On Tuesday night, I saw The Hobbit: The Desolation of Extraordinarily Abrupt Endings. It was in 3D and there was a dragon, so I was pretty happy, nonetheless. Also, the film was filled with action, adventure, and wizards.

Plus, all the sexy short people.

It occurred to me about half-way through the film that all of the protagonists were short and stocky men. Dwarves. A Hobbit. They were killing orcs and battling dragons, scaling mountains and running river rapids. They weren’t beautiful. They weren’t slender. They weren’t tall.

So. This was new.

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I blame gin. Again.

It seems that every time I sip the juniper juice, I agree to something that I later regret. Consequences have included sewing classes and spiders, races and nude swims in public. Last time it was a zumba lesson.

This time it’s an ill-advised bet with a bookworm.

I don’t know when it all started exactly. There wasn’t too much gin (my face wasn’t red yet) but there was enough to set off some IM smack talk about who the bigger reader was. Before I knew it, I was agreeing to a yearlong battle of the books. In the morning there’s that post-gin feeling: a mixture of thirsty, sad, and vague regret. A note in my Moleskine and one final IM from the arch-rival – “I’m gonna kick your ass!” – refreshes my memory.

The goal is fifty-two books; the winner will have read the most pages. Each book will be accompanied by a short report. I am a 39-year old man doing book reports. The last one I remember writing was for Tic-Tac-Terror, a riveting Hardy Boys mystery (A-).

My arch-rival in this challenge is a 21-year old Russkie who drinks in books the way the she drinks in wine. She has the advantage of youth, energy, good eyesight, and a comfortable onesie. She is single and has no cat, and therefore fewer distractions.

I must win.

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I came into my office on Monday morning, January 6^th, 7:45 am. It was my first day back after the holidays. I was so jetlagged that I had begun understanding Radiohead lyrics. I wanted to be dead. Coffee.

It was still dark. I could hear the occasional student shuffling into our classroom next to my office with all the vigor of a Walking Dead extra. I booted up the computer, which groaned to life and started crying. My mind was only consoled by the fact that this is the last week of classes before our exam period. One more week.

I opened my university email: 19 messages.

Sigh. So, this year it’s illness.

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So, it turns out I have menopause. Well, jetlag really. But research suggests I am suffering menopause. I am achy and having mood swings. I have chills, hot flashes, and I am scattered. Also, my uterus has an out-of-service sign hanging on it.

As I suffer this new and exciting condition (mainly the mood swings), I am trying to conjure a blog about New Year’s resolutions that won’t be totally offensive. But that’s out the window since I just mentioned my uterus. Maybe I’ll resolve not to offend you in this blog post. Or maybe my resolution should be to offend you more today…

It doesn’t matter, as on the whole I find New Year’s resolutions useless. They are little statements to show what people want to change about their lives with no intention of following through on it. When I hear a resolution, I think: I’ll respect this if you’re doing it in six months. Til then, stop talking and do.

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The bar is downstairs and beneath a stairwell. Chris and I get a rush of excitement – our first speakeasy on the speakeasy trail. I knock at the door, a move for which I am mocked by my brother. I suggest that if this were a speakeasy in 1929 I would have to knock. Still, the door is heavy and metal and other than not needing to knock, it’s lending perfectly to my imagined scenario.

I wonder about the other side of the door. I imagine flappers and bobbed hair, large men in double-breasted suits you didn’t antagonize under any circumstances. Dances from another era, smoke, low conversations at poorly lit tables, jazz.

We push through.

The plan was simple: dress up, eat burgers, drink strong cocktails in unusual locales. We are dressed well: suits – no ties. Polished shoes, gelled hair, mankerchiefs, though we may look cool we sweat. It’s Village Whiskey for burgers and then the speakeasy trail. Three throwback bars from Philadelphia’s own prohibition past: The Franklin Mortgage & Investment Company, The Ranstead Room, and Hop Sing’s Laundromat.

Right now, we go through the unmanned door at The Franklin Mortgage & Investment Company. The décor is cool. Plush brown chairs, sofas, and seats, and a slick bar tucked against the far wall. The lights are low and we find a table. So far it’s meeting my expectations.

