I'm just a poor wayfaring stranger 
Traveling through this world of woe 
And there's no blown out knees or shoulders 
In that bright land to which I go

When I was old they gave me a model factory . . .

Hey

As always- well, far from always, rather, as has been the norm recently- it's been a while since the last regular issue, so I thought I'd do one tonight. Getting ready to leave town, not sure when I'll have time next, and since I have it now . . .

Thanks to everyone who sent condolences about Doug, I appreciate them deeply, and will pass your kind thoughts on to his family.

As for my family, my Mom is about the same, the girls are both well, Sarah back at FDU and busy, Rachel at Concord and adjusting. My kids are both adults attending college. Sweet Jesus.

As for my knees and shoulder . . . I don't want to talk about it.

Been asked, in person and over this thing, if I think Sarah Palin is good looking. The way she dresses, I can't really make up my mind. I think I need to see her naked.

(WANT ME TO GET TO WORK ON THAT?)

Would you?

To jump right into the "What's Bill been doing", well, the title of this issue is literal. I've been helping Doug's Dad, Phil, run this scrapyard in Nitro (wish I was playng guitar and singing for Cream, but alas). By run, I mean deal with every squint eyed, gap-toothed moron who wants to haul in whatever hunk of metal trash they've scrounged, or more likely stolen, so they can get a few bucks and go get even drunker than they were when they came in. I can sort of understand the attraction of "scrappin", it really is like money for nothing-

(AND CHICKS FOR FREE?)

I hate that fucking song. Didn't used to so much, but I do now.

(HOW ABOUT CHICKS FOR FREE?)

I wouldn't know. I never had one didn't cost me something.

Anyway, folks bring in- and being the people person that I am, I hate ever motherfucking one of them on sight- anything from a plastic Kroger bag ("Grandma, this scale don't weigh in OUNCES") of pop cans, to a car- I grade it (here's where most of the trouble occurs) weigh it, and then look on the chart (prices dropping daily) to see what we're paying for it, do some cipherin', and then write them a check. It seldom goes that smoothly. A few examples.

Numbfuck #1 rolls in with a pickup bed full of tire rims. Aluminum ones go for (at that time) $1.20 a pound. Steel ones go for $6.50 per hundred pounds, or .065 a pound. Why? I don't know and I don't care, that's just the way she is.

I lift a big heavy steel rim out of the truck bed, and Numbfuck says-

Numbfuck #1: That's aloomeyum. 
Bill: Pretty heavy. Feels like steel to me. 
NF #1: Nawp. Aloomeyum.

Incidentally, if there's one person in one hundred in WV who can correctly pronouce "aluminum", they haven't been by the scrapyard in the past month. So I put the magnet to it- in the biz we call 'em "mags", we also have two great big steam shovel looking mags for big ass jobs, the smaller one we call "little mag" and the big one we call "thunderbird"- again, don't know, don't care.

Bill: Magnet's sticking. 
NF #1: No, it's not.

I let go of the mag. It clings to the side of the rim.

Bill: Yeah. It is. 
NF #1: Aloomeyum's magnetic too.

I admit this is funny now, but at the time . . . I wasn't in the fucking mood. I'm pretty much never in the fucking mood. Still, I HATE a fucking scammy bastard, particularly a big, ugly unwashed one who thinks I'm as goddamn stupid as he is. I threw the rim back in the bed.

B: Get the fuck out of here. 
NF #1: What? 
B: Get the fuck out of here. I'm not buying your goddamn rims.

He tried to bluster, ha, no fucking hope there, so he got back in his truck- and drove in a GREAT big circle around the yard, and then back up to the scale. That kind of cracked me up, so I figured I'd give him another chance.

B: You here to sell them steel rims? 
NF #1: Yes sir.

Example #2

The guy that runs the mags- that would be little mag and Thunderbird and what a swell job that must be- I'm being serious-is this dyspeptic- I started to call him little, but he's not, I guess he justs acts little- fucker named Ronnie, who has three adult children each one more worthless than the next and who keep him in a constant state of agitation, which I'm genuinely sorry for, but which also isn't my fucking fault, nor problem, nor is Ronnie, with his generally pissy attitude, going to make it my problem.

