Monthly Archives: June 2005

June 2005 on the Biz

My 3rdarm is shopping for June Bugs…

First Day of Summer

When I get back from Chicago on my sister’s birthday sometime in the hazy smoky funky-junky future of next week I will have much to share… until then I will be swimming in the Chi… enjoy the first week of summer everyone! If you need to contact me, please call my secretary Ms. Louise Tubens… :-) Peace out.

The Day After Tomorrow

…was a good movie and also a very realistic look at climate change. Remember, if we keep burning kerosene and whale oil the earth will heat to jungle rot levels and then massive glaciers will freeze over New York City in seven seconds or so. Just use electricity, it is cleaner and safer. I stopped using absurd amounts of whale oil as personal lubricant and sold off my whale skin pool cover years ago. But then I was allergic to whale. I wouldn’t mind climate change if it wasn’t that so much beautiful life is probably going to die just cause you left the blowdryer on all day. Okay, I’m starting to sound like Richard Simmons writing fictional Beatles songs, so let me finish my thought…

The day after tomorrow I will be going to Chicago, Illinois to stay with my good friend Luis Tubens, who will pick me up from the airport in a Cadillac at precisely 6:37 Green Mountain Coffee time or whatever they use out there. There will be steaks, shakes, and no brakes. What this means is that basically I will not be updating my 3rdarm… while I’m on my long, strange trip. However, I will be culling data to use on 3rdarm much like an aqua-miner extracts precious mineral water from the ground to be bottled. Luis has a poem up somewhere in the Green Box to the Left, and I think he has been feverishly writing more and more so that he can overwelm me with his TUBENESSENCE. As a reader of Found Magazine (okay not really…) I will be on the lookout, on the trail of the street, also I will be fingerpainting out there… you see my Chicago artw3rk? Yikes.

I will update one more time (tomorrow) from my East Coast Cave… after that Mario Cuomo, who was mayor of New York City from the day I was born until I was twelve, many years before the seven second glaciers… will be my guest blogger. Okay, not really.

A Brave Girl Tonight

Other than a good cry over the Pigheaded ending to Augusten Burroughs second Memoir, Dry, the highlight of my day came in the form of an email apology from Beauty’s Pizza. There has been so much Massachusetts bullshit going down this week, and no answers. No accountability.

On Monday Central Square was shut down. Manholes exploded, decapitating telephone poles, cutting eletrical lines, terrorizing human beings… There was a fire underground. The two main blocks were completely blacked out for much of the night. I rode my bike down past the police tape. Officers guarded the sewers, flash lights trained to the manholes. Children were turned around at checkpoints and told to go home. Meanwhile, underground, William Langewiesche and a team of experts probed the origins, and were shocked. The heat was the problem. That and the jungle-rot…

Eliot and I rode past a blacked out Walgreens. Blacked out Starbucks. Homeless people had deserted the area. No stores, no handouts. Banks lost data. People got intensely sick because they couldn’t get prescriptions, or coffee, for about two hours there. The air was thick with jungle rot. As I was saying, I rode past the police tape. A #1 city bus pulled through the police tape after I did. There we were… riding side by side with a city bus through the hell of manhole devastation… Central Square empty like some deserted Hopi-Indian city in the Southwest. It was bizarre, but they had to let the bus through. The bus had stops to make.

Then came Tuesday and hell froze over. On the ground the temperature dropped fifty or sixty degrees in five or six minutes. Children once again took it on the chin, and several probably got summer flu. That ain’t fun. It was exactly like the movie The Day After Tomorrow, when Manhattan is frozen over by a huge glacier in like seven seconds. I pulled on my giant black winter coat and wrapped myself in blankets. Homeless people clustered around manholes in hope that they could warm their hands over the underground fire… but it had been extinguished. This was no eternal flame.

