to ben

one guy i always thought had the perfect blend of crazy and versatile was dennis hopper.

i admired him since i first saw in apocalypse now, and i loved him in easy rider, rebel without a cause, blue velvet and hell, for anything i ever saw him in. i even loved his work in crappy movies.

i also felt he was a kindred spirit in a way. he went one way in life and things changed, and he went another. so did i.

i will miss his crazy eyes.

—the bastard

...on death by misadventure

the bastard us laying a bit lower tonite.

yes lobster, you know where I'm going with this.

a part of me died tonite.

as I ordered for what may be the last time,

sauza hornitos

shaken cold

with training wheels

at under the volcano.

the waitress said that they have new owners.

so there's new lights.

too much light for the bastard's taste.

the santa ria idol by the tap is gone.

the Spanish words that spoke the opening passage to malcolm lowry's novel for which this storied bar is named.

all gone.

antiseptic. it made everything seem more

you know,

sad.

the bastard loved this bar as it was but, now it isn't and it names me sad. even the beautifully hand written graffiti telling employees to wash their hands is gone.

I'm sure I'll go back again. it's not like I'm going to not drink tequila anymore.

it just won't be the bar the bastard went to to drink with friends,

and celebrate,

and commiserate,

and tell stories,

and to get numb.

it's someone else's now.

bummer.

—the bastard

...on catching one's breath

oooof.

just booked airfare for the gun show.

you know, i haven't been the stop and smell the roses sort.

but i thought i'd catch my breath.

you see the bastard got moved up in the world.

and while he has come to the conclusion that he will never really get to enjoy any of his promotions careerwise,

that he can stop and take a breath and think, "what fresh hell have i gotten myself into now?"

oh well,

things could be worse.

the bastard needs some sleep.

more to come when i actually have material.

—the bastard

four...

feeling trucked.

shipping the book.

too tired for bike.

things got better

—the bastard

five...

weekend was productive.

went to a birthday party and i threatened to stab someone in the neck

it's terrible what gin does for a bastard.

things are not pleasant here today.

maybe tomorrow. maybe not.

—the bastard

glacier

the bastard gets to work.

then has a meeting.

then tries to do some work.

then has a meeting.

move forward 2 feet.

go back 6 feet.

stay tired all the time.

life sucks.

get a helmet.

—the bastard

what fresh hell... pt4

the bastard is back at his desk now.

i got in last night on time.

i got home on time.

but it goes like this,

if mos eisley spaceport is a place where you will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy then,

at the atlanta airport, you will never find a more wretched hive of hipsters in converse all stars and ironic hoodies.


i mean for fuck's sake, everyone was decked out in the uniform. some were even rocking their brooklyn hats. it's a little over the top for the bastard. i culd go on about the guy with the high hair who was discussing his bands photoshoot ad nauseum, or the guy who looked totally indignant because some poor black woman had gotten between he and his woman and called her rude and declared everyone in new york rude (by the way, fuck you buddy) but i won't. the bastard has a meeting and he isn't looking forward to it.

as a side note, i almost dies in a cab last night. 3 connected flights and i almost get killed by a cabby who doesn't know how to get onto the van wyck expressway and talk on the phone at the same time. welcome home to me.

—the bastard

what fresh hell... pt3

so the bastard has made it all the way to hotlanta.

I'm feeling the effects by now.

world weary traveler.

depressed, divorced father.

unbelievable bastard.

the bastard sits in a TGIFridays (yes TGIFridays; you wanna go to hell with that noise, dick!) and he's drinking a beer.

waiting for a burger.

hoping that the coming storm is one I can weather. fuck, I hate storms.

as much as I hate the apartment I'm going home to, I can't wait to put my head down.

-the bastard

what fresh hell... pt1

the bastard has come to the conclusion that his gps has it in for him.

the boy's house is at the very bottom of three years worth of construction on i10 in Tucson but the gps takes me east of that onramp only to have the bastard experience rush hour traffic on a whole new level. you haven't lived until your hay fever is stuck alongside a hay truck.

salt lake next. yay?!?!

