(In which Job enjoys theatrics at a new West End.)

Posted by Job O Brother, June 2, 2007 06:11pm | Post a Comment
We were maybe fifteen minutes outside of LA when Carrie first chirped, “Are we almost there yet?”

Logan shot a look that said, “I love you and you’re very dear to me but so help me God I will cut you open.”

The drive to 29 Palms was mostly uneventful. Bathroom breaks inevitably took us to greasy spoon diners, where guilt over utilizing the facilities without purchasing food caused us to orchestrate elaborate, timed infiltration.

“Okay, you and Carrie go in first. We’ll hold back a few minutes then enter.”

At some point it was decided that Logan should be nicknamed “Blimpie”. [In the original writing of the trip's blog, Blimpie was the name used, until Logan found out and used a tone of voice that caused me to subsequently re-edit everything. -Ed]

We had been at the 29 Palms Inn almost five minutes before we agreed it was love at first site. Ours is the most isolated cabin, located at what they call the West End, which I guess makes Carrie and Logan “West End Girls” for the weekend.

 We've got no future, we've got no past; Here today, built to last.
Amidst a constant stream of jokes about the many, grisly ways in which we would all meet our doom in the desert (snakes, sunstroke, redneck slashers) we staked out our bungalow and heartily approved.

Next, we trekked the walk across the desert sands and brush to the pool and restaurant. After a quick dip, we settled into a dinner table.

Feed us.

We were soon being served by a complete and total psychopath.

As psychopaths go she was very nice. We’ll call her Naomi, but that wasn’t her name. I’ll keep that confidential out of respect to her and because I’m scared she will hunt me down and turn my cracked-then-dried skull into a commuter mug.

Logan was hungry and was doing what she always does when hungry: planning to order enough food to provide relief to the continent of Africa. …With leftovers for Indonesia. Carrie wasn’t having it, and insisted they share a plate. I noted that sharing a plate would incur a $5 fee, as stated on the menu. Being raised, as I was, in the Great Depression*, this struck me as crazy talk.

“Order individual dishes and we can take the leftovers home where I can turn them into another meal… or maybe a pillowcase.”

But Carrie won, and she and Logan ended up splitting plates. As predicted, Logan didn’t even finish hers.

Over the course of the banquet, Naomi informed us of the bulk of her personal life. Before we even heard the dessert menu, we knew where she’d lived the last two years, the ages of her children, her plans to grow marijuana, her tragic physical background and battle with pesticide-related illness which led to a heated dissertation on the wickedness of everything from pesticides to Chanel No. 5. As she spoke she became increasingly agitated and loud until a speech relating an argument she once had with an architect culminated in her indignantly raising both her hands and, as I was putting the last bite of salmon in my mouth, yelling:


All I could think was, “I am so putting this in my blog.”

Moonrise over the desert.

By the time we were lounging on the front porch of our cabin, hypnotized by the beauty of a perfect moonrise and the warm nighttime breeze, my comrades were dropping faster than the cast of a Donner Party documentary.

Corey, as y’all know, is still recovering from his appendicitis surgery. Carrie and Logan had been infected with a cold virus from a friend, and were both quickly succumbing to it. I prescribed fresh lime wedges for vitamin C, and both patients ate some, buffering it with shots of tequila. West End Girls, indeed.

Logan, being the rugged survivalist she is, went out from the cabin on a hunt for the much prized and medicinal wild Nyquil, and returned with the green variety, the flavor of which I can only assume is meant to be “minty gym sock”.

Corey was already in bed, but the girls stayed on the porch, waiting for the Nyquil to coax them into sleep. I sang them the lullabies I had heard as a child, most of which contained threats of child abuse and the occasional racial slur. Ah, history.

I finally crawled into bed myself, where Corey read to me excerpts from his yet-to-be-completed novel, until I fell asleep.

I dreamt that I met Björk. She looked like the gay dude from “Little Britain” and was very sweet.

Back off girls, this one's mine: Corey is his element.

*The Great Depression I'm referring to is my
childhood, not the more famous one initiated by the Stock Market Crash of 1929.

(In which Job goes to the hospital instead of blogging.)

