Archive for October, 2005
IF HE HAS A HAIRY CHEST IM GONNA BARF YA I HAVE A WHOLE MONOLOGUE PLANNED OUT UHH, ARE YOU SERIOUS? No
This is being written at what would have been 3AM in the morning on an ordinary Saturday night, but now an entire has been lost watching MTV’s new dating show, Next. This is evidently not a localised problem, as every region reporting corroborate what is being called in the print media Fall Back. There is agreement so far in the point that this show is so stupid that it froze a majority of Americans’ brain lobes. These lobes are crucial to the functioning of a reasonable human timekeeper, and so in the freeze (1-2 inches of snow was registered in Boston from the exploding of asian students’ compact skulls from their expanding brain-freeze) the clock is now reading 2 AM which translates to 2 MAYHEM.
Right now, it should be 3AM but because a half-Irish mulatto girl takes her time to obviously dismiss a small Indian boy who refuses to wear anti-perspirant and instead has him chase a small sheep around a small park, an entire hour of the nation’s time has been taken away. Tina Fey and Amy Poehler made fun of Maureen Dowd’s column on how well she knows Judith Miller, titled, “Woman of Mass Destruction,” in a segment called Bitch Fight on the Weekend Update, likening it to a spat between Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton. Tim Russert was vigilant at the first 1AM, convening a meeting of many of the faces at NBC News to discuss the CIA leak investigation & indictment and Tim Russerts role in all that.
But then they started smooching on MTV’s dating show and the brains of North America froze for one hour and now its late and I personally will probably be tired tomorrow, or something. My aunt and I went to the art theatre and saw Goodnight and Goodluck yesterday. Missing an hour somewhere in the mix because of frozen brain membranes and lobes will certainly disorientate most of America, and to be frank, Toto, we’re not in Honolulu no more. Good night & good luck.
The public & government media, always on heavy-gear footing, has now mechanized into a vulcanesque volcano brew over the crimes in the capitol & apocalyptic climate. Old men who had been FBI director fifteen years ago are now on the C-SPAN tube, yabbering long into the night about how one incident back when they were captain of a Navy gasoline tanker is really relevant to the current Supreme court situation in Washington, followed by a panel of all-Yale graduates discussing the administration’s legal defense of torture… Moral issues, government ethics, I needed an escape from reality, man. Outside the door marked with the neon Exit was the Real World, you know the one in Austin, Tejas. I love watching the Real World and especially discussing it with other people.
During the winter of the first year I lived in Chicago my then-girlfriend came to visit. We bundled up in coats and bussed out to Wicker Park to see where the Real World cast had lived, then out to Humboldt Park to see the artwork they had created while teaching a city youth program. Though I can no longer recall anyone on the Chicago cast, other than a vague recollection of one boy wondering around Boy’s Town, I remember that trip out to the Northwest of the city fondly. And a year later I ended up living out between those same two neighborhoods. Ah, Real World memories.
I just finished watching five episodes of the Real World Austin. Look its not just voyeurism with a dash of laziness (which if I had a line of spices, would be my equivalent to Emeril Lagasse’s Essence); these are Real people and a person, sensitive to reality television and weighted with equal parts spiritual empathy and mobile apathy can easily watch five episodes in a row and love it. Better than listen to various all-Yale former Attorneys General and professors weigh in with explicitly what an array of torture memos assert. Five episodes was nowhere near my threshold for Realness, matter of fact I was left thirsting for more. Hope that Mtv On Demand is one or two episodes behind whats running in prime time, so I can watch the repeats of a couple more episodes on regular cable. When the curly haired dude from Wisconsin & Shanice from the last Real World (which was where? Can’t remember.) went to Fiji and shared a moment that lasted a weekend, walking in the rain together… I felt it here (hand on my heart).
Problem is I heard the beaches in Fiji are covered with sea snakes. Must be kinda yucky, wearing flip flops around all those deadly sea snakes sunning themselves & slithering in & out of your sandwich cooler. But Shanice and Randy… Randy? maybe it was Sean, or Peter or something. Philadelphia! The last one was in Philadelphia and the curly haired man, what was his name… Scooter? built that playground for the munchins. Ricky told me a few days ago that if you pause the Wizard of Oz as Dorothy and Toto are leaving Munchkinland you can see one of the dwarves following off a ladder and dying, possibly intentionally even, and that they left the scene intact on the new DVD. Julie Andrews! Shit, I meant to say… Judy Garland. ?