-the bastard

actual/factual

upon landing in salt lake city for my connection, the bastard got hisself some quiznos.

it wasn't so much with the good.

following, the bastard got hisself some more coffee to put on top of the quiznos.

by the time i had stuffed myself with more crap, worked my way across to gate 83 (yes fucking 83), i had begun to notice that sky west (the bastard's connecting airline) had alot of these kind of planes.

QUICK SIDEBAR: now the bastard has been doing so much air travel since...well since i started to work for killing stuff monthly. and over time, the bastard has gotten into the awful habit of just looking at what time and what airline and sometimes the flight number. as a result, the little piece of info regarding what kind of aircraft i'm getting into never really enters my mind.

that is until...

i get to the terminal and all i see are these effing crop dusters and that bastard is thinking, "what the fuck did i get myself into?" and "why the hell did i have to, you know, EAT something before getting on this ball park frank of a plane."

hell, i even contemplated the notion of going into the bathroom and just sticking my finger down my throat to save myself the trouble of tossing my cookies into the "for motion discomfort" bag.

wait.

i was supposed to think that, not type it.

anyway, i had this thought until they called our gate and i had to hump down to gate 40 (yeah gate 40. there's a gate 40 i have to walk to from gate 83, it's an eighth of a mile away) and i saw what i was getting on was this:


and truth to tell, it wasn'at all that much bigger than the other plane, actually, it was almost twice the size of the cropduster but, it had jet engines and that meant alot more to me than props out here in the mountains.

ok, in a nutshell, much better flight even though the inside of the plane was kind of the size of the plane that crashed into the mountain in the second indiana jones movie (sans the chickens of course). although i have to say this, maybe it's the people i was flying with, or maybe it's just the fact that small enclosed spaces make people a little batty but, most of these people were just rude or jusr maybe foregoing the usual niceties in the interest of getting off of this flying subway car.

but long story already long, i got on the ground in one piece despite the thermals that were banging the plane around as we came over the mountains getting into tucson, and the boy was happy to see me. and his hair is black.

—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

...on the color of money

i heard this morning that paul newman had passed away.


i've seen him in a ton of things.

he never really got as much props as he should have.

i remember seeing him do a television version of bang the drum slowly a long time ago and he was phenomenal.

the bastard never liked his ceaser salad dressing but i liked his cookies.

he will be missed.

—the bastard

the bastard has come to a foregone conclusion...

...that drinking is a big part of being in publishing.


yup. that pretty much sums it up some days.

one of the folks from marketing is going the way of the 4 winds today and how do we commemorate the occasion?

that's right. with a 12 pack of bud light (oof) and some wine.

but this isn't just it.

it's because because of the fact that the gun show is now staring down on us like some fucking vulture that's coming to take out my liver for 5 days straight some some awful magazine making prometheus chained to a rock that this year we will call orlando, florida.

yes, the booze powered dream team that has the power to not sleep for 5 days straight and learns love our impending cases of cirrhosis like long lost friends or perhaps like that of visiting heads of state, is going to orlando this year. weeping may now ensue.

—the bastard

...on experts

so this is how the bastard spent his friday.

about three weeks ago, killing stuff monthly's web producer sent an email around asking everyone what their favorite summer beer was.

it is in these instances, that we discover the magic that is the reply all button.

