full contact

"like a dog lying in the corner

they bite you without a warning, lookout

—pulp"

once upon a time…

Chicago jerkface told me a story about his brother the filmmaker…

he used to deliver pizza in a car with a bumper sticker on it he made himself that read…

"fuck with me and find out"

so one night, the filmmaker is doing his rounds…

and some guy has been following him all over shytown…

he makes a left…

this guy makes a left…

he makes a right…

well, I'll save you the trouble. you get it. 

eventually, he pulls over on the side of the road and this guy stops as well and gets out of the car… 

the filmmaker asks him what his problem is…

he gets in his face and yells, "I'm finding out!"

some days this is my commute. 

tonight, the sebbentrain was all kinds of crowded and this is sometimes my lot…

so I accept this as the known quantity and squeeze in… 

I've gotten good at it. 

last night a man who was shaped like a bowling pin nearly popped my arm out of its socket with his girth alone…

but this is the price one pays to live on stop into the liquid city. 

tonight, I'm running especially late… 

southam is going on vacay tomorrow and the wife is having a girls night out and I'm in an important meeting so I get to running home. 

greeting crowded train I say to myself as I pull a few of my heisman trophy earning moves together on the sebben…

as I mill on I feel a hand lightly touch my back…

this turns into a push…

which turns into a shove…

which turns into the bastard quickly grabbing this hand and twisting it quickly to one side…

which turns into a small Asian woman taking her hand back and I'm sure she was: 

A: glad to have her hand back

B: surprised as hell that the big bald guy could snatch his hand behind himself and foil such jackassery

I'd like to think that going forward, she may think better of such foolishness but I fear that too many folks are working their lizard brain when they get on that train. 

—the bastard

sideward glances…

6 train…

my game…

same old same. 

it's astounding how no matter how many times gothamist posts the rules for subway etiquette, no one gets better at riding the train. 

so as I get in the crowded by the doors part of the car I see, that 20 inches past the door is the great empty…

so I excuse myself and here the tell tale teeth suck of thug life. 

the kind of thug life that inhabits the high school a Ross the street from the bastard's office. 

flashback: I'm trucking in from forest hills… 

same train doorway scenario…

"please step into the car so I can step in"

nothing

"PLEASE STEP INTO THE CAR", and I push in…

hard

"yo, I'll fucking cut choo", says a 14 year old girl

the bastard smiles in his trench coat and sunglasses and growls…

"I'd really like to see that"

she shuts up. 

now:

so thug life teeth sucks and throws his arms back as if to stop me…

but an irresistible force will not stop…

he tries to wrest my bag but my arm goes up and some poor Indian lady collects 5 pounds of anodized aluminum into her back. 

rule  573 of subway etiquette: step into the fucking car stupid. I sleep soundly on this

I get into the big empty and turn around. 

rule 731 of being a bastard: never turn your back to an asshole… you can't see what he's doing

thugs give me the sideward glance…

then looks at his girl who was looking at me the whole time. 

she slowly shakes her head "no". 

then it's over. 

I go to work…

and thug life goes to one of the bottom 10 schools in NYC for his last 17 days in the system before he goes back for summer school. 

yeah…

I'd like fries with that… thug 

yes

yes

y'all

—the bastard

protip...

hey brovvah…

bro…

brozah…

here's a tip…

make some goddam room guy.

I understand that you're all puffed up from playing backgammon on your iPhone…

but folks need room to stand in this spot you're taking up part of…

and by folks…

I mean me.

so scoot over bro…

suck in that chest…

you look like one of those jockey jocks with your khakis and your kegger softball wrap around glasses that let you role play your gay assed wade bogs fantasy cosplay.

and play something less weak than backgammon on your iPhone. 

mother fuckers are playing temple run these days, don't you have eyes?

