A couple weeks ago I got this email from this Joey Daytona cat, inviting me onto his live call-in show to do some bizamp mix mastering. Well, I didn’t realize right away who I was talking to, and I am scheduled to work every Monday, so the idea kind of sat simmering on the back burner. In that time however I have realized who it is I am talking to and this Joey Daytona cat is one Major dude. He dropped by the restaurant last night and gave me a copy of his mixtape, Ayn Rand Fountain Mash (aka Monster Mashups 2005), which blew the lid off the sucker.
At first I was hesistant to return to community broadcasting. You see, I tried to get heavy into it way back in high school. I put together a production team and we rolled up on the community broadcasting center for training classes… it was all going to be modeled after this wrestling show that that Andy D. & Omar were doing, Ring Talk. But we immediately ran into problems when I repeatedly showed up for the training classes dressed in drag. Eventually, I was kicked out of the studio for being too insane.
Okay, but that was an isolated incident and not supposed to happen with public money. After listening to this mash-up mixtape, and this shit is quality, danceable, East Coast Krump music way above & beyond the bizamp mixes I been putting together, I know now that I have to get on live television, specifically, on Joey Daytona’s live call in show titled, “World of Adventure.” I will definitely put up a post when I know exactly the time I will be live on TV – until then, read below for the comment the Joey Daytona left on 3rdarm.biz this week:
“Yo-Yo! Here ya go… Hans Blix Rally Driver…! (PSP game coming soon?)
Maybe Scott Ritter can get his hoopty rizzed out proper and go toe-to-toe Paul Wall-style, poppin’ trunks on WMD punx, we gonna cold take the party to another plateau, but in order for us to achieve this new height, we gonna hear Bizamp cut the beat up, ain’t that right?
Baby Biz, you da Mack!
Joey Dee, you know, was never a rhyme dictator, only once in my life I was a duplicator, head honcho and rusty rock cut illustrator, a B-boy gladiator and an MC hater… specializing in; beat jacking negation, line biting battlespace, Subjectivist manifesto, DJ Spooky, my kubuki, argent finesse shine on… Ichiban!”
Meanwhile Californian Governor Schwartzenegger has been blowing wind from his mind out his mouth about California being the best state, a new hydrogen highway, and other comments on Meet the Press from Sunday Feb 26…. he complimented Timmy Russert’s abs?! California wtf?!
GOV. SCHWARZENEGGER: “I think that we have a great state, we have the greatest state in the nation, there’s without any doubt, and this was a great state when I got here in 1968… The hydrogen highway that we’re building. Every 20 miles, a hydrogen fueling station, so that eventually we can have hydrogen-fueled cars driving there. You know, sending tough standards with, you know, greenhouse gases to reduce the greenhouse gases…. And by the way, you look nice and trim. Your abs look good. Keep up the good work.”
I just watched Grizzlyman on the Discovery Channel which is a movie that I had heard a lot about going into it. I knew that the bears eventually eat the man, because they are bad bears is what I figured. Sure that made good sense to my head, some bears go bad and thats whats called bad bears. But what I wasn’t planning on, but what I should have predicted from the title, was that the man himself was a freak bear escaped the circus and I don’t know what to think.
For one, was it real? There were quite a few interview setups with the various family & friends of the grizzlyman in which they were executing lines perfectly in spotless clothes. Silkily smoothly shot shots which made me question if the “documentary” was that at all. Am I simply sympomatic of the “false truths” backlash created by the Frey & Leroy ripples in the literary pool? An end domino of a cause & effect run through the American populace? I watch Oprah, I could be infected.
For those uninitiated, this film deals with one very strange fellow who moves to California to be famous & sinks into a deep depression after being passed over for one of the bartender roles on Cheers. Things happened in his life (alchohol), good times & bad (changes his family name to Treadmore), and the man begins a thirteen year ritual of following the bears & foxes through Alaskan National Park to “protect” them from “poachers” and those who may cruise up in a wilderboat and throw a stone.
