I’m transitioning.

Not all transitions are pretty.

Please know that I will still try to update this blog every now and again in some way. Maybe I’ll even find a blog that’s an appropriate combination of the old and the new. But until society can accept one, single uniblog that will cater to both my online and real-world identities, I suppose I’ll just have to stick with separate domain names. I still look the same, if that’s what you’re wondering.

In the meantime, promise me you’ll give the new me a try.

IF you were participating in a Commencement ceremony and you had graduated months before, and IF you were wearing your cap and gown sitting in a row full of graduates, and IF you were called up on stage and you shook the hand of the president of the school and several other notable figures, and IF you then received a diploma book with a shiny purple cover that said Emerson College on the front, should that book be EMPTY?

EXHIBIT A

EXHIBIT B!

Some would say yes, that the emptiness would be resolved when you went offstage and some bespectacled school employee handed you a diploma which you, after years of college tuition, would have to insert into this diploma book BY YOURSELF.

BUT here’s another riddle for you…

What IF you walked offstage and some woman was like, “Oh, when did you graduate?” and you were like “December” and they were like “Go sit down,” and you NEVER RECEIVED AN OFFICIAL DIPLOMA??? What IF you were mailed a giant, cardboard diploma to frame and put in your office next to family photos and many leather-bound books, but the shiny diploma holder you received on that momentous occasion still to this day sits EMPTY? What IF, to this day, the emptiness was never resolved? Should you contact your school and mention to them that you have an empty diploma holder laying around, possibly informing them that you never received a diploma they may have sent? WHAT DO YOU DO? IS THIS NORMAL?

AMERICA DECORATIONS!!!

Also:  HAPPY 4TH OF JULY. I have chosen to blend in with my fellow Americans by sleeping ‘til noon, eating ice cream for breakfast, and WEARING SWEATPANTS. You may not understand this in Boston but trust me – I am currently feeling a DEEP CONNECTION to the Midwest.

via Time.com

After months of bureaucratic paperwork, America books, electronic fingerprints, and government-issued plastic furniture, the end is finally here. I can tell you who was Commander-in-Chief during WWI (Woodrow), who takes over if both the President and the Vice President die in a freak horseback-riding accident at Camp David (Nancy Pelosi), and YES, I am capable of naming at least two national holidays in the United States (MLK Day and Christmas). That’s right:  I am an American.

The ceremony took place in a giant America room, full of star-spangled murals and stone busts of John Adams; I sat before a striking portrait of George Washington with his hand on a horse’s behind, front row, off to the right. It was a perfect view of the afternoon’s proceedings.

But as soon as the speaker introduced himself, he began to talk about travel and obtaining American passports. What is this? I thought. The moment you become a citizen, they want to get rid of you. But this is yet another thing I have learned as a new voting member of this great land:  as soon as you become an American, you must get the hell out of here and tell everyone else. You, too, must go forth to other countries across this great Earth, proudly bearing your stars and stripes, and ask if they serve cheeseburgers and freedom fries, wear fanny packs, and curse at everyone, foreign or otherwise, who does not speak English. You are an American now, not one of those damn immigrants taking up space in our country. That was yesterday.

After spending about an hour with a fine publication entitled The Citizen’s Almanac and reading up on notable naturalized citizens (Bob Hope, Marlene Dietrich, Subrahmanyan Chandrasekhar), we were called to order. Single file, each line of new citizens rose and surrendered their green cards into the official, government-issued clear plastic garbage bag at the front. The judge was summoned to announce us as new citizens; she spoke slowly and made a lot of hand gestures for the hoards of presumably deaf new citizens in the room. I then rose my right hand, mumbled some stuff about bearing my arms, and said the Pledge of Allegiance, which I remember well from having recited it with Julie the Nun in first grade, the same woman who nearly gave me a spinal cord injury one time in church.

Following these proceedings, I picked up my certificate of citizenship which, by default, makes its bearer look like an immigrant. Let it be known that passport photos can make even the WASPiest among us appear to have recently arrived from a village in Eastern Europe, having spent weeks at sea in the cargo hold of a ship surviving on crackers and saltwater. Taking up my certificate and my mini American flag, an added bonus to new citizenship, I trudged out of the America Hall and onto the pavement, where hundreds of relatives of new Americans were taking pictures of us as we squinted in the daylight. I shouldered my bag and walked home.

