The long weekend began in its usual fashion when we have not fucked off out of town a day or two early. The pub half empty. Me on the beer. Sonja on the wine. Led Zeppelin on the stereo. Heaven several drinks and a stairway away.
“We should go home and pack,” I suggested to the best drinking partner ever born. In the morning we would leave for our province’s Interior aka Wine Country even though more far dope is grown there than fucking wine. Such is the supernatural power of public relations.
“What’s the fucking hurry?” asked Sonja. “I’m already packed and all you need to pack is shorts, socks, gonch and a toothbrush.”
She was right. We did not even have to pack any booze to take with us. You cannot take a dozen steps in Wine Country without being near a liquor outlet of one kind or another and we were staying in a Super 8, not camping, as we had been listening too much Jason Isbell. I was both hoping I would not die in the motel and that I would. Dying a bad poetic death being preferable to not dying poetically at all.
In the morning we would be on the highway, what we fucking live for would have truly begun, a weekend lakeside in Canada, its memory blurry before the fun.
4 comments:
I get the feeling that, unlike Mr. Isbell, you are likely more worried about dying on the Twittmachine with a phone in your hand.
Which is a ironic, if you think about it, given that JI is the best, and maybe only decent, reason to hang out there.
Seriously.
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One my union’s reps tipped me off to Isbell’s facility wth twitter. I follow only Jason and Jackie Fuchs (Fox) who rewarded me with the knowledge she (a lifelong crush) would soon appear as an accomplished Jeopardy contestant many months ago.
Ms. Fuchs has one amazing life story.
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Does she ever. Put her face on currency amazing.
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