Chrétien Hop

If the Catholick Church, plagued by case after case of child molestation and abuse, actually wanted to make their situation worse in the United States, they'd probably release a bloated, faux-scientific report denying that there was ever a problem at all. Lucky for them, they didn't do that. Instead they released a bloated, faux-scientific report saying that there was a problem with sexual abuse but it was only in the 60s,70s, and 80s and its all been straightened out, so to speak. The cause? The decadence and free spiritedness of the 1960s, of course! So it's your fault you fucking hippies. And by the way, while you are apologizing for your free-lovin' ways, you can also admit that these convicted clergymen are not pedophiles, because pedophilia is only when you want to fuck kids that are 10 or younger. Really, this is what the US Conference of Catholick Bishops believes. You can read the report for yourself.

In it, they also point the finger at other religions. Hey look! The Protestants are molesting underaged children also! Jehovah's Witnesses too, and I don't see THEM putting out any reports. And so the USCCB, on behalf of the Catholick Church wants to point out how responsible they are being by pointing out isolated incidents from decades past. Again, this is all in the PAST.

Of course, the spike in incidents from previous decades couldn't possibly be because the children being abused now are too scared to speak up, and will be for many, many years. And the sexual dysfunction of these creepy frockers could NEVER be caused by repressed homosexuality and forced celibacy.

Let's hold this institution responsible by not attending their schools, churches, activities, etc. And "institution" is really being nice: it's an ancient, glorified cult. The only difference between a cult and an organized religion is the number of sheep in the herd. It's time we plead for our friends and loved ones not to participate in it anymore. Not even "cultural" Catholicism. It's bad for humanity. It's bad for our town. I'm not even arguing about the lofty philosophical questions of God and such (that's another post). I am saying this is a subversive, corrupt organization that has far outlived its usefulness and we should all be tired of the excuses they make for their abuses.

Mary Sanchez is also pissed. But what I'm REALLY trying to say is...

Best Always, Dick Clark

My mom has spent the much of the last 12 months in a hospital or assisted living going through rehab for her broken hip. But her heart failure, diabetes, and immobility are really taking a toll on her will to keep fighting. This, in turn, takes a toll on her four children. She is back in her bedroom now in the apartment she shares with the oldest of my three sisters. I’ve been trying to talk to her as much as possible, to let her tell stories, if for no other reason than to pass some of them on to my daughter. But sometimes it’s the ones my mom doesn’t even mean to tell that are the most fascinating.

Since my father’s death in 2005 she has slowly jettisoned a lot of his material possessions. Some of that stuff fell, piece by piece, into my possession including (but not limited to): some paper-thin long-sleeve Ely Western-style shirts (pearl buttons!), 2 sets of mounted steer horns, a jean jacket and a small black suitcase with a lot of his personal effects from the army. After moving from a house into an apartment, my mom has started to give away some of the relics of her past as well. One thing she recently gave me was a piece of paper with Dick Clark’s autograph:

Best Always, Dick Clark

with the “Always” deformed by a single drop of liquid. I turned over the rectangular slip of paper to see that it was from a receipt book. $35 for rent of 5C3. October 21^st, 1972-October 28^th 1972.

“Who is Mr. Stephan, and why did you have his weekly rent receipt?”

“Oh, ha, well… I was with…um…a family friend, his wife, when we met Dick Clark. I didn’t have anything for him to autograph but she had that rent receipt in her purse. Richard Stephan…he went to jail for a long time.”

I perked up. “For what?”

“Well…he picked up a hooker. For one reason or another, she wouldn’t do what he wanted. So he shot her.”

“Shot her!? Killed her?”

“No, no, just in the leg. But the funny thing is, he had already driven her to the police station, telling her that he was a cop. He threatened to book her if she didn’t do, well, whatever it was he was asking. She tried to jump out of the car and he shot her.”

“Wow. Creepy.” And incredibly stupid. It turns out, Dick Clark has the second most interesting signature on this slip of paper.

Eat It

POTUS Barry O called Trump a "Carnival Barker" this morning. Oh, and he publicly displayed his real birth certificate, which he had to skirt the regulations of the Department of Health to obtain. I wonder how local yokel Darla Jaye and all the other KC birthers will prepare the crow they are going to have to eat?

Also, Google is apparently on my side:

And for my robbies...an apology for my pedantry

Last night, in an Irish Pub paradoxically, I was trying to figure out why "prosciutto" was pronounced with a "sh" sound (pro-SHOOT-tow) since Italian seemed more inclined to make the "sk" sound in words with the "sc" digraph (as in "pesca" [PES-kuh], meaning peach) or the "sch" trigraph (as in "maraschino" meaning fucking delicious). Well, as it turns out, in italiano, after 'e' or 'i' you pronounce the sc as "sh" ("pesce" [PESH-eh] meaning "fish"). After an 'a' 'o' or 'u' it's "sk". Also, if the word is an inkhorn of Italian descent, the sch is always "sk". Unless you just want to be a dipshit American, then you say MARRYSHEENO CHERRIES, BITCH!!!

Funny note: in nonstandard Italian, as spoken in New York and New Jersey and everyone in Italy that's not a grammar teacher, you can omit the final vowel of some words altogether, and many people are heard saying "Pro-SHOOT" for prosciutto, "mat-sa-REL" for mozzarella or (and this one has spread to Missourah) "cal-ZON" instead of "cal-ZON-eh". Here's my sauce, which explains further that Americans are really just bastardizing some food pronunciations.

