It’s Monday. I’m random. Let’s pretend. And blog.

First, an apology: Sorry, Mom, I forgot to take out the trash. Well, back in 1979. But it’s been eating at me and I think it’s one of those things that my therapist calls an anchor to my further achievement in life. I’ve got to cut loose of those things or, sooner or later, I’ll find yourself sitting in front of a blank day or a blank page and thinking about it. Thus, instead of filling the day or the page, I’ll harbor guilt about it (read: distraction). Worse, the guilt can quickly morph into resentment (i.e. why the fuck didn’t my brother take it out?). Not good – either way.

There. I feel better. Well, except for now I’m thinking about the time I ran my bicycle into my brother’s bike and messed up his spokes. Sure, he beat the holy shit out of me for it but I still feel terrible. It’s probably because I think I forgot to apologize. I must have been self-absorbed in my own pain from the beating. But that’s no excuse. My therapist tells me that responsibility and guilt must not be masked by one’s sense of pain as a result of vigilante-like justice dished out by the one you’ve harmed. Okay, he didn’t really say that. But I’ve seen him enough over the years that I can picture him saying it.

Now I’m feeling all paranoid that my therapist is going to read this blog. I’m going to need to apologize the next time I see him. Listen, I’ll say, I feel terrible about putting words in your mouth and then publishing those words for others to read. And then he’ll probably cool-headedly remind me that he doesn’t really give two-shits about blog posts since, as he’s reminded me before, “blogs are the last refuge for failed writers.”  Come to think of it, I think he owes me an apology.

Or maybe he won’t even know about these little conversations I’m having with him on my own time. But should he? It doesn’t feel right to keep things from the person who’s trying to help you sort things out. No, make that: the person you’re paying to help you sort things out. That would be kind of like having a cleaning person and then closing half the doors in the house and attaching notes that declared “Do Not Enter” on them. What sense would that make?

Well, unless you’re paying by the hour. Maybe that’s it: I’m a cheap bastard. I’m purposely trying to control the information I give to my therapist so that I can save money on the therapy. Of course: I’m being thrifty. This is good. I’m taking control – even better. I think he’d actually like this if I told him. But I’m not, which makes it all kind of weird in a therapy kind of way.

I guess I should ask him about it. And perhaps even tell him about all of this. Because I just feel guilty. Oh fuck, now I’m feeling guilt over my relationship with the one I’m paying to help me deal with the guilt I have toward others in my life. Worse, I feel the urge to rather defiantly say that, “This. Is. Not. Me.” But who the hell else would it be? This is me. This is my story. And this is my blog.

Fuck.

And I know why this is happening. It’s Monday. I’ve spent too much time over the last several days digesting mainstream news and mainstream politics. And it’s making me crazy. It speeds everything up in a crazy-making kind of a way. You know how it is, you read about stuff that seems frustrating and even crazy but, at the same time, you find yourself relating to it. Thus begins your own slippery descent into the frustrating and the crazy.

I’ve read about, for example, how the Europeans loved Obama but didn’t notice any substance. No shit. And about how a drunk man shot his lawn mower because he was pissed that he couldn’t get it to start. Makes sense to me. And about how Manny Ramirez of the Red Sox is pissed at his employer for not committing to giving him another $40 million for the next two years even though he gave them that power in the contract he signed eight years and $130 million ago. Workers of the world, unite! And about how Madonna is tired. Yo, girl, pick a palace and rest in it. And about how the ex-golfer Gary Player had this to say about the current player, Phil Mickelson: “EVERY time he walked, you could see his breasts bouncing all over the place.” Too much information, thank you. And about how new enthusiasts of the “eat local” movement are now hiring their own gardeners to come and plant gardens in their yards so that they can score one of those coveted “win-win” situations by both eating local and not getting dirty (or working, for that matter). Oh, Wendell Berry, you were right: “Movements kill everything.”

You get the point. It’s all crazy making. And I’m not going to play. Instead, I’m going to get to the bottom of all of this on Friday – my next appointment with my therapist. I’m not cutting any corners. I’m not holding any cards. I’m not saving any money. I’m going in with all my crazy guns blazing and declaring that I, sir, am bat-shit crazy over the ninniness that has engulfed my life.

