this just in...

robert goulet has died at the age of 73. now no one will mess up my office while i sleep. that commercial was gold. and speaking of gold, i loved it when will ferrell did him on snl. watch it while you can.

big poppa. i love it when you call me big poppa.

—the bastard

...on beverages

the bastard swears, can't people just ordr frikkin coffee? two. no. three times i heard some suv driving pinhead ordering a venti, no sugar, dolce, (which is italian for SWEET asshole) carmel, soy, latte with no sugar and soy foam with no sugar in a big cup so i can dunk my ridiculous head in it when i get to work and drown. DROWN in my fake ass coffee!!!!!!!!

this is what the bastard does with his free time when he's visiting the boy...people watching. watching people order they drinks while i eat my brekky. you know, it's funny how in so many different places, the pretention remains the same. it's refreshing, in a sort of disgusting way.

—the bastard

crack that whip

went to the boy's school this morning in oro valley (it's like queens to tucson's manhattan) and all the kids were in costume. i didn't get the picture of the little boy who looked like the cowboy from the village people but claimed he was chuck norris as walker texas ranger but, the chairman did send me this image live and direct from the new york subway system this morning. i don't think that there is anywhere else on earth where the freaks come out like this on halloween. maybe in san francisco. but, the bastard hasn't been to san francisco on halloween so go to hell jerkpiece!

—the bastard

ladies and gentlemen, i give you...arizona. now with more scorpions

last night.

cleaning up the coffeepot (yeah i makes me own coffee. what of it?). anyway 5 dollar johnny saunters in to clean his dishes. well, his mug really. most people that don't live in the office don't do much more than use a mug and eat take out.

"hey bastard, what's new?"

"nuttin much just trying to tie up all my loose ends so i can get on a plane to arizona"

"going out to see the boy?"

"we're going trick or treating."

"what's he going as?"

"he's going as luke skywalker. he demands i go as darth vader"

"cool, bring me back some candy"

"sure, it'll be special desert candy"

"cool it'll be nice and dry"

"and full of scorpions"

"special arizona desert candy...now with more scorpions"

sometimes, you just can't make this shit up. plane boards in an hour, and the bastard is behind in his drinking. i'd put art up but, it seems the network at the airport just doesn't allow for that kind of action today. i'll bring it when i get into the desert.

—the bastard

...on linguistics

so, like, the bastard engages in another run to the southwest today?

this like, gets more and more and more interesting for me?

so, like, theres these kids?

and they are making me so very thankful?

that i have an ipod?

however?

like?

i can't like stop finishing, like all my like sentences like in a question?

my ladyfriend keeps making fun of the fact that i sometimes truncate the phrase "isn't it" by saying "innit". she tell me that i shouldn't speak around the boy like that. he might pick up some bad habits. i think she has a point.

like...um...thank god? for like, my ipod? and stuff?

mother of twelve bastards, i'm gonna get me a drink

—the bastard

...on the fire

late night ride.

jersey transit.

the show is over.

and freaks come out at night.

"hugh play dah lahdderee?"

"high don' hafto buhcause ahm already rish but, high play the scratch hoff hall thu tyme. high have like 10 millyun dollahs"

"hand where's thu prezuhdent?"

"in floriduh?"

"lookin afta the fiyahs?"

"hugh lyke hillary?"

"no?"

"come on, she zuh foist woman?"

"high have like 10 millyun dollahs so highm hokay".

well there are some rich eccentrics who i'm sure love taking mass transit. but then again maybe there isn't. i've been wrong before.

