how did you die?

Did you tackle that trouble that came your way

With a resolute heart and cheerful?
Or hide your face from the light of day
With a craven soul and fearful?
Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce,
Or a trouble is what you make it,
And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts,
But only how did you take it?

You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that?
Come up with a smiling face.
It's nothing against you to fall down flat,
But to lie there -- that's disgrace.
The harder you're thrown, why the higher you bounce;
Be proud of your blackened eye!
It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts,
It's how did you fight --  and why?

And though you be done to the death, what then?
If you battled the best you could,
If you played your part in the world of men,
Why, the Critic will call it good.
Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce,
And whether he's slow or spry,
It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts,
But only how did you die?

—Edmund Vance Cooke

fried dough always makes the bastard ponder the afterlife 

—the bastard

…leaving Las Vegas

and so… 

with a whimper and not a bang… 

the bastard unwinds away from the city of sin…

12 gun shows…

no screw ups…

not decent night of sleep in them…

but there's always the game of dice…

however…

the big night was a game of black jack I played with the dirty stay outs who were with me at 3am…

holding it down…

playing til 6…

straight on till dawn. 

best game ever…

I never tire of this place…

—the bastard

…on air travel and endless rings

so…

in a nutshell…

the bastard just suffered through what may possibly be the worst airport shit show he has ever endured and I've endured some awful shit. 

once after a five day bender in 2006, I was lying on the floor of mccaren airport feeling sunburned from drinking several red bulls at a bottle service club because there was nothing else to hydrate with… 

another time, the wife and I were bopped all over the west palm airport due to a storm north of us… 

in paris, with the nice lady, a snow storm in New York kept us well delayed on New Year's Eve but, the road manager for the goo goo dolls had goat cheese and we had a baguette so we had ourselves an exchange…

just last weak after a five and a half hour delay, the bastard finally got the boy underway and on his way home only to be texted from the plane that the luggage wasn't in the plane yet…

but this morning I had it sorted… 

got up on time…

the car showed up…

and then, the crush. 

the goddam bag drop off line was out the door…

I waited on line to almost 90 minutes just for the pleasure loading my own bag onto the conveyor belt…

airport security clearly hadn't had it's second cup of coffee, so I was ready to crawl out of my skin by the time I got to my gate.

only thing the bastard had for breakfast was shit show served in a fucking roll. 

so I had to hit up the flying bar for the kids snackey cake box for 6 bucks. no one needs to be having Nutella and breadsticks only to chug it down with apple sauce in a bag and whiskey. 

so wracked from this awful experience…

I began to think about the end of all things and where I'd like to be disposed of when that day arrives. 

well… I was watching an ncis marathon and thinking about this. 

I like to be cremated I think and I would like my ashes scattered around the grianan of aileach somewhere in donegal 

the last time I was there the wind blew hard on my face and I thought about grandpa…

and it was the last time I remember feeling at peace with myself. 

and now I'm going to get back to my regularly scheduled nightmare which will be brought to us by the letter 'H' and sponsored by a shit ton of coffee. 

look it up on a map kids or in the rick Steve's book about Ireland…

and make sure my remains get there…

thanks for playing. 

—the bastard

i'm feeling low… I talked to god in a phonebox on my way home

there was a time in my life in which banging out 20 pages…

sitting in two meetings… 

publishing two magazines to the iPad…

and being understaffed was easy peasy. 

but, it's notsomuch with all of that. 

and the big game hasn't even started yet. 

then again I've already thrown down a good chunk of that in my down time. 

what's that? 

down time?

well shiteyes… downtime is the time I spend playing catch up. 

heads down…

nose to the grind stone…

yeah… publishing… yeah

—the bastard

take a good look… this could be the last

'don't stay up too late'

'ok'

'no… you'll end up watching that documentary and the watch something else'

'I'm done watching pearl jam for the evening'

'why it's fun to watch?'

she wasn't wrong…

as I sit in the dark hacking up a lung in my living room…

i just don't want to be reminded of how old I'm getting tonight. 

