Damien Galeone

I have like a several hundred thousand things to do. My to-do list looks like a cartoon gift wish list to Santa. And books are piled on my desk. Some of this is self-inflicted. I have Czech homework to do, a substack to write, and feelings to lie about in a journal entry. I’m swamped.
Naturally, I go to Facebook.
Facebook has become a strange place to an old person like me. When I was younger and used to stare into my computer, I recognized everyone. I also – occasionally – saw posts from people I actually know in real life. I saw their opinions, humorous observations, and run-throughs of their travels and experiences.
But this is no longer the case.
My Facebook page might as well be the Facebook page of a random stranger. The posts are split up among political themes, pictures of houses in Portugal, and kettlebell workouts. There’s not a face I recognize in my People You May Know section. It might as well be filled with forest nymphs and battle dwarves. There are family pictures out of which I can not pick one person. I know nobody on my wall anymore. Now and then a friend’s post comes up and then it’s right back to pictures of shihtzus in sailor outfits.
This is just real life nowadays. Nobody reading this thinks anything strange about the description of Facebook or of my day written above. But imagine being an objective observer in this thing. Imagine if you were transported here from 1990 or something. Imagine explaining to that 1990 person what I have just written. It was definitely have a Twilight Zone feel to it.
“So, when I get stressed out, I look at a little box on my desk that offers images of dogs and inspirational quotes tailored to my needs and interests. Oh, and in that little box there it suggests people I might connect with to make friends. Why? Because they are – evidently – friends of other friends. I guess. I have never laid eyes on any of them.”
1990 Me asks questions and, though he is not a drinker yet, he reaches for a bottle of Chambord that his parents had had in the liquor cabinet when he was born and would have until he turns 36.
“That list of names and tiny faces? Oh, that’s a sidebar. That’s all the people on Earth that I know and I can instantly talk to any of them. Right now. Yeah? You want to try? Who? I can’t hear you with that bottle in your mouth. Oh her. No, we can’t talk to her anymore.”
It would take more time to explain why my personal information box would be ruled by the antics of Donald Trump, a person who 1990 Me thinks was just in a movie and has a weird hairweave thing. It would be better to leave ChatGPT for a different time or 1990 Me might lose his mind.
So this whole thing is ridiculous. And I know I should fix its place in my life. And I would do that, but I have like a hundred thousand things to do.

When I was a bartender way back in Pittsburgh, I distinctly (i.e. very vaguely) recall a hockey playoff series between Pittsburgh and a Canadian team. A group of Canadian guys were in the bar cheering on their team. And a bunch of regulars at the bar were vocal supportive of their Penguins. The game was tight. Fists were being thrown on the ice. People were drinking, people were getting louder. Tensions rose.

Now, we all know what can happen in this situation. The wrong people, the wrong turn of events, the wrong comment, the wrong look, and suddenly you have a variety of otherwise reasonable men throwing haymakers in hockey jerseys their mothers got them for Christmas. Holly jolly mayhem.

The Canadian team scored next and the guys in Pittsburgh jerseys moaned. And then instead of anything negative, they ordered a round of Jack Daniels for the Canadians, delivered them personally, and shared a shot with them. Everyone had a big laugh about it. When Pittsburgh scored a few minutes later, the Canadians bought a round of CC (Canadian Club) for the Penguins guys. They too were delivered personally and with good sportsmanship and better humor they all drank shots. The next night brought the same scenario. Everyone in the bar got a kick out of watching them go back and forth, until of course none of them could stand. It was a high-scoring game. I called many cabs.

This is a perfect example of drinkplomacy – at least in some form. For thousands of years, tribes, groups, governments, and people have been sussing out, discussing, and resolving issues with a few snoots. It makes total sense, you warm up, loosen up, and relax. What better version of you can there be to represent your people’s needs and/or wants.

This goes back to the ancients. In Ancient Greece, spondai were formal truces or treaties, but it also literally meant libations – alcohol used to seal formal pacts. Similarly, symposia were political or alliance discussions and a staple feature of that was shared wine. If only Karaoke had been part of it, wars would have long ago become a thing of the past. Once you sing Piano Man with another person, you can’t fight them, let alone hit them in the face with a spear. In the Bronze Age, Near East civilizations had wine rituals – libations, pouring out wine to formally seal treaties. It’s sort of like pouring one out for your homies, if your homies were the Hittites and the Akkadians and they invented writing.

In the 1984, however, drinkplomacy was brought to another context when Canadian soldiers placed a bottle of Canadian whisky and their flag on a small uninhabited island in the Nares Straight called Hans Island. Tom Høyem, Danish Minister for Greenland, subsequently chartered a helicopter to the island, and too placed a flag and a bottle of Schnapps there. Thus began the Whisky War.

