Amoeblog

Diamanda Galás Hates The Food Fighters

Posted by Job O Brother, February 28, 2011 01:32pm | Post a Comment

Call it a survival kit.


The boyfriend is out of town this week, enjoying* the chilly dewiness of Portland, Oregon. (I wish I was with him – I get hungry just thinking about Portland, with all its easily accessible, diet-vanquishing, culinary goodness. Plus there’s a lot of hella rad folks who live there, and while I normally loathe good food and great people, something about the air there makes me all for it.)

I love my boyfriend, and I never find myself wishing he was gone; all the same, I cherish these times when it’s just me and the cats. It’s not that the boyfriend keeps me from doing anything, per se, but self-respect  keeps me from behaving certain ways in his presence.

For example, alone, I do nothing with my hair other than washing it. The result is a blond afro which effectively doubles the size of my already-capacious noggin. I wear a wife-beater constantly – something that never fails to get me not laid in this house – and if it’s too cold, I simply toss a hoodie over the wife-beater. That’s fashion, kids.


The cover for my new album, Save Auntie

Wine must be drunk straight from the bottle when I’m a bachelor. I swear it tastes better this way – perhaps because more oxygen is imparted into each swallow? It sounds debaucherous, I know, but I actually end up drinking less wine this way, because I drink just what I want instead of emptying a glass simply to keep from wasting anything. (It’s my Depression-era mentality. Why, when I was a kid in the 1930’s, we didn’t even have wine – only lime juice, which we’d make less sour by adding sugar, vanilla, rum, orgeat syrup and orange liqueur. And we had no glasses to drink it out of, so we had to use hollowed-out coconut shells. And it’s not like today where you can just swish wine in your mouth, oh no! We had to use little paper umbrellas to mix our beverages. I tells ya, times were hard.)

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(In which we wonder why one bothers... Hmph!)

Posted by Job O Brother, July 12, 2010 02:34pm | Post a Comment
"Social Security barely covers my cost of living and Diabetes has ruined my sense of freedom and vitality!"

I’m grumpy. Not hella grumpy, mind you, just regular grumpy. I suppose it’s from a week of drinking booze and eating varieties of delicious, weird, snack food that Trader Joe’s is always inventing, getting you hooked on, then discontinuing. (“Dark chocolate covered, rosemary-seasoned aspirin, anyone?”)

Maybe it’s because the weather just became truly warm here in L.A.; the kind of warm that makes you hate wearing shirts and leaves you wanting to bear-hug an electric fan. Most folks here love this weather – in fact, many moved here specifically for it. I am not those people. I like the north aspect to North America. And if it is going to get hot, I want it to smell like baked oak trees and wild grasses – not car exhaust and Beyoncé’s Heat.


No amount of orange juice makes this stuff taste good, FYI.

Maybe I’m grumpy because we* finally found the right bookshelves for our bedroom after an exhausting day of umlaut deciphering, baby stroller dodging and meatball eating at our nearest Ikea, only to discover that we forgot bookends, which we need before we can use the shelving.

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(In which Job learns he is no chicken.)

Posted by Job O Brother, November 10, 2008 03:17pm | Post a Comment

The view from my window. That store in the middle is Linda Thai - they have great food.

It’s a beautiful, autumn day in Hollywood. I’m sitting in my underwear at my open French doors which overlook my bustling community and writing this sentence. Well, I was. Now I’m writing this sentence.

Suddenly, I begin a new paragraph and with it, a faint sense of dread seeps in, because I realize I’m writing about writing, and there’s only so long that that is cute. It could quickly descend into obnoxiousness.

So I choose to focus on your face. Your sweet, shining face reading this blog entry. I can feel your eyes gaze on these words, and my heart grows warm. A little too warm. This is uncomfortable, actually.

I think I might be having a heart attack.

Which reminds me of that age-old question: What music would you like to be listening to when you’re experiencing myocardial infarction (or, as they call it on the East Coast, Hellmann’s)?

It’s a tricky question because you want something that will keep your spirits up as you endure the occlusion of your coronary artery following the rupture of a vulnerable atherosclerotic plaque, but you don’t want anything too loud and jarring when an unstable collection of lipids and macrophages ruptures the wall of your artery. Plus, it should be catchy. Anything that meanders like, say, late Scott Walker or Laura Nyro is going to annoy your nurses every time. Nurses hate Laura Nyro when they’re working. Also  they don’t like it when you call them “mommy”.

“My pain scale is a 5, Mommy,” is all you have to say and they’ll shoot you a look so cold you’d think you were in the E.R. for hypothermia. It doesn’t matter that you’re trying to make things more cozy and homey. Ask them “Why are you hurting me with that needle, Mommy?” and forget about it. No good pills for you. (This is different if the nurse is male, however, in which case they not only think it’s cute that you call them “mommy” but will often scribble their personal home phone number on your electrocardiogram.)

The results come back and you learn that it wasn’t a heart attack at all, rather, your heart just broke a little bit. It broke a little bit because California, the state you’re so proud of (normally) and which has for so long been on the cutting edge of liberty (normally) has decided to pass Proposition 8, which basically lets me know how the majority of voters think about my sexuality (abnormally).

The pain is compounded when you learn that the success of this measure was due in no small part to the Mormons and the African-American community. But I guess that’s to be expected, since neither group really knows or understands what it’s like to be an oppressed minority, right?

Um…
 

The new home of California politics: Salt Lake Temple, Utah

But this is a music blog, not the Huffington Post, so I’m going to separate myself from this issue which is HURTING ME SO VERY, VERY DEEPLY and concentrate on the music I’ve been listening to since Election Day, 2008.

Each selection appeals to me because it reminds me of people who have lived through harder times than myself. People who bore the brunt of tremendous injustice and still managed to create music ripe with dignity, intelligence, and unvanquished spirit. When I hear the selections below, I regain a sense of will and courage that must see me through until I am no longer an object of HATE simply because of who I choose to LOVE.

Nina Simone
Pirate Jenny
 


Paul Robeson Ol' Man River

(with alternate lyrics by Paul Robeson)



Ludwig Van Beethoven Symphony No. 3
conducted by Herbert Von Karajan



Tired of the bombast, bling, boasting & the big productions?

Posted by The Bay Area Crew, December 19, 2007 10:24am | Post a Comment
WARNING:  This video will teach your children to curse like a sailor, so I sure hope you Moms and Dads are being responsible and spending time with your kids so you can help them make important decisions that will educate them now and have a massive impact on the rest of their lives. If you are a Gentle Reader as introduced to me by Katy St. Clair - or a Christian or a Mormon, please, look away. We'll talk again some other day.

Today is a quick homage to .... A Regular Everyday Normal Guy (Motherfucker)



You know who I think is great? The everyday, normal guy. (MF) -The Insomniac