It’s Friday night. I just got back from hockey. I’m too wound up to sleep but too tired to think coherently. Sitting down and banging out a little something on the keyboard seems to be a good way to let my mind wind down to the level my body is at. I guess that makes this the Seinfeld of blog posts – a post about nothing.
I spend a lot of time stuck in traffic on Deerfoot Trail coming home. That gave me time to think, which for me is a dangerous place to be. My thoughts turned to Friday nights.
I’ve always loved Friday nights but they don’t get the respect they deserve. Why are all the great songs about Saturday? Saturday night gets Elton John telling us it’s alright for fighting, it gets the Bay City Rollers belting out a S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y. Brad Paisley not only sings about American Saturday Night, he makes it the title track for his album. Bon Jovi may feel like Monday but he soldiers on knowing one day he’ll feel like Saturday night.
What does Friday get? Rebecca Black. ‘Nuf said?
Friday nights are great because they take you straight from work into the weekend. There is a huge upswing from corporate drone to party boy. Saturday nights are OK, but since you’ve already had the day off they aren’t that much of an improvement from the rest of the day.
Friday nights are the bad boys of the weekend, the music too loud, cars too fast kind of nights. You have the whole weekend laid out in front of you and the possibilities are endless. Saturday nights are fun, but more of a “date with your wife” kind of night. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that, he says covering his butt…) Saturday nights are planned, Friday nights are spontaneous. Saturday nights are reservations at some stuffy restaurant, Friday nights are clearly beer and wings in the pub. Friday night is the first date, Saturday night is the fifth anniversary dinner, leading into Sunday which is the mini-van pack with kids day of the week.
Now, having said that, it turns out my Friday is almost over. Beer next week after hockey no matter what, right?