broken

ok, the bastard'll admit it. i woke up this way. i woke up 2 steps away from buying a pack of camels and smoking my way down to the train station but, instead i spent my morning obsessing. so, since 6:30 this morning, i've been up worrying about our new space. it's a cube farm and some cubes are just like mine heightwise. some of them aren't. and i don't want that. i don't know if i am essentially going to get the same type of seating as other art directors in the building and the bastard isn't usually about keeping up with the jonese but, i don't want to cram all of the look and feel inner workings of selling lots of bullets seven times a year into a space that's half as high and half the size. i have a small enough space as it is and for fuck's sake, i art direct a fucking magazine. the bastard is not an intern. work hasn't gottne me out of bad like this since i worked at interweb week.

so i get into the office and the trainer tells me that my new machine won't be ready today. the trainer is a good guy and since he's from a design pedigree, he actually gives a shit. the new IT guy who we can call....ida know..soulpatch, clearly can't be bothered. he has bigger fish to fry. and to be fair, he's probably getting crap from everyone in the building but, he ain't the first IT guy to say "we'll see" when he means "abso-fucking-lutely not, shiteyes". it just rubs the bastard the wrong way. it doesn't help that the guy who's running all of this down south thinks that we're all a bunch of overentitled assholes who are used to getting what trhey want so fuck them. actually we're a bunch of people who are making magazines on technology that was new in 1995 who happen to live in a city that makes his hometown look like a bag of crap in comparison. okay i never said we weren't assholes.

—the bastard

smug

psst.

hey.

new york.

the bastard has to tell you something deeply personal.

all of your children.

who ride to work with you on the subway.

are walking ids,

or twitchy and shouldn't be dressing themselves

and kicking

and twitching

and kicking

what the fuck did you feed your child this morning, jerkpiece

or

are fat

and annoying tubs of lard who shouldn't be flipping their braids around hitting folks like they own the goddam place.

leave them home.

or

maybe

fucking raise them to act properly on the train.

we can work on the clothes and weight some other time.

now don't get me wrong. i am a parent. a really smug parent. i think the sun rises and sets on my boy. but, my boy knows how to behave himself on a train. and to be fair, he's 7 and that's pretty much when most kids become aware that they can reason and that the world might not revolve around them but,

curb your kid

please

before i come unglued.

thanks

—the bastard

checklist

so this morning, the bastard woke up late for his indesign class. yes, selling bullets sewven times a year is finally coming out of the dark ages and upgrading the equipment. everyone will be up to the industry standard. i wonder what that will mean for the art staffs of all the magazines involved over the next 6 months. can you say deluge?

anyway this morning i:

hit at least two people with my bag

lost my bandana/sweat rag

stepped on 5 sets of heels

3 sets of toes

nearly collided with 2 people

and told at least one person to "get out the way"

and i got me an egg sammich

all in all, the bastard says, it's been a full morning.

—the bastard

this just in...

left hand rob has just informed the editor and i that weekly world news is is closing up shop. the venerable supermarket tabloid was the source of nonstop entertainment for years when the bastard. that's right kids, we won't have anyone to report the whereabouts of batboy anymore. no more ed anger column. and speaking of ed anger, the bastard thinks some tribute is in order, in light of this grave news.

the bastard is madder than kids stuck in summer school because the weekly world news is closing.

the bastard is madder than than a tea-drinker named Joe because the weekly world news is closing.

the bastard is madder than than a smoker on a submarine at people who think they have the ‘right’ to close the weekly world news.

the bastard is angrier than a beaver in the desert because the weekly world news is closing.

the bastard is madder than a porcupine stuck in a thorn bush over the fact that because the weekly world news is closing.

and of course the classic

the bastard is PIG BITING MAD that the weekly world news is closing.

so long WWN, thanks for making working seven years in a grocery store part time so frikkin bearable.

—the bastard

...on smoke signals

the bastard has got to tell you, nothing in the world is a better hallmark of a company's ability to cripple it's own workforce like an email migration. yessiree.

