, and it's stupid now.

Chris sent me an e-mail regarding the best androids as mentioned last issue, he brought up, as he calls her (and I concur), the luscious Sherry Jackson, who was a TV, not movie, android- from the Star Trek episode "What Are Little Girls Made Of", written by the great Robert Bloch for you trivialists out there- but certainly well worth mentioning. And showing. Joe . . .

Coincidentally, I watched said episode last week, along with most of the others, Sci-Fi network was showing the old ST reruns during the day all last week. Never a Trekkie me, I like or dislike them on an episode by episode basis. It's all good stuff to watch though- some of the very worst ones can be the most entertaining, like when they meet the space hippies, which if I were a serious fan I'd hate like hell- while you're lying brain damaged on a couch sipping buttermilk like an old woman.

Got a bunch of books from this mail order discount place last week, some for as low as a dollar- SSSLB!- which was good timing, since once my head cleared a little, reading, other than, you know, watching Star Trek and drinking buttermilk, and an occasional something we won't talk about, was about all I felt up to doing.

Reread "Dark City", an excellent study on my beloved noir films, I'd read the library's copy a few years back, now have one of my own, and for only six bucks. An even better bargain- a dollar- was this book on zines, which are sort of what this is, people just writing and publishing their own shit about whatever. Some of the stuff in it was boring, so as a public service to you, I've skimmed some of the more interesting facts- did you know Evel Kneivel broke an astounding (to me, anyway) 433 bones in his 15 year career? Since he should only have 206, like the rest of us (I assume) that comes out to breaking every bone in his body more than twice. Every fucking bone in his body more that twice. That is fucked up.

There's also this guy who works in a nursing home who had the inspired idea to come up with a different question or topic each week, and then go around and ask the folks there at the home what they knew or thought about it. The topic reprinted in this one was the Beatles-

"The Beatles! Manny, Moe, and Joe!"
"I don't know from no Beatles. I never worked for them, they never worked for me."
"They're good singers. They're good Americans."
"They sing and chirp around."
"That's as far as I go." (?)

My far and away favorite was "Jim and Mister Peanut", a little one page excerpt allegedly from "Huck Finn", where a stranger swims out to Huck and Jim's raft late one night, and it turns out to be the fucking Planter's Peanut Man. This is one of the funniest damn things I've ever read in my life. I'll probably type in in later and send it to Joe so he can do a link and you can read it yourselves, so check the site for it here in a week or so.

Also read this big old thick book titled, and about, "Gallagher, Marriott, Derringer, Trower". I saw it in Border's less than a year ago and thought its subject matter quite bizarre- all guitarists, for those pinheads among you, but to be fair, all four had their heyday way back in the 70's- none of whom are remotely popular now. I figured there'd be no market at all for this book, and I think I figured right, since I got it for less that a third of it's cover price less than a year after it was published.

I found it a very interesting read, a few things gleaned from the book for your edification-

Robin Trower's lead singer on all his good old stuff- "Bridge of Sighs", etc, James Dewar, this little Scots fucker with a great big voice, has been stroked out and basically gorked since '83 from "excess". Didn't know that, and sorry to hear it, old Jimmy had an excellent voice and seemed to be a nice guy.

Joe stole the riff for "If We Go Down" from Humble Pie's "As Safe As Yesterday". That wasn't in the book, I was listening to old HP while reading the Marriott segment, and finally realized why that ASAY riff sounded so familiar. Not that it bothers ME, I'd steal the riff from "Happy Birthday To You" if it were decent.

Dear Gay Steve may have had more on the ball (ahem) than I gave him credit for. Right after he first went over into gaydom- which he did in my very presence, that’s a story for another time- he was constantly pointing to people, in real life and on TV, and saying- "He's gay". "Oh, come on, Steve." "No, he is, I can tell." One of the guys Steve pegged as gay was Edgar Winter Group bassist Dan Hartman, while we were watching Don Kirshner's Rock Concert- you youngsters missed out on so much, MTV my fucking ASS- there in the dorm- Derringer was guitarist in that band, hence the connection. I thought everyone in the band looked gay as fuck, it was the time, Danny certainly didn't stand out. In fact, I've got some old glam photos of me I need to haul out for ya. Well, old Dan came out of the closet in '90, died of AIDS in '94, which he allegedly caught from Freddy Mercury. So okay Steve, you were right about one out of 300.

