Amoeblog

I think I'm in Love!

Posted by The Bay Area Crew, June 21, 2007 11:11am | Post a Comment
I aint sure if this has anything to do with Amoeblog, but when a girl feels that special love for a man, sometimes she don't think straight. 'Specially when she gay and all that.



I know, I know. I spend far too much time blogging everywhere about my man crush of the moment, for there are many. But looka that man up there, GO SAINTS! How can anyone resist ... especially when he has brought the HAHAHAHA into your life week after week? Also, okay okay, I gotta weakness for a gap. A teeth gap, baby.

Maybe he'll come by for some kind of charity auction thing as they do in the Hollywood Amoeba and then, magically, this blog will be justified. Word?

Also? I love you Brently, even though you don't even know my name. Sigh. (It aint no thing, I just wanted to sound like a country song for a second.)

Brently, rawr:
 

(In which Job's boyfriend takes control of this blog.)

Posted by Job O Brother, June 20, 2007 12:28pm | Post a Comment


Today's blog is written by guest blogger, Corey, otherwise known as C$.

Job is busy making me dinner right now, so the least I can do is blog for him. I have also had one of his vodka-pomegranate cocktails, so I may be more lucid than usual.

At any rate, what is so hard about blogging? I do it all the time for The Advocate. Of course, it is usually at a film festival or something, so I have something interesting to talk about. But in the absence of such obvious content, what does one say?

I will tell you this: Job spends far too much time on these blogs. Time, I might add, not spent with me. I don’t think he got the memo that these should be short and pithy. The reader doesn’t have that much of an attention span anyway, and no patience for rambling and self-indulgence. What is more self-indulgent than a blog about someone’s life, never met, and their friends and experiences, never met, nor experienced. Does anyone really want to read any of that? Does anyone really want to see pictures of me in a red, satin tuxedo jacket perched atop a rock in the middle of Joshua tree? (Besides myself and Job of course).

It is only right that I tell you a few things about Job that perhaps he would never tell you. Only I can’t think of anything he doesn’t cop to. I just waxed his back this afternoon, but that isn’t very salacious. Let’s think… He barks a UPS trucks whenever he sees them. Yes, he barks, like a dog. No matter who is in the car. He acts like a real baby at about 11:30 pm every night. I ask him if he is tired (knowing, of course, that he is) and he responds “no” with pouted lower lip, and eyes droopy and childlike. The voice also is dismissive, blurted and vaguely resembling a grunt. Then he makes me pull him off the couch and pretends to be too tired to get up of his own will. He then pretends to be too tired to undress himself, get under sheets, or get on his own side. There is even fake crying and the rubbing of eyes. It is of course incredibly cute to me, but to the outside witness it would appear vaguely retarded and co-dependent. 

Let’s see, what else. He is not fan of Dove soap, which I love. (He calls it white trash). He worries about money a lot, which I don’t, and doesn’t care at all about his own death, which I fear. He loves Ikea, which is basically a mental deficiency.

Oh! Here’s a good one: Job has favorites. Not like normal people favorites, like a favorite food, or a favorite color. I mean Job has a favorite type of hot dog for eating specifically at ballparks. This might be drastically different from the favorite hot dog to be eaten at BBQs. Now beyond that, there is a second, third and fourth favorite of all these things. Everything is ranked with a number and each can be explained in detail as to the reason for its ranking. This, in and of itself, would be fine except that one of his favorite things to do is ask you for your favorite of all these things. You are then sweating, hemming and hawing, trying to drive, trying to come up with the last time you were even at a ballpark let alone ate a hot dog, and mostly you just don’t care. You just don’t notice the subtle difference in ever molecule of every morsel of food ever ingested, or each chord of every song ever played. Now, this does make him a very good cook, which is about to help me immensely as it is suppertime and, remember, he is currently cooking for me. And I would imagine this makes him a very good Amoeba employee as well.

So come to Amoeba, to the Soundtracks section where Job has carefully organized every disc, every plastic case, every rare and unheard of by the general public recording of obscure off-Broadway drum and pipe music performed by naked midgets. And ask him who his 17th favorite naked midget instrumentalist is. The answer might just surprise you.

[Note from Job: I don't actually like hot dogs at all. They are my 29th least favorite food.]