The man with the bears is effeminate, yet maintains throughout that he is straight. I believe that sexual identity was one of the fears he was escaping by moving into “pure wilderness” aka the bears Gubment-sanctioned turf. Which turned out to be a bad move. The woman that recieves the wristwatch that was on his arm when it was bitten off by the bad bear is his ex-girlfriend, yet there were subtle references and omissions in her story that made me believe they were never romantically in love or sexually intimate. Its wierd, and if anyone has additional information please post it for me.
To fully digest the movie, I would like to fully disclose my role with the bears. I never went into nature with the bears because that turf belongs to them for the time being. Polar bears & glacier destruction are not linked to the same sense of urgency in my mind. Those bears can keep to their own, but I must admit I have not always left it at that. C-bear pointed out that when the Grizzlyman touched the bears, he always consistently jabbed at them, he poked & provoked the bears. I admit that from time to TIME, I mean not all the time but occasionally, I have been known to jab at bears.
HOWEVER, its necessary to add the caveat that these bears all had CAGES. Indeed, I used to be a small bear trapped in a cage myself, so I can relate when I jab at the bears. Mainly bears really don’t like to be caged, but they have to be riled into the job of escape. Escape… when David Blain just stands in one spot, be it on a five story fire pole, inside a solid block of Alaskan glacier-ice, or in a cage hanging in London, I don’t really think that can be real. I think he is a magician and he must use some illusion to phone in the whole performance from a nearby tony tony tony hotel room.
Eliot, who is a magician himself, vouches for the legitimacy of Blain. That he’s for real & a magician patterned after Houdini. A test the body to the limit magic man. Well, I would very much like to know if magic is real. There are a lot of mysteries in the world, a little bit of magic, tons of blues & heartache & days spent standing atop the fire pole, trapped in the cage with no food, in the glacier & weird men eaten by wild bears… but nothing a Houdini Bear from the Anonymous Basket Company can’t getcha out of.
Pot Ball Rose Bud
Leather Woman Wallet-India
Houdini Bear (White or Brown)
Metal Basket with Small Handles
Turkish Scarf (choice of color)-Turkey
$120.00 + Shipping
Not having to share with wild bears? Priceless.
In the past day I have procrastinated to a startling degree rarely achieved by those in possession of “Amateur Boredom.” For starters, I headed out to Assembly Square Loews, by myself, and caught an early screening of ‘Brokeback Mountain’ last night, wihich I can only describe as “pastoral.” How Ang Lee went from directing ‘Crouching Tiger’ to this film is a transition beyond the grasp of my “Amateur Crossfading.” Funny, but the moments of the film that really touched me were somewhat distorted.
I mean literally. For some reason the projectionist had the film projector or whatever you call that glorified digital overhead light machine on the wrong resolution at the beginning of the film. Those with a sharper eye than mine detected this almost immediately and immediately vocalized their concerns up to the projectionists cage up in the back of the theater, and the problem was corrected, but not before the opening shots of the double-trailer truck flying down the Great Plains dusty highway. Damn, that opening shot was out of site! Funny resolution notwithstanding.
The experience of seeing such a subtly powerful film fully crept up over me when I got home and I had to lie down for about an hour to let my mind-intestines digest the load. The nap that this led to was probably a bad idea and as a result I didn’t sleep well at all when it was finally time to close my eyes last night. I was up with the sun and downloaded about 200 songs right off the bat. Then I made coffee. With my hearts pumping into my veins blood in the hue of caffeinated-brown I took up the New York Times Saturday edition, including the NYT Magazine, Style & Book Review, and read it all.
That accomplished, I picked up my cellphone and began my version of drunken dialing… calling people in the morning after an insane amount of coffee. Wisely, my friends from Chicago decided to let the machines pick up and I rattled off phone messages as if in a freestylin’ daze. Back at my laptop, the baby bizamp, who is known in the ‘hood as the bebe biz, I am once again tempted to go download some more block rocking beats, such as De La Soul’s “It Ain’t All Good” or the tracks from Donald Fagen (of Steely Dan fame) new studio LP, “Morph the Cat.”
What I really need to do is whip out the original software and manual for the “bizzy box,” my portable Phillips mp three player, and try to organize my digital collection. The bizzy box has become my hip hop catchall and the result on shuffle-all is an over-the-top non-stop gangsta-Native Tongue-krunk-krump-hyphy-atl-dirty-word-driven assault on the ears that could easily knock Belle & Sebastien purists right into the emergency ward.
