purgatory disguised as a room with a view…

and you can't see out the window…

and smoke gets in your eyes…

and I just wanna cry…

cry…cry…cry…cry…cry…cry…cry…

it's so good out this morning…

the bastard just stood out in the balcony and breathed that shit in…

eyes closed…

coffee in hand…

straight up peaceful. 

and I glanced at the autopsy that was my view of the Empire State Building and saw that there was this patch of clarity…

a small sliver of the fdr drive…

some nondescript buildings…

a patch of the river…

and no logistical way for a developer to block it…

and the bastard thought to himself…

'self… this small spot isn't going away and that totally does not suck'

and it doesn't 

—the bastard

will you still love me when I am no longer young and beautiful…

I was watching baz lurman's great gatsby tonight and aside from the fact that Lana del ray sings the most depressing song of 2013, I thought the film was quite good. 

the bastard is always fascinated by how others portray New York in other mediums. 

and baz lurman's New York is the beautiful shining city I envision myself in every goddam day. except I see it in queens. 

in gatsby it is portrayed as the wasteland that is oculist. dirt roads and almost a dustbowl like feel and I wonder if queens has always been seen this way in popular mediums  even though I know that oculist is merely and allegory for depression era middle America. 

I remember I always  wanted to smack the producers of ugly Betty for portraying queens as a series of elevated trains and Hispanic stereotypes and drag queen pristitutes but I soldiered through that shit show as well. 

but I choose to see this westernmost stop of he east to be prettier than what lies west in the face of times to come. 

yeah jerks, my spot is better than your spot now more than ever. 

I can't see the Empire State building anymore and that's okay because I'll always have queens. 

yeah… queens… everytime

—the bastard

life in these Long Island cities…

humid as hell…

yer man waltzes out into the street to get his 'go home' on…

expecting some manner of Thursday night bullshit from behind my home. 

yer man is pleasantly surprised to find that Thursday night has either taken it elsewhere tonight…

or…

perhaps decided staying inside the bomb shelter that is the bar behind my home. 

it was a nice change of pace. 

the bastard can't say it'll always be like this but it's these little surprises that make it all good in the hood. 

so, the babby and I hung out on the balcony instead of having story time…

and she told me about her day. 

it's the kind of stuff I can get used to. 

sort of how right now I can hear the angry man of the building's daughter running around their yard right now (silly rabbit, I told you I opted to not take that job here) which means it's 11:30. 

so tonight it's a glass of whiskey in the garden of good and evil for the bastard…

and I may take it on the balcony. 

domestic bliss in airquotes.

—the bastard

...on the kills

"you know breeze, it's a shame that the 7 is out all winter, I'd like to hit Dutch kills one night but I won't walk it in this cold", proclaimed the bastard…

"yeah, it is. I've been to Dutch kills, it's a really good bar.", the breeze retorted…

"but I will say this, since they started complaining about the shit shuttle bus service, it certainly does show up more often."

"there's one now."

"I see that. you know what I'm thinking?"

"no"

"if that light turns red, lets get on that bus and go to Dutch kills. worse comes to worse we take the bus back"

(green)

"sure"

(turns yellow)

"and we're off to the races"

lit turns red and breeze and I are hoofing it…

to hooker style across the boulevard of Vernon bound for drinks unknown in the Dutch kills section of the queens craptastic.

SIDEBAR: Long Island city is big. it's goddam big. so big that Astoria and sunnyside make it bigger. it's just a goddam fact of life. the bastard lives in the hunters point section of the liquid city. it's the very edge. you are as east as you can possibly BE and still be in queens where I'm at. and Dutch kills is the section that is closest to the east of hunters point. what? read a goddam map squire.

so we cross the boulevard and slide across the windshield and onto the shuttle. the bastard lands on his feet and calls some old woman a maggot so as to not break character. another old woman was in the back of the bus shouting into her phone and sucking on humbugs. you know she's a doors fan.

doors close…

on to mayhem.

the Dutch kills bar is modeled after old timey speakeasies. the wood is dark, and the ceilings are high. and the floor looks like it came with the place. there is nothing on the outside to tell you that you've arrived save for a small neon sign that says "bar".

inside was hopping jazz and fucking DARKNESS and it was good.

the drinks were served in giant glasses with big blocks of slow melting ice. which was the style of the time.