—the bastard

the devil went down to...jersey? pt3

so upon arriving, and we did arrive arrive with time to spare for the main event. however, we did manage to miss the opener , which was okay. you've seen one whiney gothic looking emo band, you've seen them all. no muss, no fuss. but then the main event hit. and boy did it hit.

at this point, the bastard had texted to scoop and the chairman that he had died and gone to mook heaven. the chairman asks how many mullets. i fail to take the mullet toll. sometimes, it's just too much to take in.

now, it's been a long, long time since the bastard has been to an arena show. and i must admit, i AM a music snob. the last show i went to was to see mastadon. the last show before that was to see the gorillaz. i've seen scraping foetus off the wheel, i've seen sick of it all close the superbowl of hardcore. i've seen stuff that was considered "better" than this band by alot of my circle of friends. but after seeing this band, i have to say they are the fucking kings of parking lot jock rock. which is NOT to be confused with cock rock. on my way to the bathroom, i text to the hockey fan that i see a boy with a sgt pepper jacket dancing around with fingerless gloves and old women dancing around like strippers in the aisles. the fan texts back that it sounded like an average night at the bastard's house.

granted, arena rock is alot to take in. but, i've never seen so many people older than me, so drunk unless it was a wedding. and so many mooktastic mooks. guys with buzzcuts, glazed over with the kind of drunk that only exists in parking lots of concert arenas, with their drunken wives who are wearing so much makeup that you need to apply it with a putty knife and take it off with a chisel, they stride obliviously throught the arena spilling their miller lite on them selves and spilling others on themselves as they struggle to not have the courtesy to make eye contact or even to watch where the hell they were going. but, it's to be expected. after all was said and done, all things considered, the bastard had a good time. it was a good show. bands that stay together for this long can only get better with time. and it's also a time and place for thousands of mooks and rock and roll sluts to re-live their salad days of rocking with their cocks out.

i've seen a million faces...and i've mocked them all. sure that's cheesy but, you can go to hell. this is my world. life without me is like cornflakes without the milk. yeah and i fart ambrosia too.

—the bastard

the devil went down to...jersey? again?

so the bastard and his ladyfriend took a little trip to jersey last night to see a certain band that jersey really loves. yeah...that one. what can i say? i like to do nice things for my girlfriend. the bastard is a saint that way. then again by wrote of last phrase, how can a bastard BE a saint? hell, i'm trying for sainthood. go to hell.

anyway, we get a little sidetracked en route. wait let me back up:

FLASHBACK (re: the office): "this is fucking confusing?"

"what is?"

"the transit in jersey. you know lobster, i fucking hate your state sometimes"

(cue dirty look)"excuse me"

"sorry, i mean the state you live in." (lobster johnson is a native pennsylvanian and don't you forget it shiteyes)

"well it is what it is" ok back to real rime

CUE PRESENT: so the ladyfriend and i get a little sidetracked on the way to the prudential center to see that band and we ended up getting off at the wrong stop to transfer.

"we should ask someone", she suggests.

"i wish we had a map to refer to", i reply.

taking the initiative, she asks an african american gentleman if we could pick up the connecting train to newark. he suggested that we should have stayed on the train we were on, shaking his head.

"i was watching you you guys. you shoulda stayed on that train. you wanna get to newark, just follow all the white people"

just follow all the white people? that's classic, squire. fucking classic.

—the bastard

i've seen things

last night, the bastard hauled his ass up to the ziegfeld to see the final cut of ridley scott's blade runner. filmed in 1982, it was expected to be huge due to harrison ford's success in the star wars trilogy. it wasn't so much with the commercial success. but, it's one of the bastard's favorite films and he had to see it on the big screen.

the print was fantastic. the retouching was not nearly as intrusive as, say, greedo shooting first in a re-mastered star wars. it was more like the directors edit i have at home which removes ford's unenthusiastic narration which makes the film seem less spoon fed and upon walking out of the theatre, we were discussing how a great deal of the symbolism in the film is so much less so. some film today bash you over the head with the "hidden" meanings in a film so it was refreshing to see a cut that didn't have to explain itself to the bastard. it got me to thinking about alot of the christian imagery in the film and i came across this review from hollywood jesus which bandys it about a little bit. it's a topic worth dwelling on for a sec but i tend to look into the more dystopian future aspects of the film. "if you're not cops, you're little people". the fact that the future is awash in advertising. not too far a cry from where we are today. and of course i find it hysterical that everyone smokes in the future. and the fact that pan american airlines and atari has prominent ad placement. good stuff.

