...on the voices in your head on the van wyck expressway

the boy: i think it would be pretty cool to have a split personality

the bastard: no you don't.

the boy: i do. i think it would be cool

the bastard: son, you don't want multiple personality disorder

the boy: why not?

the bastard: look, i know that you think multiple personality is , you're a mild mannered accountant by day and in a stressful situation, a switch goes off in your head and you become a super powered being with black ops super powers...

the boy: yes. that would be cool...

the bastard: i know but my understanding, multiple personality disorder (and i could be wrong) is less like that and more like the boy is having an argument in his head

the boy: oh?

the bastard: yes, and boy#1 is convinced that there are cobras in the sink. boy#2 thinks boy#1 is wrong and he makes the case that there aren't cobras in the sink but, there are spiders in the sink. and boy#3 thinks that boy#1 and boy#2 are full of crap and that the president of the reverse vampires have snuck nano machines into the water supply

the boy: oh, that's not cool

the bastard: right, and all the while boy#4 is in fact in control of the boy and is trying to shove real cobras and real spiders down his kitchen sink at a dinner party with 20 of his closest friends.

the boy: hrm. but it would be cool to have black ops super powers though

—the bastard

semantics…

the other night the bastard spent debating an evening drinking overpriced whiskey…

arguing gun rights and Wayne lapierre's height with old co workers.

this was from further back in the day.

my old editor has since moved on to the times and other writer/ editors have moved to other things

and aside from a rewarding conversation I had with the first person I ran film for whom I gave my 30,000 foot up assessment of what black enterprise magazine needs to do to be competitive in the modern age…

it was a rewarding conversation…

everytime the half day would interrupt, excusing himself for interrupting to tow the flyers party line on guns…

I felt a great sense of a return to the joust that made me pay attention to discussing politics…

and it was still rewarding…

and I felt lucky…

that Out of most of the art people I knew…

I was still in the game…

for while the men of words can always find work…

the look and feel folk find themselves working at a cardiologists office because they gave up the ghost…

or worse…

they had to

so i feel lucky that I was still in it, even though one day I may not be.

—the bastard

all his engines…

the bastard likes himself some comic books.

that said, neither of my kids are going to get to read them until they hit eighteen.

my taste in panels has moved on from costumed jackaninnies who fight crime…

not that I DON'T read them…

but my preference has been from vertigo for the most part with a few volumes of hellboy from dark horse Comice which I'll let the boy read if he's ready for horror and having nightmares about sleeping gods and shoggoths. and that just means too much sex and violence you young folks.

but speaking of shoggoths, vertigo recently absorbed my favorite character john constantine, back into its parent company's main imprint with dc's new 52.

with this they ended the long running series I loved to read about my favorite supernatural con man.

it was kind of sad because unlike many comic book characters, they let home age and they closed out the series with Constantine hiding out from the fates in a pub in Liverpool at the age of 60.

it was more shocking because since I don't follow the business, I had no idea they ended the series until the last page.

it was kind of sad as I've sort of grown old with the man.

but I can safely say after 300 issues, they definitely need to produce a tv series about the trenchcoat wearing magus from Liverpool who sold his soul to three different devils in order to cure himself of lung cancer.

innit?

—the bastard

the bastard was thinking about the rock early this morning…

think about the kids who have nothing while you're drinking down your wine

—the bastard

…on brotherhood

"Thrilla, who's that baldy talking to father Kurt?"

"That's Craig from sick of it all and agnostic front"

"I only recognize that guy who played gits. The blocky guy who played the five string guitar"

"Oh he was here the afternoon".

Big names came out…

Small names came out…

Nameless jackasses like myself came out…

For two days…

Jim has packed the room…

To see his closed casket…

And for folks from the scene to pay respect…

And tell stories about the time they and jim did…

The word that folks threw around a lot these last two days was…

"Brother"

How you doing brother?

How you holding up brother?

Jim was like a brother to me

It's terrible that our brother was taken so soon?

That's how it is.

Folks don't come out to a wake on the most easternest part of queens to make appearances…

We came to honor our brother…

And we came to honor the wife and child he left behind…

And his family…

And to weep over the hole that jim has left in our lives.

