...on crashing

it's late

it's dark.

go to sleep sam sheep.

addled, the bastard can here waves crashing in the distance.

but he knows that it's merely a toy in his daughter's room that duplicates the sound of the ocean.

this doesn't do a thing for removing the lyrics from my head that say,

"we are rulers of the ocean."

"kings of seven seas"

my eyes are heavy now. the benedryl is working.

"we are rulers of the ocean."

"kings of seven seas"

—the bastard

wayside

the bastard was up late last night.

later that he really wanted to.

you see, the job,

no,

the beast we have all come to know and love as facebook had me up way past my bedtime.

surprise, surprise.

anyway, the bastard was talking to the ghosts of christmas past and what could have been a long long time ago and she told me she wasn't happy with how it all turned out.

the house.

the hubby.

the kids.

why does it seem that something is missing?

I asked her, "do you have any regrets?"

didn't travel more.

didn't have a rewarding career. but then I couldn't have the family i have if I had that

"it's a catch 22."

she knew it was. but that's just it. life is a catch 22.

damned if you do,

damned if you don't.

as I fell away to sleep at 2am, after the clanging of my 500 year old radiator subsided, the bastard thought that he may have understood how it all fell apart for him the last time.

clang. clang clang. hssssssssssssssssss

-the bastard

that's brisk baby

went out for a late night ride before.

well not that late, it's only 10 to midnite.

but i went out nonetheless to wind around the part in the dark.

it helps the bastard think. mostly because zipping down the pavement makes it necessary to pay attention to the world around you.

the smell of gasoline doesn't hurt either.

and it's cold out too.

that helps actually.

makes me feel alive.

it's probably the most rewarding thing in my life right now that isn't a person.

—the bastard

wind 1, bastard 0

the bastard spent the bulk of this weekend, working on the whole "nesting" thing.

yeah. nesting.

it's like this, i've gotten engaged to my ladyfriend and we're slowly working towards moving into her place. so we've been spending our weekends making an alcove studio apartment in manhattan roomy enough for the two of us. space has always been an issue for the bastard.

so it's been runs to ikea and putting stuff together and remembering to bring the means to put this crap together over. by the by jon, i still have your ryobi drill. it's fucking handy. let em know when you need it back.

this week has been an extensive week in the office, so i haven't been able to ride the bike all week. and tonight was the night.

decided to run a few errands.

ran out of gas.

popped the reserve and got some more and headed east.

and the wind toosed the bastard all oever the highway like a rag doll.

it was good times.

i feel like hell now. lots to do. lots changing.

—the bastard

walking after midnite...

...or gauntlet of assholes


so after a tasty margarita or two and some tasty mexican food, i had to run out to the drugstore rather late as one of us had an upset stomach. on my way past my ladyfriend's doorman, i ask where a 24 hour drugstore was and he pointed me in the direction of park and 23rd.

it's late and some asshole is yelling happy cinco de mayo (on may 3rd) to passers bay.

as the bastard walks underneath his window he yelss, "hey. hey mister clean, happy cinco de mayo"

now figuring from a quick assessment of my periphery that i am th eonly bald man on 23rd at the tim i asume it's me, without fliching, i ratchet my middle finger skyward.

drunk asshole screams back, "i love you man"

i love you too stupid. i hope you fall out the window too.

—the bastard

...on keeping your chin up

...and knowing when to make the call

the bastard has been chatting with his coworkers

not his immediate coworkers

his immediate coworkers.

i talk to them all the time.

i talk with pcat and the singing editor about heroes.

hell i talk to left hand rob all the time. in fact he helped me check myself and diffuse shit but, i'll talk about that some other time.

but i've been talking to another art director in the building. we'll call him "stuff". because the first stories i've heard about him was from ms. cin. she told second hand tales of his former life at another magazine that i won't go into. they're someone else's stories, not mine.

anyway, stuff and i started talking one day when his newborn kept him up all night with a stuffed up nose and gas. and i told him i sympathized, thinking about the night that the boy was up past 2 with a stuffed up nose and the ony thing that put him back to sleep was coast to coast with art bell. stuff confided later that he initially thought to stay away from the bald guys of the outdoors. we all looked dangerous. and i am. anyway, stuff and i talked art. we talked the business. it was good. i came away with some ideas that will continue to make selling bullets seven times a year look good. more contemporary but, it was nice to talk to another parent as i never really do anymore. it seems the only parents in the building are on the bastard's old stomping ground on the 10th floor and they just make me want to smash.

anyway flash forward to tonight. stuff was working on some stuff with an editor near the coffee room and afterwards he says whatup. i ask him how his weekend was as he and his eldest were going to see the tree at rockefeller. he said it was great and how he lives for that stuff. stuff cares about having a family. like a man who got himself a second chance at life, he says he doesn't care how long he has to plug away at mystery science magazine. he does it all for the kids. and the bastard does too. only the boy is 2500 miles away. i tell him that it sounded great and how i was a little bummed that the boy won't be coming in this year and he asked how old the boy was so, i took out the picture i keep in me wallet. and he praises his mohawk and looks me in the eye and says , "you love em don'tcha?"

"i do"

then he slaps me on the arm and heads on his way. towards the business of making science magazines for our new ant overlords.

so i called the boy. it was good to hear his voice. god dammit, i'm so tired.

—the bastard

...on remote control

"that looks like a spot there"

"what's he doing?"

"using his remote to unlock the doors"

"it ain't working"

"maybe if he gets closer"

"nope, maybe he should use the key"

"maybe if he sets it off in the front"

"nope, maybe he should use the key"

"maybe if he gets closer"

"nope, maybe he should use the key"

"maybe if he tries from the trunk"

"nope, maybe he should use the key"

this goes on for 15 minutes. we find parking elsewhere and eat pizza, 15 minutes later than intended. the man decides to use his key after we pull away. jackass.

—the bastard

went to a party last saturday night...

...and this douchebag fell right into the bastard's trap. uh huh. it ain't no big thing

so. on saturday night, the bastard was invited by my ladyfriend to go to a birthday party for some members of her book club who are friends of susie kansas. by and large it was your typical uneventful good time. the kind you'd have on the lower east side.

you know,

crowded with people.

trendily dressed people, most of which come from somewhere else.

cardboard cutout of justin timberlake which was more popular than the handsomest man in the room.

you know,

the usual.

it was good. but i walks to the bar and chuckles here who has already taken the liberty of showing up drunk (he's economical that way) or maybe he's just a cheap date and i decide to try and give him a wide berth which didn't workoutsomuch and he clips me in the gut with his elbow.

now, to be fair, it wasn't a hard elbow. it was the kind of soft elbow that a drunken nancy boy would give but, there's no excuse for bad manners.

"i think the phrase that is rattling around your empty dome was 'excuse me' ", and i proceed to order myself and my ladyfriend a drink.

"that guy gave you the dirtiest look"

"he had every right to, i told him he needed to excuse himself"

and so it goes. later he posed for me. sometimes things just fall into place. it's almost as much fun as mullet hunting, only it's with jackasses.

—the bastard