...on the obligatory end of year post

...special what happened this year post

this year the bastard flew out to arizona alot to visit the boy

the mofo moved back to new york and then stopped writing for us altogether

the bastard made himself poor after making himself comfortable doing the devil's work. shoulda formed that llc this year.

the bastard threw up on the job and realized that he still won't let the machine break down. that's fucking team work.

jonny airplanes skipped town to join the coast guard and to become a midwestern land baron.

the chairman and i discovered barbecue down the road a piece.

a 7-11 opened up down the road. and we were very happy for it.

the apartment flooded not once but twice.

there was some road construction in tucson and it disrupted imaginary prostitution rackets on the highway. so much for jet lag.

the bastard wrote some poems.

the boy couldn't come out this time for his birthday and that made me sad but, at least i still have my health.

so that's what the bastard's got in a nutshell. maybe next year i'll finally catch that prize mullet. maybe i'll go on that boar hunt. but tonight, i'm going to have italian food with my ladyfriend and toast the future. cause that's what i got. a future. see you next year, chumps.

—the bastard

POSTSCRIPT: one night while the bastard was out of doors, at the mad russian's, the teacher told me that she red this crap and looks forward to my batshit ranting. and for the last few weeks, i've thought about giving it up. i'm not as angry as i used to be and i've been working alot and i've been unhappy alot. also, i have members of the family who don't like the whole thing altogether and i've dwelt on that as well.

then the teacher just sent me a text to come out this evening for new years and while i have plans to eat in manhattan tonight, i remembered that night, down on my luck, marriage falling apart, and drunk off my ass and someone told me that i could write. granted, left hand rob told me i wrote like e.e. cummings on speed but i didn't know the teacher as well as i knew lobster. either way, i remember the nice thing you said that night. and it meant a lot to me at the time. thanks teach. and yeah, i'll still keep writing this horseshit. it beats the crap out of therapy.

—B

father christmas

you know, the last few years, the bastard was enamored with the idea of being sardonic this time of year. but this afternoon, i was in a big rush.

really for nothing actually. have you ever had that feeling that you were way behind?

and you ran your ass through the shower?

and then ripped up your face to get shaved?

and flew down the way in your car to get to your ladyfriend's house?

only to get to the mouth of the midtown tunnel in 5 minutes and realize that you were going to be 40 minutes early?

yeah. me too.

anyway, being early, and hungry, the bastard walked across the street from my ladyfriend's to grab a slice of pizza.

i always hated working on christmas and i really felt for the guys behind the counter. felice navidad was playing on a busted radio behind the counter and i thanked them for the slice.

across from me was a busted up looking fella who was eating hi slice and he raised it to me stating tht this was the best pizza. and the bastard concured looking up. he had a stoma in his throat.

he had to speak to me by covering the hole in his throat.

he told me this was his third slice.

then he lit up a cigarette and went outside.

when he came in he told me he had throat cancer and that while he shouldn't smoke but, it made him feel somehow alive. he put on his green flannel trench coat shook my hand and wished me a merry christmas. i thought of bob.

then i thought of my year.

and how it's been great.

and how it's been hard won.

and how i feel lucky.

and then i thought of the kinks song father christmas.

because i thought about how much it must suck to have a tube in your throat.

and how mush it must suck to have nothing and no one on christmas.

and i felt glad that despite all of it, it turned out okay for me.

Have yourself a merry merry christmas
Have yourself a good time
But remember the kids who got nothin
While youre drinkin down your wine

merry christmas jerks. be glad for what you have

—the bastard

...on christmas time in the city

driving home late on christmas eve.

into christmas day.

coming back from the rock.

there's no greater gift than a swift trip home.

incident free.

it's like having a strong wind to your back.

and clear sailing ahead

happy birthday zombie jesus. make all your birthdays rise up to meet you.

—the bastard

...on that holiday hoohah

really, the bastard is just testing out his blogger widget for quick and easy posting (it's post-tastic).

either way, we're in the holiday home stretch and the bastard has loose ends to tie up but, the devils work has been concluded for the holiday season.

tough season. tough year.

more to come.

