pinned

"ummmmmmmmm, duck whisperer? your tent has flipped over"

"oh shit man"

"i got it. and i got some extra rope to tie it down with"

you know, before the bastard went camping with the mad russian, there were two things he's never done (well 3 if you count how i almost cut off a finger chopping wood) bugged out of a site and had to move my dwelling until it was time to go. 2 years ago, we arrived way late and set up shop on a different site and then the next morning we had to bug out and move on. this time we missed all the rain, but we got all the wind. and my magnificent tenement of a tent was feeling the punch of mother nature's harsh breath.

after flipping the duck whisperers tent and all his gear back over we tied down the tent which had lost all of it's pegs due to the wind and my tetragon was still feeling the punch. so while i had an extra pair of hands, we turned my tent into the wind.

QUICK SIDEBAR: when you are using a 2 or 3 season tent, if you encounter harsh conditions like strong wind, it can't hurt to face your tent into the wind and open up all the screens. NOT THE DOORS, THE SCREENS. that way, while you aren't in your tent, the flow of the wind will just go through your tent rather than beat on it


that said, the bastard takes out his trusty rope, and ties the fly (the piece of cloth that keeps the frikkin rain off of your tent) grommets (the eureka tetragon has 4) and ties each grommet to a tree, further stabilizing the tent. i slept solidly that night but before that i decided to use my space age piece of technology that i call a cell phone, and made a little video of my thoughts on preparedness in the woods. it's like my man baden powell said, "be prepared, shiteyes".

—the bastard

...on cowboys

...and indians

as if camping in the pouring rain wasn't enough, the bastard set out the following weekend with the mad russian and his merry band of island dwellers. 3 groups set out from 3 different places (queens, brooklyn, and new jersey) to arrive at the same grocery store near lake george. i arrive at the mad russian's place to find that he's holding some poor girl captive and apparently, she's cleaning his home for him. the poor dear. on the same token, unless he's being beaten with a pizza box or trying to eat a sparkler, the mad russian keeps a clean place. anyway, we set out towards parts appalachia.

now while there was always the constant threat of awful weather around us, we seemed to get to the canoe landing without the benefit of the pouring rain. you see, the bastard checked the weather, and it said, "it's gonna rain again, shiteyes". but i was going anyway. this is all the bastard is getting for vacation this year. you'd think a well rounded jackass such as myself would actually have plans this summer but no, notsomuch. oh well. the selling point of going to indian lake islands is while you have a 5 hour drive ahead of you (and perhaps a 90 minute trip to the grocery store), you get to camp on an island. and that's good. because on an island, no one can hear you scream. we get to the landing and i'm canoeing shotgun with the mad russian (he usually prefers alone but we are six this year) and i learn a valuable lesson about the canoe trip, "you see bastard, despite the fact that no one hear thinks it's a race to the island...it IS." wise words and since i was riding in the back, he even got to land first. victory is his.

oh yeah, long story short. we got there without rain or incident and there was fire. what'd you expect? a white whale?

—the bastard

downhill slalom...

... or on critical mass

the bastard now believes there is a god. mostly because there is evidence of his/her sense of humor. the minute the engines are running, the cars are packed up, we pull out of the campground, the sun comes out. i think i might have heard the voice of jesus yell, "suckers" on the wind. upside of this, i get the joke. so anyway, we decide to go down the way we came since it's clear out. problem with this is, it was a steep climb coming up, so you know how it's going down :-O

we have the truck in L1 (jonny airplanes drives an automatic or rather his dad does because, it's his truck we're borrowing) and despite our best efforts we still have to use the brakes because we're doing 35 despite the gear on the truck and we see a bicyclist off in the distance.

