Whatever Happened to Saturday Night?
It don't seem the same since Cosmic Light came into my life. I thought I was divine.
I love that song and the false memory it sparks in my head. It's from the Rocky Horror Show - Eddie the delivery boy seemingly lamenting Saturday night greaser salad days past. Cross the coming of age young love of Summer of '69 and the generation X angst of Born to Run, add Meatloaf, and you'll know what I mean. In Cape Town, everyone parties it up hard on Friday night, leaving Saturday for languid dinner parties, sundowners, braais and coupley-type affairs of the sort to which I don't usually get invited - presumably because I tend to drink everyone else's wine, drunkenly command the conversation and generally make a point of expressing my thoughts on how crap long-term relationships must be. It did not go unnoticed that the last time someone invited me and my similarly ill-mannered accomplice, Indiana, to a couple-encrusted dinner-party, our high-spirits and masterful banter resulted in us not getting invited back. I'm digressing here, but must note that single-people dinners are invariably more lively. No-one talks about the weather or looks at their watch and yawns around quarter-to-ten. The comments are typically risque to gauche, strengthening to out-of-hand as the guests approach the point at which they have each finished the bottle they brought and are starting to wonder whether the host needs prompting to open some more.
And so I always enjoy it when someone plans a good old-fashioned Saturday night party. This one was the confluence of three people's birthdays. Since I've been attempting to preserve the true identities of my acquaintances in this blog, I shall name them only as Batman, Splodge and Frisky. The host, the inimitable Skwij, had, with incautious assistance from Batman, brewed a punch of such ferocity that upon sipping it, my Nepalese Orang-utan Fever swiftly escaped up the nearest tree, leaving me feeling suddenly rejuvenated. I used the opportunity to while away the next few hours flirting unsuccessfully with a wistfully pretty reboundee and telling anyone who would listen about my travails. It was at around this time, that fellow-blogger Ridge appeared. Alas he only made it halfway across the lawn before being set upon by Crocodile, who was in a ravenous mood, and could smell easy prey at 50 paces. Many hours of drinking and related indulgences aboard a yacht that afternoon had left young Ridge in no state to resist...
That night, as in uffish sleep I slept, the Fates taunted me with a vast swirling biology of screaming , chattering, snapping animals, all virtual and twisted, but as they sought to overbear me, a gap appeared in the mists, and I beheld on the far shore the shuffling form and challenging eyes of the Questing Bug.
The next morning I woke early, broke both fever and fast, strapped on my winged sandals, didn't pay the ferryman, and defeated the Questing Bug in seven hours of single-combat. As she fled beaten into the Sauvagian glades, I cut loose Andromeda, drew her to me and said: "Callooh." To which she of course replied: "Callay".
'Twas brillig...
I love that song and the false memory it sparks in my head. It's from the Rocky Horror Show - Eddie the delivery boy seemingly lamenting Saturday night greaser salad days past. Cross the coming of age young love of Summer of '69 and the generation X angst of Born to Run, add Meatloaf, and you'll know what I mean. In Cape Town, everyone parties it up hard on Friday night, leaving Saturday for languid dinner parties, sundowners, braais and coupley-type affairs of the sort to which I don't usually get invited - presumably because I tend to drink everyone else's wine, drunkenly command the conversation and generally make a point of expressing my thoughts on how crap long-term relationships must be. It did not go unnoticed that the last time someone invited me and my similarly ill-mannered accomplice, Indiana, to a couple-encrusted dinner-party, our high-spirits and masterful banter resulted in us not getting invited back. I'm digressing here, but must note that single-people dinners are invariably more lively. No-one talks about the weather or looks at their watch and yawns around quarter-to-ten. The comments are typically risque to gauche, strengthening to out-of-hand as the guests approach the point at which they have each finished the bottle they brought and are starting to wonder whether the host needs prompting to open some more.
And so I always enjoy it when someone plans a good old-fashioned Saturday night party. This one was the confluence of three people's birthdays. Since I've been attempting to preserve the true identities of my acquaintances in this blog, I shall name them only as Batman, Splodge and Frisky. The host, the inimitable Skwij, had, with incautious assistance from Batman, brewed a punch of such ferocity that upon sipping it, my Nepalese Orang-utan Fever swiftly escaped up the nearest tree, leaving me feeling suddenly rejuvenated. I used the opportunity to while away the next few hours flirting unsuccessfully with a wistfully pretty reboundee and telling anyone who would listen about my travails. It was at around this time, that fellow-blogger Ridge appeared. Alas he only made it halfway across the lawn before being set upon by Crocodile, who was in a ravenous mood, and could smell easy prey at 50 paces. Many hours of drinking and related indulgences aboard a yacht that afternoon had left young Ridge in no state to resist...
That night, as in uffish sleep I slept, the Fates taunted me with a vast swirling biology of screaming , chattering, snapping animals, all virtual and twisted, but as they sought to overbear me, a gap appeared in the mists, and I beheld on the far shore the shuffling form and challenging eyes of the Questing Bug.
The next morning I woke early, broke both fever and fast, strapped on my winged sandals, didn't pay the ferryman, and defeated the Questing Bug in seven hours of single-combat. As she fled beaten into the Sauvagian glades, I cut loose Andromeda, drew her to me and said: "Callooh." To which she of course replied: "Callay".
'Twas brillig...
posted by Thor Harley at 5:08 pm
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