…on travesties

OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD!

WHY?!? WHY?!? WHY?!? WHY?!? WHY?!? WHY?!? WHY?!? WHY?!? WHY?!? WHY?!? WHY?!? WHY?!? WHY?!? WHY?!? WHY?!? WHY?!? WHY?!? WHY?!? WHY?!? WHY?!?

—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

ball park franks

the bastard liked it much better when air travel was less with airport safety theatre and more with less crowded flights.

row 36 only meant crap seats in a theatre back in those salad days.

flying to and fro in the down economy is delightful.

especially when the old ass flight attendant jams her ass into my elbow because she should have spent more time on a treadmill.

don't get me wrong, I'd say the same thing if I was a man.

I just don't enjoy the goddam aisle seat is all.

air travel sour grapes it is.

that's all.

—the bastard

the bastard's 7 steps for a completely fulfilling life

step 1: get divorced.

step 2: have your son move 2500 miles west of you.

step 3: put yourself into massive debt so that you can only really see him for only two months a year more or less.

step 4: get told by your boss that you can no longer bring your son who you only see 2 months a year and have put yourself into massive debt in order to have a relationship with.

step 5: seeth. do this alot.

step 6: die a little bit inside every day until you can't take anymore.

that's all

oh wait, i forgot

step 7: feel completely impotent to do anything about it. that's an important step.

you see, normally, i never want to complain about work but, it's not been a good ride this year. and this is just the trappings of it come home to roost. normally, i'd take my own piece of free advice and not end up like that person at glamour who got shitcanned for writing about their job but, i sort of don't care today because, every day i feel like i'm going to wake up and my son will be a stranger to me and it scares me to death.

so maybe the dole might be a little bit better today.

—the bastard

precipice

flashback: "what will you do if something goes wrong?"

"nothing will go wrong.", the bastard replie

"but what if? what would you do?" prodded my ladyfriend

"I've been doing this for 8 years this year. the process is bomb proof. nothing can go wrong."

flash forward: I pull into the garage, tired and a little loagy from the evening's repast. door open I fiddle for the garage keys and I see my daughter's butterfly toy that she has been enjoying as most 4 month olds do.

grab it to put it in my pocket and

close

the

door.

damn.

panicked, the bastard races to his old apartment to look for the set that the mofo uses but to no avail.

and he ain't home.

I call the local precinct but instead see a cop car backing up continental ave.

panting the officer asks me if I'm okay, looking concerned and perhaps had his hand on the piece just in case junkies wear trenchcoats these days.

officer bald and cautious apologizes as the po pos no longer carry slim jims and advises me to call a towing company apologizing again and wishing me luck.

sidebar: in today's age of information, one can procure the means to call a towing company quite quickly with a little iPhone app called "yelp". it has gotten the bastard from here to Kansas city and back and will presumably help feed me in the coming days

but tonight, it got my car open for me.

and to the little fella with the heat miser hair who is no doubt losing the cash I gave him in Atlantic city tonight as I type this, the bastard says thanks.

hunched over the couch, typing this, instead of getting the 4 hours of sleep I'll be getting shortly here I am chiding myself.

bombproof?

nothing will go wrong?

fuck that. this may be the year it all goes to hell.

and there I'll be.

riding that shit into the ground like slim pickins in dr strangelove.

yippy Kai yay mother fucker.

see you on the strip

—the bastard

hell is other people...

...again.

you know,

the bastard really didn't sign on this morning to listen to you shout massage instructions to your husband

"lower!"

"lower!"

"lower!"

"good"

"now move yer elbow to the right"

oh, flying. at least you're never boring.

—the bastard

...on seeing it coming

you ever have that feeling that you see trouble coming?

you can see it but, you can't seem to do anything about it?

well you COULD do something about it but, you don't.

and now your stuck waiting longer than you'd like to.

yeah. me too.

damn.

—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

the bastard has to axe you

have you her had one of those days,

where you get to work,

and because you're heading out on vacation, there's NO way you can get out early.

only to find out the practically everything you own has gotten rained on?

yeah, me too.