Finally, old Rory Gallagher, also dead, which I knew, but he died bad, that is, unhappy, which I didn't know and which bothers me. He died of an infection after liver transplant surgery, but what screwed up his liver was drink, combined with prescription drugs. People think when I say, fuck no, no fucking meds for Bill, I'm trying to be some macho hard ass goof. Not at all, there are tons of prescription meds that just do a goddamn number on your liver, magnified exponentially if you add alcohol, and with the way I drink . . . not worth it.

What drove Rory into excess drink was despair, which seems doubly sad to me cos he was always described in every interview I ever read anywhere, as such a genuinely damn good guy, personable, honest, intelligent. But his career bottomed out cos he wasn't flavor of the week-ish, and he had nothing to fall back on, no woman or family- apparently he'd gotten absolutely gutted by this woman he was very much in love with at an early age, and just said "never again", which I can totally identify with, but at least I've got 25 years of memories and 2 beautiful kids.

It's sad too cos he was such a funny lyricist, I don't think he always meant to be, I think he was just rhyming whatever came into his head, like in the wonderful "Laundromat"- "I don't have no clothes to clean/To put inside the machine". Loretta used to get a kick out of that one as well. Ah well, RIP Rory (and Steve Marriott, and Dan Hartman, and James Dewar's mind).

If I was a cradle, then you'd let me rock
If I was an outlaw, you wouldn't have me caught
If I was an atom, you'd split me into three
But if you're not true to me baby-

(I'LL KICK YOU WHERE YOU PEE).

That's not how it goes.

(HOW IT OUGHT TO).

Time to move on.

Didn't spend much time out at my parents again this week, just felt too bad, especially since the one time I did go out there I wasn't there 5 minutes before my Dad was furiously yelling at me to "Press the Squash Button!"

B: What the fuck?
D: The Squash Button! On the clicker, dumbass!

If you're not a nut job like my Dad, that translates to "press the mute button on the remote". He really is insane, he's gotten to where the split second that a commercial comes on- any commercial- he presses the Squash button, so he doesn't have to hear it. On that rare occasion when he doesn't happen to have the remote in his hand, he screams like a damn crazy person at whoever's closest to it to "PRESS THE DAMN SQUASH BUTTON!" This is even starting to get to my Mom, she made him go downstairs and watch TV the other day cos he was just getting so batshit weird and obnoxious.

Saw where he was reading that Mickey Spillane book I mentioned a few issues ago, he didn't like it either. My Dad did say he served in the AAC, on Bermuda, with Mick's cousin. "He was a damn idiot" was my Dad's assessment. Seems this guy decided he'd had enough of military life, so his first plan was to stop bathing. Guess he thought he'd stink 'em out. Didn't work, his C.O, had some MP's forcibly bathe his ass, and apparently that was an experience he didn't want to repeat, so then he started acting gay, a pre-Klinger Klinger, if you will. Surprisingly, to me anyway, that did the damn trick, and they discharged his ass, my Dad said he sent them a post card from NY once he was out, sort of a "So long, suckers" deal.

My Dad couldn't understand it one bit, he wasn't in love with the service, but he loved Bermuda, "I could see him doing it if it was the Aleutians or something, but Bermuda was a great posting". Beautiful weather, friendly locals, a beach real close to the base where you could meet friendly female locals in their bathing attire, tons of bars where a cold 24 oz. bottle of Heineken would set you back exactly one quarter- sounds like a lovely place, indeed.

I need to compile a list of my Dad's service stories, here's one from his Bermuda days that never fails to give me a chill- and no, I haven't seen "Open Water", and I don't intend to, until it's on DVD and I can get all buzzed up so I can get the nerve up to watch it.