—the bastard

...on departures...yet again

...special wartime dream sequence edition

so we have some more departures in the hallowed hall of our evil ant overlords.

wild turkey is leaving our little home at killing stuff monthly. he's heading back home. to the dirty souf. he'll be working with our recently departed kentucky gentleman. there have been a bunch of recent departures at the office. millhouse who used to be the editor of stealing shit and winning asmes magazine. he left for a magazine we will call "shooting shit in pretty surroundings". another guy that's leaving is the guy from men holding big fish magazine who looks like eric stoltz. he's going back south with millhouse.

now the commonality here is that all of these men came to new york. did their time up here. and now they go home. and the bastard thinks that's a good thing. you gotta live the dream when you can. and when you see a way to win, you grab it. i'll miss wild turkey. he was pretty goddam funny. put a great face on the sport and gave killing stuff monthly some great tales for the ages.

anyway wild turkey had a dream the other night, before giving his notice.

he's in the hallways, talking to eric stoltz about leaving and millhouse comes by and he's been long gone by now and turkey asks him what he's doing here.

"ahm jest here to pick up a few things that ah left"

someone from the office asks turkey how it's real interesting that "all you southern boys are leaving. first the kentucky gentleman leaves, then millhouse, then eric, then you wild turkey."

"are you kidding?", retorts wild turkey, "you thought we gave up on that war between the states? when i leave, that's when the air strikes start"

hell of a dream. apparently, the south will rise again and they will be sending airstrikes. waitaminute? the bastard had no idea the south had an air force. best keep your head down cowboy.

—the bastard

this just in...

the silver k

just came in

trimphantly.

in his hand

was a bag full of wii

eww

—the bastard

there's a little bit of god in every bag

"are these your sun chips, bastard?"

"nah, they really aren't my bag"

"but is it your bag?"

"nah"

"you know bastard, i think sun chips is trying to wage war on christmas"

"you think?"

"well it's christmas. couldn't they call these sun of god chips"

"good point. you know rob, for an agnostic, i'm glad you're out there putting the christ back into christmas."

—the bastard

...on functioning

i don't get it.

no matter how hard i tried last night.

no matter how much i had to drink at the evil ant overlord's christmas party.

the bastard didn't die.

i'm beginning to wonder if death really IS a mug's game.

who knows? the worst part is, the bastard didn't start feeling better until he walked into the office. i think that there's a concentric circle of hell for bastard's who are rejuvenated by the office. and i think i'm going there. at least in hell, i'll be warm

—the bastard

...on headlines

this morning the bastard was in the midst of trying to find out if wild turkey needed a piece of gear that we borrowed from him for a photoshoot last night. he was in the midst of a very intense argument about who was hotter, jessica biel, or jessica alba with one of the other editors of killing stuff monthly. while waiting to get a word in edgewise to unload a 2500 dollar piece of spotting scope, i spied today's new york post open up to this story about the death of tina turner's ex husband, ike turner.

this headline is gold. pure gold. there are days where the evil evil mean at the post come up with the best headlines ever. they will win no awards for it but, they sure as shit will end up on gawker today.

—the bastard

...on bikes

...and not the really cool ones i just spent the summer getting the license for.

while looking for articles about congestion pricing, the bastard came across this little gem about bicyclists.

Bicyclist rallied in Manhattan Wednesday to call for safer riding conditions for bicyclists throughout the city.

Supporters are calling attention to the need for safer bike lanes, especially in areas with heavy traffic.

now the bastard has gone on before about bicyclists. let me preface this by saying, i feel bad when someone on a bike gets hit by a car, gets killed and all that. no one should have to bury their son or daughter because of the negligence of an automobile but.

bicyclists are self righteous fucks. they believe that the road is theirs by divine right of kingship because their mode of transportation is more environmentally responsible means of getting around. your car is bad. their bike is good and what's more, we don't have to obey the laws. when was the last time you, as a bicyclist, stopped at a traffic light? signalled while turning? wore a fucking helmet? stopped for pedestrians? yes, yes, i know, cars don't see you. i heard that one. yes yes yes, it's all part of lifes rich tapestry.

either way, the bastard has some simple solutions to the problem with safety for bicyclists. follow these easy to follow instrucyions and the bastard GUARANTEES that bicycle related deaths will ratchet down.