Speaking of those going to or coming back from the emergency ward, seems to me a form of blaxploitation that Daniel Johnston’s handmade artwork & drawings are looming large onto the international art collection scene. The picture accompanying this post is one such work, which Daniel simply hands out to people he meets or trades for Diet Cokes at the dollar store in his Texas town. No doubt, Daniel is a genius, and the New York Times article on his work had me itching to get a little for myself…
Eliot said that I remind him of steely Daniel Johnston grinding my art through the sharp edges of my brain like cheese through a grater. Got to wonder how long I’d last if the NYT came knocking on my door some over-caffeinated morning and blew up the 3rdarm.biz animated gifs on the cover of Weekend Arts. I probably wouldn’t survive the weekend because my head would explode. Big ups to the marvel that is the manchild Daniel Johnston pushing pushing pushing his art into the world of wolves: Godcat.
WASHINGTON POST REPORTS: In modern times it would be called a chimera, a furry, fish-eating swimmer and burrower a bit bigger than a tree squirrel, with an otterlike body, teeth like a seal, webbed hind feet like a platypus and a flat tail just like a beaver.
But it lived — and died — about 164 million years ago in a swampy Jurassic lake bed northeast of Beijing in what is now the Inner Mongolia Autonomous Region of China. Its multinational team of discoverers called the fossil Castorocauda lutrasimilis — “beaver-tailed sort-of otter.”
Thats about the best thing I heard on Thursday, a day of chores & horse (my grandfather from Amherst, Mass. pronounced it “Hoss”) coughing & at night watching the Olympic finals in woman’s figure skating, almost all 3 hours of it, despite the fact that I knew the winners and losers already by the afternoon. The Japanese skater who won gold, Akira I believe her name was, probably deserved it, and now the Japanese have gold-fever.
Speaking of heavy gold, the Olympic Russian sweatpants with the word for RUSSIA in Russian down one leg costs almost four hundred and fifty American dollars as of this entry. For Russian sweatpants. As a country I think this kind of exchange rate may be tied to our debt, and it causes me grave concern, this sweatpant inflation. Of course, not all sweatpant inflations are bad…
Based on some research I have done pro bono late into the nights for the past years on foreign policy and the Middle East, I am ready to come out against violence in the Middle East & hip hop in general. Its gotten out of control, where East & West Coast styles are bling blinging on MTV one day, the next day copycatted with real blood in Iraq and relayed back through CNN.com & Fox News. Take the recent Hyphy parade that shot rockets at the Golden Dome this week.
The man who lived across the street from the Mosque of the Golden Dome gave his account of what happened: “…about seven cars full of men wearing black, the signature Mahdi dress, fire machine guns and rocket-propelled grenades at the dome…”
Now compare that to E-40 discussing Hyphy & the San Fran Krump with Allhiphop.com:
E-40: The energy is the same but the movement is different. With Hyphy, we got the invisible driving our cars, we got the stunna shades, dreadlocks, we got the scrappers, we got the Hyphy train.
E-40: Just imagine, after the club closes, a whole bunch of cars campaigning like the president. Or, like a parade with doors open, cats dancing on the hood, on the doors, music blasting it’s just a mobile party.
AllHipHop.com: How do you keep control of the cars if people aren’t in it?
E-40: We walking next to it, it’s not like they’re driving fast we just driving slow like it’s a Fourth of July float, ya dig? Then we got the side-show, where cats showcase their toys [cars] and their skills doing the donuts and figure eights in the middle of traffic at the intersections and things.
AllHipHop.com: I’m sure the police cant be happy about that…
E-40: Actually, the majority of the time, it’s a controlled parade. They do give out tickets, but it’s usually controlled. Hyphy alone, is an energy. It’s the cousin of Crunk but more up-tempo.”
It seems to me as if the Iraqi’s took the Hyphy ideal of a walking parade and turned into a living nightmare of rockets explosions death & the destruction of the Golden Dome itself. It sure is unfortunate how events can play out in parallel universes… a nightcap of blissed out Hyphy stepping where no one gets domed in the Bayside is the flipside of the hyper Hyphy assault that domes the Golden Dome in Iraq.
