...and the idiot shouts down from his ivory tower

now the bastard doesn't want you to take this the wrong way but...

i don't care about your dog...

i don't care what you are listening to on spotify...

i don't care how many reps you did today...

i don't care that it's leg day...

and the bastard doesn't really want to read your daily affirmations about how good god is to you.

i don't wanna hear it.

now let's pull back...

this ain't yer fault screw...

i read this article in the times yesterday...

via gawker of course, because i'm lazy and i'd rather read some guy rant about it instead of reading the actually piece...

because who wants to read the sanctimonius talkey talk from some guy who earned 420 million dollars off of selling his "pre netscape" web browser telling me how we, the common folk, should live with less...

however...

he's not wrong...

we should live with less shit...

it leaves you more room for your smug sense of self worth...

also, it just shows that you spend less and in barry's economy, i need to be spending less.

but...

for some reason, having some really wealthy guy telling me what i already know about scaling down rubs me the wrong way.

call it righteous indignation or perhaps it's just that i've become comfortable disliking the rich or moreover the people that have what i do not have.

and perhaps that's petty but, the bastard is petty.

but let me get back to the beginning here...

after reading this times piece, i started noticing the little things that i'd like to see less of.

like how many reps you did...

or how many retarded daily affirmations hashtagged #truth on instagram...

or any of that nonsense...

there's just alot of it out there and i'm wondering if it's time to bury myself in a hole or take a vacation from social media altogether.

then it occured to me how many times i have taken the above photograph from my balcony.

has to be at least 1200 times...

so now, i'm part of the problem.

one time the nice lady and i had a disagreement when the boy pointed at a starbucks sign and said, "that's daddy's coffee"...

and we spoke at length about her problem with name brands and the pervasive nature of advertising in society and how she wanted no part of it.

and i agreed but with a proviso...

there's nothing you can do about it and expect to be a part of society and that you might as well burn all of your designer clothes, toss your cellphone and ANY technology that delivers information for free and start walking to a cave somewhere in the middle of kansas and sort of live like the amish but with machines that have no brand names.

it's a quandry.

i'm gonna root around my desk now and look for some whiskey

—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.

…on street fares and other things that make the bastard hate

come on.

the bastard's been good.

he moved to manhattan to stop being pissed about the commute but, sometimes dear city, you throw me a bone.

or a flaming bag of dog crap.

anyways, last weekend was the last of our fair mayor's summer streets program

which I hate; wait there's more.

the wife and I decide to go to the park but we have to pass park.

you figure, no cars, no problem.

wrong.

without the tyranny of the automobile, the bicyclists became the top of the food chain.

and as the top of the food chain the onus of obeying traffic laws was on them.

but they didn't.

as the top of the food chain, the onus of being considerate were on them.

but it was lost on the vastness of two wheelers.

now there is no reason a man needs to use a baby carriage as a means of leveraging his way across the street.

but I did. and I keep a hand free for the expectation of hand throwing which didn't happen fortunately.

the bastard didn't want to waste his Saturday in a cell when his brother in law was grilling across the river and chilling beers as well.

thing of it is this, my brother has had more than his fair share of shit with the four wheeled contraptions that "plague" bicyclists.

but some days it seems the plague is merely their desire to ignore people and traffic laws because they got to a respectable enough speed and, oh damn, here's a red light, nah, I'm gonna keep going, it's not like we get ticketed.

and BAM! your dead and some jackass is chaining up a freshly spray painted white bicycle where you went down because you thought this was a good idea, bro.

that said, I postulate the modest proposal the critical mass is wrong. we need cars on the road to keep you guys in check.

no good? eat a bag of dicks.

