sailors fighting in the dancehall...

let the bastard start off like this...

the life aquatic is one of my favorite films...

it has one of the single best cigarette smoking sequences ever filmed...

wes anderson has a gift for making me want to smoke cigarettes...

what can i say?

but the bastard was at an art exhibition at the park avenue armory and he's come to a conclusion.

white people need to stop rocking the team zissou red wool hat.

just cut it out.

it's no longer hip or ironic and i'm going to punch you in the neck.

that is all

—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

…on glaciers

the bastard pecks away at it but my debt gies up.

been diligent about it but today is the day that I need to get my car tuned up

and that shit costs.

frikkin yay!

—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

i ran across town for this?

so as a last act of kindness/convenience, the bastard asked his brother to leave the car in queens village before leaving for the desert and all points west of this place.

however, I really haven't been on the long island railroad since 2006.

so I forgot what a goddam chore this could be.

you have to be there at a certain time to get yer ride.

wade through an ocean of assholes.

buy a ticket.

wade through an ocean of assholes

get on a crowded train full of assholes.

did I mention having to wade through them as well just so I can have my three foot radius of space to type about how much they are assholes?

all this so I can save time while cramming in a client meeting AND grocery shopping.

good times.

no

great times.

—the bastard

…alley oops

now

the only thing that qualifies as alternate transportation to the bastard has two wheels only.

and an adult sized scooter is all I'm getting in the here and now.

anyway, the boy and I are heading across town when we see the ghost of Phil hartman walking opposite us.

he gets ready to toss a can into the garbage.

phil shoots

phil misses

phil keeps walking.

"nice"

"what?!?"

"nice"

"I'm not littering I meant to leave it there for some homeless guy to find"

"if that's what you wanna go with…slob"

"it's true. I meant to leave it there"

"if you say so Larry bird"

—the bastard

this is...again

this is my ride home.

this is a crowded bqe that gas me driving local.

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

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

this is one of THOSE bus rides.

this is a bastard sore but from getting something done.

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

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

—the bastard

...on this

this is my unconventional life.

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

this is my place holder.

this is my ride to the car.

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

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

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

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

and an egg sammich.

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

this is.

it sure is.

—the bastard

...on cracked foundations

... i was blotto, i was bombed out, i was blacked out, i was cracked out, i was caved in.

at some point, the bastard had enough.

climbed up on his desk while "maybe the last time" by james brown blared through the speakers,

and for a brief moment he thought, " this must be killing the science monkeys inside"

upon that he thought, "fuck em".

"maybe the laaaaaaaaaaast time".

the bastard is standing on top of shit swinging from the rafters, beyond caring and beyond his fear that it'll never get done on time.

all i know is i'm here in the box, spending my little boy's birthday once again working for the firearms industry and knowing that until this shit goes away, i can't shut down.

can't stop.

can't drink enough coffee.

can't enjoy the holidays.

don't get me wrong,

you see that i'll smile and laugh and maybe for a second feel something i'm supposed to feel at this time of year but, i really don't anymore. christmas won't come for the bastard until sometime around march when i see that kid's smiling face 2500 miles from this perfect storm the bastard calls a career.

i am a goddam machine. and i hate every goddam minute of it.

-the bastard

...on rats and fat cats

...and lots of shouting


now the bastard tries to be about fair play.

but there has been these picketers protesting across the street all day.

and it's starting to fuck with my flow.

you see, the bastard is wearing many hats now and none of them are made of cheese.

so i'm not down with the rat these thugs have been dancing around for the last 8 hours.

ok truth to tell the bastard isn't too sympathetic in general let alone a bunch of people who have more job security than most of my friends have seen in the last two weeks.

hell, i had a few things to say during the last transit strike we had and i have to say that not having job security doesn't give you much sympathy altogether.

so shut up thugs, the bastard has work to do. thank you.

—the bastard

the bastard will tell you this...

i have come to a foregone conclusion,

that even if we were running this magazine from the aleutian islands,

from january until march,

the bastard would still be totally sweaty when he gets to work.

i don't know what the hell it is with my internal barometer. it's like 38 degrees outside and my bosy thinks that it's august.

and here we are again.

looking for a dry shirt on the day of the most important meeting meeting of my career at the moment.

dammit!.

—the bastard

one...

last time.

—the bastard

two...

it is time,

for stormy weather.

—the bastard

three...

it's purple today

bastard dying at his desk

cold wind makes me glad

—the bastard

...on the malaise

more than 50 percent of the december issue is out.

i feel like hell as well.

it's also hard because i'm not exactly shipping with my trusted partner in crime as he's been laid off.

this doesn't sit well.

the bastard has also gotten to bed no earlier than 12:30 every night this week.

so between the lunch coma and overall sadness.

and the malaise-o-nayse i had on my sandwich.

well, you get the picture.

—the bastard

four...

feeling trucked.

shipping the book.

too tired for bike.

things got better

—the bastard

five...

weekend was productive.

went to a birthday party and i threatened to stab someone in the neck

it's terrible what gin does for a bastard.

things are not pleasant here today.

maybe tomorrow. maybe not.

—the bastard

glacier

the bastard gets to work.

then has a meeting.

then tries to do some work.

then has a meeting.

move forward 2 feet.

go back 6 feet.

stay tired all the time.

life sucks.

get a helmet.

—the bastard

what fresh hell... pt1

the bastard has come to the conclusion that his gps has it in for him.

the boy's house is at the very bottom of three years worth of construction on i10 in Tucson but the gps takes me east of that onramp only to have the bastard experience rush hour traffic on a whole new level. you haven't lived until your hay fever is stuck alongside a hay truck.

salt lake next. yay?!?!

-the bastard

...on hats

... and the grate outdoorz

so here the bastard sits at his desk.

waiting to finish his crap to do.

i wear many hats.

the mag hat.

the spam hat.

the other mag hat i keep on the side for other print projects.

but let's focus on the first hat. the mag hat. it is a many hatted hydra that has the bastard playing art director, photo editor, and production manager. not to mention, the part where i also wear this hat to be an industry professional both in the magazine and the firearms industry. this is the hat that makes me feel like i move forward 3 feet and move back 1.

learned the new system of shipping color. it's great actually but, i had so much to do when i got done learning it. and i'm just starting to wind it up now. and i'm so tired. which brings me to my next point.


i'm going camping this weekend.

i've already been through several rounds of mail with the mofo and dean thrilla and k love and zsolte about it and we already know that it's gonna piss out this weekend.

i don't care.

im going.

i HAVE to go. i NEED to go. i need to get the dirt (read: MUD) under my feet regardless of how shitty it's going to be out. i need to break with society for a couple days and i'll be fine. regardless on what falls on top of the bastard. i sometimes get a signal out there in the sticks so if anything noteworthy happens, i'm going to put it on the bastard feed and perhaps opine on it later. but if i die out there, then you get nothin'. straight up nothin'.

—the bastard