A little over a week after Christmas, we woke up to a winter wonderland – 9 days too late to be charming. What might have been a charming wintry atmosphere was now just freezing cold water on the ground that made it dangerous to do anything. It mocked. In the ensuing days, snow begat more snow and harsh freezing weather begat more harsh freezing weather.

It’s eleven days after our first snowfall, and when I look outside from my balcony, I expect to see Kurt Russel chasing David Keith and Wilfred Brimley around with a flamethrower in our park.

Like many people who don’t have lobotomies, we spend more time indoors in the deep freeze weeks. Me, Burke, the cat, the dog. We stay inside and do winter activities – namely, gain weight and hate each other.

OK, ‘hate’ is too strong a word, but only as much as ‘gain’ is too mild a word. The dog has taken to running around in circles and starting fights with my hands and ankles just to release some pent-up tension. We go outside with her, of course, and the .00021% of husky in her loves the snow beyond anything. She runs and plays. It’s an old story – we’re all stuck inside, the weather is freezing, and cats in small flats = a Shining situation.

Moreover, I’m dealing with the comedown from Christmas. No, not the merry fun time comedown into real life and all of its horrors. No. I am talking about the holiday-sanctioned period of guiltless gluttony comedown into eating like a human who wants to stay alive. For me, this means popcorn.

I don’t know what it is about popcorn, but I could easily eat two bags of microwave popcorn a night. This is despite all the downsides – like the forty minutes of flossing I have to do afterwards or the fact that it gives me very weird hyper-realistic dreams. There are adult themes and scenarios in these dreams, but they never quite involve the people I’d expect them to. Instead of sipping daiquiris with Adriana Lima, I get Adrian Brody (sparkling conversationalist if I’m being honest). Or I get a strange mix: I didn’t go skinny-sledding with Rihanna, but with Rihanna Gosling. Strange. Not horrible. Strange.  

It’s freezing cold and snow has come late to us. The snow is insult to injury, as anything remotely Christmassy mocks us after the day. Decorations, a tree, a mall. Snow before Christmas is cozy, charming, fits with the mood. But did we get a White Christmas? Hell no. We did, however, get a frozen, slippery return to our miserable jobs.

What astounds me still is how easily I used the word January in December. How I flung it around like it was an order for McNuggets. ‘Oh, why don’t we do when we get back in January.’ ‘We’ll worry about that in January. Have a Merry Christmas!’ Whoever I was speaking to would agree and we would settle into the comfort that comes from careening towards a two-week break centered around eating and drinking too much while getting gift certificates for books.

But now, here we are. January. It’s no wonder this fakakta month is chock full of strange please-don’t-do-yourself-in observances. It starts out January 1 with Z Day. Oh, this delightfully quirky holiday regulates that Zs come first in that day. Which is no doubt a nice way to celebrate your year’s biggest hangover.  

In this wretched month, the 14^th is dress up your pet day. But this is nothing special as my dog has the sweater and jacket selection of a minor Kardashian. For Christmas, that holiday that seemingly occurred six months ago, I got a doggy carrier. I am that man. I own it. I also own three doggy carriers. I feel like this is going to end up on a form one day.  

I once tried to put a tiny Santa hat on the cat and the reason I know how to say that in Czech is because I had to explain the situation to the ER nurse later that afternoon. For my cat, January 22 is evidently ‘answer your cat’s question day’ which explains why she was shouting at me at 5:30 am. She has a lot on her mind and only one day to find out where I keep the tuna.  

It’s Christmas morning. I would have been awakened by the coffee pot were it not for the Shih tzu standing on my face giving me ‘gotta pee’ eyes. It’s my morning so I dress as quickly as I can in order to not be arrested for walking a dog with no pants on. On my way out the door I wish Burke a Merry Christmas. The subtext: make me a coffee while I’m away. Uber-subtle subtext: Add Bailey’s.

When I come back, I am happy – maybe too happy – to find that Burke has received the message loud and clear. I use this sweet, intoxicating coffee mix to wash down cookies and a butter cake whose every bite strips away one or two delicious months of my life. After two helping – with a side of candy – nausea creeps in. I defy the nausea by eating another helping of butter cake. Another mouthwatering month gone. I pour another coffee with Bailey’s and plop into my seat like the Emperor of Rome getting ready to watch plebes fight bears. It is, after all, Christmas.

