Amoeblog

Happy Black Valentine's History Month Day!

Posted by Job O Brother, February 14, 2011 01:07pm | Post a Comment

It’s Valentine’s Day, mothertruckers! What to do, what to do? The boyfriend is working at the office all day, so I have until tonight to devise some kind of romantic surprise. I was thinking of transforming our dining room into a kind of “outdoor park at night,” using white twinkle lights as the only illumination, lots of houseplants, cushions on the floor, an elaborate picnic, and something like this playing…
 

But is that surprising enough? Perhaps I’ll hire one of our actor friends to pretend to be a mugger – he’ll arrive halfway through desserts, beat us up and take our money. That would be both sweet and romantic, because violence is both those things at once.

“Every punch is like two kisses,” my Grandma used to say as she tucked me in. (And every morning my Mom would ask me why I woke up with bruises on my face.)

In honor of Black History Month, I’m using this day of sweets and crushes and gay hearts to celebrate some of my current favorite black entertainers and artists and others (an entire list would be, how you say, retardedly long), any and all of whom I would very much like to be my Valentine. Enjoy!

(In which Job pampers his pook-a-loo.)

Posted by Job O Brother, April 8, 2008 12:42pm | Post a Comment
Corey spent the night last night. We threw him into a hot, bubble bath and played some Julie London…




…all to undo the stressful day at work. (By “we” I mean the royal we, of course – I wasn’t assisted by a gang or nuthin’. Gangs are terrible at helping people relax. Have you noticed? Like, when you’re sitting under a cork tree and smelling the flowers, a gang – say like, a gang of Japanese whalers – will amble by and be like:


And you’re all, “Japanese dudes, I’m just trying to smell the flowers!” Or, you’re picking at some rhyolite in hopes of discovering an opal to polish and give your sweetie during the famous aria from “Gianni Schicchi”…




…and the two of you lock eyes and, in that one moment, you know that you’ve always been lovers – that every sonnet and song that’s ever been penned for love – have been about the two of you, and the devotion that binds you beyond the restraints of bodies and time and a gang of Crips, some Grape Street Crips say, come along and cause you to accidentally drop your foot-long hoagie over the balcony seating and it lands on Princess Diana’s head (this is before she’s died, obviously) and they’re all, “Gee whiz, we’re sorry. We were just hoping to find some slobs to curb,” and you’re all, “If you think any Bloods are gonna be caught at a Verdi opera, you’re crazy! Come back next month when there’s a performance of ‘Peter Grimes’ – they’re all over that Britten sh*t!” and they’re all, “Thank you. Sorry about your butty,” and you’re all, “Huh?” and they’re all, “Butty – it’s a British slang for sandwich,” and you’re all, “Oh yeah. Okay,” and there’s an awkward moment when they don’t leave but no one says anything and then they finally get the hint and go away but by then the People’s Princess is in your face and yelling at you and being totally unreasonable and for a moment – just for a moment – you think to yourself, “Just you wait, girl – you’ll get yours.” But you feel bad immediately afterwards because no one deserves to die in a car crash. Nobody.