Saturday night I got home from work at eleven pm. That night I had been a super-host at the restaurant, acting as a human-spoof to the 300+ customers who had amassed at our entrance all wanting a table. A human-spoof is a hundred or so dryer-sheets packed into a small opening, such as the front entrance to a restaurant, who filters the bad smell of hunger into the sweeter smell of anticipation. Thats all well and good but the experience of soaking in so much hunger left me spent.
I got home and invited E & C, two of my housemates, to watch the rerun of Saturday Night Live that was coming up on NBC TV at eleven thirty. No no, said E, why don’t we watch the finalized documentary about my uncle in Michigan who has been dealing with post-traumatic stress disorder for the past four + years? Hell ya! I replied. The film is titled, “Moving On After 9-11″ and it will be shown in the upcoming spring film festivals. Very inspiring. I don’t want to talk too much about it because it is still under wraps, but this documentary definitely inspired me & triggered my mind to blaze an unexpected trail through brain-wire wilderness:
When I moved to Chicago I was eighteen years old and knew no one in the Midwest, nevermind the city. I had my desktop tower and monitor (the same set I currently use) shipped out to the address that I planned to be inhabiting. Upon arriving by automobile in the Windy City I had yet to sign that lease however, so things were still very much up in the air. That would become a trend. Signing the lease I found myself very much up in the air. On the top floor of a newly apartmentalized building in the South Loop, a building that used to house printing presses, on Federal St. which used to be called Printer’s Row.
My computer arrived a week after my human body, and setting it up became my first priority. But because I was in a large shared space waiting for the other roommates to arrive I didn’t dare order internet for the group, so my computer, fully assembled, remained offline for the next couple of weeks. The funny thing was, atop this high-rise only blocks away from the Sears Tower, the only web pages that my computer could display were those saved in the cache. And what was saved in the cache were the headlines from September 11, 2001, the day that I packed up my childish things and mailed them off to adultland.
So without any friends, city-knowledge, street-smarts, without a street attorney to guide me, I sat pretty much alone on the top floor of Printer’s Row in downtown Chicago, staring at the New York Time’s front page from Sept. 11 and it’s images of the twin towers spewing black smoke from twin holes in their top floors… and I waited. The meditation period from that point to the regenerating now is what “Moving On After 9-11″, the documentary, had me consider. Safely now, from my off-city-center apartment with my street attorney skills, city-knowledge & friends… but the 2001 webpages remain somewhere in the cache.
I worked brunch Sunday morning, only got a couple, at most three, hours of sleep after watching “Moving On…” with E & C. Very tired I was, yet the people helped me get by. The brunch people are kind and very chill. Brunch is my favorite shift of the week. Unfortunately, my human bizbox has the habit of crashing after working Sunday morning to afternoon, and that must be stopped. Yesterday I came home and went to my room and got into bed but did not let myself fall asleep, trying hard to reverse the trend. I downloaded raging hip hop anthems and read the news.
In the evening I got out of bed and socialized with my roommates, who had ordered pizza. I chomped on a couple of slices and waited for Tiger Woods to eventually win the playoff that gave him the Buick Open 2006 Tournament Title. That actually jazzed me up for a couple of minutes; the Beauty’s pizza and the Buick Open. “Tiger Woods wins Buick Open!” I shouted to the neighborhood. Then came the warm exhaustion jets. With the live PGA tourney of the day finally over, (CBS schedules live sports before 60 Minutes every Sunday to torture early-bedding seniors & brunch-serving street attorneys) I watched 60 Minutes…
60 Minutes yesterday was all about getting people drugs. The opening segment was about a drug that the President had seemingly called for in a previous State of the Union address plan, BioShield, in which he had called for the drug makers to make a drug to help out those suffering in the event of a nuclear attack on an American city. So this drugmaker had made this drug to help people suffering acute radiation poisoning or whatever, and now the snide, molish looking man that Bush appointed to oversee this BioShield, has ordered like 50 units or something and the drug maker is going out of bizness and no one is going to get the drug. Ho hum, right?
Saturday night Chef EZ at the Grill poisoned me with acute radiation poisoning. More accurately, he poisoned my coolo, which now suffers extremely acute (just the area of the coolo) heat-based Hell Night radiation poisoning. EZ did this by preparing me a brisket burrito with spicy red beans slathered in salsa-barracha sauce. Knowing that I could not say no. In fact, I cannot say no to a brisket burrito and wolfed down this brisket burrito in less than a minute and it was a mighty log. The hot sauces used went undetected by my taste bud impaired unfiltered Pall Mall sucking mouth, and now the full wrath (medically speaking, acute salsa-barracha radiation poisoning) plagues my coolo to this minute.