Bermuda's not known to be a particularly sharky place, but if you put it in the water, they will come. One of the diversions there at the base was to take this little 18 foot whaler that they had for their use there, out on the ocean, and one of their regular trips was on trash day, when all the town's trash was hauled out to sea, and dumped in. Unsurprisingly, this attracted a veritable shit pot full of sharks, some pretty damn big ones as well, my Dad said more than once they'd look down to see sharks bigger than their boat swimming underneath it, he also said he saw one come up partially out of the water one time to take a bite out of this bloated and bobbing horse's corpse, said the width of that damn shark's head went from the horse's shoulders to it's hips. Fucking hell.

Some of the guys got their kicks popping off at the sharks with their M-1's- hey, I'm all for that- but my Dad was never into that, and he quite freely admitted it made him more than a little nervous being out there, he kept thinking, what if this fucking boat sinks- so he didn't go on these trips too often.

That's just sort of to set up this tale. A couple of my Dad's buddies were coming back to the base about dawn one morning after a night of pub crawling, and they see this enormous shark washed up on the beach. My Dad said they later measured it out at about 17 feet, which is too damn much shark in my book, he didn't know what type it was, my best guess, it being Bermuda, is that it was a big tiger shark. Anyway, this one drunk bastard thinks it'd be just too funny if he climbs into the shark's mouth, leaving just his head sticking out, then his buddy can run screaming to the barracks and get everybody up to come see, and they'll all think poor old Sid, or whatever his name was, got hisself shark et, then he can come popping out of it's mouth, and it'll just be a damn hoot. Yeah right. I have never been that drunk in my life.

Anyway, idiot number one keeps trying to climb in the shark's mouth, and he can't seem to get very far. Something's in the way. So they look, and find out the reason why this guy can't get down the shark's throat is because there's somebody already there. I'd have loved to see the look on their faces.

They never did find out who the guy was- my Dad thinks he fell off a ship going by, cos he wasn't a local, and he may well have drowned before Mister Shark came along, which I sincerely hope- nor did they ever figure out if choking on this guy is what killed the shark- although again, I sincerely hope- but my Dad thinks that's what did it, since there weren't any marks on the outside of the shark. So anyway, don't tell me sharks don't eat people you shark hugging naturalist freak, cos I know damn well they do, and so does my Dad. PRESS THE SQUASH BUTTON!.

My Dad also told me some bad news about Dennis Hunt, who works up at Lowe's, and who I know at least Joe and Lori know. My Dad ran into Dennis up at Lowe's a week or so ago, and Dennis told him he's dying. His immune system is fucked, his blood sugar is just insane, 50 one day, off the goddamn scale at over 1000 the next, no matter what he does or eats, been to a bunch of doctors, none can figure out what the fuck's wrong with him, finally one asks him, "Were you ever exposed to large amounts of radiation? Like, really huge amounts?" And Dennis says, "Yeah, when I was in the Air Force. But I was protected." And Doc tells him, "No, you weren't".

Apparently Dennis worked with and around some extremely hot shit when he was in the Air Force- all suited up, obviously- but something went wrong somewhere, cos what he's got is some kind of badass radiation poisoning, and they can't fix it, and they tell him he may have two years left, max. THAT fucking sucks.

Had tons of dreams this weird ass week past, been a while since I've done the dream thing, so-

Had a dream that even though I was myself right now, with all my experiences, I was still only 16, and got myself thrown in the juvenile pokey for repeated underage drinking- go figure. In there were a bunch of guys I knew from working Youth Services, and for Abraxas- I know, this doesn't make any sense- and they were all adults too. A bunch of them wanted to jump me, but one of them, who was Paul Mantee from "Robinson Crusoe On Mars" took up for me, so they didn't. The jail was like this gigantic locker room, we slept on these Murphy bed type things that folded down out of the lockers. Paul showed me this still they had set up, where they threw all their food scraps in, to distill down into their version of bug juice- looked really nasty, all this rotting food, with this sticky greenish black goop running down into this trough.

