so why'd you move in behind a bar anyway

long day.

it was a good day but it was a long day that culminated in a late trader joes run and a kiddie party let out and some of the stragglers were a bit chatty from whatever overpriced swill they were quaffing.

and I'm just looking over the edge with my tired face on and not really expecting any of these idiots to have that moment of clarity that maybe they need I keep it down.

the loud adult in air quotes looks like Andy dick.

sort of apprapro in a fashion.

but I digress. just leaning over the side and one of their kids looks up at me.

then all three of their kids looks up at me.

the smallest one smiles and waves.

I put my finger over my mouth to give them the universal sign for, "your parents are inconsiderate, overly entitled assholes who need to shut the hell up please and to please not grow up to be like them"

then three other adults look up.

I'm in now so I can't just walk away. it's become uncomfortable for all parties concerned now.

and Andy dick looks up with the, "what do you want?" look that spindly dickheads from oklasota do when there are 6 floors between the likes of me and the likes of him.

the bastard has discovered that people have awful big balls when there is no chance of me flying down 6 stories to shove a billy club up their ass.

I asked if he could keep it down.

it's a bar.

my kid needs to sleep

it's a bar.

come on guy

it's a bar.

I'll stab you in the face fucko. while I'm sure you're shit didn't stink on your time on news radio, you sucked cock on the Ben stiller show. this bar wasn't here when I moved in.

it's a bar.

and then it dawned on me.

he had a speech impediment.

after years of doing coke and sucking cock all he could say was "it's a bar".

must have been the last thing he said before he went into rehab.

good luck on the other 11 steps jackass

—the bastard

let me google that for you

once upon a time there was a guy the bastard used to know who would roll his eyes if you asked him for some technical assistance...

...he'd reply, "google it"

and if you didn't know what to do about something he had an expertise in...

...he'd reply, "google it"

and on some days where i was feeling cranky, i'd take it the wrong way.

today i understood why.

there is a person on the team who needed something from this month's issue of killing stuff monthly for the web and i answered her question with a procedure.

export the page as an eps...

open it in photoshop at 300 dpi...

res it down in image size...

done.

she replies, "that would be great if i knew how to do that".

and the bastard had to fucking sigh.

didn't they teach you kids anything in upstairs hollywood web design school?

"SIGH"

and in the expanse of time it took me to type the email telling her how to do what she needed to do...

it was done...

"SIGH"

—the bastard

…on good neighbor policies

so we used to run this place like a hotel.

a service rented like 4 apartments that hadn't sold yet as air bnb short term rentals.

this stopped shortly after 15 washed up sorority girls rented the two bedroom on the 10th floor and proceeded to get drunk and shout at 3am.

now three units on the fourth floor are going to house the cast of 'the next food network star'

and the food network promises that their peeps with stay the hell quiet.

the bastard ain't holding his breath.

cause chefs like to enjoy theyselves.

and I?

I like thinking about hitting assholes in the grill with lead pipes.

so at least we'll have stuff to talk about at some point.

and may the best chef win… er… not get hit in the grill with a lead pipe

—the bastard

…cycle

that was twice.

twice tonight that two different illustrators have made light of the fact that the bastard is up at midnight.

answering email.

trying to get shit done.

you sir are a workaholic a new guy called me.

I've already convinced the other seasoned pro that I never sleep.

don't get me wrong.

I do after I get shit done.

and wait out the voices.

but you see,

I've become a victim of circumstances.

a self fulfilled prophecy.

a man with post traumatic stress disorder.

a goddam idiot too.

I let the toddler get to me when he tried to do me in.

it has me up at night.

like how Sunday nights kept me up at night a log time ago.

I've told me new boss about my circumstances and he says 'it's in the past mate'

but it ain't.

it's with me everyday and I can't let it go.

and I know for shy sure that it's not healthy.

doesn't make it go away anymore.

every night, I live the last 12 months over and over again and all I can do to drown it out is work.

then go home and work some more.

and relive it again and again and again.

stupid old man. stupid lucky old man.

my brother comes tomorrow and I feel relieved to have a break from my mental problems.

my only regret is that I can't stay out til 6am to exorcise these demons that come to me on my balcony every night to tell me I'm fired.

stupid fucking demons. please don't come to the gun show. I don't have it in me to hold it together around you. I may have to punch you in the face.