BUT HERE IS WHAT YOU DO NOT KNOW. While this story may have told you of my path to citizenship, of the typical conversion ceremony that initiates hundreds upon thousands of new Americans into society every year, it has left out one key fact, something which you have yet to discover:  I am a sleeper cell. That’s right, beneath the poor English and the Big Mac-induced bloating, I am still a natural-born Canadian and, when you least expect it, I will unleash the powers of your neighbour to the North in a whirlwind of proper spelling, ice hockey, maple syrup, and flannel outerwear. I will order double-doubles from Starbucks. I will eat donuts for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I will pose questions where questions are not necessary, and I will apologize for everything. Be aware:  when you least expect, that good old American next door will revert back into one of your fiery, tundra-raised neighbours to the North…I mean, my neighbours to the North.

I walk among you.

New Year’s Resolution #14:  Become more intimidating.

Exhibit A

Really, I would call it a couple extra freckles that have recently come in, but Mr. Filek believes otherwise. I have, for  the most part, ignored this comment. I’m not too worried about it.
But according to my grandmother, my grandfather should not talk out of turn.

Other Conversations I Have Had With My Grandmother
MY GRANDMOTHER:  Vancouver’s gone downhill though, eh, Dana?
ME:  How do you mean, Grandma?
MY GRANDMOTHER:  DOPE.* And prostitutes…**

*Vancouver has always had dope. Since forever. This is not a recent development.
**Sault Ste. Marie, the town where my grandparents are from, apparently bears the fine reputation of “Hookers and Hockey Players.” So yes, Esther Filek is the expert.

It’s not like I even have hair on my face, it’s just some extra dots above my lip. After receiving this remark, I scrutinized my upper lip in the mirror, and I can honestly say it is just another blemish. I don’t even think it looks like a mustache; maybe if you squint real hard and think about it.

According to my father, this comes from my mother’s side of the family.

Of course, this then became a point of conversation for the rest of the day. When I locked my mother and my grandparents out of my apartment building and asked “what’s the password,” my grandfather swiftly responded:  “Mustache.”

According to my mother, it is a discolouration of the skin medically known as chloasma.
She always tries to make things better with words like these. But really, no one knows what the fuck she’s saying.

I got a lot of presents this weekend, despite my alleged facial hair. There was some legal tender involved, jewelry, flowers, and a well-crafted piece of Spandex that I plan to wear on hot dates. These all probably had less to do with my ‘stache and more to do with my graduation.

WHICH, by the way, was not as bad as I thought it might be, save for one minor caveat:  I don’t think I ever received a diploma. Sure, I got my degree – the big, cardboard thing that you frame and put in your office (if you have an office) – but when you get that diploma-holder on stage, I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to go offstage and trade it in for a diploma-holder with a diploma in it. I never got one. What does this mean?

Also, small point:  in my experience, 100% of commencement robes I have owned in my life are of the same material:  a manufactured, waxy cloth that I am CERTAIN is highly flammable. If there were a fire in the Wang Centre on May 17, 100% of Emerson College’s Class of 2010 could have gone up in flames.

The good news is that there was no fire, and it turns out that Bernie, our commencement speaker, was not nearly as bad as I expected. He actually provided some good entertainment, called us the sexiest class of graduates he’d ever seen, and referred to something as “useless as an ashtray on a motorbike,” which I thought was pretty cool.

Oh yeah, and I’m supposed to think for myself.

Other than that, it was the usual hijinks with three generations of F-Gs in town:  lavish dinners for which I did not pay, spending time in parks, mocking one another’s strange physical appearance. I nearly achieved ketoacidosis (another fancy medical word) after a twelve-course dinner one evening, stuffed with bread and scallops, pierogies, fava beans, and an unnecessary amount of cheesecake (though, of course, not all at once). And even this morning I woke up to check on my face, still wondering if my mustache had come in. It’s comments like these – accusatory ones suggesting you have unsightly facial hair – that stay with you as a small reminder of the family you have in other places.

