The first lucid dream I ever had was a nightmare. It was at a sleepover at my best friend in childhood, Peter Tonkin’s, house. There were shapeshifting aliens menacing my mind in that nightmare… but I noticed a trick as to how to spot them (the object shape they took on would quiver slightly)… realized I was dreaming… and took control, killing a few of the aliens and eventually waking myself up.
Yesterday afternoon I took an hour nap, and this is what I saw:
I went into an office building and I was looking for a certain office but I decided not to go in, so I got on a train (red line?) and there was some sort of medieval fair going on in Boston. Catapults slung rocks that broke up constructed fake houses or missed their marks and blew up plumes of dirty water. That train accelerated in order to avoid the pyrotechnics and morphed into a gokart that I was steering by leaning, my thumb controlling the throttle. A train swerved into a path adjacent to my gokart and I could see the gears and wheels whirring, very fast and powerful.
I drove the gokart up to a concrete embankment on the bank of the Charles River to park it. There was a concrete ramp and I pretended I was going to drive it off the ramp but the parking director stopped me by saying no. I disembarked only to see my father and his sister, my aunt Maureen, passing by the gokart parking place. I put on my green sunglasses and knew they couldn’t see my eyes. Dad walked past without saying anything to me, but Aunt Maureen stood there yelling into the wind. I could see her mouth moving but could not hear her words over the loud noise of the trains, gokarts, and medieval fair. Eventually she gave up and followed my father, evidently to go to the medieval fair.
Down on the esplanade a group of superhumans (angels?) played footbag. I sat down on the hill above them by the gokart ramp and smoked a Pall Mall, watching them. They threw the bag hundreds of feet into the air and played it in a Matrix-blur of frenzied kicks, contorted their bodies & feet beyond the bounds of normal humans, never letting the bag fall. Every superhuman was a different ethnicity and had a different style of play. A rotund superhuman in a black teeshirt approached and brought me down to play with them. They had set up a net by then and I was to play on a team with the kind one who invited me. The serve went hundreds of feet into the sky but I bumbled it badly upon its return to earth. Embarressed, I began demanding someone to explain the rules to me, but was ignored, so I walked away, disgusted.
“Do you play?” asked the kind one, following me. “I like games…” I began to answer, then changed the subject. “I always see you here…(realized that “here” was a dream, my mind, I became conscious) do you live in Boston?” Before he could answer a bald superhuman approached us angrily, yelling in my face how I was all about money and couldn’t play the game. “I work two jobs,” I told him defensively, “I don’t have time to practice.” The kind one pulled him away and separated us with his massive arm, turned him away so that all I could see was the black back of his teeshirt. I yelled, “Peace!” and threw the peace sign out around the side of his body. I walked away and when I looked back they were grinding in piles kneading one anothers buttocks and upper thighs.
I forced myself awake. Lying in bed I decided that the near-fight had been so traumatizing I’d be okay to smoke a cigarette in bed, in my room, to recover. I lit one up and stared at the window, which was glowing orange. I looked down at the carpet and it was luminous orange. I got out of bed and followed the orange path down the wood stairs to outside. Black children were playing in the neighborhood, I saw one of their mothers at a front door across the street. A huge expressway curved above the houses, obscuring a giant orange sun. I knew where I would be if I went under the expressway, so I willed myself awake again.
I popped my consciousness out of the dream state, struggled up through several layers of sleep. At the top I could only see red, everywhere, as if my vision was a red Windows background. Then, upon focusing, I could see thousands of tiny donkeys wearing yellow scarves, and my eyelids began to open for real.
Here we are in midsummer… have you had succatash?
“Baby, working at the beauty shop, you make my heart go bippity bop.” Little Joe Cook (with the Thrillers)…
“You’re stupid… you should sleep late man, its just much easier on your constitution.” The Biz
I went out partying with the fellas from the East Coast Tuesday night. The Cambridge stilo dictates late night booze for high prices at the Charles Hotel in the square of Harvard, and thats what I was feelin. A coworker and I split a cab ride home…. I guess I left my cellphone in the taxicab… No problemo. At work I called the Charles Hotel but they didn’t have my device. I spent the rest of the day waiting tables and calling my own cellphone, hoping a human would pick up. The cabbie came on eventually… “Yes, yes, its my phone. No I cant meet you in Harvard Square, Im at work. Yes its my phone! I want to give you some money…” Cabbie gave me his number, and I called him from my house. We met at a gas station Wednesday afternoon and I got my phone back, gave him $10. Both of us were so happy. Why must my life journey be so insane?
