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Refuge for the rational.
Friday, August 06, 2004
On a Friday
Today is Friday and I was thinking about Frank Black.
It was a spring night and I was out at a bar, waiting in (and wading through) a crowd of people for a drink. There were two drunken men guarding the wall behind me, loud-talking for my attention and generally causing a raucous. Thirty, balding and in a bright blue windbreaker, one of them finally got up the sobriety to leave the gracious support of the wall and attempt a conversation with me. He explained, with a fair amount of disdain, that the bar had stopped serving him (oh, really? why?) and would I be so kind as to take his money and buy he and his friend a drink? Oh, and would I like something too?
I coolly explained that I could take care of my own drinks but that I wouldn’t mind attaining his at all (in hindsight, probably not the way to go, but at the time I thought he was too drunk to bother me). At this point, I turned towards the bar, sure that he would wander back to his friend and leave me alone. However, he proceeded to talk to me, but I don’t remember what about because I don’t think it made any sense. I attempted to give him his money back and he started to explain to me that a pretty girl like me should have a guy buying her things. Lots of things. I should also have an entourage at all times. I tried to give him his money back again but gave up after another rendition. A Pixies song came on and I started singing along to it, glancing around here and there, and eventually catching the eye of someone laughing at my predicament. We kept making eye contact and communicating about the oblivious wall attendant without speaking. He was tall and thin and fucking beautiful and he started to inch closer through the crowd at the bar. When he finally reached me, buddy was still blathering in my ear, but stopped, once my new friend gave him one good look, and realised with some callousness and tragedy that he was far past his prime. He took his money and left me alone.
I think the first thing he said to me was something about the Pixies. Then we introduced ourselves. Then we spent the rest of the night talking and wandering around outside.
I think I was in school at the time, and on a Friday I decided not to go, I called up my friend, who came by for a visit. After what turned out to be a day of sex and laughter, we were lying in a naked cuddle when my mother burst into my bedroom and stood there stunned for a moment. I didn’t know what to do so I screamed, and she ran out closing the door behind her. The most painful part of all of this came when my poor friend had to leave the house, walking past both of my parents vicious stares. It was a Friday, and I forgot that people don’t work late on Fridays. On Fridays, people come home early.
I got a call a few days later. My mother came into my room and told me that there was “a Frank Black on the phone” for me. I shot her a curious grin and ended up spending a lot of time with my friend “Frank”. We got into a lot of mischief and milked what entertainment we could out of this sad excuse for a city. Eventually though, he moved to Vancouver and I lost touch with him altogether.
The point of this entry was something about regret, because I didn’t believe in regret, but I was talking to someone about it recently and I realised that I needed to have some semblance of it. Regret is “a feeling of sorrow or repentance or distress over an action or loss”. I don’t believe that you should ever feel sorrow or distress over a loss or action because it’s in the past and you have no control over it anyway. But, repentance is similar to something you do need. To never feel this thing similar to, but not repentance, is to never learn from your mistakes. I guess I could use a different word than regret or repentance, though my shitty public education must be in the way because I can’t think of one. They all seem to connote a sense of shame, suffering or conscious ethics that I can't comply with. The closest word for what I'm describing is 'qualm'. The point is, I miss all the Frank Black’s that aren’t in my life anymore and if I didn’t have any qualms about that, I’d continue just sleeping with and underappreciating people who are worth so much more.
By the way, it's been a week since someone threw up on my foot and though I've thoroughly cleaned my shoes, I still haven't mustered the courage to wear them.
It was a spring night and I was out at a bar, waiting in (and wading through) a crowd of people for a drink. There were two drunken men guarding the wall behind me, loud-talking for my attention and generally causing a raucous. Thirty, balding and in a bright blue windbreaker, one of them finally got up the sobriety to leave the gracious support of the wall and attempt a conversation with me. He explained, with a fair amount of disdain, that the bar had stopped serving him (oh, really? why?) and would I be so kind as to take his money and buy he and his friend a drink? Oh, and would I like something too?
I coolly explained that I could take care of my own drinks but that I wouldn’t mind attaining his at all (in hindsight, probably not the way to go, but at the time I thought he was too drunk to bother me). At this point, I turned towards the bar, sure that he would wander back to his friend and leave me alone. However, he proceeded to talk to me, but I don’t remember what about because I don’t think it made any sense. I attempted to give him his money back and he started to explain to me that a pretty girl like me should have a guy buying her things. Lots of things. I should also have an entourage at all times. I tried to give him his money back again but gave up after another rendition. A Pixies song came on and I started singing along to it, glancing around here and there, and eventually catching the eye of someone laughing at my predicament. We kept making eye contact and communicating about the oblivious wall attendant without speaking. He was tall and thin and fucking beautiful and he started to inch closer through the crowd at the bar. When he finally reached me, buddy was still blathering in my ear, but stopped, once my new friend gave him one good look, and realised with some callousness and tragedy that he was far past his prime. He took his money and left me alone.
I think the first thing he said to me was something about the Pixies. Then we introduced ourselves. Then we spent the rest of the night talking and wandering around outside.
I think I was in school at the time, and on a Friday I decided not to go, I called up my friend, who came by for a visit. After what turned out to be a day of sex and laughter, we were lying in a naked cuddle when my mother burst into my bedroom and stood there stunned for a moment. I didn’t know what to do so I screamed, and she ran out closing the door behind her. The most painful part of all of this came when my poor friend had to leave the house, walking past both of my parents vicious stares. It was a Friday, and I forgot that people don’t work late on Fridays. On Fridays, people come home early.
I got a call a few days later. My mother came into my room and told me that there was “a Frank Black on the phone” for me. I shot her a curious grin and ended up spending a lot of time with my friend “Frank”. We got into a lot of mischief and milked what entertainment we could out of this sad excuse for a city. Eventually though, he moved to Vancouver and I lost touch with him altogether.
The point of this entry was something about regret, because I didn’t believe in regret, but I was talking to someone about it recently and I realised that I needed to have some semblance of it. Regret is “a feeling of sorrow or repentance or distress over an action or loss”. I don’t believe that you should ever feel sorrow or distress over a loss or action because it’s in the past and you have no control over it anyway. But, repentance is similar to something you do need. To never feel this thing similar to, but not repentance, is to never learn from your mistakes. I guess I could use a different word than regret or repentance, though my shitty public education must be in the way because I can’t think of one. They all seem to connote a sense of shame, suffering or conscious ethics that I can't comply with. The closest word for what I'm describing is 'qualm'. The point is, I miss all the Frank Black’s that aren’t in my life anymore and if I didn’t have any qualms about that, I’d continue just sleeping with and underappreciating people who are worth so much more.
By the way, it's been a week since someone threw up on my foot and though I've thoroughly cleaned my shoes, I still haven't mustered the courage to wear them.
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