Summertime

Another summer, another Bowl season. You guessed it, you little cockroaches... I'm going back. Yes, I know it's hell to the power of the DMV, but I don't know... It's become a sort of tradition. I can't picture summer nights without the sweet smell of cheap beer and the sour notes of the atrocious Hollywood Bowl Orchestra. Plus its John Mauceri's final season. I need to be there!

And, so, you all will hear about it. Time for reflection: Working a seasonal job where the employees are regulars is kind of awkward. The word awkward is kind of awkward. It's kind of funny returning in the summer and thinking "Damn, you're not dead yet? I thought for sure you'd be in hell by now..." It's sort of like coming back to school in the fall after a relaxing summer break where you've managed to forget everyone. Yes, it's a lot like that, except without the new shoe frenzy, where you look all around you to see who has the nicest pair of new school shoes. No, at the Bowl, we don't even have that small joy. We are stripped of all worldly pleasures. We wear our same shit black sneakers that are covered in vomit and urine from seasons and seasons ago. Why? Because a new pair will be covered in vomit and urine, too. Why? Because Bowl patrons are made of vomit and urine. No, that's partially untrue, because they are only partially made up of vomit and urine.

Anyway. I'm looking for another job in addition to this little piece of heaven I'm working right now. So, loyal fans, do send something my way. I will dedicate a blog to you.