3B
Wednesday, March 22, 2017 // The Statement
BY HARRISON KRINSKY, DAILY ARTS WRITER
FILE PHOTO/MICHIGAN DAILY
M
y dad used to read me Helen Palmer’s
“Do You Know What I’m Going to
Do Next Saturday” before bed. I
remember falling asleep planning my own next
Saturday. I guess I still do that today.
Do you know what I’m going to do next Saturday?
Well sir … let me tell you.
I’m gonna dive some dives no one ever dived before.
I’m going to walk up to a party and I’m gonna
see a dude sitting on the porch smoking a Newport
menthol cigarette. He will be tan and have a
strong jaw line and an even stronger social media
presence. In fact, right as I walk up, he will be
checking the last of his available Snap stories.
I will march past him because confident people
enter any party like they’re walking into their own
living room. He’ll stop me.
Dude: “Who do you know here and what’s your
favorite mid-2000s band?”
Me (with conviction): “Lagunitas Sucks, their
Brown Sugga’ Substitute ale is so smooth.”
Dude: “What?”
Me: “It’s a craft beer brewed in California mainly.
They have a distribution deal with Heineken,
though, so they’re low-key selling out. I still fuck
with the taste palate though.”
Dude: “That’s not what I as—”
Me: “Do you have a Juulpod I can borrow?”
The dude will be confused. He will politely
brandish a Virginia Tobacco Juulpod. I will
deny the juulpod with an exaggerated hand
gesture.
Me: “I only rip coconut pods, sorry. Plus, I’m
quitting. I shouldn’t.”
Dude: “Do you know anyone at this party?”
Me
(suddenly
flustered):
“Umm,
uhh,
ummm.”
Me (no longer flustered, quoting Rust Cohle):
“Look, man, this is a world where nothing is
solved. You know, someone once told me time
is a flat circle. Everything we’ve ever done
or will do, we’re gonna do over and over and
over again. So, yes, I know, and have known
everyone in this party. Multiple times. Forever.
Also, in this specific iteration of life, I know
Steve. We were in psych discussion together,
and my favorite band is Kanye. I don’t believe
art is collaborative so you could say I’m morally
opposed to bands. I like art though. Let me in
the fucking party.”
Before he can say anything else I will use the
lid of my PBR tall boy to push my glasses up the
bridge of my nose and walk past him. I’m so
disarming. I’ll see him later.
Then I’m going to ski on water
if I want to.
And I want to.
To my surprise, when I will walk past the
dude I will come to a dusty red door, and when I
walk past the dusty red door, with paint peeling
off the bottom third of the frame, I will see a
beautiful mural of an artistic interpretation
of the cover of Shel Silverstein’s “The Giving
Tree,” but with apples replaced with Redd’s
Apple Ale. Also, to my surprise, when I open
the red peeling door, I will realize that I have
somehow traveled through a wormhole, and
the wormhole has spit me out at Skeeps, on the
third floor, and I am drinking a Corona and
worrying about norovirus.
I will look down and see someone has spilled
cranberry vodka on my mock turtleneck. It
will likely have been that dude from before. I
will not entirely understand who this guy is,
but I still will make a mental note to punch
him in the face the next time I see him. Then
I will make a digital copy of that mental note.
I’ll whip out my iPhone, which unfortunately
sustained a pretty badly cracked screen
somewhere in the wormhole, and will begin
to type out “remember to punch handsome
gatekeeper/arch nemesis/manifestation of self-
consciousness in the face.”
Coincidentally, in the exact moment, I finish
typing my mental note into the notes section of
my app titled “Thoughts to keep.” (A section that
was stupidly placed right next to “Thoughts not
to keep,” but that’s a problem for another time.)
The same dude from the alternative dimension
on the other side of the peeling red door will
confront me. I didn’t know they made Henley’s
that tight.
Dude: “What are you doing here?”
Did you ever box a United States Marine?
Well sir, I’m going to box a Marine next
Saturday.
I won’t want to admit it, but part of me will
know it’s time. You can’t run from yourself
forever.
I will do a flying windmill kick and hit him in
the face and as I do it the ninth song on More
Life will come on, and we will both know I have
won and the rest of my time at Skeeps will be
pretty fun, and I’ll grab a slice of pizza on my
way home.
A few hours later, I will wake up from a sleep
so dark, it will feel like I was dead. My Twitter
app will still be open and a dryness will run
from the tip of my tongue to the back of my
throat. Right before I fall back asleep I notice
a slight tightness in my right thigh. I should
stretch next time before I flying kick anyone.
Yes sir, that is what I’m going to do next Saturday.
Golden State Worrier: Next Saturday