200 + people came into the restaurant tonight, the release of the pent-up public locked out of the neighborhood grill since the Friday before last weekends holidays. I stayed calm at the door combing my hair and chewing nicotine gum. “Get your head out of space!” my manager yelled at me.
Presenting the “Oops, Got Me Naked” Awards part of 3rdarm.biz Look Back @ 2005Way Too Late Tuesday Night
Well here we are at the end of another year, and at this time of the annual its always nice when you’re favorite media sources tally it up and give a bookreport in front of the class on the first complete statistics of the previous year. Thats why this morning we are going to look back at the three separate & unique incidents in 2005 when I was naked in front of other people. In 2005 I maintained the celibacy of a monk, had no sex with no people and no fishsex, the celibacy of a monk. You see, there were in fact only three people who saw me naked in the last twelve months*, and this morning I’d like to award those three each an award, in the form of lively paintbrush portrait.
*3rdarm.biz has major social problems, fears of intimacy & performance, unwilling to tangle with percieved trials & tribulations in percieved gay community, dislikes interpersonal drama, and also because of body of 100 year old man has extreme fear of body exposure (there must be a name for this). But still, sometimes, once in a while, people do catch me naked:
They are naked, too, in order of first in 2005 to see me naked, to last-
I met this girl after dancing all night at the Cantab. We were both behind the plastic shield at the 7-11 hotdog heater, watching the sweating spinning franks. She came back to my house and somehow convinced me to take my clothes off, which I did, falling conveniently asleep as I lost my last sock. She was gone when I woke up in the morning, and I wonder where she went. Maybe back to the hotdog heater to try again.
This girl who lived with us for a summer in our previous, decrepit house on Kinnaird St. attacked me one night in the late spring after I’d had enough scotch for John Candy to share with the Care Bears, and we made out long enough for her to see the label on the bottle, “Sans Penetration.” But she saw my secret 100 year old body naked.
Ok I do love mulatto or mixed race people the most because they always turn out so especially sexy. This boy who came home with me after he karaoke sang, “The Impossible Dream,” saw me naked, but both fell right asleep before even one freaking kiss, way before any freaking. Most dreams don’t last more than one night, but one day I hope I can play him my record of Dione Warwick’s live mashup of ‘Impossible Dream’ with “What the World Needs Now.’
Just because I am turning into Dick Cheney doesn’t mean I’ve totally forgotten how to be romantic. Even Dick Cheney needs love sweet love.
MyWhat a nice holiday that was for me. Unfortunately due to the large amount of roast beef that my Uncle Johnny cooked up and that I devoured until besieged by the sweats, along with html problems on my aunts laptop & unhealthy nightly doses of boring holiday-time CSPAN, I was unable to share with ya’ll a real-time commentary of the past weekend. Minus the copious roast beef, html issues, & CSPAN, I really just wanted to spend some good ole quality time with my family anyway, so its all good.
This was one of the most relaxed xmases I have celebrated in my life, and therefore one of the best. Repeating a tradition I started last year, I told my aunt that I was going to have work straight through the night of the 25th and would not be able to join the family at the xmas dinner, only to show up as the Big Surprise on December 23rd. (My sister mentioned that if I keep doing this I will eventually be regarded as a Big Ass.) The miracle of me at christmastime was brought about this year by walking off my hotel job never to return. But the freedom of youth, no?
We exchanged presents the eve before xmas to keep the stress away. Besides, Meet the Press was still on this past Sunday morning. You don’t get to be the longest running show on television by taking breaks. It occurs to me that I may have the longest running blog with a .biz domain. If so, Big Russ would be proud. Big Russ & Me were joined by Tom Brokaw and Ted Koppel for the xmas broadcast of Meet the Press. The gray-haired men shot from the hip, as opposed to reading lines, and held a surprisingly worthy conversation, (Or is it just that after so many reruns on CSPAN I was ready for anything new?), which ended in a shocker: Tom Brokaw mentioned 3rdarm.biz!!!