Sleep well…

We hope that you're organizing a benefit for us on the other side.

—the bastard

a time for everything…

father Kurt from the six posted a piece he wrote as a liner note piece for the showerheads greatest hits package umpity ump years ago.

it reminded the bastard of the Ramones show that happened at the church…

yeah the fhillz finest played at my church…

he followed up later about flying in for the funeral tomorrow.

I uses to see father Kurt at shows…

now I'll see him at memorials…

a time for everything by tull comes on the iPhone…

again my playlist mocks me…

the bastard cracks a smile…

life is funny…

death is funnier…

best give her a smile.

—the bastard

living is a young man's game…

When the bastard was young…

He used to pack on over to our lady of Lourdes on a Friday night…

Maybe sneak a couple beers out of someone's fridge or just go up to efroni's and buy underage…

And go see the battle of the bands.

The bastard played there a time or three but, that's a different story.

I wanna talk about jim.

Jim sang for a band called Norman bates and the showerheads and they headlined one night along with the six and violence and ultra violet confusion…

I don't remember much of that show from the showerheads but, they were loud, they rocked, and their big songs were a tore up version of if I could save time in a bottle and their closer, "Marlboro man" which I think involved cigarettes being thrown out into the audience which was rather provocative for a show in a church basement.

I also saw them open for the ramones in the church gym.

Flash forward: I'm at one of no redeeming's backyard bbqs and I hadn't been back to the scene for a bit and jim was there and we were reintroduced.

Jim pointed a skinny finger at me and said, "you used to deliver papers to me", and I did.

"89-22 220th street", I replied. We laughed and hada few beers.

I met his wife…

I drank with a satanist later that evening…

I smoked a lot of cigarettes…

The nice lady may have driven home that night…

Might have been better that way.

No redeeming would have a BBQ pretty much once or twice a summer and we'd chat in passing and he has always great to talk to.

You see, jim never left the thorough borough…

He was part of the scene here…

An elder statesman…

An idol…

An artist…

A frontman…

And when I last saw him, he was a giver

Flash forwarder: the last time I saw jim, I went to a benefit at the trash bar, one year ago tomorrow. His old bass player, J garrino had past away and a scholarship was set up in his honor.

Jim was the first guy I saw at the show.

He gave me a big hug…

thanked me for coming down…

Then promptly ushered me to hit the stage to catch the last two songs for no redeeming's set.

That night the showerheads, who had organized the event, only played two or three songs because of the full bill but, jim filled in for another past member of the six and violence for their set…

And at the time, it reminded me how much the six is a little less without paulie singing for them but, to have jim in was apprapo. J was their bass player too and it was a good send off.

Now: I sit in a basement in the old homestead banging this out and i realize that all of the old things in my life are going away and they won't be coming back and until old age takes these moments from me, I get to keep them.

I was on a camping trip last fall to k-love's bachelor party and Jim's guitarist was in tow. After a bottle of scotch, he declared the rock and roll lifestyle, a young mans game.

Perhaps he's right. Perhaps it is a young mans game and dying gets to be an old man's game.

You see, last night jim had lost his bout with lung cancer.

And a guy who touched many lives with his music and his art is gone and we're a little less for it.

But we're also a little more for knowing him.

He will be missed.

—the bastard

life in these long island cities...

so this happened tonight...

and as a result this is what the front of my building looks like...

if you look real hard to the right and over, and squint, you'll see my car under 5 feet of water.

but i'm actually out west visiting the boy and we ironically came across this sign

it's kind of sad now. i have a waterlogged car...

possibly 10 pounds of spoiled elk in my freezer...

but i have my family and my health don't i?

—the bastard

frank...

