phalanx

3 girls.

all in a row.

not moving and there's scaffolding to the left.

no where to go but in. so the bastard makes an opportunity, seemlessly mind you.

yes, the bastard is fucking seemless.

as i make the pass and one of them says "fuck you" to me.

do you kiss your mother with that mouth?

i flash the proper hand sign in response to her foul move. no honey, i wouldn't fuck you. not on your best day. which seems very far behind my worst day by comparison.

—the bastard

tad

two guys on the 6. going downtown. they only grab my attention because one of them is wearing shoes i would only catch the lowe wearing.

"did you see tad?"

"unintelligible response"

"did you speak to tad?"

"unintelligible response"

"did you know tad?"

"unintelligible response"

"were you close to tad?"

"unintelligible response"

now the bastard has to ask you. who the hell is tad? who the hell would name their kid tad? is tad his real name and if not, why the hell would he call himself tad? what is he a jackass? why is his friend in the comfortable shoes ending every sentence in his name? is HE a jackass? these and many more questions can be answered AFTER i stab him in the neck. well...maybe not but, the bastard will feel much better

—the bastard

...dearth

hell is round the corner where i shelter.
isms and schisms, were living on a skelter
if you believe i'll deceive common sense says you are thief
let me take you down the corridors of my life.

—tricky "hell is round the corner"

so it's that time again.

the time where the bastard loses sleep.

when the bastard has his busy season.

when the bastard does the devils work.

when the bastard crams tons of magazine pages out the door.

and then loses his cool and breaks shit.

apparently, i noticed that this is also the time of year that i keep regurgitating lyrics from tricky's catalog of work. i don't know what it is about him but, it always illustrates how i'm feeling when the bastard is in it. up to his eye balls in work. i'm never going to sleep again . at least not until february.

so what i'm saying is,

it's going to be a little thin for a while.

but, look for me jumping through a plate glass window near you. right before i cut your throat.

—the bastard

...on remote control

"that looks like a spot there"

"what's he doing?"

"using his remote to unlock the doors"

"it ain't working"

"maybe if he gets closer"

"nope, maybe he should use the key"

"maybe if he sets it off in the front"

"nope, maybe he should use the key"

"maybe if he gets closer"

"nope, maybe he should use the key"

"maybe if he tries from the trunk"

"nope, maybe he should use the key"

this goes on for 15 minutes. we find parking elsewhere and eat pizza, 15 minutes later than intended. the man decides to use his key after we pull away. jackass.

—the bastard

...on the exodus

...and the cold cold ground

did you know that it takes 1 hour to drive from houston street to the holland tunnel?

however it only takes 10 minutes to get from the holland tunnel to new jersey.

it takes 15 minutes to get to newark airport from there.

it takes 35 minutes to get to north jersey from newark aitport.

so the entirety of the bastard's travels adds up to the amount of time to travel from housten to the holland tunnel.

this is what happens when the entirety of a major metreopolis needs to cram itself into two lanes going to new jersey. the food was damn worth it though. at dinner, my ladyfriend's sister's inlaws were sitting near me, discussing with their son, the teacher, how they would like to be disposed of when they pass. father wants to be put in an urn in the center cabinet. mother wants her ashes to be buried in a biodegrable sack in a field. the bastard thinks he needs to be buried with the pumpkin cheesecake he had for dessert. that would be fine by me.

—the bastard

...on the bastard's further adventures in haiku-ING

left hand rob brought up
a very important thing
i have a catch phrase

i'm gonna cut you
you mother fucking fucker
cold wind makes me glad

i hate the office
botox using C.E.O.
flowers bloom in spring

the bastard is just going to keep doing this until he runs out of material. or until i jump through a plate glass window.

—the bastard

...on haiku

make no mistake sir
my elbow means move now, jerk
next step is my foot

it's amazing how random acts of cocksuckery inspires one to tap old poetry styles that they haven't used since they had to write in since high school. i didn'y have to do it in college because all th epeotry teacher wanted us to write was anything about hating america.

i hate you jackass
i hope that you choke real soon
stupid green jacket

you see it just rolls right off the old brain. who knows? maybe the bastard will start a collection of his hateful subway haiku. oh. wait. bastard need coffee now.