—the bastard

don't talk, watch

this is the bastard's new favorite thing to watch. it names me happy

—the bastard

...on monday magic

the bastard isn't so much into the free advertising but, once in a while, he has to give some out. share the love so to speak.

what the hell am i saying?

share the love?
scratch that.

ok, it's like this. last week, jiffy pop, assistant photo editor of killing stuff monthly and son of the fine fine city of nawlins told us that his favorite taste of home was closing it's doors forever and he wanted us to get a piece of fried chicken and fried green tomatoes before jacques-imo's closes it's doors forever thus making convenient and tasty cajun goodness is lost to mister and missus jiffy pop forever. or until someone else has the bright idea to open up a cajun/creole eatery in the upper west side.

so, we went.

had some drinks.

had some fried goodness.

and left hand rob might go back on wednesday to do it all over again. good thing the bastard has cajun eateries in his neck of the woods.

—the bastard

special monday revelations edition

so the bastard was walking down 2nd ave with his ladyfriend when we came across this scrawl in a phone booth. so i decided to let the big secret out.

that's right jerks bruce wayne is the goddam batman. yeah, i know, it's obvious unless you've been living under a rock all your life but, left hand rob and i have been making light of this series of batman and robin written by frank miller in which frank coins the term, "the goddam batman" which cause comic fanboys to go nuts claiming that batman would never say such things. so frank kept on using the phrase, ad nauseum. rob loves this so much that he uses a desktop picture depicting the goddam batman on one of his goddam rants.. and so it goes.

—the bastard

...on the year of the flood

so truth to tell, the bastard doesn't always spend the night at home. sometimes he stays out after hours and materializes at work the next morning fresh for the new day.

the downside is this.

FLASHBACK: the bastard is riding the train back to craptastic queens and he notices that while there wasn't alot of rain in manhattan, alot of women are wearing those stupid ass rubber boots with the goofy patterns on them to fool us all into thinking that they look less like a wellington boot.

FLASH FORWARD: so i come home to this.

yay. it's just like the last flood, only worser.

so i do what comes to mind first. i go to the bathroom. i mean hell, i had to go.

then i called the landlord.

"hi missah lanlord, we had ourselves a flood again. can you come over in 5 minutes to survey the damage"

"sh-sh-sh-sh-would you prefer if if if if if if i came over tomorrow?"

"no actually, i'd prefer if you saw the place before i cleaned the place up. the floor is soaked and there's plaster all over the place"

so missah lanlord came over and looked at the grief and told me shit that i wanted to hear and we'll see what happens. i showed him some of the other damage from rainstorms that predate my divorce and my meds for my breathing problems as a result of all of this crap. we'll see what happens. i ain't holding out hope on this shit. the plan is.

do the job.

take the money.

put it away.

get the fuck out.

find a new place to wreck.

i'll let you know how that shit works out. can't wait for the creatures to start coming out tonight as a result of this shit.

—the bastard

i know we've been over this before but...

look people.

i know the bastard has been over this before.

but, seriously.

stop eating on the train.

no one needs to see your ugly mug chewing on your cud.

first thing in the morning. chomp chomp chomp chomp sloppin' away. it's disgusting and it totally detracts from my nap because once it starts, the bastard can't stop thinking about it.

now i know what your saying, "aw well then that's your problem then pal" but, well fuck you. it's your problem now if i boot up my waffles on your lap. and i assure you, it will be me getting out of my seat to boot up my waffles on your lap, not mine. the bastard likes to keep his clothes clean for at least a day or two.

so.

in summation.

stop it.

besides, how can you eat considering they don't exactly wash these cars after every run and we've already been through what's wandering around these cars during the day.