I'm still kind of shitwards about Lou Reed passing…

and the fact hat a year ago, the face of this city was very different…

and that next Tuesday, he face will change again. 

actually… that's not entirely true…

bill de Blasio won't be sworn in until January 1st but it does represent a sea change in my city. 

but I'm getting off the rails here. 

watching a 3 hour documentary on pearl jam and knowing most of the words makes me sort of ambivalent about my age. 

mostly because I don't have the vocal range I used to have when I'm sick…

and it annoys me. 

also, I needed some escapism in the form of lowbrow tv right about now…

so i figured I'd scratch this down beforehand. 

—the bastard

perfect…

a lifetime ago…

the bastard was in a crappy restaurant with his old brother in law…

the scowl

the scowl worked in food services for years…

and his two most important maxims for surviving a meal…

A: if your food is not to your liking, don't send it back… they will spit in it or worse. better you should order something else off of the menu because they more than likely won't know it was you and not spit in it and you will more than likely get a nice meal. 

and

B: do not give your service a hard time until you get the check. that is the transfer of power. the waiter no longer has control of your digestive system and you can say your piece by tipping what you saw fit.

I used to date a girl who loved to fuck with the wait staff at this Pizza Hut we used to frequent like mental patients. in retrospect, I can only imagine how much fecal matter lived in my supreme personal pan and how much piss was in my coke. 

now:

I'm finally calming down…

I've had a shit evening that started at 1am when I decided to emai the super for what seems like the 25th time in the last two weeks that my hvac hasn't been fixed…

granted, it hasn't been all that warm out since summer tucked tail and ran but, I want all of my stuff to be in working order regardless…

we paid good money for this jib joint…

but after three emails, it was for naught and I was kind of seething when I decided I would break form with the deal the wife and I have when she goes away on business and ordered takeout from the bar behind us…

it was cheap…

and it's behind my home…

so I figure, "what the hell?"

over an hour later, I call them up and ask what's up…

oh we're bagging it up now sir…

20 minutes later, I get a call from the delivery guy asking me where I live…

and the bastard just loses it…

I live behind your bar

on the corner?

no you fuckwit… is your bar on a corner?!?

behind the bar?

yes behind the bar

and so finally, my repast shows up and I head to the elevator to get some din din. 

only the elevator and I had a disagreement…

it wanted me and it to spend some quality time together.

so…

there I am stuck between floors, wishing that I had just made pasta two hours ago hitting buttons and hitting the alarm button to "shave and a haircut, two bits"…

and thats when I left my body. 

eventually, the elevator releases me from her embrace so I can walk up from the basement to lose control and punch he delivery man in the face. 

but... I thought better of it and just yelled at him a lot.  

and i went upstairs with my cold chicken and soggy fries and my disdain for it all…

and I still had to give the babby a bath…

so dinner was a dish best served cold tonight. 

at least my living room doesn't feel like 80 degrees anymore

—the bastard

batting a thousand...

...never get into fights in your neighborhood. it looks bad in front of the neighbors

—the bastard

the bastard is batting a thousand this week with train travel

monday: fracas with frenchie over blocking the door

tuesday: i end up having a sit in on some german tourists backpack  because he doesn't understand the take your frikkin bag off your back on a crowded subway train rule

wednesday: a very fat gentleman is blocking the door and isn't getting off of the train but decides to move to let people off. unfortunately he merely rotates 180 degrees in place actually making no room for passengers to get on or off the train thus prompting myself and sir edmund hillary to scale him to escape the 6 train

this morning: platform is crowded and as the 7 pulls in i start to filter in along with the natural order of things when people filter onto a crowded subway train in which people all block the door because their all getting off at grand central.

"ehhh cues you, yeh ehh cuse you"

i pay no mind to this whatnot as i'm in the flow of people. i'm sure i could stop and completely wreck the natural order of things but i keep going until a feel something crashing into the backs of my legs.

"ehhh cues you, yeh ehh cuse you"

not knowing what's scraping my leg, i foot sweep back to hit stroller wheels and this well spoken invidual who no doubt tok a stroll down my way from the queensbridge houses yells,

"hey wash out you", revealing that this small person was literally trying to shove her stroller up my ass along with her kid in it, on a crowded train platform.

who does that?

i know everyone wants to get where they're going buy you're putting your kid in danger by attacking people with the very vehicle you are supposed to be using to protect your child.

who does that?

so, ready to go, she's getting loud, perhaps figuring that fatty mcwhiteboy will just be sheepish and step on the train and she can feel she's gotten her two cents in

"stop shoving your babycarriage into my legs!", i boom, "what's wrong with you?"

and i step into the middle of the car where there's plenty of room. and there would have been plenty for all if people would just step into the car.

friday: i think i'm gonna stay in bed and hide from the subway. or perhaps take the ferry. nothing could happen to me there could it?

