you know...

...the bastard is starting to really really really not like the red eye. i just can't seem to get to sleep on one. whether it's some guy with bad gas or a family of 5 who while you can tell they adopted two of their three kids all seem to have the genetic pre disposition towards kicking strangers in their sleep. don't look at me all indignantly mom. if you didn't wake the bastard up from the cusp of some rarely gotten sleep on a fucking plane to hand your natural born child over to your self centered husband who just HAD to have the frikking window seat so that you could grab some shut eye yourself, we wouldn't be at this place where i break your adopted son's ankle in row 25. okay. now i'm going to take my nyquil (the 13th step) and go to bed and try and salvage this "lovely" monday. jerks.

—the bastard

...on deeds

...and their own rewards

i was heading home tonight after a little dinner and an episode of dirt when the rain hit. the bastard takes the long road home. i could take the 6 train and transfer at 53rd but i don't want to wait 45 minutes to transfer. i'd rather walk the extra 3 or more blocks and take a train that'll take me straight home. it's karaoke night, so i won't get to sleep at a reasonable hour anyway.

on my way across i run into this frail old russian woman who asks me in her broken english "Q train? Q train?"

now the Q doesn't stop at 23rd. and i don't speak russian. but this lady looked stranded. so i walked her to the r train staion at 23rd and 6th and gave her the best directions i could give her to get to the q train. she hands me a crumpled up fiver. i tell her. "nyet" which is "no" (ok the bastard speaks one or two words. ok four words, "yes, no, thank you, and good bye"). anyway i'm shaking my hands and telling her "no". i don't need the money and i didn't help her out because i did. it was just the right thing to do. besides, the good deed is it's own reward. she wouldn't take her money back and as quick as you could say "dosvidanya", she was gone.

i felt good helping someone out and felt odd that i couldn't find a homeless person at this hour to pawn off the fiver to. so i decided that the boy can have it tomorrow when i get to arizona. yup, the bastard is heading out into the western desert to see his little boy. it should be good.

got home, the karoke had stopped and here i am typing away till the hour i would have gone to sleep anyway if i had been home for the screaming caterwauls of middle aged jackasses singing badly next door. maybe that is my reward. good night, jerks.

—the bastard

...on the 5 pound bag

hey pal,

yeah, you.

the one with the green hat trying to fold a muslim woman in half so that you can squeeze your carcass onto the train. that woman ain't going to get any smaller. and this train isn't going to get any bigger. it's bad enough that it's cold. it's bad enough that we all had the same idea that it was a good idea to try and stuff 10 pounds into a 5 pound bag but enough's enough. you ain't gonna fit. now back up. thanks.

doors closing.

bing bong. jerk

—the bastard

...on the snow

...or happy valentine's day here's you frikkin' snow

well it took several months but, the snow has finally arrived and wouldn't you know it, the bastard has to go to a photo shoot uptown. i find it fascinating that it is illegal to photograph a firearm inside the city limits without the right paperwork but, you can take a bag of bullets with you into a cab and have them photographed. fascinating. i guess since there is no delivery system for the bullet, it's okay. ida know.

all slush and crap aside though, the bastard loves the snow. i love the idea of it. i love the absence of sound while it happens. it seems like all of the collective people walking to the train station are so busy concentrating so hard on not slipping and falling on our asses that we don't utter a sound and all you hear is the gentle falling of snow on the ground and the sound of it crunching beneath your feet. that is until you get near a main street and then all you hear is wheels squishing water and slush under it's wheels and jackasses honking their horns. it's good times.

—the bastard

the neck tattoo makes the man...

...and other sunday morning jackassery

the bastard was on his way home on sunday morning (yeah, home, sunday morning) when it had occured to me that i didn't feel like going home.so i decided to go hunting. now while i do work for a hunting magazine and hunting is alive and well and living today in america's heartland, i don't hunt. at least not in the traditional sense. you see, i like to hunt oddities, idiots, hipsters. anything that strikes my fancy that particular day. also, the bastard is going to be out of town for the hunter safety course my job is offering so, it's not like i could go hunting for small creatures anyway. so i go to my usual hunting ground...the mall.

i actually park in the back of the mall because it's less frustrating and because you never know what's to buy. but my actual prize at the time was coffee which was at the front of the mall which gives me a chance to get the lay of the land. and it hit me at the coffee line. neck tattoos.