Posted by Job O Brother, May 28, 2007 09:24pm | Post a Comment

As I waited with my boyfriend, Corey, in the Emergency Room loading dock, nurses, aides, cleaning people and, I think, some illegal immigrants would rush through. The energy was frenetic. It was like someone spliced together all the link and filler scenes from a TV medical drama, and edited out the entertaining parts where you find out the doctor’s sleeping with the wife of the man who runs the hospital who is an alcoholic/pill addict and, even more tragic, votes Republican.

We learned that Corey had appendicitis. They wanted to perform surgery that night. Our plans to play poker and go dancing would, in all likelihood, have to be cancelled.

A cute picture of my boyfriend, Corey

Corey is a self-professed control-freak, and this would reveal itself in many ways. He would grill anyone who entered our room with the same battery of questions, to which he would receive, more or less, the same answers. I didn’t ask why, but I secretly theorized that he was waiting for one of them to “slip up” and say something like, “Well, you may be feeling discomfort because your uterus is over-extended,” to which Corey could then raise his pointed finger and exclaim, “Ah, ha! Got you! I’m a boy and I don’t have a uterus! Because of my hysterectomy last year.”

My boyfriend won’t find that joke funny, but he’s all cripple from surgery, so I’m safe.

Anyway, my favorite part of that phase of our hospital experience was when Corey called a nurse in and complained of the placement of his IV injection.

Continue reading...

(In which Job has a normal day, except for the hospital part.)

Posted by Job O Brother, May 27, 2007 03:44pm | Post a Comment

I’m sorry.

I haven’t written to you in ages, I know. It’s awful of me, but don’t take it personally – I have a really good excuse, and it has the added bonus of being true.

Saturday began normally enough. I woke up about and hour before my alarm went off, percolated some java, weaned my cat off my calf muscles and onto a bowl of kibble, shaved, brushed, exercised and watched the abortion episodes of “Maude”. Nothing remarkable.

Looking natural never looked so unnatural: Bea Arthur greeting you as Maude.

I left home to walk to Amoeba Music Hollywood fifteen minutes earlier than necessary; again, totally normal – I am chronically early to everything.

I was greeted at the door by a big hug from Karen and carefully made my way back to the jazz / classical / soundtracks / New Orleans / gospel / comedy / new age / blues room amidst a maze of potential accidents as created by our early morning cleaning staff.

Continue reading...

(In which Job is sooo condescending.)

Posted by Job O Brother, May 18, 2007 12:50am | Post a Comment

I’m looking around my room for gems of pop culture (or, as is more often in my case, unpopular culture) that I can gab about.

A good starting point is whatever’s playing on my iPod. Right now, that’s “La Transfiguration de Notre Seigneur Jésus-Christ”, a piece by the composer, Olivier Messiaen.


Um… That’s Olivier Messiaen.

Hee! You did it again! The way you’re pronouncing it in your brain is – you must forgive me – hilarious. It’s that cluster-f**k of vowels at the end.

Now, before you get all huffy and pronounce a few crueler things in your brain at me, you should know that I too once pronounced Olivier Messiaen the same way you… titter!… you just did.

But now I know better, and I’m going to pass this knowledge on to you. For free!

The first name is easy. It’s the Freedom version… I mean, the French version, of the name Oliver. Oh-LIVE-ee-ay. Like that one actor who won a lot of awards and inspired everyone with his performances and drank to numb the pain of his crushing depression and repressed homosexual desires.

No, silly – not Tom Cruise. Tom Cruise doesn’t inspire anyone. Pay attention!

Beloved actor and all-around doomed soul, Lawrence Olivier

The surname is the challenge, and requires making a couple sounds that don’t appear in the English language. I’ll break it down, syllable by syllable:

Messiaen: Mee-seh-YA-choo.

I know, I know. It doesn’t look like it’s pronounced that way, but it is French after all. We’re talking about a people who can’t be bothered to pronounce half their words most of the time.

Now you can walk into any music hall, concert at the park, conservatory, or the classical music section at Amoeba Music, and, with confidence, use the name Olivier Messiaen.

Here’s some examples of sentences you can now use, just to get you going:

1.) “Wow, this Amoeba is huge! I’m totally overwhelmed! Excuse me, but where might I find records by OLIVIER MESSIAEN? …Yes? Why, thank you! Also, what do the different colors of price stickers mean?”