Back at the East Coast Grill Wednesday night I ran into my old friend, an oyster. Somewhere in the raw bar’s burgeoning bed of ice there lurks a giant, a true monster. Its a Red Tide survivor, a gangster oyster. This thing weighs over a pound, is the size of a pro ballers baseball glove. I tried to open it three nights in a row but it merely clenched and shucked me up. It is the first impenetrable oyster I have encountered. The pro shucker returns from Connecticut tomorrow… anyone in the Inman region should head over and request it, shucked wide open, for sucking, on a bed of ice, with a lemon. Maybe I’ll go over to eat it. Or perhaps I will steal it, and release it back into the wild. Fucking oyster could tussle with a lobster and win. I know some lobsters, and they have meaty claws.
That the big one lurks does not irk me so much as the ghost oysters. When oysters die they turn into black stinky mud. Sometimes, when they have been dead for a certain amount of time, that stuff gets washed out of the shell. But the ghost shell remains closed, and is oftentimes harder to shuck than a muscly armed oyster. This phenomenon perplexes me. Oysters with bodies in good health have two arms that they hold the shell together with, clenching. These ghost oysters must be holding on with something else, a 3rdarm.
“Slipped into cracks, stripped of all my cash… no more struggle, no more energy, you can write that down, its all too crazy, Im plastic now…” Fugazi
“You’re a moron… Im a victim of hundreds of years of conditioning…”
To recap what I understood to be the key to my survival as a shucker- Monday night was my second night and the East Coast Grill did solid 200+ people business, everyone was going retro, right? And I was thinking, if the 69s were now, these clams and oysters would be powering a whole new summer of love. Funk is fat, show some skin, lay it on me.
I used several layers of latex to protex my skin… this morning I wrapped my severe oyster wounds in a couple of fingertip bandaids, secured with a thumb condom. Once I got to the raw bar I used a couple of latex gloves on my right hand to further the thickness of the defense. Then I donned the shucking gloves. My shell was breathable, my knife was sharp… a few Tyson quotes come to mind:
“Oysters and clams, I’m coming for you man. My style is impetuous. My defense is impregnable, and I’m just ferocious. I want your heart. I want to eat your children. Praise be to Allah!”
“My main objective is to be professional but to kill them [the oysters].”
“I want to rip out their hearts and feed it to them [the oysters]. I want to kill oysters. I want to rip their stomachs out and eat their children.”
But there was also love Monday night. The couples that came in (conspicuously hetero) and ate at the raw bar were watching my hands closely, and latex is what they saw. Latex straining against the muscles of shellfish, cutting into crevices, killing, and serving up dead bodies on ice… what is more sexy?
In the love inspired words of Brian Wilson (if I could show you, you would never leave it):
“I’m gonna be round my clams & oysters
I’m gonna chow down my clams & oysters
I love you most of all
My favorite oyster
If you brought a big brown bag of them home
I’d jump up and down and hope you’d toss me a crab claw
I’m gonna keep well my clams & oysters
Cart off and sell my clams & oysters
I love you most of all
My favorite oy-star
Oh oh taba oy oy star”
Yes I am okay and so is my family, thank you for your concern. Please take a moment to rate my hair cut (self styled) from 1 to 10 or out of three or five stars. This may also be done on a personal scale, privately, and must not be shared, with anyone. Voila!
I haven’t been updating my 3rdarm in forever. Its been stagnant like the tattoo of the ring tailed lemur on my right arm… colorless, stale, like Necco wafers. Here is a breath of fresh air like Wilhemina Pepermunt for you 3rdeyes, the ones that see across oceans onto my machine. So put your 3rdarms together and your 3rdhands together and give me some of the ooooo-oooold soul clappin’:
I ate a salmon salad sandwich for the first time in the millenium. Fishier than tuna and pink. My aunts cocker spaniel looks like a little black bear and so we put a little salmon in its water bowl and it used its paws to “catch” the salmon chunks as in the wild. It was a natural, “outdoors” kind of conditioning for the sweet, indoors spaniel.
