Long week, my friends. And I need some rock. And since Worcester hasn’t opened its own CBGB’s yet — and my pal Jack won’t bring his guitar over — it’s YouTube surfing for this loser. Here are a few selections that are getting me through the night:

The news of Vermont State Senator and Lieutenant Governor candidate Ed Flanagan being accused of masturbating at the Burlington YMCA continues to rile the waters of Vermont’s media (just take at look at the comments in my previous post).

This morning, I had the opportunity to hear WDEV’s Mark Johnson Show, in which the host of the show decided to unleash an editorial castigating the Burlington Free Press and the rest of the Vermont media for its poor handling of this issue. Specifically, Johnson was annoyed by the fact that the Free Press didn’t include specific information about Flanagan’s “brain injuries” that would have, in effect, both convicted and defended Flanagan of the alleged behaviors. Johnson, for example, cited a website that documented the “inability to control personal desires” as a symptom of the brain injuries that Flanagan is apparently a victim of.

“Why,” Johnson asked, “didn’t they at least quote from this website?”

Well, Mr. Johnson, because Flanagan is denying the allegations. And, in a news story, it’s just supposed to be about the facts as they exist at the time the facts are being written.

Here, for your reading pleasure, is my letter to Mark Johnson:

Hey Mark,

Your commentary today regarding Ed Flanagan was off base for a couple of reasons. The news story in the Free Press that you were upset with was, indeed, a “news” story. Thus, it is supposed to rely upon the facts as they exist at the time of the writing. And those facts are (as they continue to be): Flanagan has been accused of lewd acts (yes, masturbating in public is a lewd act) and Flanagan is denying it. Given those facts, even mentioning his car accident is a bit far afield. Flanagan is, again, denying it.

In your commentary today, you took the Free Press (and the Vermont media in general) to task for not citing brain injury experts or websites to help “explain” Flanagan’s condition and, as a result, the alleged actions. But if the media did what you are suggesting they do — and what you did today on your show — they would be both convicting Flanagan and defending him. Those are not the roles of the media — unless, perhaps, we’re talking about the editorial page.

Flanagan has had many opportunities to address this issue and not once has he cited his brain injury. Instead, he has totally denied these allegations and declared his intentions to continue to seek higher office. Thus, in the strict “who, what, where and why” of news journalism, his accident and his injuries from it are not relevant to this allegation.

If, however, Flanagan, his family, or his lawyer or spokesperson made a statement regarding his brain injury in relation to this allegation then the story and the role of the media would certainly change.

I know you don’t want to go here but I can’t help but thinking that your verbal editorial today had much to do with the cozy relationship between what I’ve often referred to as the “power elite” in Vermont. Specifically, your Flanagan editorial today seemed like an inappropriate rush to defend a fellow member of the political, economic and media “elite.”

If, as you seem to be suggesting, the Vermont media should be including possible explanations for alleged behavior that is being denied in their news stories, I’d invite you to set up shop at the Barre courthouse some morning and offer some commentary on all the possible defenses and explanations for those being paraded in front of the judge. If you followed your Flanagan rationale, I bet it would sound something like this: “Oh, there goes Joe Vermont, he’s pleading not guilty to DUI but we all know he comes from five generations of alcoholics…”

It’s a very slippery slope, indeed.

All the best,

Michael Colby

On Dubie & Masturbation: Sorry, I really wanted to use that headline. I’m speaking, of course, about the news that Lieutenant Governor Brain Dubie (R-Mars via Vermont) got yet another re-election gift yesterday when Seven Days’ Shay Totten broke the news that his chief opponent in 2010, Ed Flanagan, was accused of multiple incidents of masturbating at the Burlington YMCA recently. Ouch.

To be fair, Flanagan is denying the allegations and declaring it a non-issue since he’s no longer going to be frequenting the YMCA. Perhaps he’ll try “exercising” in the privacy of his bedroom next? We can only hope.

