this just in...

this is pretty much the last time i'll bring this up.

the bastard was driving down 36th last night on my way home from jersey.

and the sign is gone.

it's called "the archive" now.

it's as if under the volcano was a beautiful dream that we all got drunk during.

and now it's gone.

murray hill is dead to me now.

—the bastard

i have to tell you something...

you really are awful.

no.

seriously.

what's with that ginourmous flower in your hair?

is it a clever diversion to divert the average passer by?

to divert them from the ugliness that lives inside of you?

i have you sussed.

you are contemptible with your airs.

telling that old geezer how cool you are.

how much cooler you are than the rest.

please.

I despise you.

wow! I feel so much better now that I've gotten that off of my chest.

hell, my headache has even gone away.

—the bastard

ain't we lucky we got 'em

the bastard woke up this morning and he was a little nonplussed.

shouldn't have been that way as he and his cohorts at killing stuff monthly were the recipients of a major award last night.

he thought to himself, this is great but what about the art.

the art.

i really wanted to win something that was solely for the art that we do for this magazine and we've always been sort of an also ran.

but upon speaking about this with the velvet hammer, i felt more in the team spirit of our win and i was content. i felt like more of an ungrateful jerk as well.

the bastard might feel even better if it did in fact turn out that this old house the magazine redesigned their magazine to look like the now deposed domino magazine but, who cares.

a win is a win. i was grateful.

flash forward: i was at trader joes picking up some stuff for the house and for dinner at my rents tomorrow.

and there was this guy who was working the floor who looked like john amos.

and he was a paragon of jockularity in a cyclone of shopping people.

kept on smiling.

kept on joking.

opened the register and we got to chatting.

the bastard got to bagging.

paid the man and he thanked me for bagging.

the bastard told him that i did the grocery biz for seven years.

"you been down this road before then"

"hells to the yeah", i don't even talk like that.

with that, the bastard carted his food out into the mist of hood he spent the begining of his adulthod in and stopped as he loaded up the car and looked up.

i unloaded trucks for seven years, working my way through college.

loaded image setters for art directors for 5 years before i got my shot.

was promoted to assistant art director 7 months before they closed my book.

and then i landed here with the animal heads and never looked back.

well, maybe once or twice.

and the bastard felt thankful.

looking up into the mist, i felt good.

good times. good times.

—the bastard

the bastard could add to this...

but, i think this pretty much says it all really.

back today, and the power goes out at my desk. apparently the coffee pot is to blame.

this is fucking ponderous.

last week i was on one breaker which can cover a coffee pot.

now this week i am not.

it's not like i'm making coffe with the fucking hadron super collider,

allthough,

that might make a good cup but seriously,

if the bastard has to drink the in house brew, the whole floor may very well look like the deck of the event horizon.

just saying

—the bastard

...on experiments

...or getting the street under your feet

what could be considered quite UNnewsworthy in the bastardverse,

(I just made that up),

I shared a plane with the guy who lost to mike bloomberg.

no i didn't hit him with a bottle.

but it got me to thinking about this bit from batman year one where Bruce Wayne laments not taking the train into Gotham.

said he wanted to take the train.

to be closer to the enemy.

the bastard just figured after spending 4 and a half hours in a ball park frank will bill Thompson, I wanted to get away from crowds and an 8:30 e train sounded like the move.

cheaper too

it didn't hurt the my ladyfriend bet me that I wouldn't get home until ten.

and the bastard is a betting man.

it just sweetened the pot for me

15 minutes later, I'm on the way to Roosevelt ave.

let's see if the MTA can fuck me out of five bucks.

—the bastard

hell is other people...

...again.

you know,

the bastard really didn't sign on this morning to listen to you shout massage instructions to your husband

"lower!"

"lower!"

"lower!"

"good"

"now move yer elbow to the right"

oh, flying. at least you're never boring.

—the bastard

be here now

dear daughter,

here I am driving the i10 past this mountain on my left

when it's on my right,

I am missing you

when it's on my left,

it is your brother I miss.

for today,

I am coming home to see you in all of your small wonder.

and I won't miss you as much then.

but right now,

you ride beside me and tell me that it's gonna be okay.

see you soon.

love,

—the bastard

potential hat trick in the making

fresh from the hell is other people file.

or

perhaps from the hell is traveling with other people file.