What is with the 500 LB men, are they magnetized to me in some strange way? Last year I had a man with a large wooden cross and a 500 LB man, two buddies eating at the restaurant I work at probably on some conference from the Heartland (isnt that a good name for a supermarket?), escorted the hell away from me by security because they were proselytizing me and asking me to meet them in the hotel after work, so that we could talk more and “really explore this Jesus stuff.” Right. Saturday (default yesterday) another 500LB man with his children from H Town (default Houston) sat at one of my tables and he had a kind pair of dog eyes lodged in that mountain of flesh, but he wanted me to ice him up some lobsters and shellfish for direct mail down to H Town and I was like, Hello, crawfish. It may just be that 500 LB men can see that I treat humans as what they are, period, humans, period. Whapeesh whapeesh! C’mon.
When I was a child I was medically obese, and once was declared legally blind because at 4H camp (yea, we rode horses) I was standing near a fire and the counselors were burning poison sumac and poison ivy and I have strong allergy and the smoke enveloped my face and closed up my eyes and the doctors gave me cortisone steroids and declared me legally blind so I watched Godzilla and Mothra and the Three Headed Monster movies in the basement for a week. Whapeesh!
I think a lot of people can relate to this anecdote:
Have you ever had your mother or some relative yank you by the collar as you put your foot down on the street crosswalk, yanked back only to have a car that you never saw speed past and it would have certainly hit you? This is the convergence of people feeling so comfortable around their family and familys great skill at providing cover, security and defense.
I plan on adding an Email Button to the 3rdarm.biz in early august (thanks Chef, and by the way I may also throw up a story by Chef about a Bucket, the life of a Bucket, and so forth, if he writes it) so that you can just push the button to basically talk to me. I may also have a webcam installed on my shoulder, hidden inside a stuffed animal parrot so that no one in my life would realize they are being filmed. Use the bird to go 500 LB man watching…
Mini Scoozies are furrtual pets in “the form of exotic and unique animals from around the world.” Evidently their elongated bodies are ideal for holding, wrapping (?) and wearing as accessories, or perhaps even a full outfit… on other days a Mini Scoozie may be perfectly happy riding along in your pocket. They are not dangerous, or interactive. The animal forms that the Mini Scoozie takes are:
Beaver, Bush Baby, Ferret, Otter, Pine Marten & Prairie Dog,
and they make playful sounds… naturally I’d love to record my Mini Scoozie and play its voice for free on 3rdarm Shoutcast Radio as well as at no extra charge on my 3rdarms 3rdarm.biz. Playful noises of beavers barking, pine martens sqawking, ferrets whispering, otters debating the Supreme Court nominee, prairie dogs quacking, and bush babies crying.
I have decided that an acceptable way to pay me back for all of my labor with the 3rdarm.biz would be to set up a fund in order that I may purchase a Mini Scoozie for my 3rdarm, or to accept a Mini Scoozie from a donor. Anyone who would like to contribute or if someone would like to outright purchase me a Mini Scoozie for immediate fashion use on my 3rdarm, please email me at Reefer@3rdarm.biz, and keep checking 3rdarm.biz for hourly updates.
No mini Scoozie.
Where’s my Mini Scoozie?
You assholes. I had a crisis and was away from my computer for a couple days and you jerks left me in the lurch when it comes to Talkingpresents.com’ serpentine futureal pets that look like furry snakes and make playful noises and that never, ever, growl or bite, and absolutely do not wag their tails but do make very playful noises but do have serpentine bodies that can be rolled over arms like my 3rdarm and you hairy bimbos left me in the lurch.
Okay, well I’m back now and I run the ship around here and if I want a mini scoozie to walk the plank into the bathtub and short circuit then I can call off the playful noises, any damn time I want to, but I wont, because, as the Watergate II presidential Bush Baby states, I am a man of faith. Worst case scenario is that when my big sister gets in from amsterdam tomorrow she will have a big laundry bag of Mini Scoozies, like the otter and the bush baby and the pine marten and even the prairie dog, that looks like a snake mixed with a beaver, and they will all be sewed up chock few of powerful hash, and I will sell these animals to people the Supreme Court deemed criminals, in its ruling for the federal drug law to supercede medicinal allowances, and they will feel blessed relief from the hash smoke and find JOY in the sound of the playful noises.
