full contact

"like a dog lying in the corner

they bite you without a warning, lookout

—pulp"

once upon a time…

Chicago jerkface told me a story about his brother the filmmaker…

he used to deliver pizza in a car with a bumper sticker on it he made himself that read…

"fuck with me and find out"

so one night, the filmmaker is doing his rounds…

and some guy has been following him all over shytown…

he makes a left…

this guy makes a left…

he makes a right…

well, I'll save you the trouble. you get it. 

eventually, he pulls over on the side of the road and this guy stops as well and gets out of the car… 

the filmmaker asks him what his problem is…

he gets in his face and yells, "I'm finding out!"

some days this is my commute. 

tonight, the sebbentrain was all kinds of crowded and this is sometimes my lot…

so I accept this as the known quantity and squeeze in… 

I've gotten good at it. 

last night a man who was shaped like a bowling pin nearly popped my arm out of its socket with his girth alone…

but this is the price one pays to live on stop into the liquid city. 

tonight, I'm running especially late… 

southam is going on vacay tomorrow and the wife is having a girls night out and I'm in an important meeting so I get to running home. 

greeting crowded train I say to myself as I pull a few of my heisman trophy earning moves together on the sebben…

as I mill on I feel a hand lightly touch my back…

this turns into a push…

which turns into a shove…

which turns into the bastard quickly grabbing this hand and twisting it quickly to one side…

which turns into a small Asian woman taking her hand back and I'm sure she was: 

A: glad to have her hand back

B: surprised as hell that the big bald guy could snatch his hand behind himself and foil such jackassery

I'd like to think that going forward, she may think better of such foolishness but I fear that too many folks are working their lizard brain when they get on that train. 

—the bastard

life in these long island cities

last night was not the bastard's finest hour as a parent...

during the summer...

every tuesday in the liquid city is free music night on the east river....

and the hood turns out for fun and sundown.

so...

my daughter, the tyrant is running around playing with kids...

and the bastard is on point...

and i get surrounded by screaming urchins while playing paparazzo to my daughter...

and i politely reply to there lack of personal space respect and caterwauling with whatever entertaining absurd response comes to mind...

make a game of it...

it all sounds like screaming screamey screams anyway.

after a bit, the bastard decides to set himself up with an ice cream and enjoy the mediocre stylings of the band when i see the tyrant come screaming out of the fray...

and she looks visibly upset...

so i'm off like a shot with my dip top in hand...

"what happened monkey?"

"those boys, they bothering me"

"which ones?"

"over dare" (the nanny is from the caribbean. she says things like dare and tings alot).

so i scoop her up and storm over knowing full well that the two screaming boy standouts from earlier were no doubt the culprits.

"which...ones?" and she gestures at the blond urchin who had been screaming at me earlier and his ape of a partner in crime who i will also call urchin.

i squat down and in my usual tone tell the blond urchin to leave my daughter alone

his partner who is clearly older pipes up in his best, "raised by parents who don't give a fuck about his kids shit behavior" and tells me, "why do "AYE" have to leave her alone?"

the bastards eye grow smaller as i turn to face and tell him pointedly, "because she is my daughter, and i say so"

then frau bruha shows up and is clearly the blond urchin's antithesis of a helicopter parent as she had been up until this point making time with someone's father, asks me if there is some kind of problem.

"yes, these boys have upset my daughter"

"well they are just kids. you can't go around scaring kids", frau bruha responds

"well, i apologize if i scared your kid but, these boys upset my daughter", i continue. "and i will not apologize for my tone"

i get up and i go back to my ice cream all the while walking with the gate of one who isn't going to suffer any further bullshit this god eve.

the thought i had the whole time is, at what point do we stop letting 3 and 4 year olds settle up shit with one another? they are incapable of reason at that age.

and i concluded that you don't. your kid gets upset...

you shut it down and eat your goddam ice cream.