I hesitate to use the term "mixologist" because I hate that term but the dandy throwing down that night looked like he stepped off of his penny farthing bicycle with his monocle before starting his shift but he threw the hell DOWN. it was impressive.

several drinks later the breeze and I stepped out into the night air fulla whiskey.

"so what did you think", the breeze queried…

"I think I'm going to measure every bar I go to for the rest of my life against this place," i replied. "best bar ever."

and with that, we were off into the night in search of poutine, because salt is pretty damn great too.

—the bastard

…on offworlders

recently…

my mayor passed away…

and when respected dignitaries shake off this mortal coil…

they find the best quotes from said dignitaries' life.

case meet point…

when asked about living n New York City once, Ed Koch said that everyday he woke up he'd get out of bed and look around and proceed to thank god he was still in New York.

the bastard does this too.

there is some civic pride attached to being a lifelong resident of this Gotham.

flash forward:

this morning's commute was 10 different shades of awful.

I had never been in a position that there were so many people on a platform that I couldn't leave it.

hundreds of angry travelers…

and I kneed one of them full on in the chest because they were swinging at people and I'm just not the one

but when the 6 train full of fail finally turned up…

we spilled into the car and folks just kept on coming

and some awful offworlder…

in trendy aviators and with the smugness of a transplant with a trust fund blurts out.

"new York city is a shithole on so many levels"

and I think to myself in response, "leave then"

leave oklasota…

go back to whatever Midwestern backwater that spawned you and your fucking horse toothed mug and go there to stay…

leave my city if it sucks so badly for you…

I'm sure shit was SO much better for you in whatever New York junior crap stand shit you out onto the road and into my streets.

go home…

go back there. we're so sorry that a day long police investigation fucked up the 6 train and is messing with your fake tan…

go back to wherever it is you came from…

and filth up my home no longer…

and we can just add 'jerk' for good measure because I likes the word jerk.

—the bastard

the bastard was thinking about the rock early this morning…

think about the kids who have nothing while you're drinking down your wine

—the bastard

the road to elk

4 weeks ago...

i was in tucson...

on the phone...

"remember to take the elk"

"the elk?"

"yes. take the elk. it's less than 10 pounds of meat. put it in a cold bag and put it in may parents freezer"

"i'm not going to haul 10 pounds of elk down 6 flights of stairs, i have the baby. i'm going to need help"

"fair enough but the last time i witnessed elk spoiling, i came back to the office after a 3 day weekend and you know what the office smelled like?"

"no. what?"

"a dead body. do you want our home to smell like a dead body when we get back? take the elk"

and so a meatumental odyssey began for 10 pounds of new mexican elk that i have through the good graces of the editor who shot the 600 pound beastie"

oh...

wait...

"harvested"...

christ, the bastard hates that word.

when the lights came back on, the elk came back home with the babby and i…

through the good graces of the rents…

brought the precious wapiti home.

a week later, we hazarded spaghetti and meatballs…

or rather spaghetti and elk balls…

the bastard gets his sauce recipe from my dad, the shrink.

he walked me through it one day before I left home in 1996 and it stuck.

i'll wager it's a better recipe than most…

I season it like a smoker…

one clove of garlic more than needed…

more wine than needed…

more onion than needed…

because I used to smoke.

but that's a story for another time.

the end result was delicious…

for the elk is the magicalist of all of the meats.

2 pounds of chop down.

that leaves 3 steaks…

3 pounds of stew meat…

and a two pound roast.

meatumental…

—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

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

…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

a time for everything…

father Kurt from the six posted a piece he wrote as a liner note piece for the showerheads greatest hits package umpity ump years ago.

it reminded the bastard of the Ramones show that happened at the church…

yeah the fhillz finest played at my church…

he followed up later about flying in for the funeral tomorrow.

