…leaving Las Vegas

and so… 

with a whimper and not a bang… 

the bastard unwinds away from the city of sin…

12 gun shows…

no screw ups…

not decent night of sleep in them…

but there's always the game of dice…

however…

the big night was a game of black jack I played with the dirty stay outs who were with me at 3am…

holding it down…

playing til 6…

straight on till dawn. 

best game ever…

I never tire of this place…

—the bastard

perfect…

a lifetime ago…

the bastard was in a crappy restaurant with his old brother in law…

the scowl

the scowl worked in food services for years…

and his two most important maxims for surviving a meal…

A: if your food is not to your liking, don't send it back… they will spit in it or worse. better you should order something else off of the menu because they more than likely won't know it was you and not spit in it and you will more than likely get a nice meal. 

and

B: do not give your service a hard time until you get the check. that is the transfer of power. the waiter no longer has control of your digestive system and you can say your piece by tipping what you saw fit.

I used to date a girl who loved to fuck with the wait staff at this Pizza Hut we used to frequent like mental patients. in retrospect, I can only imagine how much fecal matter lived in my supreme personal pan and how much piss was in my coke. 

now:

I'm finally calming down…

I've had a shit evening that started at 1am when I decided to emai the super for what seems like the 25th time in the last two weeks that my hvac hasn't been fixed…

granted, it hasn't been all that warm out since summer tucked tail and ran but, I want all of my stuff to be in working order regardless…

we paid good money for this jib joint…

but after three emails, it was for naught and I was kind of seething when I decided I would break form with the deal the wife and I have when she goes away on business and ordered takeout from the bar behind us…

it was cheap…

and it's behind my home…

so I figure, "what the hell?"

over an hour later, I call them up and ask what's up…

oh we're bagging it up now sir…

20 minutes later, I get a call from the delivery guy asking me where I live…

and the bastard just loses it…

I live behind your bar

on the corner?

no you fuckwit… is your bar on a corner?!?

behind the bar?

yes behind the bar

and so finally, my repast shows up and I head to the elevator to get some din din. 

only the elevator and I had a disagreement…

it wanted me and it to spend some quality time together.

so…

there I am stuck between floors, wishing that I had just made pasta two hours ago hitting buttons and hitting the alarm button to "shave and a haircut, two bits"…

and thats when I left my body. 

eventually, the elevator releases me from her embrace so I can walk up from the basement to lose control and punch he delivery man in the face. 

but... I thought better of it and just yelled at him a lot.  

and i went upstairs with my cold chicken and soggy fries and my disdain for it all…

and I still had to give the babby a bath…

so dinner was a dish best served cold tonight. 

at least my living room doesn't feel like 80 degrees anymore

—the bastard

…on bear skins and stone knives

the bastard is all up in the mountains this weekend…

service has been limited to a five minute quick hit on the email…

and it's all good.

now the bastard is no Thoreau…

but it sometimes helps to not be in the know out in the mountains…

that said…

I'm typing up this shit on my iPad and contemplating a nap. 

the wife is hold up in the cabin…

my daughter is coloring 10 feet from me…

and alls right with the world. 

—the bastard

life in these Long Island cities

it's the last one mate…

the last hurrah…

the final summer Friday as decreed by our heads of state here at the house of dead animals. 

and the bastard was NOT about to pass up the opportunity to pull off one last  off the books burger to round out the summer. 

so I decided to hit the new place…

the woodbines…

the home of black ipa from Astoria…

the bastard has made a discover about the new dining in these long island cities…

it's like this…

my last stop before bed in a drink night is the bar behind my home…

my complex last stop that I have difficult feelings for…

because of the meatheads from the new towers, I often hate the place but not because of the place…

I just hate the meatheads…

that and perhaps my neighbors wife when she shouts down from her balcony because she saw a meathead friend and the decided to go down to the back porch to brag relentlessly like a goddam donkey all evening. yeah I hate her too. her husband is aight though. I'll spare him my scathing rebuke. 