Right after I get showed the still the warden, who was this creepy, almost demonic looking- and on behalf of everyone living by themselves in the middle of nowhere, QUIT SHOWING those goddamn scary commercials, like for the new Exorcist movie, in the middle of the fucking night- old woman with these great huge eyes, that moved independently, like a chameleon's, comes in and finds the still and everyone is busted, we're in lockdown, no visitors or privileges or anything. Everyone, including my former friend Mr. Mantee, blames me, we've had that still for months, you no sooner get here and we show it to you when they come in and bust us, we think you're a damn plant to rat us all out Mr. worked for Abraxas man, they were all going to kick my ass, I was like, "whatever, come on then, ya fucks", when I woke up.

What's weird is that when I fell back asleep, I was back into the dream, and for my own protection- I don't know if I got beat up or not, I seemed in pretty fine fettle when the dream resumed- they put me in this work release program in this laboratory. I guess they were thinking, "Where is Bill least suited to work?" It starts out pretty neat, all the guys there are nice as hell, and they've got all these robotic gimmicks they use to get around in, like these tripod things, you can sit in a sling underneath and then walk on the walls, and on the ceiling, like 3 legged spiders, and all kinds of other cool stuff. We were doing all these experiments, like bringing inanimate objects to life, at one point I asked, who the hell are we working for, this guy says, "uh . . . Rite Aid", ha, anyway, I notice that as things progress all these guys start fusing to their machines, becoming these sort of cyborg type hybrids, I'm thinking, this isn't good, when I remember I've been wearing these big metal gloves, cos my job was to handle all the radioactive stuff, I go to take them off, and see I've now got these really great, very muscular artificial arms, they looked more glassy than metallic, I can see these various lights shimmering within them, they were actually quite beautiful, and I'm thinking, shit this is WONDERFUL- sincerely, not sarcastically- I can be a hell of a super hero- or villain- with these babies. And then I wake up again.

Had a dream that Chris Schultz built himself this great huge home, and invited me to move in with him, so I did. The house was fantastic, among other things its got this enormous game room, with in home theater, and a shooting gallery like the cops use, and best of all, this trout stream running right through the middle of it. Yeah, the stream ran right through the house, it was neat as hell. In the dream, I get up and am just hungover as a motherfucker, and dying of thirst- as I was in real life, reality impinging upon my dream world here, when I woke up after this one I was so sick and dry I thought I would literally die before I could get to the refrigerator and got a drink- cos Chris and I had been up all the night before drinking Vodka Collins'- this is in the dream, I can see how you'd get confused- and shooting all his guns.

He's like, "Shit, man, you always sleep this late, it's 3 in the afternoon", "Jeez, what are ya, my wife, it's still early". He asks if I want a Vodka Collins, and I say sure, that trout stream is calling to me, cool water = heavenly relief, so as he goes to make us some drinks I ask "Can I lay down in your trout stream?" Sure, he says.

I lay down and it feels good, but as soon as I hit the water it starts to hiss and steam. Another nod to the real world, as my hungover body is legitimately almost inhumanly hot, which Loretta used to bitch about frequently. Chris comes running back in the room, "Bitner, stop goddammit, you're drying up my trout stream!" And indeed, that's exactly what I've done. I look and not only has all the water dried up, but the trout stream itself is now just this concrete gutter running through the room. Chris is raging, "Why'd I ever say you could move in here, you're nothing but TROUBLE!" (Boy, a nickel for every time I've heard that), I'm like, "Can I have my drink?" and he throws it at me, and I wake up.

One last one, this one's on the blue side for those of you offended by such, I dreamt I was onstage in an original movie cast- other than myself, obviously- of "Chicago", which I've never actually seen, but I listened to the soundtrack album countless times against my will while the girls were living here. The female cast are all wearing these cupless bustierres, which left their enormous dream breasts exposed, and no panties, and that was just too much for this boy. I come up behind Catherine Zeta-Jones and start screwing her there on stage- I was also insanely endowed, when I pop my dream erection loose the damn thing hits me in the chin, and no, I don't know what that's all about, I just have these things, I don't interpret them.

