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.