she has the requisite rear view mirror, so she sees us barrel, not that we're really into this whole barreling down the hill thing but, she doesn't move. suddenly i'm reminded of a guy i know who works for killing stuff monthly's sister publication which we will call killing stuff more poetically. anyway this editor takes part in the monthly critical mass rides in our area (he actually went into the clink at little guantanamo the friday before the republican national convention in 2004 because of it too) and it got me to thinking about bicyclists in new york city. you see, i dodge alot of bicyclists daily because by and large they ride around my streets like over entitled jerks. the thing i gather from the critical mass organization is that, the world would be a better place if people drove less cars. and they're right. BUT, bicyclist by and large do NOT obey traffic laws and are surprised when people start to cross the street when they have the light. i one time saw a guy stiffen up and knock a bicyclist off of his bike and then walk away (big fucking guy too). i don't know if anyone else did but, i clapped. it was well deserved. a bike is a vehicle that you don't need a license for BUT, you have to obey the law. and bicyclists don't. therefore, this person who won't move their worthless ass over is a jerk.

finally we manage to slalom our way around our requisite road hog and make are way down the hill. the brakes reeked of burning asbestos thanks to the good graces of this jerk. thanks, shiteyes. here's mud in 'em

—the bastard

...on rock stars

you know his hat says, rock star. but his outfit says, jackass.

—the bastard

...on the windup

...and the panorama-rama

using the wonderful piece of space age technology the bastard calls a cell phone, the bastard tries to wind up the forever wild washout 3. even after 3 days of rain, you can still keep a fire rolling...

...and they have brand new bathrooms so you don't feel completely out in the wild.

can you believe that people will actually sleep in here in the rain because they just lack the know how to stay dry in the woods, in the rain?

we had to share our loop with 20 sites of cub scouts. granted with the swear rate generating from our 3 sites, we were no saints. but at least when we left, we put out our fire. 20 sites, all bugged out on saturday night, and some of them left the fire going. not only is that not safe but, it sure as shit ain't scouting.

k-love and i look at the jokkers across the way. these poor saps (some of whom worked for good morning america) had too endure all of our mouthy, cocky outdoor skills. the bastard had come to a conclusion this weekend. we're the kind of mouthy jackasses that you want to see fail out in the woods in a crisis but, while we're a bunch of mouthy loudmouths, we do teamwork really well. and by that good grace, we succeed. one more post on this and i'm out. in you face shiteyes!

—the bastard

...on nine lives

...and being a better man

in keeping with the spirit of giving each other a pass for our birthdays,
i decided to drop a few dimes. i'm not going to go into the time the mofo nearly burned the woods down and tried not to tell the scoutmasters why he was walking away with a 10 gallon water jug or a time when he did a standup routine about me in front of his coworkers at a party. nah, i'm gonna tell you why he inspires me.

you see the foot note on the monsters of rock story, later on that summer or perhaps it was the following summer (i think it was the following because i had my first car back then and that thanksgiving, the shrink was giving me grief for going out one night while this was going on), the mofo got leukemia. we thought he had lyme disease but he had leukemia. and it changed the dynamic in the house forever. long story short, he beats it. mofo:1, death:0. he rides it out with a brave face.

flash forward: mofo is 27 at the time when he feels a nasty pain in his chest. checks his pulse and has the old lady take him to the doctor. he thinks it's high blood pressure but it's an aortic aneurysm. he gets open heart surgery. operation is a success. mofo:2,death:0.

i go to visit him in the hospital and in all the time i've known him, he'd stare down injury with a brave face. he has the cancer, he cooley chats up the hospital staff and calls in a whopper junior to the old man. he breaks his collar bone playing football, he calmly gets up while they're still wrestling with the fumble, his arm dangling six inches below where it should be and he calmly says, "um guys, i think i have a problem here. can i get a lift to the hospital?" and he tried his best to joke in front of us with tubes sticking out of his neck. and he put on that brave face. one day while he was still in i visited him over my lunch hour and we talked and i won't get into what we talked about but, it was the only time that he lost his composure and i had to be stronger. 27 years of having the braver face of the three of us took a sick day and i don't recall if i ever mentioned it to anyone but i think about this now.

