Archive for March, 2006
“In Ayn Rand’s humorless apocalyptic novel “Atlas Shrugged,” the central characters ask: What would happen if someone turned off the motor that drives the world? We may be living in such a time, a time when the motor that drives the world is running down or stuck in neutral — but only for boys.” Leonard Sax, Washington Post, Today (by that I mean the date, not the TV show)
Its late in the game for men, and they don’t have many places left to turn. Geneticists tell us that in one million years there will be no more of us. We are being drug offstage by a DNA-chain cane. Now along comes Leonard Sax to tell us that already a full 100% of men have major problems, with one third or 33% living at home with their parents marinating in man-juices.
That kind of tv will harden your corps. As will a third type of TV, which is the video I have been given by Joey Daytona. On the tape will be my appearance on JD’s “World of Adventure” TV show on Somerville Community Access Television. The blubber is softer than baby seal phat, and the oil it makes sure is worth the blood.
The weather is wonderful in this first full week of Spring, but I wasn’t conscious to enjoy it yesterday. Instead I slumbered right through the late morning alarms that I’d set and spent the sunny hours under blankets, right up until the time I should have been showering and shaving and dressing for work. Thats right, I slept so late I was ten minutes late for work. Shame!
But the main reason behind sleeping so late was that I was having this very psychadelic dream about giant bears, which was so compelling that I couldn’t turn my brain off of it. When I tell other people about my dream they seem to consider it a horrible nightmare but I was not scared, and I am very sensitive to bad vibes. Let me break it down:
Everyone I know in Cambridge, from work at the East Coast Grill to the people I live with to just friends was brought into this indoor park structure, kind of like an indoor forest with some unusual stuff in the corner, like a shower stall with a plastic curtain in one corner. We were all standing together in the middle of the joint and Mr. S. came in and told us what was going to happen.
Kind of like an indoor, “Run with the Bulls,” Hemingway-style, except instead of bulls we were going to be exposed to bears, Giant bears. On the ringing of a bell we all scurried to the corners of the indoor space, into foam protections and whatnot, or over to the shower stall with nothing but the plastic curtain for protection, and the bears were released out through a sliding door in the wall.
Giant bears are 30 to 40 feet tall and had amazing spikes of fur as long as a human body. When they crept out of the darkness I was scared shitless, for sure. Everyone was all panic, pushing farther back into the protections built into the corners. The Giant Bears came lumbering around, sniffing at the corners and generally just poking around. They didn’t seem to be trying to eat anybody… not that anyone was going to test that.
After so many minutes of watching the huge beasts creep around, they were called back into the cage from whence they came and I woke up. I looked over at the clock and it said 3:52, and I sprung out of bed. Supposed to be at work, working, at 3:30, and I got the clock set ahead by about twenty minutes, so I was already late. I called up the restaurant, “Be 5 minutes late! Strange dream, Giant bears, on my way now!”
I scampered into the bathroom and brushed my teeth and then ran over to the East Coast Grill. My hair was slanted from holding my head in the same position on the pillow all night. My skin was very pale, and as I ran over I smoked down my only Pall Mall of the morning/afternoon. I felt all light-headed and guilty as I came into work, but most cats understood that Giant bears dreams happen, what to do about it?
I was smoking out on the deck this afternoon looking out across Hampshire Street over at the yard and parking lot of the Cambridge Public Works. A new sign caught my eye. Quickly I scanned and read the words. “Rabies Clinic to be held in THIS parking lot April 1st. Dogs only please.” Or something similar. As a citizen and taxpayer, I felt enraged… but not myself rabid, I’m talking more steroid rage than rabies rage…
Without any kind of consensus decision-making, no Area 4 townhall meetings, nothing from the Area 4 leadership, my block has been thrown into a Bob Barker-style rabies free zone. The Rabies Jesus opens up the rabies clinic next week and soon my street and neighborhood will be flooded by pre-rabid dogs and potentially, babies with rabies.
Don’t laugh. If you’re laughing about my rabies anxiety then you’ve obviously never been savagely chased down by a superstrong crawling baby, basically a viscous baby crab with human dental. No, its not the end of the world that Area 4 has gone all Bob Barker in their politics and wants to vaccinate every dog in the neighborhood against all the feral, rabid animals that prowl the streets.
The clinic however is a threat to the health of the neighborhood and we should have been consulted. God damn it, when a neighborhood gets a bio-lab that may or may not have uncurable strains of bird flu from the 1940s Korean peninsula, there are newspaper headlines. But when the Public Works decides that their parking lot should turn into a magnet for rabies, the taxpapers aren’t even informed prior?
