Up early to pee. 7:12 a.m. sharp. A quick diagnosis of the aches and pains of the morning. The outside bottom of my left foot…Quite puzzling–potential emergence of gout? The outside of my right knee, the lateral collateral ligament (LCL) feels slightly sprained. Something is going on with the tendons in my left bicep. A dull ache that has lingered for three weeks. The onset of arthritis? Probably. Ah, but the back, the spine, the neck, the stanchions of the body are still solid as a rock. I often hear the younger ones around me complaining. Yes, the younglings who stand around me and gripe about their lives sleeping in until noon or one in the afternoon. This is the dad life now. There are no prisoners here, only casualties. Yes, quiet desperation.

The mind becomes fused with the body, no, overtakes it, when you get older. Instead of telling yourself you can’t do it, you summon sheer willpower to drive your aging meat wagon forward. Yes, the watery sponge inside the skull calls the shots, gets you out of bed, rattles off and provides reasons you’re doing it all. That’s the fuel. It tells you the twinges and spasms, the random pangs shooting through the body will dissipate as long as you’re standing and don’t slow down. Get going, old man. Keep moving like the proverbial shark in the water. The heart will take care of pumping blood, the lungs, oxygen, but it is you who are in charge of putting one foot in front of the other to generate momentum. The eyes are honed for predators and the daddy reflexes kept sharper than ever. Lo, the mythical dad strength. Yes, it’s built from holding children, the grip, the isometric vice grip of carrying a toddler in one arm and three bags of groceries in the other and on the other side of that power coin is strength in patience, fortitude in the face of the everlasting day. Of early mornings and late nights behind the bar, the head nodding, the fatigue setting in, the body going through the motions. Shaking the cocktails, repeating orders back, answering the same stupid questions. Iron sharpens iron.

And what did your friendly neighborhood bartender accomplish this fine morning? I found my own fire to put out. Grunting. Chin ups and kettlebells with the fineness of Bloodsport for background. Getting the coagulated blood flowing some into this withering old corpse before it falls into the abyss. An attempt at dialing back the clock just a hair. And yes, a few chuckles about good old Jean Claude circa 1988 spinkicking his way through the usual villains.

A little trivia for you. Jean Claude Van Damme was the original selection to play the predator creature. What? Yeah. The first concept was for the alien to be more agile and leaping around. Jean Claude got canned from the set after too many disagreements with the producer, Joel Silver (Action Jackson, Lethal Weapon, Die Hard, The Matrix). Our boy didn’t enjoy the stifling suit he had to wear. According to The Hollywood Reporter Jean Claude said: “I like to breathe — and they’re gonna do my head and everything. They put in my mouth like a tube [to breathe through]. I was covered in that cast for at least 20 minutes. It was boiling hot. My friend told me, ‘If you cannot breathe, just [wiggle] your finger and I’ll pull that stuff away from you.’ And I did it. I started to panic. And they go, ‘No! Five more minutes!’”

At some point, eyewitnesses attest to Jean Claude throwing the helmet off onto the ground and breaking it. That was enough for Joel Silver, who canned him on the spot. The prototype suit for the predator was already under scrutiny, however and they had spoken to effects and makeup guru Stan Winston about the situation. Stan agreed to a redo of the original concept but advised the potential actor for his new suit design would have to be huge, “a giant,” for the whole thing to work. Jean Claude was only 5′ 6″ on a good day. They ended up hiring actor Kevin Peter Hall, who was 7′ 3″.

That’s it. JCVD came back to the states, landed the role of Frank Dux, and the rest worked out pretty damn good for him. Bloodsport came out eight months after Predator and overnight made the “Muscles from Brussels” into a huge superstar. Arnie and Sly had the mega mass and the popularity, the fan following but they weren’t as athletic and physically agile as our boy, Jean, who could jump high and do crazy splits in the air.

Today’s post has nothing to do with cocktails, but rather, nostalgia. To any else, watching Bolo Yeung get dropped for the hundredth time may not be entertaining, but to a child who came up in the late eighties and early nineties it is a balm, a collective nod to a glorious era when a movie, with probably the shittiest acting and choreography ever, turned a man into a household name and grossed $50 million on a budget of $1.5. The man who would become a father himself one day. And that is what we all share, those of us who have procreated. The tired nod of empathy, the murderous intent, the jar opening grasp, the spare tire of shame built by the soothing pint of ice cream eaten greedily when the house is silent for a moment before our heads hit the pillow and we dream.