Wet Brain Todd Versus The Glaswegian

Wet Brain Todd Versus The Glaswegian

10-3-12

There were four passengers on the shuttle: Felix, (a tall, lean Vietnam Veteran with a hat stating so), Wet Brain Todd, a small young Eastern European woman, and myself. As we waited for Time To Go the driver and I were talking about China’s new aircraft carrier. This went on to the dispute between China and Japan over a set of islands. Felix, whom I know to have opinions worth hearing, entered the conversation. He began to make a point, and I was happy for his input.

However, Wet Brain Todd, who had appeared to be unconscious, began mumbling. As the mumbling didn’t seem to be words, and Todd’s eyes were closed, Felix assumed it was drunk sleep babble, and attempted to wait it out. When the mumbling lulled we all assumed Todd was done, and out. Felix resumed speaking,

And so did Todd. He apparently thought the subject at hand was not worth a discussion, because “IbeenAfghasstanIkillfifteenmuhfuhkin’people. Sowhat? Maaaaaaaaan.” All this with his eyes closed.

To be clear Todd was not in the current conflict in Afghanistan. He’s 50, going on 51. He claims to have been in Afghanistan when he was 17. He’s claiming to have been in Afghanistan in 1978. When we had NO ONE in Afghanistan.

He also claims to have had a Fight Club behind Gilley’s, where he’s made $500 a night fighting people.

Todd says many things.

Felix attempted to resume talking, Todd would not let him. He kept slurring some crap about “Iknow’bouthisshit”.

The tension finally peaked when he said “Nonono. Iwasinthemilitary. Iknow.”

At which point Felix leveled a look so incendiary that I thought Todd’s breath and hair would catch fire. He then announced that he was going to be quiet, as he didn’t want to be the source of disharmony. There was some minor back and forth between the two men, but an unhappy silence descended over all of us.

There was a feeling that things could turn really ugly with one wrong word. Todd had even offered to step outside with Felix, though the latter was too civilized to indulge. It’s an awful form of tension, and we smothered under it.

About 90 seconds later I spied a cyclist approaching through the mist.

“Incoming Bike”, I announced. The driver moved to help the rider rack their bike. Unfortunately Todd, now awake, noticed my turn of phrase.

“Incom’nbike? THATsoundsmilitary, maaaaaaaaan!”

‘Fuck’, thought I. ‘This will be the worst ride ever.’

Then driver and rider entered the shuttle. The new arrival, a man from Glasgow named Chris, said in his burr “Hoo’s eerrrywahn doon tanay’?”

Most mumbled ‘alright’.

Todd said “Hey, ‘scuseme. Wha’youjus’say?”

“Doon’ werrry, suhn. Whan ye bin in the coontrry a coopla yeuhrrrs yull beguhn to pick oop tha acsuhnt. Yull underrrstahn’ tha prrroper Anglish we speak ‘roond heerrre.”

“Wha?”

“A coopla yeuhrrrs. Yull be floont.”

I was snickering at the lovely break in tension, but this wasn’t the end of it. Todd had more questions.

“A’youGerman?”

That brought the laughter. Felix followed up with, if I recall correctly, “Can’t you hear he’s Russian?”

More laughter.

“Nuh. Se’iously. Whe’yafrom?”

“Istanbul.”

More laughter.

“Huh?”

“He’s a big Turk, Todd.”

“Really?”

More laughter.

Meanwhile we’d set out for Kittery. During the ride every time Todd said anything it was instantly upended by Chris, and spiked by Felix. He finally just sat and looked mystified at everything that Chris said.

Eventually even the young woman, who had been trying to be quiet, and avoid notice while Todd was ramping up, was laughing freely.

As we neared the end of the ride Chris said “Ut’s ulwehs an advainture ahn the shuttle. Yuh ne’errr know hoo yerrr gwin to meet. Boonch a crazay Uhmerrrricans. And a Scotsman!”

“I thought you said you were French!” said Felix, as Todd said something like “Wait, wha’?”

Todd stayed on, the rest left, and we all had a laugh. Todd fell asleep in his seat.

As he was leaving Chris pulled up next to Todd’s window and pounded under it to wake Todd up. He then shined his bike light into Todd’s face.

“Wehk oop! Ye’ve to goo hoom! Arraight?! G’Naight!” And he rode off.

As we stood outside reviewing the ride, from in the shuttle the driver and I heard “Thefuckdude! Thefuckin’sjgagndanognroagaoighhjsdhgk!” 90 seconds later Todd figured out how to undo his seatbelt to come out a yell at ME for waking him up.

