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Old 01-28-09, 04:18 AM   #101
scot
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Butterfly

once a street performer, always once a street performer.
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Old 02-03-09, 09:44 PM   #102
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Ass Nick Nickolas... stick it up your

I married well and I have good dental hygiene. When I die, I hope I’m remembered that way.

Before I got married I never gave a rat’s ass about my teeth. I remember a dentist saying to me once, “You’ll lose your teeth before you’re thirty.” I was 28 at the time.

I told you that so I could tell you this.

A lot of people have told me I’m good with hecklers, this is not necessarily true. I am really only good with minorities, drunks and children. Intelligent, witty people scare the hell out of me. Luckily, very few of these have ever cared to watch my act for any prolonged period of time.

Not so with Nick Nickolas...like myself, he was a street performer and had to watch all the other acts .

However, Nick was never just your run-of-the-mill no-talent do-one-dumb-trick-for-over-an-hour Brit. He was so much more… he had a business card.

Not just any business card, mind you. Multi-layered folded out into 3 separate cards all with amazing hand-drawn graphics in pen and ink. All this and he was only 18 at the time.

So I made fun of him. I didn’t know the punk and in 1986 I was already the big bad Butterfly Man. So what if I chose to pull out this kid’s card and attempt to ridicule him in front of a crowd of about 50 jugglers in Hawaii? After all, it was and a “Renegade” show … late night … anything goes… right?

Wrong!

Didn’t plan on the little fucker comin’ back at me … and believe me when I tell you this… I didn’t enjoy it at all.

He took me out … in front of all my friends… got laugh with every hurtful and hateful thing he said from the back of the crowd. I don’t remember his exact words but I do remember he made me look like some sort of used up pathetic one-balled piece of American shit. I’ve spent a lot of time since that night trying to repress the laughter he created at my expense.

That was how we met. Rue the day.

Years and years and years went by… Nick and I worked together at a multitude of festivals in different parts of the world. But I’m now wary of his every move and live in constant fear of him during this time. Several instances come to mind.

a) In Halifax he opens the door naked and invites me in to watch his girlfriend Petra attempt to catch puss in her mouth from a pimple she pops on his back.

b) In Key West, he burns his face from fire eating, cuts his forehead juggling machetes and still performs with a broken wrist … all this done in a feeble attempt to make us think he is some sort of trouper. I’m onto his game and steal his straightjacket from a photographer’s car while he’s eating lunch.

c) He offers his flat in Hackney to me while I’m in the UK but I refuse politely knowing how he orchestrated the stabbing of Paddy Bramwells to get Cool Shades off the pitch at Covent Garden.

d) He and co-conspirator Pepé try to get me and my wife to jump out of a plane at 10,000 feet … luckily the weather turns bad so they get her addicted to gambling instead.



The list goes on…

So now, if you are smart, you know two things:

1) I brush my teeth every fucking day no matter how drunk I am.
2) Nick Nickolas is not to be trusted.


So here’s the scene … it’s 5 am in Christchurch, New Zealand … Nick, me, Johnny from Stretch People and Martin Ewen’s hot but psychotic girlfriend Tanya are stumbling back to the YMCA from the local casino where Nick had almost been arrested moments before.

Nick is accosting innocent early risers, joggers and dog walkers. The rest of us feign amusement but are secretly appalled.

We get back to the Y. We are all in my room for an early morning splif before retiring. We are all fading except Nick … the adrenalin from his confrontation at the casino and his progressing dependence on alcohol keep him going.

He throws my hat out the window.

I’ll repeat that.

He throws my fucking HAT out the fucking WINDOW!

What a DICK! I wasn’t bothering him … I wasn’t making fun of the fact he was a Cellini clone… I wasn’t saying how Gazzo’s act was starting to get better than his after the stroke…. I wasn’t even mentioning that the mailbag routine he gave to Petra sucked even when HE did it. I didn’t say shit!

Yet, he throws my HAT out the window!

FUCK!