Check the transcript:
MR. BROKAW: “Well, the new universe of the blog and the Internet is a–is the new frontier… I liken what we’re going through to the big bang. We’ve created a new universe. There are a lot of new planets out there and which ones are the brightest, which ones are gonna survive, which ones can support life, we’re finding out, and working our way through it. So it’s a profound change that I don’t think even these two old-timers sitting next to you could have anticipated when we were young reporters–for example, third arm dot biz.”
So obviously this blog or whatever you think you’re looking at and reading, you can name it even if it exists in opposing states simultaneously in a quantum bizgineering way, call it a blog- we’ve come a long way in 2005. Matter of fact, we’ve come from nowhere. 3rdarm.biz is now the place to read daily updates and see pictures once in a while, rated Best in Boston for animated gifs & clam chowder. You can live on this planet, Brokaw-bebe. We’ve got plenty of clean water and we all smoke unfiltered cigarettes. There’s room for you but we’re gonna tax that ass.
My favorite xmas present this year I opened up on xmas morning. My aunt who is santa claws had my sister grandma and me save our stockings until the morn of the 25th, for dramatic effect & to properly stretch out our treats. In the top of my stocking was a walgreens watch with the price tag affixed to it, which as a phenomena probably occurs more often in my family than the median. $4.99. Thats the reason I like it so much. Back in middle school (when I peaked, intellectually, socially, and as a measurement of weight or girth) I used to have one of those ultra-hi-tech keyboard digital watches which I relentless programmed and fussed over with my then-fat fingers. But the thing made me fing paranoid because it was damn expensive.
This little watch ain’t digital and it looks like one of those expensive silver & gold watches so it passes for a little wrist bling. It tells time accurately enough & is from my favorite brand of pharmacy. I know where to get another one if it brakes and I have no paranoia about the price. And it gently introduces the concept of time & a touch of class to my body, which has been recently covered in obscene tattoos of funky monkeys, topped with the whiteman’s worst haircut. The haircut is better now that its growing in but still resembles a toupe.
What else did I get for xmas? My sister got me a book about high school & college students drinking wet tee shirt contest groping puking & whiskeydick blowjobs in the shower during Springbreak on the Redneck Riviera (aka Panama City Florida.) It is one of the photo books sold in the American Book Center, in Amsterdam, where my sister lives when shes not visiting us. She didn’t even realize it but this is the beginning of a tradition of her own: the second year in a row she has gotten me a troubling vaguely pornaphoto book from the ABC. My grandmother saw some of the pictures and said, “What is that book?” Just some book, I told her, quickly closing it.
(Better to save my own inevitable “passing out from foam inhalation during cancun foam party at age 17 and having friends strip me naked and shower me but still suffer from foam phobia to this day” springbreak story for a different holiday, or Never.)
I also recieved socks & underwears and oldstyle Dominica Bay Rum aftershave, as well as chocolates from my grandmother. In addition, a new pair of brown pants and some smart new tops. This has got to make for riveting reading but I’m sitting here eyeing my fancy watch typing thoughtlessly. :-) Back to bizness–
Okay, here’s the basic plan for 2006 as I see it. With one job I will have much more time on my hands to pump content onto the internet. Tomorrow morning I buy a new machine, which will be a powerful portable computer. This will enable content. Also, I have registered a new website, bizamp.biz. In the month of december 3rdarm.biz has already pumped well over a gigabyte in bandwith, the first time in history, mostly because of the mp3 files of the bizamp sessions. The new site will catalogue all previous bizamp sessions plus better relay information on live shoutcasts, for basics. Bizamp.biz will be much more.
My goal for 2006 is for 3rdarm.biz & bizamp.biz to combine cream and pump out over a terabyte… I don’t really know how much that is with commas and zeros, but I’ve got a feeling its gonna be like force-feeding a squeeling guinea pig multiple double lattes. Also I hope that bizamp.biz does not run into any legal problems, what with 128kb/s mp3 session files playing samples from copywritten songs, but I’m willing to be the guinea pig. Bring on the lattes.