—the bastard

smoke em if you got em…

the bastard's stomach hasn't gotten back from vacation yet…

so as the wife goes out with her friends, he decides that last night was the night to order takeout from john browns smokehouse.

what's a john browns smokehouse guy?

well jerkface, it's the closest BBQ to the spaceship I live in that delivers.

who shot who in the what now? smoked meats delivered to your front door?

you heard it right jerk...

smoked meats door to door.

and it was majestic.

my cardio vascular system is going to hate me one day

—the bastard

it never fails…

you ever have one of those moments…

where you're about to go to bed…

so you can get up early to go on a plane ride with yer family…

and at 2am you remember you need to change something in a layout before you call it a vacay?

so you sit in your walk in closet working on it so that you can vacation with a clear conscience?

yeah

me too.

—the bastard

the diary of sick man

the bastard hasn't been a hunnerd percent of late…

since the great wind swept my old car away…

the bastard has had a great load of sand…

or spackle…

or we could just with mucous in his lungs.

sometimes the straightforward approach is best.

but six weaks ago, I went to a new doctor…

I haven't seen a do for since 2009…

and she threw cotton balls at the problem but it solved some stuff that was bugging me.

but the spackle remained.

so that when I caught the shot show cough…

I was all sorts of coughing jags.

it became ridiculous.

so today…

today, when I went back to the doctor, she gave me the good drugs.

and all of a sudden I'm wondering what this air tasting stuff is in my lungs is.

to be continued

—the bastard

the voices

the bastard woke up with a start this morning with a lung fulla phlegm…

and a head fulla voices…

5:30 is not a good start time when 1:30 was your finishing time…

and when the voices are telling you all the wrong things…

you just can't get your ass back in your rack.

shut up already, can't we talk about this later after I've had a decent sleep ad a good breakfast?

"nah", says the voices

so this isn't exactly how I wanted to end the year with phasers set to crazy.

i think I may need to take yoga or something.

—the bastard

dog-ged

it's the little things in life one appreciates…

whiskey on tap…

waking up in the morning to find out you're not dead…

and freelancers…

the french guy has kept it rolling this last week and change…

which has made my home working less pronounced…

and has allowed me to get more done on the other two books…

thus keeping it all well rounded.

which is nice.

the clock is ticking

no sleep till shot show

—the bastard

bodies…rest…motion…

the Frenchman…

who freelances for me asked for the body count on this project…

and the bastard guesstimates..

400 pages total…

with ads…

which is over 200 really…

which still isn't a small number for one man…

and it ain't…

but this is the first Saturday in weeks that I didn't get cracking on the daily after the wife turned in.

this is a bastard at rest…

until I get cracka lackin on other bidness.

so tired.

—the bastard

dear MTA…

hey…

it's me again.

hey, that was pretty dope how you got the subways up and running again after the hurricane and all…

and I'm totes okay with the fare hike coming down the pike…

I know you guys are looking at mad debt after this business…

but your weekend service is goddam awful…

how the hell does anyone get anywhere on a Saturday?

it's ridicaluss.

so…

that said…

pick up the slack bitches…

it's the little things that count these days…

hurricanes are so 30 days ago.

love always,

—the bastard

cage…

lets get something straight…

the bastard has come to loath driving…

since I dumped the bike near these four years ago…

he has felt a car is a cage.

a cage that folks sit in traffic in with the windows rolled up sucking the life out of you until you move to some suburban elephants graveyard to end your miserable existence in.

a bike frees you…

it puts the wind in your face.

and is closer to our frontier roots than anything you don't have to feed with hay.

but I digress…

a month ago, my cage was destroyed when Long Island city became Atlantis for an evening.