"hey kids, we're gonna have to get you folks off of your old company's mail server right about now. even though you're all using technology from the last century (let's be fair, the century only ended 7 years ago and all) and we're going to make it all work out great. despite the fact that what we should have done is upgrade all you folks before we decided to gut the offices and give you new cubicles that would render it impossible for you not have to have to look at each other. come on guys, being in each other's grill builds fucking synergy. you won't want to stab each other in the face at ALL. i promide. i really do."

ummmm.

yeah.

this isn't moving as smoothly as any of us like. i don't hold it against the guys that have to implement policy, i don't even hold it against the heads of state. this is new to them too. the bastard has just got to question it every now and again.

tired.

arm hurts.

no groceries.

but at least my kitchen is painted

—the bastard

...on the dumps

actually the bastard is fine, i was trenching through the unwritten drafts portion of the blog and came across this pic from the mofo's collection of stashed work. he hasn't posted lately. you see, he gets up early in the morning and stuff.

—the bastard

...on awards

...or was it on masturbation?

so today is the deadline for a contest that selling bullets 7 times a year magazine has been entering for the last couple of years and boy am i trucked. you see last year i only had to submit three copies of an issue. well six actually because best overall magazine requires that you submit 2 issues. in triplicate. this year, since we didn't win anything last year, the bastard scaled it down a bit. submitting best feature and cover. who knows, we might get lucky. but it makes me wonder if it all isn't just masturbatory. i mean, you enter the contest. shell out a fuck ton of money and it's all subjective really. in essence desingers are subject to the tastes of a select few tastemakers who really define what is cool design anyway. also, since corporate culture has inherently become an cliquey extension of high school, what's to say it doesn't bleed into contests as well? hell, i know this one art director who won't speak to anyone at a function unless they are important. ida know. i just keep submitting and hope that this year is the year that the bastard is ahead of the bell curve on this crap.

either way, my hands (which i managed to not slice open multiple times with an exacto blade) hurt from cutting illustration board on a cutting matte that was left over from the khrushev administration. my knuckles ache. it's so god damned humid out that i haven't felt dry since i left my apartment. even in an air conditioned office building. even though it's been below 85 all day. oh poor, poor bastard, you'd cry with a loaf of bread under each arm. hey screw you, jerkpiece, if i had a loaf of bread under each arm, it would soak up the damned sweat.

hmmmmmmmmmmmm

ummmmmmmmm

yeah i think that was kind of unnecessary of me. kind of really over illustrates my difficulty with the humidity. i think i'm going to back off now and maybe drink a cold beverage now.

—the bastard

...a good soaking

...or can you spare a glass of water?

there is this old folktale the bastard remembers about this woman who tricked 3 witches into coming out in the rain with her because she convinced them that she knew how to walk between the raindrops. all she did was keep a spare outfit in a bag and put it on when she got into their cave. the witches took the bait and melted.

now the bastard has no raindrop dodging skill, nor has he melted. but, god dam it's wet out. fortunately the weather held out long enough (after my initial soaking) for the bastard to get to the office and all i have is some damp ankles. oh well, go to hell. keep your powder dry, shiteyes.

—the bastard

photo essay: ribtastic on metropolitan avenue

it was the chairman's birthday. so we went to fette sau.

you order meats from this counter.

you order fantastic reasonably priced beers here.

you look at diagrams of pig parts here and wonder if you were eating ribs in chaim soutine's studio. no you don't because you have no fucking idea who chaim soutine is.

and it was prety damn good. quoth the chairman, "what is the name of this place? and how often can we come back?" as much as you want sir, until we have heart attacks.

—the bastard

lull

the boy has gone home with his mother.

my lady is leaving for greece this thursday.

the book is almost out the door.

the bastard is exhausted.

the bastard is going to lull for a while.

it's kind of like running out of steam.

there will be an absence of activity for a little while

this happens every time a period of intense activity is followed by a lull.

gonna curl up into a ball now.

wake me when it's over.

where are my goddam pages?