Flanagan is also declaring that these allegations will not deter him in his bid to unseat Dubie. While this is clearly silly talk, it would be great if it were true. I mean, come on (no pun intended – oh wait, maybe it was), wouldn’t it be great to see the semi-illiterate Dubie taking on the Public Masturbator? Priceless.

In the meantime, it will be interesting to see how the masters of group think – The Vermont Dems – will respond to this news. Mostly, I’ll expect them to ignore it and Flanagan from here on out and rally behind another candidate faster than a Vermont summer.

One thing they won’t do is get out the same broad brush they like to use when Republicans are caught in similar predicaments. You won’t, for example, here them declare themselves and their party hypocrites or “nutters” because of Flanagan’s public arousal. That’s because to be a member of either party all-too-often means trading in your thinking cap for a set of pom-poms. Go, team, go!

I’ll bet a lot of money on the fact that we won’t be seeing one of those “kick ‘em while they’re down but sugar coat it with sophomoric humor” posts by Philip Baruth over the Flanagan allegations. Nor, I’m guessing, will we see the Dem cheerleaders over at Green Mountain Daily demanding that any and all Dem-club members denounce Flanagan or…or…or…be considered public masturbators themselves! You’ve been warned! (Yawn).

By the way, there’s apparently no truth to the rumor about Governor Jim Douglas’ reaction to the Flanagan masturbation allegations. Douglas did not, apparently, ask a staff member: “What’s masturbation?”

Stay tuned for more details. Or not.

But, before I let this one go, let’s have a contest! Dear readers, it’s time to chime in on what Ed Flanagan’s campaign slogan should be in 2010 given this recent news. Send your suggestions directly to me at: mcolby@broadsides.org. Or, if you’d rather, post them in the comments section. Have fun.

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While we’re on the subject of politicians masturbating in public, it appears real health-care reform will not be a reality this year.

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Hay Update: Done. Yep, 450 bales were brought in yesterday. I’m a mere five short of my 700 goal but I’m calling it good enough. Whew. And thanks to Bel & Sam for being there with me all day long.

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Ben & Jerry’s blasted for wasting water in Europe. Check this out. Interesting. And not a peep about it in Vermont – surprise, surprise.

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Read: Denis Johnson’s Nobody Move. Wow, what a fun summer read. But, then again, I’m a sucker for Johnson’s work (disclaimer: we both spent too many years in Iowa City, Iowa). Nobody Move represents a much different writing avenue for Johnson: a crime thriller. But he nails it, providing some fast-paced action, violence, sex and the pursuit of the “hidden cash.” My only complaint is the ending. It felt more than a little abrupt.

Nobody Move will most certainly be a movie in the future. In fact, this little novella almost reads like a screenplay. If it turns out to be half as good as Jesus’ Son, the last Johnson book to make it to the big screen, it’ll be a treat.

Here are a couple random lines that I marked while reading Nobody Move:

He wasn’t wearing a Hawaiian shirt at the moment but undoubtedly possessed several.

Ruthless neon on the wet streets like busted candy.

And, while were on the subject of Denis Johnson, check out this excerpt of an interview he did with a San Francisco newspaper several years ago:

I had started working on the novel. I’d met a woman and I got married, but the money ran out right away. She came home and said, “There’s no money.” And I said, “I know. I’m sorry.” She told me I had to get a job. I hadn’t had a job for seven months, and it just came over me that I was never going to work again. It hit me. You can’t get to the point where you say, “When I’m financially stable, then I’ll quit work.” You have to quit work first. She wanted to know what was going to happen—the rent was about to run out. I told her, “I’m going to live on the street. I’m going to write on the street.” She was mad; she left. I had my typewriter. It only took me three months to finish the novel, and it was published. She came back a lot later.

The hay project continues. 98 more bales in the barn. 455 to go. Tomorrow could be a big day. Stay tuned.