—the bastard

...on risk 4

you know sometimes the bastard has to really hand it to rayne o'brian. he does it his way. he didn't have anyone to ride with, so he started a motorcycle gang. at his houe warming party a couple weeks ago he pointed me in the direction of motojesus. motojesus fixs old bikes. motojesus is a hipster. he runs a bike shop in billyburg and that's where the bastard's wheels currently reside.

last night i was supposed to get the bike back. i had no way of getting this home because, i can't find the paperwork. so i can't register my moto until i solve that problem. motojesus, offers to bring the bike to me and i appreciate that. motojesus solves problems. at 8:30 he calls to tell the bastard that while his boy says the bike was fine, he was not satisfied that the bike was in top notch (top notch) running condition so he's keeping it until the weekend. motojesus double checks shit. i like that. can't wait to get this frikkin bike on the road. i'm thinking it'll be registered by christmas time.

—the bastard

...on the fall of the house of usher 5

a couple of weeks ago, my father had informed me that the house was finally closing. not my childhood home but the family's house. the house where we all congregated for the holidays. the house where afterwards i would get headaches from the smoke of being stuck in traffic and listening to the doo wop shop with don k. reid. the house that the chairman started his career in after he moved back from the wilds of connecticut and decided that there had to be more to life than a workaday job and a fucking pension. the house where uncle acid played sgt peppers by the beatles on 8 track until the damn thing exploded.

no.

wait.

that was on vinyl. we destroyed magical mystery tour somewhere in the middle of blue jay way. anyway this was the house where alot happened and now it belongs to some chucklehead from arizona i understand.

i hope that now that it's over, shit can be put aside. one can't go back in time but, a bastard can hope for shit can't he? i also hope that the new owner finds my goddam star wars figures. we buried them in the sand on the beach like 30 some odd years ago and we never saw them again. also, open letter to the new owner. dear sir, treat the damn place with respect. someone's family grew up there.

—the bastard

...on airing out

wake up.

groggy.

nose stuffed up.

it's been a bad allergy day.

is that my knee popping?

yeah. it sure is. i get off the train and wade through the swarm on periphery alone. i can't see so good when i wake up. one night i waltzed out of bed to use the can and on the way back i had started to fall asleep and i hit the doorjam to the boy's room with a loud thud. i might have woken the boy up.

wait.

that was before the boy. either way it hurt. but i digress. i woke up, i mean when i really woke up this evening, i had a cup of coffee in my hand and i was walking out of the store and as the door swung open, that really good part of the who's a quick one while he's away is in my ears. you know the part with the bee's in bill murray's room in rushmore. everything slows down for me when i hear that part. it's one of the bastard's more favorite who songs.

but that wasn't in my head. i was thinking about the dearth of bobs in my life these days. over the weekend, the nice lady informed me that bobby had died. but, i'll get to that.

bob was my father in law. he's been gone a couple years and i never eulogized him because, well, i don't know. i was dealing with alot of other shit at the time. but bob was a good man. every now and again, and i don't confess this to anyone i roll with at all that when i roll out of a bar downtown, i half expect to see him leaning against a utility pole like the first time i saw old bob (he'd fucking kill me if i ever used the word old anything with him) asking me if i see anything i like. he was the first actual adult i ever grubbed a cigarette off of. he was the first person i ever felt comfortable discussing politics with. he was the first person i ever felt cursing at the dinner table around (and my family must love me for that) and i miss that. he loved life and he never even let death see him scared as he stood out there on northern blvd dying of lung cancer, smoking with me at his niece's sweet 16 party knowing it might be his last but, who the fuck cared. coincidentally, he always fell asleep on furniture and since he was asleep the last time i saw him, i didn't feel right waking him up.

bobby on the other hand was a big drinker, and a big liar. and while he was a likable guy, he also wasn't. he left a trail of bodies in his wake in the form of ex's and kids (not that many kids to be completely fair). bobby smoked like a chimney, like berber carpet and loved cars. whenever he fell in love with someone new, he would get a far away look in his eye and speak as poetically as an high school educated auto mechanic with marbles in his mouth could. sometimes, i thought he was the kind of relative that people in his family loved but, didn't really like. but i liked him. hell, i'm sure some people liked him some of the time and some people liked him all of the time but he made it hard on himself. the drink puts a strain on your family and breaks you body slowly. and it broke him. he had been in and out of the hospital for a while since my divorce and i hadn't seen him in a bit. but i found myself thinking about him on the way home tonight. i think about how he set me up with my first decent cup of espresso. i think about his ugly ass house in staten island that he always opened up to me and what a decent guy he was when he was sober. i wonder if he's out of pain now.

