Identity crisis.

Years ago, it actually feels like a lifetime ago, my old Chiat/Day partner John Shirley and I were working on a pitch for Chivas Regal. There's not much you can say about scotch. Or rye. Or any other kind of whiskey or spirit for that matter. Same applies for beer.

I don't care about carbs or calories. I don't have a very discerning palate --which belies my rather large nose -- and can't tell whether something has been aged 12 years or 18 years or 7 minutes. 

Frankly when it comes to drink, I just want something that tastes good. And in the case of alcohol, that usually means it goes down smooth.

All that said, we felt a little stumped. 

That is until we started talking about how our fathers enjoyed a wee dram or two. In my father's case, it was often in a coffee cup. Likely more than one dram or even two. And more often than not, it was while he was doing shit around the house, which we will discuss shortly.

It was at that point, after many hours of reminiscing and shooting the shit, that John and I stumbled on to the fact that we were both becoming our scotch-imbibing fathers. This seemed like a good insight and from there we developed a campaign: Chivas Regal, Your Old Man's Scotch. 

As it turns out, the fine folks at Chivas had no interest in mining this territory, but Canadian Club did so years after our failed efforts. The team went on to win a cask or two full of awards. 

The thing about truths is they remain truths. Witness the above photo.

That is my raised bed garden. For years it produced veggies for our family. Deb's half of the garden was for cherry tomatoes and fresh herbs. My half was for big beefy tomatoes and habanero peppers. Sadly, I now have the entire 1/12,680th of an acre all to myself. And I have begun making preparations for this year's spring planting: tomatoes, peppers, more tomatoes, more peppers.

Unlike year's past and more like year's long gone, I find myself doing things my father did. Like laying down sheets of plastic to keep the dirt moist and to prevent the growth of weeds. I also fenced in the garden with sturdy but flexible fencing, to prevent squirrels and Norwegian Tree Rats from stealing the fruits (or veggies) of my labor.

Who am I?

I can't begin to tell you how many weekends of my misspent youth were lost to my father's indentured servitude. I cursed him for waking me up before noon. And cursed him again for making my brother and I weed, mow, till, plant, compost, plant, prune and make semi-weekly trips to the local Cherry Lane Stables, where we filled up huge hefty bags of FREE horse manure. 

And because of his frugal nature, ungloved, I might add. 

Now, in a most unexpected turn of events, I find myself doing the same things. In addition to getting the garden ready, I'm auguring the toilets to keep them flowing, readjusting the hinges on my cabinet shelves to keep them opening and shutting, and deconstructing the garage to put in fresh shelving.

All without the aid of two grumpy teenage boys who just wanted to get some sleep.

I have whiskey. I have coffee cups. And thanks to PayPal laying me off, I have time.

Maybe I'll just make the transformation complete.