...on development

you know the weirdest thing about running into people you haven't seen in 15 years is how you fall into old behaviors. vanderveer's sister hand asked after the mofo and i called the mofo up to get his picture sent this way. the mofo promptly asked me to never call him during the west wing. anyway, i had to call and explain this to him afterwards and this would have been more of a post script to the wake but the conversation instead turned into a discussion on this amex commercial featuring wes anderson that we had both watched. many props to turbanhead for pointing this at me as the bastard tries to go here periodically for my weekly dose of all things indian. so if you get the chance. go there and read up or just go to the damn amex commercial. it's bloody good stuff.

the conversation turned into 20 minutes of discussing the creative process in a funeral home parking lot and the end sum gain might be really good later on down the line but, the process is funny. i came away from wanting to write something really heartfelt and a really decent about what i had just experienced and i realize that writing for me works just like graphic design. it never comes out looking like it did in my minds eye. oh well, that's the creative process for you.

—the bastard

UPDATE: i just watched this thing for the fifth time and i want to see this movie get made. come on. it's got jason schwartzman and vicram from the life aquatic in it. and it'll have a .357 with a bayonet attached. who can't get on board with that?

...on these days

...and on those

I've been out walking
I don't do too much talking
These days

almost like magic, nico came through the speakers to tell me about these days and it got me to really think about the events of this evening. you see a small piece of my past died this weekend. more like the grand father of a piece of the bastard's past died this weekend. i knew him from the ball field. there was a time, a long time ago in which the bastard loved the game and i played the game and i realized that i sucked at the game (thus loving it a little less) so i became an umpire. when speaking with her sister, i remembered that i sucked at that as well (thus loving it a little bit lesser) but it paid well when i was a teenager so i didn't mind getting paid for something i wasn't good at. what did i care? but what i really forgot was how much time i spent there when i was young. how much time i walked around there, filthy from the dirt, shinguards sweated to my legs, trying to get the time of day from this girl and having a decent time of it and how these people are all older now. and how so much of this has been asleep in me.

i haven't thought about the field. the smell of the grass. the taste of dirt. running circles around the field in the 5th inning when i really just wanted to throttle sidney daley because he argued every call of mine when i did his games and how he was the first grown man i argued with (shouting at the top of my lungs), who i told to get off of "my" field (not the first person i threw off the field though) and how his son enrique nearly snapped my neck under the bleachers when i started a fight with him (i never "was" all that good at fighting back then. still ain't).

i hadn't seen vanderveer in a long long time except in pictures of her and her husband and their lovely children. a storyline that went in a different direction and took on a life of it's own elsewhere. my legs genuinely buckled when i got there. i usually do funerals well. i usually keep something esoteric in the back of my head to keep it centered. something like, "we created gods and judges because we were scared and afraid and we let them judge us and sentence us". thank you grant morrison. but, it went out the window. or maybe stayed on the outside of the door to the past a walked through to pay respect to a family i knew a long time ago tonight. maybe it's because i haven't seen these people in over 10 years, maybe closer to 15.

on the way out i said goodbye to her mom who treated me sweetly every time i came to the field. and she asked me about this thing the mofo and i have created. my legs got weak again. she asked me, "when my daughter told me you had this web thing i asked her to forward me the address. when i read the things you had wrote, you struck me as very angry." then she looked me square in the eye and asked me if this was the case and was everything alright, genuinely concerned. i was 17 years old again getting advice from someone i genuinely respected, and i didn't respect very much back then.

