A Salute to Years on this New Year's

Tonight, New Years Eve 2008, I will bartend at Whiskey Blue in the W hotel on W Adams St. That bar is closing its doors after at least (I'm unsure of the exact open date) seven years of thrills, booze-filled laughter, chaos, quiet moments, and then clanging of registers. For over five of those years, I worked as a bartender there (full time during periods), and rather enjoyed each of the aforementioned realities contained within its (once dark brown, now turned blue) walls. 

And on this last day of the year, it makes me think of the significance of change; of eras left behind, sounds and sights fading into air to be transformed to dusty memories. Some months ago, I left Whiskey Blue as a regular employee in pursuit of careers closer to my heart (teaching and writing). Since then, I have occasionally filled in for the occasional help with holes in schedules, not to mention lifting of spirits to my pocketbook; but make no mistake: the change brought about by such a move, was initially not easy. 

When I say the change was not easy, I don't mean just financially; for if you have heard that bartending can be a lucrative career, you have heard right, but emotionally as well. Yes it's true: change, while inevitable, is difficult. And the patrons, who after years of frequenting Whiskey Blue, searching for friendly, attractive bartenders clad in scant yet classy fare wear, no doubt feel this difficulty in facing these days gone, in the pressing need to find a new, pardon my casual term, 'watering hole' to lift their spirits (particularly in such an ugly economy as this). 

But press on we must. Change need not be sad and sad only. Change, in fact, is quite beautiful. As far as I say, it's the eye of art. It's only through change that we can measure ourselves, that we can choose to trust others. And so, as we bring in the New Year, I choose to feel sad for saying farewell to a friendly period of my life--my years at Whiskey Blue--but beyond that, I opt to feel happy. Happy that it was a part of me; that it will always be a part of me. My years as an intense, and also gracious (mostly, don't get me wrong: working in Service can really ride on your soul) bartender, shaped who I am today. Such variety in conversations, such seeing through gazing at countless pairs of eyes, such listening to tales originating from all walks of the world; all ages, all experiences, all temperatures on the thermometer of love for life. An exquisite encounter, no doubt: the life of a bartender in a reputable, respectable lounge nestled in a reputable, respectable boutique hotel.

But alas, change sets in and we move on. People move on. Bars become different titles. Eras become other eras. There's no day that we feel this reality more intensely, perhaps, than on the last day of the year: the eve of the new year--New Year's Eve. To this year, and to those that preceded it at Whiskey Blue, on my behalf, and on behalf of the evolving staff, and ever-changing patrons, I say farewell; with warm feelings in my heart, and maybe, at the stroke of midnight, a tear in my eye...

The All American Novel

Be forewarned, for those of you who have thought about doing it, or are trying to gear yourself up to do it, or think you might like to try it--at least once--before you die: writing The All American Novel is not that easy. 

I think if a cute little Jeanie in a bottle appeared to me in my dreams and said, "Masteresse, what wish can I grant you?" I'd say, "for starters, you can morph yourself into a strapping man and make sweet sweet love to me; and then, after we've done that and smoked a cigarette (this is a world where smoking is healthy, and so not forbidden), you can 'presto-chango' a seven inches-by-nine inches plot of erstwhile empty matter into a great American Novel; one that's replete with funny, loving, flawed characters, adventure, brilliant plot threads, love, history, intensity enough for crying, and a satisfying, cherry-on-top ending. 

Though I have to admit: I'm not sure what I'd say if she looked downcast, and sighed, and replied, "Oh," as she climbed back into her bottle. Then with only her head poking out, her little Jeannie hands gripping bottle's edge, "I said wish, masteresse. I don't perform miracles." 

So fuck me, it's all good. Guess I'll just have to keep writing. Sigh. 

There's a Time to Move On...

No doubt this title brings about several intended meanings. But when considering my most recent post, entitled 'Pesky Little Smokes,' I'll say this: smoking is a filthy habit, and I'm pleased to say that I've since moved on from the partaking in such rubbish. As a result, I feel more aware of my surroundings, am more positive, hopeful for the future, and healthy (I no longer struggle through my workouts at the gym, and engage in exercise even more often than before). 

Of course, this reality comes as no surprise to me, seeing as how I've quit smoking several times in my life. But this time, the situation, for some reason that even as a writer I cannot circumvent by words, is different. I like to believe that as we mature, we become more aware of our futures, and our ever-so-slowly weakening bodies, causing us to take more active roles in controlling our health; thus creating better habits, etc.

But yes I'm still an idealist. I realize that some of us are drawn to darker realities. Some of us don't care that we are killing ourselves little by little. I get it. I mean we are all dying, after all. Even my adorable two-year-old  niece is dying. Every day we get closer to death. So fine, whatever you want. All I'm saying is, that man in the corner store was right: smoking is just no good. And like my most recent short lived 'romantic,' or what really should be called 'sexual,' relationship: I'm not sad it's over.