For a brief moment, I had considered doing Dry January. That is, no alcoholic beverages for one month. As a beer brewer, I'm disinclined to eschew the imbibing of effervescent liquids, especially in January, the second darkest month on the calendar in terms of actual sun, but much darker than December, since we've already done all the gathering and exchanging of gifts and hugs and COVID.
Then I heard about Damp January. This is where you cut down on drinking but don't stop entirely. I encountered some friends early in January at an art opening, several of whom proclaimed that they were doing Dry January. These people quickly opted for Damp January once we left the gallery and found ourselves in a pub. Other friends joined, and based on the several beers they ordered that evening, I would estimate that their January was business-as-usual at minimum, which is to say rather a Soggy January indeed. Soggy January lies somewhere between Moist January (just above Damp), and Drenched January, where you don't drink any beer at all, but instead replace the beer with an equal liquid measure of gin.
Just above Dry January on the continuum would be Humid January, where a thimbleful of session ale is consumed every few days just to keep the tastebuds from withering, and above that is Clammy January, for those people who believe that a small half-snifter of red wine is a necessary evil, consumed in order to extend one's life. (I don't want to drink this Rioja Reserva, but according to research…)
Meanwhile, proponents of Arid January think people who do Dry January aren't taking it far enough and refuse even the occasional mocktail. Parched January afficionados drink only water. Devotees of Dessicated January would prefer to die than let any moisture into their bodies.
I decided that January was an excellent time to brew 10 gallons of beer, currently being converted from sugary goo into actual drinkable beverages. Looking forward to February.
I'm thinking it's time to start writing short stories, and the first one I'm going to write is about the COVID-19 pandemic. You're thinking, dude, this is a highly unoriginal idea, since mountains of fiction and non-fiction have been written in recent years with references to COVID, poisonous vaccines, overcrowded hospitals, and so forth. However, to my knowledge no one has written from the standpoint of a person for whom wearing a mask greatly improves their appearance.
Let's face it, some of us look better masked. We have bad teeth or a giant nose or a weak chin. We the people are sometimes born with hairy moles on our cheeks. We get acne in our teen years and over time our skin generates warts, skin tags, and hair where we don't want it. Our gums recede, we get fever blisters, and occasionally jaw cancer that causes surgeons to remove half our face. (Nice story thus far!) True, we have evolved to a point where we have gained substantial control over our environment and can produce and store food in mass quantities. But by and large we aren't pretty. The vast majority of us look better clothed than naked. That goes for our faces as well.
Let's say that the main character of our story grew up poor and never saw a dentist, the result of which is a mouth of haphazardly arranged teeth. If this is part of God's grand plan, she wishes He would have put more effort into pre-production. The poor girl was relentlessly razzed in grade school by jerks who were no more attractive than she was and sought to make fun of her to deflect attention away from their own shortcomings. She makes friends as she ages but is very self-conscious and doesn't have the confidence for a romantic relationship, nor the money to get her mouth fixed. Several of her teeth have fallen out, leaving her in perpetual fear that someone will tell a funny joke and she will crack a smile. She mostly mumbles so as not to reveal the ghastliness of what lies behind her lips.
Then, in 2020, God intervenes in a mysterious way by inflicting pain and suffering on the masses in the form of a novel coronavirus, which either escaped from one of those Novel Coronavirus labs that we are told not to worry about or jumped from exotic animals to humans in a Chinese wet market (jury is out on this). At first the guidance is that wearing a mask is unnecessary and will give people a false sense of confidence, but soon that guidance changes to you must wear a mask all the time, even outdoors when you're on a run and no human being is within 100 yards of you. Our heroine does this, and within a day she finds herself being hit on by a middle-aged man at the supermarket. Well, she's not sure he's hitting on her because she had never had such an experience, but he claims that she took the head of butter lettuce that he had been eyeing, and when she goes to put it back he laughs and says, "I was just joking." She suppresses a smile, forgetting that she is all masked up. Meanwhile, he reaches for a different head of butter lettuce and subtly, but noticeably, seems to fondle the vegetable suggestively.