During the year, I live a life of somewhat rigid regularity. I am up at 5:30 each morning. I stretch and drink three glasses of water, the second one has creatine in it to keep my body from falling apart at the joints. Then it’s black coffee and work for two hours before exercising. I have to do a low impact one these days lest my downstairs neighbors come up and throw a coffee cup at me at 8 am. I follow that up with two eggs and wash that down with a protein shake with fruit and honey. I then go to work. I eat a veggie wrap at lunch and my dinner would make a meat lover cry and pray for my soul. The evening sees more work – depending on what I have doing on with one of my side hustles – and I come down from that with Bigfoot television or Unsolved Mysteries or Abbott Elementary. I get in bed at 10ish and read until I fall asleep.

Wash

Rinse

Repeat

Tis the season to be merry. And what can aid merriment more than cracking a few eggs and dropping a pound of sugar into a glass of milk and then mixing it with three kinds of alcohol? Not a damn thing.

Booze has had already had a long, complicated, twin-engine relationship with the military. As had occurred in armies for centuries, men in Washington’s continental army were rationed a gill of rum each day (4 ounces). Alcohol was key to morale and order. But it came with its own problems. Everyone knows that alcohol makes civilians say and do stupid things. This truth has been entertaining and cringing humans for centuries. It’s no different for soldiers, who live in harsh conditions and live with daily pressures we can’t get. In the Revolutionary War alone, alcohol was blamed for desertions, sleeping on guard duty, failure to execute duties and jobs, and just being an asshole. It was blamed for excessive casualties along with Major General Adam Stephen, who would be the only high-ranking officer in the continental army relieved of his duty. During Washington’s sneak attack on the Hessians on Christmas 1776, the soldiers got into the Hessian rum. Their return across the Delaware was held up constantly because they had to keep fishing drunken soldiers out of the water. Aside from all that, once soldiers had too much to drink, they suddenly became probably embittered, potentially aggressive, definitely armed men who could no longer tell right from wrong or left from right.  

Similar worries had arisen at the US Military Academy at West Point around 1825. Concerns had been raised and cadets were often court martialled for visiting local taverns. The problem grew as discipline suffered and grades slipped. At an 1825 graduation shindig, a group of drunken soldiers hoisted West Point’s Commandant William Worth onto their shoulders and created a snake dance, during which they ran Worth through the campus. This was a big no-no in the army (up in the air meant easier to shoot). And it was also the straw that broke the camel’s liver. West Point superintendent Colonel Sylvanus Thayer, who had allowed booze in limited quantities on special holidays, put booze was on the kibosh list.

It’s just about winter and the days are short and begin to be swallowed up by night at around 3:30. The sun has been so absent that it’s included in the folk songs of the valley people. When I get the bus in the morning to work, I try to figure out who I’m with. Are they the winter people or the summer people?  

People are often sectioned into two categories: winter and summer. I think the membership-values are quite clear. Summer people like baking in the sun and sweating and 20-hour-long days. Winter people wish we could all hark back to a time when we lived in caves and hid from the megafauna that was running around the earth at that time using us as toothpicks.

I am a mall person. I want 70ish–75ish degrees, shade, and a Sbarro’s nearby just in case I want a slice of pizza the size of a bookcase. I have no will to deal with weather and seasonal discomfort. However, I do obey the unwritten rule that you can complain about one season and one season only. It’s not fair if you gripe about hot and cold weather. Choose one to bitch about and in the other season, suffer in private.  

Long ago I chose summer. The heat and I do not do well together. My body just loooves to sweat. And when I sweat in public, I look like I’ve just done something terrible criminal behavior for which I now await capture. It’s not a great look. Nope. Summer. I have never looked back.

But winter comes with its own challenges, among whose numbers none are the cold. This is my favorite thing about winter – bring on the cold days and the chilly nights. The dark is another story. And that story is unrelenting. Dark when we get up, dark when we leave for work, dark when we get home from work. In between? Yep. You guessed it: dark. Or at least gray.

There are lots of coping tips. To keep yourself positive, you should 1. Get sunlight, 2. eat lots of forest fruits and proteins, 3. down vitamins B, C, D and some other letters I can’t remember (because I don’t take enough vitamin B for memory help). 4. Don’t drink. 5. See people. 6. Reframe winter glumness (I guess like a seasonal it’s you, no me). 7. Read something light and absorbing. 8. Lower expectations (i.e. don’t take on too much work). 1. Write down a daily affirmation.

Right.

1. There is no sun. There is no light. There is only the gray and it will never end.

2. I do eat these things. I wish I could eat pizza too.

3. I think the vitamins are fighting for supremacy of my system. Based on my current symptoms (I am pink and now fear sunlight) I think D is winning.

4. Won’t dignify with response.

5. But I don’t like people in the sunny times.

6. This didn’t help. Just made me feel like winter had broken up with me and is now punishing me for withholding the jewelry.

