life's a beach...

...then you get a flat tire

so the bastard spent his saturday with his ladyfriend at long beach...unwinding. well it was intended to be unwinding. and the notion of taking our little fold up bikes was a capital idea. until on the fourth pass, my tired started to go flat.

well let me back up. i also seem to have the uncanny luck of parking as far away as possible most of the time, not intentionally but, it always seems to end up that way.


so i had to truck back to my car. well, first i had to find it. then give my ladyfriend back her bike and truck back to the car, where we got our beach stuff. and this worked out for us for most of the rest of the day until these characters showed up. the bastard took one look at these three clowns and their covertly/notso covertly covered 30 pack of budweiser and three cups from 7 lebben. my ladyfriend told me not to worry about it. one hour later after returning from the bathroom, my ladyfriend was in agreement with my earlier desire to skip out. "it wouldn't be so bad if they didn't start and finish every sentence with "pussy", she told me. then we were off. it seemed like we were escaping an episode of douchebag beach at just the right time.

nice and smooth

—the bastard

...on seconds

FIRST: on return visits


the last time the bastard was in vegas, he went back to a big name place called delmonicos which three years ago was the site of the greatest steak i ever had.

and i have always been of the sort that going back and having something again is always a disappointment.

i mean the running man totally sucked when i saw it 10 years later. SUCKED!

but going back to delmonicos last february, it wasn't just as good as i remember it, it was better. and i wasn't just saying it to make chicago jerkface cry. the bastard said so because it was. it was like reliving a happy memory while almost dropping someone's soup on myself.

this happened again tonight. i invited my ladyfriend to come along with the boy and i to get barbecue at fette sau with saxomafone. now, the bastard has spoken of this place in the past and i have to say, it was so much more fantastic than the last time i went. they had smoked pork chops. SMOKED PORK CHOPS. on the way out, some old biddies in crocs had asked us if the place was good and i said yes. but then they asked if they had vegan food as well and i started explaining how it wouldn't make sense to smoke tofu and my ladyfriend just leaned in and said,

"if you like meat, then you'll like this"

both poignant and pointed in it's wisdom

SECOND: slowly i turned


on the way home, the bastard was too meat coma'd out to drive like a champ, like i ever could drive like a champ (shut up now, you know who you are) and we got on the bqe which made it impossible to get on the williamsburg bridge so we had to take the brooklyn bridge instead. this led to us being able to see the waterfall installation under the brooklyn bridge. it was really beautiful. and max and my ladyfriend had a an actual conversation. i really want them to get along. it looks promising. it was a good night.

—the bastard

hat trick

"ahhhhhhhhhhh"

"whu"

"ewwwwwwwww"

"izzit time?", the bastard follows up with. you see every distressed utterance from my ladyfriend may mean it's go time.

"nooooo"

"home invasion?, aliens have landed? who shot who in the what now?"

"kitty pooped on the floor"

"god dammit."

now the bastard was never really cat person to begin with but, it's stuff like this that clinches it for me sometimes. i had another 40 minutes of unconsciousness coming to me and poops mcgee here has trashed that.

i mean i'm all upons now. when my ladyfriend is distressed, i think it's go time. baby's on the way. time to grab the bags and head up to the hospital. i don't enjoy my bastard sleep getting interupted.

so we clean up the crap. settle down to enjoy 30 minutes of quietude and the little shit machine jumps up on the bed and starts pissing on the bed.

and it's all i can do to not fling this old ass creature out the window.


really. it was harder work to just start yelling than to toss this beast out the window

hard

fucking

work

so after a stern talking to, and some sheets in the hamper, i feed this jerk who i have ceased calling by his name. i just scowl and call him "cat" the way i'd call someone "jerk".

and i settle down for what could only be phoning in 20 minutes of unwind. this creature irks me. sure my pet craps all over his floor but he's in a frikkin' tank.

at least food will keep him from any more morning theatrics.

but, i'm wrong. apparently an 18 year old cat doesn't do scoldings well. so he throws up his breakfast.

yeah.

