Amoeblog

HOMER's WIMB? (What If Homer Simpson Did an Amoeba What's In My Bag?)

Posted by Billyjam, January 8, 2013 05:00pm | Post a Comment

Ever since Amoeba fan/Simpsons creator Matt Groening recently paid tribute to Amoeba Music by including an Amoeba Music Hollywood fashioned building (renamed Protozoa Records) in the Season 24, Episode 7 Simpsons show titled "The Day The Earth Stood Cool" that aired in early December I have been scratching my head and wondering what if Homer Simpson were to stop into Amoeba for some music shopping? What would he buy? What would be included in a Homer Simpson's WIMB (What's In My Bag?) episode if he were to go crate digging at Amoeba Music? Based on the numerous songs Homer has cited (most well worn Top 40 pop/rock hits that the cartoon character supposedly grew up listening to) and have been featured in episodes in the long running animated series, now in its 24th year, this is my stab at what Homer's WIMB might look like.

Bear in mind that this list only scratches the surface since over the years Groening and company have incorporated such a long list of hit songs into The Simpsons. In fact the show must have racked up quite a bill in copyright fees to license all this popular music for the show. But it is worth it since music often plays such an important role in so many episodes of The Simpsons - especially the Homer related songs. For example, when Homer and Marge pop into the open house next door to them and he imagines buying the house and what it would be like living next door to himself, just how horrible that would be, as he visualizes himself always playing Journey's "Separate Ways" and at way too loud volumes.

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The San Francisco International Film Festival, 4/19 - 5/3

Posted by The Bay Area Crew, March 27, 2012 05:15pm | Post a Comment
San Francisco International Film Fest Castro

The San Francisco International Film Festival returns From April 19th – May 3rd for two weeks of cinematic discovery. The International assembles world-renowned talent—such as awardees KennethThe Love Song of R. Buckminster Fuller Branagh, Barbara Kopple, and Pierre Rissient—for Bay Area audiences.

This year's innovative events include Academy Award nominee Sam Green's latest live documentary project The Love Song of R. Buckminster Fuller with live music by Yo La Tengo (5/1 at SFMoma), Merrill Garbus (tUnE-yArDs) with Buster Keaton shorts (4/23 at Castro Theatre), and so much more!

For a complete guide to films, venues, and tickets, visit festival.sffs.org, but here are a few more that we are excited about!
 
Bernie (Richard Linklater, USA, 2011)
Explaining the proper methods to superglue eyelids closed and adjust a corpse’s smile, Bernie Tiede Richard Linklater Bernie Jack Black(Jack Black) warns, “You cannot have grief tragically becoming comedy.” But can it be funny when someone dies and no one cares? A former evangelist who arrives in Carthage, Texas to take a job as an assistant funeral director, Tiede uses his magnetic personality, seemingly never-ending skill set and Harold Hill–style of confidence to become the most popular man in town. Tiede even manages to charm Marjorie Nugent (a maniacally frenzied Shirley MacLaine), the local rich widow whom everyone else despises and fears. Eventually, though, Nugent’s abuses become too much for someone in Carthage to take. Director Richard Linklater returns to the East Texas of his youth to showcase the strange heart of small town life, where, as one character puts it, “people will always suspect the worst, but they’ll also suspect the best.” Saturday, April 21, Sundance Kabuki Cinemas.

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The '80s List: Part 7

Posted by Amoebite, August 26, 2011 11:04am | Post a Comment
Cabaret VoltaireOne day at Amoeba Hollywood I proclaimed that Aztec Camera's 1983 release High Land, Hard Rain was one of the best records of the '80s. This single statement eventually led to over 200 Amoebites ranking their top 10 favorite albums from the ‘80s.

From the beginning we realized that it was impossible for most of us to condense our favorites from all genres into a tiny top ten list. So, we limited our lists to Rock/Pop and its sub-genres like punk, metal, goth, and new wave. Even so, it was a difficult selection process because not only are there hundreds of amazing records to consider, there is also the added dynamic of time.

The '80s were a long time ago and the music has had many years to gestate. We have a deep sense of nostalgia and sentiment with these albums as our fondest memories are associated with them. These are albums we LOVE.

- Henry Polk

P.S. We'll be posting new additions to the '80s list project from Amoeba staff members on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. See all entries in our '80s list series.

P.P.S. The '80s List Book is available for sale at Amoeba Hollywood.


Kara Lane
The Smiths – The Smiths (1984)
Echo & The BunnymenPorcupine (1983)
The English Beat I Just Can’t Stop It (1980)
SpecialsSpecials (1980)
Love & RocketsExpress (1986)
PixiesCome On Pilgrim (1987)
Cocteau TwinsBlue Bell Knoll (1988)
The Cure – Boys Don’t Cry (1980)
XTC – Skylarking (1986)
X – Los Angeles (1980)

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(In which Job zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Posted by Job O Brother, September 20, 2007 10:00pm | Post a Comment
I’m writing this blog in a race against time.

