…on Baden Powell

"you left your soda water"

"i know", the bastard retorts with two full hands with four bags of groceries. "sometimes I wish I had three hands".

and then I amble across the street with the weeks repast in my sore arms.

I turn and the man's friend is carrying my seltzer across the street, "I figure that I'll be your third hand today"

"bless you man", I replied.

now the bastard doesn't speak in such evangelical platitudes but sometimes it's better than just saying thank you.

but hey guy, thanks for the good turn. the man who's words I try to live by sometimes lives on in you.

do a good turn daily jerk

be prepared jerk

don't be a jerk. jerk

baden powell never said jerk but I do. because most people are jerks. just not the guy who just helped me out.

—the bastard

…on closure

I remember that I should have been home that day and I wasn't

I remember that when I did get home everything around me smelled like burning airplane gas.

I remember that it smelled like that for days and I was in queens.

I remember that I got a cup of coffee with jay zee after parking the car near church street and I took a wrong turn and there it was. still on fire three months later.

I remember taking my relatives from Texas down there the following summer and telling them about that cup of coffee and a lack of understanding being in their eyes.

I remember that because of him and his plans, sidney's father is dead and while they moved on, it doesn't change the fact that sidney's dad will never see her grow up.

and 40 minutes of black ops that ended in a tap tap will never change the fact that I remember these things.

and maybe one day old age will take these things from my head.

but I hope not.

—the bastard

pebble…

photo by Yuko_t

the bastard woke up this morning to news of the quake and subsequent tsunami I. japan and I was of course concerned.

I made sure to check in with the people I know who are there and the people in my life who have family there and fortunately they are all right ( however, I'm still waiting on my friend in osaka) and that was a relief.

but what struck me was the tsunami.

the meteorological map of the sheer enormity of a wave that covers a hemisphere…

that hit japan with 13 foot waves last night…

that hit Hawaii with 6 foot waves at 11am…

that hit San Francisco at 11:15 am…

and traveled until there was nowhere else left to go.

it was like the analogy of dropping a pebble in a pool and watching the ripples travel until they lose momentum.

except it's more like a jove's fist and the appropriate end result.

it is both amazing and horrifying at once.

I thought about this conversation I had with a friend or relative,

I don't recall as I may have been tired or drunk or both.

but there is a large chunk of the canary islands that sticks out in the ocean like a great cantilever that if it dropped into the ocean.

not if, but when actually.

if it dropped in, it would send 8 foot waves straight to new york.

and it shook me to the core for a moment.

—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

way back machine

so, the bastard stopped by the chairman's place to pick up my ladder.

that way the bastard's winter collection can be accessed when I get to the garage.

upon leaving I came across some wheat paste induced time travel or perhaps someone's Kerry/edwards leftovers.

the sign reads:

kill more

steal more

bless dumber

now the bastard doesn't want to disrupt the hipster dynamic or anything with any of his old man talk but,


perhaps we can move on from here. we're a couple years in now. oddly enough this is pasted to a construction site that has only ceased dormancy recently with graffiti declaring that "Obama is going to change everything".

the juxtaposition is interesting.

—the bastard

palpable…

the bastard felt the wind go out of his sails today.

we had to bring the price down a hair today. only a hair but, every inch you give away feels like a yard of ground you're losing.

I want to move back across the river so much I can taste it.

don't get me wrong, I like it fine in manhattan.

10 minute walk to work.

shit is open all the time.

access.

access.

access.

but I look forward to seeing the sun go down over the gantries.

having a place that's not her's or mine but our's.

the sort ride to work don't hurt either.

—the bastard

...on manifest destiny

real time: there's a woman who looks terribly underdressed for 20 degrees in front of me. the bastard questions whether or not he would wear that sort of outfit on this type of night,

in this type of weather.

flashback: "umm, I'm goin' to mom and dad's on Saturday", I shout across 32nd street and lex.