now this fine fella has himself a collared shirt for his mall job and right above the collar is this prison neck tattoo of what i can only assume is his girlfriend/baby mommy's name. unless of course his name is tina or whatever "t" name was written on his neck. it wouldn't make sense for him to have his own name on there, that would be idiotic. then again, that would imply that having a neck tattoo of anyone else's name wasn't idiotic. actually it was earlier in the morning i was having a discussion with my ladyfriend about how i don't want the company to move to florida or how i wouldn't want to go there mostly because while there is alot of fine fine work outside of the new york publishing arena in america, working outside of new york hobbles your career a little bit. this isn't the case internationally because new york publishers will hire a designer from australia or great britain sight unseen because the new york publishing industry is full of anglophiles (that and the fact of the matter is both great britain and australia bring a fresher perspective in a sea of esquire magazine imitators).

anyway, this took on a new meaning looking at this character, and the woman who was taking my coffee order with big ole script on her neck, and the other two people i saw with neck tattoos. why would you hobble your chances in life. if you go to college for 4 years (not that i'm saying any of these chuckleheads went to college but maybe they do) what makes you think that some stodgy middle manager of human resources is going to give you the time of day. i'm not saying it's right, i'm just saying.

also, while i think tattoos are kind of cool and all, they've become really pedestrian. everyone has one and that makes them less unique. celebrities have them. bikers have them. apparently coffee barristas have them. it almost seems like nothing is taboo anymore. nothing is cutting edge. nothing is risky anymore. and that makes the world seem that much less interesting. on the same token, it makes the bastard think about this movie i was watching last week called once were warriors in which two sons in a maori family are sitting down to dinner. one son who is in a traditional maori school learning the old ways says to his older brother how he likes his face tattoo. the older brother joined this street gang and wears a traditional face tattoo and black leather (i don't know how we got to this point, i missed the first 30 minutes of the film) and the tattooed brother asks if he wants one as well and the younger brother replies, "no thanks. i wear mine on the inside".

—the bastard

...on the split

this morning seemed like the longest ride ever. apparently, it was the longest ride ever for almost everyone i work with and it was all because of a split rail at 59th street. the new assistant a.d. lives in astoria and it screwed her commute. it slowed mine because it created alot of unnecessary train traffic for me. the other half of the art department lives on the planet of brooklyn. this is on the other end of the sametrain i take. in fact the p-cat takes the "R" train and the "N" whichterminate in astoria and forest hills respectively from bay ridge. p-cat calls them "rarely" and "never" as is their frequency in his hood. so the split rail created all sorts of trouble for him.chicago jerkface lives in prospect heights and he had traffic and switch problems to contend with. so needless to say, the six degrees of separation involved in this morning's commute is fascinating to the bastard. well what did you expect? something funny?ahhhh go to hell.

—the bastard

smoke

"Those who say the past is not dead can stop and smell the smoke."—Ben Folds


So I made it, my life packed into a '95 Celica, I escaped from the clutches of purgatory in the nick of time. Apparently I got out of there so fast I left tornadoes in my wake. So the ol' celica and me lit out of town early last Friday. The same Celica that was a point of contention the last two weeks of my existence there. After telling Nemo about my intentions to leave, the first thing that came out of his mouth was "what about the car?" I bought the car three years ago from Nemo's daughter and we decided that $1,500 was a fair asking price for the vehicle. After paying $500 to them and spending over $1,500 keeping the car on the road within 8 months of title change, Nemo's daughter—the co-title holder at this point—said to me that I shouldn't have to pay the other $1,000 for the car. Cool, right. Seeing as I put all that money into a car she didn't take care of (plus another $1,500 since, give or take) it was a nice gesture. Of course it turned out to be just another broken deal between the Nemo's and I.

smoke.

Packed to the gills, I was off to restart my life in the NYC. Some say I should have never left. I don't regret going down there. It needed to be done, if it wasn't Florida it would have been somewhere else. Southern California was a destination in mind, but the Texan (the ex now lives in Texas) put the kibosh on that. I learned a trade and enjoyed the weather and natural beauty of the gulf. It just that I didn't count on the junkie fucking shit up. I had to leave New York City to live next door to oxycontin shooters who break into their own cousin's and fellow employees home and steal said cousin's digital camera. Fucking Florida, man. The worst part is, the revealing of the junkies' habit came during my trip up to NY for my birthday. When I came back my cousin, the junkie and Nemo tried to cover the whole thing up like it didn't happen. Until two days later when the junkie broke in through my window and stole a digital camera and printer from my cousin's room.

It should be made clear that the junkie is Nemo's Daughter's cousin, there is no blood relation between the junkie and I thankfully. Explaining away a worthless fuck like this would be a source of embarassment to the fam worldwide. So, then, it turns out a week later Nemo tells me his daughter was also taking painkillers and that's one of many reasons why over the last year the company had lost and owed so much money to creditors and why the next six months of my life would suck. Working non-stop for the next three, having a grandmother die and then spend the next three resenting everyone you know and live with in Florida for the mistake, betrayals and just down-right business mismanagement that has made the last two years a personal fucking hell for me. As I look back on the 3 and a half years I spent there i see a pattern of selfishness, and denial that is the purgatory electric family. Good riddance to that psycologists nightmare.