Scenario 1: I am walking home from work when all of a sudden a baby crawls after me three times the speed an adult man can run. Escaping only because I climb up a tree and kick the foamy mouthed baby down through the branches onto the hard sidewalk, knocking it unconscious, I cellphone the mayor of Cambridge and ask why he thought inviting rabies to a parking lot across the street from my home was a great idea for Area 4.
Scenario 2: Rabid dogs break into my house while I’m not home and set up a surveillance shop to scope out whichever dogs from the hood are getting vaccinated, to avoid wasting time in future bitings. Coming back from a mission for Tab Energy Drink, taurined up the ass, I blaze onto the scene of the next episodes of Cops and When Rabid Animals Attack.
The whole thing is on exactly the same level as a nuclear waste dump. When you invite that element, you know, be it rabies or nuclear waste, into your neighborhood, with that element comes a certain amount of trouble. The best part about rabid squirrels is that most of the time they just climb up into trees and turn all foamy and viscious up there, where humans aren’t. Chip and Dale may be cute and furry cartoon characters, but in real life they knew how to respond to trouble.
Maybe the dog in Summer of Sam was merely talking about self defense. For that matter, if they can make homeless shelters out of decommissioned cruise ships why not have the rabies clinic in the parking lot of Best Buy or Walmart, or on a decommissioned tugboat? I mean, how many dogs are we really talking about?
Not that I won’t go down on April 1st and take my shot like the rest of my dogs, don’t get me wrong. Some people have suggested I may already have rabies.
I swear the foaming is just my sensitive intestines gargling regurgitating Tab Energy Drink, thats why my mouth foam is pink ya’ll. Don’t panic just cause the corners of my mouth are lined with dry, powdery Taurine. It ain’t rabies, my babies.
During the summer of Sam there were rolling power outages throughout much of New York City and one man began hearing his dogs barking as instructions to murder. Well, there’s plenty of crazy people living in the real world, enough to go around on a standard rotation for the next, say, forever minutes. But the man reason I feel safe from the rest of the United States and Civil War-style aggro white male armies of Compassion is because New York City is an impenetrable fortress that seals off the upper-East-Coast-megalopolis.
The barbarically Compassionate armies could be sussed out into People Speaking Real Words if they were all just sucked like human bits through the NYC East Coast scrubbers. Take the Statue of Liberty, for one example. The white people who ring the Southern border, ancestors of immigrants themselves, who ring the border like some white disease rings a Turd Blossom, who hate on free pan-american movement are just plain retarded. Birds, sick ones with bird flus, trying to program a traffic light.
I’m just saying suck it up into NYC, see how it sprays back out. Look at young Andy Milonakis, gracing the cover of allhiphop.com, bestowing blessings on the East Coast Wu, refusing to deny that he is not, in fact, thirty five years old, etcetera. That boy has real potential, I mean I’m not jumping onto the bandwagon. I been real with Andy, and as he invites hip hop stars onto his MTV2 show, I invite the young EC star onto the biz, now that he’s doing websites again… Read the whole interview, excerpts:
“ AllHipHop.com: So you just want everyone to think you’re a 30-year-old pretending to be 15?
Andy Milonakis: I want people to believe whatever they want.”
“ Andy Milonakis: My favorite rapper is Big L. That guy is so amazing to me. I think more rappers just need to rap about real life, and maybe when they blow up and they make millions of dollars, maybe they shouldn’t be so quick to talk about that rich lifestyle because really that rich lifestyle doesn’t make for interesting. Maybe they have other issues in their lives that they can talk about. When you talk about stuff that 80 percent of other rappers are talking about, you’re just being generic. You should realize that.
AllHipHop.com: What is it that you love about Big L?
Andy Milonakis: I mean, I’m from New York. I like East Coast Hip-Hop, and that cat is from Harlem. He has funny punchlines he talks about real life. I just like straight up ghetto beats – like thug rap, not posing.
AllHipHop.com: Talk to me about growing up in New York. Certainly, on the show, you don’t seem as someone who keeps it hood…
Andy Milonakis: You know, I’m not going to sit here and say I’m from some scary place. I never feared for my life or nothing, but I hung out with plenty of thugs. One of my best friends got busted for selling crack.
AllHipHop.com: To you?
Andy Milonakis: [laughs] No, they used to put crack in tennis balls, and bounce ‘em over to people’s houses. It’s crazy ‘cause nobody believes me, ‘cause I grew up in Westchester County, which is 30 miles north of the city – a dope area, like really rich, and you don’t have to worry about someone putting a gun to your neck. But where I grew up, it was like this big Hip-Hop community. It was a complex, and everybody there was into Hip-Hop. There was crackheads selling me records at my door at three o’clock in the morning. [One time] he sold me three crates of records for like six dollars and there was so many good records in there, old Run-DMC, Kool Moe Dee – a gold mine. “
I’m personally safer because Andy Milonakis lives in an apartment in New York and mans the barrier between the Northeast Corridor and the wilds of Middle America, etcetera etcetera, I’m starting to sound like Andy Rooney, crank & repeating myself. Tonight Andy Rooney talked about girl scout cookies, but what he forgot to say was “Suck it.”