i look at the ceiling and say, to the fates, "i didn't need the sleep anyway; go to hell"

so mess cleaned up, i go to work, and after 3 cups of coffee, the bastard still feels like this


i'm kind of hoping that this isn't the bellweather for the day.

carpenter is coming in to finish some crap for the apartment. my ladyfriend and i are making a go at trying to raise a baby in 455 sqare feet so, we're working some furniture solutions. problem is this guy's bush league too.

it never ends.

hopefully, this'll be it. touch wood. the accountant is coming in for a visit. the mofo is picking her up from the airport so we can all have some family time. and by family time, the bastard means be irish. slanche, ye pogues mahone.

—the bastard

...on asking

...and receiving

sometimes, the bastard stays at his ladyfriend's place.

it's a short hop from the office.

and i actually get sleep.

anyway, she only has one vent on her floor and when everyone on the floor cooks in their apartment, the most curious smell is borne in the hall.

so one of her neighbors put out an air freshener.

next day it was gone, thinking that the neighbor who put it out brought it back in. inspired, my ladyfriend bought her own to do away with the smell which some days is a mixture of cooking and mothballs and 3 day old cabbage being set on fire.

so upon waking up the next morning, the hallway smelled of airwick sugar water and baby bottoms, which mind you is better than the mothball smell. look for it in your grocery store.

when she got home it was gone. what to do?

upon discussion with the maintenance guy, she asks me to write a note to the air freshener thief. and not the kind of note with vitriol and and cursewords. begrudginly, i agree and write a nice note.

"CAN I PLEASE HAVE MY AIR FRESHENER BACK THANK YOU?"

next morning, lo and behold, there it was, right where my ladyfriend left it on sunday night. it was like the air freshener fairy returns air fresheners in return for notes from tenants. it was magical. so, she did what any smart new yorker would do. unplugged it and put in in the apartment. air fresheners are expensive you know? you can't trust anyone these days. but, you can leave a note about it.

—the bastard

things the bastard discovered on a sunday

well, the bastard spent his sunday painting stuff in my ladyfriend's apartment.

also, we went down to that horrendous trader joes on 14th street.

when all was finished, we put a second coat on and my ladyfriend said that this called for a treat.

so we went to pinkberry.

pinkberry as you may or may not know is swirly goodness.

or it's frozen yogurt reinvented to create an experience that indulges the senses. christ the bastard loves marketing hacks.

or it's just a trendy frozen yogurt place where both otaku kids and sweatpants wearing jewish american princesses can congregate and listen to loud blaring techno and sit on knockoffs of philippe starck's ghost chair. or maybe they are the real deal.

the bastard doesn't know. but the shit sure is tasty. so go to hell.

but upon my second visit i realize the murray hill j.a.p.s have a uniform.

first and foremost, you must have large aviator shades on. because while god slept on the seventh day, the day afte that, he sure as shit didn't want you to bother to put on makeup.

and secondly, you must must must wear sweatpants related outfits. the baggier the better. the last thing you want to do is attract a mate while asking for carob chips on your green tea flavored frozen treat.

and despite, the above diagram, the "christ what an asshole" grin, is purely optional. so enjoy your frozen yogurt jackass. ENJOY!

—the bastard

...on werewolves

...or walking the streets of soho in the rain


on sunday we were invited out to have lunch with my ladyfriend's sister in law (or rather he sister's sister in law i guess but, you get the picture) and she just moved to a tiny room in soho.

her brother in law, said to me at one time during the day that we were just like the europeans today.

"tourists in our own city", he elaborated, "eating and shopping"

it struck me funny. because we had all collectively not been down to this part of town for quite some time. and it's different. my ladyfriend used to live here a long time ago when there was a bodega downstairs from her. now it's a french restaurant. you can also walk two blocks over and shop at dolce e gabbana. it's cleaned up alot. safer. better place to take your kids. more expensive, like everything else in this city.

i saw this valiant in my travels and the overpriced sportscar couldn't have been better timed. it made the photo really. tragic or magic? i completely understand why all those crusty old fucks in the lower east side are complaining about the rich but not enough to get on board. there is a fine line between dissent and cliche these days.

later on in the afternoon, it started raining and we mulled the bourgeois notion of grabbing a cab, or buying a 15 dollar umbrella but, we just booked it to the subway and headed back to her place to get my gear.

