Amoeblog

(In which the group sees a vision of Jesus, stoned.)

Posted by Job O Brother, June 3, 2007 11:22am | Post a Comment
Today I awoke to the housekeeper barging into my bedroom. Upon seeing two naked dudes fast asleep, she uttered a cheerful “Eeek!” and slammed the door, ne’r to be seen again.

So much for fresh towels.

I brewed a pot of coffee for my friends and they rose like zombies from graves in search of caffeine and tobacco.

Corey and I went to the restaurant for brunch where, thank God, a totally normal person waited on us. The food was rad. They have an organic garden here from which they harvest their vegetables. More importantly, our waitperson understood what it meant to WANT COFFEE.

Growing up north of the Bay Area, I was spoiled by coffee service. Up there, you usually don’t get to the bottom of your mug before someone fills it. In LA, you have to f**king launch a g*ddamn publicity campaign signifying that you want another cup. And then you need to get your agent to find you more cream.

The ladies joined us later, both feeling much better after a night of sleep. Corey went out in search of a hammock, and Carrie, Logan and I settled by the pool, making sure we kept hydrated by knocking back beer and Bloody Marys. (I watched the bartender make them and I swear they contained a dash of everything you find in the condiment aisle of a supermarket. I’m pretty sure I saw her add mayonnaise and microwave popcorn to the shaker.)


Carrie & Mary, poolside.

Basking in the glow of the midday sun, Carrie, looking beautiful as always, suddenly sighed, breaking the contended silence.

“I never get my knees totally shaved,” she said sadly, “I even tell myself to get them, but I’m afraid I’ll cut myself.”

There was a thoughtful pause.

“I’m putting that in my blog,” I announced.

(In which Job enjoys theatrics at a new West End.)

Posted by Job O Brother, June 2, 2007 06:11pm | Post a Comment
We were maybe fifteen minutes outside of LA when Carrie first chirped, “Are we almost there yet?”

Logan shot a look that said, “I love you and you’re very dear to me but so help me God I will cut you open.”

The drive to 29 Palms was mostly uneventful. Bathroom breaks inevitably took us to greasy spoon diners, where guilt over utilizing the facilities without purchasing food caused us to orchestrate elaborate, timed infiltration.

“Okay, you and Carrie go in first. We’ll hold back a few minutes then enter.”

At some point it was decided that Logan should be nicknamed “Blimpie”. [In the original writing of the trip's blog, Blimpie was the name used, until Logan found out and used a tone of voice that caused me to subsequently re-edit everything. -Ed]

We had been at the 29 Palms Inn almost five minutes before we agreed it was love at first site. Ours is the most isolated cabin, located at what they call the West End, which I guess makes Carrie and Logan “West End Girls” for the weekend.


 We've got no future, we've got no past; Here today, built to last.
Amidst a constant stream of jokes about the many, grisly ways in which we would all meet our doom in the desert (snakes, sunstroke, redneck slashers) we staked out our bungalow and heartily approved.

Next, we trekked the walk across the desert sands and brush to the pool and restaurant. After a quick dip, we settled into a dinner table.


Feed us.


We were soon being served by a complete and total psychopath.

(In which Job orders some desert.)

Posted by Job O Brother, June 2, 2007 11:41am | Post a Comment

I've made a horrible mistake.

...Okay, maybe I'm being too dramatic in describing it that way. It wasn't a horrible mistake, just a mistake. I apologize for being so over-the-top in my choice of words; it's horrible of me.

I promised y'all a conclusion to my boyfriend-in-the-hospital saga and had even completed writing most of it, but left it on my computer at home, which I no longer have access to. Therefore, you will still see Part 3, just not this weekend.

But why not this weekend? Because I'll being regaling you with a new series of reports from the desert!


A picture of the desert and one of those flat, black things that cars like to drive on.

Yes, I carload of attitude is making its way today to the glamorous town of 29 Palms, California, where we'll be staying at some isolated cabin, drinking tequila and mojitos, taking new photos for our MySpace profiles, hiding fake snakes and terrifying each other, and basically being ridiculous.

In the desert, no one can hear you make an ass of yourself.

Accompanying me is my post-op* boyfriend, Corey, my dearly beloved friend, Carrie, and another sweetheart-o'-my-heart, Logan, who has the distinction of being one of the floor managers at Amoeba Music Hollywood. We'll see what dirt I can get on her before we return to work. Career advancement through blackmail, anyone?


The author, his boyfriend and Carrie with Logan, circa 1986

This is all promoted under the assumption that I'll find Internet access out there, of course. If not, I'll write but post later in the week.

Continue reading...

(In which Job goes to the hospital instead of blogging.)

Posted by Job O Brother, May 28, 2007 09:24pm | Post a Comment

As I waited with my boyfriend, Corey, in the Emergency Room loading dock, nurses, aides, cleaning people and, I think, some illegal immigrants would rush through. The energy was frenetic. It was like someone spliced together all the link and filler scenes from a TV medical drama, and edited out the entertaining parts where you find out the doctor’s sleeping with the wife of the man who runs the hospital who is an alcoholic/pill addict and, even more tragic, votes Republican.

We learned that Corey had appendicitis. They wanted to perform surgery that night. Our plans to play poker and go dancing would, in all likelihood, have to be cancelled.


A cute picture of my boyfriend, Corey

Corey is a self-professed control-freak, and this would reveal itself in many ways. He would grill anyone who entered our room with the same battery of questions, to which he would receive, more or less, the same answers. I didn’t ask why, but I secretly theorized that he was waiting for one of them to “slip up” and say something like, “Well, you may be feeling discomfort because your uterus is over-extended,” to which Corey could then raise his pointed finger and exclaim, “Ah, ha! Got you! I’m a boy and I don’t have a uterus! Because of my hysterectomy last year.”

My boyfriend won’t find that joke funny, but he’s all cripple from surgery, so I’m safe.

Continue reading...

(In which Job has a normal day, except for the hospital part.)

Posted by Job O Brother, May 27, 2007 03:44pm | Post a Comment

I’m sorry.

I haven’t written to you in ages, I know. It’s awful of me, but don’t take it personally – I have a really good excuse, and it has the added bonus of being true.

Saturday began normally enough. I woke up about and hour before my alarm went off, percolated some java, weaned my cat off my calf muscles and onto a bowl of kibble, shaved, brushed, exercised and watched the abortion episodes of “Maude”. Nothing remarkable.


Looking natural never looked so unnatural: Bea Arthur greeting you as Maude.

I left home to walk to Amoeba Music Hollywood fifteen minutes earlier than necessary; again, totally normal – I am chronically early to everything.

I was greeted at the door by a big hug from Karen and carefully made my way back to the jazz / classical / soundtracks / New Orleans / gospel / comedy / new age / blues room amidst a maze of potential accidents as created by our early morning cleaning staff.

Continue reading...
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