I go out on the balcony and look over … there it is… on the sidewalk … I yell at a guy passing by … he stops and gets the hat … tries to throw it up 3 stories but it only makes two… it lands one floor below on someone else’s balcony.

FUCK!

Now I have to leave the room. Reluctantly, I dash out and run down the stairway… spy a cleaning lady, who, looking at my tattooed head and listening to my frantic pleading chokingly opens the door to what I think is the right room and allows me to retrieve said hat. Not caring enough about social etiquette and not having any tip money left because I lost it all in the casino, I bolted back up the stairs to my room only to find…

That’s it … you guessed it… everything just the way I left it.

A sure sign he’d done something dastardly.

A sheepish Johnny says, “Goodnight”… Tanya bids me adieu as well along with her beautifull ass. Nick too stumbles off with a fuckin’ grin on his face (a crap actor, as well).

I scour the place.

That’s the one good thing about being anal compulsive… now matter where you are or how fucked up on drugs you might be, you still know where your toothbrush is. Even if it’s in a plastic bag with a bunch of other shit that you have to carry to the shower down the hall. I would never put my toothbrush underneath anything… but there it was…in my ziplock bag lying conspicuously underneath my ugh, razor …ugh, how vulgar!

Of course, my 1st thought upon finding the toothbrush was, “Where’s my camera?”

This might not have been YOUR first thought if you had found yourself in that very same situation but it was mine, but I was right. I looked at the small disposable pre-digital piece of crap camera and smiled. There were only 2 pictures remaining. I knew that I had three. Eureka!

My days reading about “gaslighting” and revenge tactics to get back at my landlady had finally paid off. No way I would fall for the old “toothbrush up the ass” trick. For those uninitiated to the art of pissing people off this is where the perpetrator sticks the victims toothbrush up their ass and takes a picture of it with their camera so that when they get their film back …well, let’s put it this way… it’s too late for Listerine.

So, I simply tossed out the toothbrush and replaced it. Then, like I usually do, I brushed my teeth, masturbated and went to bed.

I awoke around noon and groggily dragged myself to a café where everyone planned on meeting for brunch. Stickleback Plasticus was there amongst others (but no Nickyboy).
As I walked up, I knew what everyone was thinking. However, I pretended not to know anything just to see what they would say.

Pee Wee was unusually quiet … so was Emma. Haggis said nothing … everybody looking at me but nobody says anything… bastards… all of ‘em. Johnny shows up late … he hands me a toothbrush when we meet so I decide to spare him.

My plan for Nick, however, was to be ultra-cruel. I would try be as kind and considerate as possible. “Kill him with kindness” … “that’ll teach him”, I thought.

For the next several years I went out of my way to be nice to that selfish, inconsiderate dickwad. I bought him gas for every beat up piece of shit car that he drove (or stole). I also bought the asshole numerous breakfasts, lunches and dinners and I won’t even begin to mention how much beer that ill-mannered, foul mouthed pig has swilled on my dime.

But despite all my kindness and generosity he has never apologized.

Nick Nickolas has taught me a valuable lesson.

Do all the good you can, by all the means you can, in all the ways you can, in all the places you can, at all the times you can, as long as you can stand the taste of can.
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Old 02-05-09, 09:18 PM   #103
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Embarrassed Sitting on the Far Side of the Drool

Gazzo and BS should be listed as synonyms in the dictionary. Let me explain.

BS is actually an abbreviation for Gazzo’s so-called life… there was Gazzo BS (before the stroke) and Gazzo AS (after the stroke). This is the story of neither as it is the actual story of the stroke itself.

If you want to think back as to where you were on the exact moment of his stroke, I can probably help. Think back now. Do you remember when OJ Simpson was not a household word? When he was just an ex-football-star/shit actor who’s wife was apparently fucking a waiter? Well, picture the moment that OJ plunged the knife into her neck… that was the same day Gazzo had a stroke.

Gazzo and Chris had just had a little baby boy (named Chaney). They had a nice upscale apartment in Hollywood not far from everything. Universal Studios had just started this thing called Citywalk and Gazzo was the very first act they fired. So now he had to hustle his little cups and balls down to Venice Beach, the shittiest pitch around back then.