"I won't see you then", the mofo bellows back and them disappears into the nightime cold

I had a thought in the walk back about our conversation about the q borough

and our collective futures.

and always wanting one foot in it.

regardless.

and it reminded me of a conversation I had that was it's own self fulfilling prophecy.

the nice lady had asked me towards the beginning what would have happened if we had never met and never married.

would I have moved into some neighborhood like gramercy park and lived some other life I never knew I would have had?

and i had always said something to try and postpone the inevitable and that I didn't think like that.

but here i am.

in gramercy park.

living a life I never thought I would.

and I still want to keep one foot in queens.

because it's the only option.

I'll always be there for the bastard

in some way

shape

or form.

is what it is.

but, it's mine.

—the bastard

...on burning

...in which we discuss how the bastard doesn't understand shit


the bastard was getting ready to tip out for the evening.

and i found this little gem on gawker about burning man

and it got me to thinking.

what

the

fuck?

i mean, i had this conversation once about marketing.

you see, the boy, knew what brand of car i drove.

knew what kind of coffee i drank.

how is this?

he knew the logos. at his most toddlery, my son knew what marketing was. i was momentarily worried about this but then i thought that the only thing one could do to get away from this is to quit the world.

go off the grid.

and never look back.

and i used to think that burning man was something like this.

but i got older and realized that it may very well be about.


you guessed it.

marketing.

look, the bastard may be taking this shit out of context but it seems to me that as much as i like the idea of running around in the desert for labor day weekend in naked in the desert (hint: i don't), burning man seems like an excuse for art students and dumpy cosplay people to get half naked and play pretend mad max post apocolyptic cosplay.

yeah, i know that there's art and all but, when i was young it was billed as some

life changing,

world changing,

conciousness changing event but quite like woodstock,

it ain't

i mean a festival is fine. hell, a renaissance fair is nice too but, it just seems like an excuse to get naked and get covered in gypsum dust and get high. its ok if you like that sort of shit but, the bastard is starting to sound too much like andy rooney so i'm gonna go home and drink now.

—the bastard

context

...and comparison

television is a fucking desert during the holidays.

so tonight, my ladyfriend and i watched sid and nancy on my ipod.

well, not on the little screen. I patched it to her laptop and watched it that way.

and I have to say, in retrospect to where i was then and where i am now, the bastard wasn't terribly impressed. i mean I saw the damn film like 20 times but, for some reason, it seemed full of cheap trickery and adolescent film devices. i was a little disappointed.




so then I got into bed and finished kill your boyfriend and i have to say, in context of where i am today and how the bastard came away from sid and nancy, i was floored.

read the damn afterwards.

and the bastard doesn't ever give a shit about what the author thinks about his own work...

ever

but, it reeled me in. grant morrison broke alot of ground, and a bunch of taboos in this little one off. and it was so much more.

or maybe, the bastard wants to go on a murderous rampage through the English countryside.

-the bastard

...on ch ch ch ch ch changes

scoop had told me since discovering that I wasn't flying on jet blue (also known as the flying bar) that she was indeed disturbed by this.

but, the bastard has to go to the desert the way he can and this time it's delta (also known as Don't Expect Luggage To Arrive) so I actually planned for them losing my luggage by packing two days of clothing in my carry on. so here the bastard waits for adventures and shit in the wrong terminal, without my bar but, the view ain't bad.

-the bastard

there's no time

so the other day, i saw the trailer for the 24 movie that will be airing in november. and while it has robert carlyle in the cast (still rooting for him to replace david tennant should he give up the role of doctor who), it seems like a strange departure for jack bauer.



it's like this. i had read that because of the unpopularity of our protracted conflicts in the middle east, the producers felt that 24 needed to go with a new enemy and something something something. and in the movie, he's like saving kids in some african nation that is an amalgamation of sudan/liberia/rwanda/zimbabwe and any other nation that has gone to hell on that continent.

it's a decent jump off for next season but it seems very un-jack-like to have him saving a bus full of kids.

anyway, the bastard was sharing his thoughts on the trailer with left hand rob, and the bastard took some license. i told him the basic plot and

"i think that because of the iraq war, they want to soften up jack bauer a little. make him more liberal friendly."

