end of the road

so there it is.

scoop is back on the east coast. soon my liver will begin hurting again.

in other news, it's fucking raining out again and since i walked to work from my ladyfriend's apartment, i haven't gotten into adventures and shit.

but the bastard did get rained upon.

and i made friends on facebook with someone i knew from the old neighborhood which just reminds me that i need a functioning motorcycle. but instead, i'm going to read this week's installemnt of freakangels and watch science fiction on frikkin hulu.

the book has shipped and the bastard is waiting for his proofs so, i have to play the waiting game. hrm, waiting game sucks. let's play hungry hungry hippos.

—the bastard

where's scoop part 5

...the big push

ok, the bastard has come to the conclusion that he needs to start a fight on the subway.

i have no material except for scoop's roadtrip.

anyways, she's in the home stretch. woke up in tennesee, was last seen approaching the virginia border.

in pennsylvania by dinnertime.

end of the line after that.

—the bastard

where's scoop part 4

3:15 pm: little rock, memphis by 5

we're shipping the book so, aside from the hive mind not being around for whatever reason, it's all about the shipping.

—the bastard

THIS JUST IN, SPECIAL "ME TOO EDITION"
in a special report which the bastard can only describe as "a me too update", jonny airplanes reports that he is back in virginia from his current base of operations in key west florida.

call it good timing.

call it good times.

but most definitely call it.

where's scoop part 3

scoop: "i go get mexican in amarillo"

bastard: nice

scoop: marg barg time in tx

bastard: margz am the beast aye best

scoop: i just saw the worlds biggest cross and anything you want it was palying on the radio. i in ok.

upon logging onto facebook this morning (yes the bastard is on facebook, go to hell), scoop tells us that she is sleeping in an ihop parking lot. hopefully she gets herself a rooty tooty fresh and fruity breakfast there.

—the bastard

where's scoop part 2

bastard: "aye put up a map for hugh"

scoop: "hehehehehe i', at a dq in nm and i'm thinking about buying a drug rug aka baja robe"

bastard: "hehehe drug rug. where in nm?"

scoop: "no clue about fourty mi to santa rosa"

bastard: "close enuff. just needed it fire the map. you should dine at whataburger"

scoop: "heheheheh i've heard of that i need something non meat"

bastard: "that's what dq am fore"

in other news, someone has designed a steak flavored beer but it's for dogs

—the bastard

where in the united states is scoop?

so as the basatard may have mentioned, scoop, left hand rob's predecessor at selling bullets seven times a year. has departed from hell's waiting room and she heads east by monkey powered toyota corolla along with her copilot. hopefully leaving a trail of destruction in their wake.

almost immediately on their departure, i was getting updates on their location.

scoop: "At n n out but we no no in nv or ca. I'm a free woman full of beef"

bastard: "that is the greetest phrase ever", i replied

then it hit me to come up with a map. left hand rob thought that it should look like one of those indiana jones maps. so here we are so far:


received a text on sunday night that went, "me at venetion now, i wanna get on the marg barg and play crapz. developing..."

2 hours later scoop tell me that she won cash money at the craps tables.

last we leave her, she went to the grand canyon yesterday and ended the day in flagstaff.

developing....

—the bastard

...on challenges

the bastard tries to watch his weight.

well...

not all the time but he tries. so BACK OFF!

anyway, left hand rob has been at the weight loss game for a little while now and he's been doing it the old fashioned way.

by earning it.

and the bastard admires his self control as i've seen him turn down the run to the chessesteak place many times knowing full well that as a native pennsylvanian, cheese whiz courses through his veins and still he turns it down. bravo, i say.

but last night, the bastard had dinner with his ladyfriend, saxomafone, and his wife, h.m. (they came in from las vegas, under cover of darkness). we went out for ribs (rrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiibbbbbbbssssss!) at rub, which is a personal favorite.

but, the bastard has alot of personal favorites.

but now, i have to issue a challenge to rob's personal resolve. a challenge to his self control.

so rob i only have two words for you.

frito pie.

yes lobster, frito pie. i double dog DARE you to resist it's artery clogging goodness. and yes, it IS as good it looks. better the bastard would argue. gauntlet is down. and the games afoot.

