outta doors…

… in the swamp

first vacation I've been on in a bit where I'm not completely paranoid.

it's a step in the right direction

—the bastard

…on the return

the bastard took a week and change off.

I saw the boy.

went to the southwest.

came home.

went to the northeast.

to spend time with the wife.

it made for a great unwind.

now it's once more into the breach.

for the daily starts.

the redesign starts.

the long days start.

once more into the breach.

—the bastard

…on spare time

normally the bastard doesn't have time to post about the commute.

it's usually 10 minutes

but

today there are mad delays

no express service. only local

I'd settle for a goddam train at the point regardless of it's orientation.

and every local is crowded.

oh well. go to hell

—the bastard

just in case you were wondering…

…free whiskey is the best whiskey.

the bastard has to give big ups to the flying bar.

due to our daughter's stomach bidness, we had to change our flight plans to later in the day.

which led to a great deal of uncertainty.

as to where we were seated.

how much grief we'd have with the babby.

that kind of crap.

but we lucked out.

front row.

and flight delays.

flight delays? lucking out?

yep. lucking out shiteyes.

inconvenience for the masses led to free whiskey for the bastard.

and free whiskey is a vacation win in my book.

cheers, jerk

—the bastard

tragic or magic

quite frankly, the bastard doesn't get it.

when did the disconnect happen?

at what pout did it become socially acceptable to dress like a well pressed hobo when you get on a plane?

take this person here all rockin some ugly looking nikes with argyle socks and her 1980's adidas nylon track pants.

she's got a little bit of the captain in her too.

what the hell?!

is it tragic?

or is it magic?

or is it symptomatic of a greater problem in today's flight culture?

I wonder if we've just gotten lazy as a culture or perhaps this has been a colossal passive aggressive statement on the decline of the luxuriousness of air travel.

I could ponder this or let the 4 fingers of bakers do it's work.

hrm. the bastard chooses the latter.

—the bastard

…on traveling

last night, I met up with my Vegas family so we could engage in our yearly repast of ordering a meal and keeping a table occupied for several hours.

which always prompts the wait staff to look at us all cock eyed wondering when we're gonna leave.

but last night was a treat.

last night, the way back machine brought the traveller to dinner.

the traveller was one of the first people who I met in college that wasn't from my neighborhood and he was into traveling.

now traveling was never clearly defined to the bastard but sometimes it involved test driving ford probes.

sometimes it involved joining a fraternity to meet girls.

sometimes it involved telling others that they couldn't POSSIBLY be able to travel with the traveler properly.

and sometimes it involved keeping a bottle of scope and a bottle of vodka in you back pack along with some rice a roni.

but needless to say, whatever the sliding goal post that traveling was, it was never dull.

and these days he'd rather not travel anymore.

he'd rather see his kid grow up without licking the ashtray or some otherwise awful fate.

so perhaps three years ago was the journey's end for the traveler.

or perhaps the beginning.

either way, a good meal was had by all. and I'll talk about the restaurant some other time.

—the bastard

firsts…

the bastard didn't sleep last night.



so he slept clear from new York to Michigan.

first time for everything.

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

—the bastard

loaded…

…is the word the computer says as the bastard gets into the cab



loaded is how he feels on two hours of sleep.

loaded is what he may or may not be when he arrives

loaded kind of makes the bastard more like cargo than man

—the bastard

…cyclical

…and so it ends.

…and so it begins anew.

the show that is shot is always preceeded by the rough birth of 300 plus pages.

it's usually 200 plus.

but what rough beast shuffles to life made of the stuff of printouts and press releases and sweat and frustration slumbering slowly towards the city of sin?

it's me bitches.

oh and that frikkin convention daily that the bastard is so goddam proud of bring a part of.

and make no mistake I AM proud to be a part of this hot mess we throw down.

but here we are.

the royal we… not you.

riding the train for one day of driving before we take the plunge and shuffle slowly towards las Vegas to do it again.

day after day, I get up and say I'm gonna do it again.

do it again. up yours ray davies.

—the bastard

on saturdays…

…shit is local yo!



oh MTA,

why you gotta suck so very much?

weekend service is always a dicey proposition

but, the bastard knows for shit sure that the garage is gonna be buried.

today might be the day when the bastard has his heart attack.

fml

—the bastard

ghost circles…

so it's gonna be a rough landing you see.

flying into a rain storm in the dirty souf isn't the bastard's idea of a grand evening out.

but here we are bouncing round Atlanta.

doing ghost circles in the rain.

one doesn't really entertain the notion of it all going south but I know that if it did…

then I did alright this time around on this rock.

happy fucking landings shiteyes.