—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

...on morale

so this morning the bastard went to get milk for his coffee and he was greeted by a fridge full of booze.

this isn't my fridge.

this is the fridge at work.

the bastard doesn't really go in for white wine.

but today is the company end of year/holiday thing.

it's mandatory or they will no doubt say something to the tune of,

"well we're REAL sorry we had to lay off a bunch of you and you're probably not getting any manner of bonuses but, at least you still have jobs. here drink some booze."

when all else fails, ply them with booze.

the bastard was at a retirement party last night and a great elder statesmen of killing stuff monthly (and a legendary killer of many things on four legs) stood up at some point and stated that there was no booze better than booze that's on the company. he's probably right.

—the bastard

...on rats and fat cats

...and lots of shouting


now the bastard tries to be about fair play.

but there has been these picketers protesting across the street all day.

and it's starting to fuck with my flow.

you see, the bastard is wearing many hats now and none of them are made of cheese.

so i'm not down with the rat these thugs have been dancing around for the last 8 hours.

ok truth to tell the bastard isn't too sympathetic in general let alone a bunch of people who have more job security than most of my friends have seen in the last two weeks.

hell, i had a few things to say during the last transit strike we had and i have to say that not having job security doesn't give you much sympathy altogether.

so shut up thugs, the bastard has work to do. thank you.

—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...pt2

landed in salt lake.

well not IN the lake.

cause that would suck.

ball park frank was better but not by much.

some dick kept shoving his knees in my back.

I hope he gets kicked on the nuts someday soon.

hotlanta next. grief to follow.

—the bastard

bad day on black rock...again

so it's pissing out right now.

and it's going to be this way for the day.

then i get a message from my landlord.

"uh uh uh uh (he stutters, okay?) i have to go up on your roof because it's flooding in the basement"

which means it's flooding in my apartment.

the bastard is NOT happy.

i call him back and ask him if my luggage and my laptop are still dry. he says yes but not before telling me that he's cleaning up the mess and garbage can in the same sentence.

i have a flight to take tomorrow to go see my boy and i have to go buy a de-humidifier tonight to make sure i don't come home to little black fuzz all over my home. fuck!

could any hell be more real or now. i don't think so.

—the bastard

you know...

have you ever had one of those days where you wonder why the hell you're sitting at your desk?

yeah, me too.

i mean the staff isn't here. i've assigned all of my work for the moment.

illos for two features.

photos are taken care of.

i just can't get out of the chair of my own power now.

i gotta get outta here.

—the bastard

...on werewolves

...or walking the streets of soho in the rain


on sunday we were invited out to have lunch with my ladyfriend's sister in law (or rather he sister's sister in law i guess but, you get the picture) and she just moved to a tiny room in soho.

her brother in law, said to me at one time during the day that we were just like the europeans today.

"tourists in our own city", he elaborated, "eating and shopping"

it struck me funny. because we had all collectively not been down to this part of town for quite some time. and it's different. my ladyfriend used to live here a long time ago when there was a bodega downstairs from her. now it's a french restaurant. you can also walk two blocks over and shop at dolce e gabbana. it's cleaned up alot. safer. better place to take your kids. more expensive, like everything else in this city.

i saw this valiant in my travels and the overpriced sportscar couldn't have been better timed. it made the photo really. tragic or magic? i completely understand why all those crusty old fucks in the lower east side are complaining about the rich but not enough to get on board. there is a fine line between dissent and cliche these days.

later on in the afternoon, it started raining and we mulled the bourgeois notion of grabbing a cab, or buying a 15 dollar umbrella but, we just booked it to the subway and headed back to her place to get my gear.

—the bastard

...on humps

you know, the bastard has this good arrangement for the summer.

my editor understands that since i am being a parent for two months, that i will work from home sometimes and it improves my quality of life. i get stuff done and the boy gets a change of scenery from riding into the city with me.

it also saves my parents the trouble of taking days off to help (but then again, the old man should retire) as the bastard hates to ask people for help which confounds people in my life to no end.

but i digress, even though i have all this help, innevitably there is a bad ride in. and it has nothing to do with this lady who brought a stack of newspapers onto the train with her. i guess alot of people like to read a paper like the ny metro to get all of their dumbed down talking points for the day. or perhaps, she's doing paper machet today.

