At some point in your life, you turned to someone or
something for inspiration. Parents don't count;
they're a given, unless they've been taken from you
(or perhaps you from them).

Almost ten years ago, one more place of my youth was
converted into this faux-Asian tea house with Tang
substituting for freshly-squeezed orange juice. A
sacrilige, when you consider what it HAD been for so
many years. The "Top Dog".

"Top Dog" was--as you might infer from the name--a
sausage place situated right between "Ruby's" (a
mousey, low-rent restaurant) and "Dairy Queen" (RIP
Waffle Cone Sundaes...). It might have been located
on the edge of the biggest intersection of Kingston,
Ontario, but I only found it noteworthy for its
Wednesday (Kielbasa) and Saturday (Frankfurter)
specials. Others loved it for the then cheapest draft
beer ($2.35 a pint) around. Of the four picture frame
windows that made up the veneer of the store, the
Easternmost was dubbed 'channel one' by somebody who'd
mentioned something about endlessly watching the world
go by; the name stuck.

When I was about 15, it was my turn to sit in front of
channel one. I'd passed by it hundreds of times, and
never gave it a second glance--after all, that was my
big brother's joint, not mine.

There was Chuck, Jack, old Grant, young Grant, Torbin,
Mark, Jesse, Andrew, Fitz, Smirnios, and Larry; always
a rotating cast of characters, with the one constant
always seated at the far wall in the back, or else
right THERE at the head of 'channel one'. It was
Stan.

Through big bro, I met Stan. He must have been in his
early 60s then, but he hardly looked his age. The
only thing old about Stan was his personality;
strictly old school, all the way. Well-groomed, but
decidedly working class. He kept a stiff upper lip
but the chip that should have been on his shoulder was
nowhere to be found. What he possessed wasn't raw
intellect, gleaned from various post-secondary
sanitariums, it was the flower of wisdom that comes
with age. The kind that infects you from simply
living your life as it happens to you.

Stan always talked straight with me. He didn't seem
to care that I was only a teenager; we spoke as equals
most of the time. The rest of the time, especially
when I needed it, he never hesitated to talk AT me.

One time Andrew (one of my brother's peers) came into
the 'Dog. He sat down with Stan and I, and of course,
conversation followed. On any given day, you could
hear people talking about politics, economics,
history, you name it; that day the topic happened to
be 'personal growth'.

"I think I've changed a lot in the past five years..."
Andrew offered.

"Oh yeah," Stan concurred. Not having known Andrew
all that long, I wisely kept my mouth shut so that
Stan could continue.

"There were times when you'd come in, and you thought
you knew it all."

Stan paused for a bit to sip at his beer. Then the
rimshot:

"You know... you didn't."

His delivery was always perfect. I hadn't said a
word, hadn't known either of them during the time they
mentioned, but I understood it all immediately. This
wasn't rocket science, it was directness. Honesty.
>From then on, I knew I'd always be able to get a
straight answer from Stan, no matter what I asked him.
And as young as I was, as stupid as I might have been
at that point, I knew that people like Stan (who
couldn't bullshit to save his life) were few and far
between.

Depending on who you ask, their favourite Stan story
is more than likely to bring the house down, even
today. My personal favourite involved a cashier at
the local Becker's (according to Stan). Stan went in
to buy a few items, but he was using an assortment of
change to pay and it was quite busy. He handed the
coins to the kid, who then proceeded to meticulously
count every... single... bloody... coin.

"Come on, sonny, let's go." Stan grumbled.

Cashier boy mustered up all the indignance at his
command, arched his back up and said:

"I beg your pardon? I was a graduate of the Queen's
University Math department!"

Stan, with a look of incredulousness that only he
could replicate today, shot back:

"I don't give a flying fuck if you're the Queen of
England!"

With two feet always planted firmly on the ground,
that was his greatest strength: his abilty to cheer
you up properly, and the ease with which he could
knock away anyone's rubber pedestal from under them.

The year before I graduated from high school, Top Dog
closed down, and everybody was left to find their own
new watering holes. In many ways, it was the end of
an era, though I never lost touch with Stan. Every
now and then, I'd see him holding court at Yaletown
Coffee.

A few years later, Stan slipped on a patch of black
ice and broke his hip. I went to visit him in the
hospital, but due to the medication he was on, I don't
think I saw the real Stan. These two interns came in
with Dr. Strange, silently went straight to his bed to
examine his charts, then walked away as though he
didn't exist. Absolutely no bedside manner
whatsoever. Needless to say, I got really upset. The
OLD Stan would have razzed them out something fierce,
but I reasoned that that's why I happened to be there
at that time--to do it for him.

After his earlier chest operation, Stan seemed to be
on the mend, but ultimately the hip incident was
probably the last straw. Stan passed away in his
sleep not too long after that; Larry gave me the call.

I couldn't help but cry. It's just about the only
thing I know that death will compel me to do. I went
out to the liquor cabinet, poured myself two shots of
Ouzo, and threw them both back; one for myself, and
one for Stan--I knew he would have wanted it that way.

In many ways, Stan was like another older brother to
me, or maybe even a favourite uncle. I already had
both, but the more I thought about it, the more I
reasoned that Stan was all things to all people. To
me he was a non-denominational priest I could confess
to without having to worry about penance. He was the
used car salesman who never sold lemons. He could
talk true without ever having to condescend. He truly
was 'The Man', but most of all, he was a friend. One
of the best.

I think about him often, and try my best not to
emulate him, but to consider what he'd tell me if he
was still here.

And this is no "Tuesdays With Morrie"; I don't believe
in the resurrection, but to me he never left. And
whether he's lifting a pint with Lucifer or else
getting a light from St. Peter, you can bet he's
keeping them legit.

Rest in peace, Stan. I love you.