Tonight,
something happened that I could have never expected. Imagined, sure. I can
fucking imagine any goddamn thing. Expectation, however, is a far cry from
imagination. I did not expect to go down to Hooper’s Bar where my wife works to
pick her up and see not just her tipsy as hell—a rarity—but also the guy I call
“Robert One” sitting at the other end of the bar. Before I go too far let me
tell you something about “Robert One”. First, he’s about three years older than
me and believe it or not I do respect my elders, which is why I am “Robert Two”.
Second, he’s a Chicano, meaning a Mexican-American, and people of the Latino
persuasion and I get along as well as cats and dogs. This guy though, he’s different.
Much different. I like him. So when I went up to him and put my arm around him
and said “Orale, carrum” (That’s O-RAH-LEY, CAR-RUM—roll the r) meaning “What’s
up, my good friend?” he did not punch me in the face.
Don’t
walk around saying that to just any Mexican. You will get your ass handed to you.
After
talking and a few drinks, he asked me where I got my SECURITY shirt. “Bouncing,”
I said. I used to do a bit of that and so I got a shirt. No biggie. He also
asked me what size I was. “I don’t know,” I said. “One-XL.” He nodded. After
awhile, he went back to his buddy, another Mexican of equal awesome
personality, and I went back to my wife. We looked up shit on Facebook, a place
I hate more than any goddamn sewer I’ve ever crawled through because I’m fairly
certain more shit slides through Facebook than any sewer could possibly hold.
Okay.
So there’s that. Skip to a few hours later. I get home, blown away by a gift I received
tonight, and set myself to chill mode, trying to calm down from my happiness. I
see this picture of my Grandfather Paul Ladwig holding me as a child, and as
much as I try not to, I get back to thinking on that most warped, ruthless,
horrible, fucking twisted period of my life that I’d give anything to stop
goddamn dreaming about while everyone else goes on about their goddamn business
not knowing what it’s like to have your own father try to kill you numerous
times. I’m sure the day will come that I work up the courage to write about the
vile things Robert Alfred Tannahill II did to me, but I balk mostly due to the
fact that he did serve in the Marines and I respect Marines, not to mention
that to speak ill of a veteran of any foreign war is absolutely verboten, even
in the writing world.
Well,
fuck that. So what if he was a Marine. I know he fought hard for our country
but he was also a ruthless cocksucker that made many, many peoples’ lives—not just
mine—hell. That aside, like I said, I look at this picture of me at about age
six, this cute little blond haired, blue eyed boy full of magic and promise in
the arms of his Grandfather, also a veteran of WWII and since deceased, and I
wonder how I could have been so goddamn weak as to allow my pile of shit father
and—oh yes, and—my misguided sister to murder that little boy. I do not know
what my sister went through because her stories change. I never saw my father
do anything to her but that means little. All I know is her stories change,
mine don’t, my father murdered the sweet Straight-A student I used to be and my
sister was more than happy to help. So blame, blame, blame, right? Oh shit,
here goes this asshole, this writer, this fucking scumbag talking shit about
his Marine father and his pedestal-deserving sister because they flicked him a
few times.
Yeah.
It was just that simple. A few flicks. No, April and I didn’t throw knives at
each other for fun…wait a minute—yes we did! One time I shoved her gums into
some kind of aluminum can, tuna fish maybe. One time she tried to put a
cigarette out in my eye. One time she stabbed me in the back of the neck with a
salad fork. And one time I kicked her in the guts so hard her intestines went
from one side of her belly to the other and she almost died. I almost died too,
if that makes you feel better. I bled a lot from that goddamn fork. A LOT. This
being as it is I imagine my father may have very well done many of the things
April accused him of, like child molestation. Fuck me. That’s hideous, isn’t
it? He may very well have molested her and I know for a fact he beat and
tortured me every single chance he had, he had a lot of cop buddies, and was a
total psychopath…or sociopath. One just does shit and the other plots. So there
you have your difference.
Is
there anything linear about this? No. I don’t think so. But then, that’s why it
is placed here instead of in the main blog, “Where Brains and Balls Go Fuck
Each Other (I mean Collide! Dammit!)”
Ye
fucking gods, April and I hurt each other just as much as that pile of goddamn
human waste hurt us. That dirty, hateful, lunatic, punching, twisting, kicking,
eye-gouging, nail-driving, torturing, sensory depriving fucking FUCKER! Yeah.
He must have hurt my sister. He had to have.
Well,
back to earlier—“Robert One” gave me his GWAR shirt. GWAR, as some of you may
know if you care, is one of my favorite bands. I think he was more shocked by
my reaction than I was by his gift. I almost fucking wept and I don’t goddamn
do that. I’m not afraid to cry, but it takes a great deal. Instead, I ripped my
shirt over my head being that he had complimented me on it earlier and gave it
to him.
“Dude,
why are you so surprised?” he asked.
“Because,
brother, I ain’t used to this shit,” I said. “Folks don’t just give me stuff,
ever.”
Does
that happen to you folks? Do you come up on various unsuspected gifts? Maybe or
maybe not. I know I’ve never had much money and my longest friend, John Bruni
(once again, more shit a lot of you know) received a gift very similar from me
once. The first year we knew each other I gave him my SCUMDOGS OF THE UNIVERSE
(GWAR’s second record) CD for Christmas because I had nothing else to give and
he bought me a few gifts.
Whatever.
I was fucking blown away. People usually think of me as a complete bastard fuck
because much of my father’s bullshit has rubbed off on my own attitude—I know
my own family isn’t very thrilled with my existence, and so be it—but this guy
who barely knows me gave me his GWAR shirt.
If
there’s a point here it is never give in. Keep going, no matter what any
cocksucker has done to you in the past or whatever cocksuckers think of you.
Fuck haters—don’t bother to hate them back, shit, they may be doing you a
favor. For all I know most of my readers are either haters or thieves though I
hope I am wrong. No matter the case, never give in. A person you barely know
just might give you one of the best gifts you’ve ever been gifted in your
entire life.
Tonight,
I’m not thinking about Rockford.
Tonight,
I’m not thinking about April.
Tonight,
I’m not thinking about my father.
Tonight
I am only thankful for people like “Robert One”.