It was a typical hot fuckin’ day in Venice, Gazzo was pumping out his 5th show at the same spot Michael Colyer used to perform (Al & Sey’s spot now). He is at the part in his act where he is right about to ask the “gay guy” to check his cup and BOOM down he goes. It was awesome! It was like somebody just punched his lights out. He went down like a sack of shit (how appropriate). I begged people to leave him unattended but somebody (I think it was the gay guy) called 911. We didn’t know it at the time but Gazzo had just had a massive stroke… one that would ultimately leave him a vegetable for the rest of his entire life. After we cleared Gazzo’s crap out of the way, Little John went on next, I followed. It was a good day, decent hats.

I, of course, hoped never hear from Gazzo again and looked forward to reading some one-line obituary somewhere but Chris (who I never met) called to ask if I would drive with her to take the half corpse to San Diego for some sort of post stroke hyperbaric chamber therapy. I reluctantly agreed even though I needed to do some laundry that day.

Chris shows up with semi-sag face in the backseat of a big black SUV. I remove all cash from my wallet and stash it in my shoe, as I am still wary of the one side of Gazzo that still works. He might be only half a man now but that 50% was still 100% pure thief. All I’m saying is … you just can’t be too careful, even with cripples.

We drive almost to fuckin’ Mexico on the 405… as we are going south we pass a white Bronco going about 20 mph the other direction with about a million police cars following it … I thought the goddamn president had arrived at LAX just to make sure Gazzo was dead or something. Turns out it was just another moron with not much to offer going the other way. If this image fits, you must admit.

Well, we get down to the holistic, multi-ex-polio-chambered clinic where they sat the two and a half of us down and told us what not to expect for their $7,000/week fee. With no guarantee of recovery they would provide Gazzo with all the carrot/celery juice/bee pollen enema’s his colon could stand. Though I liked the thought of Gazzo using all the money he begged, borrowed or stole (equal measures of each, I’m sure) in an iron lung with tubes stuck up his ass, I advised against it.

It was a stupid thing, I know. I should have let him spend his last dime on some bogus hippie fruit therapy. To this day, I blame myself for him still being around. In my own defense, however, at the time watching him with his dead hand, dead leg and dead brain, well, I thought for sure, this guy is never gonna make it as an entertainer. Turns out… I was so right.

On the way home, we stop to eat at a cheap steakhouse where Gazzo offers to buy me dinner. Actually, it was Chris who made the offer because Gazzo’s had these semi-flaccid lips which made his speech slurred and unintelligible. Actually, he still sounded much like any other retarded Brit … only a bit quieter.

But here’s the moment you are waiting for … Gazzo & Chris sit directly across from me. Gazzo picks up his water glass with his one good hand and takes a sip. He is oblivious to the drool almost immediately coming out one side of his drooping mouth. He pathetically keeps talking, sounding like he just had a labotomy… babbling about this show or that performance or some such other bullshit.

Truthfully, I am not listening. I am staring at the water (drip drip drip) dripping down his dead lips onto his shirt (drip drip) and onto his dead lap. His wife sees nothing because she’s sitting on the far side of the drool.

So I, being the total and complete asshole most people think I am anyway, pick up MY water glass and start talking back to Gazzo letting just a little water come out every now and then. I do it slow just to milk it.

Gazzo is nostalgically talking about a show he did a long time ago before he became useless where he made (he says) over 40 $5’s… it was pitiful.


I remember he says (more like gurgles) to me, “ I was funny, wuddin’ I wobert?”

And I wait.

Just long enough to get a decent stream of drool going down my neck and answer, “No, I never remember you ever being funny.”

It was perhaps the coldest and cruelest thing I ever did in my life next to drowning that puppy in clorine when I was 8.

