To say there a lot of taboos in our newly developing modern COVID culture would be the understatement of the century. Some of these newer accepted (for the most part anyway) taboos include venturing out into public without a mask for anything not immediately deemed as “essential”, daring to allow oneself to sneeze, to cough or speak “moistly” indoors (*gasp*), the not keeping a safe 6ft distance from everyone else in the near vicinity, and in some very misguided cases, the licking of toilet seats and doorknobs.

Seriously … it was a thing (click HERE).

It’s a crazy fucking world, what can I tell you?

In essence, you could even go so far to say that being on the far end of global pandemic now has largely turned us into a society where it is strongly encouraged that we basically keep ourselves to ourselves.

The “We” movement is definitely out for the moment.

So much so that some older, more common taboos have become not just acceptable, but the norm now that things are beginning to open up a bit post-lock down. For example, remember when it was absolutely unthinkable to go out to do stuff on your own, such as, say, taking yourself to a movie? Now, the person sitting by themselves with their big ass bag of popcorn isn’t necessarily the “loser” so much as they are smartest person in the room. To this regard, we are all doing a lot more stuff by ourselves, and in my case that also means taking myself out for a beer.

Before, drinking alone was the cardinal no-no of societal taboos; that was the type of shit that people liked to whisper about. People who drank alone were automatically thought to have “issues”, or were surely dealing with “a problem”.

Heaven’s forbid they just like the taste of cold beer and a few quiet moments with which to enjoy it.

I don’t really know why people are so down on people who like to sit by themselves to have a drink. Maybe they think it’s ‘sad’, but fuck that shit … it’s amazing! Give me 30 minutes of silence staring over the brim of a freshly poured pint of delicious craft beer and a half-finished crossword that I started three weeks ago and haven’t looked at since sitting down, and I’m pretty much happier than a pig in shit.

Personally, I have always given zero fucks about what people think of my drinking alone.

Sometimes I just prefer it that way.

In fact, I genuinely LOVE it from time to time and I feel no shame about it whatsoever.

Why?

Because it’s fucking awesome, that’s why.

Let’s face it, “bellying up to the bar” for a quick brew (or two) before heading home has always been the perfect way to decompress after a long day on the job, especially given all the extra COVID bullshit we now have to deal with day to day. (It’s crazy out there in case you hadn’t noticed) And now that my favourite local boozers are opening up once again for service, I’m getting to indulge in this favourite formerly-taboo pastime once again.

There is however, a certain art to drinking alone.

First though, let’s establish the grounds upon one might wish to head out to the bar on their own – the “solo drinker” if you will. Typically, there are the two reasons why someone goes to the bar to drink by themselves, 1) to be left the fuck alone, and 2) to (by chance) randomly engage in witty discourse with another solo drinker. As for myself, there are times that I would prefer to simply sit quietly and stare at nothing in particular, and there other times where I look forward to possibly conversing idly with a complete stranger; bonus if they’re not also completely bat shit crazy!  It really all just depends on the day and I suspect that most “solo drinkers” will feel the same way.

More often than not, it’s the former for me when I head out as I generally like to sit and stare mindlessly at the wall ahead of me after I’ve ordered my beer.  Call me crazy, but that mindless staring shit is awesome.  Sometimes however, I might let my attention wander and watch the reflections of other patrons in the mirror behind the bar, and sometimes I will just get lost in watching the electric green goo swirling around in the Gourmet Ice machine that never seems to get used. Other acceptable ways to spend this quiet “alone time” include doing a crossword, casually throwing darts or shooting pool, flipping through a newspaper and, yes, even reading a fucking book. C’mon!  What’s the worst anyone’s going to say? “Hey, look at that guy being all smart!” Hardly. From my past 12 years of experience bartending in various countries, I can honestly tell you that nobody gives a shit. If you hear a tiny voice in your head that says “loser”, or “pathetic” maybe, whenever you engage in something ‘cerebral’ with your solo drinking time – that’s on you sport.

Nobody cares.

Get over yourself.

Where do you think I craft out most of the crap you read in this blog?

I give you Exhibit’s A and B:

All makes sense now, doesn’t it?

