hell is other people...

...again.

you know,

the bastard really didn't sign on this morning to listen to you shout massage instructions to your husband

"lower!"

"lower!"

"lower!"

"good"

"now move yer elbow to the right"

oh, flying. at least you're never boring.

—the bastard

be here now

dear daughter,

here I am driving the i10 past this mountain on my left

when it's on my right,

I am missing you

when it's on my left,

it is your brother I miss.

for today,

I am coming home to see you in all of your small wonder.

and I won't miss you as much then.

but right now,

you ride beside me and tell me that it's gonna be okay.

see you soon.

love, dad

—the bastard

potential hat trick in the making

fresh from the hell is other people file.

or

perhaps from the hell is traveling with other people file.

I see this fresher faced middle aged lady with her young child (check: hell is other people's children)

and as she meets up with her party, the bastard hears the unrelenting "yapyapyap" thAt shakes the collective unconcious towards conciousness.

we all collectively see one of those yappy toy dogs that we all love SO much in it's designer carrier (check: hell is other people's pets).

so the bastard is waiting for them to be on my flight or better yet in my row.

either way, it's hat trick city. too bad there isn't a place I can pay manhattan prices for a bottle of bourbon for the flight.

oh well.

—the bastard

UPDATE: the dog is on the flight. it's a hat trick. and the yapping ensues at cruising altitude

under cover of darkness

it's never at first light for the bastard.

nah.

I gotta make sure I have at least two hours to pace the airport.

so here we are at 10 to 6.

so i can pace the jet brew terminal.

and catch the morning auto gyro to the desert so I can can see my son.

I miss the little guy.

but I miss the little girl and her mom as well.

but the bastard never did seem to draw the "conventional life" card.

who has really?

there are two types of people who have conventional lives.

people that never stuck their necks out.

and liars.

I just decided that I didn't want to be a liar.

there.

now don't you feel better?

okays, we're passing lefrak city now.

—the bastard

...the corner office

the bastard has to tell you something.

in the year he spent in this corner,

he did some great work.

now he's being moved to a new box.

with more light, which he prmptly knocked out.

a massive upheaval seems to be our yearly thing here in the hall of heads.

fortunately, all the players will remain the same for the foreseeable future (touch wood).

but who knows.

at least it ain't boring.

—the bastard

...on seeing it coming

you ever have that feeling that you see trouble coming?

you can see it but, you can't seem to do anything about it?

well you COULD do something about it but, you don't.

and now your stuck waiting longer than you'd like to.

yeah. me too.

damn.

—the bastard

from the bastard's mouth to god's ears

a couple of weeks ago, the bastard was talking about the green vehicles movement.

about the fine folks at brammo and their electric motorcycle.

and i had expressed my disdain over the price of this item

well, they lowered the price of the bike.

so, the bastard is man enough to take it all back. it certainly wasn't $10995 nice to buy but, it sure is $7995 nice enough to buy.

so buy it.

and then the bastard will buy it used from you in a year or two.

you see, i'm always thinking.

—the bastard

this is...again

this is my ride home.

this is a crowded bqe that gas me driving local.

this is my sense that I'm gonna be paying more taxes real fucking soon.

this is Lemmy telling me that he's the one, orgasmatron, the outstretched grasping hand.

this is one of THOSE bus rides.

this is a bastard sore but from getting something done.

this is my tiny sense of accomplishment for giving my daughter some space for her.

this is not a bad life but, he certainly wouldn't call it the best one.

—the bastard

...on this

this is my unconventional life.

this is joey's forest hills but if he still walked the earth, he may not agree.

this is my place holder.

this is my ride to the car.

this is me concerned for the first time that it ain't gonna be okay.

this is me running out of optimism fast. faster than usual.

this is yellowstone blvd now, making a left onto burns.

this is the bastard's need for at least 3 more cups of coffee.

and an egg sammich.

this is me shutting off radiohead and switching to tricky, then to motörhead.

this is.

it sure is.

—the bastard

this weak in anime

special out of context "who the hell is translating this?" edition


there's nothing the bastard liek better than taking shit out of context.

case meets point

apparently shooting at shit is a thrill this man cannot explain to the women.

perhaps something gets lost in the translation

perhaps not.