—the bastard

...on gunsmoke

so i get this email from bobble. apparently the chairman went to the range. wait let me back up.

FLASHBACK: so the bastard was at the gun show, or rather, i was taking a cab back to my casino-less hotel, and my driver looked like captain lou albano in a fez and the fez was advising me to go to this shooting range outside of town to experience shooting a 50 caliber machine gun for 20 dollars a round. earlier in the week at an industry dinner, the ceo of a company in my industry was telling me about this place in texas where wild boar is hunted 24/7/365 because they have become a dangerous nuisance species (imagine a species that reproduces kind of as much as rats or maybe dogs but they grow up to be 500 pounds, an ornery disposition and TUSKS, as well as a healthy desire to kill you).

so i passed these nuggets along to the chairman. and there he is, firing an uzi. also shot was an m-16, an mp5, and a thompson submachine gun.

which he was scolded for not respecting enough.

"you better RESPECT THAT WEAPON or i might just have to shoot you. that gun killed REAL nazis. so respect that weapon"

glad to see the chairman has found something to do with things that have killed nazis. excellent.

—the bastard

the gift

every year, we have a new goofball to obsess on.

whether it's some character with a loch ness mullet and a foreigner t-shirt.

or some knife booth girl from the ukraine who waves back to us when we wave to her (and then jonny airplanes walks down onto the floor ands brings her up to the press suite for a beer).

or maybe it was our company's former rainmaker who keeps giving us the finger in passing in and out of the fray.


but this guy was our man this year.


our frequent flyer.

our go to weirdo. the man we followed.

sara voids found him independant of us and snapped away.

everyday, he wore a different variation of his acapulco shirt/and knee socks.

his kitch was a dream come true.

on day four, the editor had gotten into the game. he likes our little mullet hunt.

he gets the joke.

i get a text message from him.


"our guy is by the glock booth, in a robe and slippers"

and lo and behold, there he was. goddam classic

he was like the gift that kept on giving.

the stuff that makes the gun show worthwhile.

until next time.

when we return to florida.

—the bastard

...on magic

so rob talked the bastard into taking in a show.

normally, the bastard doesn't take in shows while in vegas.

he gambles.

and raises hell.

and spits fire.

and farts ambrosia.

but we took in the penn and teller show. i have to give it up, that while, penn and teller show you how each trick is done, it makes the idea of sleight of hand seem just THAT MUCH more magical.

it's kind of like when i used sleight of hand to beat you up for your lunch money.

no....not really.

it's kind of like that sharp pointed feeling you get between your second and third ribs when i stuck that shiv into you.

no....not really but, you get the idea.

anyway, at the end of the show, p&t do a little meet and greet in which you find out that not only does teller speak, he speaks english. but, i had to talk to penn. i had to tell him that i missed hearing him on the radio.

first off, he is a goddam huge human being. and shaking hand with him is like shaking hands with a giant.

"excellent show"

"thanks" (eyes roll; can't help it, he probably hears that shit all the time, 365 days a year)

"penn, i miss hearing you on the radio"

"don't worry pal, i have something coming up soon"

"really? cool. i always enjoyed the way you said honky tonk badonkadonk"

and then penn, with the voice of someone who could totally be president if the south was ready to accept a atheist juggler into the white house smiled, and said, as if he would say, "my fellow americans",

he says,

"honky tonk......badonkadonk"

yeah. that big bastard never disappoints. made my week.

—the bastard

...on camouflage

"what do you make of this?"

"the jeep?"

"yeah the jeep"

"it's red white and blue"

"and"

"i mean, it's apparently paid for by the wounded warrior project but, how the hell can they pick up anyone in a fire fight with a red white and blue jeep"

"well, look at it this way bastard, if any of our boys go down during the opening 5 minutes of patton, they'll be golden"

—the bastard

..on rare plumage

on day four, rob and i walked the floor looking for free shit and vendors to send us products to use in the magazine. now the gun show is kind of like walking across the width of manhattan.

we were getting ready to tuen in and break the press suite down when what did our wanderring eyes see?

but the best mullet we've seen since we walked into vegas. or at least the best mullet since we got to the convention center.

he was at a booth where they sell foldup handguns.

this was a fantastic example of biz in the front and party in the back. and the fantastic 80's guido v-neck sweater/turtle neck combination. it was truly wondrous to behold.