what inspires me is how this has applied to my year. you see, the bastard's marriage is coming to a close and i remember telling the nice lady i wanted to be a better man. i resolved in 2006 to be a better man. hell i resolved to do this in 2005 as well and i never could make good on it. i tried in 2004 as well and to no avail but it wasn't until thr nice lady and i separated did it start to happen. you see, i had to tell my brothers as quickly as possible what was happening so that this shit didn't come as a shock. sent one to the elder and sent one to the mofo. the elder, responded with sympathy and kind wishes and the mofo didn't respond. there was a certain serenity to the lack of response. when we filed last month, i told the brother again, once again the elder sent his deepest sympathy (he's a very emphatic guy, it's why he's going to heaven and i ain't) and the mofo didn't respond. i felt serene. you see, it's in his silence, his lack of out pouring emotion that grounded me, made me think that i needed to be stronger...better. and for that, i'm grateful.

happy birthday shiteyes, thanks for helping make me a better man. 2 down. 7 to go.

—the bastard

hot totty

the bastard felt likle a cold was coming on and there was a weekend in the woods where ignoring that feeling came back to bite him on the ass so, this time i brought a few accessories to try and waylay the onset of a cold. bottle full of vitamin c, and some tea bags, some honey, and the only bottle of whiskey i had handy in the form of a bottle of 12 year old single malt suntory.

QUICK SIDEBAR: a hot totty is a cup of tea, a little whiskey, a little honey and some lemon. i didn't have any lemon so i just doubled up on the whiskey. upon making this concoction, k-love asked what i was doing.

"hey whatcha making there?"

"a hot totty"

"hot totty? what's a hot totty?

"tea, honey and whiskey. want one?"

"sure"

so oddly enough, at 4:20 pm, k-love gets his first hot totty. and that's what he drank until the whiskey was finished. best duty free whiskey ever.

—the bastard

the bastard interrupts this program...

...to help save screech's house

dustin diamond, also known as screech from the saved by the bell tv series, is losing his house and he's selling t-shirts to pay to stop the foreclosure. for 15 bucks (20 if you want his autograph), you can lend him a hand.

—the bastard

...on doggy bunx

dean thrilla and his brother k-love always roll into camp the day after the rest of us show up. it's almost tradition. you see dean works at as the day manager of a noteworthy bar on long island and he sometimes doesn't get off until 8pm so he and his bro always get up at 4 in the morning and maybe stop by the waterfall on the way up but this wasn't the case this year. so this year it was fishing by some stop where we can't really quantify when the thrillas show up. you see they will insist they got up at 4am whether or not his wife tells us they didn't leave queens until 5:30 am. it's all part of the game, just like dean's classy entrance to the site.

fast forward, 4:30pm: dean's had a few and he needs something out of his car and apparently he trips and falls into the car. he can't get up on his own power so he flops around on the passenger seat like a fish out of water. i walked by around 5 to see him still struggling and i thought he was reaching for something. after a while, he gives up and falls asleep with his legs still outside of the car, getting rained on. at 6 we start up dinner. k-love is grilling meats on the campfire. "one of youse guys need to wake up my brother"

"i'll get on it", replies the bastard

so i stroll up to the car and poke him in the arm. dean's eventually gotten his legs into the car and he's full on sleeping.

"dean dinner's on. dean! dinner's on" thrilla rolls over and pulls his shirt over his head.

fast forward, 7:30pm: jonny airplanes tries next. walks up to the car opens the door and proceeds to put his hand over his mouth and pinch his nose. eventually he gets a response.

"what"

"you wanna get something to eat"

"i wanna get me some sleep"

"you want a doggy bag"

"yeah". as he drifts on back to dreamland, "gimme some doggy bunx". jon leaves him a plate full of food on the drivers seat.

fast forward, 10:00pm: dean thrilla returns to the land of the living. half a cord of wood is gone. he walks like a man just shot out of a cannon.

"where the hell is all the wood?"

"dean it's 10 o'clock."

"bullshit, where's the wood? is dinner ready?"

"dean it's 10 o'clock", the bastard flashes his watch. a look of realization comes across dean'sa face.

"is there any food left?"

