LABOR DAY WEEKEND WEIRDNESS

The three-day weekend approaches and I've weighed my entertainment otions, coming up with the following gameplan:

1. I'm gonna run around with Suzie as much as possible, getting into trouble in the local watering holes and generally being a civic menace and perpetual pest.

2. On Sunday night there's a show in Manhattan that sounds ridiculous enough to merit my attendance; it features Beatallica, the Beatles/Metallica fusion group out touring for their first official album release, "Sgt. Hetfield's Motorbreath Pub Band,"


Queen Diamond, an all-girl tribute to King Diamond (and hopefully Mercyful Fate as well),


and Tragedy, the heavy metal Bee Gees cover band.


I've seldom heard of a show so utterly stoopid, and therefore right up my alley! And don't worry, I'll take photos. I mean, "Queen Diamond?" How could I not?

So that's my plan. I'm gonna have a damned good time, so I hope that all of you out there on the interweb have a great holiday too. Write in with any adventure stories!

ON THE SIDEWALKS OF NEW YORK-DON'T MESS WITH TEXAS

Tennis hooligans from all over the globe flock to the Rotten Apple each year for the US Open, and while picking up breakfast this morning I ran into this group of gals from the Lone Star State who were on their way to root for whichever player is from their territory. It was impossible not to notice them since they were all dressed alike — an instant marker of the tourist — and sported charmingly hideous (and cheap) pink cowboy hats.


When I asked if I could take their picture they giggled like school kids and obliged, one of them suggesting that I ditch work and join them. Believe me, with all the shit that's gone down at the design gulag lately I gave it serious consideration but couldn't do it because the mighty Martina has been long retired, and if I saw Serena Williams in person I would have no choice but to bite her bullet-proof ass and probably get arrested in the process.


And just to make sure that I recorded the ladies' t-shirt slogan for posterity I asked one of them if I could take a closeup, requesting that she hold the shirt out since I wasn't trying to get "a boobie shot (one of her companions noted "That's all you're gonna get on her!!!"). It reads "Texas Girls Love Any X' Cuse 4 Tennis."

Man, I love Texans.

IT JUST GETS BETTER-Part 5

They just moved the last gigantic piece of equipment from the photo lab, and now my camouflage is gone.

Don't ya just envy my happenin' office?

THE LITTLE THINGS: THE BOWL BY BOARDMAN

During my two years at the barbecue joint I seldom got to see the friends I've know and loved forever — one of the chief reasons why I left — and during that time I began to unintentionally take many of them for granted. I'm doing my damnedest to rectify that now that I have normal work hours and weekends again, and this morning I stopped to think about how effortlessly awesome my friends can be. As a case in point, I refer you to one Susan Boardman.

Susan is the sweet and sunny partner of my buddy daniel, and the two are one of the few couples I know who make any kind of actual sense together; yes, I have plenty of friends who are paired off and/or married, but these two seem as natural together as Tarzan and Jane. Anyway, Suzan's one of the sweetest, kindest, most all-around excellent human beings I have the pleasure to know, and she a renaissance woman on top of it; she's a six-foot two-inch tall bespectacled brunette who plays a mean bass and has a twisted sense of humor that's doubly shocking thanks to her innocent Campbell's Soup Kids-cherubic face.

And she also dabbles in pottery.

During my period of unemployment a few years back, Susan took a pottery course not far from where I live in Brooklyn, and one day she gave me a tiny, turquoise-colored bowl that she'd made by hand.

For something so small it's extremely dense and sturdy and without it being intended for such a purpose, it's the most perfect bowl I could ever imagine for whipping up a pair of scrambled eggs. Since acquiring it I never, and I do mean NEVER, prepare that particular breakfast item at home without using the Bowl By Boardman thanks to its ideal shallow depth that causes the user to pay attention to their scrambling technique and eventually the subtleties required by the bowl become an ingrained habit. I find that when using my favorite three-tined fork I can lift the eggs and fold in a good deal of air, a technique that adds to the fluffiness of the finished breakfast treat and inadvertantly improved my skill at this seemingly minor task.

