...on tossing it

the bastard was walking on third. picking up some stuff for the apartment.

last night's dinner was disastrous. i just can't do my ladyfriend's recipes as well as she does.

just can't.

so user out to do what I know. marinating the HELL out of things and then cooking it. side of cous cous.

yeah cous cous. got a problem jerk?

anyway someone dashed this mac to the street and I wondered how it got this way.

did someone toss it out of frustration?

did someone lean against it by accident sending it to the jagged rocks below? you see, there are jagged rocks on third.

or my favorite. did someone toss it at someone in a fight? the bastard was kind of hoping for this.

—the bastard

...border

so, three relatives walk out into the night.

the bastard knows that he's drivig them back to the thorough borough tonight.

no matter. the mofo logged a lot of driving time to make tonight possible and we three head off into the night, the bastard hoping like hell that he can find a spot later.

it was a good night for drinking.

for family nonsense.

and for talk about childbirth.

you see the accountant regaled me with tales of childbirth best left unsaid. a mad science drop nonetheless.

over the river and east, we speak of other crap which I cannot recall but at 2am one wonders why one's stomach grumbles.

"do taco bells in new York stay open late?" , the accountant inquires.

"I think so", i reply

"there is one on utopia open late. I used to go there during my days at the torch", the mofo concludes.

so it's a mad dash for the border.

meximelts in the brain for the bastard.

the idea of acid reflex never felt so good.

a junkie approached us while we dined. said he needed money for a cab to the subway.

i tell him that we're tapped knowing full well that the 7 train was a 20 minute walk and a walk might cure his junk sickness. he simply moved on to the next car.

i moved on to my next meximelt.

—the bastard

...really?

the bastard's pockets were empty.

took the second avenue bus home.

while waiting a man who smelled of three day old liquor starts up with me.

"what?"

"you know how much that sammich cost?"

while looking over at the sign that clearly states, "five dollar foot long", the bastard looks at him square and declares, "I have no idea".

"well you see, ahm from crown heights"

(so what), "oh?"

"and they won't take mah public assistance here"

"that's messed up guy"

"so what ahm saying is, I'd like some help to buy a sammich"

(this entire dialog would be more plausible if you didn't REEK of alcohol) "sorry guy, I'm tapped"

"lies"

"really? my wallet is fucking empty guy. I had to nick a fiver from my ladyfriend to pay for dinner at the hospital"

and he rolls off to accost the lady in front of me and all the while, I'm thinking, "fuck you jerkpiece, I got nothing".

well that and how much I suspected that he wasn't buying a 5 dollar foot long.

addiction is a disappointing thing.

—the bastard

...tired

so the bastard had to make cookies yesterday.

yeah

cookies.

it was for a photoshoot. you see, it's christmas time in magazine country.

kinda sucks all the life out of the holidays since they come in

september. :-/

but then again, christmas is sign of new ends and new beginnings and my ladyfriend popped this morning.

so it's only a matter of time before it's go time.

i just wish i got more sleep last night. cause i'm trucked.

—the bastard

...on pop quizzes

...special tintin related jackassery edition


dear mr. vernon:

we accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole saturday in detention for whatever it was we did wrong. but, we think you're crazy to make us write an essay telling you who we think we are. you see us as you want to see us: in the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions. but, what we found out is that each one of us is


a crazy old guy . . .


and an injun . . .


and a pirate...


and a belgian villian . . .


and a sheik.

does that answer your question? sincerely yours, the breakfast club.

actually, we were in this restaurant the bastard like to go to and the accountant and i were drinking a potent ale called la chouffe. the mofo was drinking duvel which is french for devil (a testament to the potency of the beverage. my ladyfriend was drinking seltzer because if she was drinking beer, she would be acting very irresponsibly for a pregnant lady.

anyway, the place is decked out in belgian comics, mostly from the adventures of tintin. but inevitably, the bastard had to hit the head and was possessed to take photos of some of these heads.

what else would one do while taking a crap?

upon getting back, the mofo adjourned himself to do the same. i told hime that their would be a quiz when he got back. upon doing so i showed him these heads and asked which on was his favorite.

ok you had to be there. go to hell. but i thought of the above mentioned bit of movie trivia while trying to sleep it off on saturday morning.

oww

—the bastard

rushed

the bastard woke up this morning really in a good place because of having a good weekend.

and then he realized that he had a photoshoot in Stanford today.

started running like nutty through my morning paces.

