…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

you know… I take that back

enough with the maudlin.

this afternoon, the boy and I were headed to the park to hang out.

since he got here, I wanted him to get the chance to play with kids and we've had no luck.

and by no luck, the bastard means that mouthy hard luck kids have been coming down from rougher parts of town to get all 'street' with my wide eyed son from the southwest and he comes away wondering why they assholes.

anyway, we're crossing the street and I see the waffle truck.

THE MOTHER EFFING WAFFLE TRUCK

I ran, not walked to the truck and the boy had no clue what just came over his old man as he said, 'boy, you don't understand. it's the mother effin WAFFLE TRUCK'

so I split a waffle with him and a hot chocolate and we ate it at a table by the gantries.

and that was my birthday present to myself. because it was the first time I had waffle truck with the boy. and it was the first time the boy had real Belgianesque hot chocolate.

and that was pretty special to me.

so whadda ya want. more whining? I van only muster up so much. go to sleep now jerks

—the bastard

you never really get what you want

the bastard is actually a pretty ungrateful guy it seems

he turned 41 today.

and while the virus has informed him that over 70 people have wished him happy birthday on the virus, he's out on his balcony wondering when the last time it was that he had a truly happy birthday.

don't get me wrong, any birthday where I didn't wake up dead is a fucking gravy birthday but I can't remember when it was last when I had a storybook happy birthday with presents and shit.

where I wasn't drunk.

when I got something I always wanted wrapped in a big box with a bow on it and i was genuinely wide eyed with anticipation at it's contents.

nope. can't do it.

maybe it's just the whole getting old thing.

maybe it's just because birthdays aren't meant to be special when you get past a certain age. because you want to make sure that your kids feel special.

yeah. I think that may be it.

but I digress.

on the virus, a guy I did a triple bill with 20 years ago shares a birthday with me.

we did a show 20 years ago tonight. I turned 21. and I was doing a show with my bad at the time.

that was kind of special. so maybe it wasn't wrapped up in a bow but a jack Daniels and coke 20 years ago was the first present I bought myself at the beginning of the end of all things special.

maybe I'll by myself a new bike next year. I hear one rumbling away as it leaves the midtown tunnel ambling towards points east.

that'd be nice. you ungrateful old man.

lucky ungrateful old man.

—the bastard

…on the give back

the bastard has something stuck in his craw.

on many occasions when I meet up with the dwarf ( and I haven't in quite some time) he tells me things about my college professors.

you see he works at my old college. and the dwarf tells me that.

my graphic design teacher was a photographer and he picked up graphic design just in case the handwriting on the wall was true.

and that none of the graphic design teachers at my old school have ever worked for a large company.

so in essence, they are teaching young minds to grow up to be freelancers who have no idea how to find work or work with a team.

and this sticks in my craw.

the bastard also has a guilty conscience.

he could have worked harder in college.

he could have worked less days.

drank less.

could have slept in his studio less and worked more.

so he gives back.

I proctor this test that kids in my old high school take to fill a requirement for their art program.

and while it won't make or break them, it helps me sleep with a clear conscience.

well that and a manhattan or two.

but, inevitably one of these kids tells me a should be a teacher.

and i tell them that when this business I am in spits me out, I may take it under advisement.

but the fact of the matter is

I curse too much.

I'm impatient.

I talk too much about bullshit and less about the course material.

hrm. maybe I can be a teacher.

or a hobo.

—the bastard

dearest fhills…

…up yours



now don't cry baby.

it's not all your fault.

but the bastard has to tell you off.

you see,



all I wanted to do after a long drive in the shit was to park and go back home.

but no,

I had to dig a snow bank out of my way.

it's not your fault baby. the bastard is just tired.

shoveling tons of wet snow can do that to a man.

—the bastard

hook…

the bastard has a confession to make.

he's a terrible motherfucker.

but I think he may be ready to let himself off of the hook.

and maybe he'll let a few others off too.

it's just time.

also,

I may want "everyone" by van Morrison played at my funeral.

—the bastard

way back machine

so, the bastard stopped by the chairman's place to pick up my ladder.

that way the bastard's winter collection can be accessed when I get to the garage.

upon leaving I came across some wheat paste induced time travel or perhaps someone's Kerry/edwards leftovers.

the sign reads:

kill more

steal more

bless dumber

now the bastard doesn't want to disrupt the hipster dynamic or anything with any of his old man talk but,


perhaps we can move on from here. we're a couple years in now. oddly enough this is pasted to a construction site that has only ceased dormancy recently with graffiti declaring that "Obama is going to change everything".

the juxtaposition is interesting.