"i made you a plate of doggy bunx. it's in the car. on the drivers seat"

"doggy bunx?"

"doggy bunx. don't you remember asking for some doggy bunx before drifting off again?"

"what the hell? felt like i slept for like 10 minutes. doggy bunks, huh?" he springs back to the car to find his foil wrapped plate still a little warm. settles down into his chair and chows down. "mmmmmmm, doggy bunx".

doggy bunx, indeed. he was back in bed so fast his empty plate was still spinning when we were wondering where he had gotten off to. the man can sleep

—the bastard

...on trench warfare

man against nature is a classic theme in the outdoors. how do you take a harsh mistress like mother nature and make her livable for the weekend, in the pouring rain. well first and foremost, you put up a tent. but you want dryer. so you construct a tarp city to cover your tent and create a rain free area to walk amongst. you see, you're almost human now. but then we have the issue of the ground. it isn't level. so how do you keep from losing your sanity to a big ass puddle? dig a trench shiteyes. behold as dean thrilla lays the groundwork to keep us all in dry seating and later on in beer that isn't waterlogged. go on! BEHOLD! ahhhhh go to hell

—the bastard

...on firestarters, and i don't mean keith flint

...or use number 45 for a defunct newstand glossy

so it's pouring out and fire is always a crucial accessory that completes any campsite. survivalist ray mears says that fire is essential in a survival situation for two reasons. firstly and most obviously, fire keeps you warm. secondly, fire builds morale. now the boys from the neighborhood like to play at camping without a handicap. we learned how to light the one match fire and k love has been feeling rather environmentally conscious, so lighter fluid is right out. but, we can't escape the fact that it's raining like the hammers of hell outside. so the bastard grabbed a couple of magazines from home and lo and behold, he discovered a new use for cargo magazine. i know that the fine folks at conde nast would approve. my money well spent...indeed.

—the bastard

...on the suitcase life

...or on the growing backlog

so as our latest intern, taz winds down her tenure at killing stuff monthly, the velvet hammer (KSM's managing editor) asks, what she's doing for the summer. taz is going back to L.A. long enough to pack her bag and then off to the south of france to see her sister play soccer. taz remarks how she's spent the last 6 months living out of a suitcase and she isn't sure if she'll ever find all of her crap. the bastard is feeling the same way right about now. i just came back from indian lake islands and tomorrow i'm going back upstate for a company offsite which i might blog on too just because i haven't imposed enough bullshit work on myself on top of my actual work. you know it just isn't a life worth living if i'm not up until 2am writing about my life's inanities.

anyway, i am backlogged. i have at least 3 or 4 items from the forever wild washout 3 as well as the indian lake islands trip.i'll get to it. in the meantime, here's the view from my tent at indian lake. i'm so tired and i smell like fire. good night, jerkface.

—the bastard

frying pan, meet fire

fire, this is frying pan
the bastard is backlogged on material. i still haven't posted much about last weekend's "forever wild washout 3" but, i will. however, i'm off to the woods again this weekend for camping on an island with the mad russian and his merry men. talk to ya soon, shiteyes.

—the bastard

reason 258 why the bastard loves his ipod

so there i was, sleeping the sleep of the damned on the railroad when the bastard get rousted at forest hills stop. the old hood. soon to be my hood again but, that's another story for another time. anyway, rousty sits down next to me and she gets settled and i decide i'm going to IM high school to ask how her bbq went last week and rousty starts singing to herself. so, very demonstratively, i takes out the bastard pod. i unroll the headphones in the most obvious manner possible and put it on and proceed to blast gomez through my ears. she starts miss thinging her head around and i keep the magic coming. what's the moral of the story? well it's twofold my lovelies. firstly, always keep some kind of white noise handy to drown out society. and secondly, my dear, no matter how good you think your singing voice is, i can guarantee you that NO ONE wants to hear you singing during their commute. it's rude. please think twice about how excited you are about jesus and keep it inside. that's why they call it an inner voice.

—the bastard

...on taking the hill

"oh man, 23a's out? you gotta be kidding me. that road is out every other time i come here."

