for now

how did you die?

Did you tackle that trouble that came your way

With a resolute heart and cheerful?
Or hide your face from the light of day
With a craven soul and fearful?
Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce,
Or a trouble is what you make it,
And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts,
But only how did you take it?

You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that?
Come up with a smiling face.
It's nothing against you to fall down flat,
But to lie there -- that's disgrace.
The harder you're thrown, why the higher you bounce;
Be proud of your blackened eye!
It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts,
It's how did you fight --  and why?

And though you be done to the death, what then?
If you battled the best you could,
If you played your part in the world of men,
Why, the Critic will call it good.
Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce,
And whether he's slow or spry,
It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts,
But only how did you die?

—Edmund Vance Cooke

fried dough always makes the bastard ponder the afterlife 

—the bastard

purgatory disguised as a room with a view…

and you can't see out the window…

and smoke gets in your eyes…

and I just wanna cry…

cry…cry…cry…cry…cry…cry…cry…

it's so good out this morning…

the bastard just stood out in the balcony and breathed that shit in…

eyes closed…

coffee in hand…

straight up peaceful. 

and I glanced at the autopsy that was my view of the Empire State Building and saw that there was this patch of clarity…

a small sliver of the fdr drive…

some nondescript buildings…

a patch of the river…

and no logistical way for a developer to block it…

and the bastard thought to himself…

'self… this small spot isn't going away and that totally does not suck'

and it doesn't 

—the bastard

the bastard had no clue how much he's missed his parklife

Confidence is a preference for the habitual voyeur of what is known as (parklife)

And morning soup can be avoided if you take a route straight through what I get up when I want except on Wednesdays when I get rudely awakened by the dustmen

(Parklife)

I put my trousers on, have a cup of tea and I think about leaving the house (parklife)

I feed the pigeons I sometimes feed the sparrows too it gives me a sense of enormous well

Being (parklife)

And then I'm happy for the rest of the day safe in the knowledge there will always be a bit

Of my heart devoted to it (parklife)

it ain't everyday that it hits 50 degrees in the liquid city in January…

so girlfriend and I hopped on scooters and headed to the park down the block…

I miss fresh air…

after a week in Vegas followed by two weeks of hitting it hard while understaffed…

it's good to get your ass outside. 

so I did. 

—the bastard

…leaving Las Vegas

and so… 

with a whimper and not a bang… 

the bastard unwinds away from the city of sin…

12 gun shows…

no screw ups…

not decent night of sleep in them…

but there's always the game of dice…

however…

the big night was a game of black jack I played with the dirty stay outs who were with me at 3am…

holding it down…

playing til 6…

straight on till dawn. 

best game ever…

I never tire of this place…

—the bastard

…on air travel and endless rings

so…

in a nutshell…

the bastard just suffered through what may possibly be the worst airport shit show he has ever endured and I've endured some awful shit. 

once after a five day bender in 2006, I was lying on the floor of mccaren airport feeling sunburned from drinking several red bulls at a bottle service club because there was nothing else to hydrate with… 

another time, the wife and I were bopped all over the west palm airport due to a storm north of us… 

in paris, with the nice lady, a snow storm in New York kept us well delayed on New Year's Eve but, the road manager for the goo goo dolls had goat cheese and we had a baguette so we had ourselves an exchange…

just last weak after a five and a half hour delay, the bastard finally got the boy underway and on his way home only to be texted from the plane that the luggage wasn't in the plane yet…

but this morning I had it sorted… 

got up on time…

the car showed up…

and then, the crush. 

the goddam bag drop off line was out the door…

I waited on line to almost 90 minutes just for the pleasure loading my own bag onto the conveyor belt…

airport security clearly hadn't had it's second cup of coffee, so I was ready to crawl out of my skin by the time I got to my gate.

only thing the bastard had for breakfast was shit show served in a fucking roll. 

so I had to hit up the flying bar for the kids snackey cake box for 6 bucks. no one needs to be having Nutella and breadsticks only to chug it down with apple sauce in a bag and whiskey. 

so wracked from this awful experience…

I began to think about the end of all things and where I'd like to be disposed of when that day arrives. 

well… I was watching an ncis marathon and thinking about this. 