Later that afternoon, when I had let my mother and my grandparents into the apartment building but locked them out of my apartment, my mother knocked on the door and I asked in a sing-song voice, “Who is it?”
Without missing a beat my grandmother, Esther Filek, matriarch of the Filek clan, towering at 4’11 and toting her purse in one arm, yelled at full volume into the peephole of my door: “MUSTACHE!”

New Year’s Resolution #13:  Be thankful for the people you’ve got, even if they think you have weird things happening on your face.

NOT Blair Underwood
NOT Martin Scorsese
NOT even “The Fonz” (Emerson alum and inventor of the thumbs-up)

BUT Bernard Cornwell.
Yes, I said Bernard Cornwell.

At this point, you may be thinking, “Who is Bernard Cornwell?”

SO AM I.
Because, as far as I’m concerned, nobody has ever heard of this prestigious gentleman.

via Emerson College

According to the extensive biography provided on the Emerson website, Mr. Cornwell is a seasoned author of historical novels and former employee of the BBC. He was born in 1944 and has had numerous works of his adapted to the prominent Masterpiece Theatre. Kudos, Mr. Cornwell.

But he was born in 1944. Do you know how old that is? Neither do I. But according to my calculator, 66. If you round up, that’s 70, a.k.a. three times as old as me and then some. That means that “in his day,” I was not alive. Nor were my parents; at least for the first decade of his life.

A point:  When a speaker requires extensive biographical information as introduction, he is not as big as you say he is.

Another point:  Guess who is speaking at NYU’s Undergraduate Commencement this year?

ALEC BALDWIN.

Insert necessary biographical information here:

THAT GUY FROM 30 ROCK (via NBC)

Knowing that my New York friends will be listening to Jack Donaghey explain the finer points of synergy only makes me wish for a world in which Masterpiece Theatre and historical novels didn’t exist. Or at least one where they didn’t carry so much street cred.

I suppose the grass is always greener on the other side of the college, but really, with all the thousands of tuition dollars Emerson has sucked up from bank accounts across the world, you would think they might be able to find someone remotely notable to welcome us into the post-graduate world. We even have a number of high-profile alums they could have guilted into giving back:  Denis Leary, Henry Winkler, Big Chin Leno, the inventor of the Furby, Bobbi Brown (the white, female one), even Stifler’s Mom. But no; we get the guy who writes book series for Napoleonic War enthusiasts.

And if I weren’t already lamenting this fact, I recently discovered who this year’s commencement speaker was at the University of Michigan, where a number of my former high school classmates attend:

via The White House

THIS GUY.

I feel slightly cheated.

New Year’s Resolution #12:  Be happy with what you have, even if it is a sexagenarian medieval times author with a book series entitled The Starbuck Chronicles (NOT about coffee).

(P.S. Check Mr. Obama’s pose in that photo:  that’s the stance of a man who means BUSINESS.)

But I WILL be drinking beer for a few extra days, just to be safe. (Also, trying to go legit: from user Warhog through Wikimedia Commons)

HOWEVER, it was a close call. For two full work days, I was scared to sweat. I bathed in the runoff of city reservoirs, where homeless men pee and underage kids toss their half-finished PBR, and when my thirst was unbearable I purchased Ethos water at $40,000 a bottle from Starbucks (“5 cents from each bottle goes to saving the world”).

UNTIL THERE WAS NO STARBUCKS. That’s right; the Mecca of Coffee Beans was boarded up and deserted, left without proper coffee-brewing water or the ability to wash their stirring spoons in that strange sink with the spoon-bidet. As a result, I was parched and decaffeinated. When the tremens became too severe, I walked around the corner to Boston Common Coffee Co. and that was closed, too. God was frowning on Boston; I contemplated suicide.

To make matters worse, Comcast, the prominent television, phone, and Internet company currently headed by Satan (not Miroslav), also decided to smite the wireless connection in my apartment. And since Satan apparently doesn’t do weekends, I was left until Monday morning without proper Internet and, thanks to the closing of my caffeinated safe havens, without the option of traveling to the coffee shop, shooting up a chai latte, and checking my e-mail.