Eric, from Beauty’s Pizza put it best: “It’s been a wild week! On Monday half of Central Square was closed off after an underground fire, and yesterday the temperature dropped drastically in what seemed like minutes. Forces outside Beauty’s control aside, I want to let you know that we hope all is well with you…”

Memory is the Pattern of the Puzzle when the Pieces are Lost

Yesterday I was supposed to be out on a date with a cute, sweet boy I met during pride, but he had called to say that another night would be better because he was busy with his visiting grandparents. This is something I can totally understand, because I’m always taking time out for that. But that opened up my Friday night and I was at a loss…

I read the rest of East Coast Crisis and decided that garbage is too much for my mind, nevermind an NBC mini-series. If anyone reading this ever saw the mini-series when it was on TV in the 70’s? 80’s? I’d like to know what the hell that was like…

To pass the time and ease out of my down mood, I walked to the river. The Charles, dirty water. Sitting on the bench I thought about the boy, and stared at milky reflections of light… game night at Fenway… Decided to check in with my grandmother & aunt. Talking on the phone helped me up out of my funk. The river was flowing by rapid & strong… Boston appeared to be a great ship sailing into the future. My aunt told me that two years ago to the day my mom died. I had tried to forget the exact date. After I hung up I saw fireworks go off serendipitously in the North End. Then walked back recklessly across Memorial Drive, feeling that loss with tears in my eyes…

So this post goes out to you who feels lost because you’ve lost someone you love. I feel that time to time. “Indians scattered on dawn’s highway bleeding, ghosts crowd the young child’s fragile eggshell mind”

Burn on Big River

More than a little too hot for a normal update today… here are some inspirational lyrics from the musical Big River:

“Look out for me, oh muddy water
Your mysteries are deep and wide
And I got a need for going some place
And I got a need to climb upon your back and ride

You can look for me when you see me comin’
I may be runnin’ I don’t know
I may be tired and runnin’ fever
But I’ll be headed south to the mouth of the Ohio

Look out for me, oh muddy water
Your mysteries are deep and wide
And I got a need for going some place
And I got a need to climb upon your back and ride

Well, I been down to the pain and sorrow
Of no tomorrows comin’ in
But I put my pole to the river bottom
And I’ve got to hide some place and find myself again

Look out for me, oh muddy water
Your mysteries are deep and wide
And I got a need for going some place
And I got a need to climb upon your back and ride”

Evening of the Living Meat Sick

“It is not almost done. I don’t like steak very raw do you? The blood is seeping out of it.”

“Oh, the meat is almost done. Do you see it?”

“It is grey and its bloody…”

“Get in touch with the true essence! Oh, this is lovely…”

After having had a blast at my first Pride block party and overall nicely vibrating weekend, the restaurant will of course still open for lunch on Monday and thats where I will be. Looking back (this is going to be a little like Bob Dylan’s Chronicles when he jumps from that year in the 60s to being a washed up folk troubador relic on tour with Tom Petty in 1987…)… with fond memories:

“You Put the Load Right On ME”: Tennesee Hollow played a gritty souled out cover of The Weight by the Band… everytime the drummer went out to smoke a cigarette on the street I had to touch him… waking up sick Saturday but going to work… hot, hot, David Letterman says 120, 130 degrees in NYC… drinking tall boys on the way to the block party… Robert lending me his sunglasses so that I felt hip like I had Gene Wilder eyes… meeting Alex and ensuing chaos of trying to get his number into my phone, which did not even work out in the end… chicken tacos & Bruce giving me a tour of the South End… meeting Kiki and talking about the deaths of our moms… partying at a beautiful Victorian apartment in the backyard the Chinese food buffet, the labrador… at home congested and demanding dope… 2 large coffees Sunday morning and a book East Coast Crisis with UFO over WTC on cover… trying 4 types of salads, okay I had only 3 but Eliot had Synthetic Seafood Salad… $100 Nixonian dollars & Watergate… & Meat Sickness… and I threw a pickle as far as I could, a bloated pickle that would have burst like a waterballoon on anybodys forehead… it exploded harmlessly in the middle of the street. Eliot and I are the new Bob Woodward & Carl Bernstein and the supermarket is our Washington Post.

No One is Threatened by a White Boy in a Gap Teeshirt

The Early Bird Gets the Worm, says my teeshirt from the Gap. I worked 3 private parties at the Fish Restaurant yesterday… which meant considerable stress… late in the afternoon we a hosted a gaggle of saleswomen from Neman Marcus… for a High Tea that included single bite salmon-wiches, celery with brie cheese, and strawberries served along side Creme Fraiche. The women were piglets, and they made me push their make-up cart back up to Neman’s in the Copley… I was sweaty.