—the bastard

...killing time; the rails

rolling toward Stamford.

taking pictures today.

house of the rising sun comes on.

not the animals version which the bastard loves.

the scorpions version.

yeah.

the scorpions.

the bastard finds it difficult to wrap his head around the idea of klaus meine's father being a gambling man from new orleans.

—the bastard

...on motivational speaking

i was having a conversation with my ladyfriend tonight.

we're in the middle of putting together birth announcements.

and she had remarked on how she doesn't want to do anything too too nutty as our daughter is more of a night sleeper than a day sleeper.

"i'm not gonna go nuts. when am i gonna have the time to do that?", she asks

"you gonna do it anyway". air and light and time and space don't mean a thing.", the bastard responds

"what?"

so i went to the web and grabbed hank's poem about it. i used to have it on my office wall.

it helped the bastard with the "conundrum".

what conundrum do you mean?

well young jerks, it's like this.

you wanna be an artist but you need to pay the bills.

so you get a job.

now you have cash in pocket

but

no time to create.

what to do.

so a really good friend told me about a drunk named hank and this poem that i kept on the wall in my office and at home in my workspace and it was my compass for a long time.

and perhaps sometimes it still is.

air and light and time and space

"–you know, I’ve either had a family, a job,
something has always been in the
way
but now
I’ve sold my house, I’ve found this
place, a large studio, you should see the space and
the light.
for the first time in my life I’m going to have
a place and the time to
create."

no baby, if you’re going to create
you’re going to create whether you work
16 hours a day in a coal mine
or
you’re going to create in a small room with 3 children
while you’re on
welfare,
you’re going to create with part of your mind and your body blown
away,
you’re going to create blind
crippled
demented,
you’re going to create with a cat crawling up your
back while
the whole city trembles in earthquake, bombardment,
flood and fire.

baby, air and light and time and space
have nothing to do with it
and don’t create anything
except maybe a longer life to find
new excuses
for.

i read it to my ladyfriend tonight and it reminded me of a time when the bastard was struggling and he couldn't see the light at the end of the tunnel.

developing film for unappreciative assholes.

designing album packages at 2 in the morning for some shady guy who stills owes me money and moved to vermont.

reminded me because i'm here.

top of my game.

end of the road.

one year later.

i miss my closest buds because they weren't as lucky or they got fed up and left.

still standing. at the end of the tunnel. and i don't know what to do next.

you'd think it was all it's cracked up to be.

and i'm not gonna tell you it ain't

but i ain't gonna tell you it is.

but i'll tell you this,

i would really love to see lobster come into the office in that phillies hat to grub a cuppa coffee these days.

dunno what i'd give for that.

—the bastard

...on homecomings

chairman: hey

bastard: hey boss, can you do me a favor?

chairman: sure. what's up

bastard: hang on a sec

chairman: okay?

bastard: ok, i thought i was gonna need to you to come down to the bus stop and bring a bat but they turned left

chairman: what?

bastard: well these kids were yelling at me from their car and i yelled "your mom's back to them. then they made a u turn but, it looks like they decided to head to 7-11 instead. i thought, i'd have to get stabby and you'd have to bail me out of jail tonight.

chairman: you know bastard, you really don't have to yell "your moms" at every car that drives past you

bastard: but they yelled at me first

chairman: so?

bastard: and they called me a faggot.

chairman: well maybe you should stop blowing dudes in the bus stop then

bastard: sure, but there's alot of rough trade here in the bus stop, i couldn't help myself.

while saying this, the 3 old ladies and the two teenage grand daughters in the bus stop next to me look on horrified at the bastard's talk of bus stop sex and stabbing teenagers. they shuffle over 3 feet.

i haven't been back to the old hoof since august really and i'm on the ground in the FoHi less than 90 minutes and shit ensues.

quick sidebar: when you (and the bastard means YOU) yell out a moving car at the bastard, you will here one of five responses. these responses are generated at random so, not even i will know which one will come out at any given time but they are as follows in no particular order:

• go to hell
• you suck at life
• your moms
• go fuck yourself
• go die jerkface
  

consider yourself warned

anyway, the bastard begins to get the feeling that the kids can smell that i'm not from around anymore


even though i haven't changed the way i dress or walk or act since leaving the thorough borough for the island of misfit fashionistas and off world jackasses. it's hard fucking work keeping it real on this rock.

it's also been forever since i've been on a train as well. and it was kind of refreshing in a way. i miss this kind of travel. you don't get alot of color in a 10 minute on foot commute to the office.

allthough there is this crazy lady i've noticed who stops anyone with a stroller to beg for money on 3rd avenue and she needs to stop it.

i need to get out more.

get the street beneath my feet.