Ha — BUSCH LIGHT, WOOOOOO My favorite beer, year-round, is Chimay Blue. Dark, rich Belgian ale. Brewed by Trappist monks and sold in a manly 750 mL corked bottle. Tons of complex flavor. Smooth finish. I’ve never met anyone who likes beer and didn’t love this. Most “summer ales” are lemony wuss drinks.

the editor who has been web crazy of late, followed up with

We need to do a beer tasting before summer is out. Let’s plan a Friday afternoon. Everybody bring a 6-pack and we’ll do a tasting. Maybe shoot some pics for the Web site.

so the bastard and his trusty managing editor brought our contribution to the table in the form of widmer hefeweizer from me and victory hop devil from rob which we have renamed "the mother fucking hop devil" because it IS the fucking devil.

needless to say, the afternoon didn't end well for the bastard. it came down to myself, killing stuff's copy chief and the p-cat finishing up the remainders. after this, the bastard surfaced from his lunchless drinking session with the bright idea of getting lunch at 5pm with a stomach full of beer. this also didn't end well as i tripped on my way out of the pizza place and broke a vase but for some reason, it escaped notice until i was in the clear.

nice and smooth.

good and drunk. i made it home.

good and nauseous.

passed out, the bastard gets a phone call from the chairman. good thing i still had my headphones still on so i didn't have to move as the world was still spinning at this point. 10 minutes later, i'm in the good ship chairman's ride and on my way yowards being rescued by mexican food. my aching skull.

—the bastard

...on the thunder

the bastard is soooooooooo tired.

went to the movies last night.

saw tropic thunder.

it was quite possibly, the funniest thing i've seen all summer. and not just because robert downey junior was playing an australian actor posing as a black man who doesn't get out of character until he does the dvd commentary. it's because ben stiller knows how to make a funny film. he single handedly did a better job of making fun of the movie industry, making fun of actors, making fun of the inner workings of the film industry better than all of those stupid epic movie, superhero movie, disaster movie parodies (that all overuse the typeface futura and the color red in their posters) that traditionally plague the summer box office. even the smallest part gets a good line.

also he pretty much saves tom cruise's career. the bastard has to say it was probably some of his finest work....EVER.

but here's the thing. because of the chairman's work schedule, we saw the late show. and i kept waking up all night for one reason or another. and while i didn't drink a drop last night, i feel hung over.

and i feel like crap. and i don't think coffee can save me now. time to die.

—the bastard

...on snapshots

so in a nutshell, the bastard went to a wedding on the north shore of long island with my ladyfriend. and the bastard almost got swept away (see the giancarlo giannini version, not the crap madonna version) across the greater peconic bay in a kayak,


we met up with the boy at the wedding, and then we took two ferrys across shelter island to avoid 90 minutes of driving (which i highly recommend to get from one shore to the other during the summer. crack open your wallet you cheap bastard and avoid pretencious dicks coming from the hamptons),


to get to montauk where we spent alot of time at the beach, and had alot of fun, and went to a lighthouse, and bought some comfortable shoes,


and saw some sights,


and then the boy's mother came to pick him up,


and then the boy went home,

and i couldn't be more unhappy. but now i'm back. so go to hell.

—the bastard

the bastard has to axe you

you ever have one of those days?

you know.

you split some really expensive tickets with your brother so that our mother can go see her favorite artist perform at her favorite venue before it closes?

and then you go out to dinner for your cousin's birthday?

and drink like.....three martini's and have a good meal?

and then we completely didn't almost die in a car wreck because your cousin has a superior braking system in his car?

and then you get home to open the mail and find out that your accountant fucked up and now you owe the government even more money?

yeah me too.

it never fails. every time the bastard feels like he's starting to get ahead, starting to be able to sock some away and some other fucking expense comes up.

—the bastard

...on hell on two wheels

and other crap the bastard did this weekend.

this weekend, the bastard thought it would be a good idea to get some exercise so, he got on his bike and rode through forest park. now i realize that it really isn't a long ride through the park but then again, the bastard also discovers that bicycling actually makes alot of small hops seem smaller.

which in NO WAY discourages him from wanting to buy a proper motorcycle that RUNS.

but either way, it was good to get out and i added to the exercise difference by doing a few laps around the track at victory field in 6th gear (fold up bike i bought only has 6 gears, go to hell) so i coould feel like i actually accomplished something.

then i went out and got steak. and then i got drunk.