I like to be cremated I think and I would like my ashes scattered around the grianan of aileach somewhere in donegal 

the last time I was there the wind blew hard on my face and I thought about grandpa…

and it was the last time I remember feeling at peace with myself. 

and now I'm going to get back to my regularly scheduled nightmare which will be brought to us by the letter 'H' and sponsored by a shit ton of coffee. 

look it up on a map kids or in the rick Steve's book about Ireland…

and make sure my remains get there…

thanks for playing. 

—the bastard

this weak in teh comix…

you know…

the bastard is a big fan of Brian k Vaughn and all…

and it's been a while since I got caught up on a little gem called saga…

but…

this shit creeps me out…

just sayin. 

—the bastard

...on theft and leo slatkes

first off...

credit where credit is due...

this is from warren ellis' instagram feed.

i read his stuff...

he says funny shit...

so, i follow him...

you should too.

that said...

when i saw this image, the bastard had to let out a little chuckle...

because all of these words are true...

and artists rarely adhere to any of them.

we all lie, steal and compromise ourselves in regards ourselves as well as to the art market...

the only artist that adhere to these tenants are the artists who have the financial wherewithal to have this level of sticktoitiveness and depending on how they arrived at that state of financial wherewithal they may be the shining beacon for the other sort of artist who adheres to these tenants and dies penniless and insane and them some shitheel like charles saatchi buys up his whole collection for a song from said artist's junkie spouse so they can get another hit of the crack pipe or some such.

but i digress...

leo slatkes was a failed painter, my favorite drawing teacher told me one day right after he told me about his painting teacher's massive drinking habits...

he painted in the style of his muse caravaggio (read a frikkin book you goddam mook) and he loved the man's command of light and shadow...

he also told me about the volume that exists in a painting without lines or borders as if it were just beyond the smoke.

anyways...

he told a story one day about the carraccis  who painted years after some of the high renaissance greats and they outright copied some of the finest works of tintoretto and michelangelo...

leo coined the term"systematic eclecticism" and followed up by defining it as, "yes i steal but, look how brilliantly i do it".

so yeah...

originality is great and all...

but stealing is where it's at

—the bastard

i'm feeling low… I talked to god in a phonebox on my way home

there was a time in my life in which banging out 20 pages…

sitting in two meetings… 

publishing two magazines to the iPad…

and being understaffed was easy peasy. 

but, it's notsomuch with all of that. 

and the big game hasn't even started yet. 

then again I've already thrown down a good chunk of that in my down time. 

what's that? 

down time?

well shiteyes… downtime is the time I spend playing catch up. 

heads down…

nose to the grind stone…

yeah… publishing… yeah

—the bastard

will you still love me when I am no longer young and beautiful…

I was watching baz lurman's great gatsby tonight and aside from the fact that Lana del ray sings the most depressing song of 2013, I thought the film was quite good. 

the bastard is always fascinated by how others portray New York in other mediums. 

and baz lurman's New York is the beautiful shining city I envision myself in every goddam day. except I see it in queens. 

in gatsby it is portrayed as the wasteland that is oculist. dirt roads and almost a dustbowl like feel and I wonder if queens has always been seen this way in popular mediums  even though I know that oculist is merely and allegory for depression era middle America. 

I remember I always  wanted to smack the producers of ugly Betty for portraying queens as a series of elevated trains and Hispanic stereotypes and drag queen pristitutes but I soldiered through that shit show as well. 

but I choose to see this westernmost stop of he east to be prettier than what lies west in the face of times to come. 

yeah jerks, my spot is better than your spot now more than ever. 

I can't see the Empire State building anymore and that's okay because I'll always have queens. 

yeah… queens… everytime

—the bastard

take a good look… this could be the last

'don't stay up too late'

'ok'

'no… you'll end up watching that documentary and the watch something else'

'I'm done watching pearl jam for the evening'

'why it's fun to watch?'

she wasn't wrong…

as I sit in the dark hacking up a lung in my living room…

i just don't want to be reminded of how old I'm getting tonight. 