—the bastard

...on crap (again)

...or on jesus fucking christ, can't you people just learn to flush the toilet!?!

hmmmmmmm.

i guess talk about giving away the whole goddam story in the headline. you know one of these days, the bastard is going to have to get a grip on the whole editorial process and just leave it as "...or on crap (again)" next time. anyway, the bastard had NO idea that you can ingest and subsequently DIGEST concrete. proof is in the men's room here. thank god we have two of them.

could any hell be more real?

or now?

—the bastard

...on gregory hines

...or was it alfonso ribeiro

...maybe it was savion glover

ummmmmmmmmm, hey lady.

the bastard just thought he'd let you know...

that regardless of how much you suck your teeth every time the train stops...

and no matter how many times you tap your feet every time the train slows down...

and don't get the bastard started on how much talking to yourself about how late you are for work makes you look like nothing more than a dressed homeless person who's between crack fixes talking about how "the man" got you addicted to drugs...

anyway...

it isn't going to make the train move any faster...

so fucking cut it out. you're not making anyone else feel any more at ease inside this tin can...

and your totally fucking up my nap. some of us like to use this part of the day to unwind before the day starts and 36th street ain't coming any faster...

... you jerk.

love always,

—the bastard

give me fire...

...or has the bastard ever told you that new york city is it's own concentric circle of hell?

when you can't see out the windows
and smoke gets in your eyes
and i just want to cry cry cry cry cry

—j.g. thirwell

descent into the inferno

ok kids. it's hot. it's damn hot. crotch pot cooking hot. feels like it's not gonna stop hot. at least not until thursday and even then, that's negotiable. the bastard shouldn't seem surprised. we're kind of right on time for the dog days of summer. seems to me like there will be a lot of wardrobe change in my future. oh well, go to hell.

—the bastard

...on local color

the bastard couldn't resist this. i can't say the word "junk" around left hand rob without venturing into the lowbrow category. so in the case of junk problems, we have a solution. enjoy, lobster. go on! enjoy!

—the bastard

...on explosions

...and ordinance

last year, on memorial day, the bastard saw the blue angels fly over jones beach. i thought to myself, we have to be one of maybe 5 countries in the world that when you hear a fighter fly overhead, you look up and not say "oh shit, take cover". tonight, while i was looking out the window of some stranger's apartment on 33rd street and 1st avenue, watching the spectacle of the macys 4th of july explodathon, i thought to myself, we have to be one of maybe 5 countries on the earth that doesn't flich when we see this my hardware go up in smoke. instead we close off the FDR drive and watch it go down while the booze wears off. god bless this crapper we call a country. it's the best crapper of em all.

—the bastard

...on clocking

...tick frikkin tock!

you ever had one of those days where your sunburn wakes you up at 5 o' clock in the morning and those cheap ass pillows you bought from target are just not cutting it, so much that you wake up with a headache and can't get back to bed because of the headache, and the burning, and the crook in your neck that is starting to feel like viral menangitis (oh my god, i think i have viral menangitis! now i'll never get back to bed) and the resulting anxiety keeps you from getting back to bed?

yeah me too.

so the bastard made good use of his time and the boy came in with me (possible half day and all that whatnot. besides, he likes coming to work with me). then i thought i'd get some stuff done. ummmm...yeah...notsomuch. we just had a systemwide crash. i think nothing is going to get done today. NOTHING.

—the bastard

...on inventory

so the chairman cooked dinner. apparently he misplaced his sack of fat cash and thusly we couldn't have 50 dollar steaks and crystal. the dish was ziti. so the bastard thought tonight would be a good night to take inventory of the chairman's fridge

we couldn't get an actual photo of the gold bullion that he keeps in the salad crisper but i figure this is a decent start.

—the bastard

...even hipsters love the seven eleven

so the bastard was enjoying day 2 of 7-11 goodness when i saw hipsters in front. and she was scowling at me. or maybe she was just scowling. either way the bastard felt the need to share.

—the bastard