New Year's Day

It's early afternoon, New Year's Day, and I'm in the Cincinnati/Northern Kentucky Airport, which serves the city of Cincinnati, Ohio, but is located in rural Kentucky. You might think the airport's call letters would be CNK, but they are, in fact, CVG. I'm here because, despite the fact that every time I fly to California or anywhere else in the United States on an American carrier I have to transfer in Chicago, the one time my destination is Chicago, I have to transfer in Cincinnati.

I love this country.

I'm sitting in a place called Moe's Bar & Grill. Moe's menu features "famous" Montreal smoked meat — on a pizza and in a club sandwich, in addition to the usual format. I lived in Montreal for eight years, so I'm having a pizza. The regular kind, with pepperoni. It's loaded with cheese; so much so that I can't hold a piece without the cheese sliding off and dripping goey, greasy piles of gooey greasy cheese onto the plate.

It's wonderful. Gooey greasy cheese pizza is one of my favourite hangover foods, which is a shame because, after a short nap on the Chicago-Cincinnati flight, my hangover is all gone. It wasn't even a hangover, really; just a mild headache. Because what Dave doesn't know is, when he wasn't looking I dumped my kamikazes down the sink.

Memo to bartenders everywhere: There is an age after which one no longer "does" shots, and I have passed it.

It was earlier today, at the Chicago airport, when I wanted that hangover food. Eggs and toast and, god willing, corned beef hash. It was 11:00, I had 40 minutes until my flight, and there was a food joint right across from my gate where a sign out front boasted, "Now serving breakfast." I took a seat. The waitress came. I inquired as to the breakfast menu. She replied, "Oh, that's over; we're serving lunch now."

Memo to the people who design airports: If you installed one, just one, food joint that served all day breakfast, it would be packed all day.

There's a football game on the TVs behind the bar. There's been a football game on everywhere I've been this weekend. American football, being a game in which for every 90 seconds of action there is 90 minutes of lolling about, holds even less appeal for me than do reality shows, which hold none. I'm looking forward to a few hours from now when I'll be back in my country where, though American football is available to those who care to watch it, and many do, many of those who care to watch it won't be available to me. If I can manage it.

Every time the game goes to a commercial, the announcer recites a disclaimer about rights, blah blah, which includes something about how the game is "for personal use only; all other uses are prohibited."

What other use could anyone possibly have for a football game?

Memo to The Viking (who has a paying part time job writing about American football): Is there one thing, just one thing, other than the Super Bowl commercials, that is, that you could tell me about football that would make it interesting?

Every muscle in my body aches, just a little. My back, from sleeping in a strange bed, too soft for my liking. My shoulders, from carrying a bag stuffed with five bottles of St. Ives Swiss Vanilla body wash. And my shins, from walking the streets of Chicago in my boots that, song title to the contrary, were not made for that much walking.

Memo to St. Ives: For fuck's sake, market your line of body washes in Canada, will you?

My stomach, too, is complaining slightly. Too much of Alpa's most excellent spicy hummus last night. Or, rather, at 3:00 this morning. That, and it's been less than 24 hours since what will henceforth be referred to as the Onion Ring Occurrence, in which Postmodern Sass regrets her decision to order onion rings at the Hard Rock Café.

And I don't even want to think about what my liver looks like right now.

Come to think of it, I don't really want to think about what anyone's liver looks like. At any time.

Memo to me: From now on it's beer only at the HRC.

The Hogmanay was at Jaimee and Jamie's house, somewhere in Chicago. Everywhere we went this weekend, Dave would tell me it's on such-and-such a street, or it's north or east of his place, as if that would help me locate it. And when he told me Jaimee and Jamie's house was three blocks from his apartment it struck fear and terror into my heart. I had learned from Friday morning's experience, when we went out for breakfast to a place that was, according to Dave, "four blocks from here." Thank goodness for his roommate Bess, her car, and her lazy attitude. She drove us there, and it took ten minutes.

I estimated Jaimee and Jamie's house would be a twelve mile hike.

The party, when we eventually arrived at it, was worth the hike. Jaimee greeted us at the door wearing a black 1940s style evening gown trimmed with ostrich feathers. She owns a vintage clothing store and, I suspect, never needs to wear the same outfit twice.

"I love your dress!" I said.

"Thanks," Jaimee replied, "But it's shedding! Be careful when you're standing near me, or you'll end up going home looking like Nathan Lane in The Birdcage."

Memo to me: Add vintage clothing store owner to list of fall-back careers if the PhD thing doesn't work out.

Out on the patio, all the smokers — which is to say, nearly everyone at the party, including the hosts — squealed in delight at the disgusting photos that compose the warning label on packs of Canadian cigarettes, and, one by one, as the evening wore on, they sampled them.

"Delish," was the verdict from Alpa.

Cam and Erasmo, a gay couple, wore matching shirts. Cam's was dark pink, and Erasmo's was striped pink, orange, and yellow. Cam is a flamboyant, miles from the closet gay man; his partner's demeanor was more, yes, I'm gay, and OK with it, maybe even proud of it — but not inclined to wave a flag. On one of my trips to the smoking patio Cam was holding court on the topic of boots:

"I was in the store the other day and I saw a pair of jump boots by Coach. I had to drag Erasmo over to have a look. I mean, can you believe it? Jump boots! You know it's the demise of the nation when Coach is doing jump boots."

At five minutes before the stroke of midnight, Jamie, who had been DJing all night, turned off the music and announced the countdown. There followed some quibbling as to the exact time.

"OK, five minutes to go in 2005. Best joke of the year?" suggested Jaimee.

"What are the three streets in Chicago that rhyme with vagina?" asked Katie.

"Paulina," said Alpa.

"Melvina," said Ayman.

"And Lundt," said Cam, finishing the joke that every Chicagoan knows.

"OK OK it's almost time!"

There followed more quibbling as to the exact time.

"We could put on the TV and watch the ball drop," I suggested. It's that German efficiency thing.

"Nah; we don't need Dick Clark," said Jaimee. "We can use Jamie's balls."

"They dropped in about 1982," said Ayman.

He wins.
* * *
In the next story, Postmodern Sass decides to take Angela's advice about Boz. And if you wish, Gentle Reader, click here to read about the Onion Ring Occurrence in all its scatalogical splendour.