Connecticut, my home state, had mixed results in NCAA tournament play on Sunday. The women won and advanced to the Regional Final (Elite Eight) on a brilliant fadeaway three by fearless Barbara Turner, while the men lost in overtime to George Mason, and eleven seed. The feralness in the coach of the George Mason Patriots was showing like a purple stain. The man is truly wild, he teaches the boys to just be loose & dance when happy. “You can dance, you can dance, everybody take a chance…”
But he has his darker currents running cold low. Like Sam in the Summer of Sam there is madness to his miraculous lack of a plan: The Washington Post reports… “Coach Larranaga had told George Mason before the game that the acronym of their conference — the Colonial Athletic Association (CAA) — actually stood for the Connecticut Assassin Association. At every lull in the action, he’d scream, “C-A-A!” And the players knew what he meant…” Woof kill woof!
Ghostride the Superconscious Hop Hip Bizamp (Live Friday Night Shoutcast Recorded & Available to Listen Now)
Download & listen now to the esoteric flavs of late night journey through hip hop sky past buildings like the Empire State-
Today, I read all the websites on from my Bookmarks list down, as I do every day to keep Tabs (Energy Drink shoutout) on the ill community, and because I am a person of great routine. But today something I read has halted that automated process and called forth my superconsciousness back to the internet. Like a smoke signal in the sky, I was Batmanned into action in defense of what I call, “Blogbandwidthnicity”!!! Holy blogbandwidthnicity Batman!
C-Bear today [with 3rdarm superconsciousness in these brackets]: “What is this thing called WordPress? [WordPress is a blogging rig and is available free of charge. It has been downloaded hundreds of thousands of times to date. The latest version is 2.0.2. You are looking at it right now.]
It’s been ages, and yes I do not apologize. [Human beings should always apologize.] When someone (such as myself) has a blog, one tends to think that it’s bad not to write all the time. [Blogging is crucial to self-preservation on the internet reality.] Well, I had a reality check while listening to NPR the other day. Some man was talking about the blog revolution.
I forget his name, but for some reason I want to call him Frank Bruni (but that’s just because Frank Bruni is a protoype blogger, entered late in the game stealing ideas and inspiration from my dear friend Arthur)[this is actually True, Frank Bruni is guiltier than an Egg-Sucking Dog of biting my blog ideas]. It’s growing at a higher rate than the population of China. He said, anyone who thinks that someone reads their blog everyday without fail is just self-absorbed and unrealisitic. Well obviously this man doesn’t know me, Art, Ari, or Eliot.[Actually, he might know me.]
Arthur is the captain of blogging in both posting and reading[substitute the word 'captain' with 'Star!']. The man doesn’t miss a beat, and I think he should be the one giving commentary on the reality of blogs because he knows better than anyone!” [Very well, then, I will begin with a definition of blogbandwidthnicity whilst refracting through the prism of 'intellectual beef':]
It is my personal philosophy to try to squeeze as much of my corps through the toothpaste tube onto the keyboard and mouse, so as to really get a lot of girth, heft, gravitas, onto the backspine of the internet as possible. For me, thats “Wheeeee!” For me, to really flex some muscle and push a big part of myself onto the internet is really a bizness deal as well as a spiritual one. For I can get more accomplished and be more efficient if I’m in more than one place at a time. Also, I have three foot wings and can chew through an octopus arm, and I live forever. Thats the spiritual part.
I call this action blogbandwidthnicity, a verb, whose only tricky when conjugated in the plus perfect command form, as well as in pluralization of ‘you’. For examples. I blogbandwidthnicity, he blogbandwidthnicites, they blogbandwidthnicity, you blogbandwidthnicity!, you all blogbandwidthnicitiey!
For real, if I am going to be living out here on the internet ideally I want to roll real heavy with as much extra fatness & girthy sidebags as I can realistically pack with quality. There’s no gravity out here so its just about living large. There’s no greater feeling than statistical competition on a scale where I can say I served more people in one month than that Taco Bell / KFC combination (maybe someday tha’ll be true…) but I’m not microwaving chicken I’m braising my monkfish with my 3rdarm, nahmean kid?
Plus in the past they had me paying thousands of dollars for trainers to teach me basically how to keep writing every day, with an extra special toss of imaginative discussion, but now I have a better way to keep myself writing that is basically free. I would rather pass a short story around the fat globe than around the group discussion that just set me back $300. In the bizness sense pure economics are behind blogging.