I can't wear tennis shoes there- OSHA- and my only hard shoes that aren't dress is that pair of Army boots that I used to wrestle in. First time Ronnie saw me-

Ronnie: Damn. You here for combat? 
Bill: Yep.

Which prompted Ronnie to start calling me Rambo. Funny, for real. Clomping around the yard in my short pants and combat boots makes me look as redneck deranged as any scrapper coming in, which I figure is a good thing.

However, Ronnie can't mind his own business, which is running the damn mags and not bugging Bill, no, he's ALWAYS coming over to the scales and bitching about what Phil and I are buying, and for how much, like it's any of his business. Why? Fuck if I know, didn't I just call him dyspeptic?

So, NF #2 is there to scrap a bunch of radiators- there are three kinds, you know, and they come both clean and dirty- and for no reason I can discern other than that he's a trouble making idiot, Ronnie drifts over and starts giving this guy all kinds of shit for not cleaning his rads first, that is, taking all the rims and metal screws out and leaving, in this case, the pure aloomeyum- excuse me, I been spending too much time at the 'yard- aluminum, core.

Then he starts bitching at me, and wanting to know how I'm going to grade these damn dirty radiators, and how much I'm going to pay this guy for them, which is none of his fucking concern. I think I've already said something about me and my mood.

Ronnie: Let me ask you something. Who's going to have to pull all them screws out, me or you? 
Bill: Well, since I know it's not me, my guess would be you. 
R: That's right. 
B: Okay, let me ask you something. No matter how I grade these radiators, or how much he gets paid for them, you still have to pull the screws out, right? 
R: Right. 
B: Then I'll grade them. You go over there and pull the goddamn screws out, and quit being a pain in my fucking ass.

He puffs all up and stalks off to the building (that's what we call it). By the time I get in to write NF #2 and his dirty radiators up, Ronnie has stormed into Nancy's (the big boss) office.

R: That goddamn Rambo thinks he's Special 007 Number One! (I almost fell on the fucking floor). 
Nancy: That WHO thinks he's WHAT? 
R: That goddamn new guy. He's out there telling me what to do. 
N: What did he tell you to do? 
R: Pull the screws out of the dirty radiators. 
N: You do have to do that, right? 
R: I was the one told him I had to. 
N: Then if you told him . . . I'm not understanding- 
R: Aw hell, just take his side!

And he storms, glaring, back out past me. It's a crazy, crazy ass place- and it's not "work" cos it's part time and temporary, I was still bitching about it the other day, but like Debbie said, "Look at it as grist for the mill" which is a good way to look at it indeed.

Moving on . . .

Bill's Household Tip #117. Had to get a new computer keyboard since last issue. All I'll say is you should be careful what you do in front of your computer, and how vigorously, or you too could knock- I don't know, something oily- over into it and have to get a new keyboard yourself. Word to the wise and all that.

(FUCKER GETS SLIPPERY)

Yes it does.

What's Bill drinking? Rolling Rock, probably not all that smart since I have to go to Lexington, KY, tomorrow, don't really want to have to stop- especially since I'm not driving- every twenty miles to spray my guts out, simple enough to prevent, though. If I don't eat between now and when we get there tomorrow around 6 pm, there won't be anything TO spray. So drink up, Billy.

In the "how wet was my summer", since I got asked, and was also curious myself, let's see. I'd stockpiled 25 twelve packs of Rolling Rock here downstairs to serve me once I was no longer working, started in on them around the second week of June when Al went to his too good for him reward at Quarry Manor- saw him just tonight, he's doing disgustingly well- had four left the first of September (drinking the last one tonight). Twenty one times twelve is- hold on- 252. Say there's ninety days in a summer, that comes out to less than three a day, although I don't drink like that, I drink in bunches. Add in the drinking at MC once a week (that's usually only like five or six a night) for say fifty or sixty more, plus whatever I drank in those bars uptown- Chili's, O'Kay's, the Glass- plus drinking after the matches in Parkersburg, plus that fifth of Bombay I used to provide a nice gin drink every now and then on an especially hot day, plus all that tequila and beer that went down the old booze pipe at Joe's party, plus the pint of Evan Williams that Cash and Cross, aka the Murder City Devils- fine boys and fine workers- bought DFZ just cos they love him, and I drank- I don't know, in whatever trailer that was I ended up in.

