Today's blog is written by guest blogger, Corey, otherwise known as C$.
Job is busy making me dinner right now, so the least I can do is blog for him. I have also had one of his vodka-pomegranate cocktails, so I may be more lucid than usual.
At any rate, what is so hard about blogging? I do it all the time for The Advocate. Of course, it is usually at a film festival or something, so I have something interesting to talk about. But in the absence of such obvious content, what does one say?
I will tell you this: Job spends far too much time on these blogs. Time, I might add, not spent with me. I don’t think he got the memo that these should be short and pithy. The reader doesn’t have that much of an attention span anyway, and no patience for rambling and self-indulgence. What is more self-indulgent than a blog about someone’s life, never met, and their friends and experiences, never met, nor experienced. Does anyone really want to read any of that? Does anyone really want to see pictures of me in a red, satin tuxedo jacket perched atop a rock in the middle of Joshua tree? (Besides myself and Job of course).
It is only right that I tell you a few things about Job that perhaps he would never tell you. Only I can’t think of anything he doesn’t cop to. I just waxed his back this afternoon, but that isn’t very salacious. Let’s think… He barks a UPS trucks whenever he sees them. Yes, he barks, like a dog. No matter who is in the car. He acts like a real baby at about 11:30 pm every night. I ask him if he is tired (knowing, of course, that he is) and he responds “no” with pouted lower lip, and eyes droopy and childlike. The voice also is dismissive, blurted and vaguely resembling a grunt. Then he makes me pull him off the couch and pretends to be too tired to get up of his own will. He then pretends to be too tired to undress himself, get under sheets, or get on his own side. There is even fake crying and the rubbing of eyes. It is of course incredibly cute to me, but to the outside witness it would appear vaguely retarded and co-dependent.
Let’s see, what else. He is not fan of Dove soap, which I love. (He calls it white trash). He worries about money a lot, which I don’t, and doesn’t care at all about his own death, which I fear. He loves Ikea, which is basically a mental deficiency.
Oh! Here’s a good one: Job has favorites. Not like normal people favorites, like a favorite food, or a favorite color. I mean Job has a favorite type of hot dog for eating specifically at ballparks. This might be drastically different from the favorite hot dog to be eaten at BBQs. Now beyond that, there is a second, third and fourth favorite of all these things. Everything is ranked with a number and each can be explained in detail as to the reason for its ranking. This, in and of itself, would be fine except that one of his favorite things to do is ask you for your favorite of all these things. You are then sweating, hemming and hawing, trying to drive, trying to come up with the last time you were even at a ballpark let alone ate a hot dog, and mostly you just don’t care. You just don’t notice the subtle difference in ever molecule of every morsel of food ever ingested, or each chord of every song ever played. Now, this does make him a very good cook, which is about to help me immensely as it is suppertime and, remember, he is currently cooking for me. And I would imagine this makes him a very good Amoeba employee as well.
So come to Amoeba, to the Soundtracks section where Job has carefully organized every disc, every plastic case, every rare and unheard of by the general public recording of obscure off-Broadway drum and pipe music performed by naked midgets. And ask him who his 17th favorite naked midget instrumentalist is. The answer might just surprise you.
[Note from Job: I don't actually like hot dogs at all. They are my 29th least favorite food.]