Thanks For The Stagg

In a beautifully clean and shiny corporate steak house, bright with manufactured ambience, me and a woman belly up to the bar and order two whiskies.

One, is a rye I recognize as being one of my favorites, sharing the first letter of our names, my affinity for this particular brown has us bottled in bond and bonded by blood.

The other, is a tall bottle of bourbon I vaguely recognize with antlers on the label and two g’s at the end of its name.

My god, this deer whiskey aged however many years in bliss and oak tastes like ridiculous heaven, black pepper and chocolate, smooth like my head on a good day and clean like a bright blue sky.

The rye, a familiar friend, $8 by the glass, was hot and spicy as if I was lovingly whipped in the face with a delicious horse crop, a 100 proof kiss I’ve grown to savor to no end.

The bourbon, unbeknownst to me was $50 a glass and despite thinking it was arguably the best whiskey that ever dripped onto my lips, my female friend accompanying me was convinced the rye was the better drink. Regardless of price, she thought the rye was just tastier.

Taste should never be dictated by cost, value or hubris. Taste is derived strictly by what is appreciated.

Never assume quality, price and flavor will coincide neatly, what tastes good, looks good, and feels good to you is your style and adoration. Yours alone.

There are days when an eight dollar rye just tastes better than a $50 bourbon.

(I honestly don’t know what days those are, you’ll have to ask her.)


Toast the Coast with the Most

windows to windows to light in the day
now when the wind blows I know what to say
hair falls, eyes sprawl, they shine so far away
while minutes brawl for more time in the day.

crimes commit while reason’s denied
uncertain decisions are reasons we hide
our faith is tested and always contested
by us crashing in the wreckage and the filth of our tide.

Home Sweet Alone


The trauma of a residential move can be stunningly taxing. It can also be enormously enlightening, providing new perspectives one didn’t even realize existed.


My body, mind, desires and fears have all moved to different places and priorities. My pile of crap stuffed into boxes has decreased in volume with each new apartment. Thankfully. My landscape of business and play has shifted to a slightly different level and now I’m adjusting to this new awakening.


It’s been difficult to write coherently, this uneasiness of creativity is brutal. The words churn in my head and every moment I’m either on the clock or walking the street, they bloom into beautiful sentences that fill my head, fall from my lips but tragically not onto paper or qwerty.


Requiem for the Macleay found in these new trees and refreshing creeks resets myself in the hallows of a strangely amazing suburb, doing wonders for my blood and being. With nearly every woodsy road leading to my house being uncharted, winding, leafy and dangerous, I suddenly cannot imagine living this charmed life any other way.