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.
It’s that time again. From the Scottish midlands or wherever Edinburgh lies, we bring you another P.O.E.T.S. Day – Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday.
So gird your loins and set your best poker face. It’s time to get out of work a few hours before closing and get yourself to a bar, but that’s going to require a moderate lie. Don’t worry about the morality of lying. They’re the ones taking your weekend from you. All you are doing is reclaiming your time from the workaday usurpers.
Did you just get a call from someone who found your beloved lost dog? You did? That’s great. Your boss would have to be Scrooge not to let you go pick up Fido immediately. Did your neighbor just call to let you know that your dog was just hit by a car? She did? Bereft and hollowed you have to go right away. The latter works best if you don’t have a dog. Try the former when dogless and you may later have to come up with lies to cover your original lie and it gets complicated.
Keep it simple. Come join us at the bar. Jeopardy starts at three.
P.O.E.T.S. Day pablum first. Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday. That should get your blood going even if you already knew what the acronym stood for. Get out. Get here.
It’s not quite the weekend but it can be if you make it Picardism. Escape the office. Don’t claim anything that’ll come back and bite you, though. Tell your boss you have a raging case of herpes and yeah, you’ll get out of work early but you’ll also never get to double dip a corn chip at the office Christmas party without a full and total realization of what a gossip your boss is. Also, what if your boss is hot? Don’t burn an a bridge unnecessarily.
Better the simple. We all hate a sniffle and COVID has everyone on tenterhooks and there is no “How did the flare up go?” questions around the water cooler on Monday. A fever can be faked with nothing more than a thermometer held near a light bulb, but not too near. I still remember my mom telling me to get dressed for school despite the thermometer registering 110° F. I tried but mom’s are clever.
I was in Sardinia in 1996. This was a brilliant time to be in Sardinia as the national or sub-national or whatever team (Federatzione Isport Natzionale Sardu) was doing brilliantly in the Euro Cup. Every bar was alight. The streets were buzzed by locals flying flags and singing soccer songs.
I got into a conversation with this woman – Debra. Her English was about as awful as my Italian but we kept trying and kind of got a few ideas across. I was a tourist. She was an art student on break. I can’t believe that this is something that they let students do but she was touching up (no idea what that entails) Botticelli paintings. Not quite a ninja turtle, but you know he was in the conception conversation. That’s pretty good.
Anyway, Debra was charming. I tried to get her to explain the difference between Polizia and Carabinieri and she put her hands forth as if in handcuffs. I probably should have explored that further, but I was young and stupid and if you reflect too much it’s regret all the way down.
We were in this open courtyard. There were several restaurants that no doubt vied for business, but with so many of them open to the area I’m assuming a detente had been arrived at. No one seemed to care where you bought your beverage or in whose realm you sat to drink it. It was very ecumenical.
Debra took the lead. She gave me this “hold” gesture with her hands forward. We had done our best to communicate between broken languages so I just held fast. I had no idea what she was doing but I wanted to trust her. Tight jeans and a smirk. You would have wanted to trust her too.
She came back with a bottle of wine. Argiolas Costomolino. The smirk was a smile. No irony.
I’m having trouble explaining it. Crisp and brilliant white wine. I say that independent of my attraction to the girl, by the way. She had stunning brown hair. The wine had wonderful minerality. I won’t, and didn’t confuse the two. Sometimes two life altering moments happen at once.
So she poured, and those deep brown eyes that had dissected Botticelli looked up to me and said “You no have better.”
We have it now. Argiolas Costomolino. $6.25 a glass.*
*I made all that up. I had it at a wine tasting in Birmingham. But still. Really good.
You think about stuff when you’re trying to not think about stuff and fall asleep.
Ideally you’d be able to coax yourself into a pleasant dream where you’re the heroic general on the up side of some interstellar conflict piloting toward a pleasant retirement on a Rigel like sex planet but as you lull off your subconscious pulls up some weird scenario where a composite uncle is screaming at you because you put decaffeinated as opposed caffeinated Darjeeling in your long deceased grandmother’s medicinal chili and that kind of nonsense will wake you up quick.