no, it had everything to do with the sick passenger and heavy train traffic on the 6 line this morning, and the rasta who brought a full size mountain bike, and the angry white man from upstate who was really indignant about the bike but notsomuch with the gruff when the bastard had to "politely" ask him to cease jutting his paper into my back as we waited.

oh well, i guess that's why they call it humpday

—the bastard

...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 being smart

a few years ago, the bastard had heard about a little car (quite literally) from europe called the smart. no one really paid very much mind to it here because gas was cheaper than tap water here so everyone thought it would be a great idea to buy an suv.


but now gas costs a lot more and alot of people are unhappy about it as well as some of our nations popular talking heads. so now this car which has been made in europe for years has finally reached our shores and now:


all kids love smart. i mean what's not to love.

you can't pick up more than one person.

you get crazy mileage.

you can park practically anywhere. and it's quite possibly the cheapest mercedes benz that you will ever get to buy. the bastard would have bought one but, i like to have a little extra storage. and i like haveing the means to get other people around and i like to go places with my girlfriend and my son. so having a yaris works out for the bastard. but, i would have bought a smart if it met my needs. ok so much for product plugs. i don't do them often and while i will continue to mock/cover the smart, i'd rather see them than see escalades on the road.

—the bastard

...go team

special on fucking FIRE edition

first off, brief description: did you ever watch those early eddie murphy routines where he makes fun of white people. it's kind of become the rosetta stone of how black comedians make fun of white people. so with that said:

to the two chuckling gentlemen on the coffee line talking shit about the woman they work with who's boyfriend from queens came to visit and you did your best stallone impression to essentially impersonate queens.

"ayyyyy oh, ayyy oh"

ok dick, it's like this. you sweater wearing shitheel. go die.

do not pass go.

do not collect 200 dollars.

go directly to die.

tonight the bastard is going to get down on his knees and pray (after i get drunk this afternoon of course) that your wife is having an affair behind you back with the pool boy and that your daughter (because a shitheel like you couldn't POSSIBLY produce and male spawn) gets pregnant out of wedlock with a kid from the wrong side of the tracks. you suck at life.

—the bastard

sunday driver

so on sunday, the bastard's ladyfriend had to do her sister a solid by babysitting. this had the bastard dropping her off at penn station and heading back to the fhills. on my way i saw this character

he reminded me of an online game which was a meme for about 5 minutes called gay or eurotrash. he was rocking a sleeveless t-shirt and versace jeans and i think his friends to the left were rocking sandals. also he had a big belt buckle. i'm going to go with eurotrash but it's up to you.

—the bastard

...on tedium

...weekend bastard feed edition


so this week, the bastard had jury duty.

and while the courthouse had wifi.

blogger is apparently censored by their firewall.

so i used the feed.

and i saw some people stealing the city's wifi.

saw some woman walk across the courthouse with a tail full of toilet paper.

wasted a lot of my second morning. some of it because of the law enforcement community.

and watched a bunch of folks cram food in their mouth while gradually making the world into more of a gesellschaft society through celluar technology.

well, it's a dirty job but, someone has to do it. and now the bastard won't have to for another six years. streetwise winds again.

—the bastard

monday morning...

...special 2 days late edition


so my monday began with a downpore.

which was followed by a series of bad decisions built around staying dry.

which turned into an umbrella big enough to keep the state og texas dry in a rainstorm.

which turned into a 30 minute wait for the bus which made the bastard late.

but the fair box was broken so the ride was free. so i got what i paid for in a way.

but the mistake to take the e train and wait 30-40 minutes between 63rd drive and woodhaven blvd. it felt like forever. and i actually packed a second bag for 2 days of lunch.

i get to the new space to find that part of it has been colonized by the hive mind of mystery science magazine.

there they are,

stacked two to a cube,

never speaking,

almost never moving.

i think they are going to try and assimilate left hand rob and i. i'm SO gonna stab one of them.

—the bastard