2 ARMS Don’t Make a RIGHT but 3 DO
2 ARMS Don’t Make a RIGHT but 3 DO
I have these days sometime where I don’t do anything. Don’t leave the house, pick up the phone, or change outta my sweat pants. Yeah. It can be caloric and occassionally unhealthy, but it is a part of my natural rhythm. Lo Que Paso Paso. This morning I head off to work to do fourteen hours or so straight. My intestines will be closely monitored to ensure smooth sailing…
Which reminds me, the Intestines Healing class has produced many positive outcomes. For one, I have identified a source of my intestinal difficulty: Glitterati mints. I am not calling for a boycott of the Glitterati company by any means, but I no longer eat them. Anecdotelly, the spearmint & fruit flavored mints are less acidic than the peppermints… I am looking to break a personal cycle here. I work & work, then break for a smoke… coming back in I wash my hands and eat a mint or two…
sometimes three. Eventually, in the course of a fourteen hour day, I eat about forty or sixty of the little gut busters. That is a prime reason why my belly swells up like a pregger polar bear around 7 or 8pm on such work days. I’m cutting myself off…
That means, whoever is working with me tomorrow best beware. Quality of breath will no longer be more important than quality of belly… with my individual Glitterati mint ban & my Healing Hands I am good to go.
The battery is in the trunk, evidently, but there is also a black box under the hood with a positive charged tip. Under a red cap marked positive. My car’s 4 year old battery rattled it’s way to disconnection and loss of charge because it was loosely secured… I have to secure it with a piece of folded cardboard, and possibly glue that to the battery, and the strap. Am I mechanically inclined?
No. Two men, one who looked exactly like Billy Joel in a bizarre and coicidental manner. Bizarre because Billy Joel is my hero, in a way and Coincidental in that I am always thinking about Billy, and so when the man I seen, my heart jumped. Like a jumped battery jumps. It only clicked at first, when they had the jumper cables to the benign black box tip, but when they hit up the battery in the trunk, even Judy jumped a foot. It was a basic problem.
Another basic problem is that the car actually did more than just click on the benign black box tip in the front… the lights came on, briefly. Maybe only the clock. Each of the two men derided one another as amateurs, although with my specially trained 3rd eye I could tell Billy Joel was the more senior of the two. It was the other guy who lost the cap to my emergency-start lid by the gear shift… a tiny grey piece of plastic evidently no bigger than a contact lense… by popping it out in a manner even he deemed unprofessional, sending Billy Joel and I trawling the pitch black driveway like the Downeaster Alexa trawls the way towards Atlantis.
It was lost forever. But with my piece of folded cardboard I carry on.
LaRouche goons had the entrance to the Copley T station blockaded and were passing out statements to every single passerby. I tried to evade but their numbers were too great… Someone grabbed me and I heard a college-inflected guy’s voice say, “Like Dick Cheney?” “Sure but I’m Art.” Didn’t matter, everybody that got on the Green T at Copley this afternoon surely got LaRouche’s statement… which was basically a hysterical call to arms against Christian fascists… 3rdarm.biz is on the front lines grappling with those same fanatics and I am always looking for help. But it doesn’t help us on the team here when a nut like LaRouche blockades a T station and starts throwing around the words “Nazi” and “Right-wing” in some quasi-personal statement to the public.
Okay, that trauma behind me, Tuesday was a rough day. Everybody was after a piece of me, chasing me around with verbal forks. Every single person I complained to turned around and complained back to me about me. I was outside the hotel smoking a cigarette in the rain because the fools in management took away the awning that was our only protection out there from the elements, and I was next to the door trying not to get wet, when this fat red-faced man come barrelling out, smacking me with the door, and then had the nerve to shout in some brogue “You bloody well better not stand there!” so I yelled “Build a roof out here then toughguy!” And he shot back “You shouldn’t smoke.” Whatever, free country.
See? I didn’t even make any fat comment, because I have class, I have some fucking class and I don’t have to retaliate everytime some fool complains to me about me after I complain to them about them. I can just step back and complain to somebody else altogether.
I did take a steaming shower and I feel much better. I used an umbrella today for the first time in the new millenium. Fancy.
I am going to be in Chicago at the end of June for a while, staying with Tubens & at the W…hopefully…those bastards better not renege. I won the Hotel Olympics fair and square, mister… I never peeped out the various times I was blindfolded… refused to use the Force to gain an unfair advantage in the weeklong service competition against Players from all departments… I simply showed up for every day and Played Hard in all the games. Anyway, Jennifer Shelly should have known the Final Tiebreaking Question because she is a Pastry Chef, and the query involved sucrose. But she didn’t, and I won the Chicago Stay at the W… gimme some sugar, bebe. The Doctor called today and announced his intention to meet me there… Time to talk to Tubens.
To ramp up myself and the Supervillains, those lizards I lounged with for two years out in the midwestern Oz… with the fucking Sears Tower enroaching on our everyday lives… with whom I’d call up the FBI just to have a safe & secure conversation… for them and the public I have posted the l33t artwork now on top in the Green Box to the Left. Continuing on…
Well I have dropped down to big Connecticut like a descending testicle, so very little update right now. While down there I will collect primary sources scribbled out by the hand of the 3rd arm, which I will bring back to Cambridge with me, as that is my biz. Keep vibrating…
I went to an Intestines Healing session today in Coolidge Corner taught by a Korean Instructor in her excellent yoga studio… now, the last time I was in a yoga studio was with my sister, in the front row of the class & out of my element… i can barely sit Indian style (have narrow hips) yet the Instructors seem to always focus on me and pay me special attention, as if my energy aura were green yellow & purple and that’s not such a good thing… Anyway, the class begins with the teacher writing two words on a large pad: healing intestines.
