A dream job - and I've been doing a lot of day dreaming lately

A week ago, a friend of mine left for Ireland, where he'll spend two years teaching bartenders how to make mixed drinks. Already a Master of Scotch, he'll be his employer's spirits ambassador to Ireland, which doesn't come with diplomatic immunity but does include an office in Guinness headquarters.

I'm sure every job has drawbacks, but on the surface at least Marty's gig seems like a plum assignment.

But hey, I got paid to look at pelicans last week, making a stop on their way to Minnesota. OK, it's not as glamorous. It was also cold and windy and scary - because the big birds were in a marsh in a forest preserve and forest preserves scare me. How can you be comfortable in a place that is the first they search for missing and presumed dead housewives, where freaks meet to have sex and where packs of dogs have been known to attack joggers.

And there were dobermans the day I went to see the pelicans - albeit with owners who were seemingly wealthy white women and not rappers, though I supposed they could be both.

The birds head north, my buddy flies overseas and I am feeling grounded.

See, I've known Marty for more than 20 years. We met in improv classes back when I had hair and was skinny and would have gotten the arrogant asshole parts had I more talent or a stomach for show business. We were in a show together called Revenge of the Muffin People and did a skit called Art vs. Science, a dance contest between the two staged by a grad student at Andy Warhol University.

Marty, who is mostly a jovial sort, stuck with the comedy and acting thing longer than I did, which meant he did bartending, which eventually led to becoming an expert in Scotch and the job he has now.

We lost touch for a time, after an attempt to be roommates never got off the ground. I went on to pursue a career in what is fast becoming a dying industry. Smarter Marty picked a steadier path: People will always drink, and until they figure out how to get booze for free over the Internet will gladly pay to do so.

My reporting services are a devalued commodity. In fact I'm trying to find a college kid in India to do my job for me for $20 a week, giving me time to attend accountancy classes - or maybe to visit Marty in Ireland.

Or maybe I'd just hang out at the zoo, like I did a week ago Sunday. Note to dads: If you're going to wear nylon gym shorts, where underwear beneath so we don't all have to see the little mouse in your pants bouncing back and forth as you push the stroller. Or maybe you were smuggling out a naked mole rat. Either way, it sets a bad example.

Brookfield Zoo is a good place to go when you're feeling nostalgic. They still sell those wax statues of animals where you put your money in pneumatic injection mold machines. If you are 35 or older you can't call yourself a Chicagoan if you didn't have your parents get you one of these as a kid. These days, it's the parents who are excited to get them - like me, only I'm a barren bachelor farmer.

I picked up a white polar bear and a red giraffe with baby giraffe which I happily put on my desk at work. No one even asked.

I should have left them in the car until they melted - provided it ever gets warm around here. But that's being way too literal with the metaphors.