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2004-04-30 - 5:14 p.m.

I stark contrast to the expectations of a young single man in New York City, my Fridays are usually as wild and interesting as a shuffleboard championship.

(Here's Mr. Johanson toeing the mark at the Geritol/Disney Cruise Line Invitational. He's got a confident swagger which may stem from his leading position on the roster or the fact that his collostomy bag was just emptied. He's a complete master. Been playing the game since well before retirement. Really got a jump on the compitition. He lines up his shot. This is the big one. This is the one for the trophy, the five free early bird dinners at Jakes, and his own Preperation H commertial. The Focus in his eyes...well in his right eye, the left one's gone lame and seems to be staring off at the clouds. This is it folks. The wind-up and...Oh no, it looks as if he's been distracted by something shiny. That one went right off the boat. I don't think he'll be getting too many points for that. Thankfully his altzheimer's will get rid of that memory in no time. Hell the guy still thinks he's in grammer school. Made me a lovely finger painting.)

That was an unncessarily long tangent. Enjoy.

As it should be readily apparent, anyone who starts a loqucious BLOG online for the sole reason of enumerating his many triffling expereinces in bombastic prose, is more likely a talker than a dancer. Talking is also somewhat difficult in a room where the speakers are taller than your average NBA ball player, and the decible level nears the Union Square four train platform. In this environment one must turn to the inevitable bar sign language. Over the years it has actually simplified, being whittled down to only five key signs.

One hand to the mouth: "I need a drink"

One finger pointing: "Check out that ass."

Two fingers to the mouth: "I'm going outside to smoke, cause Bloomburg's a festering pit of parrot shit."

Two fingers pointing: "No, man, check out that ass!!"

One finger sticking staight up: "Fuck you, dude."

This particular vocabulary doesn't exactly lend itself to my self-important use of fifteen character words. Combine this with the arhythmic spasms I occationally refer to as dancing and you have a solid reasoning for: "No that's allright guys, you go right ahead."

I'm much happier sitting at a bar surrounded by the conversation of people I enjoy. Often times I'm not even taking part in the conversation, just listening is more entertaining than seeing a collection of men and women jut their hip out along with the back beat long enough for them to seem like an organic metronome.

And yet...

It's Friday.

The bars, be them pubs, clubs, or bathroom tubs are filled to the brim with people anyway. Seats become a more treasured piece of real estate than a Upper East Side condo with a view of the park.

I was fine with it in college, but there now seems to be something sad about standing in a room, with little room to breathe, holding a beer, saying nothing, and praying you get intoxicated enough to enjoy youself for the next few hours. I do enough of that on the subway to work.


It's Friday...

Doing nothing on Friday, the official sponsor of out-of-character insainity, is quite possibly the most depressing thought that can occur to the twenty-four year old man.

The Friday night at home is to the twenty something what the boogie man is to the four year olds of the planet.

I have actually found moderately attended clubs, playing music at a reasonable volume, usually a live band, for the sheer reason of not being in my apartment.

I've built friendships, enemies; dove into a Machivelian cycle of over wrought socialites building the equivelent of "Days of our Lives" around their lives, in what I can only assume is an extremely similar quest to mine.

All of this to fill the gaping Friday void.

It dawned on me, as I sat by the dance floor, sipping on my one drink for the evening - cover was fifteen - that I did not want to talk to anyone, did not want to get drunk, did not want to dance...wanted only to sit, and watch the circus, alone, surrounded by the company of people I...know the names of.

At least I'm not at home.

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