This innocuous little bowl has gone on to become one of my most prized possessions and is utterly irreplaceable in every way; a perfect kitchen aid made even more incredible thanks to being given on a whim by a good friend who made it just for me.

Thank you, Susan. I may never have told you how much I love that little bowl, but I'm sure as fuck telling you — and the vast internet — now.

HERE WE GO AGAIN: HERE COME THE LAYOFFS!!!

Now that the design 'ho house has been bought out by a corporation I knew it was only a matter of time before the layoffs started in earnest, and two of the three people I share space in the photo lab with have just been handed their walking papers after years of service. And wouldn't you it that the two people in question are among the few people at the gig whom I really like?

As for my own self, I'm not too worried about my own position here because I haven't been here long enough to get attached to anything, along with the fact that I handle the copywriting and proofreading burden and do so rather well, but I'm curious to see how long it is before this place looks like a goddamned ghost town, after which I'm sure the corporate drones will populate the empty seats with even-lower-paid staffers of their own choosing who will have to put up with untold amounts of abuse.

Well I say, "Fuck that shit." If the new owners give me even a drop of abuse I will walk, hold up a stiff middle finger and tell them in no uncertain terms to kiss my sharries. I could use another few months of being a carefree unemployed man about town anyway, but I have to find out which of my friends will be about to join me on the usual all day/all night liver-busting...

Shit, I got downsized at Marvel Comics so I've been through this before, and I honestly don't give a flying fuck what happens one way or another. And besides, gay "bear" porn beckons, and who am I to disappoint the legions out there who like it fat, hairy, and leather-chapped?

Publicity still from the upcoming BEARQUAKE BUFU, by Manhole Productions.

But until then, I remain employed and doing inane shit.

IT JUST GETS BETTER-Part 4

In the latest of volley of appears to be a concerted effort to drive me mad, the photo lab continues to morph, kicking up tons of allergy-aggravating dust and replacing my makeshift desk of photo chemical boxes with two large computers that have supposedly never been used.

Today's workspace arrangement.

Don't you envy my life?

IT JUST GETS BETTER-Part 3

Well, after just under five hours in my new workspace I am once more positioned with my laptop perched upon the photo chemical boxes thanks to the air quality being unbreathable in the new area. Toward the end of the short time I was in there I began to sneeze and cough uncontrollably, so I finally said "Fuck this shit!" and returned to where I was. Let me tell you in no uncertain terms that inhaling microscopic particles of sheetrock is not an experience you want to have, and I'm certainly not getting paid anywhere near enough to endanger my health.

I've told my superiors that I refuse to set foot in there until all the renovations are 100% completed, and, needless to say, they were cool with that; not that they wouldn't have been, because the possibility if a lawsuit would really suck ass.

WHAT A WONDERFUL WORLD-Part 2

I recently heard from Chris Weston, my man in Eastbourne, and he sent in the following followup to a previous post:


Chris Weston, scribblin' purty ptchers.

Remember my run-in with one of the less charming juveniles that frequent my local park (if not, you can read it here )...?

Well, there's been a strange follow-up:

Yesterday, my wife Karen and I took the kids to our local pool, and who should I bump into but the very same kid... on his own this time. I promise you, the thought of holding him underwater for a good two minutes never entered my head! Instead I just decided to ignore him. I was playing with the older two members of the Ginger Squad — my redheaded sons — while Karen left the pool to feed Alex and get changed... and once she was gone the brat from the park swam over in our direction. I prepared myself for some more "grief"... but he clearly didn't recognise me. In fact, he kind of "attached" himself to me and the kids: chatting, joking, showing off his underwater moves, splashing about. It was all quite harmless, if a little annoying and intrusive... but my elder kid, Charlie enjoyed his company.

He was clearly on his own so I decided to indulge him, and smiled through his more unruly, attention-demanding antics of spitting water about and splashing a bit too rigorously for the infant area... but I was keen to move my kids away from him and give my attention to them instead... however, he followed us everywhere. I could not shake him off.