Last night was my fantastic roommate Eliot’s birthday party, replete with a Tiramisu cake, LCD gifting, and 2 games of Scrabble. I ruined the whole thing, almost. A kind of weasly mania took over my body, sprung from my new weasly haircut. Late in the second game I skipped my turn because the letters of my tray spelled ART X ING which had me mesmorized like looking into baby eyes. For my next turn I insisted on double standard time because of skipping the last turn. Needed to clear my tray to win. After more than ten minutes I laid down “taxanrig”. The birthday boy was very angry and promptly removed my tiles.
The women in my house won both games last night as Eliot and I traded third and fourth places. Yikes, we got crummy chromosomes.
Two days earlier I finally journeyed to the new 7-11 in the neighborhood. It was after 2am and I was driving home after dropping a friend at his house in Allston. The parking lot was scrubbed but empty. The flourescent lights glowed in the extreme. When I got out of my car I looked across Hampshire street and saw the Hess Station attendant watching me from his plexiglass. I had promised the boys at Hess that I would continue shopping for my Pall Malls exclusively at the Hess Station, new 7-11 be damned. From 600 feet I could see the sadness in his eyes.
But I was curious damnit. What was going on in the new 7-11? As a street attorney and parttime detective I had to find out. So I went into the store. I had preplanned my exact in-store moves as to alleviate some of my paranoia. Down the candy aisle I went and scooped up some sour gummie somethings. Then to the counter. The only other person in the 7-11 was a fiftyish dark man with a long nose, short-legged, wandering the aisles seemingly at random. I did not want to presume him to be the 7-11 clerk just because of his Middle-eastern darkness. So I took the only politically correct course.
I stood at the counter and hollered, “Hello?! Hello?! Anyone working? Hello?!” The dark skin man with the long hooked nose crept to the door nervously. Skittish because of the yelling. We made eye contact. “Bathhroom?” he said rhetorically. Easily I returned his questioning bewildered gaze and shrugged. Sure enough, a few moments later the clerk appeared sluggishly from the hallway of the bathrooms. His eyes were blazing red and he appeared ackward. “Help you sir?” he said, addressing the dark man. The dark man made a gun with his fingers, hooking them a bit too much so that his finger-gun resembled a claw. He moved his index finger in a trigger motion. “A lighter?! Do you want a barbeque lighter?!” I guessed wildly, injecting myself into the middle of the exchange.
Before my words had really left my mouth the dark skinned man yelled, “No!” and ran out the door. Very strange I thought to myself. Did he just steal something? There was no way to know. I stuck to my assumption that he had wanted a barbeque lighter. At the cash register the clerk was glacially slow to understand that I wanted UNFILTERED REGULAR SOFT PACK THE RED-ONES-RIGHT-THERE Pall Malls. When he finally handed them to me his hands were shaking. “Hold up one minute,” I said. The clerks red eyes were wild.
“Just hold up one minute. Whats going on in here? Are you okay? I mean, you guys just opened five days ago. Is everything okay?”
The clerk meekly & reluctantly returned my concerned expression. “Good or bad I will see.” Then he softened up just a bit. “Live around here?” he asked me.
“Yeah, man. A couple blocks over.” He asked if this was a good neighborhood as a sports car with thumping bass pulled into the sanitzed well-lit parking lot. A big gangsta guy entered the 7-11 as I began explaining how the neighborhood was a combination of more than one elements because it was so east in cambridge that it butted up to somerville. The clerk had stopped listening, his eyes tracking the gangsta man, he dismissed me nodding saying, “I will see.” Dude was fearing for his life. He needs three inches of plexiglass like the Hess armored hut or at the very least a coworker at night on the graveyard shift. Yikes, new 7-11.
In Harvard Square I was approached by a Lyndon Larouche supporter flaunting a new pamphlet with the full text of a recent Larouche webcast. I was smoking outside the Co-op and tried to wave him away but he persisted with his pamphlet. So I made direct eye contact and motioned him to come right close by my face and I whispered, “The problem is, I am Dick Cheney…” Left him speechless, picked up some literature and headed back to the Nuclear Bunker.