Working with the Professor as my partner, I located my stomach, liver, kidneys, large & small intestines… pressed them, rubbed them, drummed on them, struck them repeated blows, soothed the gut-nuggets, repeat repeat repeat… oh, and also I kneeded, breaded, pretzeled and buttered the Professor’s abdomen, and at one point even lit him up with a finger touch to this Heart Chakra… the Professor had been in a bizarre & jarring bike accident on the way to the Yoga Joint in which he rode head on into the back door of a stopped minivan.
My belly (especially my purple liver) needed T.L.C. having just survived a larrying night of the Beer/Champagne high life, or whatever the advertisers wrote on the labels of that Watery Poison. Sure enough, the Instructor singled me out to discuss with me my Concussed Liver. She pushed Ethan aside to take over the Intestinal Massage. At one point she asked if I worry a lot and I said that yes, I do… the Instructor is always calmly right about me (I was once diagnosed with a broken tailbone by a young Yoga Instructor who himself had a broken tailbone). She kindly defibrillated my guts. “It’s good when the organs vibrate,” she said. “When they stop moving, are you alive?”
After the class, while I tied on my vintage green Marhall’s Larry Bird Converse Allstars, hustling towards the street and my first cigarette in two hours, the Instructor appeared before me. “Arthur…” she said, (she remembered my name :-) “Don’t worry.”
Yo, big ups to Eliot for pointing out that the Electronic Entertainment Exposition is underway! Yah mun! Back in the days when I was but a man child I would have been waiting for this Los Angeles show with baited breath for months if not years… and what a show it has been so far. First up, we have Sony & Microsoft battling one another from across a massive ocean, that’s right, the Pacific. Microsoft has announced the jive XBOX 360 with liquid cooling… but can I drive it to work? Seriously, Bill Gates needs to spend some more time in American high schools to get some real vibes… . Then we have Sony, the classier Japanese company that better understands games, who come out with a beast with a bogus name, the Playstation 3. Anything would be better than another Playstation name. Even Nintendo balked at the idea of coming out with Ultra after Super… and Ultra is better than just the next number… hell, Nintendo was going to come out with the ULTRA 64 but changed the name at an E3 many moons ago to Nintendo 64… after I had already mail-ordered an ULTRA 64 HAT, TEESHIRT and TRAVELPACK. Playstation 3000 would be a cheap fix… just add some zeros. Bottom line, Playstation 3 much more powerful and better designed than crappy American 360… which, like American cars, will probably come with a 1500 dollar rebate or some kind of weird financing plan, plus a bottle of Banana Boat lube.
The best news is that Nintendo is pushing back and attacking the competitions weaknesses…. mainly, price & functionality. Revolution is so so so small, so functional (wi-fi, play any Nintendo game from any era)… and that’s all we know. I’d like to see the new controller. Some say one for each hand. I remember when the ULTRA 64 controller image was leaked onto the Internet back in the day… extremely fuzzy shot of a three pronged mitt. Well, once again the veil is slowly being lifted and I am geeking out… stay tuned… gamesindustry.biz for real brakes…
Dear 3rdarm.biz cult members,
I am only a human being. Yes, occasionally I find grace in my animistic spirituality and am able to leap over psychic walls much as a lynx can easily leap over a hedge-row, creep through a backyard and pluck a baby from the cradle much like the weasel in Lady in the Tramp… but by no means does this make me fear cocker spaniels, nor does it subtract from my humanity…
Thank you, the 3rd arm. Now for today’s ramblings… Okay, so Pride Week is coming up in Boston and the Proudest Day is going to be June 11th. I plan on meeting up with a posse of seniors who will escort this freshman (me, people) around the campus (aka the block party). DJ Barry Scott will play a set…
Sometimes I look at those in my age-set who are graduating this year with disdain, for it seems graduation has swollen their ego-feathers… but perhaps they are preparing to spread their wings to fly solo for the first time in their lives and I should have the wisdom and tact to respect that. The other big news is that last night I finished Katharine Graham’s memoirs, which it took me only three months to read, and I shed a single crocodile tear upon completion of the last page… I felt sorrow that she is dead, and the media as well as we Watchers have lost a truly honorable Publisher (and look at how Newsweek turned to crap)… aging and death are tough. But I announce in this self-published blog that I love Katharine Graham and if there is a conscious after-life I hope she takes note that I read understood cried and above all stayed the course and finished her truly massive memoirs. The woman had real dignity, amen.
There are notions of time and within those there are the questions about coincidence… as an apprentice of serendipity I look to express myself as a mirror of my chi… so my sister had a troublesome outing in Holland: at a future-past meeting with a wild animal farmer inside a coon-cat farmhouse in the countryside, she found herself in the physical world of my relative time experience:
“millions of cats. big cats. maine coon cats overwhelming stench, a tower in the living room on which they perched like lions, the kat man was actually a man of many animals: a pair of fat prairie dogs from egypt, a small thing full of many chickens, and a larger cage full of an assortment of birds found in the dutch “wild”, where i wished they had been able to stay. song birds, little birds, wild birds.”
Not only does the coon-katification of my sister seem to have occurred as a serendipitous trans-Atlantic happening… It is also possible that somehow the Kat Man is my body-double from the future-past… That I somehow reached into the blanket and pushed the button. With the index finger on the hand of my third arm. The button worked as I planned, and I presently future-past my coon-cat farmhouse that I built years before on my comfortable Maine coon-cat import/export commisions. In the hills of Holland of course.