(In which Job needs coffee, please.)

Posted by Job O Brother, May 8, 2007 11:31am | Post a Comment
I am not alone.

I wrote the above sentence then leaned to my right, peering into what once was my kitchen and is now something resembling Dresden after the bombing.

And so it goes.

How this guy has managed to cram a huge ladder into a kitchen so small I barely have room for the second Pop Tart included in the packet, is proof that he is no amateur. (This is what I tell myself, hoping for the best.)

Sonically, I am hidden deep inside my iPod, which just made a seamless transition from Marvin Gaye & Diana Ross’ duet album (titled, mysteriously enough, “Diana & Marvin”) to that inescapable Amy Winehouse record. Every once in a while, on average twice a decade, I find myself enjoying the same album as the rest of the country. Such is the case with “Back to Black”. It makes for boring copy though; I mean, do we really need to hear anymore talk about it?

The answer is “no”, and thankfully there’s a workman in my kitchen providing us with stories.

Last week, amidst my well-documented Vicodin haze (I’m feeling much better these days, thank you), I walked home from Amoeba, as I always do (unless Patti Smith is performing), for lunch.

Whereas normally I am greeted by the meows of my “cat”* I instead walked into a scene from “Brazil”.

Ruling out the possibility of a suicide bomber (I realize they go through a lot of training, but I live on the fourth floor of my building) I found, amongst the sea of bric-a-brac, cleaning supplies and dishware - normally so organized in my kitchen - a lone man doing to my sink and walls what I imagine Jeffery Dahmer would do to a dinner guest.

And I’ll say this about myself: I really am polite. Even when faced with an un-announced stranger tearing my home apart, I start with a simple hand-wave and “Hi,” – waiting for the appropriate social cues from the other person to indicate we can proceed to a conversation. Perhaps about the weather, last night’s game, or maybe why he’s mistaken my kitchen for a newly discovered Egyptian tomb.

And because he grunted hello back, then ignored me, I did what Miss Manners would suggest. I called my landlord and politely asked what the f*** was going on.

The good news is that I now have actual hot water in my kitchen sink, where before only tepid torrents ran. The bad news was that I’ve been MISSING PART OF A WALL this weekend. Naturally, I had out of town guests during that time. That goes without saying, right? Luckily they were staying in the Best Western Hollywood Hills, in town for the Silverlake Film Festival, and…

Wait – this isn’t interesting at all, is it? Have I really been blogging about my home repairs? Especially when I could’ve been telling you about last night’s game of Truth-or-Dare with Janeane Garofalo and Jake Gyllenhaal? (Who I begged never to get married because the hyphenation of their name would send my tongue into hours of seizures.)

Jesus. I really need coffee, I guess. But I can’t make coffee because of the man in my kitchen! Which brings us back to square one.

Tori Amos fans: (How’s that for a graceful segue?) I’m not going to give my two cents on the new album because I haven’t heard it, but because my iPod’s shuffle chose just now, a track by a French artist named Jorane, I thought I’d let you know about her. She’s a cello player, but writes similarly to some of Amos’ earlier works, like “Boys For Pele”. Serious, beautiful, confessional (sometimes embarrassingly so), and certainly a deft musician. She recorded an album in English in 2004; I prefer her earlier, French-language effort “Vent Fou”. If you’re a Tori fan, or just like feminine angst coupled with a instinct for an instrument, see if you can’t hunt down one of her albums.

Can I get fired from the Amoeblog for referencing Tori Amos? Probably not, though I’m certain to be greeted with some amount of derision from co-workers. Those that can read, anyway.

Whatever. I’m too coffee-less to care. And besides, these same co-workers, too “cool” to even discuss Tori Amos, will howl with approval when Boston or Journey gets airplay. Time and distance and irony makes all things shine.

In twenty years, twenty-somethings who work at the Amoeba Music Moonbase will be ecstatically pogoing when Avril Lavigne is blasted in-store.

And so it goes.

*I put quotes around cat only because I’m not completely convinced the little monster isn’t just a wolverine with some stunted growth hormone.

(In which Job abides a leisurely Sunday.)

Posted by Job O Brother, May 6, 2007 12:00am | Post a Comment
It is Sunday. There’s a warm breeze that skims our skin outside, keeping us from breaking a sweat, though the sun shines brightly. Even now, as I sit in the living room of my lover’s house, listening to a suite written by my favorite classical composer for a spring day, Delius, the light shines through windows and hits the blonde wood floor and white walls, casting a buttery glow; keeping it balmy, as though this room is an extension of some lazy park.

Upstairs, my lover snoozes; his body sprawled out and touching every corner of the bed. Napping on a Sunday afternoon – he is in Heaven.

I f***king hate it. I HATE SUNDAY! I hate the warm breezes and clement temperature that elicits such ridiculous adjectives as read above! Blonde wood and buttery glow? What the hell is this anyway – a porn story for an Ikea catalogue?!

All my life and especially as a child I have regarded Sundays as the day that fun “takes the day off”. When you’re a kid and still in prison… did I say “prison”? I meant school. Sorry.

When you’re a kid and still in Guantanamo Bay, Sunday is the day before you have to return to class. As if being a kid in the 1980’s wasn’t bad enough. Double whammy!

I am grumpy. The good news is that I took my last dosage of antibiotics this morning. For those of you who haven’t read my previous entries, I have been battling a nasty case of breast cancer.

(Regular readers will know it’s actually just an ear infection, but first timers need to be drawn in with something a little more dramatic and compelling.)

Anyway, I am listening to the British composer, Frederick Delius. You Kate Bush fans will recall a track on her enigmatic effort, “Never For Ever” a song that bears his name, which is her love song for this composer. Or maybe it’s just a metaphor for her angst over her bunny slippers. Or maybe it’s about a ‘shroom trip she had while churning her own butter. It’s Kate Bush, so how are we to know?

A Man For All Seasons

Posted by Job O Brother, April 22, 2007 10:39pm | Post a Comment

               EXT. TOWER OF LONDON - DAY

               We hear the sounds of drumbeat.

               JOB, (early 30's) is led to the scaffolding by the heavy-set
               EXECUTIONER, who wears a black hood.

               The courtyard is crowded by on-looking MEMBERS OF THE COURT.

               Job is positioned behind the chopping block.

               Drum comes to a dramatic stop.

                         Any last words?

                             (clears throat)
                         Sorry. Does anyone have a lozenge?
                         I'm just... my throat is dry from
                         being all nervous about dying and
                             (beat; silence)
                         No? Okay, well... I think I have
                         some gum in my pantaloons up in
                         Bell Tower...

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