Amoeblog

Photographic Memory, Part 3

Posted by Job O Brother, June 28, 2010 12:19pm | Post a Comment
This is another installment of music and/or movies that I’m reminded of when looking at old photos of myself, my family and my friends. It was brought to you by the letter R and the number 8. And through a generous donation from the Hindenburg Aviation Academy. And from Viewers Like You.

chad corbin

That's Chad, on your right. Next to him is him is his guitar, whose name escapes me, so I'll just call him Queezerwaroworolheethorlurl and never speak of him again. Chad remains one of the most complex and fascinating of my generation of Nevada City townies. You know how people say people never really change? Well Chad really changes, and depending on which point you select on the arc of his story, you'll see a man who bares little or no resemblance to his past or future. You could say that is the one thing that never changes about Chad: he always changes.

At the point in his life where the above photo was taken (in front of the antique store that never opened once in my entire childhood), he was a traveling minstrel with a particular fondness for Romani, Klezmer and Spanish music.


This phase is Chad's life fit perfectly with his non-musical obsession: collecting and playing board games and putting together puzzles. It was as though he wanted to get his autumn years out of the way first, so he could enjoy his senior citizenship drinking and gambling and gallivanting with prostitutes.

(In which Job does the least he can do.)

Posted by Job O Brother, April 19, 2010 09:34pm | Post a Comment
I have a tummy ache. Do you think it’s the weather? The volcano? Or maybe that I decided to conclude my late lunch with a third of a pack of butterscotch chips?

candy

Even the word “butterscotch” is delicious to me. Having a crush on both butter and scotch helps. But take it from me: there’s more to making this delicious concoction than merely mixing butter and scotch together. I learned the hard way.

Well, that’s about it for now. Hope you found this blog entry both educational and entertaining. Bye!


…I’ve just been informed that the above paragraphs weren’t enough to qualify as proper Amoeblog entry. Apparently my editors think that, so long as they’re paying me to write a blog about media and art, that there should be more to an entry than a quick cautionary tale about mixing dairy and booze. I’d tell them to lump it, but I really need the money to buy butterscotch with.

Well, as a music addict, pretty much any subject can lead to tunery. For instance, after writing the word “butter” five times in this entry, I now have a song stuck in my head by 1980’s act Martika, perhaps more famous for not being Madonna than anything else. Most of us know her one-hit wonder single "Toy Soldiers," but the song that’s playing in the jukebox in my brain is…

Okay, before I tell you, let me explain: This is one of those songs it’s so easy to mis-hear. You know the type: a song who’s lyrics are obscured or sung in such a way that it allows you to sing the wrong words, sometimes for years. In the case of the following song, I always hear her singing about butter. And honestly, maybe because I’m not what you could call a Martika fan, I think this song is improved if you think she’s singing about butter.