ANOTHER FRIDAY NIGHT

When I say I find the Cincinatti Bengals' uniforms psychologically disturbing,  Woowoo Charly says I'm neurotic, which is a given, but really, does that change the impact of seriously ugly-assed football unis? 

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What follows is a blog written from notes I made while slightly in-my-cups, which, I suppose, is comparable to being slightly pregnant. 

A tradition which I am loathe to give up, okay not so much loathe as reluctant although loathe is the word I used in my notes, is Friday Night, an event that occurs for me now just post Friday lunch.  Age does have its limitations after all.  It, Friday Night, remains a celebratory time about whose origins I wrote in another blog about a million blogs ago; something to do with my humble working class upbringing and other drivel along those lines.  Those Friday Nights were often spent trying to create moments worthy of country/country songs - you really don't hear much western anymore - but never quite living up to them as in truth I wasn't country in either reality or spirit.  I mean why would anyone want to get that drunk and lose his girlfriend, wife, best friend and job?  

But I digress and one should never be caught digressing in public.

My Friday night celebrations here in the immediate past which is defined as the one I still remember because I take notes, can be described thusly:  (I am aware that THIS thusly is just one way to describe it and there are surely others, but I only have time for the one.)

I take wine, beer or cocktail glass in hand - fuel is required - along with my iPod player out to our carport.  Said carport is a two car enclosure and we, Woowoo and I, having but one, find there is abundant space for the table and chairs that usually reside on our nearby patio during the non-rainy season which is defined as some other Friday.

What happens next is that I crank up the tunes, most often but not always, from my "Favorites" list and fire up a dirt cheap, but still smoke-able Panamanian made cigar.  The end of the work week is here, pay no mind to my not having done any, and I am celebrating that and being alive and well in this miraculous place called Boquete, Panama.  I am not unaware or lacking in gratitude for the beauty that surrounds me.  I sip my cocktail, scotch this week, and I puff on my Churchill while watching my pups, Raffi and Matti at play, whistling them back from time to time when they wander from my sight.

There comes then an inevitable moment when the music grabs me and compels me to my feet for a dance along.  I have no reticence about doing so as 'Tuesday with Morrie"'s Morrie, Jesus, Buddha, and  John Travolta - there's a reference that's worrisome - say it is the correct thing to do.  Travolta, a Scientologist, even hints that it may be the only way to get on his planet and receive 76 MGM virgin chorus girls as a reward.  Something like that anyway. 

So I do it.  I dance.  I dance around the carport and out into the drive beyond.  I dance to up-tempo tunes and down-tempo melody driven ballads.  Matters not, I dance and have a grand time of it.  Make no mistake I am under the influence of alcohol which is not to say I am influenced by "demon rum" as the religious right might suggest, to do things I would not otherwise do, but rather, I am nudged by the booze to cast of my lethargy and get my booty off the chair and moving about to the music.  It is in fact, an encouragement I can't resist.  And then comes the disturbing part.  Aren't there always one of those?  

Although I have no fear of being seen in this alcohol fueled celebration, I am not after all a dancing geek, and even if I was, who really cares besides the MGM chorus girls waiting for me to join their conga line on Planet Neverhappen, I find that my skills have diminished.  That's right, my skills, not my "skill set." Even though I had learned years ago to unlock my hips and thereby allow the rest of my body to respond to the music, I now find that my feet, my traitorous feet, no longer want to do anything that requires quick-stepping.  The Bastards!  Nevertheless, I'll say it again, nevertheless, because as I have noted before, nevertheless means alwaysthe more and I am in favor of that, I carry on carrying on, abeit half-timing to the music more often than not.

I can see Volcan Baru and more beauty than most people can imagine from my carport.  Combine that miracle with music and I'm thinking you would dance too.  Wouldn't you?