OUT, LOUD, & PROUD LONG BEFORE IT WAS IT WAS HIP TO BE QUEER

Posted by Billyjam, June 12, 2007 09:29am | Post a Comment

Gary Floyd
deserves major credit, not just for being such a talented artist but for being an openly gay front person of a punk band in Texas in the late seventies/early eighties. And this he boldly did as the powerhouse vocalist for legendary hardcore punk band The Dicks, the self-described "commie faggot" blues-derived, hardcore punk band who released their brilliant, rage-fueled first single, "Dicks Hate the Police," in 1980 on (fellow Austin punks) MDC's R Radical record label. This song, which many later learned via Mudhoney's cover version or (Gary's next band) Sister Double Happiness performing it, is a timeless punk classic (see lyrics below) and is currently available on The Dicks 1980-1986 on Alternative Tentacles. After the Dicks' demise, the tireless Gary Floyd, who has lived in San Francisco for the past 25 years, went on to form Sister Double Happiness, Black Kali Ma, the Gary Floyd Band, Hard Ride and currently, the raw blues/country Gary Floyd and the Buddha Brothers. Last week the Buddha Brothers performed at the Make Out Room in San Francisco on a bill with Penelope Houston, who sings on one their songs ("Take it Like A Man") and who joined them onstage. This week and next week Gary will be in the studio with the Buddha Brothers recording new tracks. Last week on my radio show on WFMU I had the opportunity to catch up with Gary, who in addition to music also paints, to talk about Austin, being queer, and how the formation of the Dicks was based on a lot drinking and telling lies.

GARY FLOYD:
I started putting up posters around town (Austin) saying that The Dicks are playing and I would make up club names. So it was just a poster band. It was a lie. So I put up these things saying The Dicks are playing. And people would say "Oh you're in The Dicks?" And I would say 'Yeah' and they would lie to me and say 'Oh I've seen The Dicks' and I would look at them and think (laughs) 'You're a bigger liar than I am!' And then I met Buxf (Parrot) and Glen (Taylor) one night and they wanted to be in a band. And then we got Pat (Deason) and we started The Dicks. It was all started with a lot of drinking and a lot of lying.

Continue reading...

(In which the group's adventures come to a close.)

Posted by Job O Brother, June 11, 2007 09:14am | Post a Comment
Everyone awoke a little gloomy. It was our last day, and check-out time was only four hours away. Logan in-particular was not okay with this and sought out the front desk to plea our case. The result was a new check-out time of four o’clock, at no additional charge.

I’m not sure what Logan had to do to get this sweet deal; knowing her, they were probably just charmed, but that makes for a boring blog, so let’s pretend she seduced the owner’s wife, or at the very least threatened them with rad karate moves.


"Hit me with your best shot" - Logan in control

With only half a day left, the majority agreed that the best thing to do was give me a haircut.

Uh, wha...? Really? It’s that bad?

What I saw as my sexy, shaggy mop – so hip and suave was, unbeknownst to me, something akin to Eric Stoltz’ hot look in the movie “Mask”. Apparently I had been unwittingly turning Greek adventurers into stone with my mere hairdo. Who knew?


Bad hair daze: Eric Stoltz, Medusa, and me

Carrie was adamant. She was going to cut my hair. My boyfriend immediately switched to publicist mode, yelling demands and controlling events from his chaise lounge. “Short!” he kept shouting, “Short… short!”


BEFORE: Carrie assesses the situation


The Master Hair-stylist can adapt to any situation


Beauty and the Beast

My own opinions were merely tolerated as flights of fancy. I had been reduced to a pre-Suffragette woman with hopes of one day earning a living for herself, winning the right to vote, or at the very least, opening her own door without being seen as a dangerous lesbian.

“All I want is a room of my own,” I implored, “Or a beer and a smoke. Get me a beer and a smoke!” I transformed into a high-maintenance star. I demanded fresh, cold bruskis and lit cigarettes. Logan, who photographed the event, became my unwitting slave.

“I want music!” I howled.

“The turntable’s in the living room,” Logan explained.

“Then move it into the kitchen!” I screeched. I reasoned I could afford to be so petulant, because I had subjected myself to the group’s desire to convert my coiffure. Suddenly, the cliché roles of Hollywood celebrity-versus-production company made new sense to me. They wanted to use me as a product; as such, my body/mind must succumb to their vision, the payoff for which is the need to keep me happy, lest I sabotage everything.

It’s a circle of life.


AFTER: Apparently I gained 15 pounds during my haircut

To her credit, Carrie gave me what I honestly believe to be the best haircut I’ve e’er had.

(For the last six or seven years of my life I have cut my own hair. I began doing this out of spite. Every time I went to a barber, I would carefully and clearly explain what I wanted, then they would proceed to do whatever gruesome scheme had been dictated them over the night by the dog down the street. Hair by Son of Sam. And for this I would pay money. Actual money! Finally I snapped and refused to stay in such an abusive relationship.