—the bastard

…on lamentations

the bastard used to have a pet lizard

his name was ivan.

he mostly kept to himself and I'd play him once in a great while.

because you know… he's a lizard.

he likes his alone time.

but I gave him away to a nice family in the Bronx.

and that's all I want to say on the matter.

oh that and I'm unhappy about it.

—the bastard

just in case you were wondering…

…free whiskey is the best whiskey.

the bastard has to give big ups to the flying bar.

due to our daughter's stomach bidness, we had to change our flight plans to later in the day.

which led to a great deal of uncertainty.

as to where we were seated.

how much grief we'd have with the babby.

that kind of crap.

but we lucked out.

front row.

and flight delays.

flight delays? lucking out?

yep. lucking out shiteyes.

inconvenience for the masses led to free whiskey for the bastard.

and free whiskey is a vacation win in my book.

cheers, jerk

—the bastard

…on vacations

you ever get the feeling that you should have stayed in bed?

your home state?

yeah. me too.

you see, the baby has a stomach virus.

and we made the decision that riding said virus out would be better in a two bedroom house in a sprawling development in west palm beach would be a better plan than flushing three airplane tickets down the toilet and enjoy said virus in our not so sprawling 350 square foot studio apartment.

not the best set of options but, I stick by my decision.

it's sunny and the baby is sleeping and for five minutes, a bastard can get some peace and quiet.

—the bastard

riding dirty

the bastard is down this week.

not by much but not in the win column.

my new number 3's guy had done his homework and told of this ghetto ass casino around the corner from the palace I'm staying at where the odds are better.

so I went.

and at the 3 dollar table a man who looked like glen Campbell

who had 5 kids

helped the bastard bring that beat back.

so who knows. I may break even before heading home.

cause breaking even is like winning anyways.

—the bastard

on saturdays…

…shit is local yo!



oh MTA,

why you gotta suck so very much?

weekend service is always a dicey proposition

but, the bastard knows for shit sure that the garage is gonna be buried.

today might be the day when the bastard has his heart attack.

fml

—the bastard

something always has to happen when you wanna do nothing

I really wanted to do nothing today.

I wanted to relax.

and think about nothing.

but you can't do that in 350 square feet.

so off we go to do something.

fucking yayz. (o_O)

—the bastard

definition of terms…

"can you take down the recycling", are the six most drudgerous words any man's wife can utter.

but the bastard will do the recycling with ducking gusto every time.

I get in the elevator with Friday night flip flops and his technicolor laundry vomit explosion.

give the nod and touch nothing.

flips asks if I intended to go to the basement and I explain, " nah, I gotta go downstairs and drop this grief", indicating my bag of grief.

"that's a great word to use", indicating his bag of laundry.

"grief has many uses. you got yourself a bag a grief right there guy", as I gesture to his laundry bag.

he leaves the elevator enlightened.

—the bastard

ball park franks

the bastard liked it much better when air travel was less with airport safety theatre and more with less crowded flights.

row 36 only meant crap seats in a theatre back in those salad days.

flying to and fro in the down economy is delightful.

especially when the old ass flight attendant jams her ass into my elbow because she should have spent more time on a treadmill.

don't get me wrong, I'd say the same thing if I was a man.

I just don't enjoy the goddam aisle seat is all.

air travel sour grapes it is.

that's all.