One thing that most certainly is not acceptable though, is quietly sitting there and singing to yourself.  There are places to do that kind of weird shit, and your local bar isn’t one of them. I was once caught singing along softly with Steely Dan’s Dirty Work after work one evening, and I haven’t been able to live it down since.  To my friends and peers at the time, it was the ultimate epitome of embarrassment on my part and they haven’t let me forget about it for the past 25 years. 

Do yourself a favour then and don’t do that.

However, whatever it is that you do decide to pass your solo time with, it’s nobody’s damn business as you’re in your own personal “happy place” where you’re calm and relaxed.  Fuck everyone else.  In this moment over beer, you have obtained a sense of peace and oneness with the world here in your happy place; in harmony with everyone and no one at the same time …

… and it’s glorious.

Sometimes though, I’m more in the mood to talk with someone.

Call it open dialogue, meaningless chit-chat, an idle discussion or rap session, a little tête-à-tête, keeping tabs on the Jonses’ or whatever, the idea of talking with another is to be open to the concept of a spontaneous free flowing conversation between two total rational-minded strangers; two random ships that would have otherwise passed each other unacknowledged, temporarily sharing a port in stormy weather.

Over beer, of course.

And when it happens it’s often a beautiful thing, like a rare and exotic flower coming to bloom.

However, sharing your alone time with another solo drinker is more complicated as there are more, shall we say “rules” to follow.

Yes, RULES!!

You just can’t walk into a place and walk up to the first person you encounter at the bar and strike up a conversation willy-nilly – that’s weird.

And rude.

You see, the other solo drinkers around you might be more in the first category frame of mind of drinking alone and not necessarily looking forward to your waxing on endlessly about the episode of Squid Game you watched on Netflix the other night, and you should remain respectful of that shit and just let them continue to enjoy staring at the Gourmet Ice as there will inevitably be lots of other solo drinkers to discuss dark, brooding post-Apocalyptic Korean television with. And failing that, there’s always your bartender – the poor bastard.  And don’t feel bad about engaging them in conversation either … fuck em’, that’s their job. Just be sure to be respectful of their time and their need to serve the other solo drinkers and tip them well, but otherwise feel free to let loose with the bar stool banter whenever you have the opportunity.  And not just your typical boring and cordial “hows the weather treatin’ ya?” fare neither, but about whatever cockamamie idea it is that that happens to pass through your brain at that particular moment.  Do you think that insects will be the “protein of the future”?  Tell your bartender.  (It will) Think that the proprietor of the local video rental store down the street potentially has bodies buried in his back yard?  Tell your bartender.  (He might)  Think that government officials are sexually abusing children in satanic rituals in the basement of a Washington, D.C., pizza restaurant?  (Well, just do us all the favour and shoot yourself now, okay?)  But regardless, listening is their job.*

It’s why they’re there. 

(Well, besides serving you your drinks that is.)

Remember though, that while they might have an obligation, nay, a professional duty to listen to your wacky bullshit, they have no obligation to actually humour or even respond to you, so don’t be a total dumb ass ...

But if you should be so lucky to find another solo drinker with which to engage in intelligent discourse (or not), there are still a few simple things to keep in mind to ensure that your time talking together doesn’t get weird and is genuinely a positive experience for everyone involved.

Rule #1: BE. COOL.

‘Nuff said. Everything else we’re going to discuss from her on you might as well just consider as minor bullet points under this banner.

In short: don’t be an asshole.

So here then are the rest of the sub-points aimed to helping steer you around not being a total ass hat on your next solo drinking excursion.

Rule #1.a: NEVER bring up the topic of politics or religion.

As tempting as it is – don’t. It never turns out well in the end. And even if you seemingly find your soul mate politically – still don’t. Even if you’re in agreement with each other, you might actually be alienating yourselves from everyone else around you with your stupid misguided ideologies and for, you know – being clueless twits. Don’t be surprised then if you get a less than warm reception next time you walk into the place – there will likely be no big “NORM!” moment, if you know what I mean. So if politics and religion are just too tempting a chestnut for you not to crack in public, you might want to also take up a martial art on the side, you know … just in case.

(click HERE)

Rule #1.b: Shut the fuck up every once and a while.

