Amoeblog

(In which the writer takes a break from writing to write.)

Posted by Job O Brother, February 9, 2009 08:02pm | Post a Comment
sick card

My baby’s been under the weather. And by baby I don’t mean a child I gave birth to; I mean it as a euphemism for “that one dude I smooch and go to Target with.” Baby is just much easier to say.

Anyway, when my baby’s feeling poorly, he likes to watch predictable films, like... well... anything you can come up with that stars Jennifer Aniston or Sarah Jessica Parker and ends with them proving that they really were destined for true love, after all. Normally I protest and suggest we watch something with more substance, such as The Killing of a Chinese Bookie or The Cranes Are Flying – y’know, something that provides perspective and/or promotes psychological examination, to which my baby will argue that he just wants to “be distracted and get lost” in a film, not be intellectually stimulated. I argue that it’s hard for me to “get distracted” watching a film that makes me want to stab a Phillips-head screwdriver into my left aortic arch.

It's like this:

ME...


...VS. MY BOYFRIEND...


(In which Job & Corey cuddle with comedy & cookies.)

Posted by Job O Brother, December 30, 2008 12:06pm | Post a Comment
love
The author & his beloved celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ.

It’s been a leisurely day, hanging at my boyfriend’s house. We’ve both been productive in our way; I’ve been souping up my new iPhone while he’s busied himself by setting people on fire and yanking things out of the bodies of little girls. It’s called Bio-Shock, and it’s a video game – don’t go calling the cops on my boyfriend. He almost never does those things in real life.

You know how human bodies are 55% to 60% water? I think, by now, my body is like 65% cookies. My holiday has been overwhelmed by cookies. I think I might hate them now. I’ve been bringing them to Amoeba and pushing them on our customers. If you want cookies, brother, come to the jazz room information desk at Amoeba Music Hollywood. I’ll help you find Pink Martini only if you first eat four peanut blossoms.

cookie

Lately, when my boyfriend and I go to bed together these winter nights, we’ve been doing the same thing.
...

…Er… Okay. I’m going to give you a moment to enjoy your imagination.

Okay, dear reader, if you’re quite done, I’ll tell you what we really do.

Curled beneath the covers, we’ve been watching sketch comedy on his laptop. It’s the perfect way to pass the time as you wait for the melatonin to kick in. And much more relaxing than our previous habit of watching Taliban executions and/or Carol Channing musicals. (It’s interesting to note that both will give you the same, horrific nightmares.)

(In which Job noshes nog.)

Posted by Job O Brother, December 22, 2008 09:04pm | Post a Comment
egg nog
Okay – I just took my first sip of egg nog. Laced, as it is, with a healthy dose of Maker’s Mark, we shall see what, if any, impact it has on my blog writing.

Today has been devoted to wrapping gifts and last-minute shopping. Guess where I went for the shopping.

If you guessed Amoeba Music, you guessed correctly. Point for your team. If you guessed the Lost City of Atlantis, you’re not only wrong, but your grasp on reality is tentative, to say nothing of your lack of knowledge of where to find bargains. No one ever saved money exploring the depths of the Atlantic Ocean. You can quote me on that.

*second sip of egg nog*

Anyone knows that Lemuria is where the good sales are.

*third sip of egg nog*

I’ve worked at Amoeba Music Hollywood for over four years now, but when I shop there, it still feels new and thrilling and yes, sometimes overwhelming, though in the same way that Disneyland is overwhelming. You know – so much fun to be had + if only I could use a bulldozer to get through these swarms of people!

I can’t tell you what I found because I was shopping for my boyfriend Corey who, for some ridiculous reason, actually reads my blog. Probably to make sure I don’t tell you about his embarrassing habit of biting fingernails. Not just his own fingernails. Anyone’s. He’ll gnaw your digits as soon as look at you. It’s a problem, and has gotten us kicked out of more than one function.


One night, while attending a performance of Puccini's "La Bohème" at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, we were escorted out right in the middle of one of my favorite arias, "Sì, mi chiamano Mimì" (which, loosely translated means "Yes, my fingers taste like chocolate bunnies") because Corey was so swept away by the music and the sentiment that he unconsciously began nibbling on the pinky of the elderly woman next to him. As we were exiting, I was so humiliated that I walked ten paces behind Corey, trying to remain inconspicuous, which was hard because of what he'd done.

R.I.P. Pushing Daisies

Posted by Job O Brother, November 20, 2008 08:20pm | Post a Comment
bryan fuller
Bryan Fuller

$%(&$*%#%@*^%$%^*%^!!!!

You just insert whatever cuss word sounds best screamed out loud and that’s what that opening line is. Why am I yelling obscenities? Because I just learned that Bryan Fuller’s fantastic TV show, Pushing Daisies, has not been renewed.

Honestly, I guess I should be used to this by now. The phrase “too good for TV” has left my lips too often, and has applied to every Fuller creation.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with his work, treat yourself to Wonderfalls or (most of) the first season of Dead Like Me, and definitely check out Pushing Daisies.

For cynical, intellectual blokes like me who are more excited by an evening of psychologically tormenting Swedish films or whose idea of a catchy pop tune includes Scott Walker moaning in an echo chamber about the Plague, Bryan Fuller’s programs offer a rare opportunity to enjoy a romantic-comedy, a genre that otherwise tends to leave me feeling spiritually grifted.

I can only hope that Mr. Fuller turns to the film industry. There, he could dream up elaborate whimsy that, while never very far divorced from the unwelcome bedfellow of finance, might nevertheless allow him more breathing room to realize his visions.

In the meantime, I might just go out and purchase a TV set, just so I can throw it off a cliff.

 
From Wonderfalls:
 

From Dead Like Me:


From Pushing Daisies:

(In which Job pampers his pook-a-loo.)

Posted by Job O Brother, April 8, 2008 12:42pm | Post a Comment
Corey spent the night last night. We threw him into a hot, bubble bath and played some Julie London…




…all to undo the stressful day at work. (By “we” I mean the royal we, of course – I wasn’t assisted by a gang or nuthin’. Gangs are terrible at helping people relax. Have you noticed? Like, when you’re sitting under a cork tree and smelling the flowers, a gang – say like, a gang of Japanese whalers – will amble by and be like:


And you’re all, “Japanese dudes, I’m just trying to smell the flowers!” Or, you’re picking at some rhyolite in hopes of discovering an opal to polish and give your sweetie during the famous aria from “Gianni Schicchi”…




…and the two of you lock eyes and, in that one moment, you know that you’ve always been lovers – that every sonnet and song that’s ever been penned for love – have been about the two of you, and the devotion that binds you beyond the restraints of bodies and time and a gang of Crips, some Grape Street Crips say, come along and cause you to accidentally drop your foot-long hoagie over the balcony seating and it lands on Princess Diana’s head (this is before she’s died, obviously) and they’re all, “Gee whiz, we’re sorry. We were just hoping to find some slobs to curb,” and you’re all, “If you think any Bloods are gonna be caught at a Verdi opera, you’re crazy! Come back next month when there’s a performance of ‘Peter Grimes’ – they’re all over that Britten sh*t!” and they’re all, “Thank you. Sorry about your butty,” and you’re all, “Huh?” and they’re all, “Butty – it’s a British slang for sandwich,” and you’re all, “Oh yeah. Okay,” and there’s an awkward moment when they don’t leave but no one says anything and then they finally get the hint and go away but by then the People’s Princess is in your face and yelling at you and being totally unreasonable and for a moment – just for a moment – you think to yourself, “Just you wait, girl – you’ll get yours.” But you feel bad immediately afterwards because no one deserves to die in a car crash. Nobody.

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