—the bastard

…on street fares and other things that make the bastard hate

come on.

the bastard's been good.

he moved to manhattan to stop being pissed about the commute but, sometimes dear city, you throw me a bone.

or a flaming bag of dog crap.

anyways, last weekend was the last of our fair mayor's summer streets program

which I hate; wait there's more.

the wife and I decide to go to the park but we have to pass park.

you figure, no cars, no problem.

wrong.

without the tyranny of the automobile, the bicyclists became the top of the food chain.

and as the top of the food chain the onus of obeying traffic laws was on them.

but they didn't.

as the top of the food chain, the onus of being considerate were on them.

but it was lost on the vastness of two wheelers.

now there is no reason a man needs to use a baby carriage as a means of leveraging his way across the street.

but I did. and I keep a hand free for the expectation of hand throwing which didn't happen fortunately.

the bastard didn't want to waste his Saturday in a cell when his brother in law was grilling across the river and chilling beers as well.

thing of it is this, my brother has had more than his fair share of shit with the four wheeled contraptions that "plague" bicyclists.

but some days it seems the plague is merely their desire to ignore people and traffic laws because they got to a respectable enough speed and, oh damn, here's a red light, nah, I'm gonna keep going, it's not like we get ticketed.

and BAM! your dead and some jackass is chaining up a freshly spray painted white bicycle where you went down because you thought this was a good idea, bro.

that said, I postulate the modest proposal the critical mass is wrong. we need cars on the road to keep you guys in check.

no good? eat a bag of dicks.

—the bastard

...on running on time

...special late edition

eh,

I didn't wanna take that F train anyways.

massive transit fail.

—the bastard

...on breaktime

the bastard is tired.

I didn't bother getting breakfast prior to getting to the airport for a reason.

the reason being is that I am less stressed when all of my check in business is done.

if i had known that the check in counter gets a coffee break. I would have had breakfast already.

let the seething begin.

—the bastard

precipice

flashback: "what will you do if something goes wrong?"

"nothing will go wrong.", the bastard replie

"but what if? what would you do?" prodded my ladyfriend

"I've been doing this for 8 years this year. the process is bomb proof. nothing can go wrong."

flash forward: I pull into the garage, tired and a little loagy from the evening's repast. door open I fiddle for the garage keys and I see my daughter's butterfly toy that she has been enjoying as most 4 month olds do.

grab it to put it in my pocket and

close

the

door.

damn.

panicked, the bastard races to his old apartment to look for the set that the mofo uses but to no avail.

and he ain't home.

I call the local precinct but instead see a cop car backing up continental ave.

panting the officer asks me if I'm okay, looking concerned and perhaps had his hand on the piece just in case junkies wear trenchcoats these days.

officer bald and cautious apologizes as the po pos no longer carry slim jims and advises me to call a towing company apologizing again and wishing me luck.

sidebar: in today's age of information, one can procure the means to call a towing company quite quickly with a little iPhone app called "yelp". it has gotten the bastard from here to Kansas city and back and will presumably help feed me in the coming days

but tonight, it got my car open for me.

and to the little fella with the heat miser hair who is no doubt losing the cash I gave him in Atlantic city tonight as I type this, the bastard says thanks.

hunched over the couch, typing this, instead of getting the 4 hours of sleep I'll be getting shortly here I am chiding myself.

bombproof?

nothing will go wrong?

fuck that. this may be the year it all goes to hell.

and there I'll be.

riding that shit into the ground like slim pickins in dr strangelove.

yippy Kai yay mother fucker.

see you on the strip

—the bastard

...on breathing

so,

with lead in his lungs,

the bastard heads east for a doctor visit in the q borough.





a long nights work to get some drugs for my asthma.

i'm really rethinking this whole long distance relationship with my generl practitioner.

the businessman in me asks where the ROI is in these trips out east by mass transit to get a refill everytime they won't spot me a month of scrip becasuse I haven't been back in three months.

coincidentally the bastard gets three months worth.

so there's no overlap.

I think I need a second opinion.

—the bastard

unaccomplished

the bastard doesn't know how it arrives here like this.

he was trying to top off the finishing touches on his Christmas shopping.

the thing of it is.

I live on the rock of manhattan and this is souch more nightmarish than a mall.

that's correct.

the bastard prefers the mall.

you know your obstacles in the mall.

your obstacles do not stop to take pictures of the goddam tree in Rockefeller center

your obstacles are not sitting with you in the car like they are in the bus and the train.

abandon ship bitches. mission unnaccomplished.

—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

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