So obviously that segment of 60 Minutes held my attention. The next one was about, I don’t know, and the final segment covered a fat opera singer who had her stomach stapled, which was basically 60 Minutes opportunistically grabbing at all its basest audiences in one big grab: fat people who love tv, rich people who love opera, and old people who know foreign languages. But I a member of all those groups and so the opera segment had me rapt. Plus, every time I hear someone on TV say the word “opera” I think about how it sounds like “oprah”. In fact, we were flipping channels at the commercial between the opera segment and Andy Rooney and someone on another channel stated that, “Oprah is not a journalist,” which really had my head ringing.
Speaking of ringing, Andy Rooney showed the world his cell phone at the end of last night 60 Minutes. Coming as a surprise to no one the device looked like one of the jungle radios used during the Vietnam War and probably has a backpack accessory that even Andy was too red-faced to display on national TV. That cellphone will probably sell for at least one million duckets on Ebay. A purchase I would happily place were I a ducketinaire.
Make a long story short I went to bed real early last night. Right after 60 Minutes ended I watched a show on PBS that took strong-willed dogs and placed them in training programs to become working dogs. The show was striking because it included a British woman screaming bloody hell to stop this long-haired sheep dog from biting sheep. “Hyehhaaaaaaaaah!!! No!!! LIE DOWN!!!!!” all in a fantastic British accent with taunting fat sheep looking on. At 9PM I went to sleep and woke back up at one PM Monday afternoon. Thats how long it takes to fully charge Andy Rooney’s jungle radio.
My 16 hour dreams were of the apartment I live in now. It was a bunker and no one used the ground floor, which other than a couple of couches remained empty. By exiting the top floor window I finally got out onto the roof and realized that where I was living was in fact downtown in a city, but under the ground. My apartment had been built under a mound in the middle of a city, some kind of park… Not sure what that one means, but if anyone has an idea please contact my bizbox.
For the past few days I have been fading to black, sleeping to the double digit hours and listening to the same song, “December 4th” by Jay Z’s black album with the excellent original beat by Just Blaze. Unfortunately this means that I have had very little time to do anything else except work. Friday in the two hours of free time that I did have I managed to jump into the white whip, sped over to Dunkin’ Donuts and then continued to the grocery store and bought all the goods I needed to maintain without a single slip up. Meanwhile my laundry spun silently in a forest of fallen trees and no one heard the washing machine.
Not even me. I still have to fold up the clean clothes. The other song I have been listening to is “Sun vs Moon” by Sage Francis, where the two planetary bodies have a DJ Battle that takes place over the entire universe. Eventually it comes down to a draw because of messed up judging. Because the Moon clearly came to win. “The Sun was like, no no no… the Moon was like, Go go go!” Which is appropriate for me right now because this entire week I have been staying awake way too long into the night to be productive during the day.
I’m talking about getting out of work at 1Am at the latest and not closing my eyes for good until 5 in the morning. That sucks. Even the three nuclear alarms I have to ringing me up in the morning haven’t shook me enough to break that cycle. In that song “Sun Vs Moon” Sage Francis has the deep rough devil’s voice playing backwards while children are chanting. Now I have seen the devil before while staying up late in the night and I don’t want to repeat that story (it was way back in high school on those questionable substances of youth) but I did have something similar happen this week.
I was trying to combine a gaggle of Audacity backup files (1 MB each) into a Project file, in order to recover the full data from the bizamp live internet broadcast last weekend. Using a freeware compiler made to recover data in exactly this kind of situation, I thought I had made the whole file. The size was confirmed at almost a full gig so I figured I must have the two plus hours of music on that file… But when I played the file it was only twenty seven seconds long and sounded exactly like what people imagine the devil’s voice must sound like…. So obviously I had to give up that night….. Still planning to have the new bizamp sessions up by the end of the week, post-exorcism style.
Before I go back to work, let me hit you up with some of those Sage lyrics, the ones that keep this rabbit running:::::
“Run rabbit when they fight to kill your baddest poem,
The white man (the white man).
