...on the whirlwind

the bastard is so tired. i was just discussing the issue with left hand rob and the entire time he was speaking, i was doing the robot.

been up since 6. left work last night at nine. was up at 6 yesterday too. this is the way it is curing the busy time. seems like the most overwhelming shit in the world until you get a handle on it. the creative part is almost done. then i can get on with the robotic act of trafficking this crap. oh well, i can sleep when i'm dead.

—the bastard

POSTSCRIPT or rather PRESCRIPT: i was listening to the ipod on the train this morning and "lucky man" by the verve came on. for a second, all of the clarity in the world came over me. i am a lucky man.

on rosetta stones

We all have them, what is literarily referenced as the rosetta stone. A missing link, or that one thing that everyone has strive for over ages and ages, the brass ring, we have all them—in different shapes and sizes, but you have one, you're thinking of it right now, and how it has escaped your reach for so long and broken your spirit time and time again. Here is a story of triumph.

A few years back when I worked the US Open Tennis Tourney in the old airplane-gas swamp we had some downtime. During this downtime many things could occur, Wolfie ordered two-foot shocks, a roll bar and lights for the top for his easy-go (golf cart), I painted the crew's ezgo sky blue with and orange racing stripe on the front and flames on the sides, and put head lights on. We palyed hacky sack, balle, drew did crossword, played video games—but mostly we went for rides on the ezgos around the park. On the outskirts near College Point Blvd there was a Western Beef, meat store and market.

As the tournament approaches employees spend more and more time at the facilities for obvious reasons, it's the single most profitable sporting event in the United State not counting an Olympics. Only Super Bowl week makes more for a money for a city, but that's only a week, this tournament strecthes over three weeks, one week of qualifying tournaments and then the two weeks you see on TV. During the time leading up to the event, each segment of the gargatuan staff become squirrels (funny story about, but I am currently contractually obligated to stay mum on the subject), in a way, stocking stuff away in our little offices and nooks on the stadium grounds because while the tournament is on, there isn't much of a chance to leave the grounds and believe me there's only so much Restaurant Associates you can eat. Even if it is free and even if Moose is cooking Filet Mignon at 2:30 in the morning. One of the precious thing we pick up from our many travels to the Western Beef is cereal. Yeah, breakfast cereal and milk.

One day in late July, Buns (he used to refer to getting laid as getting BUNS!. The way he said, you know that goes), Dark Sol (Self named and for good reason), Eightball (who on more than one occasion on flights to and from Syracuse to NYC carried an 8-ball in a sock as protection, AFTER 9/11! At the time, and you may remember, TSA had a list of things you couldn't bring on a plane, an 8-ball in a sock was not one of them), and Myself formed a Cereal Club. One of the four of us would buy a box of cereal, buyer's choice, and that would be the cereal we ate until it ran out and the next member would buy the next box. I can't remember which of the other three bought it but one choice was Frankenberry. On the back of the box was a map to a secret treasure that Frakenberry, Count Chocula and the blue ghost from Booberry were hiding. The map was to be continued on the other two types of cereals boxes'. We all decided the next logical step would be to buy Count Chocula or Booberry next. Chocula was in stock and bought and two pieces of the puzzle were complete. Finally, only Booberry remained.

Long story short, Booberry went missing for months, during which time the four of us, searched supermarkets far and wide in the Queens and Brooklyn area for Booberry, no luck. Soon enough, winter was upon us, Buns was getting his, Eightball was back in Syracuse finishing his Fine Arts degree—he sent me an email later in the winter that three was no Booberry in Syracuse either, Dark Sol was married, mysteriously, and living in England, and my ex was breaking up with me, setting in motion the events that would occur over the next four years that would find me riding my bike up the trail alongside Veterans Pkwy when my phone rang—I keep my phone with me in case get caught out there with a flat, I can call Nemo for the old pick, see, I tend to ride pretty far and this ani't New York, the only mass transit around here is the heel-to-toe express—it was Judge Roughneck, who by the way had no previous knowledge of the aforementioned quest, he was at the Stop and Shop (for this I will advertise) on Metropolitan Ave in Forest Hills, and he was standing in front of a well stocked section of yeah, you got it, Booberry. No Map, but that was a dream long lost, at least the cereal still exists.