Yes, my flock, the Talkingpresents people are messengers of god, and I wouldnt be surprised if some of the playful noises aren’t amens and hosanas, and if some of those little scoozies arent in fact, angels. Yes I said it, angels.
Last night I did something new, and bought a pair of jeans. The last time I had jeans was when my mom bought me a ghetto-sized pair of Paco back in the dawn of high school… I never wore them. The Paco made me look like a gangbanger, but I didn’t know how to bang. Not then, anyway. So I guess the real last time I wore jeans was in middle school (so much jungle-rot)… my grandmother Happy gave me a pair of hers. They were not exactly denim and had an elastic waist, and I loved them. Those were my “gardening jeans” and were irreplaceable.
So instead of shopping in maternity stores, I simply did not wear jeans for the decade or so that followed middle school. But last night I found myself shopping at Target with my friend Ro, (who has Ro’s Colored Glasses), and I ended up buying a pair of Levi’s Faded Carpenter Jeans. This is not a story in itself, because it is not WHAT one buys when shopping but HOW one wears the clothes. Suffice to say that this morning I washed them and they fit well and I have become somewhat desensitized to the rough feel of denim against my lady legs.
I was outside Target smoking a cigarette by the bikes waiting for Ro to complete his swimsuit purchase (he just needed the bottoms), when I spy my friend Danthewitchdoctordotcom. He comes out of Target with a wild look in his eyes and a 19′ television + DVD player in a shopping cart. Ro comes out. We talk. Ro and I agree to bike escort Danthewitchdoctordotcom back to Central Square with his cart full of electronics. But his Target shopping cart has magnetic brakes that activate on the fringes of the parking lot. What would Monoman Jeff Conolly do?
Danthewitchdoctordotcom trades off his cart for a smaller yellow one across the street. We head up Prospect, Ro and I providing maximum cover to avoid cart-questioning coppers. He trades up again for a 4th party Kmart shopping cart with greased wheels. We bring the cart around the side of my house, as on “my perogative” I agree to drive him the rest of the way into Central. Side note; Danthewitchdoctordotcom works at Cheapo and lives right next to where the underground fire burned last week. The Mcdonalds near his apartment building is still running on a noisy generator…
This morning I spy the shopping cart on the side of my house, and I feel the Heat. Eyes of coppers on my sideyard. So I bring it back to Prospect St. and leave it by Foamy Bubbles, or whatever the laundry joint is called by my house. We have a washer/dryer thank you very much. Maybe someone can use the hot 5th party Kmart cart to bring their massive pile of clean clothes home.
Okay so I had a week of hard work, and I feel better for it. Saturday morning I worked for a young lady named Stephanie, took her privae party, and served a group of doctors inhouse to listen to a talk about the Un-Locker. The Foor Un-locker is an insole that somehow corrects feet right neatly… this is what Dr. Scholl’s wears as he sells you squishy foot pads with sea weed… evidently.
So that guy giving the sales pitch to these doctors is named Arthur II, and hes no tightwad. We’re talking open bar, three courses. As a child, I always assumed doctors had sex with their wives on floor cushions, at least once a week. It can be exciting to serve doctors because I picuture them in various positions on floor cushions.
Friday night (to be chronologically incorrect) I had a dream I was driving, my friend Ray shotgun, backwards at a high speed, the car uncontrollable, yet somehow I was able to steer it, and avoided all damage. A bizarre dream that made me forty five minutes late for work Saturday morning. Friday night before the sleep was the Cantab, forgetaboutit.
The East Coast Grill miracously stayed in contact with me over the last twenty four hours, kept it tight. Saturday night I watched John Wayne in North to ALaska at a bar around midnight with Gabin Chance. The bartender was a sassy black woman with a red hair scarf and a red skirt… named Jacqueline. I played “Blowin’ in the Wind” by Little Stevie Wonder, followed by “Midnight Mover” by Wilson Pickett and “Friend of the Devil” by the Grateful Dead, on the jukebox. A table at work tonight gave me an extra $20. because I spun around and showed them my sexy body.