Friday is aware that he is the embodiment of how much is too much. He is the mansion that is too huge, with too nice a view. He is the car passing you on the street that costs more than you're capable of making in your entire life. Friday is aware he is a direct representation of gluttony without guilt. He is the all-you-can-eat buffet, and the party with all the drugs you can possibly take, and the non-stop-sex-orgy you've only heard about in rumors. Friday is aware he is the toggle switch from devoting four days of slaving for a clean (or dirty) dollar, to having two days of time just to yourself. Friday is aware that uncounted billions of mortals on planet earth have yet to feel that feeling. Friday is aware that time is passing and this moment and the next, are passing into history. Friday, like you or I, also does not know where those moments go. Friday, unlike you or I, does not care since he is immortal...in the sense that as long as the current structure of a seven-day-week exists, so will he. Friday is aware of the looks of jealousy or envy, as he makes his way through the world. He gets them from immortal and mortal alike, like walking through a poor part of town carrying an 18-pack of beer. Friday is aware he is the ultimate billionaire playboy, unstoppable in force or will or desire. Friday is aware that people (and entities) might think him a bimbo, (himbo? Mimbo? Manboob? Dink?) as he just wants to have fun. Yet , bestowed with the role, what was he supposed to do? Take responsibility!?! Make the most of his "bully pulpit" to change the world for the better!?! Asking you to sacrifice this time to actually work to make the world a better place!?!
Nay, that's the job of the most Badass Monday, or Shifty/Tricksey Tuesday, or the Clever Inventor/Artisan/Hunchback Wednesday, or the most Solidly-Allied-To-Friday-of-all- Weekdays, Thursday. Those are the days to get things done. Friday is aware he could do better. But Friday has a lot on his plate, and a lot of people and things to serve...and when was the last time you hosted a party and forgot - or couldn't find- just the one thing, device, or activity that would have made everyone feel better...Friday's got to deal with 7 billion people, people just like you, on a never ending weekly basis. Friday is aware that he sets the table of your feast and merriment every week.
It's pretty much up to you to make the most of it.
Happy Friday
Showing posts with label Friday. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Friday. Show all posts
Friday, June 27, 2008
Friday, June 06, 2008
There Will Be Another (one)
Friday lays in a hammock tied to the underside of a strangely bent palm tree, that reached out over the white sands of a beach, which gently fade under warm Caribbean Ocean waters. Mexican beer sits under him in a metal bucket filled with ice, placed strategically in the shadow of the trunk. One of the sweating bottles is in his hand, and he takes a swig as the sound of waves washing gently upon the beach gradually drive all of his crazy pondering thoughts away into nothing.
"Was Jesus a super awesome carpenter? Because Buddha and Mohammad were pretty well off kids. They took that leisure time to focus on transcending into demi-gods...or maybe even real Gods, but, how did J.C. fund forty-days and forty nights alone in the desert, his parents could only afford to give birth in a stable! He must have been pretty amazing working wood, in order to fund more than a month away from his workplace...was his shop still there when he came back?"
Whoosh - washed away. Somewhere a seagull cried twice, then another wave rolled up gently on the beach.
He had another sip of beer, and wondered about his own spiritual gravity. Were there Guardian Angels hovering about him as he lay in the hammock, or perhaps there were other spirits that shared an affection for his energy that were drawn to it like moths to light, keeping him safe? Were his ancestors about in spirit form, looking to keep him from harm? And did he owe them some sort of sacrifice to keep some, or all of them appeased?
Whoosh - washed away. Friday shifted his head, and just watched the gentle waves coming in. A brown seal* poked it's head out of the water, and looked about for a moment, before diving down...emerging twelve feet further along the coast to pop his head back up, and continue his observations. He then appeared to look straight at Friday appraising for a good long moment, then disappeared under the waters for good.
Friday rocked his hammock into a more pronounced swing, and drained the rest of his beverage. He tossed the empty bottle in a torqued spin, that landed directly (opening down) in an open spot near the edge of the ice-bucket full of beer. On his next swing, he reached down with his left arm, and grabbed a full bottle from the bucket. He raised himself from the waist for a brief moment to take a sip off the top of the new bottle - enough to assure he wouldn't spill on his chest, when he took another drink while fully reposed. Then he lay back.