signal when turning

follow the traffic laws. stop signs, traffic lights, one way signs included. you are a vehicle for chrissakes.

do NOT (this is for the bike messengers out there) zoom across 3 lanes of traffic to get to your destination. if you need to, signal

where a helmet and other protective gear. helmets are the damn law kiddies and motorcyclist have a fuck ton of gear designed to keep THEM from dying. there's money to be made in the design of economical protective gear for bicyclists (cha-ching).

and finally, use your effing brakes. or if you are a bike messenger, do not remove your brakes to reduce air drag or whyever you guys do that.

you see, short list. put it on an index card and tape it to your wrist. i guarantee you'll do less dying and pedestrians will have less disdain for you.

—the bastard

...on gridlock

so the new york one tells the bastard that today is a gridlock alert day.

they tells me that you know, it's tourists and whatnot.

holiday shopping and shit.

they tells me that since this is the case, don't take the car jerkpiece, take mass transit.

the crying shame is, no one told mass transit about this condition.

this morning, after a brisk walk to the subway, the bastard was greeted by huge ass crowds on the platform. in my neck of the woods, that means trains are not running on time. the crowd was not having fun. train pulled in 5 minutes after i got there and since the bastard has made a practice of memorizing the exact spot where the doors stop on his little part of the platform, i no doubt did NOT make friends this morning as the last man there, first one in.

fuck you. three cheers for obsessive behavior.

a young russian couple rolled over my feet with a shopping cart full of crapstand tchotchkies. and they did not understand my incredulousness with them as they did it. the weird thing is, i've gone beyond getting angry at this sort of behavior because they have no impetus to be polite. their english os spotty at best and our russian is non existent. i mean aren't we as hosts and hell, as bankrollers of the people who come here supposed to learn their language?

but i digress.

all this crowding got me to thinking about the whole congestion pricing business that is going on here and it makes the bastard wonder, is the city going to even be able to improve mass transit after they set up the bureaucracy to manage congestion pricing? it makes about as much sense as giving each train line it's own manager. it smacks of making more bureaucrats to manage more bureaucracy. ida know, i just make gun magazines.

—the bastard

worst morning ever

woke up late.

the bastard is limping.

tired.

trains were slow.

elevator was crowded.

everyone has been up in my shit all morning from the minute i walked in.

someone is going to die today. and it might be me.

—the bastard

...on getting thug

long day.

totally missed walking into a pack of urban youth tonite. sleepy old bastard.

one kid was yelling at the top of his lungs about some useless basketball player's shooting ability.

so since i'm sitting between him and his friend, i ask him, "do you want to switch seats?"

"what? ah don wanna switch seats. ahm ah botherin you?" he looks me square in the eye.

i look him back in the eye (thinking about gouging him in the eye), "no, i just figured that you were having an intense conversation about whatever it was you were talking about, so i figure, you'd want to sit closer (before i stab you in the neck, shiteyes).

"ah don't wanna sit next to him"

"yo, why you gotta get all thug on him" (smart boy, i'll stab you last)

after i see their third, i decide headphones are better conversation. he's still talking about OUR conversation to his third as he gets off the train.

young man.

now while i AM the devil.

not all white folks are. you could have gotten stabbed in the face. and believe me, i would enjoy it. notsomuch with the jail that would follow but, hey you have to think about the enjoyment of life's little victories. next time perhaps. next time.

—the bastard

...on the groove

the bastard just wants you all to know.

that tonight, james brown saved all of your lives.

i was ready to do it.

i was ready to strike out on a mad rampage.

i might have eaten the city whole.

left no survivors.

but i didn't because even posthumously, james can bring the one.

and that groove saved you all.

—the bastard

...on shotguns

"i have a question about shotguns"

"you shut up!", the bastard barks back at the freelancer, "no one want to hear what you have to say"

"you too pcat."

"but"

"and don't go telling me that the voices in your head say they want to hear from you either, cause that's bull"

"the voices in my head say otherwise"

"well i disagree"

"well the voices in my head have questions about shotguns"

"you know the voices in my head have all sorts of questions about shotguns. hell, the voices in my head have questions about other firearms. knives too."