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The rock project continues too. Last Friday night me and the boyz made it to the make-you/break-you town of Montpelier for some music. We tried our best but mostly came up swinging and missing. I needed some head-banging stuff but the best we got was Bow Thayer and the Perfect Train Wreck. Fine musicians, for sure, but not even close to head banging. And the punks who were advertised at Charlie O’s were mostly just stalling and trying to figure out how to fill four hours with drunks yelling at them for “more, more and more.” Sadly, they didn’t have much more than a shitty sound system and the “ability” to turn it up to “10.” Sorry, fellas, louder doesn’t mean better.

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Weekend read: “Olive Kitteridge” by Elizabeth Strout. Not my kind of read but entertaining nonetheless. Bought it for the wife but found myself pacing about the house after Friday’s night’s music experience and dove into it wholeheartedly. Before I knew it, night met morning and the book was in my system for the duration of the weekend.

See, that’s what happens when you’re the designated driver and you’re alternating between beer and caffeinated soda. Oh mind, how can I kill you?

Well, Olive Kitteridge did win Strout the Pulitzer Prize, so there. As a novel that skips from here to there as a study in characters, it surely beat Carolyn Chute’s similarly designed “The School on Heart’s Content Road.”

I know, I know, I wrote fawning words about Chute a few weeks ago in my giddy-like excitement upon finding her new work. But, unfortunately, I gave Chute 100 pages to try and capture my attention and – frankly – she failed. Miserably. The book is a mess. Worse, Chute’s continued insistence in writing in the slang of “rural folk” gets nothing short of annoying after about 12 pages.

Someone should have tapped Chute on the shoulder along the process and said: Been there, done that, Carolyn. But, obviously, those around Carolyn know Carolyn. She is, after all, a militia member.

But I ain’t scared of her. And – see? – I can use rural slang too!

Strout, on the other hand, steers clear of the heavy-handedness and lets the characters be the – well – characters. Imagine that.

In the end, it amounts to a fine portrait of the folks in the small Maine town – again, like Chute – who bump into the book’s protagonist, Olive K. It’s more than a bit existential along the way, as the randomness of the associations and the daily grind of living become the glue to hold the whole thing together.

Best line in the book:

“People mostly did not know enough when they were living life that they were living it.”

Until, usually (and sadly), it’s too late.

I bought the book for Stacy after hearing Strout being interviewed on NPR. Strout was asked to read an excerpt and she chose this one:

“Is [Kerry] asleep?” Olive asks, walking farther into the room.

“Passed out,” Marlene answers. “Upchucked first in Eddie’s room, then fell asleep here.”

“I see. Well, it’s a nice place you’ve given her here.” Olive walks over toward the little dining alcove and brings back a chair, sits down by Marlene.

For a while neither woman speaks, then Marlene says pleasantly, “I’ve been thinking about killing Kerry.” She raises a hand from her lap and exposes a small paring knife lying on her green flowered dress.

“Oh,” says Olive.

Marlene bends over the sleeping Kerry and touches the woman’s bare neck. “Isn’t this some major vein?” she asks, and puts the knife flat against Kerry’s neck, even poking slightly at the vague throbbing of the pulse there.

“Yuh. Okay. Might want to be a little careful there.” Olive sits forward.

In a moment Marlene sighs, sits back. “Okay, here.” And she hands the paring knife to Olive.

“Do better with a pillow,” Olive tells here. “Cut her throat, there’s going to be a lot of blood.”

A sudden, soft, deep eruption of a giggle comes from Marlene. “Never thought of a pillow.”

“I’ve had some time to think about pillows,” Olive says, but Marlene nods vacantly, like she’s really not listening.

Oh life, so confusing. So all-consuming. And so goddamned random.

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Interestingly, I got Congressman Peter Welch’s “Congressional Progress Report” in the mail last week and you’ll never guess which word is missing entirely from all the blather? Give up? War.

Yep, the guy who was elected four years ago with “stopping the war” as his primary goal now doesn’t even mention it when communicating with his constituents.

Oh Vermonters, you are such suckers….

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I got a serious case of missing Snarky Boy yesterday when I stumbled upon the New York Times’ article on the anonymous blogger who writes “Bike Snob.” Good for him. And it’s a great blog – if, that is, you’re a bike head who likes fine (and irreverent) writing. Check it out.

