Friday night hangover
Friday nights typically aren’t my thing. That’s the funny thing about getting older: It used to be, I couldn’t wait for Friday night to get here so I could get started on having a really good time, which carried over into Saturday, and a slightly less ambitious Saturday night from a festivities point of view, followed by a Sunday that carried with it the pall of the looming work or school week, suffused with a mounting sense of free-floating dread, or at least anxiety.
Nowadays, I’m glad for Friday night to get here because that’s the night I let myself completely vegetate, come apart at the seams, unhinge, not worry about a damned thing, and just let it be. The ideal Friday night for me has me reading in bed before 11, and conking shortly after that. I’m usually a drooling idiot by that time, anyway, so catching some non-zuider zees and waking up on Saturday morning feeling reasonably refreshed and ready to knock off a few chores and get rolling into a nice weekend groove is kinda the way I like it.
Which is my explanation for why no post yesterday: I got to the Weatherstone last night with about two hours still on the clock there, and just could not pull it together to post anything. Nada. I ended up farting around on Facebook — literally — and then looking at some political sites, but there my comprehension level was more suited to watching Scooby-Doo reruns, or maybe listening to Glenn Beck. I tried to grok the significance of the departure of Angelina “Trash Bags” Pivarnick from Jersey Shore, and how now Mike “The Situation” Sorrentino has stepped up in the role of D.A. (designated asshole) for a show I no longer watch anyway, because now that they’re all self-hyperaware celebrities, viewing their weekly exploits is about as interesting as checking in with the Kardashian trainwrecks.
I should make a little sidenote about the Weatherstone, and how much I like the friendly staff there and the good food and the comfortable atmosphere. Plus, it’s a great place to run into friends. I’m not as thoroughly enamored with Old Soul’s coffee; gotta admit that I’m a little more into the Peet’s blend first thing in the morning. But by evening, I rarely drink anything caffeinated, anyway, and the herbal teas at Weatherstone are pretty good, and I generally don’t care much for the beat-into-the-ground form of classical music that Peet’s plays. Last night I heard some Runaways and Waitresses classics at Weatherstone, and sometimes they play textural jazz-electronica hybrids that I think make for perfect foreground music at coffeehouses. And, once in a blue moon, the dreaded Smiths, during which if I focus on Johnny Marr’s superb guitar work to tune out on that 800-pound elephant in the room, said elephant being Morrissey’s pointless and tuneless yammering. Then again, some people can’t stand Pavement, and if I could find a coffeehouse that played nothing but Pavement songs, I’d probably move into the back room and hang out there for most of my free time.
Anyway, here it is Saturday, and my stuff’s in the dryer, and I’m typing another blog post from the laundromat. Woke up late, went to Jim-Denny’s for breakfast but it was packed and there was at least an hour wait. Saturday’s the only day I can go there, because Tuesday through Friday, they open at 7 a.m. and I’m either on the road to Lodi or almost fixing to get there. Come on, Monica at Jim-Denny’s? What about my regular-customer sense of entitlement?
(What is it about people parked in front of laundromats who have to share their awful taste in music with the rest of us? I don’t want to hear your reggaeton crap, lady, while you fold your clothes and suck on your Taco Bell thirsty-two ouncer. And I bet you’d be all jinky and screaming bloody murder if I forced you to listen to my Lefty Frizzell records. What I want to do is tell you to put a lid on it until you’re out of earshot from me, but some people get all butthurt about that sort of thing, and since I’m a middle-aged white guy and you’re a lady with cornrows — oh, thanks for just turning your racket up — you might take loud and violent issue with me expressing my opinion. But just know that while I think your choice of music just sucks, a lot of other people’s tastes in music fellate dog pud, too; it’s just that your insistence on forcing me and others to listen to it in public is flat-out vile. Have a nice day, by the way. … Oh. My. God: She walked in here and asked me if the music was bothering me. I sheepishly volunteered that it was a little loud, and she apologized and went and turned it down. Gee, I am such a butt-head, and/or there is a god.)
Uh, um, okay, back to the blog post. Yikers. I can’t even think. Maybe next time. —Jackson Griffith
(Second OMG for a p.s.: She’s actually a nice person. So now my stuff’s all dyed and folded, and we’re talking about how the folding part just drags on and on, and then you have to go put it away, and then it never stops. What is it about this compassion thingee, and why does it keep intruding on my right to be a grumpy old guy?)