"you see", pipes up left hand rob, "the voices in my head only have ANSWERS when it comes to shotguns, not questions"

—the bastard

the phone call

the bastard had a long week.

work has had me out late.

which makes for late dinner.

which makes for late everything else.

which makes for late bedtimes.

which leads to a good old fashioned trucking. and the bastard is trucked.

yesterday morning, the editor came by (we talk industry gossip) and asks me, "have you heard?"

"they fired the old war horse...our evil ant overlords did it over the phone"

he didn't look happy. hell the editor looked righteously affronted. and why wouldn't he. the old war horse was in the biz for 20 plus years. he was in charge of many things that were not near the bastard. like the editor, he had been through many sales. many changes of leadership. and our evil ant overlords couldn't even give him the courtesy of a personal appearance.

the bastard is a little worried these days. the new heads of state treat this new purchase with such disdain. the people who have built it with such disdain. i find it worrying. blood will flow here. real soon. and good people will leave or be carried out like so much cord wood.

christmas time is always bad in publishing. uit always seems like the time where people lose their jobs. it's a shame that what has been forced down our throats as the happiest time of the year, is always in fact, the saddest. i'm gonna keep my head down. and do the damn job.

—the bastard

...on unwinding

after a long ass haul last night the bastard tucked into a meal with the chairman at the restaurant we frequent. when i got home, i put in my netflix movie of the week which was hellboy: sword of storms.

two words.

right hand of doom.

these animated hellboy movies that mike mignolia and guillermo del torro have been putting out in the interim between the first and second hellboy movies has reminded the bastard of how much he can't wait until it comes out next summer. also, pan's labyrinth is pretty goddam good too. well there you have it. next up, talk radio. good times.

—the bastard

...on keeping your chin up

...and knowing when to make the call

the bastard has been chatting with his coworkers

not his immediate coworkers

his immediate coworkers.

i talk to them all the time.

i talk with pcat and the singing editor about heroes.

hell i talk to left hand rob all the time. in fact he helped me check myself and diffuse shit but, i'll talk about that some other time.

but i've been talking to another art director in the building. we'll call him "stuff". because the first stories i've heard about him was from ms. cin. she told second hand tales of his former life at another magazine that i won't go into. they're someone else's stories, not mine.

anyway, stuff and i started talking one day when his newborn kept him up all night with a stuffed up nose and gas. and i told him i sympathized, thinking about the night that the boy was up past 2 with a stuffed up nose and the ony thing that put him back to sleep was coast to coast with art bell. stuff confided later that he initially thought to stay away from the bald guys of the outdoors. we all looked dangerous. and i am. anyway, stuff and i talked art. we talked the business. it was good. i came away with some ideas that will continue to make selling bullets seven times a year look good. more contemporary but, it was nice to talk to another parent as i never really do anymore. it seems the only parents in the building are on the bastard's old stomping ground on the 10th floor and they just make me want to smash.

anyway flash forward to tonight. stuff was working on some stuff with an editor near the coffee room and afterwards he says whatup. i ask him how his weekend was as he and his eldest were going to see the tree at rockefeller. he said it was great and how he lives for that stuff. stuff cares about having a family. like a man who got himself a second chance at life, he says he doesn't care how long he has to plug away at mystery science magazine. he does it all for the kids. and the bastard does too. only the boy is 2500 miles away. i tell him that it sounded great and how i was a little bummed that the boy won't be coming in this year and he asked how old the boy was so, i took out the picture i keep in me wallet. and he praises his mohawk and looks me in the eye and says , "you love em don'tcha?"

"i do"

then he slaps me on the arm and heads on his way. towards the business of making science magazines for our new ant overlords.

so i called the boy. it was good to hear his voice. god dammit, i'm so tired.

—the bastard

go time

today's the day

the day where the bastard drinks all the coffee

does all the work

and maybe jumps through a plate glass window or two.

but either way, it's got to get done.

the prince of sales just came by to tell me that selling bullets seven times a year just made it's numbers.

we were 10's of thousands down last week

now we're in the black

that's the biz for you.

in the shitter last week and we live like kings this week.

i love this job.

it keeps the bastard off the streets. coffee's calling.

it's go time.