I uses to see father Kurt at shows…

now I'll see him at memorials…

a time for everything by tull comes on the iPhone…

again my playlist mocks me…

the bastard cracks a smile…

life is funny…

death is funnier…

best give her a smile.

—the bastard

and the heisman trophy goes to…

protip: get the fuck out of the way!

you know…

the bastard. had NO intentions of making the 5:51…

he popped out of the too park headed west and it was dick after dick…

tourist after tourist…

oh hey, I want to take a picture of one penn plaza engulfed in flesh eating fog.

move dick move…

slide to the right…

slide to the left…

to the left… to the left…

Onward we go on the PM barrel westward to this Long Island railroad…

evil bitch goddess I am saddled with until the lights come back on in the liquid city…

I fly straight true toward its stupid entitled suburban maw…

bound for the 6:08…

meatloaf may have been the great motivator

but ho, it's eluviete pouring it on…

and the bastard is here with two minutes to spare…

not by design but by sheer force of will…

I swore to myself I'd never miss this shit when I went back to my life in 2006…

but I never counted on getting my sea legs back for this metal barge to hell.

today's deep cut is everything the same as it never was by eluviete…

and now my playlist mocks me…

full steam ahead…

straight to hell and parts east of it…

yippy kay ay jerks

—the bastard

living is a young man's game…

When the bastard was young…

He used to pack on over to our lady of Lourdes on a Friday night…

Maybe sneak a couple beers out of someone's fridge or just go up to efroni's and buy underage…

And go see the battle of the bands.

The bastard played there a time or three but, that's a different story.

I wanna talk about jim.

Jim sang for a band called Norman bates and the showerheads and they headlined one night along with the six and violence and ultra violet confusion…

I don't remember much of that show from the showerheads but, they were loud, they rocked, and their big songs were a tore up version of if I could save time in a bottle and their closer, "Marlboro man" which I think involved cigarettes being thrown out into the audience which was rather provocative for a show in a church basement.

I also saw them open for the ramones in the church gym.

Flash forward: I'm at one of no redeeming's backyard bbqs and I hadn't been back to the scene for a bit and jim was there and we were reintroduced.

Jim pointed a skinny finger at me and said, "you used to deliver papers to me", and I did.

"89-22 220th street", I replied. We laughed and hada few beers.

I met his wife…

I drank with a satanist later that evening…

I smoked a lot of cigarettes…

The nice lady may have driven home that night…

Might have been better that way.

No redeeming would have a BBQ pretty much once or twice a summer and we'd chat in passing and he has always great to talk to.

You see, jim never left the thorough borough…

He was part of the scene here…

An elder statesman…

An idol…

An artist…

A frontman…

And when I last saw him, he was a giver

Flash forwarder: the last time I saw jim, I went to a benefit at the trash bar, one year ago tomorrow. His old bass player, J garrino had past away and a scholarship was set up in his honor.

Jim was the first guy I saw at the show.

He gave me a big hug…

thanked me for coming down…

Then promptly ushered me to hit the stage to catch the last two songs for no redeeming's set.

That night the showerheads, who had organized the event, only played two or three songs because of the full bill but, jim filled in for another past member of the six and violence for their set…

And at the time, it reminded me how much the six is a little less without paulie singing for them but, to have jim in was apprapo. J was their bass player too and it was a good send off.

Now: I sit in a basement in the old homestead banging this out and i realize that all of the old things in my life are going away and they won't be coming back and until old age takes these moments from me, I get to keep them.

I was on a camping trip last fall to k-love's bachelor party and Jim's guitarist was in tow. After a bottle of scotch, he declared the rock and roll lifestyle, a young mans game.

Perhaps he's right. Perhaps it is a young mans game and dying gets to be an old man's game.

You see, last night jim had lost his bout with lung cancer.

And a guy who touched many lives with his music and his art is gone and we're a little less for it.

But we're also a little more for knowing him.

He will be missed.