Lately I noticed that my ability to hear people talk & my own words outloud had greatly diminished. I realized it was because there was an extra four pounds of mucus trapped in my nasal passages & I panicked and started shouting, “Burgalar! Burgalar!” Once the panic wore off I went out and bought some lotiony tissues (generic brand but the box is purple & yellow so don’t think Im cheap… Im representin’). I downed fizzy Airborne in water.
Another clue? The mucus must have set out for my throat eyes & nasal passages some time in the night, because when I woke up I found a horrendous problem with my bedding. By all appearances someone had blown their nose right into my comforter. The mucus stain on the comforter caused my stomach to churn uncomfortably. I hustled out of bed and ran everything I have through the laundry twice. Between this and the 24/36 hour stomach flu I had a couple weeks ago, my material possessions are getting hammered & pelted with bad bodily fluids.
But how am I feeling now? My motor activities are slow and my mental revving is turning over more slowly, but I am breathing through my nose. When problems pop up I have lotiony tissues, Airborne, and if I get panicky I will stick my head out the window into the drizzling snow/rain and holler “Burgalar!” to the neighborhood. I don’t doubt that I invited in the mucus mudslide myself.
Maybe it was last week when I tore apart my room to be ready for my new futon. There was so much dust disturbed that I had to vocally verbally caution my roommates to stay away and not to enter my room or remove any items from it. The dust exposure could be to blame, and that would be my fault for not wearing one of the white surgical bird flu masks that I have been stockpiling by the thousandpack in case of pandemic. It was just negligence that I didn’t wear one, I can’t blame fashion. Those surgical masks have hit the runways of Singapore to Japan, been donned by the King of Pop as well…
The culprit in the mucus capture the flag victory over my throat & lungs & those treacherously vulnerable nasal passages may also have been the drinking of three margaritas on Tuesday night. Big 3rdarm (uhh… yeah I’m talking in 3rd person) went out to three bars as part of a birthday entourage (aka undercover street attorney terror-security squad) for my bosswoman general managers birthday party train. Because I hardly ever drink, those crucial sips of alchohol may have killed all the “good germs” that have been protecting my passages like barnacles and allowed new, more viciously evolved “bad cold germs” to grow in their place.
Seriously though, I’m no doctor or even amateur medical specialist, and the cause of this could very well vary from my suspicions. For all I know, the root of my mucus production could be something way off-the-radar, like smoking unfiltered Pall Malls outside in the winter air, not drinking enough water, not getting enough sleep regularly, or perhaps I was bitten by a sick bird one day when the sun was shining and I was unawares.
From the NYT: It’s just as the American figure skater Johnny Weir preached from the moment these Olympics began: no one is cooler than the Russians. Weir, who finished fifth last week in the men’s figure skating competition, showed up at the Russia House after midnight Tuesday, for his second consecutive night of partying with his favorite comrades.
This time, he wore a beaver-and-python jacket and True Religion jeans, blending in with the other men and women in fur and designer duds. In minutes, he had a leggy Russian woman in stilettos on each of his arms. The trio giggled as they skipped past the hors d’oeuvres.
“These are friends of the lawyer of the richest man in Moscow,” Weir said in passing, as the women tossed their long hair. “These Russians know how to have a good time.”
The women interrupt him: “C’mon, Johnny,” one brunette said, in a heavy Russian accent. “We want to dance.”
“Dve minuti!” he yelled out in Russian, telling them to wait two minutes before running off.
Frank Bruni is at it again, making his sly references to 3rdarm.biz on his blog, Diner’s Journal. In his latest entry titled “An Act You’ve Known for All these Years” which is a bizarre poke at 3rdarm.biz because he HASN’t known me for years, personally, he talks about this restaurant on “Third avenue” that made his friend sweat garlic underwater & caused a woman to almost be violently meat-sick.