5 minute shower.

blind search for clothing.

no breakfast.

and then I had to run to work for photo props

you see, it's a Christmas shoot.

oh yeah, and there's something wring with my phone's battery life.

now i feel like hell. damn.

-the bastard

...on descriptions

...special mine's bigger'n yours edition


"wow, this bathroom is less maintained than a truck stop"

"huh huh huh. yeah"

"nah, this bathroom is maintained like a philips 66 somewhere in northern pennsyvania"

"huh huh huh. yeah"

"yeah, and like you gotta go and get the key from some guy to get in"

"huh huh huh. yeah. and it's just a trough"

"yeah"

"huh huh huh. yeah"

ok guys, shut the hell up with your over describing. i'm trying to take a crap here. shut up. we don't need you to peripherally describe the group grope you were involved in while face down in a trough in a philips 66 station in northern pennsylvania. i'm sure it was a real dark period in your career as a journalism major in north bumblefuck university but, shut up. some of us like a little piece and quiet.

that is all.

—the bastard

hat trick

"ahhhhhhhhhhh"

"whu"

"ewwwwwwwww"

"izzit time?", the bastard follows up with. you see every distressed utterance from my ladyfriend may mean it's go time.

"nooooo"

"home invasion?, aliens have landed? who shot who in the what now?"

"kitty pooped on the floor"

"god dammit."

now the bastard was never really cat person to begin with but, it's stuff like this that clinches it for me sometimes. i had another 40 minutes of unconsciousness coming to me and poops mcgee here has trashed that.

i mean i'm all upons now. when my ladyfriend is distressed, i think it's go time. baby's on the way. time to grab the bags and head up to the hospital. i don't enjoy my bastard sleep getting interupted.

so we clean up the crap. settle down to enjoy 30 minutes of quietude and the little shit machine jumps up on the bed and starts pissing on the bed.

and it's all i can do to not fling this old ass creature out the window.


really. it was harder work to just start yelling than to toss this beast out the window

hard

fucking

work

so after a stern talking to, and some sheets in the hamper, i feed this jerk who i have ceased calling by his name. i just scowl and call him "cat" the way i'd call someone "jerk".

and i settle down for what could only be phoning in 20 minutes of unwind. this creature irks me. sure my pet craps all over his floor but he's in a frikkin' tank.

at least food will keep him from any more morning theatrics.

but, i'm wrong. apparently an 18 year old cat doesn't do scoldings well. so he throws up his breakfast.

yeah.

i look at the ceiling and say, to the fates, "i didn't need the sleep anyway; go to hell"

so mess cleaned up, i go to work, and after 3 cups of coffee, the bastard still feels like this


i'm kind of hoping that this isn't the bellweather for the day.

carpenter is coming in to finish some crap for the apartment. my ladyfriend and i are making a go at trying to raise a baby in 455 sqare feet so, we're working some furniture solutions. problem is this guy's bush league too.

it never ends.

hopefully, this'll be it. touch wood. the accountant is coming in for a visit. the mofo is picking her up from the airport so we can all have some family time. and by family time, the bastard means be irish. slanche, ye pogues mahone.

—the bastard

falling down

last night wasn't so much with the good.

i've come to the conclusion that there really isn't a "good time" to find parking on this rock.

and last night was no exception.

the bastard has been conducting a little experiment that has been borne out of one part scheduling issues and one part laziness and i've been parking around the neighborhood. and last night wasn't good at all.

there was more traffic than usual. then again, more traffic IS the usual. one should really celebrate the anomaly and not the norm and in this case traffic in manhattan is NO anomaly.

and there was this brief period of time in which i felt i was having one of those falling down moments in the car.

a combination sense of impotence and rage that had me thinking that the best course of action would be to

step out of the car,

set it on fire,

walk away.

right there in three easy steps.

it seemed so easy.

except for the lack of a means to set the car on fire.

and the sheer lack of will.

and the fact that by the time i gave up on it, i found a spot.

this seems to work somehow. the bastard gives up and miraculously a spot appears. it's sort of like playing reverse psychology with the fates.

