These are the official photos of the East Coast Grill attended event Oyster Open at The Sun Winefest ‘07. I am sitting in the front row between two ladies. Brian and Kiki are participants, and the owner, Mr. Schlesinger, is a sitting judge.

Shots of me in the front row. The couple seated to my left held my seat for over 45 minutes (”Mind if I leave my Mohegan Sun teeshirt on this chair while I run to the bathroom? I’ll be right back,” I said on my way out to the Tuscan waterfall bar.) In the third shot you can see how I got a little excited as the Oyster shucking got under way…

Dem boys shucked. First picture has announcer Jasper White on the left and Kiki in his Lava Lounge (haha) shirt on the right. The second picture is Brian with his hands up, ready to shuck. The third is Brian and Kiki standing with the Chopper right before the Championship Round. In that round, the Chopper squared off and humiliated the 2006 Oyster World Champion (the guy with the mullet), beating him by 45 seconds or so. The Chopper got his name cause when he shucks he uses so much force that the tops of the oyster fly out and away, onto the stage, into the crowd…

Kiki and Brian in the glow and the glory, after the event’s dramatic conclusion. I dove onto the feet of the nice couple who held my seat to recover the first oyster shucked by Chopper his routing of the Canadian. The second picture has me rushed up onstage posing with the Chopper after his victory, scowling at the haters. The mulleted Canadian looks depressed in this picture, and with reason. Chopper got awarded a princely treasure; an all expenses paid trip to Vegas, and much more in the coffer.

The formerly glassly clean table in the living room suite, at around 9PM, four hours after the competition. See racks and racks of lamb bones, Wellfleet oysters in a cooler, cups of red slushies, a phantom blue shucking glove. The bathtub in the suite’s master bathroom, with a dark brown ring of oyster brine around it. Me and Lobstergirl.

Thanks to Jim, Brian’s dad, for all the good (Non-Cellphone) pictures. Thank you to Johnny Hoota for the suite and the hospitality. And of course to Mr. S., Brian and Kiki for making the whole thing possible. Good grief.

Let me leave you with the Oysterettes, aka the Shuckerfluffers, with Kiki on the peripherary of the image, amused and maybe a little interested.

This is a cellphone video of me, inside Bukowski’s, topless, dancing on top of the bar like one of those Coyote Ugly girls. It was the first night of snow for 2007, and no one was in the bar except me and friends because of the half inch of snow treacherously covering the ground.

Liz, the photographer who is also the bar manager, invited me to dance on the bar because I was dancing with a stool, and doing such a good job with the stool that my friends were yelling, “Take it to the next level!” That lead to a treacherous climb to the bar top, where I think all agreed that they would have settled for more stool.

A word about the quality… The technology here in the US clearly hasn’t quite yet caught up with Japan… in Tokyo they have digital swatches that take better video than this phone stuff. And I think Google Video somehow flipped the entire thing upside down. Don’t despair, even if it was crystal clear it’d only be my saggy mantits jiggling atop the Bukowski’s bar… get over it!

To commemorate the purchase of my new 10 megapixel digital camera (to replace the previous, which was stolen) I want to bring out a shoot of photos of me in a blue sweatshirt. Hairs getting along (warning heavy bandwidth).

The New Nuclear Bunker…

The photographer, David Moody the honorable…

My sister and I both love this country, and say so, no matter what part of the world we are in. Today on my 24th birthday, however, I want to offer up proof that our postures in saying so can change depending on what part of the world we’re in. Looking forward to turning 25, and voting for a new President, in 2008…

East Coast America Loving USA!

West Coast Europe Loving USA!

The appearance of wild Chinese coon-dogs, dogs with the markings of raccoons, in fully real fur coats, heavy gold chains, and small-label sneakers has piqued the interest of the World Police, who set off to investigate. “It was unbelievable,” said Bill and Paula, both world-class officers, “We’re landing in China and I see three well-heeled coon-dogs smoking a marijuana stuffed cigar on the tarmac, then getting onto a private jet.”

Indeed, in recent days the investigation has turned up real coon-dog fur in supposedly faux-fur coats from both Jay Z’s Rocawear line and Sean Combs’ Sean Jean line. “I don’t have a clue if they actually chop up their buddies and take the money to live this lifestyle, or if its a communistic system where a different team of coon-dogs gets shaved every quarter of the year. But it is misleading and confusing,” said Paula.

Below is a picture of one of the blinged-out coon-dogs, wearing a heavy chain with a golden ferret dangling off of it:

Welcome to the new year, 3rdarm.bizzers. Logo sweatpants and pantshirts coming soon for real money, okay? In terms of the tone of the past text question, I’d have to mention that I think that asking aggressive questions, especially in the situation of waiter versus customers, can be compelling and constructive for the kitchen, not to mention cheap sweatshops in big Asia. So many allies, between the kitchen and the customer and the Big East… when you satisfy the demands of all the feeling that I get as a waiter is a strong positive… A+

This week I am turning 24. Short update, alright? Phone call. Text message. Have to go. But let me say my peace. For the past couple weeks at the pre-shift staff meetings where I work, (East Coast Grill,) one of the topics covered daily has been the birthday of the dog of the owner. The owner’s dog is named Chester, and his birthday (dog turns seven this year) is this Friday.
Chester is wild black dog, always paws on the tabletops, nose in your plate. Nose in the maw of your plate. Like Vietnam, a dog’s snout surge. But January the 19th is not only notable for a dog’s birthday.

Ditto for 3rdarm to the mofo biz. Same birthday people. Finally, today, I stood up for myself and told management that they are trumpetting a dog’s birthday over my own. That’s ballin’!

Dogs’ balls is that Chester and I don’t get our celebratory icecream cake until Saturday, when in fact that dog and I do more than any other mammal to eat drink and maul the business out of house, home and bone more than the average dogs, and deserve Fed-Ex to Connecticut cakes on Friday. Or in the case of Chester, a pile of dirty customer-mouthed rib bones. Whatever. As a human colony on Earth, can we not forget to touch me and Chester on the ass this week? Right by the tailbone please. Thank you in advance, more on the way Thursday and Friday, happy new year.