OK QUICK SIDEBAR: every now and then, the bastard gets a nod from people who read the bastard works, whether it's the mad russian, or robbo, or lobster, or the fan. sometimes annie would check in to tell me that jimmy3000 turned her onto a post because the bastard was in rare form but, it wasn't until that very moment that i realized that the rents have never read my vitriol and mrs. vanderveer asking me if i was okay led me to wonder what they would think if they knew what i was doing and if they did, would they look at me concerned and to the same.

so here i am all having a hard time standing and i have to look her back and i tell her, "it's not all like that, mrs, vanderveer. alot of it is mostly schtick". i felt like a bullshitter. because while it is schtick, it also isn't. not all the time. it wouldn't be a living breathing thing if it was all fiction. i also felt kind of like a magician who can't really tell you the secret of his magic tricks. but i also didn't want mrs. vanderveer to see me tonight, 15 years down the pipe reading what she's read and going home knowing that i am in fact unhappy with how it's all turned out. because i'm not unhappy with it. sure i have my days when i'll lock myself in my bosses office until the shaking wears off but, most of the time, it's all big strides and theme music in my head all the way to and from. you can cover alot of distance with a good bass line in your head.

funerals are a funny thing, it's probably when you see folks you haven't seen in the longest the most. i've always hated that about them. i'd rather see these people at a ball game 20 years ago covered in dirt on a warm sunny day. maybe i'll head down there next weekend with the boy.

—the bastard

bored at work?

hey true believers,

if you get really really bored today, left hand rob is now conducting the world's slowest game of mad libs. so go there and play jackass.

—the bastard

...on brothers

"hey brother"

"what?"

"can you spare a brother a dollar?"

"excuse me, if you were my brother you would be at work right now earning that dollar and not stinking up penn station asking for one."

—the bastard

...on finds

...and door knock dinners

"you guys want to get some lunch? i know a really good diner in millbrook", said the editor. the editor in chief knows where to find places to eat. when the bastard was getting ready to head west last summer by way of anachronistic trucks, the editor told me 3 or 4 places to eat en route to arizona. you see, when you spend a small piece of your post college career driving a truck across i20 (or was it i40), you learn where you're gonna get lunch. but, it trancends experience. it's almost like a supernatural power in which he finds great diners. two things the editor is good at is killing turkeys and finding diners. well he's good at running a magazine too but the bastard assumed that was a given so back the hell off.

well arriving in this quaint little backwater, we realize before we even have a seat that this place is gonna be good. we actually have to wait, on a friday afternoon. this is where the damn town gets lunch. you can clearly see the line of demarkation between the classes. you see, all of the rich folks walk around rocking dirty clothes and agway hats, while the not so rich dress to the nines in expensive finery. wait. i meant that the other way. oddly enough as we're waiting for our table we see this giant headed man walking into the diner who looks like the food channel's gordon elliot with 500 dollar glasses on. and he's gigantic. his head alone takes up 7 feet of height. the rest of him is about 15 feet tall. he's like a fucking australian stone golem or a living easter island tiki. i wasn't sure it was him until i heard that booming voice that makes me want to put some campbells soup into a microwave oven. gordo (5 dollar john will no longer let me call him gordaon elliot. i must call him gordo) sits down and puts this child on his lap. probably his kid. i'm not sure because i think he swallowed him whole. i could be wrong. i have been before. gordo didn't stay long, he left periodically, i assume to either smoke cigarettes or make phone calls or perhaps to find more children to devour. but more importantly, i had a kick ass black and white milkshake and a great burger. i'd come back to this diner in a second, i just don't think i should bring the boy with me. gordo might devour him.

—the bastard

...on shooting

...and shooting

so we entered day two of the bastard's stomach not crippling him at 5:30 am and i meet scoop and 5 dollar john in forest hills to drive up to tamarack where killing stuff monthly has a membership. you see, in new york city, you need to make sure that everyone associated with photographing a firearm has a permit. you need to get a permit to photograph the firearm as well. the photographer needs to get a permit to be allowed to photograph a firearm. the photographer's assistant needs to get a permit to be present to assist a photographer who is photographing a firearm. plus i think you need to hire a union steam fitter and two local three electricians. since we're photographing 5 firearms, i guess we need five times as much paperwork filed and five times as many union thugs (maybe we can throw in a teamster). wait, these are side by side shotguns. do we need paperwork and union electricians for each barrel? it boggles the mind. but seriously, you need to file a crapload of paperwork to photograph a firearm in new york city. not so much when you move the shoot upstate. all the bastard has to do is get in the car and pay the toll and shoot (hee hee) the guns. and we don't even have to deal with the inflatable rat.

