…leveling out

so it's been twice that the bastard has been out for a pint with the new crew.

which tells a bastard that he has become considerably less annoying than he thought

getting old blinds one to this otherwise obvious observation. almost as much as being young blinds one to this observation.

so I count it as a win of sorts.

so, we went to the knife for a pint and mystery science was there with some co's and was expecting more.

and the way he introduced me to his crew was someone I've known for a long long time.

which was kind of flattering in a way as his old friends from small times seem to go way way back and I've only know. the bloke for 5 years really up close but he counts me as an old friend anyway.

this is nice to know.

you see, the bastard has had a crisis of faith since some folks have left the fold. it's nice to have folks to chat to.

—the bastard

…so my wife is gonna hate me

its a down economy you know.

so to do his part, the bastard makes lunch.

and he does it well.

so well that the wife's boss wants me to hook her up with a sammich.

but it's like this.

I also do the grocery shopping as well.

and normally, I'm a by the numbers kinda guy.

but with a hurricane (read: late summer sprinkle) coming last weekend, I went a little off mission.

bought some ribs.

bought a pack of bacon.

and we made the whole pack on Sunday to celebrate NOT dying in a flood (read: HAH) with the notion that whatever bacon we don't eat we'll "save".

this is not currently happening.

OK SIDEBAR: this is how he bastard throws down a sammich. straight up on the economical tip. what you do is buy a bag of trader joes ciabatta rolls because it's the most rolls you get for the money (8). I get a bag of pre cooked chicken breast from the self same store (because it's easy when you shop for everything at the same place).


I buy some cheese for filler. I used to get lo fat Swiss but the bastard is currently not in the business of giving a shit these days (read: DEMONS) so I've been getting pepper jack for me and fooling the wife with the lo fat Swiss (did you catch the name of the blog?).


lately I've gotten my hands on some barbecue sauce and that has been the spread of choice (side note: the wife gets pesto).


now what I do is rely on the toaster ovens in the mystery science kitchen area as they have the best toaster ovens in all the land. and I toast that bitch up.

there it is.

ANYWAY: The bacon. I have been feeding it into the sammich recipe this week. there will be no bacon leftover. and I will have some splainin to do Lucy when she finds out. but I can live with that. because… you know… bacon.

oh look. there is a glass of whiskey beside me. BAI!

—the bastard

the bastard is givin that stuff out to ALL. those graffiti guys

…or



…things the bastard liked about 5pointz


…and






…THING the bastard DIDN'T like about 5pointz

so on Friday night,

the wife days to me, "bastard, you like teh graffiti, yes?"

"why yes wife… I likes teh graffiti"

so she schemes to me on having us walk up to the graffiti installation known as 5pointz which is STUPID touristy these days but the bastard has accepted this as a known quantity.

that way, I can digest the bullshit well enough.





so I agree and we take the family up there. the boy hasn't seen reasonable tagging since we were at the river wall in at Louis in 2009 and we were much more preoccupied with eating cold Arthur Bryants at the time.

so we headed up.

and while at first blush a family of four with a stroller looked out of place at an abandoned building covered in some fair to excellent work, the bastard has to say that he was a fucking breath of fresh (F-R-E-S-H. fresh fresh fresh fresh fresh) air compared to the pack of wild kuwaii girls and there attempts at myspace style self portraiture in front of the graffiti.

a breath of fresh air compared to the eurotrash who asked my son to get out of the way of "thaa peece" he wanted to photograph.



and a goddam sight better than the black turtleneck crowd who ogled the same stuff they scorned 10 years ago when this stuff was the symbol of urban blight rather than that of urban renewal.

but what took the cake for me was this…

a monster truck pulls up the block

with the monster logo on it and a bunch of chuckleheads swarm upon the place in monster energy drink shirts on.

and a couple walk by and the man says to the woman , "the attention to detail is incredible".

"yeah", she concurs and then I kind of went back in time for a second.

I was at the Greene street gallery with art school and we're looking at a crappy sculpture of an apple core made of plaster and the guy in the black turtleneck leans over to the girl half his age and says in a throaty voice, "it's so dynamic. it's very indicative of the fall of man."

meanwhile back in 2011, the bastard is getting a laugh at how all of these white folk who would have never given this a second thought 10-15 years ago sees this stuff I grew up around as full of attention to detail.

don't get me wrong, it was some dope looking examples of wild stour circa the mid to late 80's and definitely more evolved but I would never quote anything out of artspeak to elevate it to anything more than what it is…

graffiti.

and I wouldn't paint three murals for any of the ass this guy was trying to pull down. unless you like that sort of thing.

oh well, it was still good to look at and I made burgers later on.