On the way home I was savagely bitten on wrist by a wolfish fluffy white dog with baby eyes named Bear. Yikes, bear! His oldish effeminate owner told me not to worry about it because his soft old teeth hadn’t penetrated my fluffy gray sweatshirt or my wristband. Then when I responded to his query about my age with, “Almost 23,” he smiled and told me that at my age he was a boy-dancer in Amsterdam.
Ah Cambridge. Time to head back to my home in Connecticut for the holidays. I love places whose names start with the letter C.
Woke up late again today. Seems to me that my mind must be making up for all the sleep I’ve lost working 2 full time jobs since July. The last thing I remember, after coming home from Chicago, is seeing the fireworks’ heavy explosions over the Charles River. Memorial Drive jammed with people. Youth gangs smashing bikes. The silence and the smoke fingers lingering in the sky. Then the crowds crushing up Massachusetts Avenue… I got my second job the next day and had been working solid through December since that night. But now I’m in the clear.
I’m in the clear so its okay to sleep past noon two or even three days in a row, my body in the crack between my mattress and the wall. On top of the heater, snoring. Thats fine now. When I did finally roll out this afternoon I took one look in the bathroom mirror and the desire to get a haircut overwelmed me. In less than three minutes my sneakers (black Converse Weapons) were laced around my ankles & toes. I was out the door. After stopping for coffee (Green Mountain large) at Store 24, I noticed the irritation of one long toenail brushing up against the interior materiel of one sneaker.
Drank a cigarette and smoked my large coffee down to Central Square to Magazine street, to the usual place I’ve been getting my hair cut recently. I do not know the name of this place, but I do know that the name is vaguely Nubian. Perhaps its “Nubian Cutz”, but I remember it as “J’ai L’ai” or something like that. Inside the door and I collapsed on the black leather couch, which bore a strong resemblence to the backseat of a car. The Peoples Court was on TV, but I read the Herald.
My man Marlon was definitely not working… standing over his barber chair was a different black man, over six feet tall & young. He reminded me of the tall, young, semi-professional basketball player named Will from Florida who tried to steal my boy’s weed in Chicago. I made a point then of kicking Will out of my apartment. Looked him in the eye and told him that he could never come back. And after that I never again talked to him.
The main man barber who I believe owns Nubian Cutz has a regular clientele and works strictly off appointments so I didn’t bother queuing up for him. Marlon was not there, as I’ve already mentioned. So, after five or ten minutes of reading the Herald and eyeing over this six foot tall young black man I was emboldened to ask, “Hey, are you cutting?” He stammered back yeah. The main man barber scolded him for not speaking up sooner. But my very sensitive nature detected no racism at work; the tall boy was simply oblivious to me sitting there reading the paper.
I sat down in his chair and he put paper around the back of my neck, draped me in the barber bib. I believe he actually started using clippers on my head before asking how I wanted it cut. The precise point in time that the clippers hit my head is when I spoke up. Hey man, just do the edges okay? is what I said. He met my eyes in the mirror. Edges, he repeated. Then he came back in with the clippers. The Peoples Court carried on.
I remember one case in which a man put a deposit down on a boat that had been advertised as a 1994 but turned out to be a 1996. He got his deposit back. I remember one woman who worked as a model claimed her neighbors dog bit her “a few inches to the side of my sphincter” and had lost wages because she couldn’t model. She got money. The rest of the time I was staring at this bottle of hair grease for black hair, which was amazing to me because it claimed it “conditioned, added volume, shine, moisture…” and billed itself as “medicine for hair.” The tall boy clipped on.
As court case followed court case and the afternoon dragged on, I became less oblivious of time. Became worried actually, about being late for work. Every once in a while the young man would stop cutting my hair to answer his Nextel. The beautiful thing about Nextel is that, unlike cellphones, innocent people standing by have to listen to BOTH sides of the talking. And the ringtone.
I gathered from the conversation that my haircutter’s friend was going over his house to try to pick something up. His friend Nextelled to ask the address, then to confirm the address, then to ask his ma’s number, then to ask where the thing was, where the thing was, where the thing was. By the third time he Nextelled to ask where the thing was, I was ready to answer it myself. “He put it by the window! By the F#$king WINDOW!!!! LOOK AROUND THE WINDOW!!!!!”