the bastard hasn't picked up a firearm to do anything but move it out of the way of the photoshoot since i was seventeen and unfortunately this time was no different. but on the plus side, i had some great light for a great photoshoot and i didn't have to file any paperwork. nice and smooth

—the bastard

sweep

12 am cleanup. i gotta shoot in the morning and i also don't want to leave dorito crumbs all over the stoop. get the broom. there's some guy with crazy eyes walking his dog. the more things change, the more they stay the same. there used to be a guy who used to walk his dog after midnight and now we have a new crazy eyed character doing it.

i sweep

"chu know there are certain religions in whish they prefer to sweep their walk at night"

"i'm just trying to clean up the mess before bed, pal"

"aym just saying, chu could be part of one of dose religions"

"i'm just trying to clean up my mess, pal"

"what chu talking about? you don't look like chu godda mess dere"

sneer turns to evil grin, "not now i don't". weirdo

—the bastard

...on the comeback

the other day, jonny airplanes was checking out the pix i took at the cradle of aviation museum when he came across my post on drinking with left hand rob in which i brought up the ghosts of the bastard's drinking past and jon felt compelled to make it the the ghosts of drinking present so i received a little note from him on monday or tuesday decrying my post saying that the thursday night stoop will be back this thursday. now the bastard got himself a case of the food poisoning or stomach virus or some crap but either way, i've been crippled the last few days. jon wanted no part of my excuses, the ghosts were coming tonight and they were going to do it whether i wanted it or not. so i hazarded more stomach grief to meet with the crew on the stoop which has laid dormant like so many egyptian tombs. jonny came by and dean thrilla came with zsolt and matty aces in tow. rather they came in zsolt's car so i guess that aces and thrilla were the ones in tow.

either way, there was drinking and there was the stoop and nary a brick had moved since the last time we sat and drank on it and it was good. you see jon has made it his business to show the bastard the error of his ways and to remind him like a fucking hammer of the value of things past and of friends and how you're friends are never more than a phone call away and while i'm thinking about it apparently, so is that god damned stoop. it's funny because queens village has new kids and they're hot shit too. and i think they found it kind of curious to see the 5 old ass white boys hanging out on the stoop at 11 o clock at night drinking beers and telling tall tales. except of course all of airplane's were tales of vegas so i know they were true, the bastard was there.

all in all it was good stuff and nothing says hahdcore like a bunch of thirty somethings drinking beers on a stoop at 11 o'clock at night. don't call it a comeback shiteyes.

—the bastard

...on seven

a little ways back the bastard had a conversation with the mad russian about cover songs. you see, he makes his own music and has a little release party and we all get drunk and fall down. anyway, mad feels that one really shouldn't do cover songs when you have your own material. on the other hand the bastard feels that if a cover song stands up or is god forbid better than the original (bob dylan even now performs all along the watchtower live the way hendrix remade it) than it should stand. movies are this way too sometimes. kurasowa's "yojimbo" is to "last man standing" and it works pretty good as opposed to "enemy mine" not doing so good being remade from "hell in the pacific" but then again lou gosset jr. and dennis quaid aren't exactly toshirô mifune and lee marvin. anyway speaking of mifume, this brings me to the bastard's latest favorite thing to watch. samurai 7. it is a not the first time kurosawa's seven samurai has been re-made. we have the magnificent seven which gives alot of game to the myth and has become a fine piece of film history that makes the bastard wonder how yul brenner and steve mcqueen managed to not kill each other. anyway, samurai 7 is turning into a beautiful post apocalyptic adaptation of kurosawa's work and if you have cable, you can check it out on IFC.