—the bastard

…on therapy

recently I bought a lounge chair





and I face it in this direction daily. so the vastRd sits and stares out to the river and




it makes me feel less stabby. this in turn puts me in a quandary.

I'm starting to run out of angry and the bastard feels it may jeopardize this special relationship we have.

then again, I may stab someone tomorrow so, who knows?

—the bastard

there's something to be said for an art school education

so I've been spending way too much time in ikea of late.

why?

because the bastard is not the sort of man who buys his furniture from raymore and flanigans.

so shut up.

ikea is a far cry from hand me downs and cardboard boxes.

and bedsides, the boy is coming in for the summer.

I need my home to look proper so he doesn't ask questions like, "hey dad, why the hell do you have such crap furniture in such a swanky apartment?"

actually hell and swanky are a far cry from the boy's vocabulary.

and he's a great kid. he'd just ask if we could go to 7-11 and then when I have to break the bad news to him that there isn't one in long island city, he'll just beat me with a crowbar.

anyways, while I was there, I almost careened my daughters carriage (yeah I push the carriage…wanna fight about it?) into this little blond kid who was doing circles around a support beam.

and then I saw his dad.

and his dad shared a studio with me in college.

his dad used to be my business partner.

his dad was the best man at my first wedding.

and his dad was there at ground zero of the start of my career which almost never happened.

we had some awkward small talk. I met his kids. his wife politely smiled and we went our separate ways.

and I was bummed.

I miss being able to throw a few drinks back and discuss Modigliani with people.

my art school education is languishing these days.

and I wouldn't mind being able to talk shit about it again one day.

maybe not in ikea. maybe in some crap bar that exists in the back of my mind from 15 years ago.

hrm. the other guy I split the studio with lives in Howard beach. I should go find his ass and chat about the finer points of how we ended up where we ended up.

but then again, you can't go back in time, can you?

—the bastard

soon

sitting in the chaos of boxes and crap

the bastard thinks that a life of tumult is the life for he.

we had a massive upheaval last week in the office that I can't talk about right now.

but, it made me very aware of my place in this world.

it also made me grateful for my place in the world.

my place of tumult

in a sea of boxes

in the dark

waiting for to go.

to go across the river towards home.

my new home

my old home.

across the river.

getting close.

the bastard has never been all that grateful. but it's time for a change.

thank you.

you know who you are.

—the bastard

…on the give back

the bastard has something stuck in his craw.

on many occasions when I meet up with the dwarf ( and I haven't in quite some time) he tells me things about my college professors.

you see he works at my old college. and the dwarf tells me that.

my graphic design teacher was a photographer and he picked up graphic design just in case the handwriting on the wall was true.

and that none of the graphic design teachers at my old school have ever worked for a large company.

so in essence, they are teaching young minds to grow up to be freelancers who have no idea how to find work or work with a team.

and this sticks in my craw.

the bastard also has a guilty conscience.

he could have worked harder in college.

he could have worked less days.

drank less.

could have slept in his studio less and worked more.

so he gives back.

I proctor this test that kids in my old high school take to fill a requirement for their art program.

and while it won't make or break them, it helps me sleep with a clear conscience.

well that and a manhattan or two.

but, inevitably one of these kids tells me a should be a teacher.

and i tell them that when this business I am in spits me out, I may take it under advisement.

but the fact of the matter is

I curse too much.

I'm impatient.

I talk too much about bullshit and less about the course material.

hrm. maybe I can be a teacher.

or a hobo.

—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

judge not…

… lest ye be judged.

the bastard spent all day in a conference room

with his editorial peers for lack of a better turn of phrase.

judging what will for one category be

the best magazine in said category.

and I've discovered one thing that I could never share with my evil ant overlords.

in many ways, we're all doing it wrong.

not in ALL ways but, some.

and it was frikkin illuminating.

just file it in the book that I'll write one day about my time here.

I wish I started sooner so I could remember all that I forgot.

—the bastard

box…

the bastard's gotta tell you.

it was much easier to find mullets and weird beards

when I could actually SEE outside my press box

weak

—the bastard

firsts…

the bastard didn't sleep last night.



so he slept clear from new York to Michigan.

first time for everything.

as a consolation prize, the bastard feels like his head has been caved in with a hammer.