If I should fall from grace with god 

Where no doctor can relieve me 

If I'm buried 'neath the sod 

But the angels won't receive me 

Let me go, boys 

Let me go, boys 

Let me go down in the mud 

Where the rivers all run dry 

—Pogues

the freight train's been rolling all damn day...

chugga frikkin choo...

the boss is out with child...

and we have a lot going on...

so it's chugga frikkin choo...

but even when the train keeps a rolling...

the bastard will glance at the book of face and the train had to stop for this.

when the bastard was a little shaver...

back in small times...

frank was the first look i ever had into the qv's street life.

my old friend, the pensioner and i had words with the squint, who's story may be told another time perhaps...

and it came to a head over by our lady of lourdes.

the pensioner was stepped to by frank and they mixed it up. bats an the squint waited for me to get in but it was over as quick as it started and nothing was decided that night.

flash forward...

it's 1990something and frank and i are having a beer in alley pond park with the neighborhood massive.

events of the past had become long past and we all drank as a hood thanks to matty aces.

"love the one your with" by the doobie brothers blasts out of the speakers and frank dances on a picnic table with a cold busweiser in his hand.

the police roll in...

pounding what seemed like 50 miles an hour across the park, the cruiser bounced all the way across the uneven grass.

flood lights on, the cop gets on his p.a.

"i don't care if you all get drunk, smoke pot, drop acid and get naked, clean up yah mess"

lights went down, cops drove away, frank kept on dancing

in the winter of 2006...

which may be the last time i saw frank i was at a show at fuzzys bar on braddock and he asked how i was doing.

always had a wry grin on his face...

even when he fought the pensioner...

i told him about the divorce and i don't recall what he said to me, drink will do that to a man over time.

but i'm sure it was encouraging.

you see, because frank was like that. the bastard had come to know him as a nice guy.

he went in and out of rehab once.

short sheeted his roommates bed while he was in there.

who the hell does that in rehab?

now...

i sit at my desk, still reeling from my son going home at the end of his summer so that the annual hole in my life opens up and i bury myself in work and i read that frank lost his bout with cancer.

and i'm just floored.

and numb.

i knew his prospects didn't look good when i heard last year.

but not today. i wasn't ready for more heaviness in my chest.

so i deal the way i know how.

by telling you jerks about it.

so it's like this.

frank dunworth was a guy who was supposed to kick my ass one night in 1985 and it didn't work out that day.

he became someone from the hood who i was always glad to see when i saw him.

and while i was never a good friend, i'm sad that he's gone because, i'll never accidentally run into him again.

and that's a shame.

i hope he went out grinning.

—the bastard

fell...

let the bastard take you to the place where scott fell.

my mother thought it would be a good idea to go there last week.

take the whole family

it'll be "fun"

and there we were at the place where scott fell over 10 years ago.

over 100 stories he fell on a cool sunny day into a pile of rubble where two pools sit now for each tower that is no longer there.

overlooked by the shadow of the future of this area.

just recently, it was deemed taller than the empire state building again.

i almost didn't want to find scott.

but i also needed to.

you see, there's this film i saw once called a foreign field and it was about a bunch of veterans returning to normandy for the 50th anniversary of d-day and most were the veterans and their annoying suburban families and this lone woman played by laurean bacall.

everyone likes her.

she's insightful. she's mysterious. her brother served in the war and she wanted to pay homage.

only in the end, she went to a small cemetary set aside for the deceased german soldiers and a gut punch was had by all.

because the german died that day too.

but i digress.

i wandered around the sight.

sort of disgusted by the tourists, and the harajuku girls taking kawaii photos of themselves in front of the pools that were there for you to reflect on the dead.

i looked for some jackass wearing a "i went to ground zero and all i got was this lousy t-shirt"

as i always suspected, erecting a memorial would dilute the meaning of the events. perhaps the big smoking hole would have served as a better reminder to these people.

but no. it has to be pretty.

washed away.

clean.

i wondered chatting with the boy, and my wife, and my mom, and my daughter.

...and then i got punched in the gut.

you see, it wasn't really that hard to find. even when you think you aren't looking for something. 

and there he was. 

where the north tower used to be. 

scott has a nice spot.

in the shade.

under a tree. 

under a tower.

where scott fell.

and we all wept.

and a good time was had by all.