I'm having a wonderful time, and Catherine's not minding it one bit either, but I look up from where I've got her bent over and the crowd- who are all family and friends, mine, not hers- instead of going, "Good for ya, Bill", are about to fucking riot, booing and throwing all kinds of shit, and I'm thinking, "Well, if you think that's going to stop me", but then I stop myself, cos unfortunately I wake up. Amazingly, simultaneously, in her own bedroom so far away, so did the real life Catherine Zeta-Jones, and she turned to old prune face Michael and went, "I just had the worst nightmare! I was onstage doing 'Chicago'-"

Since we're getting ready to take a trip back in time, I'm forwarding a scan to Joe of the Bitner family, circa Spring '69. This was taken 3 years after the events about to be related, but you get the idea.

And what a photo it is, the Bitners showing you the many moods of that wonder fiber, hair. I've obviously just come from the Moe Howard School Of Barbering (and Barbarity), that white streak down the middle of my Dad's head that makes him look like Pepe Lepue is from where I ran over his head with my sled a few years previously- by accident- that white streak is exactly the width of where the sled's runner gouged a big crease out of his noggin, and when the hair finally grew back in it grew in white- true. As for my mom, I guess that's how they were wearing it back then, my sisters are both thinking, sure we look cute NOW . . . this is quite the photo. The real American Gothic.

Okay, now for the promised title tale, the unfortunate birth- this wasn't the final straw leading to "Bill Vs. Electroshock Therapy"- which match I'd call a draw, by the way, I think I could have won, but I really didn't want it to progress to "Bill Vs. Mister Lobotomy" cos HIM I don't think I could've taken- cos that was still more than a year away, but I do think it was a big factor in the decision, when it was made.

First off let me say, I lay a large portion of the blame for what occurred on our neighbor, Mrs. Noelet. She lived not quite directly across the court from us there on Acorn Court, nice enough lady, I had her pegged as sort of old, which maybe meant she was pushing 40. The main thing I remember about her, other than all the trouble she caused, was hers were the first real tits I ever saw.

I'd talked my parents into getting me a telescope, ostensibly to look at the moon and stars, but really so I could keep an eye out for UFO's, which were starting to prey on my mind pretty heavily at that time. Never did see any with it, and that's just as well. What I did see one night- even back then I didn't always sleep so well, so I'd gotten up and was looking in all the neighbors windows with my telescope, there being no UFO action- was Mrs. Noelet undressing for bed, going all the way with it, if you will, without closing her blinds. I don't know if they were really all that huge, or if it was just cos I was looking at them through a fucking telescope, but I was damn captivated by her tits, let me tell you. Used to get up many a night after that hoping for a repeat, but it never happened.

The problem was not caused by her telescoped tits, however, but by the fact that when she found out my mom was pregnant, and that I wanted a little brother, she told me if I prayed for one, I'd get him. That damn simple, she told me all I had to do was pray for it, and it was a done deal. And goddamn my stupid, gullible ass- and I'm gullible as FUCK, always have been, always will be, when it's about something that I truly want to believe in- but I honestly thought, well, shit she's a adult, (and I've seen her tits, holy cow), she has to know what she's talking about- I believed her.

So I prayed for a little brother. Goddamn, did I pray. We're talking day and damn night, here. Don't ask me why I wanted a little brother so badly, maybe cos, not to get maudlin here, but I've always, ALWAYS felt really alone, I make jokes about it and shit, but still, my entire fucking life people just do not seem to GET ME, so I'm thinking a little brother will change that, he'll be just like a little me, I'll teach him to play ball and we'll play ball together, I'll teach him to read and we'll read comics together, I'll teach him etc., and on and on and on. I had kind of similar feelings about having a son- though obviously there's nothing I would trade for my girls- and I've sometimes wondered why in four tries I never got a brother or a son. I think it's probably God saying, "Oh no you don't, I'm not having TWO of you down there at the same time."