I'm still kind of shitwards about Lou Reed passing…

and the fact hat a year ago, the face of this city was very different…

and that next Tuesday, he face will change again. 

actually… that's not entirely true…

bill de Blasio won't be sworn in until January 1st but it does represent a sea change in my city. 

but I'm getting off the rails here. 

watching a 3 hour documentary on pearl jam and knowing most of the words makes me sort of ambivalent about my age. 

mostly because I don't have the vocal range I used to have when I'm sick…

and it annoys me. 

also, I needed some escapism in the form of lowbrow tv right about now…

so i figured I'd scratch this down beforehand. 

—the bastard

perfect…

a lifetime ago…

the bastard was in a crappy restaurant with his old brother in law…

the scowl

the scowl worked in food services for years…

and his two most important maxims for surviving a meal…

A: if your food is not to your liking, don't send it back… they will spit in it or worse. better you should order something else off of the menu because they more than likely won't know it was you and not spit in it and you will more than likely get a nice meal. 

and

B: do not give your service a hard time until you get the check. that is the transfer of power. the waiter no longer has control of your digestive system and you can say your piece by tipping what you saw fit.

I used to date a girl who loved to fuck with the wait staff at this Pizza Hut we used to frequent like mental patients. in retrospect, I can only imagine how much fecal matter lived in my supreme personal pan and how much piss was in my coke. 

now:

I'm finally calming down…

I've had a shit evening that started at 1am when I decided to emai the super for what seems like the 25th time in the last two weeks that my hvac hasn't been fixed…

granted, it hasn't been all that warm out since summer tucked tail and ran but, I want all of my stuff to be in working order regardless…

we paid good money for this jib joint…

but after three emails, it was for naught and I was kind of seething when I decided I would break form with the deal the wife and I have when she goes away on business and ordered takeout from the bar behind us…

it was cheap…

and it's behind my home…

so I figure, "what the hell?"

over an hour later, I call them up and ask what's up…

oh we're bagging it up now sir…

20 minutes later, I get a call from the delivery guy asking me where I live…

and the bastard just loses it…

I live behind your bar

on the corner?

no you fuckwit… is your bar on a corner?!?

behind the bar?

yes behind the bar

and so finally, my repast shows up and I head to the elevator to get some din din. 

only the elevator and I had a disagreement…

it wanted me and it to spend some quality time together.

so…

there I am stuck between floors, wishing that I had just made pasta two hours ago hitting buttons and hitting the alarm button to "shave and a haircut, two bits"…

and thats when I left my body. 

eventually, the elevator releases me from her embrace so I can walk up from the basement to lose control and punch he delivery man in the face. 

but... I thought better of it and just yelled at him a lot.  

and i went upstairs with my cold chicken and soggy fries and my disdain for it all…

and I still had to give the babby a bath…

so dinner was a dish best served cold tonight. 

at least my living room doesn't feel like 80 degrees anymore

—the bastard

…on bear skins and stone knives

the bastard is all up in the mountains this weekend…

service has been limited to a five minute quick hit on the email…

and it's all good.

now the bastard is no Thoreau…

but it sometimes helps to not be in the know out in the mountains…

that said…

I'm typing up this shit on my iPad and contemplating a nap. 

the wife is hold up in the cabin…

my daughter is coloring 10 feet from me…

and alls right with the world. 

—the bastard

I'm not the phony… you're the phony

i was recently watching this video on the mofo's YouTube channel…

and it got me to thinking about the nature of creativity… 

as well  as the nature of creativity vis a vis large cities vs small cities…

there was a time here where you could make your stake…

do something great…

and then become isolated and die of a heroin overdose. 

but there are too many meathead investment bankers are pricing the creative class, so that can't happen now. 

and it got me thinking about how pollock didn't become the artist he could be until he moved out to the hamptons…

which can't be done either anymore because the Hamptons are full of meathead investment bankers who price the creative class back to the Stone Age. 

so that can't happen now. 

discuss. 