The driver corrected him and pointed at Chris’ back as the man pedaled off into the night.

Swaying in place and confusion, Todd said “Awmaaaaaan…”

And I left, thinking at some point I need to thank that Glaswegian for rescuing that whole situation from awful, and turning it into one of the best gut laughs I’ve had in while.

Reminded by Portugal 3 Denmark 2, Group Stage, Euro 2012

You get used to things

And

In so doing

Assume

Some things

Must be

And can’t be changed, that to even try would guarantee failure & looking foolish for it.

June 2002

I’d become used to

Toilets full of blood I couldn’t explain

Nights bereft of memory

A life of neither hope nor direction

Mornings of “Whose blood is that?”

And

“Do I have any friends left?”

And when my drinking failed to kill my unnamed hurt

I hoped it would kill me

But it failed to do that.

I assumed that there was no other way

No possibility of my sobriety

But I had no other ideas left to try.

So I spent several insomniac nights

Channel-flipping

Chain smoking minutes

My drying blood turning liquid once more

Cop Shows

Sit Coms

Politics

Reruns

Infomercials

The 2AM Litany of Loathing

The background noise of a certainty that this was doomed to fail

I was sure to die of drink.

Cop Shows

Sit Coms

Politics

Reruns

Infomercials

Why bother drying up? Dammit it’s too late to buy whiskey…

Cop Shows

Sit Coms

Politics

Reruns

Infomercials

Soccer.

Stupid drunk: you forgot the World Cup was starting. Is this a repeat? No, it’s in Asia! It’s live at 2AM! Hope?

USA! Vs

Portugal.

We’re fucked. Portugal are tipped by some to win it all.

We’re going to lose, and I’m going to die drunk.

But USA won

3-2

I accepted the challenge,

The gauntlet thrown by our National Team doing what was assumed they couldn’t possibly have done,

And I have done for myself

What I assumed I couldn’t possibly have done,

And have done it now for 10 years.


Chris Walters, June 2012

Shuttle Trip 6-4-12

Shuttled to and from town for sugar, for Full Moon creative endeavors. Mildly eventful trip.

Thought I was getting harassed by 20 somethings fresh from D-Street. "Nice Cane. Hey you." was said to my back. It reminded me of the times way-the-frak-back when 40 somethings from Wally's/The Old Bridge would say to the back of my mohawk/spikes "Nice hair. Hey kid."

I made up my mind that, like the bikers/redecks of old, I would ignore them. But, should they push the issue, and not leave me alone, as running from the event was not a possibility, extreme measures (headbutts, biting, scrotum-hook on newly-finished cane put to any possible use) were acceptable. I figured I could take out one before the other 2 (3?) took me down. Some consolation prize for the pain and inconvenience of beating, but you take what you can get.

Nothing happened.

Got to PoPro, they came in after, and one of them had a cane. A shitty, collapsible cane. Nothing was said, which pleased me.

Turns out "Nice cane" wasn't intended as a threat; it was a compliment from a child (even if he's legally entitled to pickle himself) with the manners of a mentally impaired house-cat.

I returned to the shuttle, and mentioned to another passenger I'd seen around for years about what happened. We reflected on dumbasses mouthing off, and I mentioned how I wish the Old Bridge still existed to send such people to.

We ended talking about one of the toughest men in The Old Bridge, Mario. I'd actually been thinking about Mario lately, wondering what became of him.

I'd see him at Richardon's. He'd come in and say in his heavily accented English "Heeeey, buddy! Howyou?" "Great, Mario! What's happenin'?" "Fine, buddy! Fine!"

These things I knew about Mario: He was Cuban, didn't speak English well at all, and had arrived in the 70s, or 80s. I thought he possibly arrived in 1980 expulsion from Cuba, but didn't know for sure.

He had some of the darkest skin I'd ever seen, and, though decades older than me, the features of the Gerber Baby.

I also knew from stories in the neighborhood that Mario was a Grade A badass. This is a man who stood maybe 5'5", weighing 150lbs if that, who was known to knock down with one punch men 300+lbs. In a dive bar.

I'd heard he was a boxer in Cuba.

I learned tonight that he had been on his way to being a major champion, winning 39 fights. Then Castro.

Mario hated Castro, not just on spec, and for the ruining of his country, but personally, for ruining his career.

He'd ended up in prison for murder (circumstances I don't know), and had seen someone die there every week.

In 1980, when Castro cast out all the "undesirables", the mental patients, the prisoners, the counter-revolutionaries not worth killing, Mario was released, and put on a boat.

He happily left Cuba, and set sail. For what he thought was Miami.