George the Prez reacted to the news of Vice’s top aides indictment with a fantastically brief briefing on the White House lawn. Rove & Co. staged it so that the Prez had to walk about twenty to thirty steps, around a big ole tree swarmed by squirrels, to the cameras & the press. He said that in America government officials are guilty until proven innocent and what a fine job Scooter had done, shame to see him go, garbled something about protecting Americans and that was it. No questions, nothing, walked away as reporters shouted, “Are you embarressed by this, Mr. Prez?” CSPAN has been playing that press briefing every couple hours.
I am in Connecticut now, with a cat sleeping next to me. My wake up call is 10AM so I must take my cue and transform into a sleeping cat myself. More:
My sister wants everybody to be aware that the Speaker of the House, Dennis Hastert, has launched a blog that is less than fabulous in the opinion of this bizzer. Matter of fact I’m the Bizzer of the House.
Sunday night after typing in my last post I was downstairs on the couch watching the 1AM rebroadcast of Meet the Press on MSNBC. Senator Chuck Schumer from New York predicting (accurately) Harriet Miers withdrawing and the humiliation for the President, then Frank Rich of the New York Times explaining how the meat would hit the fan this week for senior White House advisors… good stuff. Afterwords I switched over to the Weather Channel and was transfixed by the swirl of Hurricane Wilma.
It was about 2AM Monday morning and the storm was beginning to pound Florida, touching the Keys up the panhandle to Ft. Myers. In the latter town the Weather Channel crew went into a storm shelter set up in a high school gym and interviewed several of the occupants. One woman came to the camera with three, three, buck teeth. “Well if it’s ‘tormin’ you gotta run to the shelter. Hey! Tell ya what! Four days in a shelter beats four months of winter!” With a comment like that the lunatic woman gave herself away as one of those cast out of the Northeast from lack of survival skills and/or a dental plan.
I have a dental plan & really bad, yellow teeth which are soft to the touch. But they absorb sugar like a sponge. Anyway, those were more or less the last thoughts I had before getting my rest for the new week. Monday kicked in with a wicked busy lunch at the hotel, and then the hurricane kicked in that night. Hard to believe that it took Wilma’s eye something like 3 days to travel the 10 miles of the main strip in Cancun, yet as soon as pass through Florida the thing ramped up to 200 miles an hour and was knocking on the Northeast door the next day. But it happened, and it sucked.
Tuesday was spent dodging raindrops as I made my way from my roommates car to the T to work back to the T to a taxi & home… then back out to work at the restaurant in my neighborhood. By the time I got out on Tuesday night the storm had largely passed and in its wake was left a frigid chill. Lunches were rocking every single day this week, and with the freeze and the skies darkening earlier I have been worn out at the end of my days, left without motivation to 3rdarm you all my biz. But I believe that when I get knocked down, I will get up again. Indeed, its never gonna keep me down. (Instead of 3rdarm.bizzing I’ve been pissin’ the night away…)
Wednesday night Carlos B. and I held an unannounced Bizamp session on the turntables and the mic and were rocking for an hour or so. Eliot joined in on the laptop and generated a 3rd channel from the time delay of the internet broadcast getting mic’ed back into the live stream. Think about that for a minute, it makes sense. In the end, we had the past and the present looping to a vortex that knocked out the power in my room and the file recording of our session was lost to the computer. But we retain the tech & the technique, areba la futura!
C has evidently hoooked up an email form for 3rdarm.biz, so soon I will be recieving your semi-anonymous emails. I’m going down to the CT shoreline (finally) for some love & happiness this weekend, more updates to come.
Got a ticket for a raw bar order tonight for a dozen oysters with a note on it saying, “Clam allergy.” This is called a “ticket garnish;” a little notation relating additional information about the order. “This ain’t no freaking kosher raw bar,” was my panicky response. The waitress came over and told me to change my latex gloves and use oysters that were not touching the clams. I could see the woman with the allergy from my shucking spot, and in my head I could see hives breaking out on her face. “Is this a mild allergy or deadly?” I asked, imaging clam juices running out the sides of the shell and mingling with the breathing oysters. I wiped my knife nervously. My hands were clammy: would that trigger a reaction? Long story short, customer lived, and I told the restaurant I don’t want to shuck anymore. Not because of allergies: I need the time back for my family & my self.
allergic to life, on channel 4
I was called the Sweetest Boy and handed a twenty dollar bill. They grabbed my arm and insisted I go see “Seven Hundred Sundays” playing at the Opera House, as they finished their lunch on the way to show. Request lines from Throw Mama from the Train if Billy Crystal does an encore was my suggestion. Towards the end of Saturdays lunch I had an older woman with a sore backsides insist a seat on the banquette, who ordered a baked scrod. When I brought her the Scrod she glanced down at it and dismissed it back to the kitchen because she wanted fish and chips. But I understand. Sometimes to see the Scrod, is enough.