7. This I will do. I read a lot of horror (maybe too much). I dreamed last night that all of the people in India disappeared. OK, definitely read too much horror.

8. Tis the most wonder—nah, tis the busiest time of the year. Work on work on work. So, whatever horror fiction doesn’t do to my psyche, the extra workload does. Maybe everyone in India was at their side gigs. Huh.

9. Today’s daily affirmation: this day will end.

Probably not what they had in mind.  

Yesterday, the dog and I were hanging on the couch. I was working, she was trying to pick a fight with me using a pair of my favorite socks. The fun ended when someone outside set off fireworks. Because what gray 2 pm on a Monday isn’t replete with fireworks that will disappear into the clouds 4 inches away from you?

When this happens, she gets upset and goes into the bathroom. It’s dark and quiet in there. She barks for us to come to her and then gets wary when we’re there. Burke decided to build her a small fort out of some blankets, pillows, and her favorite chair.

Amazingly, this worked. We put her in there and she quieted. She also seemed to be happy about the fact that her view from the fort included us and she was probably also the cookies I was feeding her.

Then it dawned on me.

A fort!

Well, I finished my work and then I went into my room. We have a few extra pillows and blankets and pretty soon, I had myself a neat little fort. I got in there with my reading light and my book. My breath is about the only sound I could hear. The pets visited quickly and wanted access. I hadn’t had time to post a No Girls Allowed sign, so contractually I had to let them in.  

I have no plans to leave. Well, not until the Indian population comes back from wherever they’re hiding out.

Now I just have to figure out how to get Burke to hand me cookies.

We live in a small flat. There are four living creatures and 12 legs. This of course is not counting the various spiders no doubt riding out the winter in my house. But the less I know about that, the better I will be able to sleep.

One of us is an old cat: pushing nineteen, I think. However, I too am old and don’t remember exactly when this old cat came to my shores. She has always been a rather rambunctious one and I never knew why. She is chatty, loud, occasionally aggressive, and overcome with the vapors if her food isn’t on time. There’s a change I once came across an article on how pets take on the characteristics of their owners, but I can’t remember, because I’m pretty sure I blocked it out of my memory. Or sent it to hell. Or both.  

Anyway, that young rambunctious cat is now an old cat. She walks like an old cat, and spends a lot of time looking at me and trying to figure out who exactly I am. But she can still move. She still occasionally explodes with the absurd ninja gifts that cats get to offset the fact that they puke for fun and can’t read books. Because if they could, they would surely rule this planet.

We have moved twice since I’ve had the cat and each time has been to a smaller flat. She was born into a wide palace where it was just me and her and occasional visitors. Then three of us moved to a smaller, but not small flat. Then we took on one more animal and the four of us moved to a smaller flat. When we moved, we left the cat in the old flat for a few days because the balcony would have been dangerous for her (i.e. she is, like all cats, curious and, as we know, this may be their undoing if they get too curious on a balcony 50 feet above the ground). But I spent time with her because I had to clean the old flat. When we finally brought her here a couple weeks later, the gratitude was palpable. I felt terrible about that: Could this old cat really think I’d abandon her now? I’d kick my own ass if I did that.

Where I now live in Prague gets very foggy in the winter months. This is because it sits on a plateau above Liben. Liben, as everyone knows, is very shady. Whatever the reasons, we spent the end of November, December and January is a cloud. Last Christmas, I wasn’t 100% convinced we’d been attacked by the Russians. I ate extra carbs in case I needed to store fat. I still store that fat – in the means of efficiency.

Nevertheless, this dense, high-climbing fog makes it like we’re in a Sherlock Holmes story in Victorian London. Sure, the kids on scooters and vaping residents kills that feel a bit. But we do have a group of homeless guys who hang out in the square that give a Holmesy vibe, especially the one who pushes himself around in his wheelchair with his remaining foot.

This foggy effect can be in turn disconcerting and cozy. Yesterday in the late afternoon, I was standing on my balcony looking out over the fog, I felt safe, warm, cozy. I was happy that I was up here and not down there; I was not in the spooky fog, where anything could get me – Jack the Ripper, vaping mugger, be-idioted scooter. From nowhere came a long, sad howl. A howl. Not a bark or a whine. A howl. And, as I said, long, drawn-out, sad, and not far enough to make me feel comfortable.

“Dog,” I said, comforting myself and my slippers. “Must be a dog.”

The long howl came again.

“A big dog, but a dog.”

One more big long howl.

“That’s a werewolf.”

I checked my watch: 3:51 pm. I then had to hedge my bets.