There Stands The Glass
The drink in the picture is an Old Fashioned that I enjoyed in Portugal. The Old Fashioned is not a Portuguese drink, but the Portuguese made it well, and were very generous with the pour. In Canada, the same drink would barely come up to the halfway mark. I had quite a few Old Fashioneds on my trip this fall to London, Porto and Lisbon, including one in London at a private members after hours club. It was on a quiet street, just a door, no signs announcing this as a drinking establishment.
You had to be a member. It was a private club, nudge nudge - wink wink, a secret club on a quiet street with a plain coloured door. No signs, but beyond the door and down some stairs, there was a fully stocked bar, a genius bartender, lots of vintage furniture, and about twenty patrons.
The bar was half full. I say that because I am an optimist. But am I an optimist or just a Czechoslovakian optimist? What’s a Czechoslovakian optimist? A Czechoslovakian optimist says the glass is half full……of shit. There a three beat pause between full and shit if you are counting at home. Also a ba-dump, if you happen to have a drummer handy. I fondly remember those years, as they were very creative years. I came up with the concept of Czechoslovakian Optimist for Anna, a young woman from Czechoslovakia who worked at the bakery. By that time, I was the Manager of the bakery, democratically elected by my co-workers to lead them. As their Manager, I was able to hire, and to fire the folks who worked there, so I hired my friend. Anna was going out with Ike, my drummer at the time. Anna and Ike were both incredibly funny, and fun to be around. We would hang out at the bakery in the daytime, and in the evening, we headed to the Railway Club, where Anna also worked in the kitchen.
That was 23 years ago when worked in that bakery. I was there for over fifteen years. When I was hired, it was a worker’s co-op, meaning that the workers collectively owned the business. After they hired you, you had to buy shares. But after you had passed the trial period, you became a member of the co-op, and were able to vote on who would be the manager.
They call this democratic management. If you think that sounds like socialism, you would be right. Like any co-operative, there were lots of meetings. There were pages of policies. Someone was HR, and as a member you had rights, but also responsibilities. It was a great learning experience for anyone who had any interest in politics.
While I worked at the co-op bakery, we lived in a housing co-op, where once again, the ownership was made up of the people who lived there. I also belonged to the East End Food co-op, where collectively the consumers owned the business, setting up boards who hired the workers. Ownership was the consumers. Before working at the bakery, I had worked at Isadora’s, a Co-operative restaurant, which had a blend of co-op people and restaurant people in its structure, but it was the patrons who collectively owned the restaurant.
Of course I was also in a band, which is, at its best, also a democratic relationship. I was one of the founders of MoDaMu, short for Modern Dance Music, a musical co-operative label. The band 54-40 came out of this organization, before signing to a major label.
My entire life was co-operative, which meant very little money, lots of meetings, and lessons learned. It was a grand experiment and a real experience. All of these co-ops worked until they didn’t. Why did some survive longer than others? Was the glass half full or half empty? What were the lessons of Socialist Pizza? Haven’t had Socialist pizza? That was when a group of budding socialists ordered pizza, and of course some guys ate more than others, but when it came to paying for it, they suggested we split it equally. The irony of youth. I always hate group dining events for the same reason. Inevitably some will eat more than others, some will not pay enough, or they can’t figure out the simple math of leaving a tip, or they don’t leave a tip, because they don’t believe in tipping. The irony of youth abounds.
When I look back and read some of the many posts I have made over the past three years, grief is an ever present companion. When you get to a certain age, your social media starts to look like the obituary page. Oh my God, who died today? Scrolling is paused while we contemplate our past. Dwelling in grief can be cathartic or melancholy or both- people get lost in grief. The grief never goes away, but one day we start to move on, slowly at first, falling into pockets of sudden tears, but moving. By then, there are new babies, and flowers, and the eternal push and pull of the ocean reminding us that we are small and rather insignificant. What are we even here for? To love. To love. To find that reason to go on.
It was explained to me last night that people die and babies are born. More importantly, there is a link between the two, sort of a trade off. Grandpa dies, and your niece has a baby. One leaves yo make room for the new one. I think this is really just coincidence, more of a “ shit happens for a reason” argument. We know shit happens, but does it happen for a reason? Really? Or do we just come up with the reason after the shit happens?
To summarize, we need to find a reason to go on. Shit happens. Reason comes after said shit happening. Never order pizza with socialists. A belief in tipping is a prerequisite for tipping in general. Co-ops work, until they don’t. Old fashioneds are good, especially in Portugal, primarily due to the pour. Membership has its privileges.