—the bastard

…on wholesale disdain

the bastard has always been easily disappointed by things.

people.

circumstances.

behaviors.

inconsistency of these things.

simple and formulaic any one or two of these factors never raise an eyebrow

but, all of them create a perfect storm of disappointment.

maybe I'm still tired and jet lagged from my trip to the desert but I know better than that by now.

I'm thinking of writing a book about it.

—the bastard

…scotch and water

"you know what?!", said Joe, 'lim gonna tell you the secret. I'm gonna tell you the secret of how to drink at a work party."

"what you do I order a scotch and watah, and throughout the night you keep refilling the watah. the drink will stay looking like scotch and watah and you'll look like the hardest man in the room because you've been drinkin' scotch all night"

Joe was a lawyer.

Joe was in the corps.

Joe was always quick to tell you a good story, or cut you down because he thinks you put on a little over the year.

Joe was also my great uncle.

and Joe knew how to make one hell of a martini or so he'd tell you.

he'd tell you he'd make a double when he'd get home from work and he'd get comfortable for the night.

and that's how I'd like to think how it happened last night.

he made a martini. maybe a double. and he sat in his favorite chair, one last time.

got comfortable in his favorite chair and closed his eyes and slipped away.

here's my fondest memory of Joe. during my divorce, I took the railroad home to my parents house. and Joe coincidentally took the same train home only I didn't know it until that night.

at that time.

and there he was in the front car with 4 or 5 of his coworkers, owning the conversation, these younger folks hanging on joe's every word as he gestured wildly his eyes wide open. he was positively electric.

and then the train pulled away in to night.

and I went home to sit in the basement.

i come from a large family.

we are fucking legion.

and I don't see any of them nearly often enough but when I did I loved seeing Joe and his wife Martha who was my favorite smoking buddy. but now family gatherings will be different out east. and it saddens me tonight.

funny thing though, the bastard was at a 40th birthday party last night and I was poured a glass of scotch on a pile of ice and thought of him briefly, hours before I got the call.

—the bastard

…on basement lighting

I was tagged in a post on the book of face this afternoon by my colleague from art school.

I don't talk about art school as much anymore because when I do, people looked bored.

people i talk to at parties like to hrar about magazines and deer meat and how great it is to barely art direct killing stuff monthly.

no one gives a good god damn about sfumato,

or about arabesque,

or pendentives.

nah. no one gives a shit about how this painting was very indicative of the fall of man.

no one wants to hear about basement lighting and about Caravaggio.

but Leo did.

Leo was a broken man. born in the wrong time. hated art majors who came to class and a used tule at will.

you see Leo failed as a painter in his youth.

because no one gave a shit about sfumato in a time when Warhol was painting soup cans.

so he didn't teach so much as he seethed at you,

you young fucker.

you don't know shit.

and I'm going to make you know about it.

but once, for a week during the semester, he changed his tone, to speak about Caravaggio.

and during this segment of the course,  this angry man lit up in a way I never saw an educator come to life about a subject in 16 years of being in the educational system.

it changed me forever.

because he loved Caravaggio so much.

Leo is dead now so, I never got to thank him for bringing some light into the basement of my soul.

I miss talking about art school.

—the bastard

…on the boundless optimism of time travel

last year, the bastard went to his high school reunion.

and my editor had told me that it's always better to go to your 20th reunion because it's much more interesting than the 10th.

"at the 10th", he said,

"everyone is at the top of their game. everyone's marriage is still new, their jobs still on the up and come, they haven't beaten their bodies up too much, haven't lost too much hair. yeah, you want to go to the 20th."

"the 20th is after the fall. they'll be more interesting when they are all broken up."

so I went and instead it ended up like an o'henry story which was a fuck ton more interesting to me anyway.

but the committee that organized last year's felt that we should do this mote often.

so I'm game.

and it's interesting what a clear sunny Saturday afternoon does to people that are connected by the thread of a school they couldn't give two craps about does.

or maybe we cared a little bit more than we thought we did.

a guy from the class of 1986 asked me what I got out of the old school and I could simply respond that it helped me learn what I didn't want to be in life.

but I also met one of the first women who went to my one time all male high school who told tales of being the only girl in gym shorts and my paramedic friend who exchanged nmotorcycle neck breaking stories with me who told him that it helped her play in the boy's sand box and she's still doing it today.

you see, she's a person of rank in the emts these days.

and I though that I would never be the person I am today if it wasn't for that dump.

any other school wouldn't have made the bastard you read today. just this place.

that building.

these people.

these streets.

and for good or bad, it's how I got here.

and I'd never change that for the world. straight jacket.

