CHICAGO – It’s imperative that I make
my New Year’s resolutions before I break them all, which doesn’t
leave me much time. So here goes:
Drink More Wine
I should probably stay away from Jack Daniel’s as much as possible.
But as I write this, I’ve got an unopened bottle of Jack’s
Single Barrel Tennessee Whisky staring back at me from the dry bar.
It’s barrel number 5-2950, Rick No. l-16, dated 9-16-05. It’s
adorned with an attractive bronze-colored chained sign that reads,
“Specifically Selected for Sam’s Club In The Land of Lincoln.”
And a four-page little card that ends with “…a fine whisky
worthy of your special times and special friends.” "Special
friends?" Screw them! If I had special friends, I wouldn’t
be sitting here contemplating downing a 750 ml bottle of 94-proof
whisky by myself now, would I?
Beer I should probably cut down on, too. I don’t need to drink
that much beer. Although I have noticed that when I drink beer at
the expense of whisky fewer people are inclined to punch me in the
face and throw drinks at me. For whatever reason, when I stick to
beer, people around me are much better behaved.
On the other hand, I can’t really imagine shooting the temperature
on a scorching summer day at Dubsdread without being able to wash
away the yips, chunks and shanks without a cold beer; especially when
my debts exceed the green’s fee. Plus, how do you sit in the
sun at Wrigley Field with the southern wind blowing out to left field
while the Cubs' bull pen blows another game without a flat, lukewarm
cup of suds?
Red wine makes you feel so good and toasty. You can hardly pick up
a newspaper or magazine or see a news story on TV or the Internet
without some study substantiating the health benefits of red wine.
Of course, it always comes with a disclaimer from the killjoy news
anchor who reminds us that moderation is the key.
It’s hard to imagine savoring a thick, juicy steak or meat-sauce
pasta without a glass or two of sumptuous dry red wine. Yes, I really
must drink more wine.
Have More Sex
O.K., O.K. have some sex. I don’t want to confuse the issue
by injecting two resolutions under one heading, but this year I resolve
to invite someone else—a woman—along for the ride. If
for no other reason than they can call 9-1-1 or some other 900 number
for me when the gasket finally blows.
My not special enough to drink my single-barrel Jack friends tell
me that sex is excellent for the cardiovascular system, relieves stress,
and improves one’s disposition.
I don’t know about that, but it’s got to be better than
turning into an ornery curmudgeon who is wasting his last precious
breaths trying to blow up a mattress of a mistress with synthetic
hair, a painted face, and a sex organ fashioned from a pocket purse.
I am resolute in my commitment to have sex with a live woman this
year. And I’ve been saving up to pay for it.
Work Out, Join The Club
I have resolved to do at least one push-up and one sit-up in the same
calendar day. Even if it kills me.
I must join a club that has a sturdy stair climber, universal gym,
free weights, and hot babes in tights who can play the role of the
mechanical rabbit in my futile quest for what the ancient Romans called
"scrunti delecti."
My goal is to lose three pounds this year, ¾-of-a-pound per
quarter. If I can lose three pounds a year and live to be 80, I ought
to leave a pretty handsome looking corpse.
Play More—And Better—Golf
Last year was a rebuilding year on the links, to put it mildly. I
must travel to Arizona for spring training. And play at least 27 holes
a week and hit the range once a week when I return.
Losing to the band of thieves that is the Lemont syndicate is costly.
Losing to brother Gregory is humbling. But losing to molasses-in-polyester
brother Gary is totally unacceptable. By the time he looks at an eight-foot
putt from every conceivable angle, he looks more like Keanu Reeves
in "The Matrix" than Ben Crenshaw at The Masters.
I have witnessed a total eclipse and Halley's comet while he lines
up one of his three putts--and I still lost.
Attend Mass Regularly
Golf is a spiritual endeavor for me. Even when I’m playing poorly,
the peace and tranquility of the golf course is surpassed only by
the gratitude I feel knowing that at my advancing age I can still
traverse a 6800-yard course in a motorized cart while wearing plaid
pants, a white belt and saddle shoes while bludgeoning a dimpled,
surlyn-covered spheroid weighing no more than 1.620 ounces and having
a diameter of at least 1.680 inches.
I learn more about my heart and soul standing over a three-foot putt
than I do sitting in the confessional spilling my guts to a priest
who may or may not be part of a class-action lawsuit that obligates
me to make not one but two donations to the collection basket.
Basically I’m an introvert. And all the public singing, hand
holding and well-intentioned “peace be with yous” with
strangers makes me feel cheap and dirty for some reason. But my Faith
is undiminished and organized religion is critical to my disorganized
life. So I must attend Mass every Sunday. If only to help me sink
some putts.
Settle Down, Buy A Home
The only home I’ve ever owned was constructed of empty beer
bottles and roofed with bottle caps. But it cost hundreds of thousands
of dollars with the down payment exacted from my liver.
I have spent most of my adult life paying exorbitant downtown rents
in Chicago and Los Angeles forgetting that the solitary confinement
of a one-bedroom high-rise apartment and the escalating monthly stipends
associated with it could provide a comfortable if not luxurious living
on the periphery of the City or its suburbs.
After water damage from a fire in the unit above me forced me out
of my Old Town apartment overnight, I spent six years in the Gold
Coast renting not only an apartment way too close to Rush Street,
but the furniture in it as well—right down to the bed and mirror
and night stands.
The apartment overlooking Bug House Square was formerly an Amoco corporate
suite. But it looked anything but corporate when I got done with it.
This nomadic lifestyle prompted a dear friend of ex-fiancee number
one to remark to her in disgust, “Marriage, are you out of your
mind? He can’t even commit to furniture.”
I vow to buy a home within walking distance of veal, wine and a golf
course.
Quit Smoking
I only smoke about six or ten cigars a year. And I could take them
or leave them.
But by “quitting smoking,” I’ll be able to shame
my weak, pathetic nicotine-addicted friends by declaring, “What’s
the big deal? I quit smoking cold turkey.”
See More Movies
I must see at least one new movie release at a theater per week and
rent at least two movies on DVD to watch each week. After all, film
is my life. Film, music, dance, literature, photography, art, live
theater, cockfighting, midget wrestling and dwarf tossing. Not necessarily
in that order.
In addition to watching more movies this year, I’m determined
to make a couple of films as well. (See “Have More Sex”
above)
Take A Real Vacation
It’s about time I take a real vacation. Somewhere requiring
a passport. And no, considering the new passport rules that went into
effect this week, I’m not talking about Canada or Mexico. I’m
thinking the Caribbean. Maybe one of those half-French, half-Dutch
islands.
Some place hot and sunny with white sand where I can parasail, snorkel,
body surf, wave run, golf, legally smoke ganja on the beach without
lighting my fake dreds on fire, and chase young, nubile cheesecake
around that I won't be able to catch and wouldn’t know what
to do with it if I did catch it.
That’s why it’s got to be an island. Someplace confined,
where they’re restricted or restrained from leaving on foot
or by car. Maybe I could make a movie?
Start a Foundation
It’s time to begin thinking about my legacy. What can I leave
behind besides hollow dreams and empty bottles? I shall start the
“Gino Foundation.” An altruistic, non-profit organization
that, among other things, provides scholarships for education, training,
internships, golf, country clubs—and movie making.
More Than I Can Chew?
As you can see, my list of New Year’s resolutions is ambitious
if not unrealistic or downright impossible. I’ve got a lot to
accomplish this year. And I’ve got to get started fast.
SONGS
WE JUST PLAYED