What about Monday, and Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday...he pondered. Shouldn't they be part of...
Whoosh - the waves washed gently in, and it was gone.
Friday was past it. He realized that pondering here was impossible, and totally a waste of time. The hammock swung gently in the breeze off the sea. There was no point in thinking about anything except how gjoddang nice this place was. Even if he took this time to find something remarkable, it would be gone in five minutes, replaced with something else...
His head caught a flash of light-brown streaking from the sky, and then a splash in the water. A pelican emerged from the water, and finished swallowing a fish. "Isn't that nice." Thought Friday, "except if you were that fish I guess...that would suck."
Whoosh - the waves washed gently in, and it was gone.
The sun shone down - diffused by the palm's shadow, and it was nice. Friday had a sip of cold beer, and it was nice. A gentle cool breeze blew in from the sea, and it was nice. A cinnamon skinned waitress clad in a grass skirt walked up towards the beach towards his hammock, and it was awfully nice watching her move.
Whoosh - the waves washed gently in, and it was gone.
Friday wondered what he had been thinking about, as it seemed curiously satisfying at the time. He had a sip of beer, rocked in his hammock tied to the underside of a strangely bent palm tree, that reached out over the white sands of a beach, which gently fade under warm Caribbean Ocean waters. "Well, this is nice." He thought to himself. And that was the last thing he thought for a long while.
Happy Friday
*The author does not know if brown seals, or any seal's habitat includes the Caribbean Ocean, it just seemed like a really nice thing to add there.
"Was Jesus a super awesome carpenter? Because Buddha and Mohammad were pretty well off kids. They took that leisure time to focus on transcending into demi-gods...or maybe even real Gods, but, how did J.C. fund forty-days and forty nights alone in the desert, his parents could only afford to give birth in a stable! He must have been pretty amazing working wood, in order to fund more than a month away from his workplace...was his shop still there when he came back?"
Whoosh - washed away. Somewhere a seagull cried twice, then another wave rolled up gently on the beach.
He had another sip of beer, and wondered about his own spiritual gravity. Were there Guardian Angels hovering about him as he lay in the hammock, or perhaps there were other spirits that shared an affection for his energy that were drawn to it like moths to light, keeping him safe? Were his ancestors about in spirit form, looking to keep him from harm? And did he owe them some sort of sacrifice to keep some, or all of them appeased?
Whoosh - washed away. Friday shifted his head, and just watched the gentle waves coming in. A brown seal* poked it's head out of the water, and looked about for a moment, before diving down...emerging twelve feet further along the coast to pop his head back up, and continue his observations. He then appeared to look straight at Friday appraising for a good long moment, then disappeared under the waters for good.
Friday rocked his hammock into a more pronounced swing, and drained the rest of his beverage. He tossed the empty bottle in a torqued spin, that landed directly (opening down) in an open spot near the edge of the ice-bucket full of beer. On his next swing, he reached down with his left arm, and grabbed a full bottle from the bucket. He raised himself from the waist for a brief moment to take a sip off the top of the new bottle - enough to assure he wouldn't spill on his chest, when he took another drink while fully reposed. Then he lay back.
What about Monday, and Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday...he pondered. Shouldn't they be part of...
Whoosh - the waves washed gently in, and it was gone.
Friday was past it. He realized that pondering here was impossible, and totally a waste of time. The hammock swung gently in the breeze off the sea. There was no point in thinking about anything except how gjoddang nice this place was. Even if he took this time to find something remarkable, it would be gone in five minutes, replaced with something else...
His head caught a flash of light-brown streaking from the sky, and then a splash in the water. A pelican emerged from the water, and finished swallowing a fish. "Isn't that nice." Thought Friday, "except if you were that fish I guess...that would suck."
Whoosh - the waves washed gently in, and it was gone.
The sun shone down - diffused by the palm's shadow, and it was nice. Friday had a sip of cold beer, and it was nice. A gentle cool breeze blew in from the sea, and it was nice. A cinnamon skinned waitress clad in a grass skirt walked up towards the beach towards his hammock, and it was awfully nice watching her move.
Whoosh - the waves washed gently in, and it was gone.
