Hiya, Kids! Time for another round of peek-a-boo from a skeleton in my musical closet!

This time, we’re going to go back, back, back – way back into the Dark Ages, sometimes referred to by historians as 1986. This was a terrifying time, full of exploding space shuttles, exploding nuclear power plants, and cassette tapes exploding from the stomachs of teddy bears named Ruxpin.



Unfortunately, I was too young to start drinking the pain away, and my insensitive parents forced me to go to – shudder – school. One thing I did have was my clock radio, which kept me abreast of popular music. One of the hits was “The Rain” by that year’s most deliciously named act, Oran “Juice” Jones. Below you’ll find the video for this… ur… masterwork.


As a teenager, I thought there was something haunting about this song, and whenever it came on the radio (which was like, every eight minutes) I would stop everything and listen carefully, as though for clues; another hint that Paul was really dead.

Now, with adulty ears and eyes, I watch this video and feel… weirdy. What’s with the tuxedoed trio? They seem to dissolve in order to form the singer, like some prom-date Voltron. Also, why so many references of cereal? When you consider the man’s name, you can begin to see some kind of breakfastal obsession.

I’ve been ill again. Ever since I moved to LA, I get sick all the time. Oh, well. That’s the price I pay for getting to nosh with Posh and Becks every Tuesday.

…Okay, technically, only Becks and I do any actual “noshing” – you get the idea.


Yesterday was my boyfriend’s birthday. I got him a rad gift. (I know what you’re thinking – “Job, what better gift could you give him beyond your hacking, disease-ridden body?”) An AMOEBA GIFT CERTIFICATE, that’s what I gave him. Who doesn’t want one? Even I want one for my birthday, and I don’t even need one! Because, as many of you know, all Amoeba employees are allowed as many free albums and DVD’s as they want. In fact, we’re PAID to take them home! We drive them home in the cars our bosses buy us, which we park in our gold-plated garages with matching tiara encrusted, truffle-flavored diamond mines.

I’m delirious. I have no idea what I’m writing. We’ve been through this before, dear reader. This is how my sick day blogs read. If you feel inspired to pray for me by the end of it, please do. It’ll give you something to do while you’re waiting for Limewire to finish downloading a crappy copy of that Rockwell single.