—the bastard

when the levee broke

there is a scene in patriot games in which jack Ryan is brought into the white house situation room…

satellites found sean bean who had nearly killed his wife and they sent a black ops team to wipe him off of the sat screen.

one by one, blurs that looked like little people went black until there were no more.

this is the best way I can describe how the bastard experienced hurricane sandy.

stuck on the ground in the desert…

LIC blogs posting pictures of the east river swallowing the gantrys…

folks love posting five feet of water rushing down 51st avenue…

my wife's cracked voice as she tells me the the car is under too much water…

the police using a boat to get down Borden avenue…

one by one things went black until the garage flooded…

and my wife told me the power went out…

and that was it.

sitting in a kitchen in Tucson…

watching my town go black…

my poor poor city…

I can't wait to see her.

—the bastard

frank...

If I should fall from grace with god 

Where no doctor can relieve me 

If I'm buried 'neath the sod 

But the angels won't receive me 

Let me go, boys 

Let me go, boys 

Let me go down in the mud 

Where the rivers all run dry 

—Pogues

the freight train's been rolling all damn day...

chugga frikkin choo...

the boss is out with child...

and we have a lot going on...

so it's chugga frikkin choo...

but even when the train keeps a rolling...

the bastard will glance at the book of face and the train had to stop for this.

when the bastard was a little shaver...

back in small times...

frank was the first look i ever had into the qv's street life.

my old friend, the pensioner and i had words with the squint, who's story may be told another time perhaps...

and it came to a head over by our lady of lourdes.

the pensioner was stepped to by frank and they mixed it up. bats an the squint waited for me to get in but it was over as quick as it started and nothing was decided that night.

flash forward...

it's 1990something and frank and i are having a beer in alley pond park with the neighborhood massive.

events of the past had become long past and we all drank as a hood thanks to matty aces.

"love the one your with" by the doobie brothers blasts out of the speakers and frank dances on a picnic table with a cold busweiser in his hand.

the police roll in...

pounding what seemed like 50 miles an hour across the park, the cruiser bounced all the way across the uneven grass.

flood lights on, the cop gets on his p.a.

"i don't care if you all get drunk, smoke pot, drop acid and get naked, clean up yah mess"

lights went down, cops drove away, frank kept on dancing

in the winter of 2006...

which may be the last time i saw frank i was at a show at fuzzys bar on braddock and he asked how i was doing.

always had a wry grin on his face...

even when he fought the pensioner...

i told him about the divorce and i don't recall what he said to me, drink will do that to a man over time.

but i'm sure it was encouraging.

you see, because frank was like that. the bastard had come to know him as a nice guy.

he went in and out of rehab once.

short sheeted his roommates bed while he was in there.

who the hell does that in rehab?

now...

i sit at my desk, still reeling from my son going home at the end of his summer so that the annual hole in my life opens up and i bury myself in work and i read that frank lost his bout with cancer.

and i'm just floored.

and numb.

i knew his prospects didn't look good when i heard last year.

but not today. i wasn't ready for more heaviness in my chest.

so i deal the way i know how.

by telling you jerks about it.

so it's like this.

frank dunworth was a guy who was supposed to kick my ass one night in 1985 and it didn't work out that day.

he became someone from the hood who i was always glad to see when i saw him.

and while i was never a good friend, i'm sad that he's gone because, i'll never accidentally run into him again.

and that's a shame.

i hope he went out grinning.

—the bastard

stirrings…

at 1am the palace is quiet…

at 1am the bar downstairs is quiet…

at 1am the kids are quiet…

at 1am my head is quiet…

it was a good night. no one on the bar's patio had big drunken sounds to make.

my neighbor went out so he didn't spend saturday night smoking pot on his balcony.

it gave us some time to enjoy the outside space we have.

and for a change all was at rest.

but lo… the bastard hears some drunken revelers just walked by howling the howls of drunken idiots.

some days you get the bear.

some day the bear gets you.