Friday wondered what he had been thinking about, as it seemed curiously satisfying at the time. He had a sip of beer, rocked in his hammock tied to the underside of a strangely bent palm tree, that reached out over the white sands of a beach, which gently fade under warm Caribbean Ocean waters. "Well, this is nice." He thought to himself. And that was the last thing he thought for a long while.
Happy Friday
*The author does not know if brown seals, or any seal's habitat includes the Caribbean Ocean, it just seemed like a really nice thing to add there.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Is Firday?
So hell fjordian minions, I dig it's Friday and alls, but I alzo been writin' a big chunka' the day, and really am aboot to stop draggin' my finders (err...typo, wuz suppozed to be fingers) over this here key-bored! However, since you stopped by...I'll leave yas wid a chunka da eggspanded Pigglesworth and Gimpson tale I'm workin' on.
(P.S. It's the second part of the last P&G story I wrote - like two weeks ago...)
Moments later they passed through Clarendon Square in a cold rain, stepping over puddles, and forcing their way through a mass of umbrellas and glum-faced workers on the sidewalk, who hurried towards home or some other warm locale. Not long after they were on Seymore Street, and hurrying towards the worn doors of a dirty stone building. Of course, describing the two doors Pigglesworth and Gimpson were hurrying towards as “worn” is an understatemnent. They had, after decades of use, been polished down to the bare wood by countless passing hands. There was not a fleck of paint within four feet of the handles, and inches of wood had been brushed away into smooth dimples, where one might find their hands naturally moving towards in order to open the portal. If one had done such a thing, one would have found the oak doors had become so smooth that it felt like balsa-wood to the touch. Of course, this was when it wasn’t wet.
Above and around the two doors, was an arch of massive granite blocks. Whether the
arch was ornamental, or entirely structural was a secret unknown to those who lived in the place, or frequented it. However, bolted to the huge key-stone of the arch was a rusty iron pole that projected out more than five feet. Fastened to it with chains, was a dripping sign that swung in the breeze with random squeaks, reading “Boddington & Son Billiard Room & Public House.”
Pigglesworth moved up the three steps to the door, and pulled it open. Gimpson, mere feet behind his companion, dashed through the opening first. Seconds later they were removing their overcoats and hats, placing them on overflowing hooks and coat-trees positioned near the door. They had barely completed the task, and turned towards the bar, when a grizzled sailor stepped directly in front of them. He had short gray hair stuck on a head some six feet-four off the ground. Under that was an ugly face that had seen many ugly things, and a body that was formed from years of hard labor, and capable of a few years more. He jabbed a huge finger into Pigglesworth’s chest.
“Well, if it isn’t Lieutenant Pigglesworth! I’ve got more than a few scores to settle with you from the H.M.S. Swift, and I’ll begin the accounting right now!”
With that, he formed a powerful fist as he pulled his arm back. Before he could continue his assult, there was a solid “thunk” whereupon a confused look passed his eyes, and he fell straight down to the floor, crashing upon his rump where he sat, reaching up to feel the back of his head. Behind him was reviealed all five-foot two of young Peter Boddington, who brandished a thick bottle in his hand.
“Ere then!” He said down to the sailor, “We don’t go for louts like you assultin’ our regular customers, much less good ones like Mister Pigglesworth and Mister Gimpson. So take your hide elsewere, or I’ll give ya another drubbing!” He pasued with the bottle poised in his hand, waiting to see what the sailor would do. The sailor continued to rub his head in confusion.
“GO ON THEN!” Peter said much louder.
The sailor moved unsteadily to his feet, and turned towards the door. He had however, either a very powerful grudge, or had decided he wasn’t going to take being humiliated in public by a 17 year-old boy. He spun quickly spun around – throwing a fist in a wide hook towards Peter’s head. In a heartbeat, Peter slipped inside the punch, and with a short overhand clubbing motion, smacked the sailor promptly in the face with the bottle. He fell backwards to the floor, and didn’t move. Peter turned back to Pigglesworth and Gimpson.
“Never you mind about him. I’ll take care of it. It’s a pleasure to see you again. Oh, that reminds me…father was just over at the bar chatting with some fellow and he says – not to me at the time, I was just passing through with some mugs, but I overhears him say, “What a pity my friend Mister Gimpson isn’t here, why he’s a man of science.” If he’s still there, you should say hello, I sure he would be happy to see you.” With that, he turned around without awaiting a single word, and with surprising strength, picked the huge sailor off the floor by the scruff of his neck – and back of his jacket, and heaved him through the doors, into the street.