Oh nevermind. Because I already know what he’s going to say: Stop reading the news. Of course.

I’m sorry about all of this. I hope you’ll understand.

How much do I owe you?

Things have changed. I’m different now. But still the same. Nothing new there.

Oh yeah, I’m a lucky man. I shed skin like the seasons. I dream and I follow those dreams. I get hung up and I move on. It’s better that way.

But some things stay the same: Wife, daughter, farm, and the joy of saying good morning to the possible. Like I said, I’m a lucky man.

Lately, I’ve found myself deep in what Gary Snyder called the “real work.” It’s summer, you know. And that means getting ahead on the woodpile, getting the hay in for the horses (660 bales last week), dancing and romancing in a garden that sings soothingly to me that everything is going to be alright, and finding one swimming hole after another to leap into, float and wash away the grime of an honest day’s work and the ninny thoughts of this and that.

This, my friends, is how it should be.

I’m a lucky man. I don’t do anything special, really. I just dream. And I refuse to buy the company plan. It doesn’t make me rich. But it gives me freedom. And hope. Priceless.

You’ve got one time around. Use it. I am.

[About the photos below: That’s my niece, Laurel, and me on the tractor last night. She’s been visiting for the week with her mother, Jen, my wife’s sister. When I asked her if she wanted me to go hook up the horse to the cart for a ride she said she’d rather learn how to drive a tractor. And so it was. And there she goes. She’s from Berkeley, California. Not many tractors in that neighborhood. And I can still hear her screaming. Later, she asked if they (she and my daughter, Bel) could ride in the bucket. Why the hell not? Anything to terrify the mothers, right? Especially when I “dumped” them on top of the lumber pile.]

Oh boy, they weren’t kidding when they said the air quality was going to be bad today. Yikes. Let’s give a big “thanks” to the Ohio River Valley for all their coal burning, eh? One…two…three: Fuck you. There, I feel better.

Because, earlier, I was trying to continue my pursuit of being the firewood king of this little section of this little road in this little town in this little state (hey, you gotta start somewhere). But, after awhile, I felt like I was moving in air that was more akin to syrup than freshness. And then my hypochondriacal mind heard the weather forecast saying: bad air, bad air, bad air. Up went the pulse, out went the initiative, and in went I – straight to the hot office, the fan, the music and the yearning to play blogger boy.

So, let’s get some random stuff off the desk.

First up: Politics. Nancy Remson of the Burlington Free Press asked the most ridiculous question in the blogosphere late last week in her post, “Iraq War Cost.” Here’s the money quote from the short blog entry:

The war has been an important issue for some Vermonters. Candidates such as Congressman Peter Welch, D-VT, and perhaps those running for governor could be asked questions about the toll the war is taking on Vermont.

Ya think? Other than that, I just want to cry.

Speaking of politics, the Vermont media and blogosphere is abuzz about the pie that Governor Jim Douglas (R-VT) took to his face during Montpelier’s Fourth of July parade last week. Since I’m sure that anyone who cares about this issue has already read and commented about it, I’ll steer clear of the specifics.

Instead, I’d like to focus on the kindergarten-like partisan reaction that the incident has received from the good Democrats – mostly in blogland. In short, they thought it was great, funny, deserved or otherwise just a hoot (opinions that I can mostly agree with since I’m all in favor of good political theatre).

But wait. Aren’t these the same people who got their panties in a knot over the efforts of the anti-war crowd to hold Democratic Congressman Peter Welch’s feet to the fire by asking him –gasp – “yes or no” questions about his position on the War on Iraq? Yes, they were.

So, to these folks, pushing a pie in the face of the governor is “great” but asking a congressman who has been waffling on the war to answer “yes or no” about his positions on that war is “grandstanding,” “rude,” “cheap,” and “counter-productive.”

Got it.

In other words, it depends on your party affiliation. And that, my friends, is why I detest party affiliations and the dumbed-down rationale that accompanies them.