This evening, the ride out to the Starbucks downtown I have affectionately dubbed "the office", the sunset was that much more beautiful, the grande hot chocolate—sweeter, and I'm sure the beer or two I plan on drinking after this will taste better than the ones at the bottom of Uncle Peter's cooler. The world is a better place today. Enjoy yours.

mofo

the hawk is out

So it's been nippy in South Florida of late. Yeah, I know, anyone located at or near an area encompassed by the Tropics of Cancer and Capricorn wouldn't necessarily consider mid-50's blustery as nippy at this time of year, but there it is. That's the old Mofo with a wool cap in a scarf put the finishing touches on an electric service, and man, I'm fucking cold.

I'm also quite miserable, considering when this cool snap came in Thursday night it turned my tonsils into bowling balls, which a change in weather often does. Works gotta get done,

I used to be one of those guys who put on a wool cap a pair gloves and shoveedl snow in my shorts. Tempature had no effect, that is except for my ears—as the Human Microwave, otherwise known as Triple B, could attest. I should say it doesn't help that most of my work is done outside, therefore, even with a roof over my head in a framed house I am still a victim of the wind. I came home yesterday with a bright red face, not from embarrassment—like every other day— but from windburn. My point is yeah, it's 55 degrees, and If I was strolling the old QV today 55 would be kick-ass, but let's see how you feel when you spend 8 hours in 55 and blustery weather with no break from it. You would all be singing the same song. I feel bad for the dudes who do this up in New York this time of year. Nemo was telling me that in his days up there it was close to impossible bend aluminum to your wishes when building an exterior service (aluminum is used as a conducter between the telephone pole and the circuit breaker panel). He also told me about a guy he used to work up north who, when the first nip came through, would say "the hawk is out." I never heard the expression before, Nemo said the dude was from somewhere near Chi-town, so it kind of made sense. Every region has it's own slang. Either way, I like it.

I got home and took the world's most hottest and best shower ever, the kind of shower you take when the hawk is out.

mofo

year of the bastard

...or on the coming storm

a while back, the bastard was having a conversation with the nice lady over a year ago with regard to her mother moving west. i said that a life changing event such as this is a golden opportunity to become the person you always wanted to be. you do things differently and eventually you believe that you are the person you want to be and then a real life affirming thing happens, you become that person. the bastard has been trying this theory out on himself since the divorce. i have been trying to be less wound up. less full of vitriol. less humorless. and most days it works. i laugh at myself more than i used to. i take stuff more in stride. i seethe less. but, every now and then, we have a relapse. i rolled over some parking cones in from of the restaurant on saturday night, freaking out the parking valet. then in my head i thought i nonchanlantly told her i was going up to my apartment that i had lived in for the last 10 years. but, it sounded to her like i was being mean. i had relapsed into the old snide way i talk to the people who work for the people who fill me with vitriol. i won't let that happen again.

then it hit me this morning as i was having an awful morning. it was a dick van dyke morning. everything was clumsy and not working right and the only thing i didn't do was dump my cereal on myself. nope, it wasn't good. and i seethed. god how the bastard seethed. then it hit me (one cup of coffee in mind you), the storm is coming. my storm. the one that's made up of tons of work raining down like the hammers of hell with a chance of alot more. plus a chance of partly madness with showers to follow. it all makes sense now. so here we go. cover me...i'm going in shiteyes.

—the bastard

...on time travel

so i took some free advice and took a slow roll into the office today. had the presence of mind to hit the snooze button because hell, the bastard needs to take it easy. the editor is in montana this week apparently hunting the sasquatch (you know his legend's real) or nessie or whatever it is roams the land up there. i guess they have a good arrangement. anyway, i digress. i roll out late and i'm finding that no matter how hard i try to come in late, i'm still in on time. i'm only late when i'm actually running late and want to get to work in a hurry. it's kind of like some kind of reverse psychology time travel thing i travel in when the bastard doesn't give a crap about the time. go figure.

...on beverages and hold ups

so today's the day where i buy the new pound of coffee for the bastard's coffee maker. can't stand the crap they have for free in the office and i always need my coffee. you know, to prevent murders from occuring in the office. in front of me on line is a man with one of those blind guy canes (the bastard can't think of a more diplomatic way of putting that. reeeeeeeeaaaaaaalllll smooth) and when it's his turn he hands the counter girl a note and after the help passes it back and forth several times to decifer it, they start to make his drink. my turn comes and i ask, "did the note say, this is a robbery?"