"oh"

"like i think in next season jack switches political parties and is chased by a bunch of republicans wearing sean hannity masks"

"as long as they cut off alan colmes hand in the process"

"i think that at some point jack will have alan colmes' hands zip tied to the steering wheel of his prius and jack will use bolt cutters to get information from him"

11:59:58 (boom)

11:59:59 (boom)

12:00:00 (boom)

—the bastard

the bastard had decided...

...that he isn't going to do this again.

he isn't going to talk about september 11th this year.

this year's political climate just leaves a bad taste in my mouth. too much vitriol.

besides what fresh shit am i going to say about it that i hadn't said before?

—the bastard

dear mta...

i know we've had this little chat before but,

why you gotta suck so much?

i mean seriously, why you gotta suck so much?

no

really

why you gotta suck so much?

this is twice in as many days that the people sweating on the platform are waiting to get their 2 dollars worth of shit transportation (in the bastard's case, 4. you know, round trip and all. i'm predicting the ride home to suck at this point) but can't you like,

ida know..
send some trains our way out here in the outer boroughs?

so we can like...

get to work and shit?

i mean i know that you poor excuse for an accounting department wants to raise fares because the mta just can't seem to get their shit together but, messing up service to "prove" that we need a fare hike but, this is only proving that you collectively throw your sabots into the machinery (you like that one don'tcha) time and time again in order to convince us that service will get better.

and it doesn't.

ever.

so please quit fucking around. the rest of us get paid when we work in this town, and we get fired if we don't. unfortunately, union workers seems to be able to elude this hard and fast rule on productivity. but that's another long winded diatribe for another time.

time to fix the motorcycle and leave all this transit bullshit behind.

—the bastard

PS: because i am a bastard, call the train line's superintendents and bitch about it.

V line: 718-334-8491
E line: 718-334-7692
R line: 718-334-8190

i won't bother with the manhattan lines. shit seems to run a little more timely for the chosen ones —b

...on working from home

so after a morning of working from home and working en route to it, the boy and i went to the park to ride our bikes.

let me back up. the bastard and his ladyfriend had been discussing how i wanted to start riding bikes again and coincidentally, so did she.

so we decided to buy something that would better fit into my tiny automobile. yeah, yeah, the bastard has gone on ad nauseum about how he feels about bicyclists and their entitlement issues and inability to simply obey traffic laws but, i bought a helmet. i bought a bike that has, get this, BRAKES. i stop at, get this, STOP SIGNS. but i digress, the boy and i went bicycling.

and it was prety good. it's true what they say about riding a bike. we went around for a bit and i decided to call it quits at the park when the bastard saw that what appeared to be a drug deal was about to go down. you see, the bastard wants his son to have a childhood.


SPECIAL BONUS BATTER: suburbia strikes again, kids. after the park, the boy and i went to get me a bike helmet, you know, because the bastard has already experienced WHY one should wear a helmet. we also stopped for lunch at the mall (cuz that's where the damn sporting goods shop is, dummy) and i saw what can only describe as, retarded tattoo number 356; also known as the life affirming, but poorly placed tattoo. you see, the bastard has friends that have ink. and they didn't do it half assed.

no.

they use their whole ass.

the funny thing is, this girls tattoo says carpe diem on her foot. i wonder if she always seizes the day by the foot. oh suburbia, why do you give the bastard so much to work with. maybe she can get a rose or a butterfly tattooed on her ankle too. or maybe a tramp stamp. the bastard is kind of glad he had a son instead.

