There’s something very strange about Saturday nights. Especially when the day has been rainy and gray, and you’ve had guests over for dinner the night before so you woke up at noon to a sinkful of dirty dishes, and you’ve spent the whole afternoon polishing off the last few episodes of a television series, and you can’t wait to borrow Season 2 from the video shop.
And you’re just sitting around, thinking of all the things the coming week is going to bring – the deadlines, the work, the hassle of booking moving trucks and the impending doom of that dentist appointment. And you’re listening to an old Warrant record, the same one you used to listen to during Sunday evenings in a country halfway across the world, and you’re amazed at all the emotions the songs bring back.
Then your mother bullies you into a chat, and you talk about the dog and the typhoon and how the trees are all bald now and you say Goodbye, I Miss You, Chat With You Again Soon, and the songs keep on coming, and you feel like staying up all night, drinking Coke or coffee or Coca Cola Blak (which is, really, Coke and coffee), wishing you had a joint. And you think of that country halfway across the world and thoughts go through your head, you miss it, you don’t miss it, it’s home, it’s not home anymore, you’ve always been away, you never left, you don’t know what you want, you know exactly what you want.
So you end up sitting on the couch, wrapped up in a Sunday evening, listening to the music and tapping your feet to the music.