—the bastard

...next to godliness

hey.

guy from big fishy magazine who look like he trying to look like ernest hemingway

i know that you folks aren't happy with your new set of neighbors here.

i mean hell, we can't miss the dirty looks.

but for christ sake hemingway.

when you finish taking a piss.

could you please,

wash your fucking hands.

i mean come on, you and mitchell leave your little area like 10-15 times a day to go smoke out on 32nd street and park so you must already have the brownest fingers in murray hill.

wash your hands.

i don't wanna talk to you either.

just wash your hands.

we have the running water.

use it.

soapy soapy.

rinse.

dry. you see, no talking involved whatsoever.

just wash your hands. thanks.

—the bastard

...on collisions

on the way home from dinner at my ladyfriends tonite, while taking the expressway, i almost got clipped.

now, i'll be fair.

i was stuffy.

my eyes were stinging from my ladyfriend's cat.

and the cab wouldn't let me get into the exit lane, so i invented an opportunity. then he proceeded to try and take my front end off. he then got back onto the expressway as i exited and i went on my way.

well he sure told me.

well medallion number 9099, i came this close to filing a complaint with the taxi limousine commision and then decided that while you were driving unsafely, i helped you along the way. however, the ting is, the bastard is a vindictive son of a bitch and it was only the pompous that i'm better than that.

and i'm better than you.

so i decided against it.

your welcome dick. and i can't wait until you have to choose between feeding your family that night or buying that gps system that your going to have shell out for one day soon which will make behavior like this so much easier to keep trck of. in fact i hope you choke on it big man.

—the bastard

...on exposure

so about a month or three ago, the bastard had noticed on his morning news station that there were people singing, another day, there were these two guys rapping and playing violins.

yes.

i know.

violins.

the bastard doesn't really get it but, they don't pay me to do so. i get paid to make magazines. and to do the devil's work. but the news hasn't been the same since it began to be held accountable for it's own ratings by television stations. however this sort of thing is an interesting agreement one makes with fame (she's a bitch goddess you know). you agree to do a spot for a news station so that you can get more exposure but instead, you become the butt of jokes around the collective water coolers around town.

it seems that there is a wave of advertising these days to make the news more entertaining. case meet point.



this comes up periodically as the silliness that is new york 1 is a frequently discussed topic at the office. and speaking of new york 1, the p cat should love this. apparently gary anthony ramsay was fired by new york 1 for prank calling his own station. i saw him on the street once on my way to the train. he was a little guy. and he screwed up big. oh well.

—the bastard

..do you feel like i do

the bastard isn't really a huge fan of peter frampton. mostly because if there was ANY one that i wanted to show me the way , it sure as shit ain't him. but this morning, while i was making my breakfast, i heard the tail end of this commercial. and before i left, they ran it again and it made me laugh.

it's funny how frampton gets inserted into the pop culture lexicon late in his career. he's been on the simpsons. he's been on family guy. it's fascinating. maybe he wants to stay in the public eye in some capacity. maybe he just has a sense of humor.

but i sure as shit don't feel like he do.

—the bastard

...on closing

"pardon me?"

"pardon me"

"pardon ME"

"or just don't move and stand there like an asshole"

this is how the bastard started his evening and he said this to the COO of what we can call the NEW company. yes, the music was blaring. no, he didn't react. and goddam right, i feel foolish for opening my mouth.

so the morning starts with me forgetting shit, going back to the apartment, and other inconveniences. but the train ride had me rethinking everything that has gone wrong with the bastard up until this point. and as i was, the train was filling up more and more. it felt like the walls were closing in as more people got on. by the time i got to lex i had a handle on it but it was still there, nagging.


standing on the 6 platform, waiting for the transfer and the platfrom is empty. i forgot to mention that the bastard is running late and i must have missed the last train of rush hour and coming down the tube was the first train of the non rush hour.

just waiting for the green light.

just waiting to happen.

when this homeless man in a wheelchair who made me think of david was, was wheeling his way down the platform with all of his gear attached to the chair. he wasn't crippled, he was just in a wheelchair. i mean, his legs work as they were his mean of locomotion.

time stops.

green light.

time starts again.

and i'm on the 6. it's empty. almost surreal because i'm tired, it's empty and i was so crowded before. and so not in a good place. but david was was wheeling himself onto the train with me and he backs into the door that will open at 42nd.

pull into 42nd, and only one door opens and this guy can't get out. 2 or 3 people try to help him get out about to no avail. he ain't getting out. david was rolls forward and let's the door close. smiles. shrugs it off. it's not like he had an appointment to keep. and all of a sudden, things didn't seem so bad. so i got better. and then i made coffee. now i'm right with the world. now if the COO didn't really hear me, shit'll be golden.