The man is clearly invoking my own many instances of meat-sickness, for real I did not just sit down & write out my life story of meatbattle, “thin line between anger & hunger”, because if cavezombies in the future wreckage come knocking on my door thats why the door is two feet thick with a telescoping site. The restaurant that Frank reviewed on his blog Monday, President’s Day, was called “catch a snitcher outside while hes sleepin and im-a eat-him” Il Mulino…
Now, you take anybody Joe off the street of Brooklyn, Queens or the Bronx and show him some fancypants this New York Times restaurant critic blogging about 3rds (avenue), meat sickness (baby cow) & Il Mulino (Ill Mulano as they know me in New York) & that poor bloke is gonna think you’re talking about 3rdarm.biz, averagely, because of all those clues Frank might have even subconsciously included in his entry.
Subconscious clues are indicators that I rely on constantly as a street attorney in the Information age, as astrologists say. At work yesterday I was in the window section serving a gaggle of diners who all converged like a flash mob onto the East Coast Grill at exactly the same Swatch co-ordinated times in their Ford Focuses (a rather nasty dig at Bill Wasik who wrote about flash blobs like he invented them or something in the new Harper’s Magazine).
My roommates were seated in my sections as planted witnesses like in the uni-John Grisham-verse when I was seated a twotop with a slightly out of sorts chap and a superhumanly tall red headed woman. The woman was clearly in command of her pain denying red headed ness and was frothy at the opportunity to tussle over the menu items. But as a street attorney with chestnutbrown hair I had several techniques to parry with.
First, with red heads its important not to mimic, although mimicing is generally good but its the tone & volume to watch. Mimicking makes the red head skittish & fearful, more liable to lash out. What I did was present my information as if the woman was just any woman and not a red head, and this allowed her to feel secure that I did not have knowledge of her incredible threshhold for pain. She demanded this & that & I listened.
I did not argue with her or quarrel, because quarrelling & even arguing with a red head could provoke them into an all out war where conventional weapons & small fire arms have no effect, Incredible Hulk versus tanks you want to be sitting on the jolly green giant’s shoulder. I pretended to write down her questions & requests for the kitchen while backing away slowly, nodding and scribbling furious at the dupe pad I keep in my pocket but really writing nothing, just escaping.
My roommates naturally saw the entire thing because the universe (bit larger than the uni-John Grisham-verse) had told them that the bull fight was on and that the matador was wearing his cape like a red headed wig. The red headed woman stubbornly asked me another specific question about what this or that was in the salad that she had gotten specially personalized & ordered from the kitchen. It was an O ring.
I paused & told her exactly what it was (or made something up) and continued my journey around the section of tables I was waiting on, pretending to scribble furiously on my dupe pad while also picking up & refilling waters (I really have three arms). And yes, I heard the red headed one talking about how weird my voice is, because everyone can hear each others conversations in the window section of the East Coast Grill, adjacent to the open kitchen.
Mary Matalin left her part-time residence at Skeletor Mountain and went back to work Sunday morning for her former boss on Meet the Press SUnday morning. Other things happened. New mixtape:
TALES OF THE NBC COVERAGE OF 2006 TURIN OLYMPICS (WINTER):
First the fact that Shani Davis is the first black man to win an individual Winter Olympic gold medal ever. Then how there is racial tension that is focused on to create a media storyline of the supposed rivalry between him (black) and the other man Chad Hedrick (white) also known as Just Chad, so the NBC media team had to ‘balance’ the racial storyline and so turned its attention to the hug between Shani & Wennemars, who champions Shani who is actually championing tonight on Earth, out there on the next continent in some hotel room, championing. I back up my ‘media analysis’ with the following evidence from NBC Winter Olympic Bureau desk:
“Davis showed no immediate emotion after the last two skaters failed to beat his time. He was cooling down in the warmup lane, skating slowly with his arms behind his back.
Finally, he smiled and waved to the crowd, picking up a stuffed bear that a fan tossed on the ice. As he came to the other end of the rink, Davis found Wennemars waiting. The friendly rivals gave each other a big hug in front of the orange-clad, predominantly Dutch crowd, prompting the biggest cheer of the night.
“I like him as a person, I like him as a speedskater,” Wennemars said. “What the United States thinks about him doesn’t matter because Shani is the Olympic champion, so he is right.”