—the bastard

the devil went down to...jersey? again?

so the bastard and his ladyfriend took a little trip to jersey last night to see a certain band that jersey really loves. yeah...that one. what can i say? i like to do nice things for my girlfriend. the bastard is a saint that way. then again by wrote of last phrase, how can a bastard BE a saint? hell, i'm trying for sainthood. go to hell.

anyway, we get a little sidetracked en route. wait let me back up:

FLASHBACK (re: the office): "this is fucking confusing?"

"what is?"

"the transit in jersey. you know lobster, i fucking hate your state sometimes"

(cue dirty look)"excuse me"

"sorry, i mean the state you live in." (lobster johnson is a native pennsylvanian and don't you forget it shiteyes)

"well it is what it is" ok back to real rime

CUE PRESENT: so the ladyfriend and i get a little sidetracked on the way to the prudential center to see that band and we ended up getting off at the wrong stop to transfer.

"we should ask someone", she suggests.

"i wish we had a map to refer to", i reply.

taking the initiative, she asks an african american gentleman if we could pick up the connecting train to newark. he suggested that we should have stayed on the train we were on, shaking his head.

"i was watching you you guys. you shoulda stayed on that train. you wanna get to newark, just follow all the white people"

just follow all the white people? that's classic, squire. fucking classic.

—the bastard

father christmas

you know, the last few years, the bastard was enamored with the idea of being sardonic this time of year. but this afternoon, i was in a big rush.

really for nothing actually. have you ever had that feeling that you were way behind?

and you ran your ass through the shower?

and then ripped up your face to get shaved?

and flew down the way in your car to get to your ladyfriend's house?

only to get to the mouth of the midtown tunnel in 5 minutes and realize that you were going to be 40 minutes early?

yeah. me too.

anyway, being early, and hungry, the bastard walked across the street from my ladyfriend's to grab a slice of pizza.

i always hated working on christmas and i really felt for the guys behind the counter. felice navidad was playing on a busted radio behind the counter and i thanked them for the slice.

across from me was a busted up looking fella who was eating hi slice and he raised it to me stating tht this was the best pizza. and the bastard concured looking up. he had a stoma in his throat.

he had to speak to me by covering the hole in his throat.

he told me this was his third slice.

then he lit up a cigarette and went outside.

when he came in he told me he had throat cancer and that while he shouldn't smoke but, it made him feel somehow alive. he put on his green flannel trench coat shook my hand and wished me a merry christmas. i thought of bob.

then i thought of my year.

and how it's been great.

and how it's been hard won.

and how i feel lucky.

and then i thought of the kinks song father christmas.

because i thought about how much it must suck to have a tube in your throat.

and how mush it must suck to have nothing and no one on christmas.

and i felt glad that despite all of it, it turned out okay for me.

Have yourself a merry merry christmas
Have yourself a good time
But remember the kids who got nothin
While youre drinkin down your wine

merry christmas jerks. be glad for what you have

—the bastard

...on stalling

great expanses make for great views on a Saturday afternoon.

my ladyfriend and i took a long walk down the east side of manhattan and it was gorgeous out.




but it's like this. the bastard is stalling today. he's tired and the muse hasn't hit him to discuss his Friday evening trip through the wayback machine.

tired from yesterday's walk and dinner with the ladyfriend's coworker and her husband the steampunk, oh yeah, and the solo haul on foot to get groceries, i'm a little bushed.

story time is for later. too bad. so sad.

-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

...on the heartland

so the bastard's ladyfriend is out in iowa (pronounced ah-o-ah) this week on assignment.

it seems that her company is kind of like mine insomuch as they feel it's cheaper to do it by the home office.

in the bastard's case, the home office is actually stockholm but, our head vampire is from florida so everything is cheaper in florida...maybe but, probably not.

anyway, the bastard's ladyfriend am in iowa and this is the majestic beauty she has come across. and that beauty is the git-n-go. it's no wawa mart. mostly because it's the git-n-go. could any hell be more real or now.