That late in the evening on the 3rd Hell Night I began to spout uncontrollable jibberish did not particularly concern me. After three nights of heavy metal & hip hop blaring whilst I’m looking after the tables… personally handling up to fifty people a night on a handwritten & calculated check system in the midst of the smoke from the fog machine… Big black George moving through the restaurant in medieval costumes shaking a cowbell & screaming…
My brain may have shifted slightly in its fluid sac, causing the gutteral glub-glubing of my jaws to spout sounds that my subconscious mind formed into words. To handle the spouts flow I simply rotated around the customers, like a sprinklers. Everybody got doused but no one got soaked all at once.
If you are reading this right now because you have in your hand one of my bizness cards that I gave to you at Hell Night last night, all the while spouting a ridiculous recurring story about how the New York Times had come THIS close to printing that very card on the front page today, well if thats you then welcome to 3rdarm.biz.
The culprit behind the wires crossing in my brain may very well have been the double cappucino that the owner of 1469 gifted me, a blessing because I was misquoted in the New York Times yesterday morning. Speaking of all that, I want to say publicly that I thought Frank Bruni’s article was fantastic. Well written and well timed, like a new Madonna single. The man was good to be around while shadowing us at the East Coast Grill. I thought he was going to ask me out.
Butttt, I guess he probably just has all the futurific New York technology and manages to stay young by being part cyborg or something. Twenty years since he waited on tables? You should see the man. Even if Maureen Dowd offered me an apprenticeship tomorrow and I started living the New York high rise robot vacuum cleaner dream life… in twenty years will I still have teeth? Perhaps Frank Bruni put on an age-disguising mask as part of his cover as Gavin.
A woman I work with tonight had on a red wig and I had no idea. I told her the dye & new style looked fabulous! Okay I gotta go. Google Earth just finished downloading and I am going to try to find Dick Cheney’s eaglesnest, or just rove about.
Whoaaaaa…. so wrong. Gavin got it so wrong dude, and this time it ain’t my fault. Okay so Gavin is this guy (really named Frank Bruni) who apparently writes for the New York Times but posed as a freelance writer so that he could unassumingly follow the staff of the East Coast Grill (of which I am a member) around for a week and write in the Food Section of the New York Times what its really like to be a server.
The article he wrote about just last week is on the newstand this morning in the NYT Dining. Its called, “My Week as a Waiter.”
And it was really good when he was talking about me by name! And it was really bad that he didn’t mention 3rdarm.biz or better yet scan my bizness card into the New York Times big machine & get it printed on the front page! I am now going to conduct a little exercise and hope that Frank is reading. This is what he wrote about me in the New York Times this morning (perhaps one of the only days I can truthfully use that phrase, this is my cover of the Rolling Stone, people, or could have been, you’ll see in a minute.) This is the part of his article that talks about me:
“Some people are interested in having the experience of being disappointed,” Tina says.Some people are worse. Arthur, a young server who is fairly new to the restaurant, recalls a man who walked in and announced that he had a reservation, a statement Arthur distrusted. The East Coast Grill doesn’t take reservations.
Arthur tried to finesse the situation by saying he was unaware of the reservation but hadn’t worked over the previous three days.
“You haven’t worked in three days?” the man said, according to Arthur’s recollection. “You’re going to go far in life!”
Okay but Gavinfrank got it all wrong. THIS is how it should read, based on the story I told him that reflects real life::::::::
“Some people are interested in having the experience of being disappointed,” Tina says.
Some people are mean. Arthur (internet novelist & 3rdarm.biz webmaster), a hip, bizamping young Cantabrigian street attorney with a delicate, elegant third arm, who has an old soul but washes it daily and brings it brand new to the restaurant each days as both a hostess-with-the-mostess & the youngest East Coast server, recalls a grouchy old man who walked in for brunch one Sunday morning with two old bitties.
“Yesterday on the phone you promised me a table for three by the window!” shouted the grouch, shaking his fist in Arthur’s face, which expressed disgust & distrust because the East Coast Grill only accepts reservations for five or more Sunday through Thursday. Everyone else is welcome on a first come first serve basis.
“Sir, wouldn’t you please pause a minute for my boss to come back?” Arthur politely suggested. “I didn’t work yesterday and so I believe it was probably she who spoke with you on the phone. I could be wrong, I’m sorry.”