—the bastard

…on the salt

…and the fat

when we first mulled moving to the q borough, my wife entrusted the bastard to be the bellweather of what neighborhood in queens would be suitable for someone who lived in manhattan for her entire adult life and what just be too much queens for her.

it had to be new construction was one of the things that was a deal breaker for her.

or rather the deal maker.

but we landed here in the liquid city and it's been good for this last year

but,

my backup was always going to be sunnyside. it would be more neighborhoody than she would have been used to

but

it's because of the ever changing landscape of queens that we arrived at a restaurant called salt and fat

yes… you read it right

SALT

AND

FAT

and as a new American with a great deal of Korean flourish, the bastard had fantastic mussels with Korean snack sausage in the brine.

pork belly buns with sriacha hoisin

twice fried chicken served with sriacha and pickled daikon.

and rice crispy treat.

yeah, it's just that good. right on queens Blvd. it'll knock your socks off and into next week.

happy birthday to me.

—the bastard

...on grousing

the bastard has a bone to pick with new york media...

you see, he spends alot of time with gothamist...

it's sort of replaced ny1 for him as he isn't shelling out anytime soon for time warner cable

and recently there was a piece on whether or not people from the outer boroughs refer to manhattan as "the city" which found that 88 percent surveyed said that they in fact do.

the bastard does not.

the piece sighted that some "refuse to submit to the soft bigotry of Manhattan exceptionalism, and have never hesitated to correct anyone who insults New York City's other four boroughs by mislabeling that arrogant little overpriced island across from New Jersey as 'the city.' "

i don't think that hard on it as i refer to manhattan as "manhattan" because this city has 5 boroughs. plain. simple. my wife feels otherwise, raised in staten island, the forgotten borough which seems to have more of an inferiority complex than queens and jersey combined since pretty much anyone i know from ess aye refers to manhattan as the city.

so i don't try to change hearts and minds on the matter but it never stops me from correcting folks in conversation. and i let it go.

until of course the occasional "these are the best places to get food, drink, coffee" piece comes up.

yesterday, gothamist ran a piece on the 6 best places to get weak assed iced coffee beverages in new york and it seems by and large that there are only two boroughs in this city for these sort of pieces manhattan and brooklyn.

the dumb thing is...

i don't even look at iced coffee as my go to beverage in the heat. i just suck it up and drink coffee.

however, when it's crotch pot cooking hot out, i go to sweetleaf for my iced coffee. their rocket fuel has all of the gothamist mentioned places beat hands down.

this reminded me of a quote that former mayor ed koch had said about how brooklyn and queens is a series of cemeteries new yorkers drive through on their way to the hamptons.

that said, the bastard decided to make some changes to our cities map to reflect my disdain for this.

so as a citizen of westernmost part of the borough of "here be monsters" i enjoy my view of this cities two sole boroughs.

enjoy

—the bastard

the meats

this just in…

the bastard likes himself a burger

and since moving here…

the bastard has been sampling the local fare.

you see…

the corner bistro opened up it's only outer borough outpost here in L.I.C.

and I wanted to see how it stacked up to other places.

behind my home is alewife who's owners come here from b-more

and so far…

their short rib and brisket burger served on a pretzel roll has them all beat.

but at 8 bucks lic's corner bistro has an edge on price by over 50%.

so the bastard almost has to give it up on just economics.

but that wouldn't be fair.

i'll keep digging around here.

there are other contenders…

and I aim to try em all.

hooray meatses

—the bastard

common…

"rent a flat above a shop

cut yer hair and get a job

smoke some fags an play some pool

pretend you never went to school

but still you'll never get it right

while you're lying in bed at night

watching roaches climb the wall

you can call your dad, he can stop it all"

it passed one day last week, but it's been a year since the bastard returned to the thorough borough…

to the liquid…

to west coast of the east…

to my fucking perch…

here in long island city.

shit was so uncertain.

there was a change of the guard at work.

I found out the old boss wanted me out which would have wrecked our future here.

we sold the old place and would be renting in some rathole until the job market returned or some crap.

the new bosses turned out to be more willing to give me a shot than the last one so I got lucky.

so I'm lucky

and grateful

and I live in a nice place with less grief than my old place on metro.

where I did battle on the regular with roaches the size of cattle and I killed rats with my bare hands.

and I sat in the dark being really angry about it all.

I used to walk home through forest hills gardens and sulk all the way home because I knew I'd never be able to afford to own there and now I'm in some other neighborhood where it's so nice that I can't sulk.

it's been a nice breather from hating

beats the hell out of haterade

—the bastard