—the bastard

...on secretes

the secret is some touchy feely new age self help book that oprah winfrey is a big fan of. the bastard on the other hand, is not a fan of the secret or of oprah which should not come as any frikkin surprise to you.

anyway, the bastard is also an elitist snob as well as, well, you know, a bastard and so when i was in target with my ladyfriend last night (yeah i shop in target), when i saw a woman clutching a copy of this selfsame book. she looked incredibly intense and the whole feel of the situation had an air of quiet desperation so i asked my ladyfriend,

"am i a bad person if i thumb my nose at someone clutching tenaciously to a copy of the secret?"

"come on", she replies, "some people are interested in improving themselves. allthough she did look a little intense"

so point taken, i reflected otherwise on this poor woman's predicament. and then i thought, "what would the peanut gallery think?" and like any other rotten human being, i decided to repeat my question via text message to some friends and coworkers of mine. the answers went something like this:

"no, you're a bad person because you kick puppies"

"no but what's the secret. self help?"

"depends. what the hell is the secret?"

"not at all"

"no worries, pertwee will get her"

"sorry. who is this?"

"yes u are"

"no you r a hero sir"

"gay"

"eat it"

"oh, hey bastard. and no you r not for laughing at sad women"

so there you have it. societal cross section in nutshell. i tried to text message in order of varying people different friends from differnt walks of life for different answers but some of them more interesting to me.

—the bastard

two out of three falls

the bastard walks the walk my son. every goddam morning he does. that is unless it's over 95 degrees with 85 percent humidity in which case the bastard buses the bus. anyway, once in a while someone will shove a leaflet in his face and i will politely but gruffly tell them no thanks. i don't need a new cell phone from "celluar-mania", i don't need a brazilian wax and i am not interested in following the teachings of krishna or any deity with more than two arms. hell, the bastard is barely on terms with the two armed variety (but we're in talks at the moment, it's been a good year thus far). anyway, i get this leaflet shoved in my face as i pass the lirr station and i refuse but these folks are offering free coffee. as i approach the subway there is another "free coffee" station so, i take the leaflet offered to me andhere it is.

ONE WEEKEND ONLY.
SUNDAY! SUNDAY! SUNDAY!
TWO OUT OF THREE FALLS!
THE SON OF MAN GOES TOE TO TOE WITH THE EASTER BUNNY!

actually, i love stuff like this. you have to hand it to the christians. what better way to address the question of "how does one make the faith more relavent times where one's attention span grows shorter and shorter. whay not give out free coffee? why not give out free chewing gum? whay not give out free snacky cakes? why not drive a big ole semi down the highway lit up like christmas down the highway that says "jesus" down the sides? might as well get some impact on passers by before they get back into the next episode of survivor. maybe you need a reality show in which a bunch of christians are on a deserted island and whomever loses that week gets thrown into a pit of fire. who knows? by the way pope, you can have that last one. it's my gift to you after years of not showing up for church on sunday. i give you the first christian reality show. but, then again i don't really watch the fuel channel and those bastards are kind of clever.