—the bastard

...on unwinding

the bastard just got parking on his street.

he doesn't know how he did it but,

I'm glad.

it has become my unwinding time.

it's less and less some days.

it's more and more some days.

I don't even care how long it is. as long as i get it.

—the bastard

...this weak in anime

so i was watching mobile suit victory gundam and the bastard wondered to himself,

what's up with all the racism cartoon?

what's up?

—the bastard

...on naming convention

behold y'alls!

behold the power of the internets

the bastard reads your letters.

he really does.

every time one of you jerks drops a comment, the bastard reads it.

it's important to know what your 5 readers think.

sometimes, you need correct.

and sometimes the bastard needs correct.

anyways, i recently got a comment from a post i did in april of 2008. coincidentally, it is named the same name as this post i did last week. so going forward, i think the phrase "everything is coming up bastard" will be a label instead.

but i digress, the comment was a response to the thread in the comments window in which i had mused to my brother about the whereabouts of a music teacher we both had in junior high school.

and said commenter informed me that he still walks the earth. although this man's custom made ba-sax (in which he would shove the mouthpiece of a bassoon into an alto sax for more screechy enjoyment) has been traded in for the shakuhachi, he still plays.

and he's out there.

and it brought up the handful of decent memories that i had of junior high school.

thanks stranger, you made an old bastard remember good things.

—the bastard

...on setbacks

well the bastard had a plan.

and it was good.

it's just not going to happen right now

and the bastard was bummed.

so i spoke with someone important about it and he said the idea still had legs but it's not right now in the money department.


so we're gonna do it anyway.

just with less money involved.

because any dumb thing your gonna do, your gonna do because you want to do it.

not because you want to make money at it.

although making money is good.

but doing it for the love makes it more worth it.

—the bastard

...on audacity

the bastard uses links to other websites mostly for humorous purposes.

like case and point, if i wanted to talk about the president, i'd link it to an image that may or may not be presidential.

however, i've been following this website for little over a week, since i signed up for the brammo electric motorcycle company's mailing list like umpety ump years ago. or maybe it was 6 months ago, i forget.

anyway, premise is this, two guys from brammo want to show the country their bike and they feel the best way to do this is to give one to president barry.

personally, i think the best way to make people buy an underpowered albeit beautifully designed bike more practical for the american people is to,

i dunno

make it less than 12 grand to ride.

now to be fair, it's actually more in the neighborhood of 11 grand but for a few hundred bucks more, you can have a comfy seat for it.

which brings the bastard to his point. there is a problem in this country with changing the hearts and minds of the people on the alternative fuels front.

it's expensive.

sure, the bastard wanted to buy a toyota prius, it gets huge mileage but it costs in the neighborhood of 23,000 at it's cheapest. so i bought a cheap asses hatchback that gets half the mileage for almost 10 grand less.

take the notion of eating healthy. you can clip coupons, shop for canned goods, buy meat that's 75% fat because it's on sale, buy cereal that's on sale, and you can die in 20 years from the enormous salt lick that is lodged in your carotid artery after the fact. yes, youc can cut meat out of your diet but, you have to get the protein somewhere. seitan costs money. but, i'm getting off message here.

if you wanna eat healthy, it costs more. if you want to drive an alternative fuel vehicle, it's gonna cost you.

this item is while on the surface, a fantastic idea (who the hell doesn't want to plug your bike into an outlet instead of going to a gas station?) but, it's a luxury item until there are enough people who can afford to buy a 12 thousand dollar electric motorcycle.

i certainly hope that these two guys from brammo actually succeed in getting their bike to barry just because a higher profile might prompt more to buy and then the bastard can look into buying, say, a 5 thousand dollar elctric motorcycle one day.



but today's the day they may be able to pass it off to him. maybe it'll work out. mebbe not

—the bastard

so poseidon came to the office today...

