monday morning sardine can

hey!

where the fuck is the train?

i gotta tell you.

there is nothing the bastard enjoys more than staying up late until 1:30 in the morning reading volume two of 100 bullets and waking up like he's been shot out of a cannon (how the hell do you this the bastard get's to the train station? walking?!?) and piling into this sardine can i call a train station only to find that no one has gone anywhere.

anywhere.

i mean what the hell?

can't a totally trucked brother get a break?

it's days like this the bastard remembers the most when the mta wants to raise fares. and then i feel completely incensed.

on the plus side, apparently my ipod had "helpless" by sugar and it brightened my otherwise annoying ride in by drowning out the couple across from me that are clearly married to different people but can't quite get around the fact that they have a metric ton of sexual tension between them and just talk the kind of small talk that makes the bastard want to hit them with a mallet.

i mean come on?

whatever happened to uncomfortable silence?

oh.

wait.

coffee's ready.

—the bastard

nudge

crisp.

clear.

cool.

that's how the bastard's day started. left the window open last night so it was a little chilly. put on the black trench. it's cold enough to dress the way he prefers to dress. i'd do it all year round if i could.

but i can't.

too bad.

the trains are screwed and my usual local that i've been unable to take is running express.

paydirt.

good ride. slow but, good,

"excuse me, sir?"

i'm so tired, my head feels like someone took a shit on my brain

"excuse me, sir?"

one of these days, i'm going to have yo get myself correct.

"excuse me, sir?"

oh, wait, "what? what? what?", screams my head but what come out of my mouth (the one with the gravelly voice) was, "yes son?"

"can i borrow your phone"

instinctively, i tell him what i'd tell anyone, "no i don't have it on me". sorry, it's the force of habit. the bastard has problems.

and this maybe 11-12 year old boy curls up into a ball and starts crying.

holy crap, what have you done now, bastard? this kid is no older than the boy and you shut him down. goddamit!

let's fix it, "what's wrong young man?" i asked, "do you need change for the phone?"

"no, i missed my stop."

"well where's your stop?"

"woodhaven boulevard." and he buries his head in his hands. you know the boy started taking piano lessons this year, he played the star wars theme for me over the phone last night. he makes me so proud and now i feel like a heel. i mean NOT that he could make a phone call from underground but still swap the bastard's head for a cartoon heel.


"you don't need to cry son. i'll tell you what, we're going to stop at roosevelt avenue soon and your going to take the train back three stops and you'll be at woodhaven. just threes stops. then you can make a phone call and tell whomever you need to that you are going to be a couple minutes late because of the trains. do you need change for the phone?"

"i have change."

"good, it's going to be alright."

almost on cue, this older woman hands me a tissue to hand him. he feels a little better and when we pull in, i prick up my shades and tell him one more time, "go up the stairs to the queensbound platform, and take it three stops, elmhurst, grand ave, and you get off at woodhaven."

i repeat this and the tissue woman emphasizes that it's the queensbound platform.

i wished him luck, and i don't recall anymore if he thanked me, and i don't much care. the kid was scared and he needed help. and it's times like this that i don't feel so bad that i live in a large city that pretends like it's a small town. i tell myself he's going to be alright and i think of my boy and all of a sudden, i'm really glad that i wear sunglasses on the train.


ipod's on by the time i pull into lexington.

the bastard got tired of listening to the two teenage girls who finish all of their sentences? in question form?

when i get slapped on the back by this other person who saw the whole thing go down. he was a social creature when he got on the train. probably just as jazzed as i was to get a quasi express train as well.

"you did a good thing back there"

"whu?"

"you did a good thing back there. i saw that kid was crying and i was about to head over there to see what i could do, and there you were, helping him out"

"it took me long enough. it was probably the furthest down on the subway he's ever been"

"but still, by this afternoon, he's going to remember you and think you were really great."

"well, it's like the man says. do a good turn daily."

and then just like that, we went on our way. "the hymn of the big wheel" by massive attack came on the the ipod and the bastard walked up the escalator and thought about the boy. i can't wait to see him at the end of the month. he makes me proud.

this whole being evil thing is TOTALLY not working out for me.