Baby Talk

Baby Talk by Brutal Child
I just saw a little toof poppin' out my baby girl's mouf! It's pretty gross and painful looking. Did I mention my daughter yet? Well, Ophelia is 11 months old tomorrow and I can't think of anything cooler that's ever happened to me than her. Anyways, in honor of the new toof, since it's much easier to speak wif teef,  I am posting another Brutal Child cut, "Baby Talk". This song was originally part of our friend Flannery's 2nd Valentine's Day compilation, Moonhump 2011. Flannery asks her friends to contribute music to these compilations and gives them out to her friends, which is the same spirit the Fitzners were hoping to imbue with Brutal Child. It sort of flies in the face of the usual reasons people start bands: to work really hard polishing a turd and then trying to sell it to everyone, especially your friends. I do that enough, so Brutal Child is a kind of "gift", our don à le monde. We don't toil over it, we don't sell it, we don't play shows to promote it. It's a little secret, just for you. 


I've watched you growing
Without you even knowing
When you need someone to talk to
We're here, and you know that
I feel ya movin'
Ophelia, groovin'
When you need someone to listen
We hear ya, please know we're here


I can't wait to talk with you
I can't wait to hold you by the hand
I really wanna show you the world
I can't wait to let you win


Just like our fathers did
Just like our mothers did
That's just the way it is
I wanna step aside and let you in


I really wanna talk to you but we don't speak the same language
I really wanna talk to you but we don't speak the same, don't speak the same
I really wanna communicate but we don't speak the same language
I really wanna talk to you but we don't speak the same, don't speak the same


I really wanna talk to you if you can ever tell me how you feel
For now you're just too young to speak our native tongue
That's just the way it is...
I wanna open up and just let you in

Brutal Child

Ma femme et moi, nous avons une groupe musicale. Il s'appelle "BRUTAL CHILD". Je vais poster eventuellement toutes les chansons des Brutal Child (avec les paroles et une brève description).

Le premier chanson..."Fitzner!!! Shake Your Bones!!!" Ecoutez et amusez!

Pam: (trying to figure out how to shake her bones) "I keep getting confused..."
Me: "C'mon, it's pretty simple...it's Motown, heh."

Found a wishing well: I just don't understand it
If it don't do what its told, who reprimands it?
Ain't no service number on the side
So tired, (but) the night takes off... gotta shake my bones
Asked old Willie Blanco what time it was
He said, "Time to stop makin' such a fuss
Ain't got a care in the world since my watch has been gone"
I say its easy but all day I been workin'
Talkin' ain't walkin', and prayin' ain't helpin'
Here I go draggin' my ass out again...

(Shaker bursts open on last shake)
Me: How the fuck did that happen?
FITZNER!!! SHAKE YOUR BONES!!! by Brutal Child

"Do You Watch Buffy?"

We're starting to run out of pint glasses here at the Fitzner Safe House. The latest casualty, which came at the hands of ma belle femme, was a piece of "Roachenders" merchandise. It was obviously an accident: the soapy 16 oz sippy slipped unexcitingly from her soaked hands while doing dishes. I hesitated a split second before setting the shards in a sack. 


This hesitation was a funeral. I really loved this glass, as it was a relic of my former life spent perpetually driving and sleeping in an under-windowed, yellow Ford Econoline. The Roachenders were a street punk band from Providence, RI that I met in 2001 touring with my first band, Tanka Ray and it was around then that I snagged this personalized pint glass. Their band name is clearly a ganja reeference, but the glass just had a giant close up of a roach face on it. I know, right? Badasss.


Now I must admit, it was a miracle that it even made it all the way back to Kansas City let alone survived the subsequent decade. Nevertheless, I vowed to give my wife flack for the blunder and found this to be a decent segue into the memories conjured at the funeral of my Roachenders pint glass. 


I immediately thought about my first time in Providence. The show we played was humdrum but the guys in the band were a hoot. Their drummer, a  thirtysomething old school tough-ass dude who went by the name of Bob Bitter, played host to the three of us. He fed us and got us drunk and we shot the shit until the blue threat of sunlight came through his second story window. At some point previous, he asked me to come to his room with him. I hesitated of course, but he gave me a look as if to say "not into rape, or boys" so I followed him.
He closed the door behind us and opened his top drawer. 
"This is a secret, alright man?"
"Sure, yeah. Not a problem."
Was it going to be drugs? Because I wasn't really into drugs, especially the kind you sneak away from 6 other people to do. He moved some clothes aside and pulled out a stack of bound paper.
"It's a script. Do you watch Buffy?"
"The Vampire Slayer? Um I've caught a few, yeah for sure." Never seen it. I saw the movie a few times.
"Well it's probably my favorite fucking show and I wrote a script--and they used it. And Joss Whedon--you know Joss Whedon? No? Well he does the show and he sent me a fucking check for Five Thousand Fucking Dollars!"
"What? Really? That's, uh, that's awesome dude, I mean I was pretty sure you were gonna rape me." 
"HA! Fuck you man. Fuck you. I really like you guys, good job tonight", Bob smiled and admitted. "Make sure you get a T-shirt or something before you go tomorrow."
"Can I have a pint glass?"
"Oh fuck yeah man, of course" and off we went to pound enough beers to wash away many old thoughts and memories. But not this one.
----
I woke up 4 hours later on the living room/dining room floor to the sound of my cell phone ringing. It was my mother, asking me to come home immediately because my grandfather had died during the night. 
"I can't mom. There's 15 shows left."


I miss Bob and I miss being on tour. I miss my pint glass. But if I'd known that I was going to cling to my teenage self until I was damn near thirty, I might've asked her to smash the glass and join me in a moment of silence the second I got home from that tour.