right about now my only complaint/funniest thing about it is the fact that mifume's peasant samurai, kikuchiyo is a mechanical man that used to be a peasant. but then again, the mechanical man makes for a great deal of comic relief in the series. also, while i knew that there is no french word for weekend, so the french are forced to lower themselves to say, "le weekend" i had no idea that there was a japanese phrase for "in your face"

along the way i began to find that kikuchino keeps it lighter for the audience due to the fact that most of the samurai have to be stiffs by right of their station in this story so i guess it all works out. in your face!

—the bastard

beer can

once upon a time the bastard went to high school. in my first year and a half of high school i took the bus with mike chives. chives was one of those people who would insult you all the time as a means of personal elevation. it was something symptomatic in the neighborhood. chuck would insult everyone even though he was bigger and more likeable (until you figured his ass out) than most but he still needed to insult you in order to make himself appear bigger. chives was one of those people too except he wasn't allowed to play with chuck after a certain point or he grew tired of chuck's crap, the same way i did and the elder did. but the disease of the father perpetrates itself onto the son and mike chives engaged in the same kind of cut down as chuck did. so it was no surprise that the bastard found a better route and another insulting friend to pal around with and mike chives was surprised when in the spring of sophomore year i started to cut him up. it was more of a jocks versus non jocks thing and crap like that. but atr the time chives was the only person i knew who knew drinking things and this pic reminded me of him. one day before school, we were waiting for the bus when he was describing to me how if you drank a can of beer through a straw quickly, you would get drunk faster. i never tried it. it just seemed unnecessary to me since there was usually another can or bottle nearby. either way, i saw the can, thought of mike and thought about where he is now. in north carolina. still fat. still has that stupid look on his face. maybe he's drinking bud through a straw. don't really care. it left my head as soon as it entered my head but, there you go.

—the bastard

...on our tax dollars

y'see? i had you going there for a minute. you thought i was going to go on a rant. but i'm not. too bad. actually i went to the cradle of aviation museum yesterday with the boy and (apptly so) jonny airplanes. the cradle of aviation museum can be the museum of industry that used to be on long island as we as a people while not wanting power plants in our posh neighborhoods (not in my backyard) we don't like our weapons factories there either. oh well, when folks complain about the lack of manufacturing jobs in this country, i think of how the grumman plant is an empty parking lot where friends of mine went to go make out in after it was closed down because of it's seclusive qualities and how the parking lot of the lockheed martin offices in lake success sat empty the entire time i worked in manhasset (7 years almost).

official transport of the lindberg baby kidnapping



bi-plane. the bastard thinks it should be allowed to marry whomever it wants

the a-10 thunder bolt. used in both iraq conflicts. big and ugly

means what is says. says what it means

f-14 tomcat. highway to the danger zone. top gun is my favorite gay film. moreso than torch song trilogy and love! valor! compassion! combined.

"maverick! i still think that you're dangerous. but, you can be my wingman anytime" sooooo hot.

i used to love raiding the elder's stash of nat geo world magazines (now known as nat geo world for kids if you want a subscription) for the blue angel's issue. this was the coolest plane to the bastard when he was a child and i still get a charge out of seeing this dilapidated piece of machinery when i go here. you know what the crying shame is, this museum is in danger of being closed

anyway, happy day after tax day and happy easter as i run some pix from what can also be referred to the museum of how our tax dollars paid for some cool ass airplanes that bailed us out in world war two. and speaking of pictures, the nice lady now has a web site for her photography business and i put it in the links so enjoy some far and away better pictures than the bastard can crank out with his camera phone jerk. so enjoy. go on. enjoy!

—the bastard

hee hee...tiecoon

here's my two step plan for getting a million dollars tax free. first step...find a million dollars. either way, you find the damndest things funny at 12 o clock at night when you've been out drinking with your friends.