...on more religious whatnot

about a month ago, i was stepping out after dinner on valentines day with the ladyfriend and she needs to get cash. this was somewhere near the flatiron building. i was coming from dinner and the ladyfriend needed to go to the atm and as we were leaving, i held the door for this punk rock couple. upon doing so, the bastard realizes that this couple was jay bakker and his wife amanda. now here's the part where you go, "hey shiteyes, who the hell is that?" well young jerkfaces it's like this. jay bakker is a preacher. his father is jim bakker and his mother is tammy faye bakker. ring any bells? no? ummmmm televangelists? ptl scandal? ahhhhhhh read a book ya frikking jerks. anyway jay, dropped out of high school after the ptl scandal and then did alot of drugs and then got straightened out and started his own church. he had a documentary on sundance and the bastard watched it. it was very good stuff. it's out on dvd about now. netflix the shit. it's good watching. anyway, i asked him if he was the jay in question and he said yes and then we had a little talk. he politely listened to my rants about organized religion (another post for another time) and he invited me down to his church in billieburg which oddly enough is on the other side of metropolitan avenue from me (way down metropolitan from me). i thanked him for the chat and was on my way. the bastard has always found religious figures to be interesting. mostly from a pop culture perspective. these people fascinate me. these are generally people who carry weight with a segment of the population and i find it interesting how they are in the public forum. jay was a very earnest approachable guy. who knows, the bastard might wanna get some church in him one of these days and he does his shit in a bar in williamsburg on sundays. who knows, getting a pint of brew might be a bad way to hear someone's take on the good book. maybe i might just get drunk and learn something.

—the bastard

...on currency

sometimes time is a premium.

currency that you have to save like a miser.

and the bastard hasn't had alot of it of late.

we're shipping the issue.

i'm ramping up for the next one.

been trying to get home at a reasonable hour so I can help out with my ladyfriend and the bebe.

days blend one into another.

it's a little sad sometimes.

but here I am drinking a glass which translates "devil" from the french.

got a night out.

to have a drink and bullshit with some friends.

next week my ladyfriend gets the same chance to hang out with her peeps.

she should take that chance.

a very wise friend told me that you have to make your own happy, and the bastard tries for his. I'd like to gave some downtime too.

should be good. chin chin jerks.

—the bastard

...on motivational speaking

i was having a conversation with my ladyfriend tonight.

we're in the middle of putting together birth announcements.

and she had remarked on how she doesn't want to do anything too too nutty as our daughter is more of a night sleeper than a day sleeper.

"i'm not gonna go nuts. when am i gonna have the time to do that?", she asks

"you gonna do it anyway". air and light and time and space don't mean a thing.", the bastard responds

"what?"

so i went to the web and grabbed hank's poem about it. i used to have it on my office wall.

it helped the bastard with the "conundrum".

what conundrum do you mean?

well young jerks, it's like this.

you wanna be an artist but you need to pay the bills.

so you get a job.

now you have cash in pocket

but

no time to create.

what to do.

so a really good friend told me about a drunk named hank and this poem that i kept on the wall in my office and at home in my workspace and it was my compass for a long time.

and perhaps sometimes it still is.

air and light and time and space

"–you know, I’ve either had a family, a job,
something has always been in the
way
but now
I’ve sold my house, I’ve found this
place, a large studio, you should see the space and
the light.
for the first time in my life I’m going to have
a place and the time to
create."

no baby, if you’re going to create
you’re going to create whether you work
16 hours a day in a coal mine
or
you’re going to create in a small room with 3 children
while you’re on
welfare,
you’re going to create with part of your mind and your body blown
away,
you’re going to create blind
crippled
demented,
you’re going to create with a cat crawling up your
back while
the whole city trembles in earthquake, bombardment,
flood and fire.

baby, air and light and time and space
have nothing to do with it
and don’t create anything
except maybe a longer life to find
new excuses
for.

i read it to my ladyfriend tonight and it reminded me of a time when the bastard was struggling and he couldn't see the light at the end of the tunnel.

developing film for unappreciative assholes.

designing album packages at 2 in the morning for some shady guy who stills owes me money and moved to vermont.

reminded me because i'm here.

top of my game.

end of the road.

one year later.

i miss my closest buds because they weren't as lucky or they got fed up and left.

still standing. at the end of the tunnel. and i don't know what to do next.

you'd think it was all it's cracked up to be.

and i'm not gonna tell you it ain't

but i ain't gonna tell you it is.

but i'll tell you this,

i would really love to see lobster come into the office in that phillies hat to grub a cuppa coffee these days.

dunno what i'd give for that.

—the bastard

...on throwaways

after an yuletide evening the bastard can best described as well met, my ladyfriend and I settled down for a spell and the bastard tooled away on the virus.

I came across one of those "quizzes" people do on facebook that I did in the place of blogging one night.