“OH IS THAT SO!! YOU DIDN’T WORK YESTERDAY SO YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT AND CAN’T GIVE ME MY FUCKING TABLE BY THE WINDOW CAUSE YOU DONT KNOW YOUR HEAD FROM YOUR ASS! WELL YOU SURE ARE GOING FAR IN LIFE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Now, you see how much truth was left out? I am going to have to go out and purchase the print copy of the NYT (we are only on a sat/sun delivery subscription as of now) to see if Gavinscott really blew up my bizness card to quadruple size and has it on the front page. Elton John would sing “…and the New York Times read “3rdarm is Here, and the Biz Begun!”
In terms of the title of this entry, being a shark always moving etc. I think I am a whale-shark. Gotta keep moving or I’ll die, no doubt, but sometimes I got surface for air. Only instead of oxygen air for me is hot dogs at 7-11. I had one at about 1AM tonight & WHOOOOO-EEEEEEEEEEE!
So I had a really good time both at work today and afterwards, but I am left questioning what my overall feelings are. I know that I am a person of routine, most happy when successfully executing a program known to me. Tonight was the first of three in a row Hell Nights that the restaurant I work at is putting on. These are nights with an in-your-face attitude, special menu featuring all-hot items, dark red & black strobe lit dining with thumping hardcore hip hop and metal blaring.
Ya’ll know I love hip hop, but breaking my routine is what really kills me. Granted, I am not really comfortable enough at the restaurant yet to have my serving routine on lockdown, so the newness does kill a bit of the learning curve nerves that I still feel. Cat told me to focus on the bottom line, which I suppose is good street attorney sense. My problem is more of an autistic problem. But why does it matter?
There was an error in the financial data I recorded tonight. All the other servers waited an extra hour while we all went over my checks and calculations. Eventually what it was was straightened out, but no one could tell me what the problem had been. Hell Night fries brains, what with the fog machine & haze of habanero & scotch bonnet fatali pepper stench hanging in the air… We liquify intestines for cash.
If Daedalus, Allah &…. what was your name? I can’t recall, I’m sorry… if you are reading this, big ups! You see? We joke about your name being too plain compared to Daedalus & Allah and my brain & memory do it. Ya’ll I definitely recommend going to Flaminglips.com (I’m not going to link cause I’m lazy). Flaming lips lets you listen to their entire album free and its dope, one I haven’t heard in entirety in a minute. Dope dope dope….
Whats weird is that this writer guy who has been shadowing the staff at the East Coast Grill for the past week describing himself as a freelance writer from the Upper West Side of Manhattan turns out to be the food critic for the New York Times. I expect to see my bizness card scanned in realsize on page whatever, mister! Or better yet, just pass it on to Maureen Dowd or Frank Rich. I heard they’re both looking for a good Dick Cheney, and I’m becoming just the one they need…
And ya’ll at the New York Times make my heart go bippity bop. Like Dick Cheney’s heart. Hey, Mister Gavin, weren’t you going to call me? Before you became mister nyt food critic I thought you were going to ask me out, but now I think you were probably going to just tell me your real status. Thats why I don’t answer my phone. Like Dick Cheney, he doesn’t answer his phone either, he has people do it.
I wait until I have 5 messages built up in my voicemail queue. By that time the crisis has usually passed. If not, then I know I am truly needed and I answer the calling. Ya’ll taking notes? To those not taking notes: This is a few years advanced passed Street Attorney 101, and you might be in the wrong classroom.
On december 24 my sister and I went to the animal pen that is part of the Bishop’s Orchard ranch & petting zoo on rt. 1 down by the connecticut shoreline. The animal pen held mostly yellow-eyed goats and mangy llamas, but once creature stood apart. A weird, bug-eyed thing, it crept through the pen like some weird insect, giving the impression of motion from six feelers rather than four legs. The bug eyes black and liquid, the large head swaying back and forth, looking back and forth.
And the gaze of the weird alpaca fell on my sister, and they stared each other down. I wasn’t hip to what was happening because I was in conversation with a seventy year old man on holiday from Manhattan about how to poison the animals in the pen, whom he despised. This old man was telling me how he despised all the countryside, and how he couldn’t wait to get back to Manhattan, and I was reveling in the civilized disgust at things like manure when I saw my sister was bugging out.
The alpaca and she were engaged in some kind of weird death stare. Obviously my sister wasn’t the one to back down first. That was the alpaca. The dirty old man and I (he had been wearing a long dark overcoat and mirrored sunglasses) walked back to the parking lot and he said, “Good luck son!” and I wondered if he really did poison all those animals back there in the pen. My sister was dazed from the intense alpaca, who must be the graduate student in the llama family.