They ran out of strawberries and the women were very pushy about getting more. “Strawberries, we need lots more!” said the hostess in her highly inflected Bostonian brogue. “Should I ask the ladies if they’d like more beverages or just focus on the strawberries?” I asked meekly. “Focus on the strawberries!” she shrilly shouted. So I schlepped the strawberries down three flights of stairs from the banquet kitchens. When I got back down there was a wild scene involving the creme fraiche… the saleswomen had gone bananas from strawberry dehydration and were eating the stuff straight up, out of their coffee cups… a strange and disturbing sight considering that creme fraiche is basically sour cream…

They immediately shouted me down for more creme fraiche and I was beginning to worry about their intestinal health… I guess they must have been Feeling Lucky. See you at the block party!

Correction! “Don’t Go Breakin’ My Heart” IS in fact “a Kiki Dee and Elton John gem, and not a Sonny and Cher masterpiece.” Thank you Mistress Desdemona de Sade. I suck! This is more embarressing than the $5. bet I lost insisting that A Chorus Line was choreographed by Fosse…

The Pike that Cast the Stone

Okay, I can deal with a little road maintenance every once in a while. I am quite adept at swirving around the six foot deep holes that any sane driver must avoid on a trip to Chelsea for some rockin’ Rileys Roast Beef (dog shit). So when the Mass Pike says Left Lane Closed I hardly blink… I turn up 103.3 a little louder, even if its just Sonny and Cher, and knuckle up. I am the Left Lane.

But what happened on my drive back from a family visit to CT the other night was just plain ridiculous. The highway DID have a couple of glowing yellow electronic signs flashing Left Lane Closed, sure it did… but notice the singular use of Lane. So I, being the embodiment of the Left Lane much as Lord Krishna IS Divine Love, mosey on down to see where the sidewalk ends, as Shel Silverstein encouraged me to do as a child. Well, about twenty seconds after the second electronic notice, the Mass Pike bottlenecked from FOUR LANES down to one…. single lane….! Sonny and Cher had hit a crescendo and I had become lost in it… but the sight of four lanes of cars merging down to one in an insane tributary of red lights and screeching brakes jarred me from my, “Don’t Go Breakin’ My Heart” reverie into a “Don’t Go Breakin’ My Car” panic! I slammed on the brakes and switched off the radio. Okay, I thought, that ain’t right, but this is the main Masshole Artery… I put up and merged…

Bit farther down a wooden handpainted sign gave notice that the Breakdown Lane was available for feisty persons displaced from speed, so I turned into that, rolled down the window and lit up a cigarette… figured I’d chill out and pass 50 or so stupid drivers that can’t read signs… I’m cruising, everything is fine… and then my car starts to vibrate dangerously! I inhale some smoke from a cigarette as I’m passing trucks vans and SUVs thinking, “Haha, suckas….”, when a frikkin’ ROCK throttles in through the open window and KONKS me in the temple! Godamnit! I was stoned!

There are some serious deep grooves in the pavement of that breakdown lane, and I ain’t talking about Sonny Bono and Cher.

Satanic Meat Talk

My intestines are rightfully upset with me for splashing them with unfriendly quantities of Keystone lite at my friend’s graduation party… I had to massage them using my Intestine Healing techniques as well as expunge and then once the slate was clean throw a steak super-burrito down there as well… they are resting comfortably now, though no doubt still grumbling a lil’…

I made a breakthrough on Monday in a key area of my interest. The taming of the cow cat. It seems no matter where I live, be it Chicago or near the police station in Central or my beautiful place near Inman Sq. there is a continuous thread of cow cats following me… big, black and white spotted cats that howl and bully and run amok chasing other cats out of the neighborhood. Well… in the past I threw bottles, hissed out windows, and generally kept my distance. In the evening Monday, walking with my friend Ari back from Toscanini’s, my intestinal grumbling attracted a so called cow cat. I whistled and communicated as best I could from my mouth, but it was the creaking and groaning noises from my large and small intestines that attracted and seduced this cow cat, I’m sure. It swayed back and forth in the middle of the road not looking at me but it’s ears were keenly tuned into my intestinal vibrations…

It trotted over at last, belly jiggling back and forth. What a fantastic large cat (though nowhere near the biggest I’ve seen… ask me about Rikki). It rolled on it’s stomach and let me touch it for about fifteen seconds before some faroff noise or moo-meow of a like kind put the wild look back into it’s eyes and it got up and scurried away. If I could’ve safely removed my entrails I’d have let the cow cat play with them, chase and bat at them like strings… it’d be lots more fun for my gut-pile than what-all I consumed on Sunday.

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