Smoke?
used to. sometimes at the craps table

Drink?
yup. double chocolate stout right now

Do Drugs?
nah

Brush Your Teeth?
sure

Sing?
yeah. sometimes more than i should

Dance?
i try but i suck at it

Draw?
i used to to more often but you know, air and light and time and space

Write?
more than i should sometimes

Pick Flowers?
not in a great while

Listen to Oldies?
depends on what you mean by oldies

Drive?
used to love to drive. now it holds no mystery for me. i miss the bike

Speed?
yup

Steal?
all the time.

Shop?
i used to more often but now, it's more like for groceries

Cook?
sometimes

Go Down?
sure

Watch Cartoons?
lots and lots, most of them are subtitled

Eat Spicy Food?
hell's yeah

Listen to Your Parents?
rarely. maybe that's how i turned out this way

Fight?
i fight like hell. and lose most of em

but it was mostly the answers to steal and fight. my ladyfriend quipped that I must really love myself.

and the bastard retorted, "quite the opposite actually but, sometimes I like what I write"

—the bastard

where the rubber meets the road

don't read if this sort of thing gets you worried, please. no. really.


"i should have taken the midtown tunnel", the bastard said to the fireman as he asked me what exactly happened.

"well, you'll know better the next time"

"well i was heading back to manhattan, "

"ok? do you know what day it is?"

"it's sunday, superbowl sunday, and this guy started fishtailing all over the road,"

"ok? do you know who was playing in the game sir?"

"yes (eyes roll), the steelers and the cardiinals, the steelers pulled it off with 2 minutes 35 left on the clock, it was a great play. ANYWAY, so the guy is swerving everywhere and i start downshifting and,"

"ok? sir, do you know who the president is?"

"yes, barry obama" i stop and look hard at joe fucking ensemble cast member of the fx original, rescue me and continue my story. "and just as i'm trying to judge where he's going he slams on his brakes and comes to a stop"

finally, the fireman is satisfied that i know what year it is, the bastard finishes his tale of woe.

really...stop reading now.

"ok? go on."

"so he comes to a dead stop and my bike goes under his car and i go over the trunk"

my thigh stopped me from going any further (props to my knee armor for that).

then i hit the windshield with my head with a resounding pop (the bastard has alot to say about this helmet. thank you so much kevlar helmet) and glass was everywhere.

then i rolled off, onto my feet and all i saw was headlights.

then i saw the bike. she was done and i didn't have time to be sad. what i had was time to get off of the road.

first thing i did was call 911 and then i called my ladyfriend to let her know i was alright.

not too much after that did the ambulance arrive. the firemen told me they were requied to put me on a board but i thought it was a training exercise for their new guys.

let me stop here: the bastard complains alot about procedures but, that's only because i knew that i was okay. i walked away from it and i was lucky and these guys are out there putting their shit on the line so, if they wanted to strap me to a board to make sure i was ok, then i'm ok with it. so that said, i really appreciate that the fire department was the first on the scene and they did their jobs with great efficiency despite my "knowing" i was ok. i'm sure everyone thinks that they are ok when they get up and walk away from it.

the paramedics put me in the ambulance and the younger of the 2 emt's ask me if there is any pain elsewhere and i tell him about the pain in my thigh and he asks me if these are my favorite pants. i just start taking them off and the older emt starts screaming on me about how i have this collar and board here so that i am stabilized and i scream back at him asking him what the hell does he think i'm going home in? my underwear? they acquiesce and i get to keep my pants.

and my pocket knife.

i might have lost the change in my pocket but who cares. i walked away.

i had a similar argument with the trauma ward staff about my sweater. did you see what i look like without a shirt? come on? i'm going home in my jacket and no shirt?

i swear to god. these people are by far the most top notch people in their field.

top notch.

bar none.

but they sure are crazy about their scissors in this field.

apparently dr ricky, found the bastard to be the most entertaining thing to hit the trauma ward all night, so he asked if he could be assigned to me and he was. and i put on a show.

it's a coping mechanism. you see, when you smash into something, you don't have time to get scared. you've almost left your body.

