2wenty 7eventeen

Bring in the new year with its brutal, sheer fear,
wring out the old year, beat what’s brought us here.
Bury our weary as we parade our cheer,
“Move along, folks, nothin’ to see here.”

Twenty Seventeen doesn’t mean our hands are clean,
in between the lanes and lines, swerving, we careen
into a class divide as colors collide, tweeted and streamed.
Televised destiny, technology unexpectedly
deciding what things mean. Meme.

Ring in the new year! All is wonderful far and near!
We have most of our limbs and beauty we find dear.
Whether we’re alone in a town or among those in your home,
new years appear to be clear only when we shut our mouths to hear.


The Cruel Side Of Yuletide

nearly a fortnight later:

the madness! the relentless attention i must distribute to the inane masses just to get through the day! the endless repetition of conversation that i endure to remain on the safe side of sane.

the holidays bring an armada of random insanity exhibited by otherwise normal people going about their day. instead of allowing generosity and the ideal of peace and goodwill to determine their character, a gross, misplaced sense of entitlement burns swaths across the streets, cities and hemisphere. laying selfish waste towards those who must tolerate them, from civil services to dinner servers, to retail clerks to clergymen, the innocent unfortunately must feel the subtle (and sometimes not so) brunt of ill behavior brought about by the holidays. whether trying to escape from family tension or struggling on an economical tightrope, the reasons don’t justify this malfeasance. it may merely be overindulgence or the overwhelming pressure of absurd societal demands, these causes drive some people to act unbearably unbecoming while supposedly enjoying the season.

these misgivings defy the very nature of the holidays and as long as there is unwarranted stress that becomes unwelcome abuse, these particular winter days oughta be tossed into the wilderness, forever to be lost in the bottom of the coal pile. long fuel for the frigid winter instead of tons of gasoline for the silly christmas consumer machine.

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.)

Fireworks Go Boom

The freeway circuit that surrounds downtown is the best view for the fireworks that are shot from a barge on the Willamette. The arcing slope of North Interstate 5 as it descends the Marquam Bridge puts me 150 feet above the water but close enough to touch the smoke and bursts of lights and deep explosions and as I orbit these huge airborne fireworks the city’s little skyscrapers are eye to eye with a boy on a motorbike on a bridge on a holiday.

Bend or Bust

Visiting my friend’s family became an eye opener beyond description.

Impromptu motorcycle rides to the center of the state, lakeshore sunburn and a hauling of balls home, it was quite the weekend. Averaging 95 mph while the world stands still, me and a Chrysler 300 tearing through the traffic while my adrenaline could fill barrels and my grip could crush bones.