Then his boy called back and said he got the thing. And he wanted his hair cut. “Come by the shop,” said the tall boy cutting my hair. How he cut my hair! The man never put a drop of water on my head, so every pass with clippers or clip around with the scissors was unusually painful! By my sensitive nature I tried to playdown the race issues at work. It was possible this young man had never cut white hair before. At least he wasn’t lighting my hair on fire with charcoal.
One eccentricism my haircutter did have was cleaning the clippers with a toothbrush. After every other pass around my head he would pause to brush at the clippers with the toothbrush. Perhaps he thought that the reason my hair was unusually hard to cut with clippers was because the clippers were clogged with hair. But it was actually because I’m white! I didn’t tell him this. The only time I mentioned the tooth brush was the first time he used it. He brought it up first. “Kind of ridiculous,” he said to me, cleaning the clipper head with the toothbrush. Clippers have teeth, I said with a shrug.
Eventually I realized that the haircut might never end. Certainly Peoples Court was playing a twenty four hour marathon. So the next time he got to Nextelling I asked him what time it was. When he told me I only had twenty or so minutes before I had to be at work a sense of urgency kicked in. Without really checking my hair, now mostly gone although I had only requested, “The edges,” I told him that I had to get going to work. He finished me up. I paid and tipped 100% for the holidays and asked him his name. “G.”
There are many things I am working on and one of them is communication. That is why I am posting to tell you all of my plans to expand the volume of my hair, so that it buffers more frigid air away from my constantly sucking Pall Malls face. Volume is important, as Paul Mitchell would say. I am going to open up a hair studio to express my products & volume ideas: Pall Mall Sassoon.
Speaking of volume, the news this morning is that hopefully the first part of the bizamp session from last friday night is now available to listen to in 128kb/s mp3 form. I have edited the first few tracks down a bit in minute-size because we were just getting rolling and the teeth grew long on the tips. In any event, keep in mind that this is a big file and if you are on a dialup you’re not going to want to listen. If youre on a dialup modem you probably arent reading this sentence anyway. Because of the animated gifs.
Im going to try to make the second half of the session available as soon as possible. The session last friday was dedicated to the dm1001x numark mixer because that was the last session it will be on point. Eliot and I now have the numark dm2002x pro master mixer with three channels, which will be used on all future shoutcasts. Let me know any feedback you have about the last session on the dm1001x. It was a very small mixer, but good.
I know its time for bizness when someone lets me know they’ve noticed the inaction on 3rdarm.biz. Usually it is me telling bloggers webmasters & such that I’m checking their websites everyday and that its time for the new. First of all, I’d like to address the general idea of me being inactive the past couple of days:
1) In the past few days I have had battlefield sickness and gravity keeps the gravy running out of my nose.
2) The past few days kicked off the last week of my hotel job and the first week of my restaurant job.
3) My sister flew over the Atlantic ocean in an airliner which I tracked on satellite from the safety of my computer lab in the Nuclear Bunker.
4) Its been the weekend and Maureen Dowd publishes her column & the NYT Magazine comes out on Saturday, plus I recieved the new Harper’s with its short article on the doctoral dissertation of a Dutch student from my sisters school in the Netherlands about the ties between yawning and spontanaeous orgasm, Frank Rich on Sunday plus I had to read the Amsterdam Weekly, etc. Lots of reading.
5) And most importantly big E & I put about 9 hours into the bizamp one night recording on three turntables and three computers. The next day it was necessary to purchase a mixer with three channels.
6) Also the daylight issue. These are the darkest days of the year in the North on the east coast and everyone suffers from seasonal allergy disorder. Everyone needs more light. The government should convert all of its confiscated marijuana-nursery heat lamps into human hope bulbs and distribute them to the dehydrated wilted public. This is why universal health care makes sense.
7) I got a velour tracksuit.
As a computer recorder I can advise all you “computer users” out there not to ever buy cakewalk pyro because it is a waste of your time. It does things on the cheap and easy but yet it is an expensive licensed program. I have nothing but hate and disgust for the wicked thing. Its a two headed pony to me. But nevertheless I bring you a clip of audio from the bizamp shoutcast session held in my room, also known as The Nuclear Bunker where I can pretend to be Dick Cheney, on December 3rd 2005.