but they always shit down the racket at the time they promise to…

and that shit is lauded by your humble bastard…

a man's word is his bond and when he lives up to it, the hosts of heaven open up and say, 'I couldn't possibly call bullshit on that guy, he's straight up with the hood and won't smite him this good day'…

true story…

I've heard the host of heaven and they like to call bullshit often on folks. keeps the squares out of heaven. 

but I'm here at the house of black ipa today for my last stand for two reasons…

well three…

for one… bars in this area has discovered that the place of complications ain't cheap and if you lower the price of your food and your brew, you have a fighting chance here

for two… the place ain't open for lunch. they ain't cheap and it's a down economy

and lastly… that place is right behind my apartment yo.

it ain't a off the books lunch if all the players in your life are I'm the know. 

so…

it's been a good summer…

I'll see your ass next year

—the bastard

the unbearable lightness of bastard…

when the bastard got home to tonight…

the traffic landscape was all asses and elbows. 

I had forgotten that the river to river festival was doing fireworks tonight. 

so flash forward…

the wife just turned in…

the boy is chilling on his computer…

the bar has gone silent…

the baby went to the mattresses as well. 

and here the bastard is… 

just chilling in his balcony remembering what he asks for for Father's Day every year. 

"what do you want for Father's Day?"

"for everyone to shut up for a little while"

sure, it doesn't sound kind but, I'm not a kind man by any stretch. 

but I can't help feeling a certain level of serenity right now as I've entered my 10th minute here in the grand duchy of shutupistan. 

I could cry right now but it would totally fuck up my silence. 

happy Father's Day to me. 

—the bastard

please exit through the gift shop…

"I belong to the blank generation.

I can take it or leave it each time"

—Richard Hell

the wife is going away this week to our corn fed heartland on bidness…

the bidness of velveeta…

and it takes away from our anniversary…

and my birthday…

and besides…

once you have a kid, you briefly forget how to do all that shit you did when you were dating.

so we went to the punk rock exhibition at the met which always strikes the bastard as the weirdest place to go to see exhibitions of pop culture. 

the met is very old guard…

like something stuck in amber perhaps…

but…

it's well funded so at the very least, it'll look good.

which it did. 

but it was what I saw on the sides that made me take notice.

it's a story about how pop culture influenced fashion trends…

and the evolution of said trends over time…

so if you're going to see a show about  fucking the establishment…

then sling your hook elsewhere squire, this ain't it. 

it's like this, back in the 1970's kids were reacting against the giant bands and arena music and at the time the bleakness of a rough economy (sound familiar yet?) and a guy named Richard Hell started wearing a shirt with a target on it with the words, "please kill me" inscribed on it. 

the bastard paraphrases so there's so much more to it. I don't want to bring the dept of continuity down on me. 

anyway…

across the pond…

similar shit was happening and vivienne Westwood and Malcolm mcclaren owned a shop on kings road and was seeing and doing some interesting stuff. 

so they outfitted a band and put their clothes on then and then the sex pistols were born. 

and boom…

a fashion movement took hold, said the me on Madison Avenue. 

flashy forward to now, and the bastard is looking at clothes from now, influence by a bygone era that may well happen again given the circumstances we all face economically and I'm listening to some idiot who looks like the lead singer of creed telli his friend in his best ”hey brah” voice while I'm slowly trying to poke my ears out with my car keys while he goes over his johnnie rotten Wikipedia talki points

and all I can think is…

"ha ha ha… have you ever had the feeling you've been cheated"

brah doesn't know about this. he's just a product of mass marketing. 

and that's what this was about…

mass marketing

and when we exited through the gift shop, the price tag told me everything I needed to know. 

then my lovely wife and I went to the 29th century wing and followed up with Indian food.

good times

—the bastard

the flinch...

