The 16-month countdown for ending the Iraq War was supposed to have started – oh — 16 months ago. But, today, Obama got the clock running. But wait. It’s not a 16-month drawdown. It’s now 19 months. And wait again. It’s not really a complete drawdown. Obama and his leftover Bush Defense Secretary, Robert Gates, have decided that even after the 19 months as many as 50,000 U.S. soldiers will remain in Iraq.

I hate to say “I told you so,” but….

Damn, it’s so unsatisfying being right about this stuff.

P.S. Sorry about my absence. I’ve been busy coughing up a lung.

Let’s Rock:

Stowe, that is. Vermont, to be specific. The place where people pay enormous sums of money to “get away.” Oh yeah. Step right up (with your wallet) and we’ll do everything we can to get you far, far away.  As the Vermont saying goes: It’s more lucrative to milk a tourist than to milk a cow. Indeed.

Yes, I’m driving sleighs all week. Eight different horses and four different sleighs. Gitty-up. Two rides per hour. Ten hours a day – eight driving and two to harness, hook, unharness and unhook the giant Percherons and Belgians.

Oops, I lied. I didn’t drive sleighs today. It was my day off. And, instead, I worked my own horse, Big Jim, in the never-ending pursuit of firewood. But the sleigh-driving marathon continues tomorrow through Sunday.

This is all a rather long-winded (imagine that) way to say, I’m otherwise occupied and won’t be doing much writing until next week. I am, however, continuing to keep good notes on the experiences, stories and moments of everything interesting that happens after that moment when each and every ride begins with: “Hello, I’m Moike and I’ll be your driver.” And let the adventure begin. But I apologize if I ask where you’re from more than once because…well…you all kind of look and sound alike.

Oh no, sounds like I need some snob sensitivity training.

But, then again, it’s hard to remain snarkless after carting around blowhards like the fella who bragged about his massively lucrative “cancer product” business, his recent purchase of a million-dollar condo at the new Spruce Lodge, and then handing me a friggin five-spot at the end of having to hear his nonsense for 25 long minutes. Cheap bastard. But, as they say, that’s how the rich get rich: Screw the non-rich. God bless America.

My tips were uncharacteristically low yesterday morning. At first, I chalked it up to the fact that I was giving a lot of rides to mother and daughter combinations who, along with the British and French, are notoriously bad tippers.

But then we had a little lull in the action and I was chatting with two other drivers. As we talked up our experiences and the various tendencies of the horses, I reached for my chapstick and applied it liberally to my lips as I had been doing all morning. Being outside all day in the wind and the semi-cold dries me out like crazy, making my lips cracked and dry.

“What’s in that?” a fellow-driver asked.

“It’s just chapstick,” I responded.

“But it’s sparkly,” she continued.

Sparkly? Huh?

“And really red,” she added.

Oh no.

I pulled it out of my pocket, telling them the story of how I saw it on my eleven-year old’s nightstand as I was leaving for work that morning and, yes, “borrowed it” since I was in an urgent need for it.

“Look,” I explained, reading from the red/pink label, “it’s…strawberry….sparkle…lip gloss….”

Oops. I guess I should have read the label before then. Because it seemed like the last thing the good Stowe tourists want is a sleigh driver with ruby-red-and-sparkling lips.

I replayed all my morning rides and our conversations, but this time with the image of me in ruby-red-and-sparkling lips.

“Hello, I’m Moike and I’ll be your driver!”

“I love being in the woods with my horses!”

“I started working with horses seven years ago and fell in love with it!”

I went to my truck to see for myself and, yes, I was donning ruby-red-and-sparkling lips. And I laughed. And laughed. And laughed some more.

But then I thought: Fucking uptight tourists. What’s so wrong about a sleigh driver in drag? Some people have no imaginations. And most of them are tourists. That’s why they pay the big bucks to be entertained.

So, let me offer a new service to those so inclined: “ Hello, I’m Moike and I’ll be your horseman in drag….”

Hey, horse jobs aren’t that easy to find…

Diversify. Diversify. Indeed.

Any takers?

Wait a second. I’m starting to think I saw this movie. You know, the one where the president at a time of crisis rushes around in a hyperkinetic fit telling us to follow his plan or face death to nearly everything and everyone we care about? And, by now, we all know how those movies end.

In the days after 9/11, President George W. Bush grabbed the bullhorn at the site of the former-Twin Towers and went rushing into what can only honestly be called a maniacal, ill-informed, ill-targeted, tragically executed and otherwise disastrous grand plan to topple Saddam Hussein’s Iraq. Why? Weapons of mass destruction, of course.

But the overly-hyped Bush, jacked up by the tales of macho-triumph being spun by Cheney, Rumsfeld and Wolfowitz, put logic on hold and, instead, exported his fear and loathing to whip the nation into a malleable mob that would join the great suspension of logic and support any and all rash military acts as “the only thing” we could do. Well, that or face lung lesions and death from the onslaught of chemical and biological weapons that were  “just about” to rain down upon us.

They even added color to their great cartoon caper: The ridiculous color-coding of the nation’s risk alert status. That, my friends, was nothing but an elaborate psy-ops orchestrated upon each of us who drank from the chalice of American Culture enough to watch, see or read about the dangling lights of fear, fear and more fear. And they knew that when they needed something – say, a new bomber, bomb target or tax cut – all they had to do was up the fear meter and, as a result, scare/shock us into submission.

But now Obama’s got his hands on the fear joystick. And, sadly, he didn’t seem to learn much from the grand misadventures of Bush.

