Amoeblog

Cruise to Mexico: Part 2

Posted by Job O Brother, September 27, 2010 03:52pm | Post a Comment

Bon voyage, bitches.

For the boyfriend and myself, going on a second cruise was like a couple of World War II veterans returning to Truk Lagoon – we knew in our hearts we were headed for a piece of paradise, but past experience kept us on edge, worried for the worst. (It’s hard to come back from a cruise where you order 1 bowl of chicken soup and, instead, are brought 14 bowls of rice and 26 hard boiled eggs.) At least this time, we had company: his mother, Chris, and his father, Fred – two people with lots of cruise experience.


Chris and Fred flew in from Texas, where they reside. Early in the morning, the four us took a shuttle to Los Angeles Pier. The driver of the shuttle was the slowest I think I’ve ever witnessed. I mean, kudos on being safe, but when your passengers start thinking they’d make better time on foot, you’ve got a problem. Seriously – he made the Peoplemover seem like the Starship Enterprise.

Once at the Pier, we were guided through a bewildering array of checkpoints, gates, lines, forms and again, more checkpoints. To add to the confusion, there were both mandatory forms and photos to be taken, and optional, “fun” photos and forms. The whole ordeal was kind of like being led to the concentration camp at Auschwitz, if, y’know, instead of wanting to exterminate people, the Nazis were obsessed with tricking them into buying family portraits superimposed on commuter mugs.

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(In which foul language is used.)

Posted by Job O Brother, March 12, 2008 10:02pm | Post a Comment

The author being bullied into gambling. Note the excitement in his face. Note the sarcasm in the previous sentence.

Day two of Las Vegas saw Corey and I doing one of our favorite things: nothing.

After a breakfast of oatmeal so slimy you’d think it was an accessory for your Castle Greyskull play-set…





…we returned to the artificial beach that had been so typhoony the day before. This time it was sunny, sparkling, and crowded. Tacky house music blasted from every nook and cranny, making each action seem like a dull outtake from a beer commercial. We took refuge near a waterfall, which helped to drown out the incessant oomph – oomph – oomph

One feature I totally had a crush on was this thing they called the Lazy River, which was a stretch of pool that ran in a winding loop, with a strong current that was propelled by machines (or black magic – I didn’t actually ask). You get in this thing and you’re gently swept along with little physical effort. I decided then and there, if I’m ever a billionaire, I would buy myself a Lazy River. Then, dear reader, you and I could dive and splash and play all day, and no one could tell us to stop, because we’d just ride the current far away – safe from harm, from the voices, from the voices in our heads that tell us to kill.

Amidst all this carefree luxury, there grew in me a fear, tightening its grip, as hours past and evening drew near. You see, we had tickets to…


Cirque du Soleil.


Now, I had never seen a Cirque show, but I’d never let that stand in my way of judging them harshly. You have to keep a closed mind about things, right?

My fear was tied into my anxiety of all things “clowny”. This is not only about clowns, just behavior that I deem clowny. I don’t like circuses, carnivals, and other, similar events. I love Disneyland, but will go to great lengths to avoid the people dressed as Disney characters. The panhandlers on Hollywood Boulevard make my palms sweat and, confession time, when Amoeba Music celebrates Mardi Gras with a traditional parade, I time my fifteen minute break to allow for me to hide.

It’s nothing against these things. They bring joy and I totally think joy is rad, I just… feel incredibly… notwannabetherey when they happen.

So, when we neared the theatre and I saw ushers dressed in costumes and greeting audience members in character, I froze, and for a second I considered whether or not rushing out into the Nevada desert was an option. My behavior was moderately annoying Corey, so I put my courage to the sticking place and slipped in, careful not to make eye contact with theatre employees.

The show itself turned out to be good fun. There was one scene that genuinely excited me, because it showcased shadow-puppets.


Show-puppetry fucking rocks. It fucking rocks hard. Normally I don’t spell out cuss words in my blog, because I don’t want to offend spiritually bankrupt people, but in this case I have to make an exception and just let it out: SHADOW PUPPETS ARE FUCKING CHERRY.

After the show, Corey and I went backstage to meet Janine DeLorenzo, one of the (heh heh) instrumental people involved in Ka’s live orchestra. She was recently profiled, along with many other GLBT movers and shakers of Las Vegas, in the new issue of The Advocate.

Janine gave us a generous backstage tour. It was mind-boggling to see everything that goes into one of the productions – in some ways, behind the scenes was more astonishing than the show itself. (Though not the shadow-puppet part – that shit rocked harder than anything!)

Corey and I returned to our hotel room and snuggled up to some Mystery Science Theatre 3000, which has become our traditional, romantic, nightcap. Coincidentally, we both fell asleep for the whole night!





I dreamt that I was in a bar that was beautifully decorated with half-walls of colored, glass bottles. Kurt Cobain approached me. We exchanged pleasantries, then he asked me about his suicide and how it affected me. I was honest, and told him it made me very angry, that I hated him afterwards for doing it, though that hate eventually cooled. He listened to everything I said, looking compassionate.

I think the dream meant I need to eat more ice cream.

Ingmar Bergman + 1918-2007

Posted by Job O Brother, July 30, 2007 10:25am | Post a Comment