Editor’s Note: There is some reproduction from an earlier version of this series. The P.O.E.T.S. Day has been picked up by another site to publish simultaneously and we are putting out best foot forward for the new audience. There will be some repeats in the short term, but all will balance out. Thanks for reading, both times.
Congratulations lads and lassies, despite the drudgery of the work week you’ve made it to Friday and the weekend is in sight. But we are not watchers, you and I. We are not mere witnesses to the unfolding of our destinies. We do not wait for the weekend. We seize it. It’s time for a P.O.E.T.S. Day – Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday.
So fake a cough, “twist your ankle,” or just slip out of the office quietly. No one will think the less of you for a lie or minor property destruction in the cause of sidling up to a bar a few hours early.
We’ve gotten that question a lot lately and we apologize for the confusion. We are definitely here despite the fact that we are not currently publicizing that fact. We are not being coy by intent.
With all the beautification taking place around us we felt the need to keep up with the Joneses and ordered a new awning and sign.
One of our employees let us shared with us the wonderful news that our sign was ready and set to hang. I say wonderful because this was way ahead of schedule.
We took down the old sign and awning, put up the new awning and called the sign guys to find out there had been some mix up on our end – not sure how our employee got the idea that the sign was ready because apparently that was far from the message the sign company left with us so she is currently sulking but that will pass – and in fact our sign was still several weeks away.
So yes, we are still here and we will be glad to field calls from those driving up and down 18th St. trying to find us amidst the construction and we understand that at least three times a day we will have someone come through the door asking if this is Edgar’s.
We are here, working, with signs following. See you soon and thanks for your patience.
People do all sorts of amazing things. You hear about their hobbies or what you think are hobbies and file it away with no realization of the scope. This is my son’s friend. She’s his age so on either side of fifteen – I’m not sure exactly – maybe fourteen, maybe sixteen. We heard she like to shoot arrows. This is no hobby. She is shockingly good. We had no idea.
We saw her as a kind person and a quick wit. She was academically centered and it was a given that there were going to be honors grade certificates headed her way. We were glad she was among my son’s group of compatriots. Apparently she’s also Katniss.
Once again we celebrate P.O.E.T.S. Day: Piss Of Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday. This is the glorious dawn of a new weekend and there you are stuck in an office, nurse’s station, or aromatic – but contrary to the ends of freedom and self determination – bakery. You owe The Man nothing. This is your life. Weasel your way out of work early and hit the bar. We’ll have something cool and inviting in a pint/rocks/wine glass waiting for you.
This week’s gambit for escaping the workplace involves a length of kite string (not fishing wire!) three unbent bottlecaps, a C battery, and a sachet of thyme, rosemary, flat leaf parsley, and basil but feel free to substitute marjoram if that’s your preference. I think it’s pretty obvious where I’m going here so I won’t bore you with the details. Timing is everything though. Get the timing right and you are out of the drudgery of employment and running headlong into the joys of fellowship, comradery, potent potables, and Jeopardy on the big screen in no time flat. Good luck. It’s in the timing.
Get out. Escape. Lie. Cheat. Key a car. Whatever you have to do to get out of work and start your weekend early must be on the table. Nothing beyond a misdemeanor should be discounted unless you are slightly more than moderately sure you can get away with it.
It’s P.O.E.T.S. Day: Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday, and my bar is stocked and ready with cold beer on a new tap system, an in-the-midst-of-being-overhauled wine list with some impressive new selections, and a smattering of liquors all guaranteed to ease the burdens of modern life, unless you get whiny or violent when you drink. We’ll have none of that, thank you very much.
Loquacious is good. A few glasses of wine and you become a raconteur? Please and welcome. Keep it upbeat though and make sure that the tv (television) can still be heard over your voice or the baseball nuts will get angry. We value a polite interaction at our bar.
Speaking of politeness, this week’s featured poet was so polite that he not only provided me a facile but ultimately corny segue from the “This is P.O.E.T.S. Day” schtick to the “about the poet” bit, he also included a self-addressed stamped envelope with every submission he sent to a publication so they would not be occasioned a cost to send him an acceptance or refusal letter. He did this even when he was Poet Laureate of England.
We have a new voice participating in the wine program. Meet Candy, in her own words.
Okay. now I’m pissed and this is going to overshadow Candy’s contribution if I don’t rein it in but why the hell did a standard scan of a jpeg – the format that’s been used to import all the pics on this site suddenly quit on me? That took thirty minutes to get her scan in here. I am the anti of the techno-savy. I fixed it by going the long way round, but damn if I wouldn’t like a sip or two of the above after that endeavor.
Enough. Really cool sparkling, my favorite summer white, and a nailed it on the ziti/lasagna pairing. This is the type of scary admission of actual restaurant industry competence that I’m wishing to avoid. It kinda makes it look like we know what we’re doing. We’re a dive. I will not brook otherwise publicly. Candy is hell bent on saying the quiet part out loud. Hush Candy. Hush.
From the Hibernian heights, we take the finest of fictional (as far as I know) semi-holidays from the sage raconteur Sir (if he’s not he should be) Ian Rankin whose detective characters revealed the beauty of P.O.E.T.S. Day – Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday. The weekend is yours and all the more so if you claim it early, so emulate the denizens of his award winning books and seize the day, early. After all, the Scots have done quite a bit for us.
Get yourself out of the office, away from the construction site, skip a vote in the Texas legislature with a few cases of beer in your carry-on, or tell your patients that it’s probably just a cold and you’ll check with them on Monday. Declare the workweek over and grab a seat at my bar.
This may require subterfuge. Frequent readers of these electronic pages will have already gotten past the moral quandary that arises on P.O.E.T.S. Day. The lies necessary for a successful escape are watter off their backs by this point, but that may not be true for those new to the site.
Welcome to it, the one, the only – except where people are doing it other places – realization that life is short and meant to be enjoyed. Moments savored are the bread and butter of poetry and moments working are decidedly less savory. So break free and embrace the P.O.E.T.S. Day ethos: Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday!
This editions invites you to release your inner sun worshipping and bad tattoo spotting urges that so often we reserve for the occasional retreat to the coast. Things are different at the beach. Beer is generally acceptable with lunch in the real world. It’s a-okay for breakfast here.
Unstrap yourself from the desk, tell the boss that you can’t get the part for whatever flugenator or semi-disfusation unit until Monday, tell the supervisor you have an oncoming bout of dysentery, whatever you have to do to get away and start your weekend early.
Amatrice, located to the northwest of Rome in the inland part of the bulging calf of the Italian boot, may or may not be the point of origin for this dish. The confusion arises from the name and its popularity outside of Amatrice.
The word Amatriciana means “in the style of Amatrice” and its popularity in Rome cannot be overstated. I’m on the side that believes a Roman liked the food in Amatrice and came up with something evocative of the place thus “in the style of” but I’m open to it being a direct import.
Either way I first encountered it in Rome over dinner with possibly the most pompous person I’ve ever met. Lucky for him, he was interesting and could pull it off.