—the bastard

the last time

hey…

remember that time that we saw the beastie boys at Randall's island?

rancid had just finished their set on the other stage and there was a massive push from the left…

and we were almost crushed…

and I held on to your hand for dear life as we lifted our feet up and were carried 30 yards to the side and miraculously didn't die?

do you remember?

I do.

it was the first time I ever levitated…

and it was the last concert I went to as a young man…

and you were there.

now the bastard doesn't go around talking about the time when something inside of him died.

well maybe he does…

but it was the last time I got in the shit and it was the last time I felt like a kid at a show.

I was part of a big show and so I felt like I was a part of something big.

and on the bus ride from Randall's island back to civilization, I didn't really think about these things.

but age gives old men the benefit of thinking on shit that happened in the past do I can say this.…

that day was made possible because Adam Yauch gave a shit about Tibet. and because of him I was there that day more or less.

and I'm glad that I have that memory. and I'm sorry that I'll never get the chance to see them play again.

— the bastard

you know…

The bastard really does want to write more.

and more often

he just got waylaid by what his tee vee stories has done to him.

there are some days that a diversion becomes something one gets invested in.

but since Shane meadows won't be releasing this is England '90 until later this year…

I have some time to not get crippled by his sad, bittersweet, inspirational, bleak mix of greatness and I can concentrate on other things.

like when the hell my boots are getting shipped here. I have holes in my frikkin docs and it's time for a new pair.

—the bastard

this is…

the bastard has been watching "this is England" of late

and perhaps it's the exhaustion…

perhaps it's the whiskey…

perhaps it's because alot of it hits close to home in a roundabout way…

perhaps it's because one of the main characters reminds me of the boy…

perhaps it's because one of the main characters reminds me of me…

but it's tearing me up inside…

I need a rest

—the bastard

finnegan's wake

on Sunday, the family of the house of usher celebrated a life.

showed some movies the bastard had never seen.

translated these events to the wife as she doesn't know the massive as much as some do.

took the piss as well.

nemo was a storied guy.

and the best way to celebrate a life is to tell the stories.

especially the ones never told.

the babby got to play with her family.

which she doesn't do as often as the bastard likes.

and I came to conclusions.

ASIDE: the chairman and the prince of darkness adjourn to the inner sanctum to chat. what about? none of my business. I just took care to keep the babby out of their space. grown ups need they time.

the bastard takes his at night. he takes it with the voices.

they do this as the prince has always taken an interest in the welfare of the chairman. I've always been glad for this.

you see. it's because the bastard didn't have mentors growing up. he had adults telling him shit.

not listening to shit.

not shepherding him through his career. I woulda been a damn insurance salesman if not for sheer force of will and a damn good skill set.

nah.

the bastard instead has contemporaries or perhaps professional betters. benevolent souls who have offered the benefit of their knowledge and experience and during the hard times, a drink, a kind word, and for some, a carry over the worst.

and for that I'm grateful.

this is what I learned at finnegan's wake.

—the bastard

the pipes...the pipes are calling

"Lo there do I see my father. Lo there do I see my mother and my sisters and my brothers. Lo there do I see the line of my people, back to the beginning. Lo, they do call to me, they bid me take my place among them, in the Halls of Valhalla, where the brave may live...forever."

nemo was a painter.

nemo drank diet cherry pepsi because he was diabetic.

my mom says i look like him.

nemo was the second born.

so am i.

nemo is the first of the magnificent seven to leave the fold.

he left this morning, in a hospice in cape coral.

my dad tells me he didn't go there quietly and i'm glad in a way. 

i'd prefer to run before i go down if i can.

most of all though, his name was danny and he was my uncle.

rest well.

