Amoeblog


SOUNDTRACK SERIES #3

Posted by Job O Brother, February 28, 2010 12:35pm | Post a Comment
Directions: Imagine Mr. Brother living another day, as always, with music playing. Whether it’s one of his trusty iPods, or his home stereo, or working the soundtracks section of Amoeba Music Hollywood, Mr. Brother is eating, sonically, with the mouths of his ears.

To simulate this experience, as you read the below story of a day lived, you will be given certain music clips to play. These are inserted to provide you with the same tunes Job was hearing as he was doing what you’ll be reading.

For example, while he was writing the above directions, he was listening to this:

The other day, while I was counting my number collection, I was interrupted by a knock on my front door. As is customary in my country, I went to see who it was. Imagine my surprise when it turned out to be none other than myself.

“Oh!” I said with a start, “How did you get out there?”

“You mean,” I said with a sly grin, “How did you get out here.”

“That’s exactly what I said,” I retorted.

“But not what you meant,” I corrected.

I slammed the door in my face and went back to my numbers. I don’t have to take that kind of snarkiness, you know – not even from myself.


Hours later I was eating some broccoli that the Lord My God made, when a second knock came – this time at the back door. Worried that I was up to my own tricks and hoping to avoid another awkward confrontation with myself, I peaked out the kitchen window to see who it was.

To my delight, it was filmmaker and performance artist, Miranda July. Most people know her from her critically acclaimed debut feature Me and You and Everyone We Know. What they may not realize is they can also find some of her albums at Amoeba Music, as I have. While not the best music to play at parties (unless you exclusively party with Yoko Ono), Miranda July’s albums are certainly an adventure, and one is never sure what will happen. They’re almost like listening to old radio dramas while peaking on purple micro-dots. (That’s a good thing.)


I quickly combed my hair and opened the back door.

“Hello, Miranda July,” I greeted, trying not to appear too excited. But then I threw-up, because I was too excited. And then I was so shocked that I’d vomited that I peed my pants, but as all this happened I pretended to be sneezing, hoping she wouldn’t catch on. I mean, a sneezing fit is embarrassing, but less so than excreting every juice the bowels have to offer from both ends of my shivering body.

“I don’t know who you think you’re fooling,” snarled Miranda July, “Unless it’s yourself!”

The full meaning of her admonishment didn’t reveal itself until she removed her latex mask and feminine attire, at which point I discovered it wasn’t Miranda July at all, but myself in disguise.

“How did you manage to find such stylish clothes in your size?” I asked, trying to appear unperturbed (which I was, of course, and very!).

“Easy,” I answered, “I had them custom made by a fantastically famous fashion designer whose name escapes me. He’s done all the great women of rock – from Polly Jean Harvey to Muslimgauze.”


“I’m pretty sure Muslimgauze isn’t considered a ‘great woman of rock’,” I corrected, popping eight pieces of gum in my mouth, the scent of which had suffered from my retching. “Anyway,” I continued, slurring for the chewy gob now lodged in my mouth, “How did you afford that? I barely have any money.”

“True,” I sighed, “That part was difficult. I’m afraid you’re gonna be receiving some disturbing letters from various credit card companies. Also, you should get tested immediately.”

I didn’t know what I was implying, but I knew I didn’t like it. I slammed the door in my face and returned to my broccoli, which was, by now, cold. This made me sad, and I wept over my plate; tears drenched the broccoli and made it salty, which made matters worse, as they’d already been perfectly seasoned with Bragg’s Liquid Aminos. Now it was too salty.

There was nothing to be done. I would have to prepare more broccoli. Thankfully, God made more. I put on some Annette Funicello records and set to cooking.


Most people know Annette Funicello from her critically acclaimed debut on the Mickey Mouse Club. What they may not realize is they can also find some of her albums at Amoeba Music, as I have. While not the best music to play while making sweet love (unless you exclusively have sex with Yoko Ono), Annette Funicello’s albums are certainly a delight, and one is never sure what will happen if you listen to them while locked in a cage full of tigers and monkeys.

Night came, and I put on my pajamas and brushed my teeth, making sure to use my tooth brush and not the more unwieldy chainsaw that had caused me so many dental problems in the past.


As I was pondering the magical properties of fluoride, I heard a rapping on my bathroom window. I left the underwater dungeon (where I always care for my hygiene) and went upstairs to the bathroom, only to find myself precariously balanced on the window ledge, grinning madly and looking disheveled.

I gesticulated for me to open the window, but I was hesitant. So far, every conversation I’d had with myself that day had been annoying and in some cases disturbing, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear anything more from myself, especially just before bedtime.

Against my better judgment, but worried after all that I was trapped outside, I opened the window.

“How did you get out there?” I asked.

“You mean, how did you get out here?”

I was already wishing I hadn’t opened the window.

“Well come inside, in any case.”

I tumbled onto the bathroom floor, giggling.

“Are you drunk?” I asked, furrowing my brow.

“No,” I answered, “I just remembered how funny floors are.”

I didn’t respond, because I didn’t understand what was funny about floors, and also because I felt that I was only saying things for the sake of themselves – a pretense.

Me and I went to bed, and while I’d been unhappy with my behavior, it was nice to have someone to curl up with.

“Would you like me to sing you a lullaby?” I asked.

“Why yes,” I answered, surprised at such a lovely thought.

I cleared my voice and snuggled close, and this is what I sang:


By the time I finished, I was fast asleep, dreaming that I was at a sex party with Yoko Ono. It was nice, and it only goes to show that for all the trouble I cause myself, at heart I really am supposed to pay my rent today.

The end.

Relevant Tags

Soundtrack Series (5), Miranda July (2), Yoko Ono (19), Pj Harvey (12), Muslimgauze (1), Bragg’s Liquid Aminos (1), Annette Funicello (7), Mickey Mouse Club (2), Disney (30), Sun Ra (2), Thompson Twins (4), Red Aunts (1)