As I explained to my cousin and roommate why I was leaving I stayed on the high road—it was the only way to go. I said to her that "it was unfortunate that things couldn't work out." What I really meant was fuck you. And i guess that's all there is to say about that.

smoke

It's funny how you become comfortable with certain things and then they become second nature. This econo lodge in Florence, SC was where I would stay when driving to and from Florida to New York for the holidays. It's almost exactly half way from door to door. Florence is your basic interstate city, it has two that go through it, 95 and 20 and has a US highway as well. Train tracks run right through the city and there is a train that will wake you every morning at 5:30 or so—no need for a wake-up call. It's main attraction is the Darlinton Motor Speedway, it hosts two NASCAR races. I've never been to the track, it's a couple miles up th eroad and my modus operandi in Florence is check in, eat, sleep, wake up, check out and drive. It occurred t me when I got on 95 north last saturday morning that I may never see Florence again, it's no big thing, I mean its Florence, but it was like closing a book. Now let's see if i can't sell the movie rights.

smoke

mofo

in which the bastard figures stuff out

so i pop past left hand rob's cube to tell him about seeing the new film by almodóvar (volver, go see it jerkface...it's good), we start talking about this french caper film he's watching called rififi (he posted about it last week), which he views as the prototype for all heist movies. so here's the secret formula for a heist film:

1. a bunch of guys plan on stealing something

2. one of the guys doesn't want to partake but someone or something pulls him in

3. somehow, usually by deus ex machina, the heist goes wrong

4. shit ensues

5. not all of them make it out in one piece (mind you, this is not a mandatory step)

and there you have it. it's as simple as that. now cast ricky jay, jason statham, and if you're really cool, delroy lindo. and when you get your oscar for best picture, i believe the phrase you will be looking for will be, "first off, i'd like to thanks the bastard for figuring this shit out for me, the checks in the mail". yeah.

—the bastard

that's brisk baby...

...or so nice, i did it twice

i was checking the weather before bed last night and i knew full well that we were looking at a 10 degree morning. the bastard woke up this morning to find that not only was it a 9 degree morning but, there was a wind chill factor of zero for the commute.

so i hit the ground running (pausing briefly) to drop off laundry. and get gone with myself. walking fast just to keep warm. you see, last night, robbo told me that i need to find a better way to get to the train station in this kind of weather. "maybe you can drive to 179th street and just take the F train from there"

"nah, it doesn't make sense for me to drive east so i can take the train west. i can't take the bus because i'll just be standing in the cold waiting for the bus. the best solution is to just suck it up and walk as bundled up as i can and walk."

"i guess"

so i there i am, and i realize that my phone isn't with me and i'm halfway to the train. for a minute, i'm standing there mulling over what i already know is the course of action i'm taking because the phone is on vibrate. and it's on top of my dresser. and i have hard wood floors. it's a good thing i went back too. as soon as i got into the hall of heads that is this office the phone rang. that would've been a nice mess of plastic shards on my bedroom floor when i got home tonight. stupid cold. be less numbing.

—the bastard

free at last. free at last. thank god almighty, i'm free at last

got this over the phone this morning from the mofo as he begins his final ascent out from purgatory. this one comes straight from the florida/georgia border. you know what they say kids, every time you hear a bell ring, a mofo gets its wings.

—the bastard

brand new i phone here now!!!

now the bastard likes the sweet new technology as much as the next bastard but justice takes it to a new level. justice is the photo editor of killing stuff monthly and he loves to obsess over things. in this case, it's apple's new iphone. now the iphone doesn't come out until later this year. i think it might actually be in april. either way. justice, wants the phone and until it comes out, he built himself an iphone. now lets take a brief overview of it's fantastic features.

it comes with many touch screen features

and it's oh so slim to fit into your pocket.


it even comes with this fabulous digital camera. you know, just looking at this cardboard fake (which comes complete with it's own nutrition information on the back), i'm thinking of trading my phone in for one too. why? because it's sweet looking, jerkface.

—the bastard

you know they have the internet on computers now

help me please. the bastard has been trapped in his cube for the last 50 minutes while people are hashing out what goes on the killing stuff monthly website and it's making his head hurt.

"well the website"

"website?"

"well maybe we could website the website"

"website?"

"well website the website and then circle back to the website and then we could website"

"website?"

truth to tell is, this has nothing to do with the fact that the board is in front of my cubicle. to be fair, these guys have been working really hard on this sort of thing and it has more to do with the fact that i need a cup of coffee. and a door. and some earplugs. and some gin. and a pick axe. cover me, i'm jumping out of my cube, with coffee on the brain. wish me luck, shiteyes.

—the bastard