I don’t dream often, so last night was a surprise. A ragtag band of heros bring down a corupt corporation. They stack the executives like fire wood in the center of a round room with floor to ceiling windows. A crowd gathers inside and out to witness. The leader stands forward. “Do not work for them. Do not hire them. Take a look at these men. They can not be trusted.” And then we all arranged car pools and went home. 🙂

If at first you don’t succeed, failure may be your style.

Quentin Crisp 

Okay, the story goes like this: it’s the 4th century, there’s a bit of a famine happening, and there’s this psycho butcher who decides to chop up a bunch of kids, salt the meat in barrels, and sell it as cured ham. Along comes Saint Nicholas, the generous Bishop of Myra, to help the needy. He sees through the evil plan, and resurrects the children. Now that’s a Christmas to remember! Merry Christmas to all!

Frigg, the Norse goddess of love and fertility, was banished to a mountaintop and proclaimed a witch once Christianity was embraced by Norse and Germanic tribes. There she lost her shit, and once a week she met with eleven other witches, and the devil to plan out the fateful misfortunes for the coming week. The name Frigg eventually morphed into the English word Friday. You can likely do the math for the rest of it.

A tip of the hat to Alexander Frehse, inventor of the lemon meringue pie, and the subsequent lifetime of desert related over indulgence. 

At 6 am this morning, the view from the platform of the Fallowfield VIA Rail station was pure yesteryear. Track, waist high grass, then corn field stretching for a mile before blending into vague early morning darkness, and finally capped by the burly frame of the distant Gatineau Hills. If not for the staccato of lights on Greenbank Road, I might never have made it back in time for the train.

As it turns out, the Ark of the Covenant wasn’t so much lost as it was misplaced behind my furnace under a pile of vintage Playboy, and Molson stubbies. If you can move it, you can have it.

I intended to eat half of the pecan butter tart, but then it kind of broke while I was cutting it, and fell apart, so I felt bad that I’d done such a shoddy job of halving it, I mean nobody wants to see a busted up pecan butter tart it’s such a sad looking thing, so I ate the whole of it. You’re welcome.

Typically I find it’s a good idea to be prepared. But that’s a vast statement, I mean the world is a complex place. How can I prepare for all of the possible things that could happen to me in one day?

But I’m a creative guy, and those of you suffering from similar ailments understand that your mind sometimes just thinks about things, regardless of time or place. Many of these thoughts are fostered by Hollywood; fantastical “what if” scenarios that typically remind me just how “daily” the “drudgery” really is.

As I’ve said before, I’ve done my time on the kitchen line. I played the part of “mostly untalented hack”. I worked at a place called Cheers, believe it or not. It was as far away from Boston and Sam Malone as you could imagine. Although it had it’s share of characters. The food business at Cheers, by the time I started working there, was nearly non existent. So working in the kitchen I was usually by myself, and I was expected to do other jobs beside the cooking. Running liquor to the bar was one of those extra jobs.

One typically quiet Sunday, as I was calmly prepping some brushcetta mix, the bar manager (who was the only other employee there) burst into the kitchen, and announced she had all these thirsty patrons at the bar (like six or something). For that reason, I was requested to drop what I was doing, and run down stairs to the beer cooler and change the empty keg of Canadian. And no they weren’t ordering food.

Cheers was part of a large crappy hotel, and the building was old seemingly haphazard. The way to the beer cooler from the kitchen was either through the bar, or the dining room, to the front entrance, down a set of stairs into the basement, and near the far end of a long hallway. Once there, you were a good distance from the actual bar. On Saturday nights, when the bar did substantial business, the bar runner would have to drag a two-wheeled cart with 4 or 5 cases of beer at a time up the stairs, through the empty dining room (it knew no other state, I think) and into the kitchen. From there it would wait in the kitchen walk-in cooler, or travel out to the bar to be greedily consumed.

The basement hallway was littered with the typical promotional materials beer companies offload on unsuspecting bar owners to help peddle their fermented sugar water. It was a kaleidoscope of seasonal merchandise, a fantasy land were pirates and helium balloons enjoyed each others company. And in the center of it all, the oversized wooden door to the beer cooler.

The beer cooler door was heavy, but it needed to be pushed hard to close and lock. The cooler itself was a walk-in variety, stacks of 24’s on either side of the room, with the kegs in the far corner, and on-tap liquor in the other. I bee-lined for the kegs, and started lifting each of them until I located the empty one. The kegs are attached to hoses that run through the floor to the bar taps we love so much. Each hose is attached to the keg by a metal clamp like device, and with a lift of the device’s handle, and a quick twist of the clamp, the keg is untapped, and the clamp is ready for another full keg. Before I can complete the switch, the bar manager rushes in, changes a bottle of liquor on the wall, and rushes out again.

As she exits the cooler, she gives the door a shove, and it finds the momentum to both close, and lock behind her.

I waited for her to notice and let me out. She does neither.

Now growing up on the apple farm, the cold apple storage in the barn had a similar door as this beer cooler door. The major difference was that the apple storage door had a handle on the inside. The beer cooler did not. Design flaw or feature? Discuss amongst yourselves.

Now, during my time at Cheers I spent a lot of time in that beer cooler. Enough time in fact, that on more than one occasion my mind started thinking about other things, while the rest of me carried on with the usual tasks. Some of the things my mind thought about were “Pirates vs helium balloons: who would win?” and “What if I got locked in this beer cooler?” I felt the later was a more likely scenario, and gave it more concentration. Enough concentration, that when that door really did bolt shut, I already new what I had to do.

The biggest drawback to being trapped in a beer cooler, besides the door that won’t open from the inside, is that no one will hear you scream. (Regardless of the male fantasy of being locked in a room full of beer, you really do need to get out. Eventually.) The walls are thick and insulated really good, because, dammit, people like cold brew. Also, this cooler was, as I pointed out, a remarkable distance from the actual bar, where the only other employee and patrons were located.

So then, how does a beer cooler communicate with the bar?

Starting with the keg I just changed, I began to untap all the beer kegs. I suggest, when in this situation, starting with the most popular brand, then work your way to the hard liquor. Just like a Saturday night. And then you wait. Within minutes of cutting off the supply of beer and liquor to the bar, my prison door was opened, and in ran the bar manager.

“What are you doing in here?” She inquired.

“You locked me in,” I explained.

“Oh. You’ve got food orders waiting.”