So, the day comes for my little brother's birth- hell, I had his ass already named, and you know what's so bizarre, Mister Memory Man here, I cannot for the life of me remember what his name was going to be- my Dad takes my mom to the hospital, both of my Grandmother's are there at the house, they've come in to watch me and my sister Lori while my Mom's in the hospital giving birth- to my little brother- back then they didn't toss new Mom's out nearly as quickly as they do now- and to help with the baby when he comes home. My friend Ronnie and I are playing out in the back yard when my Little Grandma- the heimus one- gets a call from my Dad at the hospital, and comes out to give us the good news. Lori, who'd been playing inside, comes out with her.

LG: Billy, you've got a new baby sister.
B: I do not.
LG: (A bit taken aback). Yes, you do.
B: I do not. Stop saying that.
LG: But you do.
B: Grandma, I said stop saying that.
LG: (Deciding to press on anyway). Her name's Tina Michelle.

I still remember, she pronounced it with all long 'I's, the 'I' in Tina like in tiny, the 'I' in Michelle like the 'y' in my. That's when it hit me that she was telling the truth. She might joke around about the gender, but she wouldn't make up a name- and mispronounce it.

B: What did you say?
LG: I said her name's TYna MYchelle . . . what's the problem with you, boy?

Well, the problem was that in about 15 seconds I was going to go completely (and some might say irrevocably) insane.

Go find yourself a big electrified power cable and stick it straight up your ass, and you might start to act like I did then. I started to twitch uncontrollably, and began making sounds like "Gnnnnnk. Eeeeeek. Bnnnnnnng,", my eyes started revolving in their sockets, and I'm pretty damn sure I was foaming at the mouth. If I'd been flat on my back it'd have been a stunning rendition of Frankenstein's monster getting ready to come up off of the slab.

I don't know what possessed Ronnie to go grab the water hose- maybe even back then people instinctively knew, Bill's in dire straits, he needs a drink, but dear sweet child that he was, he ran and got the water hose and brought it to me, Here, Billy, here, take a drink of water. Maybe he thought I was choking, I don't know.

Well, I snatched that water hose out of his hands and gave him a mighty blast with it right in the damn face. This part of my nature is why I won't keep firearms in my house, and I'm being as sincere as I can be. Ronnie had just inherited the stepmother from hell, and was surely going to catch hell for coming home wet, and somewhere inside me I knew this, but it was as naught to the fucking mania, in a few short seconds I gave that kid the water hosing of his life, head to toe, soaked, and every time he opened his mouth to protest I squirted water in his mouth, he went to run home and I tripped him and he went sprawling in the mud, more shit for his stepmom to give him, and continued to hose him while he was down.

Something smacks me in the back of the head, HARD, and I whirl from my dousing of Ronnie to see Little Grandma, all four foot whatever of her, drawing back her fist to take another swing.

Oh no ya don't, grandma- I thought, cos I sure couldn't talk- and I hosed HER right damn square in the face. Her glasses go flying off of her withered old head, and she staggers back, but give her credit, she comes for me again, so I hose her again- this gives Ronnie the opportunity to run for home, where there may be an evil stepmom, but at least no fucking possessed playmates. I hosed my Little Grandma relentlessly, driving her back toward the house, I hosed all the hairpins right outta her head, so the bun she normally kept her waist length hair in comes undone, and she looks now like some Apache woman, or witch, with this long white hair all down her back, but she couldn't take the continued hosing to the face, so she retreats to the house.

All during this time Lori has been running around the yard wildly, shrieking at the top of her little lungs, and pulling her hair, I don't know what was up with that, if my madness was contagious, or what. I couldn't tell if she was fer me or agin me, I'm thinking, just stay outta my way kid and you won't get hurt- cos I truly and for real could not speak. Words simply would not come.

The second wave now appears, in the form of my Big Grandma, wielding a broom. "BILLY! You stop that right- GLUB! AGGH!" Hosed her dead bang in the mouth at 20 paces. She staggers back into the house, half choked- we're talking my 70-some year old, in poor health grandmother here- but not before I'd hosed the glasses and hairpins off of her ancient head as well.