Did I mention I smelled like pond water?

ew. (from flickr user emily_* through Creative Commons)

Last but not least, in the category of AWESOME NEWS, my beloved landlord has taken initiative to find a new tenant for my apartment (the lease will be up in August, the eighth month of the year, which comes directly after Not Soon Enough). In doing so, the management company was kind enough to post an ad on Craigslist including my phone number and address so that, at any moment, on any given day, some soul in search of a tiny apartment could come over, check out the place, and KILL ME. I have taken to locking the door three ways before I go to sleep and praying before bedtime, just in case I wind up convincing someone at the Gates that I was meant to go to heaven, where there is Direct TV instead of Comcast and, hopefully, free beer.

Which is, by the way, how I managed to survive the hydropocalypse:  by drinking my way home every evening after work. It has gone so well that, in fact, I have continued this practice now that the water is again pure and safe to drink (see: Previous Posts Regarding My Alcohol Consumption). It is proof that, after a crisis such as this, one that plagued the City of Boston for days (two of them), there is rebirth. Out of the bad (no water) comes the good (beer). Life has begun anew, summer is in full swing, the sun is shining, and my apartment smells like pizza. Thank you Ernesto’s, maker of glorious pies, and thank you, God; may your wrath never extend to my apartment or local Starbucks ever again. Amen.

New Year’s Resolution #11:  Learn not to take things for granted. Like coffee. Or water. Or beer.

But while I am in favour of fried anything and beverages including at least two kinds of hard alcohol, this job is not without its stresses. The place is small, the building is old and, when the owner gets bored he makes decisions, most of which tend to affect somebody’s job performance. Not to mention that the Accounts Payable department, a 26-year-old with Quickbooks and an office chair, has a hard time writing cheques that equal more than pieces of paper. At least twice, I have been paid in cash after making two to three trips to the bank, where a heavyset, badly-suited woman tells me that she cannot cash my cheque and NO, she can not tell me why, because that’s privileged information. I usually guess out loud that it’s insufficient funds and, judging by the look of irritation on her face, I know that I’m right. After this happens, I return to the office and inform Accounts Payable, who cannot write me a real cheque but can ask me to dinner after informing another employee that he prefers to date 18-year-olds, that the bank has refused to pay me.

To which he replies:  “Oh, yeah. I know.” When can I really cash my cheque? “Tomorrow.” I have resorted to spending in imaginary dollars. And possibly purchasing the Fisher Price plastic fruit of my youth and living on pretend groceries to save money.

Bank of America balance:    $ Enough to pay rent
Imaginary Bank balance:    $ Eleventy-thousand dollars (plus interest)
Credit Score:                      Negative zero

Other riveting tales from Flapper Land include petty fights over where to put the alcohol, how much cash to put in the cash register, where to store jugs of water, and how many lanterns we should put in the pee-scented alley out back to add to our “ambience.” In my opinion:  in my belly, as much as we have, in the fridge, and zero. Also, as a note, these alley lanterns have kerosene in them to contribute to that old-timey feel, but they are often left in boxes on their side, where all the kerosene leaks out and the boxes are doused in flammable liquids. If you ever go out to eat here, DO. NOT. LIGHT. UP. For days. Maybe weeks. You WILL catch fire.

But perhaps the greatest dilemma of recent weeks has been the legendary Menu-gate of 2010, an ongoing battle about whose responsibility it is to print real menus for a restaurant that’s already open (up until now, we’ve been using laminated pieces of paper and killing thousands of trees in cover stock to print our ever-changing drink lists). The end result of said dilemma is that I am now responsible for printing our menus, contacting a printing company to whom we owe a large sum of money (Accounts Payable only writes cheques if you ask him to), and orchestrating the entire process exactly to Mr. Owner’s liking. Mr. Owner, by the way, communicates only through telepathy. And I suck at telepathy. Menus are still unaccounted for. Menu-gate continues.

