From the looks of my Facebook feed, I may have missed out on a religious experience last night. I didn’t get Radiohead tickets. Well, I should clarify that I didn’t try to get them, either; I like Radiohead just fine, but a once-in-something-like-eight-years-tour seems less like an outing for a casual fan and more like a pilgrimage for the fan faithful. Like Stephanie, who had a pre- and post-show party at her place, or like Tara, who roadtripped from Cincinnati to see the show (and who I can hopefully hang out with today because so far we only know each other from a couple of degrees of real life separation but mostly the Internet). I’m a little bummed that I didn’t get to see Thom Yorke dance in person, but I could always go see Muppets on Ice for that kind of action.
I try to wake up semi-early on Saturdays so that I can give Graham some space in the bed. He has to be at work by ten, and it seems kind of crappy to be still unconscious when he’s getting up after only four hours of sleep (he closes the restaurant the night before, but don’t anyone use this as an excuse to break in because there are guns in this house and also The Cat will attack people I don’t like). He doesn’t ask me to get up early, it’s just something I do naturally, and actually preferable to spending the last hour or so of bed sharing time falling into the crevice in the middle of the mattress. Also there are Graham’s alarms. This is coming from a person with a single, gradually-louder beep alarm that I usually turn off when it’s too quiet for most normal people to hear so maybe I have dog ears, but the man has the most intricate system of wake up alarms I have ever heard. With Graham, at least 4 different sounds are involved, all at ear-splitting volume, and he picks something different every time. My favorite so far are the church bells, because I wonder how they’ll play into whatever dream he’s having.
It’s not hard for me to wake up early. On weekdays I’m up by 5:30am, so sleeping until 8 is kind of luxurious. It also helps that I don’t go out much anymore, which, according to the other people on my Facebook feed, is kind of a rarity. Let me say now that there’s nothing wrong with this. I used to be these people, and I hated it when older, self-righteous assholes from work would imply that something must have been missing from my life in order to drive me to bars every night. Well, no, but even if that was true, at least going out to bars every night was more fun than being vomited on by small children who crawl into your bed in the middle of the night. So there’s nothing wrong with going out all the time, but man, is it exhausting to watch. I change into pajama pants upon arriving home on Friday afternoon, and seeing the real time photos posted to Facebook of other people dancing at bars and wearing ironical glasses is just so tiring. Yes, it looks like fun, but I also remember the standing in line to close my tab, the bleary 3am cholesterol breakfasts at Courtesy, the waking up with my hair reeking of smoke and my mouth as dry as Karen Garver Santorum’s pussy. Go on and do your thing, everyone, it looks like a blast but I’m turning in early.
If I don’t, how will I ever wake up and enjoy a quiet hour for writing? How will someone be able to stop the bizarre attempted cat rape scene happening on the couch right now? Who will find terrific things on the Internet? WHO?!?!?!