Saturday, March 20, 2004

I miss flipping past Kingo Bingo of Saturday nights and regarding it with disinterest and distain. This Televised Bingo game whose cards were available at your local Price Watchers, and whose host was the noon anchorman at the local station / a m scale version of Captain Kangaroo with a better haircut, is one of the cohort halmarks of Saskatoon. You say Kingo, and it become immediatly apparent who's under thirty (either don't laugh, or laugh the sad laugh of someone who's laughing because the person next to them is laughing, but they, as usual, don't get it) or over 45 (chuckel only because they think they should seeing as everynone at the table in their thirties is laughing, but really, they don't see the point NOTE: this is a generalization about the 45 + of Hubcity; many of the middle aged Broadway boozers are more than hep, but even the heppest tend to lean away from the observational hillarity that I find in archaic local ad campains. )
1994, maybe summer, presumably night, in the basement of who would later be the central character of my early twenties, also known as my brother's best friend, also known as a periferal member of my social club by way of My Self Destructive Tendancy*. This brings me The Crutial Nature of Basements, but I'll hit that farther down, at random.
The feeding flow of talking with furious abandon, mildly high, drinking maybe the third bottle in a case of Boh. Mathew Sweet's 100% Fun has just dropped into his hot little hands and we are replaying Sick Of Myself in a loop for two hours. We are in hiding. If we were with our friends, we would have to pay attention to others, but fuck it, we are the world. Basements are the womb of early, reluctant adulthood.

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