But was actually Portsmouth, NH. Imagine his surprise...

But he liked it, and never left.

"Ilikehere! 'stoofuckin'cold, butIlikeit!"

After what he left, Portsmouth, even in barely-civilized 1980, must have seemed heavenly.

Mario always elevated my mood when he came in, always so cheerful, and genuinely friendly. Turns out that was in genuine appreciation of what he had. I'd been thinking about lately, and was glad to find out all this about him.

Turns out he died a few years ago. Not surprising, given his age, and the intensity of his life. Gator, the owner of Wally's and briefly The Old Bridge, paid for his funeral. There was no plot, or interment of ashes, however. Mario's ashes are in the basement of D-Street. The man who told me said he liked to believe Mario would be happy with that, which kind of made sense: he spent all his time at TOB, and seemed to like a dive.

This man, though, said he'd been looking for a way to contact Mario's family in Cuba, and see if they wanted his ashes. I thought that was pretty cool, and hope he succeeds.

Until then, Mario rests in an environment that, while not luxurious or restful by most standards, is NOT a Cuban prison, and therefore "Fine, Buddy, fine!"

Walters' Rules of Wrist 3-30-12

If you hate anyone Jesus doesn't like you. End of.

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A politician who is after a government job by saying the government is evil is as trustworthy as Fred Phelps offering blowjobs to join his church.

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Saying to a trauma victim "Get Over It!" about anything is good way to, at best, lose a friend, at worst experience some trauma of your own.

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Saint Pat's

Once upon a time I planned to create an occasion-specific outfit for St. Patrick's Day. It was devised in reaction to the BeingIrishMeansBingeDrinking, and other assheaded misconceptions in this country.

I was going to wear a suit of orange, with England flags scattered about.

"green represents the Gaelic tradition of Ireland and the orange represents the followers of William of Orange in Ireland, with white representing peace, or a truce, between them."

"A Protestant, William participated in several wars against the powerful Catholic king of France...Many Protestants heralded him as a champion of their faith."

You can imagine how that suit would have gone over with any true Irish, or anyone who knew their history.

One of the last St. Pats I drank I was in the Press Room at the beginning of Amateur Time. I was at the dartboard end of the bar, with what turned out to be 3 elderly Irish men, all strangers to me and each other, and all quietly drinking, with new and welcome friends. We chatted. An old Dubliner bought me a drink. Men of kindness, and character, all wearing green in understated ways that didn't demand attention, but asserted itself nonetheless.

While none of them liked the way the day was celebrated here, none had any animosity towards the young and stupid, something that puzzled and impressed me with its sharp contrast to my own feelings. We parted as friends, all to their homes about 6:00 PM.

I realized that my Orange Prick Suit would have only offended these men, that no one else in the place would have even understood. I gave up the idea. Regardless of any skepticism to religion I harbor, or how I might prefer history to have gone differently to suit my morality, in the here-and-now (or there-and-then) I had met good people, and my life was better for it.

My Irishness is as remote to me as it is to most Americans. The brief look I've had at my father's family tree revealed a number of Mc's, O's, and Mac's, though many of the Mc's and Mac's are Scottish. None of my Celtic relations are more recent arrivals than the 19th century as far as I know.

However, those three decent men at the Press Room, whose names I've forgotten, impressed on me that there are indeed some great things about Irishness, and they do indeed deserve celebration. Maybe one day this country will know what they are.

Old Piece of music redone

Conceit

It had synth guitars, and sounded like it had synth guitars. I recorded real guitar parts because, unlike at the point when I wrote the piece, I can.

New Piece of Music

This is the piece I've been working for a couple weeks, originally written last summer.

I had a number things I wanted to do with it, but my recording program decided that it was going to play funny jokes with timing. I might redo the work next week.

I forgot to do an MP3 mix, so it's kind of bright. You may have to add bass.

And it's long, and seems somehow overture-like.

It's not done, but I'm pleased so far.
Dreams_So_Self_Important 

Edit: New Version, different solo as of 2/9/12

Last Night's Musical Composition

18hours 

There's some hint of Siouxsie and the Banshees, as well as other early 80s postpunk acts.

There will probably be a week of mixing, and composition corrections, but I like it. Arpeggios are vastly underused in most music.

Tune I reworked

Away.

Walters' Rules of Wrist 7-26-2011

When you act like a loudmouth douchebag, and/or a bully in a public place you become "That Guy". Your friend, even if he's trying to dissuade you in your actions, is "The Other Guy". Don't expect gratitude: he was probably happier to be anonymous.