—the bastard

...on kids

...and the adults who despise them

so the bastard was coming in late today due to a late night collision course with the theatre and when i hit the connector, i had scored a sweet seat and hunkered down for some crash time. it didn't quite work out that way. a mother was on the train with her two kids and one of them, the younger one, a boy was enunciating his observations with headphones on. i really wished he wouldn't do that and it stopped eventually. cool. and the mother got the message to mute her phone when she happened to be looking in my general direction when it went off and my eyes clicked open wide. cool. the kid kept talking and that was alright. he was taking a train trip with his mom and his voice went down easier without him shouting so i hunkered back down.

getting off the train this adult couple get up and the woman starts bitching about how the kid wouldn't shut up. quite audibly. facing the mom and her kids. you know, the bastard understands that there are people in this world who don't like kids, or don't want to have kids but unless the kid is poking you in the arm or directly inconveniencing you, shut the hell up. oh and complaining about it in a passive aggressive way, loudly, from 5 rows away while people are getting off of the train shows that you've got no spine, shiteyes. cheap shot. then again, one could argue that this entire blog is a cheap shot. but it's my cheap shot. so go to hell. i need eye drops now.

—the basatard

...on poison

so the bastard hasn't been doing the right thing by breakfast this morning mostly because he's been taking the later train to work and that has me arriving at the hallowed halls of killing stuff monthly close to a half hour late but the bastard has had a cold for the last week and change so i wanted to make it right. so to save time, i've been stopping off at the little kiosk where little men make me an egg sammich. anyway, despite getting to bed late again, i woke up with the ability to pry myself out of bed and take my usual train which instead puts the bastard here 30 minutes early for work which is ok because no one's here and i can make my coffee. what you don't have a coffee pot at your desk? what are you some kind of dick? so i take advantage of the early hour to buy something healthier for breakfast. i got up early enough to take the train, i didn't say i got up early enough to eat at home. anyway, while i'm waiting for my muffin, this woman who we can call hmmmmm, ida know, power suit?, orders coffee with splenda. the girl behind the counter asks her how many and smiles with some teeth that made me think she spent her summer of love in the hold of the golden venture, poor girl. anyway, power suit snaps back with i'll take 4 splenda. now the nice lady tells me that artificial sweetners while not necessarily good for you need to be taken in large quantities in order to kill you over time and considerring the amount and how cocentrated that crap is, it begs the question of, "do you really dislike the taste of coffee that much?" and if so, why don't you find an alternate means of waking up in the morning? cocaine has gotten cheaper, just blow a few rails when you wake up. or it begs the question of, "hey lady, are you trying to kill yourself?" beats the hell out of me, all i know is fruit is frikkin' expensive in this town. maybe it's just cheaper to slowly kill yourself over time, or cheaper to just wake up early and eat the ginormous box of raisin bran you bought to keep yourself from dying of heart failure.

...on the glory...

...and the big red one

"the real glory of war, is surviving" —samuel fuller

the bastard decided to go movie shopping this afternoon to make up for a raony day. picked up the remastered version of the big red one. now those of you that know me, know that i have lists. usually top five lists. top five deaths scenes. top five junkie films. top five steaks i've ever had. this falls under the bastard's top five war films. i'll do some list one day when i run out of material so coming next week, the bastard's top five lists. either way, i won't bore you with the plot. it was written and directed by sam fuller. sam could tell a story. one time in a documentary he was telling a story in which balzac runs into alexander dumas on a street in paris. now dumas had become wealthy off of the count of monte cristo at the time. they exchange pleasentries. kiss each other on the cheek and go there separate ways. after clearing one another, balzac says to himself, "that rat bastard son of a bitch. if only i had money like him". when alexander dumas was clear from balzac he said to himself, "that rat bastard son of a bitch. if only i could write like him."