I see this fresher faced middle aged lady with her young child (check: hell is other people's children)

and as she meets up with her party, the bastard hears the unrelenting "yapyapyap" thAt shakes the collective unconcious towards conciousness.

we all collectively see one of those yappy toy dogs that we all love SO much in it's designer carrier (check: hell is other people's pets).

so the bastard is waiting for them to be on my flight or better yet in my row.

either way, it's hat trick city. too bad there isn't a place I can pay manhattan prices for a bottle of bourbon for the flight.

oh well.

—the bastard

UPDATE: the dog is on the flight. it's a hat trick. and the yapping ensues at cruising altitude

under cover of darkness

it's never at first light for the bastard.

nah.

I gotta make sure I have at least two hours to pace the airport.

so here we are at 10 to 6.

so i can pace the jet brew terminal.

and catch the morning auto gyro to the desert so I can can see my son.

I miss the little guy.

but I miss the little girl and her mom as well.

but the bastard never did seem to draw the "conventional life" card.

who has really?

there are two types of people who have conventional lives.

people that never stuck their necks out.

and liars.

I just decided that I didn't want to be a liar.

there.

now don't you feel better?

okays, we're passing lefrak city now.

—the bastard

...the corner office

the bastard has to tell you something.

in the year he spent in this corner,

he did some great work.

now he's being moved to a new box.

with more light, which he prmptly knocked out.

a massive upheaval seems to be our yearly thing here in the hall of heads.

fortunately, all the players will remain the same for the foreseeable future (touch wood).

but who knows.

at least it ain't boring.

—the bastard

...on seeing it coming

you ever have that feeling that you see trouble coming?

you can see it but, you can't seem to do anything about it?

well you COULD do something about it but, you don't.

and now your stuck waiting longer than you'd like to.

yeah. me too.

damn.

—the bastard

from the bastard's mouth to god's ears

a couple of weeks ago, the bastard was talking about the green vehicles movement.

about the fine folks at brammo and their electric motorcycle.

and i had expressed my disdain over the price of this item

well, they lowered the price of the bike.

so, the bastard is man enough to take it all back. it certainly wasn't $10995 nice to buy but, it sure is $7995 nice enough to buy.

so buy it.

and then the bastard will buy it used from you in a year or two.

you see, i'm always thinking.

—the bastard

this is...again

this is my ride home.

this is a crowded bqe that gas me driving local.

this is my sense that I'm gonna be paying more taxes real fucking soon.

this is Lemmy telling me that he's the one, orgasmatron, the outstretched grasping hand.

this is one of THOSE bus rides.

this is a bastard sore but from getting something done.

this is my tiny sense of accomplishment for giving my daughter some space for her.

this is not a bad life but, he certainly wouldn't call it the best one.

—the bastard

...on this

this is my unconventional life.

this is joey's forest hills but if he still walked the earth, he may not agree.

this is my place holder.

this is my ride to the car.

this is me concerned for the first time that it ain't gonna be okay.

this is me running out of optimism fast. faster than usual.

this is yellowstone blvd now, making a left onto burns.

this is the bastard's need for at least 3 more cups of coffee.

and an egg sammich.

this is me shutting off radiohead and switching to tricky, then to motörhead.

this is.

it sure is.

—the bastard

this weak in anime

special out of context "who the hell is translating this?" edition


there's nothing the bastard liek better than taking shit out of context.

case meets point

apparently shooting at shit is a thrill this man cannot explain to the women.

perhaps something gets lost in the translation

perhaps not.

—the bastard

...killing time; the rails

rolling toward Stamford.

taking pictures today.

house of the rising sun comes on.

not the animals version which the bastard loves.

the scorpions version.

yeah.

the scorpions.

the bastard finds it difficult to wrap his head around the idea of klaus meine's father being a gambling man from new orleans.

—the bastard

...on motivational speaking

i was having a conversation with my ladyfriend tonight.

we're in the middle of putting together birth announcements.

and she had remarked on how she doesn't want to do anything too too nutty as our daughter is more of a night sleeper than a day sleeper.