I just popped two Tylenol PM caplets a couple of minutes ago. I expect my ability to compose grammar will degrade rapidly… starting now.

The problem is that I have too much to tell you. I almost tripped over Lily Tomlin’s feet at the HBO after-party the night of the Emmy’s. (I’ve been told that these so-called “Emmy’s” are an award they give to people in the television business, but I wanna do some fact-checking on that before I present the data as true.) I also caught Glenn Close bopping her shoulders when the band began playing Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing”.

Why do you Earthlings go so ga-ga over that song?!


Just a small town girl, livin' in a lonely world.

The boyfriend snagged us a chauffeured Audi. This fuggin' car had red, lit-up buttons on everything. Like, even the buttons had mini-buttons on them. I was intimidated. I don't like to think the car I'm riding in is smarter than me.

At a certain point we ended up in Anna Paquin's limo and headed over to the TV Guide party, just in time to miss Kanye West. I sent Kanye a box of Violet Crumbles to make up for it. It's his favorite candy bar. For Thanksgiving last year, he assembled the entire meal - turkey, stuffing, yams, Waldorf salad - using ONLY Violet Crumbles. It was an innovative and delicious meal and everyone who attended enjoyed themselves until we suffered diabetic shock and passed out drooling stomach bile.

Okay, some of that last paragraph is untrue.

Melissa Logan’s birthday party was two nights ago. I was there after a few rounds at The Advocate’s 40th anniversary party. William Baldwin was there, and I wasn’t sure if his standing across the room and paying no attention to me whatsoever was his idea of a come-on, but what else could it have been? The poor man just can’t come to grips with the fact that I am happily committed to Corey.


Corey chatting with Perez Hilton at the party, as I try to find a cocktail that doesn't look like a parrot.

I’m already forgetting what I’ve written. The Tylenol is gaining on me.

And speaking of sleeping pills, I’ll be going to see Rufus Wainwright’s tribute to Judy Garland this Sunday at the Hollywood Bowl. If everything goes according to plan, by the end of the evening I will have goaded a gang of Judy/Liza drag queens into pummeling me. It’s an obscure fetish and I have to take advantage of every opportunity to make it happen which presents itself.

(I have another fantasy of women dressing like Virginia Woolf, stuffing me into their coat pocket, and drowning themselves in rivers. This is a very difficult fetish to enjoy and it’s almost impossible to find women who’ll do this for me. And yes, I have checked Craig’s List, but girls will draw you in, full of promises to be Woolf and I’ll drive across town only to discover that they’re actually Vita Sackville-Wests. Total mood killer.)

Which leads me to wonder what kind of oven-cleaner Sylvia Plath used?

Wait… what is this blog about again? Or is this a letter? Who are you?

I better post a distracting picture and escape before you catch on…

(In which Amoeba goes on a field trip to see Hall & Oates.)

Posted by Job O Brother, September 14, 2007 11:01pm | Post a Comment

Resistance is futile - John Oates & Daryl Hall

Normally, when I get off work at Amoeba Music on Friday evenings, I rush home, remove most clothing, scold my cat for not accomplishing anything while I was gone, fix myself a salad and watch some DVD (right now it’s the original “Twilight Zone”, season 3) before attending to any writing projects I have, after which I cuddle up with my iPod and listen to David Sedaris until I either fall asleep, or the Grays abduct me for a night of cavity-probing and “Small Wonder” re-runs (they love that show).


"May I please have some Oreos and a cool glass of your DNA sample?"

However, last Friday night I was abducted in a different way.

Logan had called me earlier and asked me what I was “doing” that night and I, like a fool, said I had no plans. (My boyfriend was in Canada at the Toronto Film Festival.)

“Well,” she said, sounding particularly devious, “You’re coming with me and Karen and some other Amoebites to see Hall & Oates at the Hollywood Bowl.”

She paused then, and I think she was waiting for me to squeal with delight. Instead, I quietly waited for a punchline to what was obviously a whimsical joke. When no punchline came and I realized she was telling the truth, I started to choke.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“I think you gave me throat cancer,” I answered.

What had started as a moment of fantasy between a few co-workers had organically morphed into a large-scale field trip to the Hollywood Bowl. Karen had managed to secure a bevy of tickets and transportation. (I think she has mafia ties.)

Logan explained that she and Karen wanted me to go along and blog the event.

Why couldn’t my first assignment as an in-the-field Amoeblogger be something a little less dangerous? Like, testing SCUD missiles in Pakistan, or opening a gay bar in Tehran?

Logan was disappointed in my bad attitude. For those of you who don’t know her, she has these big, blue eyes that go all Justine Batemany on you when she’s sad and it’s more than a guy can take. So I buckled.