I can’t imagine, for example, the “outrage” these folks would have expressed if anyone – from the left or the right – had done the same thing to one of their darlings, Leahy, Sanders or Welch. Or, worse, image the indignation if their hero-of-the-moment, Obama, got a pie?

Get real, folks. Or, better yet, trade those cheerleading outfits in for some thinking caps. And soon.

Speaking of ninnies, did you see the video of Christopher Hitchens of Vanity Fair undergoing some waterboarding treatment? Priceless. Click here and see it. Now. Besides kinda-sorta-maybe enjoying seeing this bloated bastard getting the waterboarding treatment, I was left asking this question: Why, Christopher Hitchens, are you so goddamn stupid?

For those who didn’t click on the link, let me explain. Hitchens, you see, was pro-waterboarding until he actually subjected himself to it. But, for those amongst us with some brains, a semi-working conscience, and some imagination, we didn’t need to actually go through a waterboarding demonstration to realize that, yes, it IS both terrifying and torturous to go through. Duh.

What’s next, Hitch? You gonna check and see if a lethal injection is, indeed, lethal? You go, boy.

–

Oh yeah, the parade. Yes, we made it through the Montpelier parade last Thursday without a hitch. Well, actually, we did have a hitch: two mighty draft horses that did us proud and pulled a wagon-full of wavers. The horses belonged to horse-logger Paul Ruta, and yours truly got to sit in the co-pilot’s seat “just in case.” Well, there was no “just in case,” so I got to wave just like Miss Vermont. Take that, Boots.

And for those wondering what the hell I was doing on a float that carried a “Pollina for Governor” poster on it, let me explain: I’m just a damn nice guy. It turns out that the other “helper/teamster” invited, Duffy Gardener, is married to a Pollina devotee and former employee, Krista Harness. We had one of those moments that John Stewart would describe as “aaawwwkkkwwwaaarrrddd” when she arrived with her Pollina sign. And when Paul asked her where she wanted to put it, she glanced at me and responded that “some people here aren’t Pollina supporters.”

“That would be me,” I interjected.

But then she tucked the sign inside the wagon and declared that she’d be happy to just hold it if necessary.

Not wanting to rain on the parade mood (image that), I told her she could do whatever she wanted with her sign. And Paul had the great suggestion that since I was going to ride on the left side of the driver’s bench, she could put it on the right side of the wagon. Perfect, I’m to the left of Pollina – even on a horse hitch. But those plans changed when, shortly before the parade started (and after the sign was affixed), teamster Paul asked me to switch sides with him.

‘Nuf said on that.

The parade was a hoot. Paul and his horses did great. The only real drama came while we hitched and drove them from the Two Rivers Center out near Agway into town on our “practice” night and the night of the parade. Let’s just say that drivers on Route 2 at rush hour aren’t two considerate of horses and horse speed. Bastards. But we survived. And better yet, we got ‘dem horses through the parade without incident and with many a cheer.

But, I’m convinced, the cheers would have been louder from the right side without that goddamn Pollina poster.

Finally, I would be remiss if I didn’t send out one, big, jealous “fuck you” to my brother, Todd, who recently posted this little missive on his blog regarding his trip to the Sonic Youth/The Feelies concert in Brooklyn last weekend. Ah, two of my all-time favorite bands. Check out his Feelies links in a previous post. They’re fantastic.

Now, please, let me get back to the bad air. I’ve got peas to pick.

Carry on.

It’s a go: My friend, Paul Ruta, and I will be trotting and walking his team of logging horses through the Montpelier parade tonight (July 3rd). We made a test run last night, hooking the trusty old pair out at the Two Rivers Center and then taking them for a spin into – and through – downtown Montpelier. For those planning to be amongst the 20,000 people expected, give us a shout out. We won’t be hard to miss. But, just in case, here’s what you’ll be looking for: Doc & Magnum, a Belgian and Percheron, a big green wagon, signs that declare, “Horse Loggers for Peace,” a smiling and very happy ten-year old girl and two stiff and sore horse-logging fellas trying not to get testy with one another. Like the horses, we do better in the woods. Should be interesting.