It was exactly what the cunt needed … it was exactly what the cunt deserved.
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Old 02-05-09, 09:59 PM   #104
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I remember where I was at and what I was doing when Gazzo had his stroke,do you? HAHAHA
I gotta good Story about Gazzo (AS) and the time a woman from up north somewhere hit me so hard she knocked my hat right off my head. I thought Gazzo was gonna shit.I couldn't quite laughing it was so funny!HAHAHA.I'll tell that story a little later after I smoke a couple of them North Shore spliffs so as I can make into a book.
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Old 02-06-09, 09:53 AM   #105
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One thing -- it was a white Bronco.

I shall heed your words about never trusting cripples.
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Old 02-07-09, 05:32 AM   #106
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Wink The Pickle Jar

The pickle jar as far back as I can remember sat on the floor beside the dresser in my parents' bedroom. When he got ready for bed, Dad would empty his pockets and toss his coins into the jar.

As a small boy I was always fascinated at the sounds the coins made as they were dropped into the jar. They landed with a merry jingle when the jar was almost empty. Then the tones gradually muted to a dull thud as the jar was filled.

I used to squat on the floor in front of the jar and admire the copper and silver circles that glinted like a pirate's treasure when the sun poured through the bedroom window. When the jar was filled, Dad would sit at the kitchen table and roll the coins before taking them to the bank.

Taking the coins to the bank was always a big production. Stacked neatly in a small cardboard box, the coins were placed between Dad and me on the seat of his old truck.

Each and every time, as we drove to the bank, Dad would look at me hopefully. 'Those coins are going to keep you out of the textile mill, son You're going to do better than me. This old mill town's not going to hold you back.'

Also, each and every time, as he slid the box of rolled coins across the counter at the bank toward the cashier, he would grin proudly 'These are for my son's college fund. He'll never work at the mill all his life like me.'

We would always celebrate each deposit by stopping for an ice cream cone. I always got chocolate. Dad always got vanilla. When the clerk at the ice cream parlor handed Dad his change, he would show me the few coins nestled in his palm. 'When we get home, we' ll start filling the jar again.' He always let me drop the first coins into the empty jar. As they rattled around with a brief, happy jingle, we grinned at each other. 'You'll get to college on pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters,' he said. 'But you'll get there; I'll see to that.'

No matter how rough things got at home, Dad continued to doggedly drop his coins into the jar. Even the summer when Dad got laid off from the mill, and Mama had to serve dried beans several times a week, not a single dime was taken from the jar.

To the contrary, as Dad looked across the table at me, pouring catsup over my beans to make them more palatable, he became more determined than ever to make a way out for me. 'When you finish college, Son,' he told me, his eyes glistening, 'You'll never have to eat beans again - unless you want to.'

The years passed, and I finished college and took a job in another town. Once, while visiting my parents, I used the phone in their bedroom, and noticed that the pickle jar was gone. It had served its purpose and had been removed.

A lump rose in my throat as I stared at the spot beside the dresser where the jar had always stood. My dad was a man of few words, and never lectured me on the values of determination, perseverance, and faith. The pickle jar had taught me all the se virtues far more eloquently than the most flowery of words could have done.

When I married, I told my wife Kumi about the significant part the lowly pickle jar had played in my life as a boy. In my mind, it defined, more than anything else, how much my dad had loved me..

The first Christmas after our son Koleman was born, we spent the holiday with my parents. After dinner, Mom and Dad sat next to each other on the sofa, taking turns cuddling their first grandchild. Koleman began to whimper softly, and Kumi took her from Dad's arms. 'He probably needs to be changed,' she said, carrying the baby into my parents' bedroom to diaper him. When Kumi came back into the living room, there w s a strange look in her eyes.

She handed Koleman back to Dad before taking my hand and leading me into the room. 'Look,' she said softly, her eyes directing me to a spot on the floor beside the dresser. To my amazement, there stood the old pickle jar, the bottom already covered with coins.

I thought to myself then… “wow… what a dumbfuck … he still doesn’t know I never went to collage and used that money for drugs… oh well, the price of meth has gone up and I could use the extra bread, so I’ll just let the asshole pay for my habit…. who says there ain’t a god?
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