In the meantime, I try to stay positive. However, I will admit the obstacles before me make this optimism challenging. On the upside, everyone who comes into the bar loves it, from the food to the drinks and beyond. It’s amazing, they say. What a great place. So much history. But the thing is, this is 2010. And while we are celebrating a bygone era, the fact of the matter is that it’s bygone. This is not the Roaring Twenties; this is after the Roaring Twenties. And you know what happened after Prohibition? Everyone got really poor and started eating DUST. Thanks to Mr. Owner and Accounts Payable, that’s exactly the situation I’m in. None of us are living in the glory days anymore; when you get down to it, this is nothing more than the aftermath.

(Don’t worry; I love dust.)

FUN FACT: According to the Internet, I get more website traffic when I put pictures of famous people on this blog. Surprisingly enough, the biggest numbers seem to be coming from John Glenn and Rick James. Thanks, guys.

LADY GAGA MICHAEL JACKSON OPRAH TIGER WOODS

New Year’s Resolution #10:  Try to live in the present and not several decades before.

*pronounced NUKE-yah-ler

For example, when my mother has had a glass of wine and SOMEBODY wants to know who the fuck took his socks out of the Sock Bag and threw them in the washing machine. Then, Debbie Filek will include her husband in the list of people for whom she is legally obligated to care. The Sock Bag, by the by, is a mesh sack with a zipper closure in which Mr. Gibson stores all his soiled foot garments so that said garments may be washed without losing a single sock and thereby misplacing one half of a perfectly good pair.

The only reason my father ever has matching socks on his feet.

For those of us well-versed in dryer science, it is obvious that the drying machine, former hiding spot and chasm of mystery, is capable of swallowing up all manner of clothing in its dark abyss, regardless of the Sock Bag. But this is where my father employs an overdose of logic that can, in cases such as these, become his downfall, leading my mother to insist that she, Saint Debbie, is the sole provider to a family of four children rather than just her biological three. Often times, she tells everyone, it is the fourth child, the one to whom she did not give birth, that causes the most aggravation in her life.

It should also be noted that Mr. Gibson refers to my mother, who measures 5’ tall and has her hair shorn close to the scalp, as a “little boy.” Saint Debbie lives up to this moniker by drooling on herself, falling asleep at the dinner table, and occasionally removing articles of clothing at inappropriate times. In my experience, I have known small children to do all of the above.

But the point is that if, indeed, Mr. Gibson is her oldest, most developmentally-stunted child, then I will be putting in a call to Child Services, because Saint Debbie decided this past weekend to pack up and leave her oldest son at home. You might be thinking, “Dana, this is just a joke. Your mother doesn’t really think her husband is a mildly impaired youth who requires constant supervision. This is not real.”

And to that I say WELL SHE SHOULD. Because when I called my father on Saturday afternoon, he was waging war on our aging family cat, hiding in the corner of the room, giggling to himself, completely unsupervised.

"I smell varmint poon-tang."

If there is one connection in the F-G family unit that bears a fractured relationship, it is undoubtedly the connection between father and family pet. Oapey is a slightly senile older feline and, as we recently discovered, a semi-closeted homosexual. He has, for many years, lusted after my father, spending countless nights attempting to curl up on Mr. Gibson’s lap to the tune of Hockey Night in Canada (“FUCK OFF, CAT!”). At best, their exchanges are cordial:  Oapey will stand sentinel by Mr. Gibson’s side, hoping to reach his lap so that my father might pet him. However, each time Oapey moves to join my father on his chair, Mr. Gibson places a hand over the cat’s face. For years, the sexually frustrated cat has struggled with this unrequited love.

Hell hath no fury like a senile cat scorned.