"i'm not gonna go nuts. when am i gonna have the time to do that?", she asks

"you gonna do it anyway". air and light and time and space don't mean a thing.", the bastard responds

"what?"

so i went to the web and grabbed hank's poem about it. i used to have it on my office wall.

it helped the bastard with the "conundrum".

what conundrum do you mean?

well young jerks, it's like this.

you wanna be an artist but you need to pay the bills.

so you get a job.

now you have cash in pocket

but

no time to create.

what to do.

so a really good friend told me about a drunk named hank and this poem that i kept on the wall in my office and at home in my workspace and it was my compass for a long time.

and perhaps sometimes it still is.

air and light and time and space

"–you know, I’ve either had a family, a job,
something has always been in the
way
but now
I’ve sold my house, I’ve found this
place, a large studio, you should see the space and
the light.
for the first time in my life I’m going to have
a place and the time to
create."

no baby, if you’re going to create
you’re going to create whether you work
16 hours a day in a coal mine
or
you’re going to create in a small room with 3 children
while you’re on
welfare,
you’re going to create with part of your mind and your body blown
away,
you’re going to create blind
crippled
demented,
you’re going to create with a cat crawling up your
back while
the whole city trembles in earthquake, bombardment,
flood and fire.

baby, air and light and time and space
have nothing to do with it
and don’t create anything
except maybe a longer life to find
new excuses
for.

i read it to my ladyfriend tonight and it reminded me of a time when the bastard was struggling and he couldn't see the light at the end of the tunnel.

developing film for unappreciative assholes.

designing album packages at 2 in the morning for some shady guy who stills owes me money and moved to vermont.

reminded me because i'm here.

top of my game.

end of the road.

one year later.

i miss my closest buds because they weren't as lucky or they got fed up and left.

still standing. at the end of the tunnel. and i don't know what to do next.

you'd think it was all it's cracked up to be.

and i'm not gonna tell you it ain't

but i ain't gonna tell you it is.

but i'll tell you this,

i would really love to see lobster come into the office in that phillies hat to grub a cuppa coffee these days.

dunno what i'd give for that.

—the bastard

...on homecomings

chairman: hey

bastard: hey boss, can you do me a favor?

chairman: sure. what's up

bastard: hang on a sec

chairman: okay?

bastard: ok, i thought i was gonna need to you to come down to the bus stop and bring a bat but they turned left

chairman: what?

bastard: well these kids were yelling at me from their car and i yelled "your mom's back to them. then they made a u turn but, it looks like they decided to head to 7-11 instead. i thought, i'd have to get stabby and you'd have to bail me out of jail tonight.

chairman: you know bastard, you really don't have to yell "your moms" at every car that drives past you

bastard: but they yelled at me first

chairman: so?

bastard: and they called me a faggot.

chairman: well maybe you should stop blowing dudes in the bus stop then

bastard: sure, but there's alot of rough trade here in the bus stop, i couldn't help myself.

while saying this, the 3 old ladies and the two teenage grand daughters in the bus stop next to me look on horrified at the bastard's talk of bus stop sex and stabbing teenagers. they shuffle over 3 feet.

i haven't been back to the old hoof since august really and i'm on the ground in the FoHi less than 90 minutes and shit ensues.

quick sidebar: when you (and the bastard means YOU) yell out a moving car at the bastard, you will here one of five responses. these responses are generated at random so, not even i will know which one will come out at any given time but they are as follows in no particular order:

• go to hell
• you suck at life
• your moms
• go fuck yourself
• go die jerkface
  

consider yourself warned

anyway, the bastard begins to get the feeling that the kids can smell that i'm not from around anymore


even though i haven't changed the way i dress or walk or act since leaving the thorough borough for the island of misfit fashionistas and off world jackasses. it's hard fucking work keeping it real on this rock.

it's also been forever since i've been on a train as well. and it was kind of refreshing in a way. i miss this kind of travel. you don't get alot of color in a 10 minute on foot commute to the office.

allthough there is this crazy lady i've noticed who stops anyone with a stroller to beg for money on 3rd avenue and she needs to stop it.

i need to get out more.

get the street beneath my feet.

—the bastard