Torched

Seattle P-I

“Which one of you assholes almost got me punched by the angry guy on the Fremont Bridge?!”

I was already burned up and we hadn’t even gotten to the conflagration. 

My grouchy old man rancor at the narrow escape from a fist to the face and at the frantic pace the piney pelaton had hightailed it towards the beach was a furnace within me and I couldn’t wait to scream a furious inquiry to the assembled masses who I hoped would be milling about at the traditional 7-11 stop on the way.

But there was only a handful of shoppers in the little parking lot one of which, fortunately, was tehSchkott, who, in an unprecedented role reversal, talked me down from the livid ledge on which I stood with the thoughtful observation that whoever it was who bumped the outraged hobo mid-span was probably right not to stop because, shit, that guy was dangerous.

Mollified, I continued on, and only felt my ire rise momentarily upon nearing the shore and seeing sparks already climbing skyward in the distance, but when I approached the circle and saw how much fuel was still remaining, I cooled down plenty sufficiently to be able to fully embrace the heat of all those Christmas memories returning their carbon to the atmosphere and the warmth of so many familiar faces lit by the glow.

Our traditional head pyromaniac, waylaid by the weather up North, wasn’t able to be there, but was there really—further evidence, for the Vedanta perspective the Angry Hippy and I were reflecting upon: that our individual selves are really the Universal Self, each lick of flame actually the fire, if you will.

I kept thinking about that scene in The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, where Tom gets to observe his own funeral; similarly, having “passed the torch;” (almost literally); another adventurous rascal could see how brightly his influence burns in his absence.

And who could be angry at that?

Grateful

I’m not a huge proponent of New Year’s resolutions but I do think the turning of our yearly calendar page is a good time to take stock and be slightly more intentional about the things you do or don’t do.  So, while I won’t be cutting alcohol or caffeine from my diet this month, I would like to recognize my good fortune and make note of some of what I’m grateful for when I’m being more intentional about gratitude.

Above all, I’m grateful to be loved by someone who generally accepts my inclination for Thursday night bicycle adventures and whose general acceptance thereby makes possible my ability to regularly find myself quaffing quaffables around an outdoor fire to which I’ve ridden my bike with several dozen similarly inclined miscreants.

I’m grateful I have a job.  Full stop.  But especially a job that is not only mostly rewarding, but also allows me, with some regularity, to depart on Thursdays in time for a leisurely 18-mile pedal primarily on a lakeside bicycle path that brings me eventually to the center of our fair city for a rendezvous with said aforementioned miscreants.

I’m grateful that said miscreants, while fairly opinionated as a rule, are also willing to be persuaded to set aside worries about impending rainfall and head for the spot I’d had my fingers crossed they could be persuaded to head for.

I’m grateful that grocery stores sell firewood and spirits and for Joby’s largesse in acquiring mass quantities of both.

I’m grateful for the 12-pack of Rainier beer, which fits so perfectly in the Wald basket and is predictably just the right amount for drinking and sharing.

I’m grateful to live in a time and place where recreational cannabis is legal, fuck you, Attorney-General Jeff Sessions.

I’m grateful that, in spite of certain past indiscretions, said miscreants have not been permanently 86’ed from Bush Gardens.

And I’m grateful that the bicycle is a gyroscope all the way home.