—the bastard

this just in…

while all you jerks slept…

Brooklyn has been running black ops on your asses.

duck and cover mother grabbas. duck and cover.

—the bastard

the bastard buys booze…tells you shit

ok.

the bastard is only gonna say this once.

there will be a quiz at the end.

whiskey makes the bastard frisky.

out in the dank ass dank that is the night before a rain storm,

the bastard goes out in search of a little tipple for himself. something for later on.

and with that I stop at the local purveyor of spirits and drop my coin on a bottle of rye.

on line before me, the woman buying her book club sized bottle of merlot.

barefoot brand; strictly 9.99 shit. strictly for getting drunk and bitching about your husband instead of discussing your thoughts on 'eat, pray, love'.

which may be one in the same, when you think about it in the context of today's male/female dynamic.

anyway, book club asks about the return policy at our fine establishment and he concurs with her thoughts that she can return a bottle if she doesn't like it.


happy with her jug of chateau par-tay, she saunters out.

and the man behind the counter says to his friend, "some people be coming back up in here with a half drunk bottle saying they didn't like it and ah has to be giving them they money back"

"word?!?"

"word up"

"that's ridiculous", the bastard pipes up, " if you're buying wine, you should know what you're buying by now."

"yeah?"

"yeah, I keep five wines in the back of my head when I go yo buy wine so I know damn well what I'm buying. and so should she know as well."

"word?!?"

"yeah. and even if you can't find that beaujolais, you know what the hell beaujolais tastes like. unless it sucks and then maybe you should ask after you money back, not bringing back a half drunk jug of crap."

"word up."

"straight jacket my man. straight jacket."

—the bastard

…on definition of terms part 2

waiting by elevator,

I hear the familiar clack kachunk the bastard hears when he's getting company for the ride downstairs.

my neighbor who curiously looks and sounds like delroy lindau greets me.

all ten feet of him in a parka.

"how you been", I ask

"alright," he responds. "you been out in this hawk?"

"yes indeed I have sir. the hawk is out today".

I thought the phrase , " the hawk is out" was only to be used by my uncle nemo or perhaps run dmc but delroy and I rock that phrase

cause it pays.

too bad it's going up to fiddy this week, I enjoy the cold. at least until I get sick of it.

—the bastard

asses and elbows

you see,

there's a reason why the bastard likes the window seat.

first and foremost, I don't have to check my elbow everytime the goddam drink cart rolls by.

secondly, the bastard doesn't have to look at you.

yes ladies across the aisle, I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings but mayhap you should keep you frikkin hooves in your shoes.

no one wants to see your filthy frikkin feet.

unless you're some manner of foot fetishist.

which the bastard is not.

thirdly and most importantly, the bastard likes the window seat because

HE CAN CLOSE THE GODDAM WINDOW!!!!!!!

this means you jerk. the bastard has been up since 3am and he would have like a small bit of frikkin sleep but that's not at all possible with you reading your fucking tourist guide to fucking Guatemala with the rising sun as your reading light.



god dammity damn.

at least there's coffee on the plane and mötörhead on my phone.

—the bastard

PS: fml! the woman with the window seat apparently likes to sleep with the window open. hell really is traveling with other people. just as well I suppose. the caffeine is doing it's job now.

hey professor…

…how many bottles of seltzer does it take to fill a 45 gallon fish tank?

well young jerkface, it takes a bunch of bites of seltzer to fill a 45 gallon tank.

you see this is what it takes to deliver a concept from start to finish.

we talk about submersing a bunch of water filters into a tank in order to have a snazzy photo for our water filter test.

we draw it out.

and then we buy a fuck ton of seltzer.

the things we do for art.

—the bastard

…on basement lighting

I was tagged in a post on the book of face this afternoon by my colleague from art school.

I don't talk about art school as much anymore because when I do, people looked bored.

people i talk to at parties like to hrar about magazines and deer meat and how great it is to barely art direct killing stuff monthly.

no one gives a good god damn about sfumato,

or about arabesque,

or pendentives.

nah. no one gives a shit about how this painting was very indicative of the fall of man.

no one wants to hear about basement lighting and about Caravaggio.

but Leo did.