—the bastard

old man my ass

so, i read alot of stuff that warren ellis writes.

and i enjoy it alot.

i feel that one can read the word "shiteyes" overe and over and over again.

but i haven't read red yet (it's a pun get it? ahhhhhhh shaddup).

anyway, the bastard is so down for seeing this one.

quite like how all things jason statham makes bald guys feel ok about being bald,

this will make me feel ok about being old.

and and shit blows up in this film.

and i like this too.

—the bastard

...on boon

last night, the crew and I had dinner with the hair that conquered europe.

I owe him for all I know about wine.

and quickwittedness.

it's nice to go back in time and look at coins that were spent during the times of William the conquerer and Constantine and drink chateuneuf du pape.

makes a man feel classy. makes a bastard want to build a goddam wine cellar.

for the love of god montressor. for the love of god.

—the bastard

...on o henry

psst.

the bastard has to tell you a secret.

come closer.

ok.

by and large, the bastard wishes you well.

it's true. i mean, i'm gonna kick you when your down. really, i will.

but i wish you well.

so, here's how the story goes,

the bastard went to a high school reunion this weekend. yes, they had high schools back in the stone age too.


anyway, these are people i haven't seen in 20 plus years. and thanks to the virus that is facebook, i have gotten in touch with them. it's kind of refreshing in a fashion.

i went down there with my old friend high school. we've been friends since freshman year. she used to do my homework for me. and initially, this was going to be an entry about how after 20 years, these former classmates of mine, are just as full of life as they were when we were all young and awkward and that for a day among my peers, i didn't feel old.

and i don't.

but you don't get that story. the bastard has a new one. one that started when i left the party and logged onto facebook this morning.

one of my classmates from back in the day had shown up with his gear. he was gonna do the soundtrack.

nice and smooth.

"how's the sounds?, this is mah soundcheck music"

"it sounds pretty good. a little tinny in the highs"

"ah see that, lemme go fix"

this guy had 2 foot of dreadlocks. pleasant as the day is long. spuns tunes for 6 hours. never a dull sound.

high school had asked him where she would have known him from

"i was vocational", he replies (we went to a technical/vocational high school. aside from academia, the two groups never saw each other except in the hallways).

towards the end of the afternoon, i was making my goodbyes, thanking the organizers, and all of the trappings that comes with attempting to stay connected with people that i'm sorry i lost touch with.

and there's the deejay working his magic and i shake hands, thank him for some great sounds.

"so what you doin now?"

"me, i've been working in magazines. i'm the art director of killing stuff monthly"

"iz good to be in the arts. you know, sometimes, i need logos designed, do you have contact info?"

"umm yeah sure, you got a pen?"

"you know what, contact me through facebook, all my info is on there."

"sure thing, take care"

this morning, i'm waiting for the coffee. the bastard is always waiting for the coffee and the deejay accepted my friend request. and i get a gander of his pics from school.

flash back: there is this person i was dreading seeing. he hassled me all the time in school. bothered me to the point that some days, his name made it to the dinner table at night. this was the one peson i didn't want to see again.

flash forward: and there he is, the deejay as a boy, the guy who hassled me for four years. smiling at the prospect of a brighter future. and here i am with the knowledge that he didn't actually graduate. my mother worked at the school and had to close his file. he never finished. he had social problems. bit of a bully.

and now here he is in ethiopia, on haile selassie avenue.

at the university of trinindad and tobago.

at the foot of temples holy to those who follow the teachings of jah.

the bastard was floored. it reminded me of an o henry story called after 20 years. because this was after twenty years and this shit was a surprise ending for me too.

the bastard laughed.

and he felt sheepish.

because he forgot the basic tenent of the reunion. when you go to the 10 year reunion, it's not as interesting. people are at the top of their game.

top of the world.

nothing can stop you.

the 20 year reunion is more interesting. shit happens. it's when you find out how life altering circumstances can change a man.

make him something he wasn't before.

i know i'm someone i wasn't before.

i had 20 years to get that way.

and so did the deejay.

and i wish him well

—the bastard

phone check...

"ring ring"

"ring ring"

"hello?!?"

"phone check."

"whu?"