“I may well f**k up my hair by cutting it myself,” I reasoned, “But at least I won’t be paying for it, too.”)

After the styling, Corey couldn’t keep his hands off me, which is exactly the sort of behavior I encourage.


"Get that camera out of my love life!" - Job & Corey, post-haircut

The four of us milled around our beloved bungalow and lamented losing it. The time came to pack and we did. It was the first time in three days we had to do something we didn’t want to do, and we were little, whinny, crybabies about it.

Logan spoke of returning to Los Angeles as though she were being returned to Guantanamo Bay.

With heavy hearts and a loaded car, we left 29 Palms. We set course for an hour-long detour through scenic Joshua Tree. Carrie took it upon herself to play DJ with my 80-gig iPod, causing sonic whiplash as she segued from “Miss Clare Remembers” by Enya to “Nasty” by Janet Jackson.


We stopped along the way to take photographs. At some point during the shoot, Logan and Corey spotted a rattlesnake relaxing nearby. At the exact moment they announced this, I was snapping a picture of Carrie, and the face I captured is hilarious! But to keep her from deleting it, she made me promise not to post it. Let me tell you, you are missing out. But a promise is a promise and you won’t see it here on my blog.

HOWEVER, send $17.00 and a blank t-shirt to me, c/o Amoeba Music Hollywood, and I will make you a “Carrie reacts to news of a rattlesnake” t-shirt; destined to be a collector’s item and quite possibly the end of her friendship with me.


Christine McVie & Stevie Nicks... oh wait, it's Logan & Carrie.


"We'll build the next Amoeba Music on that rock, there" - Logan & Job

By the time we made it through the desert, night had fallen. It wasn’t long before we were once again engulfed in neon lights and acres of strip-malls.


This is what a Manager of Amoeba Music looks like. Apply within.

We stopped at In-n-Out Burger. Carrie and I could have sworn we saw a customer order “peppers” and receive some from behind the counter. She and Logan were also wowed by my fries, which I had ordered “animal-style”, an option they weren’t aware existed. I also order my double-double “protein-style”, which is sans-bun for those of you not in-the-know. It led to us pondering what secrets In-n-Out still has.

“What other options are there?” we wondered. Could I order my milkshake “Full House” and receive it with an autographed 8x10 glossy of a nude John Stamos?

Dude… that would rock...


[Insert a few minutes of silence here as the author ponders this, before sudden embarrassment snaps him back to reality.]

Logan was beginning to suffer from her recent sunburn, but gallantly drove us the whole way, cashing in on that private-reserve of stoic determination that God bequeaths all Daughters of Sappho. We played games of 20 Questions the whole ride home.

(I was unjustly ridiculed for some of my answers, dear reader. You would be horrified to learn of the way my fellow travelers abused me during this game. It was inevitable that my best friend and my boyfriend, meeting on this vacation for the first time, would eventually join forces against me. It was cruel, oh my brothers, so that even the Angels would weep for my soul as it was tormented by my friends’ total poopy-facedness.)

It’s moments like now that make having a blog so worthwhile.

Logan and Carrie dropped Corey and I off at his home, and we said our good-byes.

The next day, Carrie and I rendezvoused one last time for a brief shopping stint on Melrose, then we walked to Amoeba, where a taxi took her away from us. John Doe was playing an in-store, but even that couldn’t lighten Logan or my heart.

Huge, grey storm-clouds appeared and began drizzling. Babies cried, and mothers went out in a vain search for food. Men stood in unemployment lines, as cattle died of disease. Stock markets crashed and World Trade Centers crumbled again and again. French fries turned cold. In short, all was lame.

Until ten minutes later when I began watching season two of “The L Word”.

The end!

(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.

Soon, my friends will stop talking around me.

The four of us eventually drove out to Desert Christ Park, located in Yucca Valley.


Looking statuesque: Logan, Carrie & Corey with various disciples

The statues were simple but lovingly made, though rendered somewhat creepy by rampant vandalism. Most of the Jesus statues raised their arms to heal the sick or voice beatitudes, sans hands. Sad and disconcerting.


Suffer little children: the vandalized statues of Desert Christ Park

Carrie and Logan dropped us off back at the cabin while they went off on a hike. I’ve prepared dinner like the happy housewife I am.

And that brings you up to present time. I’m sitting at Carrie’s laptop, typing this sentence. Corey is fresh from the shower and nude and, despite my pleas, putting clothes on. Lame.

I’ll be back later to tell you what happened with the West End Girls on their hike as soon as they tell me.

As for what all this has to do with music or film, two of the four of us are Amoeba Music employees. We ARE the music.
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