A Wisconsin Yankee in Walt Disney's Court

My cell phone rang on one of my last nights there; it was Schizo, my psychotic pal who once hopped into my moving car out of nowhere covered in dirt and complaining about aliens shooting lasers at his feet. “Hey Schiz- what’s up?”

“I was supposed to tell you— that guy from Toys ‘R’ Us that thinks he’s Batman—“

Side note: this second character always told us, when he was younger, that he would name his son Bruce Wayne if he ever had one. True to his word, when his girlfriend dropped out a kid unexpectedly in a Long John Silver’s ladies room he already had the first and middle name ready to go.

“—that Batman guy wanted me to tell you that Bert died.”

“You mean the Muppet?”

“No, no, some guy he said you knew.”

“You mean Bert of Beautiful Bert and the Crotch Crickets?”

“What?”

The line at the gas station mini-mart had come to a complete halt.

“The band,” I said, “the punk band he used to front.”

“Uh, I dunno, I think he said something about a band, maybe. I dunno.”

“Oh, jeez, that must be him. That’s too bad.”

“I don’t think I ever heard of him. Bat-guy just wanted me to tell you that. Hey, I just drew another picture of Wolverine with his @#$%^& hanging o–”

“No, god, –no, that’s great, just make sure I never see it. I’ll see ya later…”

click

The two guys ahead of me with a case of beer looked in my direction like I was supposed to explain what just happened, but I couldn’t if I wanted to.

———————————

I’d known Bert for nearly 20 years, but hadn’t spoken to him in quite a while. He once worked where I did, and never mentioned the punk rock scene he was involved in. Not like I know or care anything about it, but he was always a nice guy, as were all the other folks with safety pins and Sid Vicious buttons on their black jackets that I dealt with over the years. Actually, you could be pretty sure that that group would be the last to give you trouble.

Anyway, Bert had that ironic sort of nickname, in that he wasn’t any more beautiful than, say, the 3 or 4 300+ lbs. guys I knew named Tiny were small. He was a wild-eyed 300+ pounder himself with a pale complexion and a curly, unkempt shock of blonde hair. I still saw him around the neighborhood until recently, and he’d always give a wave but I’m sorry I didn’t stop to talk to him one more time.

After I left, I heard from a reader, it turned out that Bert had nothing for a funeral, and another local pal named Dale Destruction held a fundraiser and had a nice send-off for him. The trouble is, somebody kept Bert’s ashes after the party, and it’s turned into a criminal case. Somebody robbed the grave of Beautiful Bert, so to speak. But I doubt it would bother him, wherever he is.

Me, I can’t deal with such weirdness any more.