Good Beer Hunting

Critical Drinking

The Legacy of The 'Goon — Tony Magee's "6th Way"




I only do it for the clicks. Go landscape with that phone, yo. 

For reference: Tony, the founder of Lagunitas, has been scribbling away over here lately. I'm glad he's writing it. He's got a lot of wisdom to share. But he's also still got a healthy reservoir of insecurity and hate for others. So, this is an attempt to break through that defensive layer and get to the heart of things using his own style and voice. Maybe the mirror will reflect some wisdom back the other way. Or maybe it's just a poem. We'll all be okay. 


The Lagoon off shore does swell itself. Its sources fresh and salt.
The rivulets run down to silt, quick sixes ‘long a fault.
A crab, a fish, a turtle boxed, lumbers up and o'er the bar.
The tide, gone outward fast and hard, draws most its life afar.  

A 'goon like this might fool for a philosophy 'tween tides.
How dark and still the waters pool. How 'luring to abide.
A slow and steady current swirls, far down it’s dark and cold. 
Alone with its slick algae, now. Its snails and starfish hold.

The gen’rous ocean laps against the ‘goons own sandy wall
“I’m still” it shouts, “I’m pure and clean, not some Neanderthal!"
The ocean waves, deaf from their roar, erode the shores away,
and new lagoons, each to their own, find stillness. More each day. 

“I need no tides, I’ve always been. I’m not those other ‘goons,
My fish can swim, my crabs can crawl, my loons can even loon!
I’m split from you and all your noise, I’ll swell from my own well.
All you other ‘goons can join the oceans down in hell!"

The crabs did crawl, the fish did fly, the fowl found higher perch. 
The ‘goon that swirled beneath them all seemed noisy from the lurch-
ing of the funnel down, the chute below, the tide still further out,
and flushed itself, still more and more, ’til all was dried about,

and all the fleshy skeletons that swam around in haste
could barely make the speed they’d need to clear the sandy paste
’neath Azusa and Chicago and dried up Petaluma pit
that birthed a healthy little life b’for the ocean went and split.

The ‘ception that the ‘goon so cried, became the silence once ’twas done
“My legacy! My depth and swell! Thought I was the only one!"
But if your legacy is ‘crete and steel, ‘stead bones and flesh and love
we’ll hardly take to diggin’ deep to bury you above. 

Words + Photos by
Michael Kiser