2.) “Oh darling! Life is so much better now that I have found you! Come, let me cover you with kisses! Oh, look! There on the horizon! The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, thus signaling the end of the world! I guess there’s no point in bidding on that OLIVIER MESSIAEN c.d. I saw on eBay.”

3.) “I don’t see a much reason in being able to pronounce OLIVIER MESSIAEN when I have no f**king clue as to who he is.”

Or, my personal favorite:

4.) “That man over there says that women need to be helped into carriages, and lifted over ditches, and to have the best place everywhere. Nobody ever helps me into carriages, or over mud puddles, or gives me any best place, and ain't I a woman? ... I have plowed, and planted, and gathered into barns, and no man could head me -- and ain't I a woman? I could work as much and eat as much as a man (when I could get it), and bear the lash as well -- and ain't I a woman? I have borne thirteen children and seen most all sold off to slavery and when I cried out ‘OLIVIER MESSIAEN!’ with my mother's grief, none but Jesus heard me -- and ain't I woman?"

Well… that about wraps up this blog. It’s been pretty educational, don’t you think? Except for the part where I teach you the wrong way to pronounce Olivier Messiaen. And also how I never really explain who he is, which is the real shame, because he was a genius composer. If you’re into that sort of thing.

Oh well. Not every blog can re-invent the wheel, right? Even so, as a token, I’ll leave you with a picture of one. Good night!

Beloved actor and all-around doomed soul, Tom Cruise

(In which Job gets into a screening and a fight.)

Posted by Job O Brother, May 15, 2007 10:51am | Post a Comment
I have some good news!

My and I sweetheart had our first fight.

(That’s not the good news. Note the paragraph break, indicating a different point; though their coupling is relevant. Therefore, don’t mistake the above sentences as a non-sequitur, per se; except in instances where they may be removed from this paragraph and, as a result, rendered sans context, in which case, y’all can get freaky freaky with your bad self.)

My sweetheart and I went to a media screening of “The Ten”, the new comic, moving picture (or “movie” for short) directed by David Wain and written by David Wain and Ken Marino (both known and loved for their participation of that miracle of radness known as “The State”.)

“The State” was a sketch show that ran for three seasons and launched the careers of many familiar faces that went on to create other hella sweet things: STELLA, Wet Hot American Summer, Reno 911, to name some of the better known.

The film was almost completely entertaining, and even when it wasn’t making me laugh outright, I was never bored. The film, unlike the first two paragraphs in this blog entry (when taken with this, the following elucidation, as before explained) is chock full of non-sequiturs and basic silliness, which I like a lot.

I like that kind of humor a lot.

Like, more than just friends.

Anyway, sometimes there’s a lull in the pace or mood as a means of creating a sudden tension or bring everything to a heightened sense of surreal anxiety, which I appreciate, but will strike most people as just… not funny, which I also love. It’s interesting to note, too, that the cast is large and has many hotties in it. It is a very sexy cast, and you will have more than one face to crush on.

My only actual complaint is one of the actors. I won’t say who, because I’m about to have brunch with them before we go to our Kabalaties Class (that’s combination Kabala study and Pilates work-out for those who aren’t insane), and I don’t want to spend the whole time we’re enjoying our #4 Special (wheat-grass colonics with lychee-scented oxygen tanks, served with a Thetan-cleansing aura douche and sweet potato fries) with me defending my blog. The actor in question is very famous, loved by many and, in my opinion, a terrible actor. Another good reason not to say who it is: because you may not share my disfavor and therefore have no problem with them, and you don’t need me making you feel all self-conscious because you have no taste.

And don’t think for a second that it’s Paul Rudd, because he’s pretty and we like him.

If you love the various comic titles cited above, you’re sure to at least be entertained by “The Ten”. It’s not in theatres yet, and probably won’t stay in them for long because that space is needed for your Spiderman 334 and X-Men 635 and all your other stinky sequels.

As for my fight with my sweetie, it happened directly after seeing “The Ten”, but it was resolved quickly and we were holding hands and shopping at Target within the hour, just like every other gay couple in Hollywood.

Ken Marino, Michael Showalter, David Wain - looking gayer than my boyfriend
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