That was how wet my summer was.

Rachel was in Labor Day weeekend (her being less than two hours away now is wonderful), we watched both 28 Days Later and 28 Weeks Later, they weren't bad, but they weren't all that good either, I thought they could have done a lot more with the concept than they did, but that's just me.

We haven't had a contest in here for the past few summers, I know summer's almost gone, but let's have one now, get on you.tube and then vote for which Tom Jones doing "It's Not Unusual" you like best, the black and white one from '65 (hand clapping, finger snapping cool at its finest) there are a couple different ones from '65, this is the one posted by painmonkey, or something like that- or the in color one from This is Tom Jones '69 (also some cool moves, plus neat '69 visuals). Both are fab as fuck in my book, as is Mister Jones.

What's Bill been reading? My Mom found a cache of old mystery paperbacks in the washroom when she was "cleaning", (trying to find my drug stash, more likely) a bunch of Ian Fleming Bonds (Thunderball, Live And Let Die, From Russia With Love), read them all before, in fact I have them in a hardback comp I can see from where I'm sitting, but I read them again anyway, one can never read too much Bond, plus a Hamilton Matt Helm, The Betrayers, good, but he/they are no Fleming/Bond, and a bunch of OLD- one is an original 1949 printing- Erle Stanley Gardners, a bunch of The Case of Whatever, dated, but good, in bed, getting ready to go to sleep reading, and I mean that as a compliment.

Also got around to reading the latest Mojo, which is one of the few rock mags I still read, for great Brit writing like this, describing a Neil Young concert (which he enjoyed) "Young bumbles about the instrument strewn stage like your Dad searching for weedkiller in the shed". Perfect.

"I hate the stink of flowers!" Reggie "The Crusher" Lisowski

Still on the wrestling you.tube kick as well, besides that addictive old Jap wrestling (anything from All Japan with Race, Hansen, the Funks or Brody is fucking gold), also check out the insane old promos, Superstar Billy Graham is an unintentional stand up comic of the first order, love his promo from CWF where he maniacally celebrates being "The Florida State Champion of the World", claims "I represent the belt, but not the people" (great line) and when Gordon Solie tries to cut him off raves "I don't want to go off the air! Give me TIME, Gordon Solie! Give me time to TALK ABOUT MYSELF!"

I promised DFZ some time (to talk about himself), and he's been busy as fuck since last report- I know I keep saying he's going to slow down, but fuck me running, he's crazy and I'm possessed . . .

There's some good new on line DFZ photos, Joe, don't post this till I stop by your house Monday.

DFZ defended the Unified belt at some company picnic- I know, but the pay was good- at this park in Washington, WV, against Shane Storm, dirt easy match, but hot as fuck as they set the ring up IN THE FUCKING SUN, we were also promised food and beer, the beer didn't materialize- some guy offered me a clandestine Coors Light, thank you, no- so I went ahead and ate, after my two hot dogs (one bun) the guy on the grill wanted to give me one of the hamburgers they'd made special for the wrestlers, I'm thinking "yeah, the ones you spit on", but they looked and smelled great, and were big as fuck, so I took one, bit down and the thing was full of blue cheese. Delicious. I had two (two buns).

Also worked once for this new fed in Huntington, UWA, apparently I promised the promotor in the locker room at another show I'd do his, didn't remember it (this bad brain thing, I know) but I stuck to my word, barely, went down and did a three minute curtain squash cos I wanted to get to MC, notable only cos during the finish I tweaked something along the back of my already iffy right leg, which would come back to haunt me later.

The Wednesday after the UWA show DFZ went to the Barbour County Fair in Philippi for a Belt Vs. Belt match, AWA-MWA Unified Vs. AWA Apex, Death Falcon Zero Vs. Big Jake Dalton (who was big- 6' 4", 275- but not named Jake Dalton). The Apex belt is that Southern WV/Tennessee title DFZ was going to win earlier this summer before they got cold feet.

