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

–

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.

–

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.

–

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….

–

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.

–

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

–

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.