Sorry to my four readers that I haven’t updated in a while. I’m more sorry to myself, though. I forget what I do when I don’t update this thing.
I remember (only through the pictures I took) that I got to see Q and Not U at one of their last shows ever (the last two are actually in September and at the Black Cat – I will be unable to attend).
However, I was able to purchase (at the last minute!) two tickets for me and Laura to see SUFJAN STEVENS August 21st at the Bowery Ballroom in New York City! We will undoubtedly be traveling by bus – as car is too much of a hassle, and train is too expensive. Bus is a nice compromise, I think.
We’ve both been kind of disappointed at how popular he’s gotten – it seemed right when we discovered him is right when he zooomed up in popularity.
Don’t get me wrong, he deserves the success. He’s amazing – but when you enjoy an artist that much, you feel like those “other” people are undeserving of his greatness, and are taking him away from you. Blaarrghh. But either way, we got tickets, and we’re going.
Any of my Long Island friends going to that show? Probably not.
My job has been going well lately. I have appx. $550 in the bank now, and another $280 in cash lying around my room I’d like to get rid of. Ulysses S Grant is staring at me right now.
However – I’ve got to stop using the word “however,” but part of me is being successful and well-liked at my job, the other part of me is failing. My eyes have been very irritated the past few days, and I blink a lot and rub em a lot, even with eye drops and eye moisturizer. I’m less attentive at the wheel, and literally had 1.5 close calls tonight. That’s 1.5 too many, and I’m representing Domino’s every time I do that, and it doesn’t make ME look good, either. It’s probably the only problem at my job right now. I blame it on my irritable eyes.
No, seriously though, it’s the eyes fault. And mine. Tomorrow I’m going to start being a LOT more careful at the wheel. I can’t make money if I WRECK my car.
Gas prices are still too damn high, as well. $2.40 my ass. If business isn’t good there’s a chance I can actually LOSE money at my job. You’re not supposed to LOSE money when you work somewhere. But it’s alright. After a horrible start, I got a $10 tip on my 2nd run of the night, from some rich-ass house on Haverford Drive in Davidsonville. Some rich people are stingy – some help those poor delivery drivers out of the gutter through their generosity. I prefer the latter.
Here is my current playlist:
Bjork - Hyper-Ballad
John Vanderslice - Gainesville, FL
Death by Stereo - Entombed We Collide
Aniaml Collective - Prospect Hummer
Keren Ann - Not going anywhere
Iron & Wine - Naked As We Came
Morrissey (Live At Earls’ Court) - There Is A Light That Never Goes Out
Mr. Lif - Dadtablend
General Public - Tenderness
Mountain Goats - Onions
Rush - The Spirit of Radio
Sufjan Stevens - Concerning the UFO Sighting over Highland, IL
Steel Train - Gypsy Waves
Matt Pond PA - Counting Song
Bloc Party - Banquet
Mt. Eerie - Universe
Not a bad set of songs. Oh, and Death by Stereo fan who always responds to my blogs, I HEARD DBS ON A LOCAL CHANNEL’S SURFING PROGRAM. They were showing surfing clips and footage with “Entombed We Collide” as the accompanying tracks. Fucking awesome. Death For Life!
Anyway – on said playlist, I have everything from lo-fi, to 80's new wave, to rap, to mellow songs with cellos, to prog rock, to sufjan, to an over-the-top British demigod, to whatever the hell Bjork is.
Not concerning music (or UFO sightings), I have oral surgery next Friday. No, not oral surgery like Donnie the Quiz Kid from “Magnolia” — PAINFUL surgery. Bone grafting. What happens is Dr. Walzer (hilarious and good at what he does) will take bone from my chin and upper jaw areas – and move them to the area where my two gaps are. Metal rod thingys also get inserted up there. This will allow the area to stop shrinking and make it easy and simple for teeth implants to be put into those gaps come December – and voila, no more retainer, no more gaps, and a solid healthy mouth for Kev (except for my last two wisdom teeth – goddamnit, I’ve already had like 7 teeth pulled)
I will be immense pain for three days, probably. Nowhere near as bad as my near-fatal appendix though. Nothing will compare to that. And I’ll be home, so I can not get depressed. But yeah, real pain, real discomfort. Not looking forward to it. It’ll go away (hopefully) after about a week, so I can attend my cousin’s wedding and have a good time without feeling bad.
At my fun alcohol-party a couple weeks ago, I realized that the snares on my drumset (yes, I played my drums at 3 AM) had almost completely come off. Not much hope of putting them back on and making it sound like a real snare. My kick pedal is almost out of commission. I officially have a shitty drumset that I don’t want to play anymore. Can’t afford a new one anyway. Oh well.
Occasionally, work will provide me with moral conundrums. Twice, I’ve had people sign their credit card receipt without writing in the total or the tip amount (both times they tipped me with cash). I do have the opportunity to write in an additional tip on the receipt (they wouldn’t notice), but I realize if I did that, I’d be compromising everything I believe and preach. Not trying to prop myself up, but a reminder to others that there are indeed everyday practical situations where one’s morality will come into play. Do the world a favor and don’t be a jerk.
_________
Changing gears, I finally wrote a poem recently. It’s been several weeks since I last wrote a satisfying one, and many months before that. This revolves around my pizza delivery. Enjoy:
Concerning Order #201_____________________
Every few days, a lucky driver
is sent out to a decaying brick-and-mortor
shack which lies eastward, hidden by wilting
linden trees. The driveway is composed
of black pebbles
and collected rainwater
from the hills and dirt paths above.
My car sinks with emotions
in the driveway, like hope
to disappointment, like fear
to sympathy. Like the contempt
we hold for this particular address.
There are no hidden treasures,
only an unkempt lawn. No cars,
children, or any sign of charity.
Paint chips on the cracked concrete
steps from numbers on the front side
of the house.
The profressional and standard uniform I bear
contrasts with the decrepit locale
I find myself in.
There is a closeness though,
felt through the hot summer winds,
of the established practice of delivering
a person their
means of survival, their dinner, their
only human contact of that particular day.
It is as intimate as Papa John, or another
pizza figurehead,
would allow. It is equally depressing as it is
an honor. It brings home cash at the end of the night.
I don't know if the overweight, near-bald, dark-
skinned woman who answers the door
every time
in a pink or blue nightgown, holding a check
with an arrangement of exotic birds on it,
while emitting a low hum herself, a strange tune --
I don't know if she sees me as a person
or maybe some sort of authority figure, maybe --
maybe a prophet
in a blue and red shirt and tan visor.
The transaction itself is like a Christian
praying at his bedside
every single night.
It is routine, it is sincere. It begs
for my pleasantries:
"How are you this evening?"
"Your total is sixteen-seventy two."
The exotic check-birds always chirp at me,
mocking the fact she doesn't tip, or usually
say much of anything. Just gets fatter.
Her bare, foul-smelling living room is all
I ever see. Green mold covers the walls,
and dark ivy spreads itself
over the house's shingles (near the attic).
All of the complex emotions surrounding
the dusty decay,
and the shockingly beautiful landscape,
is overshadowed by wilting linden trees,
and my deep-rooted fear of everything
about this woman.
Forsaken by the church, and remembered
by Domino's.
_____________
That’s all for now. Sleep now, work tomorrow. And mowwing the lawwnnnn. Ughh.