you're watching this on television.

hell, you don't even get to see your life flash before your eyes. it's all bullshit.

so you have nothing left when you're in a trama ward with no pants on and a cut on your chin but, to make jokes. it's all you got.

at 1:30 my ladyfriend calls up to ask me what the status is, and i tell her that i love her and that everything is going to be alright. i feel awful about getting home so late. i'm not even worried about the accident. i'm just worried about getting home.

all throught the ct scan. i don't care about what they find, i just want to go home.

the x-rays on my leg? fuck this, i want to go home to show her that i'm alright.

i call the chairman so he knows. because, it's who i would call, he lived down the block from me for two years and he's family and i owe him alot. he should know i'm ok.


at some point.

after all of my calls. to my lady, my cousin and the boy's mom, the nice lady, i realize that i lost my cross.

the bastard isn't religious.

never have been.

but i had this cross since i was 16. it meant alot to me and tonight, i gave it to the road in exchange for my safety. it's when it all hit me. and i just sat there with my busted helmet on my lap and what was now an empty neck chain. and it hit me hard.

it hit me what i lost.

and what i got to keep tonight.

and as i stepped out into the early morning air at 4:15 am with all my stuff in bags, and the new york city corrections van in front of me, i realized that i was lucky.

lucky things played out the way they did.

lucky that the gear i purchased did their job.

lucky. just fucking lucky. stupid and lucky and glad to have the wind still blowing in my face.

i usually thank god for small shit. not getting fired. getting me home before the rain starts. for good friends. for good timing. hell, for good times. but i was just thankful i could walk away and ride another day.

—the bastard

incident on the goethals bridge

the bastard gets lost everytime he goes to new jersey.

it's like a black hole sometimes.

so even with a gps, sometimes the bastard needs to follow someone.

mostly because leads the bastard into ass backwards routes that waste my time in that state.

so i followed my ladyfriend's dad to the jersey turnpike.

only i somehow lost consciousness and we were about to get onto the goethals bridge.

so i made an illegal u-turn. which wasn't the brightest move. now this had us sitting with alot of traffic bearing down on us and this really nice lady in a chrysler let us in. and it pissed off alot of people.

particularly some mid life crisis having asshole who yelled "asshole" at me from his red convertible mustang as he floored it afterwards heading towards south jersey (yeah i know) and while he was right (he sure did tell me), he's still an asshole.

so thanks so much nice lady in the chrysler. you made our day. and fuck you mid life crisis in the mustang, regardless of what you drive, you are still a douchebag. and i am still a bastard and that's what really counts, isn't it?

—the bastard

it's effing saturday…

…so the bastard is on walkabout.

so my ladyfriend is back from the hinterland and here I am riding the rails with the outer state teenage ugg army.

you think these girls could at least get different colors to keep me entertained.

oh well… the idle rich folk's kids.

yawnz.

ok where was I?

right. getting the car via our lovely mass transit system.

and

my head feels like it's been kicked in

but,

at least a man has his freedom

and his honeydew list. ahhhh domestic bliss.

—the bastard

...really?

the bastard's pockets were empty.

took the second avenue bus home.

while waiting a man who smelled of three day old liquor starts up with me.

"what?"

"you know how much that sammich cost?"

while looking over at the sign that clearly states, "five dollar foot long", the bastard looks at him square and declares, "I have no idea".

"well you see, ahm from crown heights"

(so what), "oh?"

"and they won't take mah public assistance here"

"that's messed up guy"

"so what ahm saying is, I'd like some help to buy a sammich"

(this entire dialog would be more plausible if you didn't REEK of alcohol) "sorry guy, I'm tapped"

"lies"

"really? my wallet is fucking empty guy. I had to nick a fiver from my ladyfriend to pay for dinner at the hospital"

and he rolls off to accost the lady in front of me and all the while, I'm thinking, "fuck you jerkpiece, I got nothing".

well that and how much I suspected that he wasn't buying a 5 dollar foot long.

addiction is a disappointing thing.

—the bastard