—the bastard

long way round…

the bastard has been working on his new policy…

while always working in my 'not dying' policy…

I'm working diligently on my 'not killing' policy. 

and by 'not killing'…

I mean you. 

yeah you. 

so I go out of my way to sit out back when there are bros on the back porch…

so I can learn to deal with the mating call of the bro. 

and when the subway goes to hell…

I just try to execute plan b without executing you. 

case…

meet…

point. 

ok shiteyes: it's a well known fact that if there is a sick passenger blocking train traffic in both directions it means someone fell on the tracks…

or…

that there is a Sasquatch menacing people at queensborough plaza. 

so I take the 6 to the E knowing full well that the 7 will run by the time I've gotten to the Citicorp building. 

and true to form…

that is precisely what happened. 

and no one died. 

mostly because I assume the Sasquatch at queensborough plaza was contained before he/she could hurt anyone (it's a fact: sasquatches are he/she's; look it up) but more importantly because I didn't kill you. 

I took my time and mosied my way home. 

your welcome. 

now if only 9:00 could arrive soon enough so the kind folks at he bar could get that caterwauling bitch off the back porch, Long Island city will once again be safe for humans

—the bastard

protip...

hey brovvah…

bro…

brozah…

here's a tip…

make some goddam room guy.

I understand that you're all puffed up from playing backgammon on your iPhone…

but folks need room to stand in this spot you're taking up part of…

and by folks…

I mean me.

so scoot over bro…

suck in that chest…

you look like one of those jockey jocks with your khakis and your kegger softball wrap around glasses that let you role play your gay assed wade bogs fantasy cosplay.

and play something less weak than backgammon on your iPhone. 

mother fuckers are playing temple run these days, don't you have eyes?

—the bastard

tuesday morning contest of wills…

the elf one time told me why he couldn't stand his sister's driving habits…

she'd be on the grand central parkway…

in the passing lane…

at 50 mph…

because that's the speed limit. 

and it didn't matter that she was creating massive gridlock because everyone who uses the passing lane as the grey area it is for driving rules (read: it's for passing) because 50mph was the speed limit and they can go around her. 

this morning: the 6 train rolls in and despite the platform being clearly marked where you need to stand…

it rarely stops exactly in place… 

so when it does, the bastard has to move to one side…

cue 'jowels' here. 

he ain't moving…

so I lean back and he ultimately eats my elbow or perhaps his stomach does. 

I don't recall. 

but we both get on. 

and jowels?

well he sidles up. 

perhaps he's read my subway playbook…

perhaps he thins he has his own subway playbook…

perhaps he didn't read the chapter on not getting too close to the animals… 

perhaps he could have avoided riding with my knee in his rib cage…

or was it his whale blubber…

one can't be too sure these days. 

moral of the story is…

we should all give in a little…

—the bastard

...on handbags

this morning...

the weather has moved on but, the humidity has decided to stick around for now.

the bastard is always delighted when a weather system can stick around in the capacity to make him sweat alot but not enough to keep all those dicks on the bar's back porch indoors.

magical...

but i digress...

barely made it onto the 7 when i crash straight into faux pas number 537 on the subway...

step into the car

followed by faux pas number 63...

not stowing your fucking luggage...

now the bastard isn't a cold unfeeling creature...

no wait...

he is...

but he understands the value of a good louis vuitton shopping tote, even it it is a knock, he understands it...

and he understands the value of a longchamp tote of equal or greater size but one should stow them  properly. they are bags, not frikkin people bumpers.

and why the hell do you need two enormous overpriced totes anyway?

are you going away on a thursday for a long weekend of jackassery?

but nonetheless, there i was with the two designer duffel bags and my umbrella...

propping it up...

and she is not happy...

but i remembered tell chicago jerkface my musings about people and polite society from a while back and decide that this is the course of action to take.

next leg...

6 train...

new bag in my back...

new course of action...

leaning.

i've decided that you can't always fight the good fight about this sort of thing so one can go the other route and use a bag as a piece of furniture.

more comfortable that way. at least for me it is.

oh look...

it's started raining again. perhaps it'll last long enough to keep my evening quiet.

but i don't buy it.

you see what i did there didn't you?

rhyming...

look that shit up jerk.

—the bastard

life in these Long Island cities…

the other night when I was heading to the after party I noticed on a crisp cool night there was an abundance of fat bearded guys in shorts walking around in flips flops toward the bar that moved in behind me.

these guys, while looking a great deal like the fat bearded guy from the t. show revolution are a considerate lot.

they drink their beer on the back patio and they keep it down. occasionally they pipe up slightly while having one of those god is dead but he was short really short conversations.

but lic has a different species of vermin that plagues the bar that moved in behind me.

gymrats.

gymrats are in shape…

gymrats like to work out together then sit on the back Latino and yell loudly about leg day…

gymrats have too much meat between their ears to have that moment of clarity that the rest of the borough of queens doesn't want to hear your "thoughts in air quotes" on whatever it is passes for thinking in your pea sized brains.