Leo was a broken man. born in the wrong time. hated art majors who came to class and a used tule at will.

you see Leo failed as a painter in his youth.

because no one gave a shit about sfumato in a time when Warhol was painting soup cans.

so he didn't teach so much as he seethed at you,

you young fucker.

you don't know shit.

and I'm going to make you know about it.

but once, for a week during the semester, he changed his tone, to speak about Caravaggio.

and during this segment of the course,  this angry man lit up in a way I never saw an educator come to life about a subject in 16 years of being in the educational system.

it changed me forever.

because he loved Caravaggio so much.

Leo is dead now so, I never got to thank him for bringing some light into the basement of my soul.

I miss talking about art school.

—the bastard

guess what?

the bastard still reads.


you on the other hand, still suck at life.

being a car thief ain't easy you know.

it's time consuming to steal shit and make it work for you.

so sometimes you gotta work with johnny law and buy things once in a great while.

it's like this. the bastard has been reading comics on my phone.

and the app I've been using to read them keeps crashing. so I've decided to stop reading jpg comics on my phone.

so I decided to pony up the 12.99 to read zero history by William Gibson.

I like gibson. his style of writing grabs me quickly and makes me care about what he's writing about. he caters to the futurist in me.

also, I try not to read anything my dad reads. and it's not that I don't share his interests. I just hate borrowing stuff. besides, the last time I borrowed a book from him, it decayed in my hands as I read it from 38 years of smoke damage.

that said, I won't tell you how the book ends ( get it?!?! BOOKENDS?!? ahhhhhh go to hell) the bastard just wanted to tell you bow much you suck.

—the bastard

this is why the bastard can't leave town

"there was a little accident today while you're at work", the wife began to explain, "and I have some bad news"

"okay, now let the other shoe drop"

"well… the baby got into the cabinet and she dropped the coffee press."

"ok"

"and it shattered into a million pieces"

"does the baby know that if I can't have coffee, that there is going to be fucking murders?"

"I'm not sure"

so a change of shirt and out the door I went. up to 3rd avenue to the Starbucks.

no dice.

up to park ave.

no dice

undaunted, the bastard walks to the Starbucks on 5th and boom.

paydirt

now let's dispense with the fact that I went to a major coffee chain to find a goddam press. up yours shiteyes, I'd have to walk clean across this crapstand to find a home goods store that I can buy a press at.

and let's dispense with the bastard's hoi paloi fashion of making coffee. hey guy, up yours.

your moms

that's right, I'm talking bout your moms.

the press takes up less space than any other coffee contraption and besides, there's this guy at my office who looks like fucking old fezziwig from a Christmas carol who has a coffee setup in his cube that look like a frikkin steampunk movie vomited in his cubicle. so someone else walks the earth with a greater sense of coffee snobbery than the bastard ever could.

but I digress.

I realize that I could never NOT live in a large city like this. the fact that I can walk 5 minutes from my doorstep to replace my coffee maker tells me that I cannot leave. that and the fact that the first time I tell cooter about his moms, he might stick a shotgun in my mouth.

did I mention that I was preventing fucking murders?

—the bastard

…on tourism

last Friday the bastard took a day off.

and he got a factory recall handled on his ride

the kind that could have blown his car up.

but that ain't why I took the day off.

the wife wanted us to take bebe to the central park zoo but, I got back way too late for that.

and besides, an 11 month old can't really dig on the polar bears as much as a baby.

so we went to the high line instead.

now the bastard can say this about the high line:

1: it's really more of an art installation than a park. it's built on old elevated train tracks and it's filled with little installation pieces that'd make mass MoCA jealous.

2: white people REALLY like the high line. and I can say this as a white person who likes it. however, while the bastard likes the high line, he doesn't like ray ban wayfarers like the other white people who were at the high line that day.

3: the high line is designed for people to see and be seen as it has lots of artsy (read: beautifully designed) park benches for people to read atlas shrugged or eat, pray, love on. there are also big lounges built into the high line so that the womenfolk who do not wear ray ban wayfarers can wear larger sunglasses and look fabulous.

4: Europeans find me as a stroller pushing father, as lame as the bastard finds them.

5: there is expensive trendy ice cream for sale on the high line for white people to spent cookie amounts of money on. I instead bought overpriced gelato at Chelsea market instead because I am a pompous jackass.

6: it is currently a great place to take pictures of the meat packing district for your sex in the city scrapbook.

so there you have it. check it out before the down economy renders it back to it's former state as abandoned elevated tracks. come on white peoples, you know you want to.

—the bastard