—the bastard

...cap chimes in

the chairman IM'd me today to inform me that his father, whom the bastard has referred to on more than one occasion as captain america, had a near death experience on the road that he wanted to share with us. why do we call him captain america? maybe because he drives a jeep. maybe because he loves neil young (come on, some one has to love him). maybe because he just loves america GOD DAMMIT! you got a problem with that? i know i don't. anyway cap got himself into a near fatal accident out on the tarmac of strong island. and he notified the chairman. who in turn notified me.

so, cap was out there minding his own business when some jackass was riding his ass. and then racing up the blindspot

well i'll let cap tell the tale.

Text: Tried to run me into a BUS racing in my blind spot gave me the finger old piece o F SHIT.

So narrowly avoiding certain doom, captain america, busts out the jammy and gets the photographic evidence for our viewing pleasure. and simultaneously, he delivers 4 wheeled justice on the highways and byways of sleepy strong island. godspeed captain america. god speed.

—the bastard

...on routines

you know. the bastard should know this by now.

i've been doing this shit.

at this place.

at this magazine since 2002.

i should know better. i should know better that every year, at this time, just when things are starting to function properly, that it can all go to shit in a fucking instant.

let me spin it for you real proper like.

every year, while doing the daily for the gun show, the bastard has to sanswich this between the january issue of selling bullets seven times a year and the feb/march issue. and the january issue is our periodic table of fucking new guns issue. and every year, a certain manufacturer who is very early in the alphabet on this periodic table of firearms promises us pictures of their new guns.

"ummmmmm yah, we're gonna send you a disk. but, we ummmmmmm gotta take pictures of them first. then we're ummmmmmmm gonna send them to ya."

and we make space for them.

every year. and every year, they somehow drop the fucking ball.

"ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm, yah. the like photographer hasn't like gotten the stuff together, so we won't be able to send this to you until next week"

"but you said this last week"

"uuuuuuuh ya. well ahma gonna say it again. mostly because i spent last week putting a banana in my ear to lure the monkey out of my brain"

well not every year but pretty fucking often. and then the bastard feels like this for like a couple of hours.


following this is several hours of me being fucking angry with everything around me.

irrationally.

and i can't calm down. and it ruins my day. so there it is. thanks unnamed manufacturer. you fucking dicks! you'd think the bastard would learn something.

—the bastard

...on the short list

on my way home this evening, i get a call from the chairman.

"there are fire trucks down by your apartment"

"is my place on fire?"

"i don't think so. looks like it's by tutto bene."

"ok i'll take the back way in. see you in a bit"

so the bastard does the nice neighborly thing and he calls the neighbors. neither of the girls answers him.

the chairman calls back and confirms that the bastard's home isn't on fire. when i get home, the trucks are still there and so is an ambulance. i go upstairs to drop off some laundry. and then it hits me.

what if the firemen aren't done?

what if it spreads?

i better take some stuff with me.

so here's the bastard's short list. now taken into consideration that in my car already, i have my ipod, my shopping bags from trader joes, and my phone is on me. so given all that i grabbed just:

my laptop

the portfolio which i prefer to refer to as "the book"

my laundry to switch

and my sidi motorcycle boots. they aren't the most optimum foot wear but, they are my most expensive.

then i walked out. knowing that if the place burned to the ground, the bastard could function. on the way out, i drop off laundry and some fat bitch (and i don't throw that kind of insult around lightly, i don't want to get scoop angry with me) opens the door to the laundromat, looks right at me, walks into the laundromat, and lets the door close on me. i hold out my palm so that the door makes a resounding slap. she barely resists the urge to turn and see what the sound is because she knows what it is. followed by the bastard saying,"thanks jerk", to which she resists again the urge to turn and respond.

but i am tired

and i have no resistance.

so as i get to the counter, i pass her, and bang the bag into her fat carcass. granted, it's a bag of clothes but the bastard will not be denied. after this i get in the car and an old man from the block gives me the stink eye. he's been giving me grief for a while (long story, i'll tell it later) and as i pull out of my parking spot with my short list of stuff, we lock eyes and i think of my other list.

the list of people that are going to fucking GET IT when i leave this block. and they will fucking get it good.

—the bastard