I imagine since they live here, they work in finance or marketing or some manner of high paying job that affords them the ability to live here.

but I prefer the fat bearded atheists over them most of the time.

—the bastard

always roll hard…

it's become a known quantity for the bastard…

crowded 7 trains are crowded.

the other known quantity is that a crap ton of people get off of the 7 train at the first two stops in the borough most thorough…

so the other other known quantity is that everyone who is getting off at those stops are as superstitious as a new Guinean cannibal getting his photo taken when it comes to the suspicion that if I step into the car at time square, there is NO WAY I'm going to be able to traverse the three feet to the door in time without saying 'excuse me' so I must stay in the middle of the car.

you see, saying "excuse me" may cause one 7 years of bad luck or something.

so getting home is all asses and elbows for the bastard.

tonight I push in and this little man who looked like a 4 foot tall aiden Quinn didn't want to step in.

well… no one did really even though there clearly was room to do so and aiden straightens up to push back but to no avail.

I roll in hard.

he turns around to give the stink eye but he gets one look at the outfit and sheepishly steps into the car.

you see,

I'm a little overweight and I have a touch of the asthma so all I have at the moment is an excellent scowl and the fact that I dress like secret agent skinhead.

hard mod in a trenchcoat

so I just roll hard, look angry at the person I have to push in with and hold my jaw in a manner that says "I will tear your windpipe out with my teeth but in an ironic way"

and one day this may not work on people anymore…

but it does now…

and oddly enough…

mini aiden Quinn was able to make it the three feet to the door without having to says "excuse me" or having his soul stolen.

—the bastard

…on offworlders

recently…

my mayor passed away…

and when respected dignitaries shake off this mortal coil…

they find the best quotes from said dignitaries' life.

case meet point…

when asked about living n New York City once, Ed Koch said that everyday he woke up he'd get out of bed and look around and proceed to thank god he was still in New York.

the bastard does this too.

there is some civic pride attached to being a lifelong resident of this Gotham.

flash forward:

this morning's commute was 10 different shades of awful.

I had never been in a position that there were so many people on a platform that I couldn't leave it.

hundreds of angry travelers…

and I kneed one of them full on in the chest because they were swinging at people and I'm just not the one

but when the 6 train full of fail finally turned up…

we spilled into the car and folks just kept on coming

and some awful offworlder…

in trendy aviators and with the smugness of a transplant with a trust fund blurts out.

"new York city is a shithole on so many levels"

and I think to myself in response, "leave then"

leave oklasota…

go back to whatever Midwestern backwater that spawned you and your fucking horse toothed mug and go there to stay…

leave my city if it sucks so badly for you…

I'm sure shit was SO much better for you in whatever New York junior crap stand shit you out onto the road and into my streets.

go home…

go back there. we're so sorry that a day long police investigation fucked up the 6 train and is messing with your fake tan…

go back to wherever it is you came from…

and filth up my home no longer…

and we can just add 'jerk' for good measure because I likes the word jerk.

—the bastard

it didn't even last two days…

doctor martens 1460 boot…

with bouncing soles…

protects against alkali, oil, water, whoops…

watch that last step…

it's a loo loo…

"sorry man"…

"take it easy guy. watch where you're goin"…

"I slipped pal so relax guy… and I said I'm sorry"…

"I didn't hear you"…

"so take the shit outta your ears then"…

"you have a nice day" (this is f.l.i.d. speak for fuck you)

"you too pal"…( I speak f.l.i.d. too so, fuck you right back old man)…

two days into this and the bastard is already getting into shit with the suburbs.

they can't fix my building fast enough

—the bastard

tourist watching

tourists are so cute when the take pictures with their iPads…

it brings the douchiness to a new level.

unfortunately, the bastard didn't get that…

instead I got this Gallic douchebag and his Yankee hat rather than some the other mook pressing her iPad against the glass to take a picture of Jamaica queens on her way out of the capital of the world.

slow bastard is slow…

but, I got a laugh out of it so go to hell.

—the bastard

shuttle bus of smells

flying on a budget is hell the bastard tells you.