But as I've noted before, I come from feisty stock, and they weren't done yet. Her comes my Little Grandmother again, holding one big frying pan over her face and swinging another one wildly, making a noise that sounded something like AYIYIYIYIYIYIYIKILLYOU!, if I hadn't already been out of my mind I think she'd have scared the life out of me. God bless, I still have nightmares. That frying pan over the face was a fairly effective defense against the hose, so much so that she didn't retreat into the house until I'd picked up a big rock and threw it and hit her in the knee with it, giving her a cut that later required stitches. This would be my other 70-plus year old grandmother.

It's no wonder everywhere we lived when I was a kid we always had trouble with the neighbors. Can you imagine looking out your window to see some crazed kid squirting the hose, that most other families on the block, including yours, only use to water their lawns or wash their cars with, at this old Apache witch who's got a frying pan over her face, and is swinging another one at the kid, while a little girl runs around in circles screaming and pulling her hair, all three of them squalling to the tops of their damn lungs in some wild ass savage tongue that has no resemblance whatsoever to the King's English, or any other language spoken by humans, for that matter? I mean, would you want to live next door to that?

(I WOULD. SOUNDS ENTERTAINING).

Yeah, well. My Big Grandmother comes back to the door, to holler at me, "Billy, we're calling your father!"

Oh no, you just THINK you are. Hose in hand, I go inside to stop them. Apparently they've foreseen this, or else they just got lucky, cos they're on the upstairs phone- and the fucking hose won't reach. So I do the next best thing. I hose the absolute living shit out of what I CAN reach.

There in the rec room I hosed pictures off the walls, lamps off the end tables, I sprayed the chandelier type ceiling lamp, spun it around and around and AROUND, till it finally broke and came crashing down, totally saturated every piece of furniture. I hosed anything and every thing there was there to hose, finally ending with squirting myself in the face full force from about half an inch away- which gave me the power of speech back long enough to start screaming- "It's a girl! It's a girl! AH HA HA HA HA! A girl! AAAAAAOOOOOOW!" Goddamn, I was out of my fucking MIND.

Meanwhile, my Dad's on the phone.

D: He's got the what? The hose? He's hosing the what? I can hardly hear you for all the noise, what the hell's going on there? In the house? He's got the hose in the house? He's got the- BILLY'S GOT THE HOSE IN THE HOUSE?!? GREAT GOD AMIGHTY! I'm on my way, CALL THE POLICE!

Sometime during my self squirting the hose goes flaccid in my hand- my Grandmothers hadn't called the police, but they did call a neighbor, and the first thing he sensibly did was turn off the hose. That's about the time I went catatonic.

The next thing I remember it's night time, and I'm lying on my bed, and my Dad is in a chair beside it. The rec room is fucking totaled, inches deep in water, busted pictures and lamps everywhere. My grandmothers are also pretty much totaled as well, their glasses just twisted wrecks, much like their poor old psyches. The carnage was just so over the top that instead of being furious, my Dad, that good and true man, was concerned.

He's trying to talk to me about what happened, being very sweet and sympathetic, so naturally I've gotta-

B: Well, the whole thing is really your fault.
D: WHAT?
B: Yeah, they taught us in science that the Dad determines the sex of the kid. So it's your fault, you're the one that made her a damn girl. If you'd just had a damn bo-oooooooooow! OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW! OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!

So much for sympathy, I took the spanking of my life, and couldn't sit down for three days. And so ends the story of the unfortunate birth.

Well, this has turned into quite the lengthy endeavor tonight, I think the longest newsletter ever-

(CAREFUL IT DOESN'T HIT YOU IN THE CHIN).

Uh, yeah. Anyway, I'm out of here.

(ME TOO).

Confession time as well. That no beer since last weekend thing mentioned at the top of the page? I got hammered Wednesday night, and I'm hammered now. Don't like lying in this thing, so . . . now I'm not.

Later

Bill