“Jolly good show.” Said Pigglesworth to Peter, as they moved towards the bar.
“Why I enjoy coming here,” Said Gimpson, “always feel safe.”
(P.S. It's the second part of the last P&G story I wrote - like two weeks ago...)
Moments later they passed through Clarendon Square in a cold rain, stepping over puddles, and forcing their way through a mass of umbrellas and glum-faced workers on the sidewalk, who hurried towards home or some other warm locale. Not long after they were on Seymore Street, and hurrying towards the worn doors of a dirty stone building. Of course, describing the two doors Pigglesworth and Gimpson were hurrying towards as “worn” is an understatemnent. They had, after decades of use, been polished down to the bare wood by countless passing hands. There was not a fleck of paint within four feet of the handles, and inches of wood had been brushed away into smooth dimples, where one might find their hands naturally moving towards in order to open the portal. If one had done such a thing, one would have found the oak doors had become so smooth that it felt like balsa-wood to the touch. Of course, this was when it wasn’t wet.
Above and around the two doors, was an arch of massive granite blocks. Whether the
arch was ornamental, or entirely structural was a secret unknown to those who lived in the place, or frequented it. However, bolted to the huge key-stone of the arch was a rusty iron pole that projected out more than five feet. Fastened to it with chains, was a dripping sign that swung in the breeze with random squeaks, reading “Boddington & Son Billiard Room & Public House.”
Pigglesworth moved up the three steps to the door, and pulled it open. Gimpson, mere feet behind his companion, dashed through the opening first. Seconds later they were removing their overcoats and hats, placing them on overflowing hooks and coat-trees positioned near the door. They had barely completed the task, and turned towards the bar, when a grizzled sailor stepped directly in front of them. He had short gray hair stuck on a head some six feet-four off the ground. Under that was an ugly face that had seen many ugly things, and a body that was formed from years of hard labor, and capable of a few years more. He jabbed a huge finger into Pigglesworth’s chest.
“Well, if it isn’t Lieutenant Pigglesworth! I’ve got more than a few scores to settle with you from the H.M.S. Swift, and I’ll begin the accounting right now!”
With that, he formed a powerful fist as he pulled his arm back. Before he could continue his assult, there was a solid “thunk” whereupon a confused look passed his eyes, and he fell straight down to the floor, crashing upon his rump where he sat, reaching up to feel the back of his head. Behind him was reviealed all five-foot two of young Peter Boddington, who brandished a thick bottle in his hand.
“Ere then!” He said down to the sailor, “We don’t go for louts like you assultin’ our regular customers, much less good ones like Mister Pigglesworth and Mister Gimpson. So take your hide elsewere, or I’ll give ya another drubbing!” He pasued with the bottle poised in his hand, waiting to see what the sailor would do. The sailor continued to rub his head in confusion.
“GO ON THEN!” Peter said much louder.
The sailor moved unsteadily to his feet, and turned towards the door. He had however, either a very powerful grudge, or had decided he wasn’t going to take being humiliated in public by a 17 year-old boy. He spun quickly spun around – throwing a fist in a wide hook towards Peter’s head. In a heartbeat, Peter slipped inside the punch, and with a short overhand clubbing motion, smacked the sailor promptly in the face with the bottle. He fell backwards to the floor, and didn’t move. Peter turned back to Pigglesworth and Gimpson.
“Never you mind about him. I’ll take care of it. It’s a pleasure to see you again. Oh, that reminds me…father was just over at the bar chatting with some fellow and he says – not to me at the time, I was just passing through with some mugs, but I overhears him say, “What a pity my friend Mister Gimpson isn’t here, why he’s a man of science.” If he’s still there, you should say hello, I sure he would be happy to see you.” With that, he turned around without awaiting a single word, and with surprising strength, picked the huge sailor off the floor by the scruff of his neck – and back of his jacket, and heaved him through the doors, into the street.
“Jolly good show.” Said Pigglesworth to Peter, as they moved towards the bar.
“Why I enjoy coming here,” Said Gimpson, “always feel safe.”
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