—the bastard

life in these Long Island cities

it's the last one mate…

the last hurrah…

the final summer Friday as decreed by our heads of state here at the house of dead animals. 

and the bastard was NOT about to pass up the opportunity to pull off one last  off the books burger to round out the summer. 

so I decided to hit the new place…

the woodbines…

the home of black ipa from Astoria…

the bastard has made a discover about the new dining in these long island cities…

it's like this…

my last stop before bed in a drink night is the bar behind my home…

my complex last stop that I have difficult feelings for…

because of the meatheads from the new towers, I often hate the place but not because of the place…

I just hate the meatheads…

that and perhaps my neighbors wife when she shouts down from her balcony because she saw a meathead friend and the decided to go down to the back porch to brag relentlessly like a goddam donkey all evening. yeah I hate her too. her husband is aight though. I'll spare him my scathing rebuke. 

but they always shit down the racket at the time they promise to…

and that shit is lauded by your humble bastard…

a man's word is his bond and when he lives up to it, the hosts of heaven open up and say, 'I couldn't possibly call bullshit on that guy, he's straight up with the hood and won't smite him this good day'…

true story…

I've heard the host of heaven and they like to call bullshit often on folks. keeps the squares out of heaven. 

but I'm here at the house of black ipa today for my last stand for two reasons…

well three…

for one… bars in this area has discovered that the place of complications ain't cheap and if you lower the price of your food and your brew, you have a fighting chance here

for two… the place ain't open for lunch. they ain't cheap and it's a down economy

and lastly… that place is right behind my apartment yo.

it ain't a off the books lunch if all the players in your life are I'm the know. 

so…

it's been a good summer…

I'll see your ass next year

—the bastard

the bastard's been away… wanna fight about it?

yeah, I've been outta doors…

AWOL…

gone ghost…

I've also been cheating on you with other social media as well. 

with that…

some things have gone by the wayside…

things that could get done if… 

as my father so concisely put it…

if I could stop doing shit on the weekend. 

I decided to have a summer for a change.

I may start telling stories later.

wanna fight about it?

—the bastard

when the lights went out

10 years ago…

the bastard took the longest walk he had walked since he hooked up at the march of dimes walkathon in 1986…

that didn't end well…

but that's a different story…

10 years ago the lights went out in my city…

and the news asked me…

"hey jerk, where were you when this shit went down? we was in oklasota or wiscotucky not knowing about life in these new york cities… probably at scad or some shit…"

after promptly punching the news in the face, I spun the tale. 

10 years ago…

when the lights went out…

the silver k, beck, and I decided to walk the divine ms. cin to port authority so she can be spirited back to the magical land of yard sales but we lost her…

because that was the style at the time. 

so…

cinless…

we headed east…

well…

north then east…

the silver k offered some yob 200 dollars to take him home…

upon refusal, he offered him 400 dollars to take him through the midtown tunnel…

instead we crossed the queensborough bridge and parted ways with beck at northern blvd as his destination was gayside. 

inward we trudged down queens blvd and by 10:30 pm, we reached the fhills. 

the nice lady offered to drive the silver k back to his palatial estate in Rockville center as well. 

upon her return, we all attempted sleep but the pharmacy had an alarm going off that was hooked up to its own power supply and it rang all night. 

in retrospect, I really hated that block. 

the next day, power came back on by mid morning and our managing editor, the velvet hammer, insisted we come back to work because powers on in manhattan. 

and while it was on in queens, I told her otherwise and made coffee and tried my best to enjoy a hot August day.  

—the bastard

on fire power…

this is my rifle…

there are many others like it…

but this one is mine. 

the bastard was talking abou the the fishing column with the old man of the sea one day and he had one of these in his cube.

"heeeeeeeeyyyyy… what's that?"

"its the bug-a-salt. you shoot bugs with it…with salt."

long story short is i purchased one of these things.

when the wife asked why the hell would i shoot salt at flys i replied simply that i've been swatting flys with my hands…

the old fashioned way…

for years!

now i want to shoot them.

truth to tell though…

the bug-a-salt has limited results…

the range is okay but not brilliant…

and most flies don't die on the first shot unless you get them point blank which is rare but majestic.

that said, now when there is a fly in the apartment…

and my daughter points this out to me and asks me to shoot the fly…

it somehow feels unwholesome…

until she says she wants one of her own when she's a teenager.

i may have this parenting thing licked just yet.