"hi i was just doing a phone check."

it never mattered if the conversation really continued and sometimes maybe it would have but, every time grandpa got a new phone, he would re enter the numbers into the phone and then proceed to call said family member to make sure he entered it correctly.

he was an interesting fella.

taught me how to row. taught my cousins how to steer a boat in open water. taught most of us how to life a big goddam dock into and out of the harbor.

more often than not, the bastard got out of doing this as the dock became a reality when i was an antisocial teenager and i hid out alot.

but today's father's day and he would have been 86 by now. and he'd still be soing phone checks.

the chairman called up stuck in traffic and we talked about it a bit.

maybe get a family event together for his 10th anniversary of not being on this earth.

the family doesn't get together that much anymore.

at least not without a fuck ton of effort.

but maybe if we do, we could all wear wide brimmed hats to the event.

the man sure did love the sea.

—the bastard

...on the right tools

"so at the gun writers seminar last week, there was a bunch of young guys there because they were introducing some new tactical guns," says the editor. (tactical guns is a euphemism for scary looking guns)

"oh?"

"and all of the old guys were sitting in the back listening in,"

"ok?"

"and while the gun guy was citing the uses of their new tactical line (ie varmints, deer hunting, ummmmm tactical things), the younger gun writers started high lighting their uses against zombies."

"really?"

"yeah, the old guys started grumbling in the back. they didn't fun it funny at all."

"that's hilarious. do you suppose the older gun writers were pissed?"

"about?"

"well you see the young guys now know how to kill them."

—the bastard

...on petty fiefdoms

so there's this woman that works in the office.

and the bastard uses this term loosely because all i see her do is walk around these days and tell the bastard where he can and can't eat his lunch.

it's like this. after we got sold to a bunch of swedish people, they turned us over to the fucking hayseeds that they bought first. mind you they run their branch of our fair business from the second floor of a strip mall which ALWAYS strikes the bastard as good business sense.

anyway, they decided right from the get to redesign the offices which has met with disdainful results, dare i say, morale sucking results. one of these results was the loss of our lunch area. also known as the killing stuff monthly africa wing. but we discovered these conference rooms to eat in. and when one was free, we'd eat in it.

it got to the point that the exec assistant was booking conference rooms for us to guarantee us a place to eat.

now let me interupt by reading your mind: yes i am aware that the bastard can just GO OUT to eat like regular folk. well it's like this young shiteyes, the bastard works with people who like to take an hour out of their day to bullshit with one another over food. this is what you call GOOD FOR MORALE. it helps foster good work relationships. so there it is.

but the old bat caught on to this and put a stop to us booking the room. she sighted very logical reasons and we all collectively didn't disagree and we ceased booking for lunch. and when the room looks empty, we sit down and eat lunch.


well today we looked in, and no one was there. so we sat down and ate lunch. upon finishing, this ancient creature darkens my door and proceeds to give me grief about it. says that

"someone was training a new employee in there."

"you didn't look to see if the room was booked."

"so you people cant eat in any conference rooms, anymore."

and then she left. you know come to think of it, i could have sworn the room we ate lunch in was absolutely TEEMING with activity when we all collectively sat down and proceeded to eat. funny thing was, the bastard spoke with the people who had the room booked (because i can't seem to let sleeping dogs lie). they were done for the day. and then it hit me. i must have done something to piss the old crone off. oh well, i guess tomorrow, we'll have a picnic in our area.

people are petty, and i'm not excluding myself from that phrase. because the bastard is petty. very fucking petty.

—the bastard

...on linguistics

so, like, the bastard engages in another run to the southwest today?

this like, gets more and more and more interesting for me?

so, like, theres these kids?

and they are making me so very thankful?

that i have an ipod?

however?

like?

i can't like stop finishing, like all my like sentences like in a question?

my ladyfriend keeps making fun of the fact that i sometimes truncate the phrase "isn't it" by saying "innit". she tell me that i shouldn't speak around the boy like that. he might pick up some bad habits. i think she has a point.

like...um...thank god? for like, my ipod? and stuff?

mother of twelve bastards, i'm gonna get me a drink

—the bastard

the devil went down to...jersey? pt3

so upon arriving, and we did arrive arrive with time to spare for the main event. however, we did manage to miss the opener , which was okay. you've seen one whiney gothic looking emo band, you've seen them all. no muss, no fuss. but then the main event hit. and boy did it hit.

at this point, the bastard had texted to scoop and the chairman that he had died and gone to mook heaven. the chairman asks how many mullets. i fail to take the mullet toll. sometimes, it's just too much to take in.

