ø - Razorcake

what it meant to “vamp it up.” I attempted to
illustrate the concept, as i understood it, with an
overabundance of phrases, examples, and ludicrous
pantomimes – after which Wesley, who
had not taken his eyes off me since he posed the
question, followed up his initial question with,
“Does it mean ‘to make new friends’?” What
can ya do? His definition made more sense than
mine, so i agreed with him, after which, i’m certain,
he asked me to bu’p his haid. Which i did.
We were buds thereafter. This would be a good
time for a paragraph, but i don’t believe in such
David Beckham Metrosexual fol-de-rol, so fuck
you. Anyway! One of the problems up Wesley’s
cranium was that he had two demons –
“Nervewrecker” and, i believe, “Homebreaker”
– yelling at him. A simple “Hi, Wes” might lead
to a disoriented Wesley yelling “ARE YOU
REAL, OR ARE YOU A VOICE???” – which,
of course, almost anyone would instinctively
reply “I’m a voice! A disembodied voice! I exist
purely in the vale of your demented perceptions!
Et cetera!” to, so ya kinda hadda watch what you
said around him. On occasion, Wes would have
an “outburse,” where either Homebreaker or
Nervewrecker would be yelling at him to such
an extent that it was necessary for Wes to verbally
return fire. Needless to say, a 364-pound
black male screaming obscenities at
the voices in his head in public places
is generally fertile grounds for misinterpretation;
the most grievous example
of which was Wes’ ill-fated bus
trip where his verbal outburse v. his
personal demons was interpreted by
another passenger as threats, et al, to
the extent where the other guy
viciously slashed Wesley across the
face with a box cutter in reprisal (the
“other guy” was the subject of the
Wesley tune “He’s Doing Time in
Jail” – needless to say, said other
guy’s name has been long since
deservedly forgotten, if anybody even
knew it to begin with). Wesley could,
on demand, on a good day, imitate
both Nervewrecker and Homebreaker
– they both kinda sounded like Flip
Wilson’s transvestite alter ego
Geraldine – which, like everything
else in Wesley’s life, never seemed as
horrific as it truly was simply by
virtue of being blunted by Wesley’s
gift of being CLASS FRICKING
CLOWN OF THE WORLD, forever
and ever, Amen. If Wesley was able
to take the bus from Point A to Point
B without his voices yelling at him, it
was defined as a “harmony joyride.”
A “hellride” was just the opposite.
Occasionally, you’d be standing in
line with him at a convenience store
or somewhere when he’d suddenly
break into “SUCK MY MOTHER-
FUCKIN’ DICK! LICK A LLAMA’S
BOOTY HOLE!” whilst yelling at his
voices; when one reminded him that he needed
to mind his language, he’d apologize, and
explain that the voices in his head just called him
a “foul toad” and a “smiggeroo.” Then you
could just say something like “Wesley, i assure
you that you are neither a foul toad nor a
smiggeroo,” and he’d be all right for a while –
the bottom line being that, all the while that the
guy was flailing around, screaming at his own
head to DO HIM A FAVUH AND SHUT the
FUCK UP, he was writing song after song after
song after song and drawing ballpoint skyline
after ballpoint skyline after ballpoint skyline
after ballpoint skyline. I mean, i see no other
being on the planet being so maniacally productive
in the face of such multi-faceted adversity,
do you? And Wesley stories? I got your Wesley
stories! How ‘bout the time we were driving
down to some gig with Wesley in the passenger
seat, and Ron, driving, goes “Hey Wesley! Can
you adjust the rear view window for me?” and
Wesley goes “Yuh,” and immediately SNAPS
THE REAR VIEW MIRROR OFF OF THE
VAN, tosses it out onto the interstate, and
resumes doing whatever it was he was doing
before he was pestered with such a request? Or
how ‘bout the time we were in the van, and
Wesley kept having to piss, so, finally, we
refused to keep pulling over for him, and made
him pee in a Sunny Delight bottle, and told
him to throw it out the window – ‘cept that
Wesley didn’t bother to cap the bottle up before
he tossed it, and we had the windows open?
How ‘bout the time we were driving thru a black
neighborhood Milwaukee with Wes, and he
started leaning out the window yelling “KILL
WHITEY!!! KILL WHITEY!!!” for no real reason
other than the mood struck him? How ‘bout
WES AND STUNT DOUBLE
the time he stayed at my house, and asked if
cough drops would make him fat? Then ate an
entire 30-count bag of my Halls Mentho-lyptuses?
The time he had soiled his garments, so i
dressed him in cast-off Nørb-wear, including
green-and-gold Zubaz pants? The time i
taught him the phrase “KICK OUT THE JAMS,
MOTHERS AND FUCKERS!!!”, and he kept
screaming it at Wanda Chrome & The Leather
Pharaohs all night while they screamed back at
him to shut up? The time he kept asking Kim
Shattuck if her band was called “Da Mupps?”
And she kept saying “NO!!! IT’S THE
‘MUFFS!!!’”, completely un-grasping the situation?
The time he didn’t show up for a gig opening
for the Gaza Strippers, so i went home, got
my keyboard, shoved a box under my shirt and
essentially played his set for him? The way
everyone would cluster around him, trying to
persuade him to write a song about this person or
that, to which he would invariably respond “DO
ME A FAVUH... SHUT THE (pause) UP!!!” The
time he ate the entire eons-old box of King
Vitamin cereal i couldn’t even persuade my
rabbit into eating? The time he was hanging out
in the mall in Green Bay, and was mistaken for
a member of MC Hammer’s entourage? Don’t
even get me started on the “Can I have a
banana?” story! I – or anybody who knew
Wesley – could go on for days (it’s not really the
same without the vocal mannerisms – let the
record show that the majority of ex-members of
Boris The Sprinkler have incorporated various
Wesleyisms into their speech patterns to some
degree [and, in case you’re wondering, my
name, in Wesley-speak, is “Rebrin Nø,”
although simply calling close personal associates
by both their first and last names will generally
work]). I think the main thrust
of my babbling is that there are plenty
of people who claim to be “possessed”
by their creative impulses;
Wesley comes the closest to a literal
definition of that as anyone i can
conceive of. BUT ANYWAY, MR.
NAK, back to your original question,
which i believe was about Sheb
Wooley: Yes, i sang karaoke to
“Purple People Eater” in the early
morning hours of August 30th, 2003;
seventeen days later, Sheb Wooley
was gone to his eternal purple-people-eatin’
reward. If anyone knows
of any individual who sang karaoke
to a Sheb Wooley song in the interval
following the wee hours of August
30th but preceding Sheb’s death on
September 17th, speak now or forever
cede the glory to me (and, if
you’re gonna challenge my claim,
i’m gonna need witnesses. Plenty
witnesses. I’ve got the Figgs and former
Replacement/current
Guns’n’Roses-ite Tommy Stinson to
back me up [and, for the record,
Tommy said my rendition of “Purple
People Eater” was “GREAT!”, and
expressed open admiration for my
knowing where all the goofy breaks
were {why do i rock? On accounta
Tommy said so... Tommy said so...
Tommy said so, so, so, so what}. Of
course, after some anonymous wag
punched in “Sweet Child O’ Mine,” i
had to defuse the mounting tension
by tackling that number as well, with
much less glorious results... but Pete Hayes of
the Figgs said to keep that quiet, because T.S.
could get in trouble with A.R. over such monkeyshines,
should word reach him... so, needless
to say, mum’s the word on my end]). In summation:
Rock over London. Rock on, Chicago.
WESLEY WILLIS: If he wasn’t dead, he’d
be the ultimate survivor.
–Love, Nørb
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