-the bastard

the bastard has seen the future

shaking off last night's aperitif (or two) was simplicity itself.

you see, the bastard has a secrete formula for keeping the hangover at bay.

funny thing is, i was going over this with the accountant on saturday night.

i take 3000 mg of vitamin c, a vitamin b12 pill and wash it down with one of those booster drinks from trader joes. oh yeah and i drink a fuck ton of water.


anyway, i'm walking to the train this morning and the bastard has gotten accustomed to the rubes who are in a hurry. the hood has taken measures to slow these goofballs down in the form of stops signs that they ignore so that they can floor it to beat the traffic lights that the town installed to slow drivers down.

so it's a nonstop cavalcade of cocksuckery walking around as some folks are in a rush to get to their teaching jobs (how do i call that one? A: four schools within a mile of my front door and B: have you seen what teachers drive these days?), or parents in a rush to get their precious cargo to school and so they can get to their jobs, not to mention, people that actually work in the neighborhood or are using the neighborhood as a shortcut to stay off of main streets.

ok. exhale.

anyway, as i crossed a street en route (it doesn't really matter where but, it was in the gardens), i hear the tell tale creaking of tires followed by acceleration, followed by a guy on a bicycle yelling,

"hey you're driving too fahst" (he had a british accent).

and it reminded me of how grandpa used to stand out on his dock getting ready to go out on the water and as a boat would rip by, he would blow a whistle, wave his hands and yell,

"no wakes"

i had to wonder, with this in mind, is this where i'm headed. it doesn't help that i get really indignant about stuff. oh well, i best invest in a big ass whistle.

—the bastard

...on getting pinched

well, the bastard has put it off for 6 months.

and i started making the obligatory phone calls.

but the county of craptastic queens has me in their clutches.

i have jury duty.

and i have to go lest i do time in the pokey for criminal contempt.

the crying shame is, i started shipping the magazine next week so, this shit has to end fast.

so it's like this.

i'm going to court tomorrow. and if something good happens, i'l put it on the bastard feed.

if not,

i'll do nothing,

and you folks can go suck eggs. deal?

—the bastard

...on the longest wait ever

the bastard loves his neighborhood.

he really does.

but while he does.

he sometimes sees it's inherent flaws.

there is a blogger i go to on a regular basis. and sometimes i take his suggestions.

and sometimes i wish i didn't like tonight.


the chairman and i went to the bonfire grill on austin street once and it was one of the best burgers i've had for a great while.

the chairman and i went back a few weeks later and the burger was still good but the service was fucking abominable and we decided to not go back until they work out the kinks.

we went back again tonight and once again, the burger was fantastic, dare i say, better than the first time.

but,

there was no reason for us to wait over an hour for the burger. not even for a burger that could change the world. and this is the problem with the hood.

you see, forest hills is in a state of becoming...potentially.

and nice restaurants have moved in because, they want manhattan style eateries.

but they don't give manhattan style service. the bastard has spoken about this with regard to a certain overly praised pizza place on ascan avenue which shall remain nameless and it's plain and simple.

you have to step up.

look, we gave the waiter a proper tip when all was said and done (even thought he was astonished and told his coworker so as the chairman walked right past him as he was flummoxed by the fact that these two guys actually tipped him. by the by john our waiter, bad move dick), it wasn't his fault. tonight it was the kitchen.

it's a hamburger. you're not saving lives. well maybe you could have but i nearly expired on the chair waiting for it. the bastard won't be going back for a while. it's a shame, it's a good burger.

—the bastard

spoiling

so for a change of pace, my commute sucked ass.

it was one of those days where i guess one late train makes for a full ass platform.

which makes for a crowded train.

which makes for a lot of inconsiderate behavior infringing on your morning.

the bastard wasn't going to get into the asshole who used me as a piece of furniture until i tugged his chinese language newspaper. but while looking for links to posts where i complain about the subway (which number in the thousands apparently), i came across a picture of this dick. i even wrote haiku about him.

where there you go.

so i nice he did it twice. kind of takes the wind out of the sails of the post but in a nutshell, all of you on the r train and the 6 train this morning suck at life. now lets be fair, only the commute from 8:30-9:20. and the front car of the r. back car of the 6. the rest of you may suck at life but i wasn't talking about you. try to keep up.

—the bastard

...on crosses to bear

easter sunday.

the bastard gets up at the crack of dawn to go to church with the boy.

father and son stuff.

let me save you the trouble of asking.

lightning didn't strike.

the ground didn't open up.

the hosts of hell didn't come up to claim what is rightfully their property like i've always suspected they would. however, one minister looked like mike ditka and the other looked like the lead singer of the bosstones.

don't be disappointed, it'll happen for me one day.

dad'll be so proud.

at least when i get there, i'll be warm.

so i get out of the rental and i look up the parking lot to the big rusted cross where the worship is taking place.

i approach the fist of kung fu to get my mass program but, then i look up and see this on top of the church and i see this:


the bastard had to wonder. so i ask the fist, "ummmm hey fist?"

"how's it going?"

"pretty good but, i was wondering"

"how was your flight?"