Successful conversation is a two-way street, so don’t be the idiot who never shuts up and dominates the conversation from beginning to end. Nobody likes that guy … NOBODY. You might think you’re some rare hybrid mix of Cliff Clavin and James-fucking-Bond, but I guarantee you everyone else thinks your just another dip shit with a big mouth.

So that means shut your pie hole every now and again and L-I-S-T-E-N, you peckerhead.

Rule #1.c: Nothing is ever in confidence.

Understand that everything you say in “confidence” will inevitably be repeated somewhere else sooner or later … probably sooner. No matter how sincere and honest your new drinking buddy may seem, or how symbiotic you feel your cosmic connection to each other is, that that motherfucker will be repeating your inner most thoughts and feelings the second you leave. And that’s fair too, because you’ll likely be repeating their personal shit to someone else eventually as well so at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter. And why should it? You’re just two schmucks who happened to end up talking bullshit over a glass of suds – it’s not you’re obligated to form a lasting and meaningful bond or anything, so drink up, yack away, and then blab that shit all over town the next day guilt-free. However, don’t get upset over what will eventually get out about you; fair is fair.

Of course, before you head out for some quality solo drinking you might first consider what kind of mood you are in. Do you want to shoot the shit with someone else about the current events of the day, or are you more in a ‘just stare at the green goo’ kind of mood?  Should you decide you do indeed wish to talk with another, and once you understand and observe these simple rules of etiquette, natural healthy conversation will just begin to flourish automatically.

Trust me.

One minute your staring at the green slurry spinning around inside the Gourmet Ice machine, before a voice from somewhere nearby will eventually say something random like “it’s kinda hypnotic isn’t it?”, and before you know it you’re partnered up and telling one another tall tales, lamenting over past sweethearts, and hanging onto each other like frightened koala’s.

It’s cool.

(Kinda sad, but still cool.)

What I’m trying to convey here is that bar conversation is largely organic when it happens. You can’t force it to happen; it just kind of pops up rather unexpectedly, like melanoma – just add beer. You might begin by casually discussing with someone the current selection of beer on tap, but end up an hour later discussing the best way to storm a medieval castle complete with a to-scale model of an authentic French trebuchet constructed out of soggy bar mats and cocktails sticks. (True story) And then just as quickly as the spontaneous conversation sprouted and flourished, it too begins to fade and wither once the last drinks have been ordered and consumed, before ultimately dying off all together once both parties settle their bill and go their separate ways once once more to their ordinary, chaotic lives; the urge to kill having subsided for the time being.

All is right with the world once again …

God help us all.

*The prime real-estate to best maximize your bartender’s company would be right in front of the beer taps, where they will inevitably be forced to spend an exuberant amount of time.  However, I also suggest leaving this as a safe “No Conversation” zone for your poor server as it’s not easy keeping the attention of several lonely solo drinkers at once, and they too will need a place for a momentary breather.

You have largely learned by now that our family is largely steeped in tradition – particularly when it comes to music. For example, December is obviously devoted to Christmas music and Christmas-inspired albums (click HERE), on Remembrance Day we listen to Pink Floyd’s The Final Cut, the Rocky Horror Picture Show is definitely reserved for Halloween, any Pogues album will do on St. Patrick’s Day, and at Easter we get our motherfucking Jesus on (click HERE).

And this Thanksgiving weekend, it’s all about Alice’s Restaurant.

Honestly, this album is as integral to my Thanksgiving holiday as turkey and stuffing.

Maybe even more so.

Released in mid-1967, and primarily centred around on the epic 18-plus-minute opus Alice’s Restaurant Massacree, which encompasses the entire A-side of the album, this album has become a holiday staple for many – myself obviously included, and by very reluctant proxy, my family.

In exaggerated detail – the song tells the true story of the morning after Thanksgiving, 1965, when an 18-year-old Guthrie and his travelling companion were arrested for littering and it ultimately helped launch the album into the Billboard charts.

To be brief (because you really should just listen for yourself), the song recounts how Arlo and his friend and fellow folk musician Rick Robbins, spent a Thanksgiving with dear friends Alice (of restaurant notoriety) and some dude named Ray, who had converted a deconsecrated church into their home with the titular restaurant around back. Somewhere along the way they get arrested for dumping a pile of trash off a cliff, insanity ensues and, presto!