—the bastard

...behold y'all

...the suits in their natural habitat

ok everybody.

do we have our white man's overbite?

check.

do we have our hard man hair cuts?

check.

ok. cue, the fake laugh, "huh huh huh huh"

check.

ok, cue the cheesey catch phrase to go with, "hey workin' hard or hardly workin?", "huh huh huh huh"

check.

ok, everyone point at each other.

check.

and there they go, off into the wild. the suits, in their natural habitat. notice how majestically they saunter through the building like they own the place. notice now their souls are completely absent. notice how a cold wind blows in their presence because of it. fear them, for they bring only death...and budget cuts...and expensed lunch.

—the bastard

...on formulas

so left hand rob throws this one the bastard's way. you see, in his quest to overthrow the current administration, he occasionally finds some very useful information. now a couple month's back, i was discussing the mathematical basis behind why mim is hot but, someone has compiled several mathematical formulas as they apply to various hip hop songs. i especially like the graph that plots the amount of gibberish you speak against the amount you forgot about dre. very poignant.

also, if you notice here, while less than half of the population sees chamillionaire rolling and exactly half of the population is hating, only a small amount of the population is trying to catch him riding dirty. breathtaking figures my friends.

no

wait.

we're not friends. i hate you. my mistake.

—the bastard

went to a party last saturday night...

...and this douchebag fell right into the bastard's trap. uh huh. it ain't no big thing

so. on saturday night, the bastard was invited by my ladyfriend to go to a birthday party for some members of her book club who are friends of susie kansas. by and large it was your typical uneventful good time. the kind you'd have on the lower east side.

you know,

crowded with people.

trendily dressed people, most of which come from somewhere else.

cardboard cutout of justin timberlake which was more popular than the handsomest man in the room.

you know,

the usual.

it was good. but i walks to the bar and chuckles here who has already taken the liberty of showing up drunk (he's economical that way) or maybe he's just a cheap date and i decide to try and give him a wide berth which didn't workoutsomuch and he clips me in the gut with his elbow.

now, to be fair, it wasn't a hard elbow. it was the kind of soft elbow that a drunken nancy boy would give but, there's no excuse for bad manners.

"i think the phrase that is rattling around your empty dome was 'excuse me' ", and i proceed to order myself and my ladyfriend a drink.

"that guy gave you the dirtiest look"

"he had every right to, i told him he needed to excuse himself"

and so it goes. later he posed for me. sometimes things just fall into place. it's almost as much fun as mullet hunting, only it's with jackasses.

—the bastard

...on the power of suggestion

"can i ask you a question left hand rob?"

"yes"

"is it wrong for me to give advice that involves the firing of writer?"

"well what happened?"

"if a writer is rude to an editor, and isn't willing to do their job, shouldn't they be fired?"

"well, yeah. they work for YOU. not the other way around"

"okay. thanks"

"umm, bastard?"

"yes lobster?"

"what can i do to get the pointer sister's "neutron dance"out of my head?"

"hmm, maybe you could replace it with "i'm so excited" instead"

"DAMMIT BASTARD, you're cruel"

"yes, i am. try "low rider" then instead"

—the bastard

things you need to know today

little man.

the thing that you were probably grappling with wasn't whether or not to get out of the bastard's way but, HOW QUICKLY you could make that happen. also, the other thought that was rattling around in that vacant space you call a head was, "maybe i should trying and update my haircut because this one makes me look like fucking parker lewis"? because yes, you should update your haircut squire. no one should look like they came to work via a doorway to/from the past. discuss. and oh yes, please die.

speaking of dying.

young lady.

with the bad dye job. or rather bad bleach job.

the phrase you were looking for when someone holds the door is "thank you". say it with me. "thank you". very good. now onto the meat of the manner. you aren't THAT good looking. just because you clearly have a tanning salon near your house doesn't mean that it makes you look good. and i've already mentioned the streak job. come on, don't all you impolite sort watch sex in the city? besides, you kind of look like a pug in a wig. plus, you suck at living too.

sales monkey.

the bastard doesn't want to hear about what kind of games eson will broadcast.

the bastard doesn't care about their newsworthyness.

however, the bastard does care that you shut the hell up before there is a report on the news tonight about a dead sales monkey thrown out of the ninth floor of an office building in murray hill. it might very well interrupt the uconn game. or the marion game. or the whatever the fuck game you were blabbing on about.

come on! i'm saving lives here.

oh.

wait.

coffee.