"do we take the detour?"

"nah. the detour will take us an hour and a half out of our way. i know another route but i have to ask for directions"

"while you're at it jon, yuengling 12 packs are on sale. 7.99", the bastard always has his eyes on the prize

"okay got directions. we're going up the side of the mountain"

"how you figure that?"

"just watch"

so they i am following the map until jonny airplanes pulls up to this road that has no markings save for a sign that says road closed from november til april. it doesn't appear on the map as anything but a grey line you'd miss in the wrong light witch was rapidly approaching for us. the pictures don't do this hill justice but, trust me, we were starting to get some vertical here. in all of the time i've been going up to north lake i've nevewr taken this god forsaken road and the bastard KNOWS that it's god forsaken because it was rough as hell to drive on as well. ouch.

—the bastard

he's not heavy...

It's the bastard's (aka the bastard-day-boy) birthday. He let the age-cat out of the bag, that's his business, I'm just here to tell a story.

I guesss it's been 20 years since I saw my first concert, arena style, the monster's of rock at Giant's Stadium. The morning of the bastard and I couldn't sleep and ended up watching the Cliff 'Em All video, though Metallica was not headlining they were the featured attraction for us. A thunderstorm was blowing through the old-tri-state that particular cock's crow and we were concerned that they would play under such circumstances, hours later they went on, after an excruciating set by Kingdonm Come. The weather cleared up and they walked out on stage, Metallica, still in their glory before they shat themselves, even though there was a harbinger of things to come during this very performance. The bastard and I made with five rows of people to the stage at a time when floor seating meant, no seats, just floor. They ripped into Creeping Death, and the crowd around us erupted into a violent swirl. Now, I was still a little guy at this point, I hadn't reached my current height, and wasn't as close to filled out as I was even three or four years later, (after the chemo but that's another story), so I imediately began to shit myself. The bastard, was the strapping sort back in those days, burly enough to ride the tide of mayhem that came are way. I grabbed on to his trusty denim vest and rode the next 45 minutes out part frightened to my very core and lovin' it (that's for you thrilla). The point is the bastard could have very well been a bastard that day and joined the fray leaving me to go it alone, but he didn't, he did his duty and kept me from being stomped, looking back occasionally to make sure there wasn't just a hand attached to his vest, all the while illegally recording the event with a two bit hand recorder in his vest pocket.

I bring it up because I could tell you the story of the scar on my face, or how he hit me in the nose with a baseball bat (in fairness it was accidental, or what it was like dealing with him as a roommate for 18 years or so. A lot can be said about him in a number of different ways and probabaly in different languages, but today I'll just say that he's not heavy, he's my brother.

Happy Birthday, Bro'ham.

mofo

...year of the bastard

36 years and what do ya get? another year older and deeper in debt. the bastard's body aches. how appropriate, it's his birthday. the fact that i spent all weekend splitting logs while the hammers of hell rained down on me in the woods somewhere makes me ache, i can feel old. not really old, just sore. more on the camping trip later. now i sleep at my desk.

—the bastard

...on walkabout

so first off, the bastard has to say that it is frikkin sticky out. it ain't hot or anything, just thick. pea soup thick. i am going to be drinking water like a bloody fish this weekend due to the amount of humidity i will have to endure in the woods. yes that's right true believers, the bastard is going for a walk in the woods. come this afternoon, ther bastard will be on the road with jonny airplanes and the cast of regulars for some camping. i'll take some pictures and maybe kill some people but most of all i will sleep in humidity. why would i put myself through this kind of suffering even though i don't do the heat well? is it some kind of masochistic catholic penitent flaggellation? no my dear, it's because of the love. i love the woods, even when it's crappy out. in the meantime, here is a panarama of the heads in the african wing (excluding of course the bear skull) of the killing stuff monthly offices. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go on an overnight drunk, and in 10 days I'm going to set out to find the shark that ate my friend and destroy it. Anyone who wants to tag along is more than welcome.

—the bastard