—the bastard

down with the ship

so the bastard has this uncle...

and he's not doing so well.

well, he's dying really.

and now the mind reels

when captain nemo used to live in shirley which may as well been in florida anyways,

sitting on his barstools as a kid.

him sneaking us point fives which wasn't my first taste of beer but it was more sanctioned than sneaking a sip of dad's bottle of schmidts on a friday night.

nemo sneaking the mofo onto grandpa's boat knowing full well that the dinghy was overloaded past capacity.

nemo spinning tales of sticking his fingers in the mash to piss off my aunt.

nemo sharing the attic with dad because they were 7 under one roof.

the magnificent seven as mom refers to them.

here's a tale. 

dad and nemo are sleeping in the attic on the hottest night of the year and all they have is a fan.


the fan blows between their beds to keep both slightly less than sweltering. and doing it badly.


dad falls asleep.


wakes up in the middle of the night in a pool of sweat  to find the fan had been turned away from him.


begrudged, dad decides to sleep out on the porch instead.

upon the retelling of this tale, nemo lets out a throaty laugh that sounded like an old prospector.

but louder.

so loud.

so infectious.

captain nemo laughs like a man who loves living and now that he's dying the bastard can't help thinking that he'd give anything to be able to dish more dirt.

tell more stories.

make us all laugh about how well he fucked with his siblings.

and how much...

despite it all...

they'd love love to hear him tell it right now and laugh about it along with him.

—the bastard

to see a man about a horse…

the bastard is sad tonight.

and it's not because he lives in a van down by the river.

you see, it's about the past.

it's about my past.

the wife had asked me to make a run to the garage in the fhillz to pick up some stuff and to get some stuff for the house.

and when I turned down the wrong block I saw it was gone.

the stable.

the stable where I learned to ride horses.

the stable where I learned about community.

the stable where I learned to jump.

learned to respect creatures greater than myself.

where I broke my nose into 11 pieces.

where I met my people.

where I rode on tuesday nights in the summer coming back in the dark only by the good grace of an animal who knew the way.

then we drank into the night and swapped stories.

talked the craik.

learned about the land on my forebears.

learned to let people's shortcomings go by the wayside.

and most importantly, learned that I felt the most free when the wind was blowing in my face.

and alot of other things that I could never possibly remember because this is what time does to a man.

it robs you of your past.

now all that's there is a fucking sidewalk and some scaffolding.

and all I have is a broken nose to remind me that the barn was there.

thanks for the wind. thanks oh so very much.

the bastard never took it for granted for it was the greatest gift I ever received.

—the bastard

there's something to be said for an art school education

so I've been spending way too much time in ikea of late.

why?

because the bastard is not the sort of man who buys his furniture from raymore and flanigans.

so shut up.

ikea is a far cry from hand me downs and cardboard boxes.

and bedsides, the boy is coming in for the summer.

I need my home to look proper so he doesn't ask questions like, "hey dad, why the hell do you have such crap furniture in such a swanky apartment?"

actually hell and swanky are a far cry from the boy's vocabulary.

and he's a great kid. he'd just ask if we could go to 7-11 and then when I have to break the bad news to him that there isn't one in long island city, he'll just beat me with a crowbar.

anyways, while I was there, I almost careened my daughters carriage (yeah I push the carriage…wanna fight about it?) into this little blond kid who was doing circles around a support beam.

and then I saw his dad.

and his dad shared a studio with me in college.

his dad used to be my business partner.

his dad was the best man at my first wedding.

and his dad was there at ground zero of the start of my career which almost never happened.

we had some awkward small talk. I met his kids. his wife politely smiled and we went our separate ways.

and I was bummed.

I miss being able to throw a few drinks back and discuss Modigliani with people.

my art school education is languishing these days.

and I wouldn't mind being able to talk shit about it again one day.

maybe not in ikea. maybe in some crap bar that exists in the back of my mind from 15 years ago.

hrm. the other guy I split the studio with lives in Howard beach. I should go find his ass and chat about the finer points of how we ended up where we ended up.

but then again, you can't go back in time, can you?

—the bastard

this weak in anime

well i have NO IDEA who else would.

the bastard just got finished watching 50 episodes of depressing dirge fest tegami bachi letter bee and i initially liked it except for it's

depressing

full of unresolved story lines

and the protagonist cries his ASS off in every episode.

i mean seriously, the bastard likes sad but this kid cried so often in fifty episodes that i had become desensitized to the depressing story line of a world that exists with no daylight save for an artificial sun that subsist on the souls of the living.

so if you'd like to get depressed, have a watch

—the bastard