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You don't get to decide others' opinion of you. If your view of yourself doesn't jibe with their view of you, one of you is missing something. If you object to their opinion then doing more of what formed their opinion is probably not going to change it.

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If your opinion of yourself is solid then their opinion of you shouldn't matter to you.

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If you can't remember how much you had to drink at any given time in the recent past you probably drink too much.

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If you can't allow your friends to hold their own opinion you don't actually want friends, but acolytes.

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Expecting people to "Know Better" isn't always fair. Tell them. They may have been raised by coyotes, and have no reason to suspect that they're bothering you. If you tell them and they don't care that's cause to walk away.

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No matter how much someone cares about you, being turned into "The Other Guy" is too high a price to pay for your company.

My Message to the Orange Muppet...um...Speaker of the House

I have rarely been so disappointed in an address by a public official. Sir, you sounded clownish as you firmly held to the Tea Party line. The American people WANT COMPROMISE. We do want tax increases on the wealthy. Tea Party polls are the only ones that will show otherwise.

It has been apparent for months now to any thinking person that the congressional Republicans only want to embarrass the president, not to solve any problems.

How is that patriotic? How is that in anyone's interest?

Making the president look bad, and causing him to lose the next election will not give your party any better ideas to fix the problems that were largely caused by your party.

Instead of trying to get out of blame do something worthwhile. Come with some ideas that don't make it harder for the poor and easier for the rich.

Rush Limbaugh doesn't have the answers; he makes $100,000,000+ a year making some Americans afraid of other Americans. His interest is not America's interest.

The Tea Party may have gotten many of your colleagues into office, but they have no useful ideas.

All I ever hear from your party is a dogma of Don't Tax The Rich (Oops) Job Creators, or They Won't Create Jobs. You know what? They have low taxes, and aren't creating jobs.

So I'd like to thank you for reaffirming my suspicion that your party doesn't care about the country.  If there was no Fox "News" you'd have no media speaking for you at all.

In my lifetime I have not voted for one Republican. It used to just be because of the unwillingness to disavow the Religious right. This Tea Party/Limbaugh foolishness is just making it worse.

Lincoln and Ike must surely be saddened.

I Want a Raven

Those who've read A Game of Thrones know that Lord Commander Jeor Mormont has a raven that sits on shoulder and says...things. (Those who haven't read it also know that now.) Some things are innocuous like "Corn?" when it's hungry. Other things not so much, like "DIE! DIE! DIE!" after the man details the possible outcome of a mission.

Doing some research I found out that ravens can in fact be taught to talk, in a mimicking sense. They imitate other animals, including people.

I want one. I want a big black raven to sit on my shoulder, and say...things. With my tourettes this could be AWESOME. Some things I would teach it to say, others it would just learn.

When it was hungry I'd teach it to say "Porn?", and being a bird it would have no manners, so if it was ravenous "PORN! PORN! PORN! PORN!"

If it was with me in the last week we'd both be ticcing "Cock". This would, of course, stay with the bird, even after my tics change for the season.

"Porn? Porn? COCK!"

There's a Woody Woodpecker cartoon that I'm quite of, where a stuttering wolf from Florida somehow gets saddled with a baby billy goat. I haven't seen this in 20 someodd years, but I can't forget lines like "Heah now. Have some Moo-Cow Milk, Milk, Milk, Milk", or "Take a chaw on that Billy Boy, Boy, Boy, Boy."
Imagine my raven hearing the name Billy, and before someone could say "Joel" this bigass black bird squawks "Boy, Boy, Boy, Boy!"

People would of course want to approach my bird, at least in moments when it was being calm, because that's what people do to others' animal companions. They'd probably say the usual shit they say to parrots, and it would go badly for them after that.

"Who's a pretty bird?"

"Twat?"

or

"What's your name, pretty boy?"

"FUCKER!"

If my bird and I spent any time with a certain gay friend with a crude sense of humor I could imagine someone saying "I'm going to go get some paint", met with "HOMO DEPOT! HOMO DEPOT!"

Watching episodes of 'House' with me would lead to

"ASS! ASS! ASS! ASS!"

We could even have a little call and response. Say I encounter a douchebag.

Me: "Douche!"

Bird: "BAG!"

The more I think about this the more awesome it sounds. If I lived somewhere that I could have pets I be tempted to try it. Unfortunately I don't.

And with birds being excitable Market Square Day could be like a limping, winged tourettic convention, each influencing the other to greater depths of compulsive crudeness.

Bird: "Porn? Porn? Porn? Porn? COCK! Twattwattwattwat! ASS!"

