Monday, April 25, 2005

Bar Fly

"Sunday nights are the professional's nights," a friend of mine once said.

I don't know about that, but Sunday is definitely a good night to tie one on. You never know what'll materialize out of the yellow haze of the weekend's end, the last hurrah for those who refuse to acknowledge the impending thunderhead of Monday looming like a bad dream on the horizon. There is something quite liberating in the wadding up all that compiles your good common sense like a fast food wrapper and throwing it out the window into traffic. You know you're gonna pay for this with a hoard of termites in your head tomorrow as you trudge through the muddy trenches of work, but somehow you don't care. You might miss something fun, afterall, something profound. Right? That's what you tell yourself.

And thus, the Bar Fly took off once more in search for his buzzzz, all upon a Sunday dreary.

The night was a blur, an expurgation of all the bottled up bull plop that was compounding interest over the course of the week in that little broom closet of my id. Drinks were quaffed, conversations were had, money was thrown out the same window as the crumpled up common sense. The gang was all in, and the night was ripe.
And for some reason, I left early. Everything was going fine, but I wanted no part of it. Call it growing up, or maybe just a brain weary of being saturated in booze. Either way, I was out the back door like a whisper caught in your throat, and before I knew it, my new Saucony sneakers (bought at deep discount) were taking the empty vessel of my body homewards. The Madison night life has become like that sweatshirt you've had since you were 16: you don't want to toss it because you've been through so much together, but the damn thing's just to small.
I don't need a new sweatshirt, I need a whole new wardrobe.
Peter's List of Mindblowing Stuff to Check Out:
Book: Atonement by Ian McEwan
CD: Willie Porter, Dog Eared Dream
Fruit: Banana and/or Kumquat
Animal: Squirrel


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