—the bastard

...on the dead

...even they get their day

the bastard always found the history of catholicism in the new world fascinating. jesuits and other missionaries try to convert the natives but try to phrase it in a way that the noble savages could understand (because go forbid you assume that the indigenous people think for themselves and all). anyway, pagan rituals bleed into christian rituals and vice versa.

case and point.

day of the dead. ancient mexican death rituals meet up with all saints day and all souls day down a dark alley and honor the dead. it's sometimes playful but always respectful. this alter is where i left a message for my grandparents. along with the boy leaving a message for his grandfather who is also beyond the pale. what did i write them? none of your business. ask them when you pass. it's the sort of thing that is between yourself and the dead. unless of course you don't belive in that sort of shit. but the bastard doesn't know. on the same token, it would be nice if that sort of thing worked out that way.

it's simple enough that it could but, who knows. and yeah, that's my coffee on the floor there. look dick, i'm saving lives here.

—the bastard

tucson...we have a problem

"bear left in 400 yards and take the motorway"

".....and nope"

"exit right ahead"

"bear left in 400 yards and take the motorway"

".....and nope"

"exit right ahead"

"bear left in 400 yards and take the motorway"

".....and nope"

"exit right ahead"

"bear left in 400 yards and take the motorway"

".....and nope"

"exit right ahead"

"bear left in 400 yards and take the motorway"

".....and nope"

five exits. what kind of town closes off 5 exits...both ways...on a major interstate? holy frikkin' hannah. not that there was ANYTHING holy about hannah. i mean, i heard about hannah back in the day when she was a strung out piece of jet trash selling herself on the i10 but not that they've closed off 5 exits of the i10, she's gotta go down to little tokyo on the lower east side of tucson. the bastard asks you, where the hell is the skin trade to go? little tokyo? little freddy eisenstein is going to have to hang up his own shingle on speedway so he can sell his ass for 15 bucks a pop. it's bloody disgraceful.

sorry jerks. it's the desert talking. there are bats the size of palm trees out here. and pizza the size of satellite dishes. the bastard goes home tonight and he wants to lay into the two guys drinking mountain dew across form me or perhaps the girl with the fucking uggs sitting next to them. oh well, at least she knows how the weather is. the mofo texted me earlier this evening (the mofo? who's the mofo? don't worry virginia, there most certainly IS a mofo and he's selling his ass down at ground zero) and he told me the hawk was out.

tune in tomorrow when the bastard lets jetlag tell you who he's going to cut out of his life. in the meantime, tomtom is me copilot and satan is me pal.

—the bastard

...on the jet set

..or was it just the drink set

"Mos Eisley spaceport. You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. We must be cautious."

every year, before we went to the gun show, scoop and i would stop at this dump before getting on the plane. it didn't matter if it was in the morning, or after lunch, or whenever. drinks were had here before the bastard takes flight. why? well it sure as hell isn't because the bastard has a drinking problem. no we have others that are emminently capable of handling that responsibility in this family. it's just because this bar, in the jet blue terminal, is a place of drunks and villainy. here we'd be, in a dump full of salesmen, expensing our drinks as breakfast (as i'm sure the do as well), waiting for the chance to climb onto a big ball park frank and fly for work.

so, on scoops sayso via the IM, and my own desire to numb away the sounds of teenagers, i climb on board to relive the boardings of yesteryear. because you see, it isn't like this anymore. scoop left for the left coast last summer and left hand rob, lives in jersey so he doesn't meet me at the airport anymore. circumstances being what they are, the bastard's team that comes with him comes a day later because the silver k needs them in house this time around. so the bastard does this solo now.

all by his lonesome.

so i generally don't drink in airports anymore. it isn't fun for me. however, i did so this time and in classic bastard/scoop style, i almost missed the final boarding call for tucson while i was throwing back my third beer of the evening. didn't sleep a wink on the flight too. the run to the gate took care of all that. i miss that last minute run/stumble to the gate.

so here's to the airport bar, we hardly knew ye

-the bastard