—the bastard

full contact

"like a dog lying in the corner

they bite you without a warning, lookout

—pulp"

once upon a time…

Chicago jerkface told me a story about his brother the filmmaker…

he used to deliver pizza in a car with a bumper sticker on it he made himself that read…

"fuck with me and find out"

so one night, the filmmaker is doing his rounds…

and some guy has been following him all over shytown…

he makes a left…

this guy makes a left…

he makes a right…

well, I'll save you the trouble. you get it. 

eventually, he pulls over on the side of the road and this guy stops as well and gets out of the car… 

the filmmaker asks him what his problem is…

he gets in his face and yells, "I'm finding out!"

some days this is my commute. 

tonight, the sebbentrain was all kinds of crowded and this is sometimes my lot…

so I accept this as the known quantity and squeeze in… 

I've gotten good at it. 

last night a man who was shaped like a bowling pin nearly popped my arm out of its socket with his girth alone…

but this is the price one pays to live on stop into the liquid city. 

tonight, I'm running especially late… 

southam is going on vacay tomorrow and the wife is having a girls night out and I'm in an important meeting so I get to running home. 

greeting crowded train I say to myself as I pull a few of my heisman trophy earning moves together on the sebben…

as I mill on I feel a hand lightly touch my back…

this turns into a push…

which turns into a shove…

which turns into the bastard quickly grabbing this hand and twisting it quickly to one side…

which turns into a small Asian woman taking her hand back and I'm sure she was: 

A: glad to have her hand back

B: surprised as hell that the big bald guy could snatch his hand behind himself and foil such jackassery

I'd like to think that going forward, she may think better of such foolishness but I fear that too many folks are working their lizard brain when they get on that train. 

—the bastard

life in these long island cities

last night was not the bastard's finest hour as a parent...

during the summer...

every tuesday in the liquid city is free music night on the east river....

and the hood turns out for fun and sundown.

so...

my daughter, the tyrant is running around playing with kids...

and the bastard is on point...

and i get surrounded by screaming urchins while playing paparazzo to my daughter...

and i politely reply to there lack of personal space respect and caterwauling with whatever entertaining absurd response comes to mind...

make a game of it...

it all sounds like screaming screamey screams anyway.

after a bit, the bastard decides to set himself up with an ice cream and enjoy the mediocre stylings of the band when i see the tyrant come screaming out of the fray...

and she looks visibly upset...

so i'm off like a shot with my dip top in hand...

"what happened monkey?"

"those boys, they bothering me"

"which ones?"

"over dare" (the nanny is from the caribbean. she says things like dare and tings alot).

so i scoop her up and storm over knowing full well that the two screaming boy standouts from earlier were no doubt the culprits.

"which...ones?" and she gestures at the blond urchin who had been screaming at me earlier and his ape of a partner in crime who i will also call urchin.

i squat down and in my usual tone tell the blond urchin to leave my daughter alone

his partner who is clearly older pipes up in his best, "raised by parents who don't give a fuck about his kids shit behavior" and tells me, "why do "AYE" have to leave her alone?"

the bastards eye grow smaller as i turn to face and tell him pointedly, "because she is my daughter, and i say so"

then frau bruha shows up and is clearly the blond urchin's antithesis of a helicopter parent as she had been up until this point making time with someone's father, asks me if there is some kind of problem.

"yes, these boys have upset my daughter"

"well they are just kids. you can't go around scaring kids", frau bruha responds

"well, i apologize if i scared your kid but, these boys upset my daughter", i continue. "and i will not apologize for my tone"

i get up and i go back to my ice cream all the while walking with the gate of one who isn't going to suffer any further bullshit this god eve.

the thought i had the whole time is, at what point do we stop letting 3 and 4 year olds settle up shit with one another? they are incapable of reason at that age.

and i concluded that you don't. your kid gets upset...

you shut it down and eat your goddam ice cream.

—the bastard