—the bastard

ball park franks

the bastard liked it much better when air travel was less with airport safety theatre and more with less crowded flights.

row 36 only meant crap seats in a theatre back in those salad days.

flying to and fro in the down economy is delightful.

especially when the old ass flight attendant jams her ass into my elbow because she should have spent more time on a treadmill.

don't get me wrong, I'd say the same thing if I was a man.

I just don't enjoy the goddam aisle seat is all.

air travel sour grapes it is.

that's all.

—the bastard

the captain

baggage claim.

this portly rather nasally sounding fellow kept his leg on the carousel.

moved it whenever a bag hit his foot.

then put it back down.

he had a little bit of the captain in him.

or

he thought that he looked majestic in his track pantss

but he did not.

too bad.

—the bastard

leg two…

…electric boogaloo

much to the bastard's delight, the connecting flight to Tucson put me at a window seat who's windows I promptly closed.

this added up to a delightful nap until we were up in the air.

however, the bastard's peaceful repast was interrupted by the elbows of a man who reminded me of Robert loggia and john locke's love child.

and his elbowing was the passive aggressive variety.

the only respite being when he would lean in to make out with his nightmare hippy trophy wife.

I mean what the hell?!

who wears thick wool socks with a skirt?!?

WTF!?

WTFF?!?

anyways, I decided to go on walkabout before resuming my cartoons.

I'm sure more elbow fun awaits me' back in my chair.

—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.

obligatory travel post…

it's goddam early yo!

there are birds flying around the terminal here.

the sizes of the coffee cups have been changed to protect the innocent.

apparently, so was the size of the piece of banana bread I ordered.

the bastard feels like he's wearing a jacket on his tongue.

but that's early morning flights and all.

—the bastard

the keys to the kingdom

the bastard is out late tonight.

I had a delightful meal at the elder's hizzle and I also had to make a stop on the planet of brooklyn to accept a generous gift from the chairman.

this makes for a late ride home for a bastard and his wife was worried.

"what if some thing happens on the subway on the way home?"

"nothing'll happen"

"how do you know this?"

"simple, this isn't the 1970's, the south Bronx, or is it the south Bronx in the 1970's"

I relay this tale to the chairman and his retort is, "you just take a page from your brother (re: mofo). you play it crazy.

and that's the secret kids.

you feel the forces of evil closing in on you on the F train?

throw your hot beverage across the car and scream "OH MY Fucking SATan! there's cobras in my coffee!!!!"

"COBRAS!?!?!"

are you on a platform at 3 am with desperate characters? start doing the robot.

my favorite was the time I was in a McDonalds in new Hyde park and a kid who had been staring at his hamburger for 10 minutes screamed out that just remembered he was a vegetarian and he threw his food across the restaurant as he ran out.

well that kid may not have been playing but I suspect that he was.

always play it crazy and the most ne'er do well of the ne'er do wells will pass you by for the scared kid with the Vulcan science academy sweatshirt everytime.

—the bastard

…on experiments

you know,

if just ain't a holiday weekend unless the bastard drives all the way up from south jersey,

to drive my car to the garage in queens,

to take the subway to Williamsburg to dine with the chairman.

sometimes it's just a thing.

how can you make the most of your city's resources to get somewhere?

so armed with google maps, I look into how to get to the Brooklyn man cave via mas transit while I walk towards it.

and it tells me that the train arrives at 4:55

and surprisingly, it does.

well god DAM e-train.

look at you.

I may still have time to buy Italian bread and beer.

whoda thunk.

—the bastard

this just in…

this is where all of mine went.

jet lag is a harsh mistress.

—the bastard

…with heavy eyes

the bastard humps to the airport once more.

this time it's not for business.

it's to be a proud father and to bring his back to meet his new sister and to spend the summer with him.

it isn't the most conventional life but, I'll take it

but, only if foursquare makes me the mayor of the effing jet blue terminal.

some thoughts on the lost finale so stop reading

now

"oh hai, we all died in a plane crash over the pacificand the afterlife plays out like a Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel. here's six year you ain't gettin back shiteyes".

you may now enjoy your regular programming.

—the bastard