Anyway this past saturday night ro came over and we watched uconn become the number one ncaa men’s basketball team in the nation for the week followed by a fun & vibrant bizamp recording, which i still need to compile and will upload in future. On the way to drive him home I noticed his outerwear ensemble included an interesting scarf. Fingering it before he could pull away I asked, “how much? how much for the scarf?” and Ro said it was not for sale. “It is of the finest alpaca fur!”
“MR. RUSSERT: Who runs in oh eight for the Democrats, Mr. Begala?
MR. BEGALA: Well, let’s see if the senator from New York gets re-elected. I’ve been very public in saying I want her to run, but there are a whole lot of other good candidates out there.
MR. RUSSERT: John Kerry runs?
MR. BEGALA: I suspect he will.
MR. RUSSERT: John Edwards runs?
MR. BEGALA: I suspect he will. I always think everybody’s going to run, you know. Vice President Gore may make—there’s some pretty impressive governors out there: Warner, Richardson, Villsac; maybe Napolitano, the governor of Arizona who’s a former prosecutor.
MR. RUSSERT: How about the Republicans, Mary Matalin? Who’s the front—you said that Hilary Clinton is the front-runner on the Democrat side, who’s the front-runner on the Republican side?
MS. MATALIN: Well, the insider front-runner is George Allen.
MR. RUSSERT: In all the polls, it’s John McCain and Rudy Guiliani.
MS. MATALIN: Yeah, I said the insiders, who have to run these campaigns and can look at the map and look at what philosophy plays in our primaries, the part that it plays, and how it incentivizes activists like George Allen. But we have a deep and a very good bench too, McCain and Guiliani.
MR. RUSSERT: Could Hilary Clinton win?
MS. MATALIN: It would be catastroph—I can’t really see how she could get there. I could see some other cand—well, she’s going to be in a pincer move with Feingold, who’s a very accomplished Liberal, is going to come at her from the left. And out-going governor Warner, who’s a very accomplished moderate’s going to come at her from the right. She’s the front-runner, and she’s going to have to break 70 percent to just get to the—back to the front of the pack.”
The night of my pizza/cookie/birthday party with roommates I got to take a one hour nap, which was followed by an intense Scrabble game. My roommates all went to bed/disappeared into their rooms by midnight while I stayed up grinding away on 3rdarm.biz, uploading the cookie pictures etc. Much, much later it got to the point where I was ready to go to bed. Under the covers, I decided that my time would be better spent not sleeping, taking care of bizness.
My birthday was Thursday. Friday morning after not sleeping the night before I loaded 2 gigs of music into my new music player w/ radio antennae and got into the white whip. To the Mass Pike I drove, stopping only for gas and three large coffees, West to Springfield, then down to Enfield, Connecticut to the Connecticut Department of Motor Vehicles. I replaced my lost license and on the drive back to Cambridge got a new wallet from one of the turnpike vendors.
When I got home I took a shower and got dressed for work, which in my sleep-deprived condition took over two hours. At work I no better; in fact I was much worse for wear. With dark circles under my eyes but a little bit of light underneath that, with translucently pale skin, I worked the door and processed almost three hundred heads into the East Coast Grill. But the time flew by in an easy haze of nicotine gum, hellos & goodbyes.
But any observer could totally tell I was f’ed up:
The professional freelance writer who the Grill’s owner allowed to shadow the waiters & Grill crew for the past week told me he was from the Upper West Side of Manhattan. After thirty seconds of staring blankly I replied, “Manhattan…” Yes, he told, he lives North of Central Park. Only able to parse the streets of New York by burroughs, because of lack of sleep, I asked dreamily, “Harlem?”
Smoking my last cigarette of the night, out back with the kitchen crew, I lost most of the control I’d maintained and wildly attacked executive chef EZ. “Bring me the Hell Pasta I’ll eat it! I won’t puke it up this time! Give it to me you know you can’t possibly make it too hot for me to handle!” Hell Night is happening again, this Monday Tuesday & Wednesday and 3rdarm.biz will be there… But, there is no way I am to attempt to eat the Hell Pasta ever again, I was just acting crazy. The pain to my coolo the morning after is a super-strong deterent.
People must have known I was f’ed up. “Go get some sleep,” they all said kindly, masking expressions of worry. At home I lay down on my bed with my clothes off and you can guess what happened. So I got fifteen hours of sleep and feel much better. My new Wainwright card came in the mail today so my new wallet is now fully assembled and activated. Really, I’m glad I stayed up that whole night, even if it knocked me into the 11th Dimension for a while.