...or dumb shit i've done on my way to work

so there was this guy having a heated discussion with his girlfriend in french...

who was blocking the door...

and perhaps it wasn't heated so much as it was loud and in french...

but he was blocking the door...

and i should have thought better of it...

but i didn't as i shoved past him...

and i didn't when i added insult to injury by telling him he can step out...

yeah, so he was totally justified in losing his shit with me.

oddly enough, i didn't see red when he called me an asshole and attempted to goad me into something.

instead, i just whipped my finger out 6 inches from his face...

unexpectedly to him, i would guess as he jumped back in the crowded car.

i think i said something insulting as i stood there with my finger in his face...

pointed at his eye...

waiting for the next move...

i'm not sure but, while the bastard didn't see red, the tv snow kicked in that comes with adrenaline...

i thought it was on and reached for the steel...

then i thought better and walked away, i've already done enough dumb shit for one morning so, i take a walk...

and in his loudest french accent, he yells, "fuck you" at the top of his lungs as i walk away.

i turn briefly and quip back with, "your moms" and i'm off all the while as he shouts as many insults in an attempt to goad me back to the car as if he truly wished to be part of one of those retarded youtube videos of idiots fighting on the train...

basically, he went down the list and shouted about my mother...

because once a mother joke is made, you have to respond back with one by obligation...

my baldness...

yep, i am that...

my weight...

well, i look big in a jacket but, i've lost weight but compared to the bag of bones in wayfarers that was yelling at me, i probably was fat...

but nah...

i wasn't taking the bait.

so in retrospect...

hey, hysterical french guy who i slighted this morning...

it wasn't my finest hour and i should have thought better...

but i didn't...

and you didn't deserve to have to relive that shit for the rest of your ride to the 9/11 monument or whatever touristy thing you were headed to today...

but it happened...

and you get two for flinching

—the bastard

god is in his heaven and the bastard is on his earth and all is right with the world…

last week...

 or is it two weeks now, the bastard was talking with the singing copy chief about the past and since we were at the shot show…

and the toddler is rooting about somewhere around there that perhaps we'd run into him.

"I love to run into him, see how he's doing", she exclaimed.

"i wouldn't.", putting the kibosh on this line of conversation.

I mean, I don't wish the man ill…

okay, I do…

I'm a petty man.

petty is what I've got and if the toddler never makes it to the gates of the walled city that we are…

I'm a happier man for it.

the year he put me through, still resounds in me and I don't think I'll ever get around to feeling right about things again.

I know I never sleep right unless I have some help.

but I did get some recently at the show in the form of news.

a friend of mine ran into him at a function who knows him and knows where's he landed and told me

"he's doing great. says everything is awesome and super angine. which is a lie. he hates the man he works for and that is his lot for now."

and with that, the bastard felt a little better because someone is making it suck for him somewhere in the world…

and that's real good to me…

because I'm petty.

perhaps I'll talk about the other characters who made my 2010-2011 suck a lot and how their doing since we've parted company.

that makes me feel good too.

—the bastard

…on horned gods

once upon a time…

a bastard learned a thing about the birth of Christ…

and he learned that the day in question was in march…

and like a smug jackass…

he told his grandmother this nugget of historical shite.

long story short…

which it never is here…

gramma had something to say about it to me…

and we hada phone conversation about it.

upon hanging up with her I received a good talking to from my dad about belief…

and not letting history mess with that sometimes.

so I clammed up about my minor in history.

it was better this way because I could keep going back to the house of usher for the gingers snap gravy and know that grandma wasn't shooting little daggers at me.

she was a good lady.

that said, as the day approaches I realize that the burden of history is better spent keeping your mouth shut.

god is in his his heaven and and I?