—the bastard

...dispatch

running late today.

got the express.

which is good.

but some crazy lady next to me spent the whole ride (or at least until queens plaza), jamming crackers into her pie hole.

collective shudder. well at least she wasn't eating fried chicken or some other kind of finger food. then i'd have to....well...do nothing really or maybe write something clever about it.

—the bastard

dear mta...

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

why you gotta suck so much?

i mean seriously, why you gotta suck so much?

no

really

why you gotta suck so much?

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

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

so we can like...

get to work and shit?

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

and it doesn't.

ever.

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

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

—the bastard

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

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

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

...on 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

sticky

so the boy and i are waiting on the platform.

and while it isn't hot out, it was sticky underground and it was almost unbearable. at least it's raining now.

the chairman sent me this image and i didn't know what to do with it but i thought of the new round of six flags commercials. i never liked that wrinkly old guy but this guy is almost worse in many ways. but there he is. now go to hell

—the bastard

fashion tips for the subway revisited

yesterday, the chairman had seen a woman.

hell, she might be your girlfriend.

in fact i KNOW that it's your girlfriend.

the chairman's only regret is not waiting to take the picture.

she took out a pack of newports.

started packing the hell out of them.

then took out two.

that's right.

two.

now your girlfriend is in flavor country. it's a big country.

—the bastard

spoiling

so for a change of pace, my commute sucked ass.

it was one of those days where i guess one late train makes for a full ass platform.

which makes for a crowded train.

which makes for a lot of inconsiderate behavior infringing on your morning.

the bastard wasn't going to get into the asshole who used me as a piece of furniture until i tugged his chinese language newspaper. but while looking for links to posts where i complain about the subway (which number in the thousands apparently), i came across a picture of this dick. i even wrote haiku about him.

where there you go.

so i nice he did it twice. kind of takes the wind out of the sails of the post but in a nutshell, all of you on the r train and the 6 train this morning suck at life. now lets be fair, only the commute from 8:30-9:20. and the front car of the r. back car of the 6. the rest of you may suck at life but i wasn't talking about you. try to keep up.

—the bastard

...on cud

ok, it's like this. i've made it abundantly clear that the bastard doesn't enjoy watching you eat on the train so i won't belabor the point.

ok.

maybe he will belabor the point. it was like a surprise gross out this morning when this character sat down across from me with his cup of....something. i think it's coffee.

but it wasn't. instead it was a cup of nice sludgey steel cut oats.

thanks pal, watching you cram that sludge into your pie hole really made my day. thanks.

no.

really.

i appreciate your disgusting albeit efficient use of your time. the fact that you look like you are spooning spackle onto your beard is neither here nor there.

—the bastard

contents may shift while in transit

the bastard knows that you're really caught up in the whole, feeling less like a man because the train just shifted and you thought that you really didn't need to hold onto anything but your wall street journal but, when you full on fell into me, instead of saying nothing, the phrase you should have been looking for was:

A: sorry buddy.

B: excuse me.

C: whoops, my bad.

D: hey buddy, can't you see i'm falling here

any of the above would have been acceptable. it would prevent the bastard from thoughts like:

A: you're and asshole.

B: i hope you die or at least have an amusing pratfall in my presence.

C: you're a dick.

D: you suck at living.

and that as they say is that. i was kind of hoping for the pratfall though. oh well, coffee.

—the bastard

dear new york city...

hi,

i was wondering that while you were in the midst of jacking up the price to take a subway train as well as mulling over the 4 bright ideas you had in mind to make congestion pricing fuck the outer boroughs, i mean work in the city, could you maybe get the trains to maybe, ida know,

run on time?

i know it's a little detail but, some of us actually work here. that's not to say that the thugs in the transportation workers union don't work but, come on kids.

thanks,

—the bastard

tad

two guys on the 6. going downtown. they only grab my attention because one of them is wearing shoes i would only catch the lowe wearing.

"did you see tad?"