—the bastard

...on dress codes

the bastard has been living in the FoHi since about 1996. i used to work at a grocery store in the middle of it from 1992 through about 1994. safe to say, i've put in some time here. now since there was a large influx of russians into the community due to a little thing we like to call glasnost.

and when the russians came over, they started buying what was hip at the time regardless of age. this culminated for the bastard during the summer of 1998, when while purchasing ice cream at a carvel the bastard witnessed two late 40 somethings russian gentlemen sporting threads from roca wear. this made me question the notion of whether newly emigrated peoples are really aware of what is age appropriate clothing. or perhaps the notion might have been moreseo about how if something is really really expensive, then it must be the thing to wear.


the bastard hadn't thought about that night until last night when i was taking the train home from work late. you see, when you head home during regular rush hour, you head home with the rank and file new yorkers who are coming home from their regular jobs. well, an hour or so later seems to be the time that all of the really choice folks get the ride home.


as illustrated here. this guy is balding, mind you and not to take away from the fact that the bastard is in fact bald himself, i would never wear anything to attempt to draw attention to it. but this guy was decked out in SO much young hiphop wear, i just had to diagram it out for you. and to think, there were 4 young guys dressed just like this that were high school age and looking for trouble. so much so, that it prompted the bastard to decide to wait for the next train to avoid said trouble. sometimes i'm convinced there is a god and that he has my sense of humor. thanks god, you're a real pal.

—the bastard

get happy, stupid

walk into the stop and shop.

the chairman asked me to pick up some chop meat for meatballs as he is making sauce tonight.

but, first, coffee.

and they have it in house.

"can i have a big/medium/grande/motherfucking coffee please."

he hooks it up and asks, "can i get you anything else?"

"no thanks....no wait. i'll take a million dollars"

"we could all use a million dollars."

"from your mouth to god's ears."

his girlfriend pipes up, "what would be the first thing you do, when you get a million dollars?"

the bastard thins for a sec.

"you know, i was looking at apartments with my girlfriend this afternoon, and i saw this fantastic apartment designed by phillippe starck, and i would just drop the money on that."

"no you wouldn't. you'd get happy first."

then the bastard thought for a sec. and it made sense. you're right, i would.

—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 the exodus

...and the cold cold ground

did you know that it takes 1 hour to drive from houston street to the holland tunnel?

however it only takes 10 minutes to get from the holland tunnel to new jersey.

it takes 15 minutes to get to newark airport from there.

it takes 35 minutes to get to north jersey from newark aitport.

so the entirety of the bastard's travels adds up to the amount of time to travel from housten to the holland tunnel.

this is what happens when the entirety of a major metreopolis needs to cram itself into two lanes going to new jersey. the food was damn worth it though. at dinner, my ladyfriend's sister's inlaws were sitting near me, discussing with their son, the teacher, how they would like to be disposed of when they pass. father wants to be put in an urn in the center cabinet. mother wants her ashes to be buried in a biodegrable sack in a field. the bastard thinks he needs to be buried with the pumpkin cheesecake he had for dessert. that would be fine by me.

—the bastard

...on haiku

make no mistake sir
my elbow means move now, jerk
next step is my foot

it's amazing how random acts of cocksuckery inspires one to tap old poetry styles that they haven't used since they had to write in since high school. i didn'y have to do it in college because all th epeotry teacher wanted us to write was anything about hating america.

i hate you jackass
i hope that you choke real soon
stupid green jacket

you see it just rolls right off the old brain. who knows? maybe the bastard will start a collection of his hateful subway haiku. oh. wait. bastard need coffee now.

—the bastard

...on exposure

so about a month or three ago, the bastard had noticed on his morning news station that there were people singing, another day, there were these two guys rapping and playing violins.

yes.

i know.

violins.

the bastard doesn't really get it but, they don't pay me to do so. i get paid to make magazines. and to do the devil's work. but the news hasn't been the same since it began to be held accountable for it's own ratings by television stations. however this sort of thing is an interesting agreement one makes with fame (she's a bitch goddess you know). you agree to do a spot for a news station so that you can get more exposure but instead, you become the butt of jokes around the collective water coolers around town.

it seems that there is a wave of advertising these days to make the news more entertaining. case meet point.



this comes up periodically as the silliness that is new york 1 is a frequently discussed topic at the office. and speaking of new york 1, the p cat should love this. apparently gary anthony ramsay was fired by new york 1 for prank calling his own station. i saw him on the street once on my way to the train. he was a little guy. and he screwed up big. oh well.

—the bastard