in the front door, sme crappy liz phair song that i like is on and i'm sorting the mail and trying to finish up my day and i don't want this anymore. i go into the liquor cabinet. well actually it's also where i keep my cereal. and my napkins. and probably some rats too. who knows? but i find hte whiskey and a brand new shot glass that old school brought me from st louis and i pour once.

to bob.

i pour twice

to bobby.

good night bobs, i don't have anymore of you in my life and i won't be getting that back and i'm a little less for it.

—the bastard

...on hypnotoads

all hail hypno toad. that is all

—the bastard

...on stove pipes

...or on big pimpin' 2

you know,

there are certain things in a shit commute that makes it all worth the while. mostly this involves tripping old ladies on the way out of the subway train. sometimes this might involve making an inappropriate joke about setting homeless people on fire but, since news of this horrible act has made it all the way to australia (just click the damn link stupid, otherwise the comment makes no sense. come on! DO IT!), i'm going to go in another direction with this.

anyway, before the bastard gets completely off message, the thing that makes it worth the while is seeing something different.

i saw this guy a good hundred feet in front of me and i had to catch up. he had a big cane. a gigantic gold shield for a knuckle ring. and he rocked the trench coat hahd. it was majestic. but the best part, and the only part of his outfit that the bastard will be documenting will be his magnificent...

furry...

top hat! look at it, it's fantastic. totally made the whole crunch to get upstairs because only one escalator is working and it's too goddam humid out for the bastard to want to climb stairs. you know the feeling don't you? of course you don't. go to hell.

i suspect that his pimp hand is strong

—the bastard

...on old bags

ipod? check.

undercrowded express train? check

ok no seat but at least i can zone out.

thump. what the hell? who's rolling their bag on my foot?

what the fuck?

old lady ignores me and continues to get herself situated.

the bastard lifts a toes dislodging the suitcase from his foot and then and only then does she acknowlede that she has affronted.

her response. she nods.

i'm sorry ma'am but, i already gotcha. the jig is up. you don't have to nod like "yes. i just rolled a bag over your foot". it doesn't take any frikkin' detective work to figure out that you pulled that one off. thanks for saving me the trouble of hiring colombo to solve the mystery of the old bag that left an old bag on my foot. actually, the phrase i believe you are reaching for was, "whoops", or "sorry about that". oh well.

it's sticky out today.

it'll be sticky out tomorrow.

the bastard is at the point where he gets into anything on the platform with an open door these days. just to get off the hot, sticky platform. if it was 20 percent less humid, i wouldn't have anything to bitch about this morning except how i don't have enough cartoons on my goddam ipod.

—the bastard

...on the bush league 2

so we have these shiny new (re: BLANK) keycards to get in the door.

and the bastard gets to the door. well the bastard gets out of an elevator to be greeted by a huge ass crowd of people who he knows reside on the 10th floor.

this doesn't look good.

and it wasn't. i bust out the key card and nothing. NOTHING.

so the bastard spins on his heel and heads for the front desk.

"hey my key card doesn't work."

"huh?"

"my key card doesn't work."

"huh?"

"key card", (i hold it up) "doesn't work. do we still have running water in this place?"

"huh? oh, (as if someone moved the needle on the record for her) we're attempting to address the problem now and the cold wind of death is attempting to address the problem"

"great. i'm going to go see if the electric is still working in this place"

"huh?"

you know i feel a little guilty making fun of the girl by the door. not really. not as much as the girl who ended up wearing most of my soda on her legs while i was walking back to the office with my lunch but, a little bit. it ain't her fault. hell it ain't the cold wind of death's fault. this is just what happens when a smaller company from downtown is put in charge of a bigger company from uptown. it's like going from playing little league baseball to playing full on big league ball. with nails in the bats and razor blades in the cleats and big nasty teeth. oh well, at least the computer starts up.