One of the reasons for this familial tension stems from the dining room at F-G Headquarters. This room, you see, is open to the backyard on two sides. On one side is a wall of paneled windows that looks out across the entire lawn. On the other side is a French window that offers a view of the neighbour’s hedges and serves as a door in the summer months. However, in an ongoing lover’s quarrel with my father, Oapey believes the purpose of this door is to permit him entry into the house during mealtimes, where he will sit by Mr. Gibson’s chair and meow incessantly, until my father either a) gives in and pets the cat, or b) sends him back outside to the tune of several creative obscenities. Many a night in my childhood did I sit down to dinner with the family, only to be interrupted as the cat appeared at the window, up on his hind legs, scratching on the glass. At my father’s instruction, no one was allowed to move or acknowledge Oapey (“JESUS CHRIST, LEAVE HIM OUT THERE!”), and so we listened to the faint, pathetic, half-hearted meows through the glass, eating in silence.

To this day, the battle has not ceased. But there was a slight victory for my father this Saturday while I was on the telephone. Mr. Gibson, seated at his usual spot in the dining room, could see Oapey staring him down from the paneled windows, several feet away from the glass. When the cat moved to approach the French window on the other side of the room, hoping to repeat his constant dirtying of the glass, my father stood up and left the room. The cat then approached the window, attempting to get inside, but realized that the person he had just seen moments before had disappeared. When Oapey returned to the paneled window on the other side, my father returned to his chair. The cat is already senile, but after three repetitions of this game, he was completely perplexed and my father, triumphant, couldn’t have been happier. I tried to scold him for taunting the elderly, which he already does to my mother, but it was no use.

ME:  Please be nice to the cat.
MR. GIBSON:  I am being nice. (Pause) Oh, shut up, cat.

Because I had called just as this cruel game was heating up, I was fortunate enough to receive the full play-by-play of our cat’s bewilderment from my father, a grown man hiding around the corner of the dining room, BY HIMSELF in the house, snickering at the expense of our family pet. This, Saint Debbie, is why you should have called a babysitter. This is why you cannot leave him at home alone. After we hung up, I have no doubt in my mind that he burned some ants or lit a bird on fire. We’re all aware that he needs to be supervised, and quite frankly, you and I both know better. If you’re going to go away, at least pop in an NHL DVD. Maybe buy those hockey dolls my high school journalism teacher used to talk so much about? And if that doesn’t work, threaten to call in Julie, the 300-lb., heavily mustached, trike-riding error in judgment you left with your other three children for weeks at a time.

I still resent this.

But, of course, this is what family is to the Filek-Gibsons:  no one person is a parent or a child; no one is even really in charge. We’re all just making sure no one lights a bird on fire.

New Year’s Resolution #9:  Make sure none of my family members goes unsupervised. Or kills the cat.

It's like reality TV. Only 24/7 and in real time.

Thus, in an attempt to connect her and all those north of the Arctic Circle with the real world (meaning my world), I wish BFG, the eldest of the F-G children, a happy birthday, and  would like to share with her the many riveting wonders of our modern lives. Once in a blue moon, a satellite circles over the Canadian wilderness and she reads this blog. Perhaps she will read this post, which I dedicate to her, along with the following reminder:

Things I Did On Your Birthday
8 a.m. Woke up to rain and could not locate my umbrella. Thought about going without one until I saw the downpour outside. CVS has now earned approximately $55 in umbrella business from one single irresponsible person. Knowing that there are many irresponsible people in Boston and the Northeast, I have concluded that CVS is full of greedy, spineless umbrella warlords who make a killing during foul weather and high winds.

9:30 a.m. Visited the RMV, Massachusetts’ spelling-retarded version of the DMV, in hopes of attaining a state ID card. My number was B117. When I approached the counter, the RMV employee who called B117 stood up, took her purse, and left the room. The woman helping B116 then finished helping her customer and changed her number. To B118. I was told to wait in another line.

9:45 a.m. Took a photo for my state ID card. I look like I’m about to cry or have a seizure. The only pleasant RMV lady in the building let me take another one. God bless her.

11 a.m. Participated in 55 excruciating minutes of Advanced Indian Stretching (AIS), sometimes referred to as yoga. There is one gangly, uber-stretchy bitch who always shows me up. There is also one really old lady who spends 45 of the 55 minutes in child’s pose. Slacker.

Also known in some circles as "Saturday night."