That was a very buggy session and it took me and Eliot hours to debug the wiring and eventually we had to switch programs & machines and it was then that we jointly swore never again to use either A) my computer to record, or B) cake pyro 2004. C) would be never ever to attempt to use those two elements together in a bizamp session ever again. Along with problems of not recording audio at all, that night of Dec. 3rd also produced one hour of hissy scratchy audio.
To even reasonably listen to that hour of recording (we also captured another hour on C’s laptop) I turned the hissy snarling two headed pony of cakewalk pyro against itself. Yes, I had a biting contest between the pony heads. Pyro does clean audio but to save that back to a file easily accessible to internet listeners the conversion and cleaning and whatever it wants to re-write in my registry etc. took hours and hours. But I just set it up and let it do its thing because if there is one thing I’ve learned from studying my human familys long past its that you record and playback with whatever you can.
In the east & north where I be the darkness is everlasting, the reverse-Alaskan lake effect of the coming darkest day of the year, the solstice dec. 21, and the human beings in my zone are probably going to be living off canned bizamp and other nonperishables such as muckamuck produce. Its cold outside, warm ears (which incidentally is the name of a hash i saw sold in amsterdam, but was too sick to smoke, what with the collapsed lung/ fever) deserve good vibrations.
On a different chord, I had my 3rd dessert of the week at the grill. A piece of Pecan Pie last night, very thick, was preceded this week by the chocolate chili grilled banana split on monday and the brownie bad-for-me-whatever-i’ll-eat-what-i-want that i ate in less than a minute saturday night. While I was eating it the bartender reached over the service bar and pinched the sole strawberry on the plate between his greasy thumb and forefinger and scooped up a dallop of whipped cream and opened his mouth and my only strawberry was gone.
Enraged, I immediately raised to that bartenders attention the incident/ fiasco two months ago when I innocently ate ONE marichimo cherry from the marichimo cherry jar on the service bar and that bartender hollered at me that I was NEVER to touch the service bars marichimo cherries. EVER. Because marichimo cherries are like butterflies to him and if you touch them, even TOUCH THEM, some powder will rub off their wings onto your finger and they’ll never fly again. EVER.
Yes, so I raised that incident to his attention and pointed out that he had just stolen my only strawberry, pinched my only strawberry in fact, with his two greasy fingers. From my plate of pecan pie that was RIGHT NEXT to the jar of marichimo cherries on the service bar. I didn’t enforce anything. I was not judge jury and executioner. I raised the incident to his attention. And I asked for a marichimo cherry. And he said no.
Scrabble night fires burn on in Area 4 as a dedicated household searches for ways to open up the board and lay down all seven tiles down into one lyrical dream + 50 bonus points. But I am not here today to talk about Scrabble. I want to open up a little. You see, over the last few days I have experienced something truly remarkable, that needs to be related to the public in order that you all better understand the Universe that I cross every day, that knows not the boundary between my open mind and the firmament of the stars… ready?
On Saturday I had to work extended lunch hours at the hotel to accommodate holiday shoppers at the Copley Place Mall. We stopped seating at 3:45 at the Fisheries. I finished my tables then changed clothes and hit the street to get back to Cambridge, for work at the Grill was due to start at 4 PM. Of course I called numerous times to let them know that the situation was a little different and that I would be late for hosting that night. But the lateness was just beginning. Perhaps because of the massive snow dump that the Boston sky left on the Boston streets last Friday, the Red Line was down between MIT and Park St.
Down in the tunnel MBTA workers directed commuters back up to the light of the Boston Common to board shuttle buses at the Park St. Station. I hustled up the stairs while the sheep and cows took the escalator and boarded the first available. Able to find a seat, I sat and watched as the bus basically crept along at three or four feet a minute in a gigantic loop around the Boston Common. Probably because of all the damned one way streets and the rush hour traffic and the holiday shoppers at Copley Place Mall there was no way to move quickly. We were stuck one bus back in a convoy of shuttles and everyone packed like sardines in the vehicle knew that the situation was grim.