—the bastard

...on handbags

this morning...

the weather has moved on but, the humidity has decided to stick around for now.

the bastard is always delighted when a weather system can stick around in the capacity to make him sweat alot but not enough to keep all those dicks on the bar's back porch indoors.

magical...

but i digress...

barely made it onto the 7 when i crash straight into faux pas number 537 on the subway...

step into the car

followed by faux pas number 63...

not stowing your fucking luggage...

now the bastard isn't a cold unfeeling creature...

no wait...

he is...

but he understands the value of a good louis vuitton shopping tote, even it it is a knock, he understands it...

and he understands the value of a longchamp tote of equal or greater size but one should stow them  properly. they are bags, not frikkin people bumpers.

and why the hell do you need two enormous overpriced totes anyway?

are you going away on a thursday for a long weekend of jackassery?

but nonetheless, there i was with the two designer duffel bags and my umbrella...

propping it up...

and she is not happy...

but i remembered tell chicago jerkface my musings about people and polite society from a while back and decide that this is the course of action to take.

next leg...

6 train...

new bag in my back...

new course of action...

leaning.

i've decided that you can't always fight the good fight about this sort of thing so one can go the other route and use a bag as a piece of furniture.

more comfortable that way. at least for me it is.

oh look...

it's started raining again. perhaps it'll last long enough to keep my evening quiet.

but i don't buy it.

you see what i did there didn't you?

rhyming...

look that shit up jerk.

—the bastard

the flinch...

...or dumb shit i've done on my way to work

so there was this guy having a heated discussion with his girlfriend in french...

who was blocking the door...

and perhaps it wasn't heated so much as it was loud and in french...

but he was blocking the door...

and i should have thought better of it...

but i didn't as i shoved past him...

and i didn't when i added insult to injury by telling him he can step out...

yeah, so he was totally justified in losing his shit with me.

oddly enough, i didn't see red when he called me an asshole and attempted to goad me into something.

instead, i just whipped my finger out 6 inches from his face...

unexpectedly to him, i would guess as he jumped back in the crowded car.

i think i said something insulting as i stood there with my finger in his face...

pointed at his eye...

waiting for the next move...

i'm not sure but, while the bastard didn't see red, the tv snow kicked in that comes with adrenaline...

i thought it was on and reached for the steel...

then i thought better and walked away, i've already done enough dumb shit for one morning so, i take a walk...

and in his loudest french accent, he yells, "fuck you" at the top of his lungs as i walk away.

i turn briefly and quip back with, "your moms" and i'm off all the while as he shouts as many insults in an attempt to goad me back to the car as if he truly wished to be part of one of those retarded youtube videos of idiots fighting on the train...

basically, he went down the list and shouted about my mother...

because once a mother joke is made, you have to respond back with one by obligation...

my baldness...

yep, i am that...

my weight...

well, i look big in a jacket but, i've lost weight but compared to the bag of bones in wayfarers that was yelling at me, i probably was fat...

but nah...

i wasn't taking the bait.

so in retrospect...

hey, hysterical french guy who i slighted this morning...

it wasn't my finest hour and i should have thought better...

but i didn't...

and you didn't deserve to have to relive that shit for the rest of your ride to the 9/11 monument or whatever touristy thing you were headed to today...

but it happened...

and you get two for flinching

—the bastard

always roll hard…

it's become a known quantity for the bastard…

crowded 7 trains are crowded.

the other known quantity is that a crap ton of people get off of the 7 train at the first two stops in the borough most thorough…

so the other other known quantity is that everyone who is getting off at those stops are as superstitious as a new Guinean cannibal getting his photo taken when it comes to the suspicion that if I step into the car at time square, there is NO WAY I'm going to be able to traverse the three feet to the door in time without saying 'excuse me' so I must stay in the middle of the car.

you see, saying "excuse me" may cause one 7 years of bad luck or something.

so getting home is all asses and elbows for the bastard.

tonight I push in and this little man who looked like a 4 foot tall aiden Quinn didn't want to step in.

well… no one did really even though there clearly was room to do so and aiden straightens up to push back but to no avail.

I roll in hard.

he turns around to give the stink eye but he gets one look at the outfit and sheepishly steps into the car.

you see,

I'm a little overweight and I have a touch of the asthma so all I have at the moment is an excellent scowl and the fact that I dress like secret agent skinhead.

hard mod in a trenchcoat

so I just roll hard, look angry at the person I have to push in with and hold my jaw in a manner that says "I will tear your windpipe out with my teeth but in an ironic way"

and one day this may not work on people anymore…

but it does now…

and oddly enough…

mini aiden Quinn was able to make it the three feet to the door without having to says "excuse me" or having his soul stolen.