"ok fates, i give up!"

"we're done, you and i!"

"i'm going down to the east river to dump this little hatchback into the drink and fuck you!"

"oh there's a spot!"

and i park and for a second, the sickness in my gut subsides. hell, as a bonus, i was parked by a church and they were having choir practice.

heh, "hell. nice choice of words", i suddenly think to myself, breaking the fourth wall.

anyway, i stopped and stood and listened to some very talented people sings a song of faith. faith that i've lost a long time ago. it was beautiful and uplifting and for a minute, it carried me home.

only when i got home, there was a parking spot right there mocking me. and i was falling down again. only in new york i suppose.

so if you see my car, can you do me a favor and set the fucking thing on fire please? it might make everything alright.

—the bastard

photo essay

...tuesday morning blues


so it's like this.

the bastard takes the bus for social reasons.

i mean who needs to take the bus when your commute is a 10 minute walk through the gauntlet of jackasses on 3rd ave in the morning.

so i take the bus for social reasons.

if i leave the office same time as red beard, i take the bus on park.

but yesterday evening, there was a man sitting on a box.

old timey camera in tow.

his hat folded on one side as if on safari in manhattan.

it seemed very mutual of omaha's wild kingdom.

that's all i got.

not everything is a goddam novel.

—the bastard

...on battery acid

you know,

there's nothing like getting a frikkin jump off on humpday.

the bastard is gonna get into the way back machine and drink some duke a ritas.

maybe get dumb. I'm entitled.

there's alot on the horizon for the bastard and he wants to have a drink or five.

and some piggies too.

—the bastard

...on burning

...in which we discuss how the bastard doesn't understand shit


the bastard was getting ready to tip out for the evening.

and i found this little gem on gawker about burning man

and it got me to thinking.

what

the

fuck?

i mean, i had this conversation once about marketing.

you see, the boy, knew what brand of car i drove.

knew what kind of coffee i drank.

how is this?

he knew the logos. at his most toddlery, my son knew what marketing was. i was momentarily worried about this but then i thought that the only thing one could do to get away from this is to quit the world.

go off the grid.

and never look back.

and i used to think that burning man was something like this.

but i got older and realized that it may very well be about.


you guessed it.

marketing.

look, the bastard may be taking this shit out of context but it seems to me that as much as i like the idea of running around in the desert for labor day weekend in naked in the desert (hint: i don't), burning man seems like an excuse for art students and dumpy cosplay people to get half naked and play pretend mad max post apocolyptic cosplay.

yeah, i know that there's art and all but, when i was young it was billed as some

life changing,

world changing,

conciousness changing event but quite like woodstock,

it ain't

i mean a festival is fine. hell, a renaissance fair is nice too but, it just seems like an excuse to get naked and get covered in gypsum dust and get high. its ok if you like that sort of shit but, the bastard is starting to sound too much like andy rooney so i'm gonna go home and drink now.

—the bastard

...on baked goods

FLASHBACK: a long while ago, chicago jerkface, told me of a magical place in chinatown where there are fantastic buns with barbecued pork inside of them.

he told me the name but, i forgot it.

YESTERDAY MORNING: we're meeting on ave C in sty town. i picked up red beard as he was right by where i grabbed my brekky.

after our lovely learning experience that was the hunter safety course, our teacher offered to take us shooting out east.

hoi, our teacher is a chinese american who is a retired cop, and he speaks like a retired cop from the lower east side, needed breakfast for the ride out east so he got out of his friend's ride to tell us we were going to stop for something to eat at this red awning

it was on avenue c and delancy.

as hoi stepped out of his vehicle, and rolled in to get whatever it is he eats for breakfast and one of my passengers, my asst art director, the little fellow, muttered quietly, "i bet he's going in there to get buns."

and then it hit me, THIS WAS THAT PLACE.

fong da. the place where the pork buns are. the bastard throws open the door and immediately tells the little fellow to go get some, this is the place, go get some.

the bastard usually isn't the sort to just bark out orders but, when it hits you like a slap in the head, you have to react.

later that day, it made for the perfect lunch like snack. good times.

