It's a Saturday, or a Sunday, or a Holiday . . .?

THOUGH I'M NOT ABOUT to turn my nose up at a day off from work, it screws me up royally when it's in the middle of the week. Such is the case with Independence Day this year. In years past, the company has given us 4 days off when such a date-bound holiday fell on a Tuesday or a Thursday. Not this time.

We only had a partial day yesterday anyway, though getting home was an odd journey. After bailing at 1:40, I got to Hoboken a little after 2:00. No early-escape trains were running, as they do on summer Fridays, so the next train was 3:57. Good for a Magnum, bad for a quick dash home. It was a good 90º out as well, which didn't invite wandering around the city or Hoboken.

So I schlepped back into Manhattan via the PATH, caught a train uptown one stop to 42nd St., and walked the two steamy, tourist-filled blocks to the bus station. It's been months since I was up that way, but with a full backpack and work clothes loading me down, strolling about to inspect recent construction and new retail choices was off the menu.

I dodged the shuffling weirdos who cluster around the Port Authority and found my way up to the platform I had taken for years before my company moved and made the train more practical. Weird flashback, standing in line with all these people, waiting to spend July 4th in New Jersey with their relatives, or merely escaping from work early like me. No familiar faces, unlike my previous daily travel through this platform, when you would see the same range of people appearing one after the other. It's scary how a routine can so swiftly coalesce.

With holiday traffic thin, I got home far earlier than the 3:57 train would have allowed, and I took advantage of this by hitting the gym. I have a plane seat to fit into in 8 days, and untold culinary and alcoholic temptations waiting for me in the swirling desert sands of Las Vegas. I paid no particular attention to my usual bedtime, which I know is going to fuck me up royally tonight. Last night, I kicked on WFMU, expecting the Friday programming, only to hear Monday's shows. Later on, I'm going to hallucinate that it's a Sunday, and that I should be returing home to catch dinner with my parents. So right now I'm all screwed up, and without any clear markers as to what day of the week it is, for all intents and purposes this week will have two Mondays. Glorious.

I am accepting a kind invitation from Rick to attend his parents' July 4th cookout, but I plan to get home at a reasonable hour, because I still have a number of things to get off my desk in the 6 remaining days before my trip. For the rest, I'll leave a list and a couple of moderately encouraging words, which may or may not form a complete sentence. More like the equivalent of the heavily distracted Milhouse, jonesing to hit the Simpsons' pool, signing Bart's cast MILPOOL.

For now, I am once again going to do some time on the elliptical trainer and make all lifty with the weights. I'm crossing my fingers for one of the cable channels to be doing a good marathon, like a shitload of older World Poker Tour matches or an Iron Chef binge. I could end up spending quite a while there if that be the case.