—the bastard

riding home from the uppa uppa

crisp cold breeze…

head Fulla high life…

the wife texts me…

am I on the way home?

sure I am but this poor crazy woman is screaming at the top of her lungs in broadway…

NO! NO! NOOOOOOOO!

as they try to cram her onto a gurney…

into an ambulance…

the city, she still ain't all that safe at night.

make no mistake, oklasota…

I'm tawkin to you wiscotucky…

the city may be candyland to you…

but I remember a time when it wasn't so nice…

and sometimes I get to see it.

on the 2 train I sit across a crumbling beauty…

she's using…

clearly she is…

I wonder if her parents know where she is…

what she's doing…

who she's doing it with…

and whether or not her parents will need to take that call in the middle of the night…

you know the one.

hello mister and missus…

we need you to come down here to identify the body…

yeah.

my city is beautiful city…

but she is flawed…

whoop…

the doors are closing on the 7…

I'll be home in 10 minutes…

things to do…

lunch to make…

sleep to get.

—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

life in these new york cities

monday…

not my funday…

nor my i don't have to run day…

now you have that song stuck in your head…

you're welcome.

so the bastard is getting off of the train on his way to the office when this poshley dressed woman walking in front of me pauses…

turns toward a subway garbage can…

gets onto her tippy toes…

and proceeds to throw up into the subway garbage can.

not something you see everyday.

upon reaching the turnstile I look back to see that she has composed herself and continued walking as if nothing had happened.

because you see…

this is the city that never sleeps…

where you can eat and run anywhere…

and apparently…

evacuate and run…

try to hold it down new york…

unless you can't.

—the bastard

dear MTA…

hey…

it's me again.

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

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

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

but your weekend service is goddam awful…

how the hell does anyone get anywhere on a Saturday?

it's ridicaluss.

so…

that said…

pick up the slack bitches…

it's the little things that count these days…

hurricanes are so 30 days ago.

love always,

—the bastard

the horror…the…hor…ror

this morning on the slow barge to Rome…

and mind you it was slow…

how's does one figure on leaving for work 50 minutes early…

only to arrive 15 minutes early…

only the lirr's awful awful math knows…

but I digress.

the whole time I was transfixed…

by this woman who was making a meal of her cuticles…

only stopping to respond with two fisted (non cuticled) tales of how her family has survived these past two weeks without power out there in the hinterlands…

then it was back to hand snacking

I couldn't take my eyes off of it, I was so disgusted by it…

here's a protip…

get your fucking hands out of your gaping maw…

and have a nutritious breakfast…

they have fruity pebbles out there in the sticks don't they?

shudder

—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

it didn't even last two days…

doctor martens 1460 boot…

with bouncing soles…

protects against alkali, oil, water, whoops…

watch that last step…

it's a loo loo…

"sorry man"…

"take it easy guy. watch where you're goin"…

"I slipped pal so relax guy… and I said I'm sorry"…

"I didn't hear you"…

"so take the shit outta your ears then"…

"you have a nice day" (this is f.l.i.d. speak for fuck you)

"you too pal"…( I speak f.l.i.d. too so, fuck you right back old man)…

two days into this and the bastard is already getting into shit with the suburbs.

they can't fix my building fast enough

—the bastard

improving… non stop

except by me…

a sewer main burst under my building when the surge hit…

flooding my parking garage with human waste…

knocking out the power for these last 10 days.

and there's no sign of the lights coming back on yet.

hell is mother nature

go directly to whiskey

—the bastard

belly of the beast…

there's a scene in frank miller's batman year one in which Gordon takes the train into Gotham all the while thanking god that he made Barbara fly in so she didn't have to ride in with the filth c

conversely, Bruce Wayne laments flying into Gotham because he should have taken the train to be closer to the enemy.

the bastard can tell you this…

he should have taken the local today.

should have gotten that seat…

on the slow role out of the belly of the beast…

to trip the queens fantastic.

the wife asks me why I don't book a car…

I tell her its because this way is cheaper…

but it's really because I want to be closer to the filth…

to get the street under my feet…

to disappear into the ground and cross the borough most thorough…

on my way out to the desert.

yippy kay ay mother fucker.