Me: "Fucker."

Bird: "FUCKER! FUCKER! FUCKER!"

Me: "Shut it, you noisy twunt!"

Bird: "TWUNT! TWUNT! TWUNT! TWUNT! {quork}"

Cop: "Sir, your bird is drawing complaints."

Bird: "TAINT!"

Me: "Cunt. Oh shit."

Cop: "WHAT?"

Bird: "TWAT!"

Alright, that outing wouldn't end well at all, but it makes me laugh to picture it. Yes. I have a 13 year old's sense of humor sometimes. But dammit, I want a raven.

A Critique of Modern Swearing

This is the piece that I read at Beat Night, July 21, 2011, which seems to have caused someone to unfriend and block me on Facebook.

I hate the way we swear, either in oath or curse. This is no social criticism, but an artistic one. In exasperation even Jews and Atheists will say “For Christ’s sake!”
           “For Christ’s sake, will you hurry up?”
            If you don’t care about Christ why would his sake matter? That’s like saying “Take your time”, almost hipsterish in its useless irony.

            When I swear so it’s by something that matters to me:
           “For the love of fucking would you hurry up?”

For an oath people say “So help me God” or “May God strike me dead…”

Just words from most people. Your oath needs collateral, to be backed by a currency more stable than air:

“If I lie may my vocabulary evaporate, and my manly bits wither like paper in fire.”
            For short: “By my cock, it’s true.”

At the very least one should swear by deities one actually believes in.

“By the Almighty Murphy’s hairy and pendulous man-boobs, I tell you true!”

            In general people don’t consider the meaning of the words they say. Even when using clean language to be unkind, we get it stupid. Men will call each other “woman” to suggest inferiority and worthlessness. That’s stupid. I love women, so if a man is worthless he couldn’t possibly be one.

That calls into question other commonly abused words of insult: “Pussy” means coward? For the love of fucking, I love pussy, and hate cowards, so they can’t share a word.

            Unfortunately I’m having to give up my favorite Anglo-Saxon word based on this logic, but that word could get me burned at the stake or gelded in the US, though I use it the UK manner in place of Asshole. Yes, the Cunt Word is fading from my usage. So is twunt, a Neologism of obvious origin.

That brings me to my final point about swearing. When swearing AT someone we intend to unbalance them, to disarm them through shock or anger. How can phrases we’ve all heard do this to someone who isn’t stupid?

            There’s a Northern Irish comic book writer named Garth Ennis with such a gift for rhetorical crudeness that I will often forget the plot of story, as I mull the meaning of a phrase.

“Shower of Cunts! You’re a shower of fuckin’ cunts!” said one of his characters. I felt clubbed in the head by this, and surely would have surrendered in any argument with the author. All I could think about was how I couldn’t extract a real meaning for the phrase, and that it fit perfectly to the tune of the Addam’s Family theme. (The band joined me with finger snapping for a brief rendition of the theme.)
            People will say “Fuck you” when angry.

            “No thanks, I’m seeing someone.”

            Or “Blow me.”

            “Nah, I prefer innies.”

            But if someone said “Fuck your mouth in the ass!” I’d have no reply.
            Off the rack phrases are powerless, and words have meanings.

So, by the briney rumpled foreskin of Poseidon, & for the love of all that’s fuckable think before you cunting swear!

My friend Amy died this morning

This was a woman who, in addition to being younger than me, was an eminently better person. She was kind, and thoughtful, forgiving, and fun. She was ravaged by mutating cells, that changed parts of her body into foreign, harmful tissue. She had cancer.

In all the memories people have shared of her "Coffee and a Cigarette" were as ubiquitous as they were in her life.

I am having a stereotypically masculine reaction to this event: I am angry. I can't stop seeing the imbalances in life, the randomness.

Why is it that someone who did only right by people is dead, after a terrible, wasting illness, yet there are others alive who do nothing but steal, lie and manipulate, who berate, and demean others.

I was offered news of my ex-wife today. I refused this. I don't want to know about her unless her life has fallen apart.

I suppose I'm directing my rage against someone who gives offense by their choice. Being angry at cancer is useless; ire at Amy is foolish.

My ex chooses to be a liar, chooses to ignore her own patterns, chooses to use others. She knows she does it. She said as much to me. I hate that she has friends. I hate that her life isn't one endless karma-bath. She has never done anything good for anyone without expecting something in return, even if it's years later.

I hate the way death affects me, leaving all nerves raw, all scabs picked. I started thinking about Amy, and all the good times with her, and I started to well up. I couldn't take crying. So I'm angry.