"good, is that a cell tower on the cross?"

then the fist of kung fu makes himself a big ole smile and shakes his head. "yeah, it is."

then he spins a brief tale about it.

you see, the fist is pretty active in his church. so he's friend's with pastor ditka and one day while walking the grounds he explains to the fist that they had the roof repaired or something done to the sunday school or something and he pointed out the new cross on the roof and the fist asked the same question. pastor ditka gave him the same answer.

"wow, it sure did look like one", i repled. "i just had to ask. it kind of gives a new meaning to the phrase can you hear me now?"

now let me say off the bat here that , i would never begrudge a church the means to keep itself afloat. not every church is a catholic church. so, that means that they may not have the vast landholdings and financial resources of the catholic church that come with that. a church can have a cell tower but maybe not a coca cola sign on the church front door perhaps. i don't know. maybe it doesn't matter. maybe it's the worship that matters. on the same token, having a cell tower attached to the cross on top of your church is pretty funny to me.

the bastard is SO going to hell.

—the bastard

has the bastard ever told you...

...hell is travelling with other people.

okay, so the bastard has yet to enmass the kind of wealth to buy a jet and have a carbon footprint like al gore's house.

which reminds me, when has a Nobel prize ever been awarded on television featuring music by melissa etheridge? if that ain't media bias, the bastard doesn't know what is.

but I digress, hell is travelling with other people. try to keep up stupid. it all started out when the bastard discovered eastern european gangsters on line with him. and they litter too. I guess vigo mortensen was totally off the mark because he didn't toss his empties on the frikken ground instead of the handy trash recepticle 5 feet away. I guess be didn't want to tip off the tsa by having a loaded empty bottle of water.

in out next thrilling episode, the bastard drowns out women who finish all sentences in question form with the velvet underground. it begs the question of what's worse, enduring two asian girls with oily skin yammer on about boys and otaku or a tone deaf german chanteuse warbling about all tomorrows parties (which was a hell of a book). my money is on nico. at least she didn't look all shiny from eating too many potato chips, just tranked out from too much heroin.

-the bastard

...on the longest slice ever

...in which the bastard lays into a local favorite.

sometimes, ok, well most times, on the weekend, the bastard goes out to lunch with the chairman.

and most of the time, it's not exactly walking distance. so i hop into the magical jeep and he asks,

"whatcha eatin?"

and i felt like pizza, so i said "dee's"

so he says okay and instead we head to nick's. now nick's is a very good pizza place but i was thinking dee's because it was closer.

but we went to nick's.

at 3 in the afternoon.

and it was crowded. but not crowded because there was too many people. because the staff is kind of...

well...

lazy.

at this point, as the crowd is en massing, the bastard is being pushed into the eating area which prompted a bunch of young investment banker types to switch from speaking in english to saying "excuse me" as i am WAY too close to their dining experience and iphone/penis comparisons, to speaking in russian. i would imagine about how annoying it is to have my trenchcoat in their lunch.

in retrospect, it might be better this way insomuch as, if i had to listen to them talk about me in the third person in english might have prompted me to punch the poor sap in the face.

and that would have ruined lunch.

but it did prompt the chairman and i to speak at length about how this place might well have to get it's act together if equivalent competition moved in close by. i mean that's the thing both nick's and dee's are in pretty remote locations on their respective blocks on opposite sides of the fhills. hell, opposite sides of the tracks. but, the fact of the matter was, we had to bus our own table and the jackass had the nerve to make a joke about it. it was annoying. and the bastard was hungry. and while the pizza was good (really good actually), it ain't that good that i'm willing to put up with it often.

at least when i go to dee's in the afternoon, the place ain't crowded. oh well, go to hell.

—the bastard

...on seeing it

LAST NIGHT: "you know bastard, i'm very concerned about how i'm going to get to las vegas on saturday"

"howso chairman? oh wait. yeah. the snow"

"yeah"

"well like anything weather wise in this town, i'll believe it when i see it. then again, i'm saying this with the ground condtions being right for snow to stick but, i'll believe it when i see it."

THIS MORNING: "well, that sure looks like snow all right", says the bastard as he accidentally kicks his air cleaner to the ground, completely crushing all hope of hitting the snooze button and getting another 10 minutes before i face the day.


HIT THE GROUND RUNNING: the bastard has this pair of boots from redhead that i got from the snowman but were worn by this man in a photoshoot for killing stuff monthly. but hell, free is free and they are spectacular in the snow. notsomuch with the indoors though.