Not much of a match. Big Jake couldn't wrestle his way out of his damn cowboy vest and hat, which I was warned about before we went out, tried to feel him out in the back as to his capabilities, which was a waste of time, what little he said he could do in the back he couldn't do in the ring, he fucked up a suplex, bad, I went to give him a neckbreaker- called - to cover it up, and damn near broke his neck for real when he didn't go with it.

Worst part was when I went to throw an exploder. I really wanted to get it in cos it's a move I love, it looks great and makes DFZ look strong as fuck, especialy hitting one on a big old cowboy, and they were filming this for DVD release. We'd gone over it before the match, his part is dirt damn simple- down, and then up, how fucking hard is that?- I'm doing all the damn work. So we're working, I call it, lock it in, say "down"- and the mother fucker jumps.

Now I've got to muscle his big sorry ass over with no help, that or drop him on his head. I get him over but I can feel my ruin of a right knee- I remember when it used to be my "good" one- start to go, I come up on my toes to try and protect it, and feel this cord of fucking fire shoot up my right leg from my heel to my butt.

I guess I pulled a hamstring, I don't know. It hurt like firey fuck for a couple days, then was just sore from my knee to my ass for a while, I limped bad for about a week or so, but it's better now. Sore, but better. Oh yeah, and I pinned that fucking Jake and took his damn belt. When I got to the back Mike looked at me kind of disappointed, I guess cos he didn't get a better match for his DVD, and said-

Mike: You just sort of mauled him out there. 
Bill: All I could do.

And it was, swear.

This computer can suck a bag of dicks, it just fucked me again. Fuck you, Computo, I'll do it over. And see your circuitried ass in hell someday.

The ring- we're back at the BC Fair- was set up out in this corral- how appropriate- but we actually got dressed behind the stage where the bands performed, they had some dressing rooms back there, half dozen or so, and semi-nice at that. DFZ evicted a couple jobbers and appropriated one for his own self as soon as he arrived- it's good to be champ- and, coarse as it may sound, not long after arrival dragged S II in and bent her over the dressng table . . . to be repeated after his match, as well. Have I noted it's good to be champ? That cheerleader gimmick she wears is just too damn convenient, just flip up that short skirt, and down with the panties . . .

S II was looking for a place to stay a while back, asked if she could move in with me. I was tempted to say, "Well, let me ask my Mom," but instead opted for the equally apt, "Darling, you couldn't afford the rent," which is true. She thinks she was walking funny after a single long night in Fayetteville, the poor child would be bedridden- pun intended- if she actually lived with the Death Falcon. Jeez though, if I still had that place out on Harmon's Creek . . .

What else? Pinned erstwhile Grape, Raw Talent, last Friday in St. Albans for XMCW (look for the Death Stars to show up there soon, with S II as valet), then the next night had a really good, fun match in Parkersburg with a new kid, Hans Hackenschmidt (and his name really IS Hans Hackensch . . . not really). DFZ was supposed to continue his program up there with the Snakeman, but he quit the fed cos DFZ was being too rough on him. Well boo fucking hoo.

I admit I worked him super stiff cos one, he's a fucking sandbagger-

(IF YOU GO UP EASY, I PUT YOU DOWN EASY. IF YOU GO UP HARD, I PUT YOU DOWN HARD).

-seems perfectly fair to me. And cos two, cos I fucking hate him. However, when I'd stiff his shit, instead of giving it back, or taking it up with me in the back, he went crying to Mike and Brian who, quite rightly, told him, "deal with it", and his way of dealing with it was to bail. Hey, all to my good, now instead of working with a useless pissfuck, I can have some fun matches with Herr Hackenschmidt.

Heading off later today to go to some film festival in Lexington with Brian to meet with Sid Haig and Bill Mosely, aka the Devils' Rejects, not that thrilled myself, but Brian's all about it, he's got a shit pot full of settlement money he's dying to spend on making a rafting slasher movie, with the bad guys being the DR plus DFZ, and he's got the DR on the hook. I'm just looking for a good time this weekend, some drinking and hanging out and maybe nailing some gullible, nubile film fan, "You ever seen Johnny Boy . . . "

Anything you want to say in closing?

(ONE MAN'S FETISH IS ANOTHER MAN'S FAITH).

Yes it is.

Later

Bill