Still with me?
Soon, people are striking up conversations with her out of nowhere, which they never had done before. One day she arrives home after work and, having forgotten to take off her mask, comes upon her image in a mirror. She can't believe how beautiful she is! Her eyes are hazel and shaped like some kind of tailless aquatic mammal surfacing for a breath of air, or a small slug making a hard right turn. (OK, I'll have to come up with a better simile in the polish phase). That night, she goes to the pharmacy and blows $200 on eye makeup to further accentuate her looks, and puts some rouge on her cheeks, visible above the mask, which enhances her appearance, especially when she smiles, which she can now do freely. She goes into credit card debt by spending lavishly on new clothes and an expensive new hairstyle, giving her a renewed sense of confidence. She even applies for and gets a great new job, erasing her credit card debt almost immediately and allowing her to buy a car. In short, her whole life has been changed by the mask mandate.
Then comes the bad news. Moderna, Pfizer, and Johnson & Johnson are soon to be testing new vaccines that may put an end to the pandemic. The speed of the vaccines' release is alternately praised for the scientific ingenuity of humans or decried as Dr. Jeckyll-esque medical recklessness. To our heroine, they spell the end of the best period of her life, when hiding the lower half of her face changed her fortunes, her friendships, and her hopes for the future.
You will never see this story in print because no one publishes short stories any longer, but since I'm not doing much else with my time that is creative, I might be willing to burn some energy on this. In a pinch I'll consider this one for the next BBC Radio Playwriting contest (deadline not yet released).
As 2023 was drawing to a close, random people on the street would stop me and ask what my hopes and dreams were for 2024. "Snow," I said. Also, to figure out how to install new front and rear derailleurs on my old Fuji Palisade without it taking another week. If time is money, I just spent a lot of money cleaning up this old bike.
If the first hour and three quarters are any indication, 2024 is going to be cold and dark. Everyone will be asleep. No one will answer my texts. All services will be shut down including grocery and liquor stores, leaving us hungry and thirsty.
So, yeah, not starting out great. Nevertheless, Happy New Year! Fingers crossed that the sun rises in the morning.
I think I will never see a White Christmas again unless I move to Mount Everest. An exaggeration, of course. I am a citizen of Canada and could easily move north if I need snow on Christmas. I think I'd have to move pretty far north, however. Maybe the Yukon. The city of Whitehorse got a few flakes on Christmas Day, I am led to believe. This seems like a reliable enough destination.
As I plan my move to Whitehorse, I notice that it will take 61 hours to drive there from my current home in Massachusetts. I'm not sure my 2007 Mazda 3 has 61 hours of tread left its tires, and that isn't even factoring in that rural Canadian roads are notorious for being poorly kept. One may note the large potholes encountered enroute to the frigid (but White Christmas-y) Yukon destination and report them to Canada, but Canada is busy trying to settle down it's enfant terrible, Quebec, which is levying extra fees on out-of-province college students in an apparent effort to rid itself of higher-ed scourges, such as McGill University. Complain anyway! What is the gas tax for if not to fix the road to the Yukon? Your call will be answered by a pleasant government official, who will note your complaint and, in a few years, maybe after McGill uproots itself and moves to Whitehorse, someone will come to repair those potholes.
You'd think that Whitehorse, located some 1,500 miles north of Seattle, would have limitless cheap real estate for McGill to gobble up when it joins me in the Yukon, but it turns out that the real estate isn't very cheap after all. A three bedroom, three bath attached home on a postage stamp lot will run you more than half a million dollars. That's the cost of doing business in a region that is home to large mammals, such as Grizzly Bears. As McGill will require a lot of space for its 30,000 undergraduates, you can expect that the cost of building a bear-free campus in Whitehorse will be passed along to the higher-ed consumer.
OK, maybe becoming a Yukoner isn't the perfect solution to my White Christmas quest, but you have to admit that it's intriguing. I've been dreaming of a White Christmas for so long that it's beginning to feel a lot like a waste of my dreaming energy. Maybe next year we'll get snow in New England at the end of December.
(Yeah. Keep Dreaming.)