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Speaking of Bike Snob: Go, Lance, go. In 2010, that is.

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Finally, could someone please remind me why we love Vermont? I seem to be falling behind on my “I Love Vermont” meds. Because in between the rain – there were those two days, right? – I’ve been trying to head to the woods as much as possible.

But there’s only one thing worse than the rain: The Fucking Bugs. I’m not a religious man, but let me say loudly and clearly: Jesus Christ.

I took a horse into the woods last week and – after about ten minutes – found myself jumping on his back and literally galloping out. The poor fella had about 40 deer flies buzzing his head and I had about half as many attacking my much smaller head.

For a minute I thought we were stuck in a bad movie. Or nightmare.

But – nope – we were only in the Vermont woods.

My dog won’t even go for walks into the woods anymore. Instead (and I’m not kidding), he’ll just wait for me at the edge of the woods until I come running back in a total bug-induced fit.

Smart dog. Dumb man.

Whatever.

Because it made me smile:

Because it’s Friday:

Because it’s from one of my all-time-favorite movies (The Pope of Greenwich Village):

Because… well… because…why not?

Because I used to be young:

Reading: The Letters of Samuel Beckett. Best passage so far: “[A] sebaceous cyst in my anus, which happily a fart swept away before it became operable.”

Waiting for the flatulence, indeed.

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Also reading: Nobody Move, by Denis Johnson. Brilliant writer.

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Also reading: Your mind. And, please, stop thinking those naughty thoughts.

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Lost two jobs this week because of the rain. Oh bailout money, where art thou?

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Note to America: Fireworks are toxic.

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Memo to self: Find a better cause.

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Remember, I told you months ago that Obama was over-exposed and the overexposure will mean the demise of his ratings, popularity and whatever existed in his progressive agenda (read: meaningful health-care reform, RIP).

Obama’s biggest failure to date has been his refusal to share the spotlight with his team. It is, after all, considered to be an “administration,” not just a fiefdom of one.

But, at nearly every critical issue juncture, Obama has elbowed off his subordinates and rushed for the bright lights, resulting in a perception that no one else in his administration is allowed enough rope to do anything but cash their paychecks.

No matter how hard he tries to put and “I” in “team,” it just won’t work. But Obama keeps trying.

Take, for example, Obama’s rush to the bright lights again tonight to offer up a primetime address on health-care reform. Fine, make your statement and answer the questions, but sooner or later – if he expects to succeed – Obama’s got to prove that he’s got a viable TEAM behind him. Because all-Obama-all-the-time is not working.

Frankly, Obama should be doing what Vermont’s Senator Bernie Sanders did a couple of weeks ago: Turn his wrath upon the recalcitrant members of their majority team – the Democrats. Because, as we all know, it’s the Democrats who are controlling everything.

Obama is wasting his time and his political capital on his seemingly never-ending attempts to win over Republicans. After a two year political campaign, the man is apparently stuck in campaign mode. But, this time, it’s almost as if Obama thinks the race for “Mr. Popularity” is in the works.

Sorry, Barack, but you’re now governing. And you’ve got every political advantage at your disposal: Congressional majorities, the desk you sit at, and a mostly fawning media (minus the whack-jobs at FOX, of course).

So stop with the “reaching across the aisle” nonsense already. And, instead, lead – with a team.

Ugh.

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Oh hell, the sun came out. So why am I wasting time with you? Adios.

I’ve got something I need to get off my chest. It’s been bugging me for a couple of weeks. It’s a secret I’ve been keeping from you, dear readers.

And it goes like this: I’m a closet Lance Armstrong fan. Big time.

Whew. I feel better already. I hope you won’t hold it against me.

Armstrong’s return to cycling after a three-and-a-half year absence has been nothing short of remarkable. Bicycle racing is – by far – the hardest sport that exists. Period. And to absolutely dominate the sport for nearly a decade is…well…unprecedented.