ER, I MEAN SLIDING: transfer point.

took a chance. the ny1 said that there were signal problems up and down the 6 line but, i don't want to walk in these boots, i've worn them like 4 times tops and the lack of breaking in is grinding on the backs of the bastard's feet. oww.

down the stairs towards downtown. and down the bastard goes. you ever heard that sound a picket fence makes when you run a stick across it? yeah that's the one. all the way down the downtown stair i go. thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, WHUMP. ow! my aching ass! a woman who's having a case of the crazy hair turns around and asks the bastard,

"are you alright?"

headphone comes out," yeah, sure. that was delightful. did that sound as good as it felt?"

crazy hair smiles, "yeah", chuckles, and it's back to the business of getting work and the little mexican elves who make egg sandwiches for me. owwww, i hurt now.


ON THE SIX: a giant fat man in a trench coat gets in behind me. he has so much carcass. how the fuck does he get around like that? does he live on a steady diet of entire horses? he looks like nikita kruschev ate two whole nikita kruschevs to become the nikita kruschev that gets to walk THIS earth instead of the 3 other earth's that have giant nikita kruschev eating nikita kruschevs dwelling on them (there can BE only one you know). god, the bastard fucking HATES cannibals.

anyway, nikita, gets off at 42nd but he has to lumber his way through us and he smites this pleasant faced black woman into me. and now he's lumbering like the creature that the boy in akira becomes in the last half hour of the movie and as she's being crushed into me, she smiles and i tell her, "i believe the phrase the gentleman was looking for was "excuse me"". she just smiles and decides to get out of the doorway. nikita looks back for a second, the bastard holds his fingers in a v shape and jams them into my throat looking for a reaction from this fat fuck but he's off the train.

and i'm looking for an egg sandwich. god dammit, my ass hurts. stupid boots.

—the bastard

where's jonny airplanes, special love letter edition

over the weekend, the forever wild bunch met up for our yearly memorial breakfast.

early this year due to jonny airplanes' governmental obligations.

while eating, the bastard was discussing how due to his bringing a shiv in his luggage wherever he goes (come on, you never know who is going to need to be knifed in this country), the transportation safety administration, searches his bag.

also they always leave the bastard a note. it usually reads as follows:

dear bastard,

due to the fact that you've place yet another sharp edged impleeement (they misspell it, government employees and all that) in your rucksack, we had to go through your shit. please accept this little note as a token of our suspiciousness. please also take note that we didb't steal your tequila out of your bag that was wrapped up in your socks (hey, a bastard has to drink you know).

love always,

big brother

so last night, i get a text from jonny airplanes (back in virginia):

"got a love letter"

"from?"

"tsa"

now at this point, i've worked 12 hours so i don't get who tsa is so i text back

"is tsa some chick you met on the plane?"

"in my luggage, tansportation safety assoc"

and then it hits me. i need some sleep.

"made a mess" he finishes up with.

you have to love some of our more federally protected employees. can't even fold his shit up after they look through it. he's out there stealing office supplies for our freedom you know.

—the bastard

...on gridlock

so the new york one tells the bastard that today is a gridlock alert day.

they tells me that you know, it's tourists and whatnot.

holiday shopping and shit.

they tells me that since this is the case, don't take the car jerkpiece, take mass transit.

the crying shame is, no one told mass transit about this condition.

this morning, after a brisk walk to the subway, the bastard was greeted by huge ass crowds on the platform. in my neck of the woods, that means trains are not running on time. the crowd was not having fun. train pulled in 5 minutes after i got there and since the bastard has made a practice of memorizing the exact spot where the doors stop on his little part of the platform, i no doubt did NOT make friends this morning as the last man there, first one in.

fuck you. three cheers for obsessive behavior.

a young russian couple rolled over my feet with a shopping cart full of crapstand tchotchkies. and they did not understand my incredulousness with them as they did it. the weird thing is, i've gone beyond getting angry at this sort of behavior because they have no impetus to be polite. their english os spotty at best and our russian is non existent. i mean aren't we as hosts and hell, as bankrollers of the people who come here supposed to learn their language?

but i digress.

all this crowding got me to thinking about the whole congestion pricing business that is going on here and it makes the bastard wonder, is the city going to even be able to improve mass transit after they set up the bureaucracy to manage congestion pricing? it makes about as much sense as giving each train line it's own manager. it smacks of making more bureaucrats to manage more bureaucracy. ida know, i just make gun magazines.

—the bastard

...on unwinding

after a long ass haul last night the bastard tucked into a meal with the chairman at the restaurant we frequent. when i got home, i put in my netflix movie of the week which was hellboy: sword of storms.

two words.

right hand of doom.

these animated hellboy movies that mike mignolia and guillermo del torro have been putting out in the interim between the first and second hellboy movies has reminded the bastard of how much he can't wait until it comes out next summer. also, pan's labyrinth is pretty goddam good too. well there you have it. next up, talk radio. good times.

—the bastard