but then, the next morning, my ladyfriend had gotten back from her trip to the country and she was hungover too. so i packed the bikes into the car and drove to manhattan to ride up and down the east river until my head stopped hurting.


the upside of this was i got a closer look at those manmade waterfalls that i wrote about earlier this summer. and that was pretty nice.

you know, there was a time in this when this was considered an unwise course of action for some bastard's. but city is safer because some mayor we had that both the village voice hates (for being a republican) and the mofo hates (for having his cops bust him for an open conatiner) made shit hard for criminals for his time in office. it's kind of nice to be able to get around and not have to tote a knife.

not that i DIDN'T tote around a knife. you never know whose going to need to be stabbed on a sunday. oh, and then i got dinner at the seaport and got yelled at by the elder for something.

—the bastard

alcohol is a helluva drug

it's about midnite,

and while the bastards (not like how i'm a bastard but, you know, different kind of bastard) who do the karaoke don't bother me as much as the usually do anymore,

but sometimes,

i let it get to me.

and sometimes,

when i drink enough tequila on a tuesday night, i go and mail out my netflix movie at midnite
and i listen to how annoying it sounds.

and sometimes, i approach a random man with pock marks all over his face and while he smokes and i put my arm around his shoulder and i tell him,

"you know, you guys are a bunch of inconsiderate dicks."

"oh"

"and you'll never have that "a-ha moment" that you are keeping people awake at night"

"and where do you live buddy?"

"right next door", and the bastard points to his bedroom located directly next door and upstairs to this awful stereotype that is an italian "bistro". by the way a "bistro" is actually derived from a russian word that means "quick", not from an italian word that means "ugly, kitchey and full of wannabe sopranos extras".

pock marked is moved by this says, "i'll talk to them"

i tell him, "don't bother. he doesn't care. he never cared since the day he opened the place."

then i tell him to have a good night because, what else can one do when your sleep schedule is in the hands of others.

ten after midnite and the racket stopped. maybe there is a god but, then i think that maybe all of the middle aged also rans have just decided to go home to live their lives.

a-ha. god save queens.

—the bastard

the bastard had an odd dream this morning...

ok it's like this.

the bastard cannot remember who he was traveling with. i think it was either the boy or perhaps left hand rob. but we were being hunted by my brother, the mofo and the executive editor of killing stuff monthly.

there had been a massive extinction event in which people had been reduced to piles of moldy cobwebs and i was making my way to my parents house to get the guns.

QUICK SIDEBAR: for the last 6 month's the bastard has been reading a comic called the walking dead. it's about a massive zombie holocaust and the stories of the people who have survived and also how their lives are changed forever by this extinction level event. this also came on the heels of a book i had been discussing called world war z which was written by mel brooks' son who also wrote the zombie survival guide. anyway, the book's web site has a quiz that grades your chances of survival if a zombie holocaust occurs. this has prompted lengthy discussions with the chairman about what we would do in the event of a zombie holocaust.

the bastard always starts off his survial situation by heading to my parents, to get the guns.

OK WE'RE BACK: so the bastard is at my parents house getting the guns and they are dead of course. i don't know if this is always the conclusion i come too because my dad reduces his options by not flying or demanding that he drive or because the subconcious narrative simplifies things by killing off my parents. maybe it's because i want a bollywood style revenge side plot to develop where the bastard sings and dances his way into getting even with the zombies.

but anyway, my parents have been reduced to cobwebs and upon getting the guns, we have a standoff. the editor from killing stuff is blank faced and speaking in his ross geller voice and the mofo is talking about the infection that has lead to this situation. i tell him i'm heading west and he tells me he thinks i have it or somehow, i've caused it but, i haven't shown any syptoms of the disease that has killed humanity. then he starts wiping the blood off of his lip and he's painting his own blood onto his face like war paint.

then the bastard wakes up. the boy wants his breakfast. what did you expect, closure? go to hell.

—the bastard