—the bastard

...on labor

...or lack thereof.


labor day as defined by wikipedia is

The form for the celebration of Labor Day was outlined in the first proposal of the holiday: A street parade to exhibit to the public "the strength and esprit de corps of the trade and labor organizations," followed by a festival for the workers and their families. This became the pattern for Labor Day celebrations. Speeches by prominent men and women were introduced later, as more emphasis was placed upon the economic and civil significance of the holiday. Still later, by a resolution of the American Federation of Labor convention of 1909, the Sunday preceding Labor Day was adopted as Labor Sunday and dedicated to the spiritual and educational aspects of the labor movement.


needless to say, the bastard, is more pleased that this national holiday has evolved into an end of the summer grilled meats-athon. but, this weekend had more labor for myself than usual. but in the good way.

on saturday, i went to my ladyfriend's niece's birthday in wayne (yes, the one in jersey). her niece's grandparents live on a lake. it reminds me of a smaller version of our family's former house so, i like going out there. it reminds me of granma and granpa. even moreso when they lend me a kayak and i go off on my own for a little while.

which i did.

and it was nice.

grilled meats.

open water.

strangely hassle free driving.

on sunday, we went to jersey city (yeah, THAT jersey city) and we dined with some friends and got some spectacular views of the staue of liberty.

good times.

i like labor this day weekend these days. it also means that the cold is coming soon. the bastard'll like that.

—the bastard

...on the calling

now the bastard knows what yer thinking.

there's that frikking bike again and we the readers are gonna read some more maudlin shit about how much you miss the scrambler.

but we're kind of past that true believers.

it's a known quantity.

but it's like this.

I've been watching the long way down again.

and they are in Ethiopia.

i couldn't find a decent shot of Ethiopia by motorcycle.

so, the old bike is more of a placeholder.

the point is this.

Ethiopia looked fucking beautiful.

it makes me want to hit the road.

but, I have some important stuff happening in the next few weeks so

I want to hit the road later, not now.

the bastard wants to cross the country on an iron horse. I'd like it make that happen.

—the bastard

...on the moving pictures

this week's special bonus anime still comes from the last episode of turn a gundam.

the bastard like subtitles for just this sort of action that you can't get on a bad english dubbing.

out of context humor aside, it was nice to watch something that didn't end tragically. the bastard has been down with the gundam franchise since 1981. check it out if you like this sort of shit.

or don't.

i don't care.

—the bastard

...on death by misadventure

the bastard us laying a bit lower tonite.

yes lobster, you know where I'm going with this.

a part of me died tonite.

as I ordered for what may be the last time,

sauza hornitos

shaken cold

with training wheels

at under the volcano.

the waitress said that they have new owners.

so there's new lights.

too much light for the bastard's taste.

the santa ria idol by the tap is gone.

the Spanish words that spoke the opening passage to malcolm lowry's novel for which this storied bar is named.

all gone.

antiseptic. it made everything seem more

you know,

sad.

the bastard loved this bar as it was but, now it isn't and it names me sad. even the beautifully hand written graffiti telling employees to wash their hands is gone.

I'm sure I'll go back again. it's not like I'm going to not drink tequila anymore.

it just won't be the bar the bastard went to to drink with friends,

and celebrate,

and commiserate,

and tell stories,

and to get numb.

it's someone else's now.

bummer.

—the bastard

...on scorn

hey lady,

why you gotta bump me like that?

didn't your mom raise you with some manners?

poise?

grace?

the bastard is gonna go with no on this.

however, you do have mad ignoring skills.

so much so, that you are missing this sweet photo of you jamming on that mc dlt there.

you're welcome. an excuse me would be nice once in a while.

—the bastard

...on the recession

you know,

the bastard had no idea that the economy had gotten so bad that the almighty needed a second revenue stream.

—the bastard