HELL!

three trains to the airport?

seamless.

flight from jfk to Boston?

by the numbers

connecting flight from Boston to Phoenix?

well let's just say that Logan international needs to get its shit together. and it's fucking hard to sleep on a plane when someone else's kid has the fucking night terrors on the plane.

cobras!

COBRAS!

has the bastard told you that hell is other people's kids?

except mine. my kids are frikkin SAINTS.

it's true. ask my kids.

but now we're in the desert and now I'm in this van that smells like sweat and tobacco and sadness.

you wanna know what the down economy smells like?

it's this van. and it comes with a goddam trailer too.

I'm the only jackass in this tin can but my suitcase has to ride in the trailer along with the meth lab.

good times.

no

GREAT times.

— the bastard

…cycle

that was twice.

twice tonight that two different illustrators have made light of the fact that the bastard is up at midnight.

answering email.

trying to get shit done.

you sir are a workaholic a new guy called me.

I've already convinced the other seasoned pro that I never sleep.

don't get me wrong.

I do after I get shit done.

and wait out the voices.

but you see,

I've become a victim of circumstances.

a self fulfilled prophecy.

a man with post traumatic stress disorder.

a goddam idiot too.

I let the toddler get to me when he tried to do me in.

it has me up at night.

like how Sunday nights kept me up at night a log time ago.

I've told me new boss about my circumstances and he says 'it's in the past mate'

but it ain't.

it's with me everyday and I can't let it go.

and I know for shy sure that it's not healthy.

doesn't make it go away anymore.

every night, I live the last 12 months over and over again and all I can do to drown it out is work.

then go home and work some more.

and relive it again and again and again.

stupid old man. stupid lucky old man.

my brother comes tomorrow and I feel relieved to have a break from my mental problems.

my only regret is that I can't stay out til 6am to exorcise these demons that come to me on my balcony every night to tell me I'm fired.

stupid fucking demons. please don't come to the gun show. I don't have it in me to hold it together around you. I may have to punch you in the face.

—the bastard

…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 office space

the bastard leads an exciting life.

no really.

he does.

so much so, he buys a bottle of whiskey on a thursday night and proceeds to do his laundry.

only, there was an oddity tonight.

no. not the whiskey.

it was the woman working on her computer in the laundry room.

now I had no idea that we leased out office space in our bread baking/ roach bait smelling basement

or that the laundry room was also our corporate suites.

but, this wrecked my clothes washing rhythm.

yeah.

that's all I got. go die.

—the bastard

…on vacations

you ever get the feeling that you should have stayed in bed?

your home state?

yeah. me too.

you see, the baby has a stomach virus.

and we made the decision that riding said virus out would be better in a two bedroom house in a sprawling development in west palm beach would be a better plan than flushing three airplane tickets down the toilet and enjoy said virus in our not so sprawling 350 square foot studio apartment.

not the best set of options but, I stick by my decision.

it's sunny and the baby is sleeping and for five minutes, a bastard can get some peace and quiet.

—the bastard

countdown…

t minus… who the hell even knows.

regularly, the wife im's me with some new fresh hell that cokes attached to the home buying process.

the mortgage broker is wound up all kinds of tight.

too tight for her taste. and we're both tightly wound.

but it's like the death of a thousand cuts except they remove information from the flesh of our paperwork and them come back with questions.

apparently because my evil ant overlords have changed payroll companies two or three times, he cannot divine that I have held down this job since 2002.

umm your husband has been part of evil ant publishing since 2009.

between the understanding gap and the tense, it isn't what a bastard could call fun.

don't get me wrong.

the ends totally justify the means, it's just short term annoying.

…end rant here…

—the bastard

tragic or magic

quite frankly, the bastard doesn't get it.

when did the disconnect happen?

at what pout did it become socially acceptable to dress like a well pressed hobo when you get on a plane?

take this person here all rockin some ugly looking nikes with argyle socks and her 1980's adidas nylon track pants.

she's got a little bit of the captain in her too.

what the hell?!

is it tragic?

or is it magic?

or is it symptomatic of a greater problem in today's flight culture?

I wonder if we've just gotten lazy as a culture or perhaps this has been a colossal passive aggressive statement on the decline of the luxuriousness of air travel.

I could ponder this or let the 4 fingers of bakers do it's work.

hrm. the bastard chooses the latter.

—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

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