...in which the bastard shows you pictures in the least convenient way possible

shot show ain't the mullet fest it used to be. and i don't put it all together like that anymore since i got on the virus that is twitter and facebook and instagram.

so that said,

i have linked as many of these words as possible in order to that it you jerks want a look at the bastard's life on the road you can. or perhaps you can't. either way, i still get whiskey out of the deal so up yours.

—the bastard

…on tossers

once upon a time…

companies were flush with cash…

and they didn't care who showed up in your suite at a convention.

then one year someone pissed the powers that be off and they said, "by invitation only".

this suited the bastard well as if not too many jerks won't be heading into my room...

to steal my team's food...

to mooch off of our resources...

to make me want to stab them in the face.

they even put us in a room that is off to the side.

away from the action so no one would even WANT to come walking in.

but all plans are not foolproof

case...

meet...

point...

this couple walks in and beelines straight for the coffee and snick snax.

i head over to them and ask them if they need any help because it's better to be polite.

the wife scrambles to grab a cup as her man looks his nose down on the bastard and does the slowest...

smuggest...

head shake ever.

slowly shaking his head no, like a fucking boss.

so i step to him, "well this is my press room. you can't be here. get out"

"sorry, i thought we were allowed in here even though we just zipped right in through the back door with no obvious reason to stay in the main room where salespeople are diligently trying to make your company because we thought we were slick. and because we're fucking moochers", he responds.

"no you aren't...get out"

and thus began the consistent parade of  sneaky assholes in "air quotes" who kept darkening my door.

"can i use your computers?"

"no...get out"

"i just thought i'd get a cup of coffee here where i suspected no one was looking"

"there you go with the thinking again chuckles. no...get out"

the bastard even had a guy slink in who actually had a door pass but still saw fit to saunter in. he was retired corps. gave me the stink eye. said he had a pass to be in here. showed me the card.

"that pass isn't for this room, sir. you can't be in here"

then he proceeded to make a scene up front. bitching about the surly bald guy in the back.

"i used to be a marine!"

"that coffee is mine by divine right of kingship"

"i used to eat guys like that for breakfast before i got old"

"i am. I AM! I AM!"


"shut the hell up jerk"

they calmed him down and put up a sign and sent him on his way but not before he spent 20 minutes pacing back and forth past my door to give me the stink eye and it reminded me of my time at the grocery store in the fhills.

old folks would give me shit and expect me to take it and were aghast when i told them what they could do with their effing coupons which was followed by a litany of "respect your elders" bullshit.

the bastard respects his elders but because he tries to step with the good foot. but if you come back with sass you lose that respect. you aren't owed respect for taking up space on this rock for longer than the youth, you get it because you try to be good and give what you get. it isn't foolproof but it's worth trying every time.

then you slap folks with your pimp hand.

—the bastard

P.S. i later found that the retired marine had the door pass because his organization helps disabled veterans so the bastard felt a little sheepish for rolling up on the guy. but, he was still creeping and that shit isn't above board with me.

perhaps a bit early in the morning…

but a bidness trip means a bidness drink

doctor whiskey…

he's not just for breakfast anymore.

—the bastard

its go time…

well my bag is packed…

the gear is charging…

the bastard lies in wait…

like a caged animal.

ready for the big show.

wondering what mayhem will be wrought…

wondering if I will punch the toddler if I see him…

and if the bastard will have enough for bail money after the craps tables bleed him dry.

6 and 8 are great…

whoa peaches…

pants are off…

it's go time…

geronimo

—the bastard

…stigma

the bastard didn't want to comment on the business that took place in my son's hometown last week.

as it upset him.

but one week in.

and on the eve of heading to one of the largest firearms events in the country tomorrow I had to utter a peep about it.

the first thing I did was make sure my son who had met the congresswoman at two separate events in 2010.

congresswoman Gifford was really accessible like that.

the second thing I did was look to see what my most myopic friends on the book of face had to say.

because I pretty much knew I was going to read.

make no mistake.

the bastard fucking knew already.

and said myopics did not disappoint.

that is to say that they in fact lived up to my expectations and said disappointing things.

and I left it like that. you can't tell a person who is full of hate of differing viewpoints and convinced of their own righteousness from their coastal ivory towers that they just don't fucking know.

and I don't know much. but I knew this.

but in light of the ideas being floated by congress in the wake of this bad business I can tell you this.

laws are for people who obey laws.

now I'm gonna pack my shit and get on a plane.

—the bastard

…on tunnel vision

so many dead trees.

so little time.

I think the bastard ceded defeat to his wife on two or three separate disagreements when I got home because I just couldn't care.

all I see are pages and pages and pages.

it took me 40 minutes to believe I was home eating carne asada and not my one flesh as I gnawed it off of my leg trying to break free from an imagined shackle attached to my desk.

and I'm not even halfway there.

I'm not even in the goddam tunnel at this point.

—the bastard

on the lull...

one down.