I am on my couch drinking whiskey…

and all is right with the world.

happy saturnalia, ya frikkin pagans

—the bastard

supply side sugarnomics

so...

this happened on my phone yesterday

—the bastard

life in these Long Island cities…

you know what the bastard likes?

squall lines

yeah the bastard LOVES himself some squall line.

gimme a bit of that vicar…

gimme a bit a squall line on my Saturday night.

racked out after what could only be considered a successful third birthday party for the babby.

at the 9:15 hour…

the bar gets it in its head to let loud drunk folks out onto the patio.

not folks who just wandered out to drink…

menus were getting distributed…

these already loud drunk assholes were getting ready to tuck in…

suddenly more came out and it had all the appearances of getting worse…

and then the squall line came into town…

beautiful line of chaos…

and it rained…

it rained like the hammers of hell…

and for a brief moment…

after having many conversations with the almighty…

asking him to leave me alone…

to move along and hassle someone else…

I felt like he listened.

and it felt spiritual.

—the bastard

the rats in the walls…

back then…

in the fhillz…

I had to kill a rat in my home.

with my bare hands-ish.

I awoke to find the nice lady in a start on a Sunday.

there's a rat in the bathroom.

being of sound mind… and the rat being of rather lazy nature… we closed the bathroom door and called the landlord.

he…he…he… bro…brou… brought (our landlord had a stutter) two enormous rat traps and proceeded to throw them at the rat.

this did not work.

however, never at a loss for a teachable moment…

the bastard discovered that rats can jump quite high if you throw things at them.

after this unsuccessful attempt our stuttering landlord called an exterminator and we met friends for brunch.

because what else s there to do when you have a rat running around your home but get brunch.

upon getting the word from the exterminator (we didn't find him, so he must have left but I laid out a ridiculous amount of glue traps anyway) and it was time to go anyways…

we set out back for the fhillz and we made a deal…

if I scout out the building, she'll clean up the mess.

done and dusted. but it wasn't.

the big bastard was hiding in the medicine cabinet.

the fam came up and I was throwing glue traps at the rat.

he hissed at me.

I hissed, "get the fuck outta my house" back at him and fashioned a flyswatter out of glue traps and a coat hanger.

and I swatted mightily and he was pinned to the bath tub.

I asked for something to hit him with but there was no time to really get a proper device so there was this box.

full of metal extras because the shower had been redone recently in this crapstand we lived in.

and I proceeded to punch the squirming creature pinned under the glue trap.

and I howled mightily…

like a Jove…

or a man possessed…

GET…

THE FUCK…

OUT OF…

MY HOME…

YOU FILTHY…

FUCKING…

CREATURE…

AAAAAGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!

and then it rattled and stopped moving. it's disgusting tail went limp.

I got up and went to the sink…

the nice lady wide eyed with the savagery that just occurred.

I poured myself a glass of water which seemed to last and hour.

two hours for her.

and I slouched over the sink and said…

"I didn't sign on for this"

—the bastard

last go round…

as I stood knee deep I the Atlantic ocean on Sunday…

with a mouthful of salt water…

the bastard wondered to himself…

I should do this more often.

then I punched myself in the neck.

I say this every year when I have that one decent beach day when no one has to die.

but this year was different…

I actually meant it.

after we left long beach after what could be considered a successful and incident free trip…

the bastard took a nap…

made some cheese grits…

and grilled a couple rib eyes.

and all was good.

you see…

my summer ended when the boy went home…

but for a day at the end of all things summer…

it rallied…

and it was good…

the rib eyes were medium rare for those who give a damn.

—the bastard

adventures in bureaucracy…

a day without bullshit is like a day without sunshine…

—sun tzu

so the bastard is at the DMV because apparently the left hand doesn't know what the right hand is doing.

you see…

there's this web site the state requires you to sign up with to change your address before you can have the DMV issue you a new license.

so I did this…

over a year ago

but apparently, ny.gov failed to tell other state organs that I moved.

so even though the DMV knew enough to send me a new license, they couldn't put 2 and 2 together to know that perhaps my vehicle registration may way to go there too.

oh and this crazy man is pacing up and down like the damn Sasquatch ranting about many things.

yay.