Which meant that, instead of spilling wayward arugula onto my knit-boxers as Rod Serling smugly narrated surreal half-hour segments, I departed work and turned left onto Cahuenga Boulevard where I saw a classic, yellow schoolbus, parked. Outside it, my boss Karen waited with open arms, like Saint Peter welcoming me to the Pearly Gates.

(Anyone who works for Karen knows she is an enthusiastic and skilled hugger. Whenever she greets you at the beginning of your shift, you’d swear it was your surprise birthday party.)

The Cahuenga Side.


Welcome to your future.


We waited at the bus as employees and their dates eventually made their way on board. Kara and I pondered the new, high-gloss, metal siding on the base of the CNN skyscraper, wondering if its new “Studio 54” make-over served a purpose other than looking like it was trying to get laid.

In the distance, the Sun set. It all sounds rather poetic, only Karen was, at this point, anxious to go. She had started her metaphorical engines an hour earlier and was in danger now of flooding.

Logan was the final animal to board our ark. What took her so long? She was doing her job, apparently. Her priorities are totally whack.

Welcome to the jungle.



A few employees watched from the sidewalk as the schoolbus of cheering Amoebites pulled out into traffic. It was kind of like leaving port on a cruise ship. A really tiny cruise ship that smelled like Hello Kitty erasers and pee.

Anyone who’s driven to a show at the Hollywood Bowl knows that it’s something akin to salmon spawning. Our driver, Nick, deftly managed the ebb and flow of cut-throat drivers which flanked our long, yellow craft, as we inched toward our destination.

En route, being at the front of the bus where all the good kids sat (i.e., old people) I only heard about the following two events:

1.) We drove past a gaggle of men all dressed as “Oates”, replete with matching mustaches and mullets. Thank God I only heard about this, because, had I actually set sight on such a thing, I would have surely perished.

2.) One of our employees mooned on-lookers from the bus window. Rumor informed me it was Jackie, but I don’t know this for certain. Even so, I’m just a blogger, not a news journalist, so let’s decide it was Jackie and write her many letters accordingly.

In the course of the evening, I would be consistently wrong about how Karen’s mind works. It was educational for me. For example:

Logan had been charged with photo-documenting the event (many of the pix you’re seeing here were taken by her). As we neared the Bowl, Logan suddenly wondered if cameras were allowed inside. We panicked, and Karen, brow furrowed, began to look around for (I thought) someone who might know whether or not cameras were permitted, so we could be certain to behave accordingly.

“That’s a good question,” she muttered. Her eyes settled on Paul Jones’ baggy pants. “Who can we hide that [camera] with?”

It’s not the only time that evening when her sense of responsibility proved more mutinous than maternal.

Whether or not she’s following the rules, she’s certainly always following her heart. Our intimidated bus driver must have been pleasantly surprised when Karen offered him a ticket and invited him to join us for the concert, which he did.

Once our group left the bus, it was every man for himself. Like retarded homing pigeons, we checked and re-checked our tickets, trying to find our seats. I imagine it’s what first-time customers go through upon entering Amoeba.

The group had splintered, but we eventually made it our corner of the Bowl. Some came laden with concessions. Karen had brought the only survival gear I needed: bottles of wine. Logan and I selected a bottle of Californian cab-sav (“Ooo, March – that was a very good month for wine!”) and were happy that the person who was carrying the cups hadn’t made it to us yet, because it gave us an excuse to drink straight from the bottle.


My one-man jug band.

The opening act was The Spinners. They shuffled out onto the stage in matching, yellow-and-glitter suits that would be the envy of every middle-aged woman in Florida, circa 1989.

They began singing the National Anthem, and when I automatically stood to join in, Logan and Amoeba manager, Alyssa, got all embarrassed – like I was making some kind of spectacle of myself. When the rest of the audience also stood, I had the last laugh.

“Stand up and sing, you Commie finks!” I snickered.

Some Amoebites even knew the words, though I think most would have proved better versed in a round of “Don’t Stop Believin’”.



The Spinners. Right round, baby, right round.

The Spinners proved to be a sweet but confusing act. Didn’t most of the members die? Who were these young bucks singing the key parts, anyhow?

Their dance moves proved tame in the extreme, and one couldn’t help but wonder if their break-dancing had been tailored to keep them from break-hipping. Even so, anyone who knew and appreciated the history of the surviving members were jubilant. Some Amoebites audibly sighed and swooned when a new song began, and there was some ecstatic arm-waving going on.

The Spinners were temporarily upstaged by a lone man who crept into the Amoeba area for a… nap?




A nap. Everywhere around us there’s screaming and dancing and general Dionysian behavior, and this dude plopped next to cashier Jessie and proceeded to nod-off!