Speaking of sore backsides, I am never eating any Fatali african scotch bonnet peppers ever again.
This website here needs to have 2 things; a graffiti wall where anyone can post a line or two, & a contact page like the one Ro set up on ohrinet.com. Anyone who will supply the code shall be compensated with street legal services, with only a nominal Street Attorney fee.
On White Animal, my friend Emersons thing, he links to a blog written by Kate Mullan: “Kate Mullan is writing about the study abroad program she is doing in Tanzania- DalaDala Stops Here“. After I read it for an hour or two and comparing it to recent emails, I realized it wasn’t my sister. Who the hell is Kate Mullan? When I was 12 I had 3 foot Chinese & Japanese flags on my wall, insisted that my aunt & grandma & I had mongolian blood, & was very active in the Asian club in school, winning their karaoke contest. Personally, I’m surprised that more people didn’t call me Mulan.
Names can be queer and its all right. For example, my friend Austin from Texas recently moved the office to Austin, Texas, finally completing the nagging self reference of a boy named Austin from Texas. As documented on Return to Frownland. I like having my friend living in Austin, because I can check vibes and see the streets of Austin through my Street Attorney gaze, from my couch, watching the latest episode of the Real World. Which I am way behind on, by the way.
This is a picture of the new wristband I am banging. No more Wainwright Bank Pride 2005 which I threw over the fence. This one was donated by the founders of The Fess Head Krewe who are selling bundles of 20 for $40. to benefit the city of New Orleans. The bracelet is in 3rdarm banger colors; purple, yellow and green. It says the website in small print on one side and “RE NEW ORLEANS” on the other side.
E & C are hosting Fair Mobility, a website, “Exploring the world of mobility products, issues and fairness.” Right now there is an interesting article about a man challenging Toronto’s laws ruling that the Segway is a motor vehicle and therefore banned from sidewalk-use by comparing the futureal vehicle to an eletric scooter.
Before I head to sleep, I want to tell you about the newest addition in the green box to the left. It is an mp3 of a song by the uk-band Ash that they call Kung Fu. I heard it tonight because it was played at the credits of “Rumble in the Bronx” which I was watching while eating french fries after waking up from a raining Saturday nap. This is the kind of thing like Jackie Chan movies that needs to be shared:
“Newer (and very casual) fans of Jackie Chan may think of Rumble in the Bronx as his first film, because it marked the moment when someone finally decided to market this kung-fu whiz kid to American audiences. It’s actually his 55th, and all those years of experience come together delightfully in one of the actor’s most fun features ever, regardless of the fact that it’s dumbed down for those not schooled in martial arts cinema. That this is clearly not the Bronx (those Vancouver mountains in the background are a dead giveaway), and that the villains represent an idea of Americans born of too many viewings of West Side Story, hardly matters. Chan grabbed hold of Western audiences with his ability to climb walls, jump through shopping carts, dodge pinball machines, and leap across balconies, and his older films began hitting theaters at a rate of two per year. What stands out, other than the lightning-speed kicks and punches, is the actor’s underlying decency. Differing from fellow countryman and martial arts superstar Jet Li, Chan sees his gifts as more a cartoonish circus act than an opportunity to crack vertebrae, keeping the scowls and body count almost at zero, with the villains either arrested or humiliated rather than killed. Even the vicious street punks who pelt him with the shrapnel of glass bottles become allies by the end — Chan just wants everyone to get along. Rumble in the Bronx also introduced new viewers to Chan’s trademark closing-credit outtakes, which feature the hilarious (and sometimes painful) mishaps involved in Chan’s stunts.”
The song Kung Fu plays during the now-famous (according to Derek Armstrong at allmovie.com) closing-credit outtakes. The end sequence of the movie (SPOILER ALERT) involves the main boss criminal getting run over on a golf course by a hovercrafted piloted by Jackie Chan.
Hell night #2 I wore a fire-engine red Nautica sweater w/ grey slacks and my new pair of all-black Converse Allstar low-tops to work. Upon arriving I immediately donned a zebra-striped red & black pair of devil horns for my head, and strapped two foot black wings on my back. I also wore a mask to protect my nasal passages from the Scotch Bell and African Fatalii pepper vapors. The shit was hitting the fan around 7PM when the kitchen delivered an inhumanly intense plate of Pasta from Hell to a smiley man in a red-pepper covered shirt: he had a few bites and became completely white with red splotches covering his face and neck, and then dashed to the bathroom where he stayed for forty five minutes. The kitchen kicked everybody’s ass tonight.