"huh"

"the note"

"oh no it didn't.....................um........oooooh......huh huh huh"

don't worry deary, i know it's early. have some coffee. you DO work in a coffee shop and all.

—the bastard

...on late night cab rides

you know, you may not believe it but, sometimes in new york, you'll put your life in a total stranger's hands. the bastard was returning from dinner late this evening when i scored a cab. this guy was coming in like a freight train. weaves between two other cabs and i get in. lucky me.

the man was clearly russian by the way he spoke and clearly looked like the star of a troma film called fat guy goes nutzoid. except he was wearing a yellow tank top and a sweatband on his head which he kept fiddling with. apparently there was construction or some crap so, there was a little back up on the block. truth to tell, i was in a hurry not only because it's late but, because you pay towards the meter on a cab even when stuck in traffic and i want to pay for distance, not for standing still. anyway nutzoid leans on his horn with what appeared to be his entire body when traffic cleared up and he held his body on the horn for what seemed like the rest of the ride down continental avenue. all the while speeding and the car didn't feel all that stable to begin with. i get to my block, pay the man and got out with my life back in my hands. it's going to rain tomorrow...well...this morning that is. it stinks out, like it's too humid and something's got to give. oh well, time for bed.

—the bastard

...on manifest destiny

earlier this year, the bastard had mused about the enormity of a slice of pie while dining in las vegas. while in tucson the nice lady brought to a place called mom's for a slice of pizza before i got on the planeride home. look at the size of this thing. i had the nice lady hold a quarter next to it just for scale. it got me to thinking about the american idea of manifest destiny.

Quick Sidebar: Defined, Manifest Destiny was a phrase that expressed the belief that the United States had a mission to expand, spreading its form of democracy and freedom. Advocates of Manifest Destiny believed that expansion was not only good, but that it was obvious ("manifest") and certain ("destiny"). Originally a political catch phrase of the 19th century, "Manifest Destiny" eventually became a standard historical term, often used as a synonym for the territorial expansion of the United States across North America towards the Pacific Ocean.

this all sort of culminated in president james k. polk clamoring for u.s. possession of california and now we wonder with righteous indignation at the mexicans quietly taking it back. why yes virginia, the bastard has been caught reading this week's issue of time magazine. anyway, i don't want to get into that now, i just want to remark on the enormity of this fucking slice of pizza and wonder, A:did james k. polk have any idea that this kind of shit was going to happen back in his day and B: does the monroe doctrine cover a land mass of this size if it comes out of an oven in the western hemisphere? enquiring bastards would like to know.

—the bastard

overheard on the subway

long day. shipping the magazine isn't quite as rough as it used to be but when something breaks down and hangs you up a little, you run a little late. fortunately it wasn't pissing out when the bastard left the office, even though it was pissing all day. i hit the 6 uptown and get off at 53rd bound for all points craptastic. and i'm walking behind these 3 college age kids. the tallest says to his friends, "yeah when i turn 22 i can be officially considered a cop. because i'm already irish and i'm an alcoholic". no my boy, you can be a cop at 22 because like anyone else with an opposable thumb, you can hold a pistol. now could you kindly point that pistol at your foot and pull the trigger? cause the way i see it, you may not be old enough to be a cop yet but, you are old enough to be a jack ass. keep up the good work, you dick.

—the bastard

...on the grand experiment

since the bastard's immediate family was the queens outpost for the greater whole for so many years, we were also the official pick up out of state family members at the airport. i grew up near the cross island parkway which dumps you right near JFK. now, since moving out my periodic travelling pick up drop off was either my rents or the nice lady but, she's in arizona now and i didn't want to rely on the fam anymore. come to think of it, i didn't want to frop a fuck ton of cash on a cab either so i opted for the airtrain. for the uninitiated to all things new york, the airtrain is the slightly more effective solution to driving to the airport, or taking a cab. five bucks gets you from the terminal to the airport.

now you see, the elder worked on the airtrain a little while back when he worked for bent nosed electrical contractors inc. and i have to say, they did a bang up job on it. it runs smoothly despite some early trouble it had when it started but hell, you gotta take the bad with the good with these sort of things. the cars are cleaner and bigger and i wish the subways were more like this but then again, these kind of cars might eventually find their way underground one of these days. i had intended to take the airtrain home as well but i had a redeye out of tucson and i'll talk about that later. so much for the grand experiment.


