Everybody that exists has things in their life that makes them happy. Some like long walks on the beach, some prefer a solid night of TV, and some favor quality time with the people they love the most.

I, for one, like to drink.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not one of those people who cuddle on the couch by myself with a bottle of hooch and lament about mistakes and losses, I am more of the celebratory type.

Naturally, there was a time in my life, right around the age of twenty-one, that drinking was a daily activity, to the point of spending an entire summer with my toenails painted, and having not a clue as to how that happened.

I remember visiting a doctor for a check up, and having him recognize my manicured nails. He looked at me a little peculiar, and precariously asked if there was anything I'd like to tell him. I told him exactly what I told you earlier.

“I like to drink.”

It's not that I was a little light in the loafers; I was a little light in the brain cells, and now searching for a rest room and a bottle of water. .

One of the perks of living in Portland is the plethora of gin joints ready to take your money, give you eye candy, and house your demons for a while. I enjoy this, to a point, but I prefer to go out on the road to places I've never been, and study the practices and habits of the local tribe.

I recently had a comedy show in Calais, Maine, which, I know, is quite a hotspot, and an entertainment industry hangout. Please tell me you're picking up on the sarcasm. Truth be known, it's as far away as I could possibly strategically place myself to be discovered. But sometimes gigs are about fun, and this tour was all about making some money and having some fun. And that it was.

Having Canada right across the street from the comedy club was too much for my curiosity, so I darted to the bass ackwards motherland on a quest for better barhopping.

What I found was far different.

I have to divulge, I was a little apprehensive about crossing the border, due to my less than perfect, scarlet letter-on-my-license-plate driving record.

The border dudes could not have cared less as to why I was crossing. My encounter was so fast; it was not unlike passing someone on the way to the restroom. It was so quick, it's safe to say that I could have been wearing a turban as I made my way into what had to be one the angriest places I've ever been.

I got the bar, said a brief hello to the door guy, and he may as well have sucker punched me. That's ok, I'll look past that, and belly up to the bar, and order myself something that will allow me to forget that little encounter. This turned out to be quite a task.

In true French-Canadian fashion, the bartender poured all the drinks into a portion cup, and then into glass. The glasses were not the right size, so the finished product that she so proudly displayed to me was half full. This humored me to no end. It looked more like a urine test than a mind eraser. Who was I to offer a little advice and change the way they pour drinks? I think I was the only one in the bar, who tipped her for this drink, and she was so thrilled at this, she flashed a smile to me displaying what could possibly be the most gruesome set of chompers I've ever seen. It was as if she ate a box of rocks for lunch, flossed with barbed wire, brushed with a power drill, and gargled with hot fire coals. How inviting.

While waiting for my premium cocktail, I got a friendly little hip check from someone who enjoyed the comedy show so much, he thought he would extend his appreciation by attempting to knock me over. It's always great to know that you were so funny that you deserved to be pummeled over the head by a hockey stick a few hundred times, and have it be a term of endearment. How nice.

I began to notice all of the Nascar themed snowsuits and female mullets, and decided that I'd better keep a low profile and people watch. It couldn't have been a smarter decision. The people in Canada actually prefer to beat on each other briefly and then embrace. I feel like contacting the Discovery channel to do a show on monitoring the behavior of this tribe. It's truly fascinating.

The music was as bad as it is everywhere else, and the dancing was worse. The drinks were atrocious, and the people are insane. This encounter has inspired me to find other avenues that make me happy, other than drinking. I don't think anything could be as entertaining though. Let's face it. Sting took his fame and money and tried to save the rainforest. Should I ever get discovered and hit the jackpot in Calais; I'll take my money and try to save the painforest that is St Stephen, Canada.

I wouldn't hold your breath.