Pick the Cat's Eyes Out

In The Plague, Camus told us the citizens of Oran spent their Saturdays "love-making, sea-bathing, going to the pictures." In Nausea, Satre's Saturdays were composed of children playing ducks and drakes, and tossing stones into the seas. But I like Proust's Saturdays the most. It consisted of characters frequently blurting out, "Have you forgotten that it's Saturday?" It wasn't a condescending question, but a reminder to one's self and others of what Saturdays promised and relieved one of (labor and well, any thoughts of labor), as the whole concept of leisure was a fairly new one in late 19th century Europe.

M83's "Skin of the Night" is like a Saturday anthem from adolescence. The vocals remind one of Liz Frasier, though back then I had no idea who Liz Fraser was. She could have been the Roll-On America employee who never wiped her hands in between serving Greek-style pizza and ice cream. "Skin of the Night"'s cheesy, post-chorus guitar stabs are like something from the ballads they played loudly while we skated. I wore Vuarnet; she feathered her hair. And the songs were so synth-heavy and impenetrable, the colors from the disco lights flashing overhead bounced right off them.

But you always found a way to wring the emotion from such works and afterwards, as you stood outside waiting for a ride, your feet still tingling from cramped, beige skates, you quoted a verse and got a kiss in return.