Another holiday classic is born.

I know, none of it makes any fucking sense whatsoever, but this album is as integral to my Thanksgiving as the turkey sweats.

As for the record itself, I’ve had it for as long as I can remember and for years, I have played it over my turkey dinner on Thanksgiving at some point, either while prepping it, eating it, or sleeping it off later. Needless to say the record is all beat to shit but I couldn’t care less. Each one of those dings, chips and scratches have been proudly acquired over years of clumsy abuse come this time of year. here is even an old gravy smear on the album’s front cover after that time I foolishly tried to use the album cover as a try to carry dirty dishes back to the kitchen after too many cocktails. These mars are no longer considered imperfections, they are badges of honour. Like the leftover ashes from the previous BBQ season still on the grill, they give the album flavour. And like the knots that might form in the otherwise perfect symmetrical rings in an aging oak tree, they give it character.

Whatever, it basically sounds like it’s been dragged down a gravel road behind a tractor.

And I love it.

There is even an old gravy smear on the album’s front cover after that time I foolishly tried to use the album cover as a try to carry dirty dishes back to the kitchen after too many cocktails.

*sigh*

Anyway, what’s Thanksgiving without a young bare-chested Arlo Guthrie looking on from the turntable expectantly, waiting for his “Thanksgiving dinner that couldn’t be beat”.

The girls of course, hate it.

But screw em, tradition is tradition.

So suck it up they will for another years, and they will take their Alice’s Restaurant Massacree with reluctant gusto like they do every other year, and just be thankful that another 364 days will have to pass before they will have to inevitably listen to it again.

God help them.

Yessir!

Here they are in all their grim glory:

They’ve been sitting out in my garage for a little over a week now.

And serious though, if you’re looking to really piss off your neighbours or perhaps your loved ones (click HERE), or maybe you’re just a complete and utter sadist when it comes to listening to really shitty music, or whatever it is that your particular kink towards bad music happens to be, this sorry ass record collection will be sure to delight … disappoint …

… whatever.

You get my gist.

Among this sorry allotment of well weather records include such worthless gems as The Seekers Georgy Girl which will instantly have you rooting through your sock drawer for forgotten and/or misplaced quaaludes; a tragically unfunny Billy Connelly Solo Concert album long before he played second fiddle to Howard Hessman in that unfortunate 90’s bullshit TV show Head of the Class; an untitled album by quite possibly the ugliest band in the history of recorded music the world over, the Carlton Show Band; an album of Square Dances that skips every 2.3 nanoseconds; and, yup – an entire album of Bird Songs because hey, why not?

And should you – God forbid – manage to survive this audible ear fuck, along with many others of course, the classic Grandpa Jones Sings Hits from “Hee Haw” will have you reaching for a loaded shotgun in no time.

Oh and let’s not forget this unopened record by Douglas Roy, Trials & Tributes.

What can I say?

I didn’t want to ruin the album’s integrity and overall value by opening it.

I even picked up this:

Fucked if I know what it is, or who it’s by but, for whatever reason I really dug the album cover.

I found it calming.

And don’t worry, there’s lot’s of cheesy, tinny Tijuana Brass for everybody.

Regardless, think of this pathetic collection of 122 old and beaten records, culled from only the most ghetto of Goodwill’s and Thrift stores more as a cry for help (with a $5.00 price tag, of course) than as any worthwhile collection of any value. It really is that shitty.

In fact, I should be paying YOU to come take them away.

(And no backsie’s either!)

And in case you’re wondering, yes – I listened to them all being the complete glutton for punishment that I am. After all, that’s how I know they’re bad (like, really bad) and I now wish to purge myself of them for good. So aside from hopefully finding my fellow musical sado masochist out there with the same bizarre affinity for crappy records as me, my only other option will be to carry them all out into the back yard one autumn evening, dowse them in kerosene, light a match, and rid the world of this evil once and for all.

Shit, maybe five dollars is worth it to you just to have the privilege to do that yourself!

That sounds like a potentially fun Halloween thing to do maybe, right?

Whatever, shitty records – $5.00.

Come and get ‘em.

God help me.