Last night it was more the other way around. Customers were complaining in a surly manner that the food wasn’t even hot at all and finishing whole plates of five and six bomb dishes and licking them clean, asking for more. The stage is set now for the third and final Hell Night, for a final showdown between Eric ‘EZ’ Gorborski (sp?) and his band of pirates versus the public at large. The Core Meltdown, as it is known.
In other restaurant news, Beautys pizza just got a sweet review written up in the Boston Phoenix. The man pictured below introduced himself to my roommates and me as “George” but now the truth comes out. The photo is called, “Jorge with our Ultimate Garden!” The truth is all there is:
The last table I sat on the last night of hell this year (hopefully) was the 3 people I live with. I brought them to the back corner of the volcano room, way back behind the raw bar. And then I punched out and smoked a cigarette outside. Big George was freestyling to the people in the front and I could hear them roaring at him. In my mind, I pictured eating Hell Pasta rapidly bite after bite until the bowl was empty.
In the movie I watched today called ‘Hero’ on the mini-dvd in Carlos’ PSP there were these Shaolin Chinese who fought entirely with & and in their minds. Exhaling smoke from my lungs was exercise for the Hell Pasta approach. Muscle relaxation from peace of mind and let the hurt follow. ‘Helter Skelter’ played back inside the restaurant, someone had turned up the radio. I brought the Hell Pastas and 2 Tecate beers over to my friends table in the volcano room and sat staring at the pasta from hell.
Rapidly I picked up a fork and began to shovel the pasta into my mouth unchewing just swallowing and trying not to let the Fatalii Scotch bonnet & african Shaolin bonnet peppers touch my lips. For the first few seconds I felt nothing serious, and then the chemicals from the mighty pepper plant organs hit the muscles in my digestive tract stunning them. Unable to function I took a pause on the shoveling and was overwelmed with pain.
The heat froze all my muscles and arteries and especially scorched my digestive and cardiovascular, as well as auto-motive systems, and totally took out several layers of lining from my stomach. I began to sweat profusely, and dabbed at myself with the white napkin. The thought of returning to the beginning of the pain, though I’d only gone one or two minutes forward, was unbearable, and I pushed the bowl away.
The couple a table over saw me shifting uncomfortably in my seat, my tight grimace, and of course the bowl of Hell Pasta in front of me. Cornbread was put into my blurry vision and I grabbed and ate pieces of it. Dessert arrived and I took down a couple bites of mango icecream. With some body control returning though in pain like an animal wounded in a trap-escape, I got up and ran to Chef EZ in the kitchen. “You fucking crazy asshole! You tried to kill me!” EZ was also in pain, what with the african shaolin scotch bonnet pepper juices marinating his skin and penetrating his pores for three days, but he managed a smile and happily explained that my bowl had been a mild one. Ten minutes later, after I puked up the whole thing, the ice cream forming a dome on top like whipped cream on a sundae, I went back and told EZ that I’d puked it all up. That closed the matter.
I am taking this jive beverage seminar on the internet tonight. Heres a quote:
“Think of your restaurant as live TV commercial. You have easy access to drinks that look enticing and taste even better. Whenever you serve something that looks that wonderful, you should share it! Not the drink of course, just the display. When delivering a great drink, swing by a newly seated table and let them know that you will be right back with them. While you walk away, their minds and conversations will turn to that delicious looking drink that you were carrying.
This method is even easier when you sell bottles of wine or champagne. Bring out the finest glasses and the carafe or ice bucket. When you open the bottle, stand in a position where the rest of your section can watch. Companies spend millions of dollars every year on commercials that expose consumers to their product, but you can do it for free every shift.”
When I walk away their minds and conversations will turn to that delicious looking ass, baby! What is this finest carafe business? Carafes are very sensitive and its not fair to play favorites. I bet I could really freak people out if I did everything publicly as advised in paragraph two. How about creating a little intimacy with the table? And this other business, the “doing it for free every shift” business… as a street attorney I advise against that shit.
Okay I’m done venting & back to work.
Last night I stayed late at the grill to help decorate the place for the Hell Night tripleheader. Free beer and pizza was provided. I clustered balloons and did a little bit of chalking. The cops came looking in and had some pizza. They came back a second time after their shift ended to have beer. One of them was a large black man called Big Sexy.
Big Sexy and I got talking about Joust while I nervously chalked the Lemur. He says if you get to the tenth or eleventh egg wave you willed be attacked by a vicious new bird, “The Green Guys.” Big Sexy says The Greens Guys have murderous super human control when flying to land on the head of the birdriders.
I’m going to play Joust right now.