Obama, of course, was the unfortunate recipient of a nation spinning out of control economically. Thanks, George, indeed. So he certainly deserves a moment or two worth of understanding. But those moments are up for me.

Obama’s now rushing around with a metaphorical bullhorn of his own, yelling to anyone who will listen that we must throw one trillion dollars more to corporate criminals. That, or face a hideous economic death to anything and everyone we love.

Hmmm, smells like weapons of economic destruction to me.

And please, don’t misconstrue any of this to think I’m belittling the economic crisis this nation (and world) is facing. Sorry, but you don’t need an economist to know which the money winds are blowing today. Besides, I think those of us swimming at or near the bottom understand this economic crisis a whole hell of a lot better than the stuff-shirts who keep gallivanting before Congress with their hat in hand and their crocodile tears announcing that they’re now willing to forgo their bonuses for the year. Oh, the sacrifices!

Sorry, but that’s like letting a bank robber go free because they’ve promised not to rob again for a year.

Like Bush in his post-9/11 coronation of our new state-of-fear, Obama is flying the fear flag in the face of the economic catastrophe that has landed in his lap. According to Obama, we have no time. We have no options. And we must act now. Or else.

As much as I keep hoping for the director of this movie to step in and yell, “cut, cut, cut,” realizing it’s feeling all too familiar to last year’s movie, it’s not happening. Worse, it’s working – Obama is convincing that malleable mob to rush to action once again. Silly America, when will we ever learn?

Make no mistake, today’s economic crisis is Obama’s 9/11. It’s the defining crisis of his presidency. And, unfortunately for the believers in real change, it’s a crisis that Obama is already mishandling.

In his rush to act, Obama has entered the shark pool of big money and big influence and made nice with them all, resulting in a “solution” that can only honestly be called a maniacal, ill-informed, ill-targeted, tragically executed and otherwise disastrous grand plan to save a nation’s economy.

I know we’re in the Twitter and Blackberry age, whereby everything has to happen fast, fast and faster, and where everything that has to be said better fit in a “subject line,” but, my goodness, can’t we take a breath as a nation once in a while? We Twittered our way to war, yellow-ribboned ourselves in deeper, and now seem ready to instant message ourselves to economic oblivion.

In other words, shallow fucking haste. Or paper mache principles. Or both.

The economic crisis is now Obama’s – no matter what he inherited. He’s made it the first act in his very own presidential drama. And, sadly for us all, it will be the defining act that will ultimately pop the remaining hope balloons and send a nation back to reality: We got fooled again.

Obama had his moment served to him before Chief Justice Roberts had time to flub up his oath of office. Dangling there on the key chain handed over by the oh-so-happy to get out of there Bushies was a neon light that certainly flashed: Economic Disaster.

But Obama has failed in his response so far. He has cow-towed to the economic elite. He has bent over for only one consitutuency: The Right. And he has wielded his fear stick and told us all that we must do as his administration says or face … or face… or face… (oh yeah) the same old shit that got us into this mess: Corrupt power from the top.

Oh well, at least we all forgot about the war, the lack of health care, the lack of an adequate safety net, and the continued mockery of our dreams and ideals.

Go Obama, Go!

Well, my horse bone is not connected to my writing bone. And the horse bone has been getting the attention of late. Wait. That didn’t sound right.

But thanks to Boots and Aaron – and Big Jim – the firewood collection is looking hopeful once again. Thanks, fellas.

There’s no sign of things letting up, either. I’m taking today to dry out and gear up for the horse extravaganza that will be unleashed on Saturday. Yep, yours truly will be donning his horse-driving best to pull the great ninny-clan known as “tourists” around in Stowe.

“Hi, I’m Moike and I’ll be your driver.” Off we go….

But this time I feel ready for the mental game of it all. It has next to nothing to do with the horses or the scenery. Nope. It’s all about who can pull the other’s leg better. Yeah, you know, I’ll make up stories about the celebrities and the greatness of all of Vermont and you make up stories about just how important you and your job are “back home.”

Sure, just leave a tip. God Bless America, indeed.

Since Saturday is Valentine’s Day, I’m sure I’ll be getting a few marriage proposal rides. When I first told my wife, Stacy, that I had a marriage proposal ride, she thought someone had asked me to marry them, opining: “How much over 70 was she?” Yeah, the wife knows I’m a 70-and-over chick magnet. Hey, some people have it, some don’t.

But being the third party to a marriage proposal is excruciating. The guy is being a total dork (and, yes, every proposal ride I’ve given was orchestrated by the guy). He fumbles about, checking and re-checking where he’s hidden the ring box. He chatters on and on nervously. He’s obviously put himself in that guy-realm of human consciousness that says: I. Am. Making. History.

Whatever.

Sorry, but only a dork would worry about whether or not his marriage proposal was about to be accepted. Good grief.

The woman in these ride/stories, however, has been rather unflappable. Aware, of course, that her boyfriend is acting like a complete ass, she seemingly throttles herself down to allow the dork off-gassing to occur between her husband-to-be and those who are forced to encounter him at this moment. Yeah, you know, people like horse-sleigh drivers in Stowe-fucking-Vermont. Yes, me. Get over it.

It’s like watching a really, really bad local production of a romance play. But from the front row. And with a fucking part in it! Oh shit, is anyone watching?

But I digress. What I really wanted to tell you was that I’ve got horse work to do. I will be making people feel a certain closeness to horses next week (read: pay for it, baby), but taking a “day off” for a far more real job (read: less lucrative) on Monday, pulling firewood for a certain fellow blogger and Coetzee fan who shall remain nameless. But you can read all his good rants here: Integral Psychosis.