—the bastard

off the books…

the bastard feels that honesty is the best policy…

but with a provision…

when I go off the books…

I like to stay off the books…

so I gets out of the office an hour early, I go to get a brew at the hoek.

this is a differing view point that I have with the wife.

when she gets out of work early…

she goes straight home…

and then the nanny takes a powder.

the bastard feels differently.

every hour the bastard gets free from the machine is frikkin gold…

so he'll spend it off the books at the hoek.

nice and smooth

—the bastard

the craft…

it goes without saying that a pretty big chunk of the bastard's audience is family

so every now and again, I get the occasional all caps email from uncle acid

which I haven't gotten in a while

I miss those from time to time, they're enriching.

but my dad usually calls for the bastard to English dictionary when I mention people by pseudonym

sometimes he sends me helpful reading material.

case

meet

point

there is an article in the ny times website (all the slant that's fit to print) about the rules to writing which was actually quite humorous.

and it reminded me of a story that sam fuller told me once via the electric fireplace.

Balzac is walking down a street in paris when walking down the opposite way is Alexander Dumas.

they greet each other warmly kissing each other on the cheek like the French do and exchanging pleasantries and then they bid each other adieu.

when he is a safe distance from Dumas, Balzac mutters to himself, "that rat bastard son of a bitch, if only I had money like him".

at the same time, from the same safe distance Dumas mutters to himself, "that rat bastard son of a bitch, if only I could WRITE like him"

that's all I got. whadda ya want a frikkin medal?

—the bastard

common…

"rent a flat above a shop

cut yer hair and get a job

smoke some fags an play some pool

pretend you never went to school

but still you'll never get it right

while you're lying in bed at night

watching roaches climb the wall

you can call your dad, he can stop it all"

it passed one day last week, but it's been a year since the bastard returned to the thorough borough…

to the liquid…

to west coast of the east…

to my fucking perch…

here in long island city.

shit was so uncertain.

there was a change of the guard at work.

I found out the old boss wanted me out which would have wrecked our future here.

we sold the old place and would be renting in some rathole until the job market returned or some crap.

the new bosses turned out to be more willing to give me a shot than the last one so I got lucky.

so I'm lucky

and grateful

and I live in a nice place with less grief than my old place on metro.

where I did battle on the regular with roaches the size of cattle and I killed rats with my bare hands.

and I sat in the dark being really angry about it all.

I used to walk home through forest hills gardens and sulk all the way home because I knew I'd never be able to afford to own there and now I'm in some other neighborhood where it's so nice that I can't sulk.

it's been a nice breather from hating

beats the hell out of haterade

—the bastard

...on the downside of art direction

as a new art director,

not that the bastard is NEW at this.

i'm just new at this magazine.

well,

not that i'm NEW at this magazine. i started in this particular branch of the journalistic lexicon seven years ago.

anyway, the downside to being a new art director is expectations.

expectations of good service. and the primary means of showing good service is,

staying late.

now the bastard doesn't always stay late because he wants to just hang around and drink whiskey, he's been working on employee evaluations so that he can put off getting his taxes done but now i have no excuses but to get that done.

but the other noticeable downside is the fact that i haven't seen the sun go down since this photo i took on the way out of the office on monday. and before that, i can't even remember when i last saw a sunset.

might have been on the weekend once upon a time.

or perhaps it was in a dream. all i know is, if i don't get some sunlight soon, i'm going to get a unrinary tract infection or some crap. maybe the gout. or the grippe.

can somebody spin the whell of old timey diseases to see what the bastard will get please?

yeah, i invented the wheel of old timey diseases. you gotta problem with that? good. you have the clap.

—the bastard

the bastard said it before and he'll say it again

...could any hell be more real

or now?

—the bastard

how i spent my sunday

my ladyfriend had plans in new jersey today so, the bastard got up at the crack of 10 am, which was the style of the time.


afterwards, i ran some errands in the q borough (which is thorough). now, i rock the bus back to the subway to get back to the rock.

why did I make a run to queens to ride back to manhattan to ride back to queens to take mass transit back to manhattan?

well

it's one part stupid and two parts not wanting to carry three bags of groceries back to manhattan by train. so go to hell.

—the bastard