—the bastard

ain't that a kick in the head?

well, ring a ding ding baby! apparently, dean martin isn't dead. he was just hiding from jerry lewis. well i guess he was hiding from jerry. anyway, i was going to continue the tucson posts chronologically from the start but since it's the day after election day, i thought i'd skip ahead to this photo from a street corner in tucson just around the corner from the boy's school. the boy felt if he was old enough to vote, he'd vote for captain al melvin (his sign pictured partially in the circle) because hell, he's a captain.

...on the sea change

the bastard continues to maintain that he has retired from politics so, i won't go one at length about yesterday's results. the party kind of had it coming, and while i've been sick of both parties, i've been really disappointed with the whole process lately. it needs it's own post really but, i'm retired. don't get me wrong though, you fuckers better know what your doing. my taxes go up, i start monstering again. and now that you got the power, you're going to need something else other than "fuh fuh fuh, the president is an idiot" when shit goes south. just a thought. that is all.

—the bastard

...you know

..this is no way to welcome the bastard home. hey, new york. i just spent 3 days out in the desert defending your ass from people who will never get out of the sand (well it's not really a sandy sort of desert. more like a rocky desert) to see for themselves that we're not a a city full of dicks and what do you do? you act like a buncha dicks. now i'm not asking for a whole "hey wow! welcome home bastard" but, if i wanted to spend my train trip chewing on your triple fat goose jacket, i would have had one for breakfast. and while i am normally not one to ride the folks at the local coffee-teria about customer service, it's not my job to bag my coffee while i'm spilling it all over my hand. that's why you guys get the best medical in all of part timedom as well as two free pounds a month. i know what you're concentrating on the whole counting thing and i'm sure now that you're the sort of girl who moves her mouth while reading and all but, come on, my hand is burning. hmmmmmmm, maybe i would have preferred a heroes welcome. can anyone organize a parade for me the next time i come back from arizona? nothing big, just one where i don't get coffee spilt on me.

—the bastard

...on the desert

so it's a week of firsts for the bastard. this is the first time i've actually managed to get a decent clip of sleep on an aircraft. but more importantly, this is the first time i'm visiting the family since the divorce. the bastard can't say enough nice things about the magnificence that is jet blue. i always have a good time flying them (even though i found out that airlines are phasing out reclining seats on flights on newer aircraft which sucks). the weird thing for me is, this is the first time i've been on a plane for something other than business in a long time so it also sucks that i can't expense booze on my flight to drown out the idiot one aisle over from me referring to his destination as "the zona". i mean, how hard is it to say that you're going to arizona? and how hard is it to not say "bro" (except he pronouced it "brah"). this just filters into my disdain for frat boy hedge fund stock broker types. that's why i like the chairman. he;s perfectly happy to make a crapton of money and just dress like shaun fanning for the rest of his life, regardless of how much money he makes. his not putting on airs is kind of refreshing. but, i'm getting off message here.

anyway, got in last night late and the boy woke up in the back seat of the nice lady's pickup and when he shook out the cobwebs and realized i wasn't a dream, he gave me a big hug. i've never seen someone so glad to see me. it was kind of nice. well, her place is huge by new york standards and there's a damn mountain hanging out across the street apparently waiting for mohammed to show up. maybe he's got some questions for him. who knows but all i know is, there's this god damned mountain across the street and it's big.

-the bastard

...on both ends

...and the open road

"i'm going down the well", was a popular addage that ms. cin used liberally. too many people talking to her while she's trying to get miracle pictures of elephants charging that don't really exist, or photos of polar bears dancing the rhumba on an island off the coast of cambodia. it never ends.

the bastard went down the well today. i'm trying to get color out. i'm trying to get the feature well done. i'm trying to get the devil's work done. and i'm trying to pack. yes, pack. the bastard is going out to visit the boy out west. the bastard gets on a plane tomorrow night to catch up with his estranged family in sunny tucson. this should be fun but, it won't become fun until i'm at the airport, ticket in my hot little hand (and mind you, my hands do generate a fuckload of heat) and perhaps a cup of something or other in the other hand. either way, i'm antsy and exhausted and i just want to curl up and sleep. which is what i might just do, right after i post this. good night, shiteyes.

—the bastard