—the bastard

the smell gets around you

"snif snif."

"you know rob, sometimes this city smells like shit."

"you know, sometimes shit smells like this city."

"really." (not stated as a question but as a retort. keep up, will you)

"yeah sometimes i'll find something floating in the bowl and sniff and think, hmmmmmmm, 43rd street."

"nice."

so yeah. it didn't smell so good last night as the lobster and i headed west towards 6th. it's one of those phenomena that is nothing like the maple syrup smell that perplexed us all in october of 2005. it was more of the late season humidity comes home to make everything smell like crap.

or raw sewage.

or corpses.

or...well...you get the idea.

anyway it followed me all the way back to the thorough borough and all the way to the airport (both times mind you). you'd think the dog days of summer were gone because it's cooler out but it just cooler out. the dog is still out there, making the bastard sweat. and he don't like it. bad dog. BAD DOG!

—the bastard

...on the simple things 3

"whoa ho, this is some high technology"

"you can mix flavors into your soda."

"i'm gonna mix vanilla into my coke."

"i'm gonna mix cherry into mine."

"well, i'm gonna mix hawaiian punch into mine"

nothing makes the bastard smile more than stoners planning out how they are going to mix their sodas in a the 7-11. shine on you crazy diamonds

—the bastard

...on the bush league

has the bastard gone on,

ad nauseam,

about the foibles at the office?

the bastard didn't think so.

anyway, since moving down here,

the server crashed two or three times,

the email goes down regularly and at least one laptop got stolen because there wasn't adequate locks to keep shit locked down but i digress.

today, we got the note at 5 minutes to 5 that we are starting wth new keycards for getting into our offices. so much to the front desk's surprise. 50 people show up looking for their key cards. the person who is running this clusterfuck of an office migration who we shall call "the cold wind of death" asks why everyone is standing around. someone snidely (not the bastard but he wishes he did) retorts that he was hoping to continue on with the privilege of working here.

the cold wind replies, "oh i didn't expect the email to get around so fast".

even though it was sent to everyone on both floors.

at the same time.

over email.

i didn't know if this was the bush league quote of the day or perhaps the ceo who we can call, say, george hamilton walked out of his meeting into this and asked what the lineup was about and followed this by asking to cut the line so he could get his keycard first.

bush league. straight up bush league. this has been a hell of a year

—the bastard

the devil went down to...jersey?

the hockey fan never had that much luck with the ladies.

i mean he had luck with the ladies insomuch as he's been able to get a date on a pretty regular basis but he never had that luck for very long.

one girl cheated on him or at least he found out that she cheated on him after they broke up. cheated on him with practically the whole neighborhood.

the girl he left her for started dating another guy a year into dating him. totally wrecked his christmas. the bastard took him on a long bender across the thorough borough that week. while the bastard understands the breakup process, sometimes, you have to drink your troubles away.

anyway he dated a drummer for a while but that wasn't really love for the hockey fan.

then he met the girl from brazil. and he thought he had it. until she wanted something else and he was left holding the bag. as the author antoine de saint-exupéry once said, love is not looking at easch other, love is looking in the same direction.

then he fell in love with ebay for a while and that worked out for him for a while until he had had his fill of signed wayne gretsky jerseys then he had to find himself an actual lady.

then he was with someone who lied to him. and he didn't like that very much.

then he met her. the one. and they were so happy. hell, the bastard takes pause and is happy for him too.

last weekend, the bastard went to their wedding and it was in south jersey. because the only thing they love more than each other, is the goddam beach. so they were married on it. in south jersey. now the bastard has driven through south jersey but, he's never stopped. never had a reason to stop.

it's kind of like the midwest.

with a beach.

and that's okay and all but then we get stuff like this.

i took this with my trusty piece of the area 51 flying saucer. now the video is totally for shit but this character's voice is golden. short description is, we have this enormously tall drunk guy with a big black cowboy hat singing the devil went down to georgia. it was gold. i saw the shot and i took it. and i'm glad i did. i'm also glad i went. the hockey fan deserves a little happiness.

—the bastard