"unintelligible response"

"did you speak to tad?"

"unintelligible response"

"did you know tad?"

"unintelligible response"

"were you close to tad?"

"unintelligible response"

now the bastard has to ask you. who the hell is tad? who the hell would name their kid tad? is tad his real name and if not, why the hell would he call himself tad? what is he a jackass? why is his friend in the comfortable shoes ending every sentence in his name? is HE a jackass? these and many more questions can be answered AFTER i stab him in the neck. well...maybe not but, the bastard will feel much better

—the bastard

...on closing

"pardon me?"

"pardon me"

"pardon ME"

"or just don't move and stand there like an asshole"

this is how the bastard started his evening and he said this to the COO of what we can call the NEW company. yes, the music was blaring. no, he didn't react. and goddam right, i feel foolish for opening my mouth.

so the morning starts with me forgetting shit, going back to the apartment, and other inconveniences. but the train ride had me rethinking everything that has gone wrong with the bastard up until this point. and as i was, the train was filling up more and more. it felt like the walls were closing in as more people got on. by the time i got to lex i had a handle on it but it was still there, nagging.


standing on the 6 platform, waiting for the transfer and the platfrom is empty. i forgot to mention that the bastard is running late and i must have missed the last train of rush hour and coming down the tube was the first train of the non rush hour.

just waiting for the green light.

just waiting to happen.

when this homeless man in a wheelchair who made me think of david was, was wheeling his way down the platform with all of his gear attached to the chair. he wasn't crippled, he was just in a wheelchair. i mean, his legs work as they were his mean of locomotion.

time stops.

green light.

time starts again.

and i'm on the 6. it's empty. almost surreal because i'm tired, it's empty and i was so crowded before. and so not in a good place. but david was was wheeling himself onto the train with me and he backs into the door that will open at 42nd.

pull into 42nd, and only one door opens and this guy can't get out. 2 or 3 people try to help him get out about to no avail. he ain't getting out. david was rolls forward and let's the door close. smiles. shrugs it off. it's not like he had an appointment to keep. and all of a sudden, things didn't seem so bad. so i got better. and then i made coffee. now i'm right with the world. now if the COO didn't really hear me, shit'll be golden.

—the bastard

the devil went down to...jersey? again?

so the bastard and his ladyfriend took a little trip to jersey last night to see a certain band that jersey really loves. yeah...that one. what can i say? i like to do nice things for my girlfriend. the bastard is a saint that way. then again by wrote of last phrase, how can a bastard BE a saint? hell, i'm trying for sainthood. go to hell.

anyway, we get a little sidetracked en route. wait let me back up:

FLASHBACK (re: the office): "this is fucking confusing?"

"what is?"

"the transit in jersey. you know lobster, i fucking hate your state sometimes"

(cue dirty look)"excuse me"

"sorry, i mean the state you live in." (lobster johnson is a native pennsylvanian and don't you forget it shiteyes)

"well it is what it is" ok back to real rime

CUE PRESENT: so the ladyfriend and i get a little sidetracked on the way to the prudential center to see that band and we ended up getting off at the wrong stop to transfer.

"we should ask someone", she suggests.

"i wish we had a map to refer to", i reply.

taking the initiative, she asks an african american gentleman if we could pick up the connecting train to newark. he suggested that we should have stayed on the train we were on, shaking his head.

"i was watching you you guys. you shoulda stayed on that train. you wanna get to newark, just follow all the white people"

just follow all the white people? that's classic, squire. fucking classic.