5 to go.

waiting for a daily map so i can get the daily rolling.

january issue of selling lots and lots of bullets is out.

killing stuff feb issue almost gone.

and just the goddam freight train of convention dailies.

and the february/march issue of bullets.

march issue of killing stuff.

it never ends.

i mean it does but today it doesn't.

—the bastard

the job

done.

fin.

another one in the hopper.

it's nice to be done.

and done early.

big steak night.

—the bastard

...on too much information

you know,

if you're in the bathroom so long

that you need to take a cigarette break in the middle of doing your business,

maybe you need to see a doctor about your messed up intestines.

or maybe not smoke while in the can.

not hating

just saying

—the bastard

...on baked goods

FLASHBACK: a long while ago, chicago jerkface, told me of a magical place in chinatown where there are fantastic buns with barbecued pork inside of them.

he told me the name but, i forgot it.

YESTERDAY MORNING: we're meeting on ave C in sty town. i picked up red beard as he was right by where i grabbed my brekky.

after our lovely learning experience that was the hunter safety course, our teacher offered to take us shooting out east.

hoi, our teacher is a chinese american who is a retired cop, and he speaks like a retired cop from the lower east side, needed breakfast for the ride out east so he got out of his friend's ride to tell us we were going to stop for something to eat at this red awning

it was on avenue c and delancy.

as hoi stepped out of his vehicle, and rolled in to get whatever it is he eats for breakfast and one of my passengers, my asst art director, the little fellow, muttered quietly, "i bet he's going in there to get buns."

and then it hit me, THIS WAS THAT PLACE.

fong da. the place where the pork buns are. the bastard throws open the door and immediately tells the little fellow to go get some, this is the place, go get some.

the bastard usually isn't the sort to just bark out orders but, when it hits you like a slap in the head, you have to react.

later that day, it made for the perfect lunch like snack. good times.

—the bastard

...on smoke

...and firearms

spent the day in the studio.

shooting guns.

but not in the way you think.

by the end of the day, the bastard was, in a word, "PUNCHY".

we were also shooting an opener.

which brings us to the quandry of, how do you make a shotgun smoke without firing it in a photo studio in commecticutt?

our man in ct asks me if i smoke and i make that face that says i did but i don't anymore. at least not unless there's dice involved.

so we sent our man's assistant to buy a pack of djarums from the smoke shop.

and for two hours she was lying on the floor, ok her stomach, blowing smoke up the barrel of this pricey firearm so we could duplicate a smoking gun.

all in the name of journalism. it's gonna look good. i still like my job.

—the bastard

one piece

got on the ground.

I can see the skyline from here.

it'll be good to get the city back under my feet.

also, it'll be nice to be able to potentially ride in cabs NOT driven by fucking highwaymen.

the snow looks good too.

—the bastard

...on rush jobs

welcome to jet blue everybody.

now everyone get in the fucking plane with much quickness.

we got some fresh hell for all y'alls up there so we want to get you there asap.

fucking yay!

—the bastard

...on weird beards

mullets were thin this year.

the bastard thinks that they have sen their day down here in floriduh.

but the duck commander never disappoints.

he's this guys who has a successful series of duck hunting videos and he was at the gun show with his entourage.

and their beards were glorious.

that's what the bastard has. more to come.

—the bastard

...on hard targets

dr dre saw this from the floor and snapped it for me.

very disturbing.

very.

—the bastard

...on escapes

so

it's like this

the bastard is flying home this morning.

i'll have a little more on the trip when iget back.

situations didn't allow for as much jackassery to get put down here.

not enough staff. it's the last leg of a very long journey that started at the end of october and the bastard is tired.

—the bastard

...on chatter

traffic,

at least what passes for traffic in orlando holds the bastard up this morning.

then there is the inevitable chatter of folks in this biz having their early morning convention small talk.

"hi, how's your show going?"

"great how's your show going?"

"super. well I have to get to the show. enjoy your show."

"you enjoy your show too. have a great show."

"thanks, you enjoy your show too today."

"thanks, enjoy your show."

and it goes on and on and on and on.

then they have to pop the trunk and get their gun crap out of the car.

it never ends.

—the bastard

...on bonus batter

the bastard woke up this morning and his skull hurt

stupid gin.

i get into the elevator to meet my staff in the lobby and my copy chief is in the elevator.

and so is sam waterston.

again.

i was hurting,

so was he while he held his big assed fruit basket so i couldn't muster it up again.

but here it is for your viewing pleasure



because robots are strong.

—the bastard

...on robots

day one lasted 12 and a half hours.

the bastard was spared an evening of industry chicken sadness.

got cuban food for dinner instead.

long story short, it was delicious.

came back to the hotel bar to get drinks with the heads of state.

and sam waterston ( yes sam waterston from law and order) and we make eye contact.

and i look right at him and say, because robots are strong"

he falls out.

the bastard falls out.

and Sam keeps on walking.

totally worth it. I'm the bass player's hero

the bastard wins again

-the bastard

...on linguistics

ithynkaymgonnasaywhatisay.

ah says ay think aym gonna say what aye say when aye say.

st john student sitting behind me. ahhhh air travel

—the bastard