—the bastard

more hat than mullets...

...or is it more hat than cattle.

either way, the bastard came across more hats than mullets this time around. when the show is in vegas, more vendors come out mostly because they either can't afford to or refuse to go when the show is in florida. which in the case of the latter is a little egocentric in the bastard's book. i mean, hell, the bastard gets on a plane and goes regardless of where the show is. if it was in missouri, i'd go to fucking missouri.

no judgements.

just do the job.

allthough the bastard would have to rent a car and drive to branson in order to gamble. could you imagine? a casino without drinking or smoking? how do you get people to lose at table games if they aren't drunk? most of this was shot by sara voids.






at the end of it all, the thrill really isn't in the finding of mullets, so much as it is in the searching. and if it's hats, mullets, drunken jackasses, the bastard is ready for the good times that come with hunting for jackassery. it's probably the only thing at these shows that the bastard like's more than drinking and gambling.

well i DO like the drinking

and the gambling alot.

so i guess the jackassery comes third.

—the bastard

elvis has left the building

on day four, most of the staff went home so it was just left hand rob and i. and as the hotel emptied out, people attending agfa's annual photo conference. and an elderly elvis impersonator was in attendance. and then he took his wig off. and left.

—the bastard

...on sharps

the bastard has seen tis before in various airports throughout the country.

and i know that these stations are there for diabetics.

but the bastard can't help wondering how many heroin junkies actually use these disposal thingys.

—the bastard

...on heights

"so is there anything else you need this afternoon?"

"i need a good crowd shot for page one."

"i also need it to look better than last year's."
"not to be cheesy but, i need you t reinvent the wheel on crowd shots."

"hmmmmmm....ahmmm...hrm...i'll see what i can do."

convention photography is by and large the same schlock every year. lots of people walking around with bags full of press kits and fanny packs. samr shit, different year. but the bastard has faith in justice (photo editor: killing stuff monthly).

now the bastard doesn't remember who came up with the idea. it was either justice or sara voids but, there was this large catwalk like ramp that a glove comapny was using to demonstrate it's heat resistant abilities. guys who worked for the glove compnay would grab the rope at the end, and then slide down with these gloves on their hands. now either sara or justice decided to do the crowd shot from the top of this catwalk.

i thought it was a good move.

wish i thought of it.

so at the end of all of this, we got a free show, and justice got me my goddam crowd shot. nice and smooth...ish

—the bastard

more pictures than words...

shot show this year has shown the bastard that the mullet is starting to go the way of the dodo. so rather than have reams and reams and virtual reams of mullet pics, we only have a few.

some rockstar hair was on the ground for this year. this guy apparently is on the phone with his agent. getiing ready to reunite spinal tap.

there was alot of this. dumpy guys with bandanas on. got this during set up.


doctor dre pointed this guy out to us. because of the new no smoking regulations in las vegas, you can no longer smoke in this already smokey smelling convention center. this guy worked with this unlit cigarrete in his mouth for almost two hours.


the chairman sent me this on his way to the giants parade. so we have soem good old fashioned new york hockey hair.


the bastard can't tell if this is a mullet or not but, it was shot on the escalator, while i was behind him. so it's part of my series of covert mullet hunting.

—the bastard

...on jetlag

the bastard just flew back from vegas.

and boy are my arms tired.

i have lots to post from the show.

later, not now.

—the bastard

rilly big shoe

been up to my ears in working and eating chicken sadness. however, i did get to meet one of the iron chefs from the american version.

nice guy.

more mullets later

—the bastard

sam kinison walks the floor

so the bastard is looking out the winder.

the bastard's winder to the world.

and what should my wandering eye see on the horizon


behold yall.


sam kinison has returned from the dead. and he's walking shot show.


this guy with the pinch cap and the stove pipe is pretty sweet too but, you already read this. so go to hell.

—the bastard