...and he was looking for the kraken.

the bastard told him that i couldn't help him with that.

he didn't believe me,

so i sent him to the editor in chief's office.

he couldn't help him either.

—the bastard

...on stampedes

the bastard has seen the difference between mythology and reality today.

no i'm not talking about our president's cracked halo.

i'm talking about the simple shit.

made myth.

then made real ,

and not nearly as impressive as the myth.

you see, up until this morning, the bastard had an elephant living upstairs from me.

an elephant in high heel shoes.

KLOMP, KLOMP, KLOMP,

she stomps around her apartment as if she's doing jumping jacks in heels.

KLOMP, KLOMP, KLOMP,

as she does laps around her 455 square foot box.

CRASH, JANGLE, JANGLE,

as she lifts her entire closet off the ground and empties it onto the floor spreading what only sounds like a metric ton of wire hangers jangling all along the ground.

or broken glass

or a jar of loose change.

night after night, i hear her over my headphones while i watch tv on my laptop at 1 in the morning.

even when she takes off her shoes, she sounds like she's hammering nails into the floor.

she must have been enormous, or had concrete shoes, or just plain had heavy feet.

as the bastard walked out of his apartment this morning, upon closing the door, after hearing the tell tale galoomping out the door and the sound of a fire door being slammed 1 floor above as my door closed 1 floor down, i rushed to the elevator to see if i could fit into the car with this behemoth only to find a little girl standing there listening to her iphone before she goes to work.

i must have been mistaken.

ground floor, i do the right thing and let her leave the car first

and

CLACK, CLACK, CLACK,

she stomps right out of the building, leaving potholes all along 24th street, as if you leave a trail for her to get home by later.

it was kind of disappointing and it made sense in a way. i think i might have to leave a note asking her to take off her shoes after 11pm as she stomps like a wooly mammoth but, she sounds just as lound sans footwear.

oh well, that's apartment living for you.

—the bastard

...on epidemics

it started out like this.

my ladyfriend was out for a solo mission with the bebe.

and for the life of her, she couldn't get anyone to hold open, let alone open a door for her and the fucking Cadillac of bebe carriages.

then finally some woman opened a door for her with her sleeve.

now you may have read about the h1n1 virus and the bastard understands that it can't hurt to play it safe but, there is such a thing as playing it too safe.

people walk the streets with surgical masks on.

wait.

no.

dust masks.

thus is a pic from the elevator bank on the bastard's floor.

really?

really?!?

I think too many people have read "the stand".

it would figure though if this virus got all out of hand.

ummmm, i gotta go wash my hands now.

—the bastard

...on currency

sometimes time is a premium.

currency that you have to save like a miser.

and the bastard hasn't had alot of it of late.

we're shipping the issue.

i'm ramping up for the next one.

been trying to get home at a reasonable hour so I can help out with my ladyfriend and the bebe.

days blend one into another.

it's a little sad sometimes.

but here I am drinking a glass which translates "devil" from the french.

got a night out.

to have a drink and bullshit with some friends.

next week my ladyfriend gets the same chance to hang out with her peeps.

she should take that chance.

a very wise friend told me that you have to make your own happy, and the bastard tries for his. I'd like to gave some downtime too.

should be good. chin chin jerks.

—the bastard

slice of life

dear son,

for a moment.

just this moment.

you are here with me.

on this corner,

in the downpour,

the cold and clammy downpour.

i see my breath for the first time this season,

and the bastard is glad.

this is my gift to you tonight,

revel in it as I have,

for this small slice of my life is now yours too. I'll see you soon.

—the bastard

the palace at 4 am

the bastard takes drugs at night.

no not those kind of drugs.

i'm allergic to the cat so i have to pack myself full of benedryl so i don't wake my ladyfriend

and the baby

and the cat

and perhaps the people who live downstairs.

anyway, i went to bed at one.

woke up an hour or so later and had to go to the bathroom

fell asleep and woke up in a dark room.


bewildered because i was sitting in the dark and disoriented from the benedryl, the bastard walked into a wall.

i was very concerned as i reached around me only touching flat surfaces, i envisioned that i had died

and had gone to hell.

and marcel marceau was the devil

and that hell is a small black box that you get to stay in for all eternity.

with a toilet.

i didn't have my knife, or my iphone.

i was horrified and reaching around in the dark until i wacked my hand into the towel rod.

and i realized that i wasn't dead.

relieved, i found the door,

left,

went back to sleep.

as the bastard drifted back into a benedryl induced slumber, somewhere in the distance, i could hear a mime crying.