Not too mention psychiatry, which also has a spiritual component. Yet another service people pay thousands of dollars for. No doubt dudes got degrees, but the main therapy there is just letting a person open his mouth and jab. If I were a psychiatrist I would take a page from the Dave G playbook, “Get a job, and save it for the blog.” Putting down words has a soothing component, there’s a soothing component there.
“Chermoula! Its a North African condiment!” I shouted into the phone reciever at the hardhearing old lady on the other end. Mr. Schlesinger walked by, paused to listen to the conversation, and said, chuckling, “You’re such an asshole…” Random blip, the superconsciousness, let go, taking hold.
I am looking for people to add me as a friend, in good faith of not being bizblogged, on the myspace.com so that I can add comments with animated gif banners that point back to 3rdarm.biz and generate millions of hits that chunkify my statistics. This will also be a good way for us all to get to know each other better through chainletter style questionaires as well as full motion animated gifs. Overcommunication is good, help spread the 3rdarm.biz love in the Skyhook Campaign, its what Abdul Jabar would want. Do it, mouseheads!
“Barbecue Man may appear to be asleep,” Mr. Schlesinger roared, climbing off the couch, “But Barbecue Man is always awake and in control!”
Auhhhhhhhuhhhhhhh… no respect?
Those boys in the kitchen keep messing with my culo. First it was sneaking fatally hot fatali peppers along with red beans & salsa roja loca into irresistable brisket burritos and then giggling for days as I walked around all funny with a puckered culo like a child sand-chafing his thighs at the seashore under a hot sun. What burns going in, burns going out. Yes my intestines are very sensitive to heat, I am glad it is amusing to all you in the kitchen that my intestines are so sensitive. I am glad that my intestinal sensitivity coupled with chronic brisket addiction provides so much amusement.
Then the other night I get a phone call from my friend Jess’s number, who also works as a server. I had asked her to give me a call that night whenever everybody all got out of work and went to the bar next door to celebrate Bryan’s birthday because I wanted to go over then and meet up with them all and say “Happy Birthday” to Bryan. And yes I do know what a run-on sentence is, but the mind must keep running on regardless of how I lay out the words, my babies. So its Monday night and I am expecting that phone call but I’m in the bathroom when the phone rings.
I am in the bathroom probably the end-cycle of brisket digestion when the phone rings. I cannot pick up the phone because I am in the bathroom and the phone is in my bedroom. I was reading an article in Harper’s titled, “A Natural History of Peace”, so obviously I could not just waddle out of the bathroom to pick up the call. The machine picked up, or rather, my wireless voicemail kicked in, and a machine in Virginia picked up or changed color or something, I have no clue. I thought nothing of it because I was reading about how aggressive behavior can be bred out of chimp communities, etcetera, on the porcelain throne.
After I finished my bizness in the bathroom, I put on my sneakers and went out to the bar to say, “Happy birthday” to Bryan. I did not check the voicemail before I left the house, why would I? I assumed that Jess had left a courtesy message briefly detailing their location and formally inviting me out to come say, “Happy birthday.” So I didn’t check the message until today, the next day. Jess did not leave the message. It was the boys from the kitchen, specifically with Mr. Thompson (pictured below) on the horn. They were fooling around on my behalf (bottom half, culo) again.
It is definitely Mr. Thompson talking in the audio file I have recorded from the voicemail. The machine in Virginia recorded Mr. Thompson, who blasphemously claims on the tape to be Jayson Lord, and it changed colors at that false declaration because it is a lie. When Mr. Thompson claims to be J. Lord breaking up with his girlfriend and slyly implying that he wants to be hooking up with my culo in the near-future, let me be clear, Mr. Thompson is lying. Them kitchen boys sure like to push my culo buttons.
Its not that I don’t stand up for myself. One day I told Nick Soto right to his face, “I’d like to roll that culo up in a Philly just so I could smoke that ass!”
Anyway listen to the mp3 of the phonecall here. For those without mp3 players (darrr darrr darrr), here is a text transcript of what I hear on the tape:
“Hey Arthur, how are ya man? This is…uhh…Jayson. Thats just the way that is, man. I was just wonderin’ I mean Nora and I, we had a falling out. Its not that I don’t love her but, my interests lie elsewhere. So would you please give me a call… actually, you know, instead of giving me a call why don’t you just talk to me next time I’m working. Why don’t you and I just do our thing. I think, I’m pretty sure we can work something out. ???? loves you, and I think you’ve always known that. That goes for me too. And I think, we got a special bond and its a good thing. So… bye. ”
Jess comes on at the end of the message to say, “Hello? Bye.”
Well you all may of got yet another laugh out of my culo, my culo just bizblogged all your asses! Iiiiiiiiiiiiits alllllllllllllllll looooooooovvvvvvveeeeeeeee……….. (please don’t thump on me, sirs)