Armstrong’s return to this year’s Tour de France has been nothing but a gigantic mindfuck to his competitors, the sport in general, and – most delightfully – the snooty French press that has been hating Lance since the cocky Texan first burned up their roads in the 1990s. Even while on the verge of turning 38 (a very old age for a sport that sees its competitors racing for about five hours a day), Armstrong’s mere presence on the starting line of a bike race changes nearly everything.

As we approach the final stages of this years Tour, Armstrong is riding in fourth place. But tomorrow’s time trail should see him move back to second or third place and, as a result, back to a coveted position “on the podium” when the race finally ends on Sunday in Paris.

Armstrong, unlike his race-leading teammate, Alberto Contador, has been a perfect teammate during this year’s Tour. He’s refused to attack Contador and, better yet, he’s stayed back when Contador attacks just to be a nuisance to Contador’s primary challengers.

Contador, on the other hand, has been less than congenial to his teammates in return. Contador, for example, surprised his team by launching an attack on the last moments of a climb during an earlier stage, leaving Armstrong to be a pest to his rivals and hang back. And then Contador surprised the team again today when he launched another ill-advised attack that only hurt his own teammate, the massively loyal Andreas Kloden.

Those kinds of moves tend to come back and haunt you in bike racing. Remember, it’s a team sport. Moreover, it’s a team sport that involves riding in packs of 150-plus riders at breakneck speeds over harrowing terrain. In other words, it’s a lot better to have friends than enemies while going nearly 60 miles-per-hour down hill on a bicycle.

Contador’s behavior has also seemingly inspired Armstrong to announce tomorrow that he will be back in the Tour next year. Better yet, Armstrong will be announcing that he’s forming his own team and taking his long-time team director and racing pal, Johan Bruyneel with him. And guess who won’t be invited to this team? Hint: His initials are AC and he’s proven to be a shitty teammate.

Armstrong’s more motivated than ever now. And he’s riding better every day in his return to the Tour that made him the most famous athlete in the world. So get ready for that all-too-famous Armstrong “look” that he’ll be giving to Contador upon the completion of their current race. It’ll be saying something like: “See you next year, junior.”

Hey, what can I say, I’m an old guy who bikes. So I’ve got to root for Lance.

Livestrong, indeed.

Hay Time (for a day at least).

147 bales in the barn. 553 to go.

Fucking weather.

But yesterday marked the beginning of the great hay adventure.

Fucking horses.

We shall see.

Fucking eyes.

Deal with it.

Fucking cards.

Whatever.

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And – no joke – while I was haying I had one and only one song going on in my head. The one in the video below. But the crew didn’t seem to appreciate my rendition of it in the fields.

Fucking crews.

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Health-care reform is in trouble. How do I know? Because Obama called for “The Bloggers” to come to his rescue. You ever seen a blogger? Pitiful bunch, for sure. And certainly not in the business of getting people to do anything other than try to hide the fact that they read the blogs in the first place. Sure, read the blogs. But don’t get caught or they’ll brandish you with the “Scarlet ‘L’” on your blog-reading forehead. Loser.

But, yes, health-care reform is in trouble. Mostly because the Democrats are in control and it appears they’ve seen the fear-shadows dancing in their heads. If narration bubbles could be attached to the image of their frantic leaps to the land of “Do Nothing to Upset the Rich,” they would certainly read something like this:

Quick, run for cover because someone’s trying to actually fulfill an election-season promise.

Silly voters. When will they ever learn?

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Soccer Fans Rock: David Beckham, the prima donna of soccer, got himself in some trouble yesterday when he broke the cardinal rule of soccer players: Don’t mess with the fans.

Because soccer fans are lunatics. And I mean that in a good way.

Beckham was getting a typical razzing from the section of the L.A. Galaxy’s crowd known as the “L.A. Riot Squad,” when he claims that he declared the following to a most-agitated fan: “You need to calm down and come shake my hand.”

Oh sure. And have tea?

Beckham’s an idiot. And, worse, he thinks we’re idiots for serving us this mash.