As I eventually made moves to leave, he asked me if I would stay another half an hour 'til it was time for him to go too, but I really needed to move on by then.

On meeting Karen in the changing area, I reported my meeting with "that kid from the park," and she said yeah, she'd seen him arrive... on his own. (And he was only ten years old). I remembered what he said to me at the park: "I don't F$*cking do what my mum tells me... so what makes you think I'm gonna do what YOU tell me?". Putting two and two together, I'm guessing he doesn't have a dad on the scene.

His behaviour kind of makes sense... he's craving attention. I feel a bit guilty now for trying to lose him in the pool... would it have killed me to show him a bit of interest? Sure, I faked it for a bit, but all the time I was thinking "Leave us alone". In my defence, the memory of his verbal attack was still fresh in MY mind, at least... but I think I understand now what produces such hostility.

I'm reluctant to let this letter descend into some kind of hippy "Let's all just reach out for eachother" sermon... but there is such thing as society... and we should occasionally ask ourselves what WE can do for others. It's not easy, though, is it...? And sometimes it's not much fun.


Chris Weston, ginger tosser — doing his part for human kindness.

ON THE SIDEWALKS OF NEW YORK-"ISN'T THAT INDECENT EXPOSURE?!!?"

Always, always, ALWAYS have a digital camera close at hand, because you never know what kind of fucked-up shit you'll see. A case in point:

I walked out of the design 'ho house onto Third Avenue in search of this week's new comic books and a salad for lunch, and as I turned to walk up the avenue I caught sight of some dude wearing nothing but shoes, socks, a pair of sneakers, and a skimpy pair of what were either undies or a swimsuit. Plus, his hair was braided like he was an Injun brave.

I've seen a lot weirder stuff in my seventeen years in the Rotten Apple, but it was in no way hot enough for this outfit, and along with several wolf whistles and cat-calls that opinion was loudly voiced by several passersby. The guy didn't seem to care, though, and he merrily went on his way, eliciting much laughter from construction workers and innocent pedestrians. One corporate blonde was clearly shocked to the core, and exclaimed, "Isn't that indecent exposure?" I didn't catch a glimpse of the guy's package, so I can't judge that one way or another.

Once I got a look at the dude's face, just before I had to turn left on 45th Street for the comic book shop, he reminded me of an under-dressed lookalike for Jimmy Carl Black from the Mothers of Invention, the self-described "Indian of the group."

Jimmy Carl Black as Bertram Redneck in 200 MOTELS (1970).

So repeat after me kiddies: Always, always, ALWAYS have a digital camera close at hand.

IT JUST GETS BETTER-Part 2

As the renovations at the design gulag drag on like a fucking iceberg, I have once more been moved from my workspace, this time to provide a location for various pieces of printing equipment. The only place to put me was inside the actual construction area, only inside one of the unfinished offices rather than just leaving me out in the construction-dust-covered main areas. Fine enough in theory, and while I once again have a desk fit for a human I'm still somewhat afflicted with the ambient dust and debris.

Here's my current work space, but it's only temporary; I'm in the space meant to be my immediate superior's office, and he wasn't pleased to find out where I'd been moved to. He's supposed to have this space next Tuesday, and the space that's been reserved for me can be seen through the open door of the office, not even remotely finished and still awaiting the simple amenity of lights.


And here's what will be my new, actual workplace, to be completed whenever it happens.


I swear on my mother's eyes, there is no sort of plan for any of this, at least none that I can discern.


And, no, I'm not performing amateur abortions; thanks to the lousy air quality that sets off my allergies like a motherfucker I had to don an air filter to function. Thankfully the office has windows that open, and the MIS guy found me a floor fan to circulate the air and blow as much dust and other invisible crap out the window into Manhattan's already questionable atmosphere. Oh, and did I mention that thanks to the lack of air conditioning it's also hot and stuffy as all fuck in here?

Some days it just plain sucks to be a Bunche.