now, it's been a long, long time since the bastard has been to an arena show. and i must admit, i AM a music snob. the last show i went to was to see mastadon. the last show before that was to see the gorillaz. i've seen scraping foetus off the wheel, i've seen sick of it all close the superbowl of hardcore. i've seen stuff that was considered "better" than this band by alot of my circle of friends. but after seeing this band, i have to say they are the fucking kings of parking lot jock rock. which is NOT to be confused with cock rock. on my way to the bathroom, i text to the hockey fan that i see a boy with a sgt pepper jacket dancing around with fingerless gloves and old women dancing around like strippers in the aisles. the fan texts back that it sounded like an average night at the bastard's house.

granted, arena rock is alot to take in. but, i've never seen so many people older than me, so drunk unless it was a wedding. and so many mooktastic mooks. guys with buzzcuts, glazed over with the kind of drunk that only exists in parking lots of concert arenas, with their drunken wives who are wearing so much makeup that you need to apply it with a putty knife and take it off with a chisel, they stride obliviously throught the arena spilling their miller lite on them selves and spilling others on themselves as they struggle to not have the courtesy to make eye contact or even to watch where the hell they were going. but, it's to be expected. after all was said and done, all things considered, the bastard had a good time. it was a good show. bands that stay together for this long can only get better with time. and it's also a time and place for thousands of mooks and rock and roll sluts to re-live their salad days of rocking with their cocks out.

i've seen a million faces...and i've mocked them all. sure that's cheesy but, you can go to hell. this is my world. life without me is like cornflakes without the milk. yeah and i fart ambrosia too.

—the bastard

...on airing out

wake up.

groggy.

nose stuffed up.

it's been a bad allergy day.

is that my knee popping?

yeah. it sure is. i get off the train and wade through the swarm on periphery alone. i can't see so good when i wake up. one night i waltzed out of bed to use the can and on the way back i had started to fall asleep and i hit the doorjam to the boy's room with a loud thud. i might have woken the boy up.

wait.

that was before the boy. either way it hurt. but i digress. i woke up, i mean when i really woke up this evening, i had a cup of coffee in my hand and i was walking out of the store and as the door swung open, that really good part of the who's a quick one while he's away is in my ears. you know the part with the bee's in bill murray's room in rushmore. everything slows down for me when i hear that part. it's one of the bastard's more favorite who songs.

but that wasn't in my head. i was thinking about the dearth of bobs in my life these days. over the weekend, the nice lady informed me that bobby had died. but, i'll get to that.

bob was my father in law. he's been gone a couple years and i never eulogized him because, well, i don't know. i was dealing with alot of other shit at the time. but bob was a good man. every now and again, and i don't confess this to anyone i roll with at all that when i roll out of a bar downtown, i half expect to see him leaning against a utility pole like the first time i saw old bob (he'd fucking kill me if i ever used the word old anything with him) asking me if i see anything i like. he was the first actual adult i ever grubbed a cigarette off of. he was the first person i ever felt comfortable discussing politics with. he was the first person i ever felt cursing at the dinner table around (and my family must love me for that) and i miss that. he loved life and he never even let death see him scared as he stood out there on northern blvd dying of lung cancer, smoking with me at his niece's sweet 16 party knowing it might be his last but, who the fuck cared. coincidentally, he always fell asleep on furniture and since he was asleep the last time i saw him, i didn't feel right waking him up.

bobby on the other hand was a big drinker, and a big liar. and while he was a likable guy, he also wasn't. he left a trail of bodies in his wake in the form of ex's and kids (not that many kids to be completely fair). bobby smoked like a chimney, like berber carpet and loved cars. whenever he fell in love with someone new, he would get a far away look in his eye and speak as poetically as an high school educated auto mechanic with marbles in his mouth could. sometimes, i thought he was the kind of relative that people in his family loved but, didn't really like. but i liked him. hell, i'm sure some people liked him some of the time and some people liked him all of the time but he made it hard on himself. the drink puts a strain on your family and breaks you body slowly. and it broke him. he had been in and out of the hospital for a while since my divorce and i hadn't seen him in a bit. but i found myself thinking about him on the way home tonight. i think about how he set me up with my first decent cup of espresso. i think about his ugly ass house in staten island that he always opened up to me and what a decent guy he was when he was sober. i wonder if he's out of pain now.

in the front door, sme crappy liz phair song that i like is on and i'm sorting the mail and trying to finish up my day and i don't want this anymore. i go into the liquor cabinet. well actually it's also where i keep my cereal. and my napkins. and probably some rats too. who knows? but i find hte whiskey and a brand new shot glass that old school brought me from st louis and i pour once.

to bob.

i pour twice

to bobby.

good night bobs, i don't have anymore of you in my life and i won't be getting that back and i'm a little less for it.

—the bastard