I was in the desert when five feet of water from the east river ran roughshod from the Annabel basin straight down 5th street towards its lady friend, the newtown creek which crested flooding Borden avenue and the midtown tunnel.

is this the first you've read of this carnage?

of course it is.

true, the liquid city took a beating but…

the rockaways took it on the chin.

so did red hook.

so did the forgotten borough…

so the bastard ain't gonna take it the wrong way.

anyway…

in the aftermath of all of this…

the bastard sits on a platform bound for woodside as he has a meeting with his new cage.

what can I say…

I couldn't talk the wife into a ural motorcycle with a sidecar as a practical way to get around this holiday season.

makes it hard to haul gifts around in a sidecar with a toddler who doesn't yet know how great it is to have the wind in your face.

besides…

the bastard misses shopping at trader joes…

cages are practical that way.

—the bastard

where you hang your hat

The bastard's first weakend home wasn't nearly as emotional nor gut wrenching as he thought it would be.

I came home…

The power and heat were on…

We ordered pizza…

I drank whiskey…

All was right with the world.

But tonight I looked at the lack of lighting in the building across the street from us is and I see that finally have people in to work on a building that will be out of commission for the next 6 months and I think…

We also almost moved there…

Thank god we didn't.

It was merely a quirk of waiting for our buyer to get her shit together and we could have moved to a beautiful 2 bedroom…

Two terrace duplex…

With a parking spot…

That won't have electricity for the next 6 months.

And while I feel I'll miss those chuckleheads who have a retractable tv screen on their roof terrace that prompts them to shout whenever tha Yankees score…

I feel fortunate at how events turned out.

Dodged a damn bullet…

—the bastard

shine a light… or don't even bother with that sort of crap

one of the first pieces of swag the bastard got from being the art director of helping people sell bullets seven times a year was a surefire flashlight.

it is 1000 candlepower I believe.

I was lead to believe that is is capable of throwing bright light for over 400 yards.

as a side note, it is also serrated at the bell so you can crack miscreants in the skull if you need to.

tonight, this flashlight helped the bastard come to a conclusion.

a 1000 candle power flashlight that purportedly casts 400 yards of bright light shining from six floors up down on two drunk fat men smoking…

and yelling…

and hugging…

from having that moment of clarity that they need to shut the fuck up and move on from caterwauling in an alley underneath my apartment.

go…

die…

please…

now…

not later…

—the bastard

the H is O…

never has the bastard paid such close attention to his condo board's google mail group as he has these last three weeks.

my go to for how bad it's been these last three weeks.

you see…

while I've had the good fortune to have a great family to provide my family and I with three hots and a cot…

I haven't been home in over three weeks save to grab a couple days worth of clothes or to drop the mail…

I've felt like a bastard without a country…

the surreal trip through the way back machine was just topped off by a friend's refer death and the shock waves it has sent out to the scene I've been on and off part of hasn't helped either.

but no note from our intrepid crew of condo boarders was so great to read that the HVAC is working.

the lights are on…

the heat is on…

all I gotta do now is get a bottle a whiskey and have a good cry…

for tomorrow I will go home…

—the bastard

there's a light at the end of the tunnel

…literally

last night while I was mourning the end of an era…

I got word that the lights were back on in the building.

no fire suppression…

no heat…

but the bastard has electric.

so after today…

after over three weeks…

I can finally go home.

—the bastard

…on brotherhood

"Thrilla, who's that baldy talking to father Kurt?"

"That's Craig from sick of it all and agnostic front"

"I only recognize that guy who played gits. The blocky guy who played the five string guitar"

"Oh he was here the afternoon".

Big names came out…

Small names came out…

Nameless jackasses like myself came out…

For two days…

Jim has packed the room…

To see his closed casket…

And for folks from the scene to pay respect…

And tell stories about the time they and jim did…

The word that folks threw around a lot these last two days was…

"Brother"

How you doing brother?

How you holding up brother?

Jim was like a brother to me

It's terrible that our brother was taken so soon?

That's how it is.

Folks don't come out to a wake on the most easternest part of queens to make appearances…

We came to honor our brother…

And we came to honor the wife and child he left behind…

And his family…

And to weep over the hole that jim has left in our lives.

Sleep well…

We hope that you're organizing a benefit for us on the other side.

—the bastard