anyway, i hadn't seen this film since i was much younger and i didn't understand film making as much back then but now that i'm older and i realize what the man was doing. i see the big red one as a well strung together diary of fuller's experiences in world war two. i also see it as one of the times that griff gets to see the end of the story. who's griff? well in this one, he's a sniper played by mark hamill. but in reality, griff was a buddy of sam's in the war who sam fell on a grenade and i think sam had to help hold his intestines in as he watched his friend die. as a result, sam fuller let griff live forever in his work as a reoccuring name of different people in his works. i never remembered the cast from when i was a kid but this time i looked for griff and i was glad he made it.

last but not least of all, there was this scene in which lee marvin shows us his finest hour. good stuff

—the bastard

...on justice

...or is it just us?

the bastard woke up this morning after what i can only describe as the most bomb proof drinking experience i've had in a great while. better thatn that. i have a cold and it feels better even though in didn't call it a night until 1 am. i think it had something to do with the fact that left hand rob and i thought that we saw grant morrison at the old town bar last night. probably wasn't him but then again damn if it didn't look like him (then again i did feel the urge to become invisible at some point).

anyway to my point. i woke up this morning (duh duh, duh nuh). and what did i see (duh duh, duh nuh). i saw a newspaper (duh duh, duh nuh), with guiliani's face looking at me (duh duh, duh nuh). okay if the bastard ever tries to do a blues song in blog form, please kill me. the front page from yesterday's daily news was on the kitchen table and it mentioned that rudy would be testifying in the sentencing peortion of the zacarias moussaoui trial yesterday. i came in and there was an article on it on the wire and this mother from california whose son was killed on flight 93 hopes that he doesn't get the death penalty because it will show muslims that we are a merciful nation and that if we killed him, the islamic community would label him a martyr anyway. quite frankly i don't want him put to death either. i want this man to spend the rest of his life in jail. i want him to know that rather than getting what would be a less painful death than he conspired to commit on others, i want him to know that we have his ass and he won't get the quick trip to his 734 virgins and free ice cream cake (sorry rob, it was too good not to use immediately) or whatever it is mass murderers get from their beliefs. this guy is no martyr. moussaoui was a leech on british society who collected unemployment benefits from the government while fomenting his hatred for the system that created the social program that put food on his table. i hope he not only rots in jail, i hope the stick him in solitary for the rest of his life so he has nothing for himself but 3 squares and conversations with the rats in the walls.

—the bastard

...on other kinds of packs

dear girls with backpacks,

excuse me ladies? yes you two with the backpacks. you know, the backpacks that seem to be holding a 74 volkswagen in each one (how the hell you two stay standing is beyond me). while i think it's great that you want a lowfat skim no sugar mochachino thingy or whatever and none of them meet your fancy no matter how many times the guy went down the list but and i know that it's great for your friend to know for shit sure that she in fact has $2.75 left on her starbucks card but, could you get the fuck out of my way so i can get some coffee and oh...i dunno...pay for it? have a nice day shiteyes.

love always,

—the bastard

mull

...or on reader submissions

"robbo wants to speak with you"

"sup robbo?"

"you gotta do something about the blog"

"what?"

"i can't read about your commute anymore, it's driving me crazy"

"i'm sorry"

"you gotta go back to writing about politics"

"i retired from politics robbo."

"you gotta go back to writing about politics. write something about the immigration protests."

"i'll see what i can do"

now the bastard retired from politics after the election in 2004. i'm tired of having a multifaceted set of political beliefs that i have to constantly defend because of the party i registered under. everytime i say the fucking "R" word in mixed company i have to listen to some chucklehead give me horseshit about how they can't believe i'm one of them and how fucked up all of those crazy christians are. i'm tired of it. i try to keep it to myself these days. i don't subscribe to an organized religion. god and i barely speak. and if the last couple of years have taught me anything, it's that americans treat the two party system like the rivalry between the new york rangers and the philadelphia flyers and i want no part of it anymore. if you want i can give you a list of what the bastard is for and against another time.