1 p.m. Went to work for approximately 1.25 hours before my manager admitted that there was nothing to do and let me go home. 1.25 hours = $17.50 for sitting on chairs and drinking tea. This is, mind you, in theoretical dollars. The real ones are on backorder…

3 p.m. Re-applied pajamas. Ate copious amounts of snack foods, because apparently my body has decided to desire nothing but salsa, oranges, and sweets. Had too much and needed to lie down on my bed, the sole piece of furniture in my apartment, for several minutes.

4 p.m. Sent you a heartfelt birthday e-card. Also, wrote on your Facebook wall, so that my birthday wishes would be forever intermingled with the 4,500 other opportunists who checked their Facebook birthday calendar and decided to send you something. Whores.

TIME LAPSE

8 p.m. Took a break from snacking in order to turn on my $15 television for the first time in at least a month. Watched American Idol. Based on this one-time viewing, my fave is Andrew. The last time I saw AI was when Ruben and Clay Aiken were fighting it out and Paula was still sober. Also, this show has lost whatever it had going for it. No wonder it’s on Fox.

WHAT. HAPPENED. TO. PAULA. And who is this bitch on the right? Also, in this photo, Simon looks like he is made of Photoshop.

9:30 p.m. Just bought Raisinets on sale. Thinking about a nap. And my dangerously-high blood sugar. Jealous of the modern world yet?

Happy birthday, poutard. You’ve aged.

New Year’s Resolution #8:  Remind family members in faraway places that you’re still alive.

At the end of each full half-day at work, we all gather ‘round the bar, a beautiful oak-and-mahogany number, and wait for the manager to offer some words of encouragement:  “Well, we have no money to pay you…Dana, do you want something? How about a beer?” God love him, it’s the only thing he can offer me, so I say yes. Then, we drink until someone gets bored or we have to go home. The best shifts at this budding establishment combine two major passions of mine:  alcohol consumption and sitting on benches for two to four hours. According to the Big Man, all of this training is paid. However, according to the Bigger Man above him, we should order red coffee mugs and the plumber will get here when he gets here. There’s a lot to be done in this new place.

That being said, I do want to work here. As I mentioned before, there are attractive hourly wages and a good group of people, from wait staff to kitchen guys, owners and managers (by which I mean manager; singular). Perhaps the fact that I value these things above financial stability indicates the same mindset as the Bigger Man and his coffee mugs. Perhaps this is why I still work here.

In any case, the point is they feed me beer. By the pint glass, by the tall boy, sometimes by the 20-ounce bottle. I’m thinking about getting my own growler to take home at night. And this is not (always) PBR; this is the good stuff. Primo booze. I’ve also received free plates for my kitchen and several glasses of wine for my efforts. The perks are amazing.

But here comes Part Two:  I also write articles about bars. This started not too long ago, and it’s certainly been worth the time. In the past month and a half, I have come to hone my knowledge of both local watering holes and the beers inside them. But now, in combining my ample consumption of free company beer with my investigative, hands-on research of local dives and Irish pubs, I am fast becoming something in life that I never imagined I’d be:  a borderline alcoholic.

I know, it surprised me, too. In most respects, I am a fifty-year-old man trapped in a 21-year-old’s body:  I fall asleep before midnight, wear the same pair of pants everyday, and consider Don Cherry, the Leafs, and fucking Satellite Hotstove to be a Saturday night with just the right balance of greatness, disappointment, and frivolity. But, as it turns out, this fifty-year-old man is a drinker. A beer-a-day man who doesn’t mind being a three-beer-a-day man every once in a while. Or a beer-and-cocktail man. Or a beer-and-whiskey man. Whatever.

So how do I cope with my increasing consumption of alcohol? The same way fat people cope with gaining  weight:  change the tag on those jeans from a 10 to an 8 and you’re two sizes skinnier. I am not a borderline alcoholic, I am simply business drunk (NOTE:  Starting now, I will be bolding all new vocabulary that applies to my life, kind of like high school textbooks). And, in my line of work, it’s just common practice; I can’t help that I have to meet certain standards. After all, in the business of not getting paid, alcohol is a requirement.

Na zdrowie. Drink up.

New Year’s Resolution #7:  If you can’t solve the problem, then maybe it’s not a problem.