—the bastard

...on stove pipes

...or on big pimpin' 2

you know,

there are certain things in a shit commute that makes it all worth the while. mostly this involves tripping old ladies on the way out of the subway train. sometimes this might involve making an inappropriate joke about setting homeless people on fire but, since news of this horrible act has made it all the way to australia (just click the damn link stupid, otherwise the comment makes no sense. come on! DO IT!), i'm going to go in another direction with this.

anyway, before the bastard gets completely off message, the thing that makes it worth the while is seeing something different.

i saw this guy a good hundred feet in front of me and i had to catch up. he had a big cane. a gigantic gold shield for a knuckle ring. and he rocked the trench coat hahd. it was majestic. but the best part, and the only part of his outfit that the bastard will be documenting will be his magnificent...

furry...

top hat! look at it, it's fantastic. totally made the whole crunch to get upstairs because only one escalator is working and it's too goddam humid out for the bastard to want to climb stairs. you know the feeling don't you? of course you don't. go to hell.

i suspect that his pimp hand is strong

—the bastard

...on old bags

ipod? check.

undercrowded express train? check

ok no seat but at least i can zone out.

thump. what the hell? who's rolling their bag on my foot?

what the fuck?

old lady ignores me and continues to get herself situated.

the bastard lifts a toes dislodging the suitcase from his foot and then and only then does she acknowlede that she has affronted.

her response. she nods.

i'm sorry ma'am but, i already gotcha. the jig is up. you don't have to nod like "yes. i just rolled a bag over your foot". it doesn't take any frikkin' detective work to figure out that you pulled that one off. thanks for saving me the trouble of hiring colombo to solve the mystery of the old bag that left an old bag on my foot. actually, the phrase i believe you are reaching for was, "whoops", or "sorry about that". oh well.

it's sticky out today.

it'll be sticky out tomorrow.

the bastard is at the point where he gets into anything on the platform with an open door these days. just to get off the hot, sticky platform. if it was 20 percent less humid, i wouldn't have anything to bitch about this morning except how i don't have enough cartoons on my goddam ipod.

—the bastard

checklist

so this morning, the bastard woke up late for his indesign class. yes, selling bullets sewven times a year is finally coming out of the dark ages and upgrading the equipment. everyone will be up to the industry standard. i wonder what that will mean for the art staffs of all the magazines involved over the next 6 months. can you say deluge?

anyway this morning i:

hit at least two people with my bag

lost my bandana/sweat rag

stepped on 5 sets of heels

3 sets of toes

nearly collided with 2 people

and told at least one person to "get out the way"

and i got me an egg sammich

all in all, the bastard says, it's been a full morning.

—the bastard

...a good soaking

...or can you spare a glass of water?

there is this old folktale the bastard remembers about this woman who tricked 3 witches into coming out in the rain with her because she convinced them that she knew how to walk between the raindrops. all she did was keep a spare outfit in a bag and put it on when she got into their cave. the witches took the bait and melted.

now the bastard has no raindrop dodging skill, nor has he melted. but, god dam it's wet out. fortunately the weather held out long enough (after my initial soaking) for the bastard to get to the office and all i have is some damp ankles. oh well, go to hell. keep your powder dry, shiteyes.

—the bastard

...on gregory hines

...or was it alfonso ribeiro

...maybe it was savion glover

ummmmmmmmmm, hey lady.

the bastard just thought he'd let you know...

that regardless of how much you suck your teeth every time the train stops...

and no matter how many times you tap your feet every time the train slows down...

and don't get the bastard started on how much talking to yourself about how late you are for work makes you look like nothing more than a dressed homeless person who's between crack fixes talking about how "the man" got you addicted to drugs...

anyway...

it isn't going to make the train move any faster...

so fucking cut it out. you're not making anyone else feel any more at ease inside this tin can...

and your totally fucking up my nap. some of us like to use this part of the day to unwind before the day starts and 36th street ain't coming any faster...

... you jerk.

love always,

—the bastard

...on explosions

...and ordinance

last year, on memorial day, the bastard saw the blue angels fly over jones beach. i thought to myself, we have to be one of maybe 5 countries in the world that when you hear a fighter fly overhead, you look up and not say "oh shit, take cover". tonight, while i was looking out the window of some stranger's apartment on 33rd street and 1st avenue, watching the spectacle of the macys 4th of july explodathon, i thought to myself, we have to be one of maybe 5 countries on the earth that doesn't flich when we see this my hardware go up in smoke. instead we close off the FDR drive and watch it go down while the booze wears off. god bless this crapper we call a country. it's the best crapper of em all.

—the bastard