holidays and mythologies

Waiting at a red light on the way home from work I find myself stuck behind a large, blue ford truck (and I'm straight-up sorry 'cause considering how much time I spent with beer guzzling thick necks in Northern Idaho (and yes, they capitalize that 'northern' shit up there) who can tell you the make, model, year and engine size of any and all pickup trucks simply by the smell of the in-question truck's exhaust (and this after said truck is 1.5 miles away) I should be able to come up with something a li'l more descriptive than 'large, blue ford', but alas, I am sans manliness) but so I find myself waiting for that aforementioned red light to blink ov'r to green, and no, eff that! the freakin' truck was something like a goddamned '03 450 Ford with a, uhm yeah an extended bed and cab and had one of them extremely tall Leer canopies on the bed and yeah! that's what I was waiting behind (I bet you can smell my parfum de l'homme wafting outta your friggin' monitor!!) and after I'd given up trying to stare down the driver in their rearview mirror, me eyes began to just randomly roam around, as bored, post-work eyes will do, and it was just as this large, blue ford pickup truck was pulling away that I noticed their (vanity) license plate: blu ox.

blu effing ox, I say to myself and instead of accelerating which the etiquette of driving demanded, I continue to sit there for a little while, chuckling to myself. Now those of us who sadly inhabit the northern hemi are all quickly spiralling into the winter months and if I didn't pitch my tent here this license plate probably wouldn't have affected me so much. If it were summer, even spring say, I wouldn't have thought twice about 'blu ox', but it's winter, and so I did.

First, and obviously, 'blu ox' takes us to Paul Bunyan. Good ol' Paul Bunyan and Babe and all the great things which that comedic duo did, Arizona and Oregon owing them especial thanks. May, June or July and I would have stopped there. December though? Yeah, I keep on going.

I go to what I assume must have been at first a quiet nagging that tickled at the back of Paul's mind, stopping him from time to time, and that later would become a debilitating depression.

I go to what I assume must have started as a fine ride for Babe, but later budded into feelings of misgivings and sour resentment.

I go to the perfect sadness that they must have felt on a daily basis. Out of place and perhaps out of time, but no less entitled for their displacement.

& this is so appropriate for these winter months we find ourselves in. I find myself at my most despondent and disconsolate during this time. & For what it is worth, I love this time of the year. I love my subdued, reflective personality. This despondency and disconsolation is Cathartic. (and we captialize that shit in these parts).

& so, to pull from my prolific (...) literary past, I recommend you review this old post of mine from december of 2006, it reiterates some of this, but in a much different way (probably better).

& doubly so, disconsolate and all, everything is good, save for the holidays. They can eff themselves. Except for new years and all that champagne guzzling, on which day give me a blindfold, start up your car, gun it for a while and just test me.