A boy sitting next to me asked me how many stops we would be shuttled and if they would let him back on the Red Line when the shuttling was through. Without making much eye contact I answered his questions. Most strangers don’t talk to me, and the ones that do are highly dubious, even to me. He listened to me call into the Grill to tell them that I was on the shuttle bus but that the shuttling was painfully slow. The shuttle bus itself made a rectangular loop around the Common and we passed so many trees strung up with twinkling lights as the darkness set. “Don’t you hate how early it gets dark here?” the stranger boy asked me.
Twisting in my seat to look him right in the eye, I exclaimed, “Where the hell are you from, Hawaii?!” I mean, everyone from any region which uses the Western calendar in tandem with daylight savings time knows that the next week and a half until December 21 will be the progressively darkest days of the year, and only then will it begin to lighten up. The stranger boy met my eyes and said, “I was born in Hawaii.” My exclamation had been culled from my frustration with the slow-shuttle, but also from my precise knowledge of the American regions that have banned Daylight Laws. Hawaii is one of them, as is, I believe, Nebraska. Those islanders and the corn-fed take very little Daylight Savings shit from anybody.
Now that we had established a rapport our mutual attention turned to a man standing about three feet away from our shared seat, up at the very front of the bus. He had one of those recrafted ears made out of tissue from his butt or inner thigh. Also, right above the grafted or regrafted crafted ear was a little black box jutting right out of his skull. It appeared to be an electronic hearing device wired straight into his brain. The stranger boy and I discussed what the hell was going on with this man’s hearing, probably within his superhuman earshot. Cartiledge doesn’t have blood vessels, strangerboy explained, so the recrafted grafted ear was probably made of that. That way it couldn’t be rejected by the brain-area, like a deadman’s finger might be if the donor and transplant recievers blood types are slightly different.
As for the electronic black box, I wondered aloud if it went straight into the brain-piece itself. No, explained strangerboy helpfully. That would invite infection. More likely its hooked up to the most dense part of the braincase, the skull itself. The density of bone is very high, so if wired to a sensitive reciever it can be used to pick up quiet vibrations. Throughout our contemplation we also tried to see if the man’s other ear was a recrafted graft. Finally the man turned his head and we saw the other ear. It wasn’t pretty, but was not as obvious a graft and lacked the black box of the formidable side we originally discussed.
At MIT we reboarded the Red Line together and the stranger boy told me his name was Jim, which I remembered as James, and told me he was from California and visiting a friend at Harvard Sq. I introduced myself and gave him my Lanes & Games Bowling Business Card with 3rdarm.biz scrawled on the back. Check the address I said. Are you a blogger like Maddox? he asked. I told him I didn’t compare myself to any others except Matt Drudge himself and that I had my own radio program that sometimes draws as many as two live listeners. So hopefully I will hear from him soon and with permission post James views on the 3rdarm.biz.
End of story, right? No way! Monday morning I had to get to the hotel early for work on an Executive Sandwich Buffet (which subsequently dominated my psyche for hours). The Central platform on the Red Line was packed and I couldn’t board the first train because of the human packing. So I strategically placed myself farther down the platform although this would mean I would lose my perfect line up with the Green Line transfer at the Park Street station. The second train came and I just barely made it on, mainly due to the help of a big girl with no less than two and a half feet of LL Bean backpack, who swung it around carelessly like she had no clue of her dimensions in reality that morning. Like a freaking Godzilla tail.
I barely made it on the second train, but the human packing began to dissepate a couple of stops later at Mass General as more commuters departed than boarded the train. Thats when I realized that in the closest seat to where i was standing the strangerboy was sitting with all his bags. Hey! I said. Whats your name again? He told me that it was Jim and I said, oh thought it was James. I guess its both. He had all his stuff and was heading to the airport to fly back to Cali. Remarkable coincidence to the black box inside my brainbox that in the human ocean two beings can find themselves riding the same rails twice. But then my brain is a recrafted graft made of cartiledge from my butt.