My theory was that he was the husband of some Hall & Oates fan; as his wife got tipsy on Zima and Trader Joe’s chocolate-dipped cotton swabs, reveling in the soundtrack to her glory days in college, he escaped her slurring, lip-glossed laughter in search of some peace.

Instead, as soon as he was asleep, he was surrounded by tittering Amoeba employees who proceeded to pose for photographs next to him, like he was a costumed character at Disneyland.

“Look, Mommy! It’s the Sleepy Husband of Hollywood Bowl!"




Between these antics and the half-bottle of wine I’d sucked down, I was laughing so hard that my spleen began cracking. And it was only the opening act.

During intermission, Logan and I braved the concession stand. I was still reeling with unpleasant high school flashbacks from the bus-ride over, and waiting in line for a tray of over-cooked food sent me into a mild anxiety attack. Faced with paying something like $699.00 for a lackluster Caesar salad, I panicked and ordered two hot dogs.

Now, normally I don’t eat pork because it’s not Kosher and my Rabbi would not approve. He’s already annoyed with me for not being Jewish. But hot dogs were the only item on the menu that I could afford without taking-out a small loan from Washington Mutual, so I went for it.

Once I was faced with the… “food”, I was temporarily confused. Was I really supposed to eat this? Like, with my mouth?

Logan laughed hysterically as I grabbed three handfuls of mayonnaise packets. (In my experience, few things are so distasteful that enough mayo can’t transform it into a culinary delight.)



Logan eats the hot dog... I eat the Logan... it's a circle of life.

Back in our seats, we began force-feeding ourselves. I donated my second hot dog to Alyssa, who’s blood-sugar had dropped so low she was starting to confuse the ushers with picnic baskets. I was afraid she might try and open one of them.


Look! Up in the sky! ...It's Daryl Hall!


Hall & Oates opened with “Maneater” and there was much rejoicing. Oates had shaven off his trademark mustache, and I think it was a while before anyone knew who he was.







I have to be honest. I’ve never been a fan of Hall & Oates, but I am a HUGE FAN of people rocking out and having a swell time, so I was well entertained. One thing I can never make peace with, however, is a 1980’s pop-song, sax solo.

I hate the sax solo. When it finally fell out of fashion, along with Reaganomics, I heaved a hearty sigh of relief. I don’t know why it bothers me as much as it does; it strikes me as some intentionally bland bridge between catchy pop coasts, and I always think a song could be improved by cutting it out. Imagine my horror when Kenny G did exactly the opposite.

I mention the sax solo because, more so than Oates, a purple-clad sax player dominated the evening’s concert. It was he, and not the headlining duo, who walked out into the audience to enthusiastic spectators; like some pied piper, collecting throngs of coked-out forty-somethings and leading them to a land of saxophone nirvana.



Note the purple-clad sax player looming above me. 'Nuff said.

I would have barfed, but I had drunk a lot of wine, and I needed those calories.

We laughed, we cried, we shouted and doubled-over as Hall & Oates played their hits and, every once in a while, snuck in a song they weren’t sick of.

When they played their closing song, we kept clapping – everyone smug in their assumption that they would eventually give us an encore in the form of “Private Eyes”. It never occurred to us that…

Lights up.

Huh? No encore? What…?

Show’s over.




The natives began to grumble. Admiration gave way to ire as the hundreds of people unified in a feeling that they had been short-changed by not hearing “Private Eyes”. As for me, it was one less opportunity to endure a sax solo, so I was cool.

I barely remember the walk back to the bus. I was, by this point, drunk, as were the people in charge of leading us back. There were moments of desperation as our one large group began to lose each other in increasingly small cliques, and I had flashbacks of “Sophie’s Choice”.

I was one of the first groups to make it back to the bus, along with Karen and Logan and Nick, the bus driver, which was no small relief.

Karen offered our bus driver some wine before thinking better of it.

Finally, everyone except Paul Jones was accounted for. Those of us who know Paul felt assured that he was not only okay, but had probably swindled his way into some celebrity’s limo and was smoking reefers in a Jacuzzi overlooking the Hills. But some kind-hearted (if naïve) co-workers felt we should wait and make sure Paul was safe.

When he was finally reached on a cell phone, he was already long gone from the Bowl. I hope the limo ride was smooth, Paul.

The ride back to Amoeba was as loud as the concert. The back of the bus regaled us with a confused sing-a-long of songs so random, it would cause an iPod shuffle to freeze.

When we pulled up next to our beloved store, there were some cops parked there, and Karen urgently began to quiet everyone down. After all, we don’t want the police investigating us. Once she got the bus silenced, she announced:

“Now let’s hear it for our bus driver, Nick!”

Everyone cheered, and once again I realized I was wrong about what Karen had been thinking.




Everyone poured out of the bus and began hugging. Drunk on wine and good times, I plodded home.

My cat hadn’t folded a single piece of laundry.
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