Speaking of the Eleventh Dimension, late in the afternoon this Saturday I was able to finally retrieve the missing Bizamp session from wherever it had been hiding on my computer, possibly the Eleventh Dimension. This session is me and Carlos Borrero (pictured down low in the Green Box listings to your left) on the turntables and microphone mining reggaeton/hip hop gold. Eliot comes in later on the 3rd channel but because this session is from October 26, 2005, we didn’t really have that worked out yet. So the third channeling yielded mostly feedback, with a couple of gorgeous moments. Available to be listened to in MP3 format at any time, found at the top of the Green Box.
Speaking of the 11th Dimension! Check out this quote from Scott Mehring of Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania, taken from the end of Matthew Chapman’s article “God or Gorilla” published in the February 2006 Harper’s… Matthew Chapman is the great-great-grandson of Charles Darwin:
“If you go back to the Big Bang,” he said, speaking rapidly, “the elements, I’m not sure exactly what they actually were, but whatever the elements were– the atom, the neutron, the proton neutron, whatever it was that created the Big Bang– where did that stuff come from? Spontaneous generation is a dead theory– at one time they thought it was true– left a piece of meat on the ground maggots appeared, they thought the maggots came out of the meat, but actually they just came out to eat the food, so you can’t say spontaneous generation created it… Now if you believe in physics, you got the eleventh dimension– it’s a new theory, the eleventh dimension– and inside the eleventh dimension they say there’s an infinite number of universes. So my take is that if you die on the earth, we just somehow hop over to the eleventh dimension, and hop from universe to universe forever inside the eleventh. So that means the Bible could be right with everlasting life after we die. But, okay, the elements that started the Big Bang, if that was an intelligent designer? Then you’ve got another complication. If there was, like, one dude somewhere at the very top that created everything? Well, where did he come from? Who created him? And who created the God who created God? It gives me goose bumps. It’s a loop, like in computer programming– it’s an endless loop.”
“If you think about this too much,” he concluded, “you can go insane.”
Well I would like to thank my people, the entire community, for the energy given to me on January the 19. I never had to leave the house the entire day and I really appreciate that. Coffee was made for me, pizza was paid for, iced cookies & cupcakes were made and I didn’t even have to clean up. The farthest I wandered outside of my house was the top of the stairs of the deck, although I did think that I’d like to go see King Kong, but then realized there were no showtimes late at night for a four hour monkey movie.
When its nice outside I am definitely out of the house more and awake earlier, but in the winter you can actually die from exposure in New England and so I smoke less & wear a heavy black mechanized jacket. When I get home from the business of the street, I want to stay up in my room where its warm and use the computers and stay up late.
The nighttime is the right time on the upper East Coast in the winter, for others for loving but for me for living.My natural habitat is on par much more hospitable in the night. Inside the house I have everything I need (if I’ve hunted and gathered well in the sunlit hours) and I can camp out and plan and brave the occassional cigarette out on the deck. I am rambling now but I do want to say again thank you to Ari Christina & Eliot for the fabulous party & sweets and very multi-useful gifts tonight. Ari you even gave me a triple word score, and Eliot even let me take a nap.
Some explanation on the images here: The first is a graphic that C made on Photoshop. Thats me in between a nuclear cloud & ground zero. The hutch that is in front of me covered in a tapestry is the dj booth eliot and I made last year in our living room for C’s birthday party. It was possibly the greatest dj booth of all time.
The name of the single will be “Sugar Fever Part 2 the Deaf Psychotic Neighbor Who Pounds On The Wall All Night Has Finally Punched Through and He’s Gonna Grab Your Leg As You Walk By In the Morning.”
This will really happy, my futurific gut says, unless the band “The 3rdarm.biz Sugar Cookies” get eaten before they are signed to a major label.
But keep reading! Here is an excerpt from a speech given earlier this week by Al Gore, who has for all intents and purposes controlled the news cycle this week. Ya man! It touches on MLK Jr…
The FBI privately called King the “most dangerous and effective negro leader in the country” and vowed to “take him off his pedestal.” The government even attempted to destroy his marriage and blackmail him into committing suicide.
This campaign continued until Dr. King’s murder. The discovery that the FBI conducted a long-running and extensive campaign of secret electronic surveillance designed to infiltrate the inner workings of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, and to learn the most intimate details of Dr. King’s life, helped to convince Congress to enact restrictions on wiretapping.