—the bastard

rough night, yo!

you ever have one of those commutes?

you know the ones where you leave work late because shit totally blew up in your face…

and your washing egg off of it…

only to find that the seven train isn't running…

so you take the 6…

to the E…

to the G…

and them limp home in time to see that the seven train is running again?

yeah me too.

I made a manhattan and got a double cheese burger with bacon to make up for the heavens fucking me over for the last 48 hours.

what's your plan for cosmic bullshit?

—the bastard

life in these new york cities

the ride is short these days.

but the ride has become more and more populated as the neighborhoods along the 7 line have become more sought by folks as the next affordable heaven for those of you who come here from oklasota or wiscotucky or even long-g-g giland for that matter.

and the touchstone conversations the bastard overhears are starting to become more and more interesting.

it seems that hipsters travel all across these new york cities in search of other hipsters so that they can talk about how funny it is to judge some other hipsters from oklasota and wiscotucky when they order a chocolate bagel when they should clearly be ordering the authentic flavors

like cinnamon raisin.

shit is hard when you a graduate degree and a bad 80's haircut and your friend from out of town orders the wrong kind of bagel.

you see.

some bagels are more equal than others.

however to the bastard, you're all from out of town.

the more you blather on in your midwestern accents that you try so desperately to hide from the likes of me...

...the more we know how fearful you are of us finding out about your redneck past...

and no amount of copies of 100 years of solitude (apparently "atlas shrugged" is no is no longer in print) clutched under your arm will ever ever change that.

give it 9 more years according to gothamist.com. then you can consider yourself authentic.

so until that day arrives, judge not.

because i am already judging you too.

—the bastard

blow by miserable frikkin BLOW…

"hey. it's tehREEsah"

"hey"

"I was saying to blah blah blah that that looks a lot like tehREEsah"

"oh?"

"what with thah hayhr. it's gotta be tehREEsah"

"ok?"

"so I said to blah blah blah that we should see if that's tehREEsah"

"ok?"

"so I said, "hey tehREEsah" and it was you…tehREEsah"

"yeah… so you just yelled out and all."

"isn't that like the funniest thing tehREEsah?"

no dick. no it isn't. so stop talking like a frikkin mook.

go directly to die.

the bastard was born and raised on this rock we call the q boro and the one thing he could never get past is folks that sound like a sitcom about the outer boroughs. I'm waiting for ray ramano to show up on the 7 train.

can't wait until baseball season is over.

—the bastard

turnstile

the bastard has a sliding scale of moral relevance when it comes to theft…

if you're gonna steal a car…

steal a fly ride but don't break my windows to steal the linzer tarts off of the console.

if your gonna shoplift…

you best work for the store you're stealing from because fuck the man.

if your gonna steal candy…

best not to steal from a baby because that shit will wreck my review of you on yelp.

and of you're gonna jump the turnstile…

show some balls and jump the goddam turnstile.

don't be like that middle aged lady waiting on the side with a Louis Vuitton bag or knockoff of said brand…

waiting for someone to hit the emergency exit.

I see you.

we all see you you frikkin grifter.

you don't look like you're eating catfood.

you have a Louis Vuitton bag or knockoff of said brand…

buy a damn metro card like the rest a us rubes.

cheapskate.

—the bastard

knights of the rails… Super Bowl edition

…or the bastard likes to make his life difficult.

the bastard doesn't even LIKE. football.

but here he is taking mass transit to the QV mob really for three reasons.

I like seeing my friends on these kinds of occasions. I basically live in an ivory tower that overlooks the east river and everyone else I know lives in suburbia or in the Brooklyn/Manhattan conglerate and as the 'shit new Yorkers from oklasota say', 'I don't go to queens'.

secondly, I hate driving on Super Bowl Sunday. after thanksgiving, it's the drinkiest drunk driving holiday on the calendar. but it's more than that. the bastard hates to drive actually. since I lost the bike, I find driving to be a drudgerous bore and parking is a nightmare in the liquid city on Sunday nights. so there you go.

thirdly, the bastard likes a challenge. it's fun to dare the system to fuck up my day. funny thing is, the system always bellies up to the bar and gives it it's best shot. so we'll see how this goes.

Geronimo shiteyes.

—the bastard