—the bastard

everything is coming up bastard

it's like this.

the bastard is feeling less assey.

I am well on my way towards defeating whatever disease was trying to slow me down thanks to something in the hood of 10500 mg of vitamin c a day.

my publisher likes what I'm doing.

my competition is moving on to greener pastures

last night I became friends with an Indian guy in my building named "norm". nice guy. he made me think of morty from layer cake only without kicking the crap out of some guy who landed him on jail for 10 years.

I get along with the chairman of my ladyfriend's co-op board.

red beard has turned my publisher on to our little side project which I'll talk about later when it's more realized.

and I pulled a knife on redbeard this morning on my way to the bathroom.

I'm starting to feel more like myself today.

yesiree, everything is coming up bastard.

—the bastard

sunday boredom

the bastard is bored.

it looks like a good day to ride by all marks.

but the bastard pushes a stroller instead.

at least I have decent shoes on for walking.

9_9

—the bastard

everything in it's right place

there are some days where shit doesn't fall into place.

today wasn't one of those days.

the lil lady only got up twice overnight.

the bastard didn't feel like ass when he left work.

hell, the publisher even said good things about what I've been doing on the cover this last year.

I've been struggling the last few issues. that came at the right time.

my ladyfriend was having a rough day with the lil girl so I bought her some popeyes because it picks me up.

that worked out. the chicken was good too.

but it wasn't until I scored a fat spot for my car that the bastard realized that today was in it's right place.

in it's right time.

despite having a rough patch or two, it was in it's right place.

nice and smooth.

—the bastard

...and so it begins again

you know,

the bastard never wanted to be the smoking nazi.

but,

when john q. teva sandals and his Acapulco shirt decides to sidle his smoking touristy ass next to mine I gotta move.

you see, the bastard is trying to make his quality of life better by avoiding assholes.

smokers

loud people in stores.

the like.

you see I'm the type of guy who's gonna use his meanness and a new baby to make you feel bad for your asinine behavior.

but I'm gonna seethe first.

and I don't want to.

so I'm avoiding you.

try to avoid me.

love always,

—the bastard

...on tossing it

the bastard was walking on third. picking up some stuff for the apartment.

last night's dinner was disastrous. i just can't do my ladyfriend's recipes as well as she does.

just can't.

so user out to do what I know. marinating the HELL out of things and then cooking it. side of cous cous.

yeah cous cous. got a problem jerk?

anyway someone dashed this mac to the street and I wondered how it got this way.

did someone toss it out of frustration?

did someone lean against it by accident sending it to the jagged rocks below? you see, there are jagged rocks on third.

or my favorite. did someone toss it at someone in a fight? the bastard was kind of hoping for this.

—the bastard

...border

so, three relatives walk out into the night.

the bastard knows that he's drivig them back to the thorough borough tonight.

no matter. the mofo logged a lot of driving time to make tonight possible and we three head off into the night, the bastard hoping like hell that he can find a spot later.

it was a good night for drinking.

for family nonsense.

and for talk about childbirth.

you see the accountant regaled me with tales of childbirth best left unsaid. a mad science drop nonetheless.

over the river and east, we speak of other crap which I cannot recall but at 2am one wonders why one's stomach grumbles.

"do taco bells in new York stay open late?" , the accountant inquires.

"I think so", i reply

"there is one on utopia open late. I used to go there during my days at the torch", the mofo concludes.

so it's a mad dash for the border.

meximelts in the brain for the bastard.

the idea of acid reflex never felt so good.

a junkie approached us while we dined. said he needed money for a cab to the subway.

i tell him that we're tapped knowing full well that the 7 train was a 20 minute walk and a walk might cure his junk sickness. he simply moved on to the next car.

i moved on to my next meximelt.

—the bastard