The account from those in the crowd – not surprisingly – was a bit different from Beckham’s. According to the fans, Beckham was verbally sparring with them, even egging them on. Which, if you know anything about soccer fans, is a really stupid thing to do.

Here’s my favorite account of the fans’ perspective as reported by ESPN:

Riot Squad member Bob Ramsey, a theology professor and minister from Glendora, said he talked to fans who were closest to where the fan jumped the wall. “I haven’t talked to everybody, but no one remembers hearing anything beyond ‘scum,’ ‘traitor,’ those kinds of things. Nothing about his family,” Ramsey said.

Fucking ministers.

Oh wait, or maybe I lost track of where we were going here. Scratch that “fucking ministers” line. For now.

Scum? Traitor? But nothing about my family? Let’s shake hands….

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Something I’ve been asking people lately: “Do you remember the number for 9-1-1?”

You can never be too careful.

Stay on your toes, America.

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Or maybe it has to do with this feeling I’ve been having where everything is about to explode. And I mean everything. Like one of those hideous gas-leak explosions whereby the gas as saturated the dwellings and surroundings and one-little-spark sets the whole thing off. And I’m in the middle of it all. Just suddenly, like that (cue snap), and everything has exploded.

Maybe I should get that checked.

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Book note: Stacy, my wife of eighteen years, took my recommendation of Paul Auster’s “Man in the Dark” and read it last week. It was a personal recommendation because she refuses to read this blog – something about it being the “same old shit.” Let me repeat: “wife of eighteen years.”

But, like me, she loved the book. Well, except for one little passage.

“Why,” she asked me as she put the book in my lap, “did you underline this?”

She was pointing to this underlined (by me) sentence: “Beware of men in their forties.”

Why? Just because.

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Oh, and remind me to tell you about spending the afternoon with Roger Hill – yes, the weatherman – as we picked up the fireworks trash that rained down on our horse pasture and woods during Worcester’s Fourth of July fireworks display. The joys of living on the farm right next to town.

And you were wondering about my mood around America’s loudest day? Case closed.

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You don’t deserve another word. Because you have been bad. Very, very bad.

No whine. No time.

Just a damn good day in Thetford.

Green Mountain College students came to witness the animal power. Buddy & Jerry did us all proud – disking a couple acres of old strawberry beds and then cultivating the potatoes.

It almost felt like summer. Imagine that.

Will Allen, the co-manager of Cedar Circle, has got a mission: radicalize the youth while teaching them some farming skills. They’re in good hands, for sure.

For my part, I got to show them the workings of the draft team and then chat them up about the issues of the day. But now I’m feeling old. And tired.

It was summer for a day. I’m glad we had a chance to enjoy it.

And thanks to Bel for demonstrating that an eleven-year old can manage a team of Belgians too. Nice work – if you can get it.

I’ll spare you the details of cracked horse hoofs and cat-bladder pokes because…well…it’s just more of the same here.

But, having said “cat-bladder pokes,” perhaps I should explain: The cat got its bladder poked today.

Or, if you’d like it another way, try this: The bladder of the cat was poked this morning.

Or, if it’s the morning and a sense of duty that you’d like to focus on, try this: This morning we had the cat’s bladder poked.

The cat, of course, does not find any of this amusing. Neither did we. Because we awoke to a cat – Woody, to be precise – in terrific pain from a blocked bladder. Off we went to the great Dr. Paul at Bear Swamp Animal Hospital, whereby the poking of the cat’s bladder was accomplished and, for now, the urine is a-flowing again.

Woody’s scheduled to rejoin the gang tonight – sore poked bladder and all.

I’m off to Cedar Circle Farm tomorrow for some more fun – I mean, work – with the Belgian team, Buddy & Jerry. They just restored a beautiful horse-drawn cultivator and a just as beautiful mowing machine that we’ll be hooking to and, hopefully, getting some work done.

Animal power rocks.

And, speaking of rock, try these videos on for size:

“Someone’s had to much to think!” – Captain Beefheart