Our server comes by; he’s wearing tight brown corduroys, suspenders, a short-sleeved plaid shirt. Black rimmed glasses, a bow tie, and too-neatly combed hair. Bobby. I suddenly realize the music possesses the whiney quality of a band named something like Sadness Café or Emotional Waffles. We look around and understand with horror that we are surrounded by hipsters. They are everywhere. I have doubts.

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I am quite a sight. Despite the fireplace next to me, an afghan covers me from the waist down to my legs. I am squinting into a book about World War II and donning the Italian onesie – matching sweat suit – so that I sort of resemble a retired mob boss in an old age home. Part of me is living in total content; another part of me is swimming in shame. I am wondering where it all went wrong.

And then I remember: I came home for the holidays.

I am a 39-year-old reasonably successful man. I am good at my job and have a great career. I enjoy cerebral hobbies like reading, writing, and hating Michael Bay. And I enjoy active hobbies like walking, jogging, and hating Michael Bay. I speak and write in complete sentences. Usually. And I eat vegetables, I swear.

When I arrived in Langhorne last Saturday, I resembled this man. I wore a tucked-in shirt and glasses. I wasn’t forced to squeeze into my pants like an overpacked sausage. I was able to have, maintain, and follow through on coherent ideas. I even managed charming conversations on Christmas Eve.

But then things started falling apart.

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Returning to the U.S. at Christmas means watching a lot of American football. There’s nothing like a football Sunday. There are three games, at 1 pm, 4 pm, and 8:30 pm. Three games of the specific joy brought on by watching 22 men beat the remaining brain cells out of each other. If your team is playing, the intensity is dizzying. This intensity is supplemented by an atmosphere made of up other people – fans – and sometimes meat and alcohol.

Though I was a devoted fan for most of my life, I don’t watch football in the Czech Republic. I did at first, but it was a totally different experience and I found that watching a game with a grumpy cat in the middle of Europe didn’t bring the same sort of irrational pleasure. And it occurred to me shortly after that I didn’t love football as much as I did the surrounding ambiance. This has always piqued my interest.

Today, as I watch with two dozen rabid fans, I realize that I am a participant observer. And in this role I dedicate this Sunday to an embedded research in order to study the phenomenon of and surrounding NFL Sunday.

The following is my report.

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I am heading home for the Christmas holidays and making my mental list of things to glut upon. There’s the holiday food, of course, the peanut butter, the cheese steaks, the meatball sandwiches, and free tap water at restaurants.

But when I come home, I crave something that’s specific to that trip. Each time I come back to the U.S it’s different. Last summer it was grocery stores and baseball on TV. Two Christmases ago it was driving and good pizza. Two summers ago it was the Atlantic Ocean and funnel cake.

This Christmas it’s my corner bar: The Langhorne. The Langhorne is about seventy feet from my parent’s front door, an aspect which surely adds to its attractiveness. It sits right there on the corner of Maple and Bellevue where a black sign tells me it’s been there since 1764. There are neon beer signs in the windows, Open Sunday signs, and a Bud Light banner. It’s been a corner bar for 250 years.

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Little Cutter just shit his diaper and it looks like an orange hobgoblin!

Little Tristan plays with his little wiener all day long.

Little Chloe touched an old lady’s boob and barked like a seal. So cute!

I see status updates like this every day on Facebook:

Little [Enter trendy baby name here] has been [Enter embarrassing activity here].

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I was pretty sure I was hearing piano music. Chopin.

But there were lots of logical points going against this possibility. For one thing, it was 7:40 a.m. on a drizzly Monday in September. Nobody ever plays a piano on Monday morning. Second, and this is a biggie, I was in Hlavní Nádraží, Prague’s main station. The only things prevalent in Hlavní on Monday morning are miserable commuters and the occasional bum fight.

Moreover, in my late 30s and with hedonistic habits, a stroke wasn’t exactly out of the realm of possibility. And my propensity for daydreaming sometimes creates a worrying blur between reality and Walter Mitty.

But sure enough, as I rounded the corner, there was an old man tapping out one of Chopin’s Nocturnes. His briefcase was leaning against the piano and his bag of shopping was under the bench. He hummed along with the music as he played. I wanted to poke him to see if he was real.

I resisted this urge.

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