anyway, trying my best to honor robbo's request, i go monstering. deep digging on the last few days worth of whatnot over immigration reform and i realize aside form the fact that i keep coming across stories about the misadventures of a batshit crazy, gerrymandering congresswomen from georgia pissing me off to no end, i have very mixed feelings about the immigration debate. now i can tell you that there is an organization called MECha that maintains the belief that everything from oklahoma west to the pacific is called Aztlan (no not the lion from the c.s. lewis book) and that we should get the hell out because it belongs to the aztecs and since they are no longer an actual civilization anymore, them. no doubt, we should leave las vegas behind because i would imagine that americans leaving their homes in the west where they have been for generations would totally NOT play out like that scene in the last episode of little house on the prairie in which they blow up walnut grove while singing bringing in the sheaves. not at all.

anyway, the bastard took it up with left hand rob this morning. we discussed a variety of positions on the matter and i realized that i could monster my until i don't sleep for a week and i WILL actually piss myself off to the point of heart sickness (you see there is a sickness in the bastard's heart but that's another story) and i will never really be qualified to opine on this shit. so i have to apologize robbo, i can't do it. it's not fair to stick my neck out for something i can't 100 percent believe in or against. left hand rob wrote a book about illegal aliens and you can buy it on amazon if you'd like. i'd now like to take a page from edward r. murrow and say good night, and go to hell with that, i retired from politics

—the bastard

...on muthas

...or when i grew older i spoke like a child

you know sometimes just sitting in the park makes it's own material. just listening to a young mother talking makes for funny stuff

like: "No you won't hih hymn in da face wif dah bawl"

or: "yu keep uh eye ahn izayuh"

or: "Ahm gonna smack-ed hymn uhgaynst dah pawk gate"

and of course: "ah tol hymn dat shih"

ah young mothers. oh wait, she don't look so young. i'm so glad that the boy gets to go to school not in this neighborhood. i really am.

—the bastard

...on packs

...and stoop drinking

we are inherently no different than alot of pack animals. horses need a sense of community. gorillas, chimps and other great apes all hang together too. it's something that's hard wired into us i believe. so last week when it was finally warm enough and the sun was going down later, the bastard suggested the idea of going out for a drink and suggests it to the pack. jerkface says he's tired and maybe we can do it on friday. the bastard says he can't, he wants to see his boy on friday but left hand rob gets the bug and falls in. dj paulie brooklyn sees this as a good idea and in dj paulie fashion, he calls up his close friends so that they can go drinking that night. mind you, he thought it was a good night for a drink but, not with us, with his own friends. at least he never bullshits us either way so you can't really play the detractor in this case. can't do it but, it's stll funny that it drives him to go as far away from his coworkers as possible when the idea of hanging out comes up in conversation. anyway, we go and have ourselves some rooftop drinkign down the street. it's the closest thing to the stoop the bastard has had in a while. you see, back in the day, the bastard's crew would assemble on thursday nights to have a drink on the stoop. now as one gets older, old things go away and give way to new rituals and new responsibilites. nothing ever stays gold pony boy. either way, it's nice to have the wind on my face again while drinking with friends.

on the way home the bastard and left hand rob part ways and i have to wait for my train. i gets a smoothy. while doing so i hold up a support beam and some character seems to be hurling himself against the other side of it with a loud clang. hey, whatever lifts your skirt, mary. when i'm done i walks over to the garbage to dump my cup and turn around to find this character against the pole where i just was. maybe he was looking for a warm spot to lean against because the spot he was on (just 3 feet away) was too cold. so i snap his picture and he goes away to find another pole. the first shot didn't come out so good, so i took this at his newer perch. people get really uncomfortable when strange bald men in trench coats take their picture. either way i had my spot back back. my little piece of real estate while i waited for my smelly 10 car ride back to planet craptastica.

—the bastard