Now that an American man – a Texan, no less! – has attacked a building with his plane, does it mean we’ll be declaring war on… ourselves? Or at least Texas?

Oh wait, would that get in the way of our Olympic cheering? Nevermind.

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Hello, my name is Moike and I’m in recovery. From tourists. Here is my job:

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I drove horse-drawn sleighs this week for hundreds of people from places that seem to be doing better economically than my neighborhood. So it was my job to try and even things out by charging them more than the rides were worth and then standing there like a Pavlovian dog salivating for a tip at each ride’s conclusion (Read: Robin Hood with no pride). We all smiled at the prospect of more commerce. They are conditioned to purchase experiences that are marked: joy. And I am in need of receiving cash for things marked: work. So we danced. Until, that is, the asses of the horses we collectively stared at decided to take gigantic, smelly draft-horse shits. Because then the equation changed, whereby I was joyful and they were laboring.

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Sleigh Ride Encounters of the Recent Kind #1:

“Look, Jackson, we’re at a farm!” called out the father figure, as he caught my eye while his last syllables dribbled out into the frosty Stowe air.

Jackson was his son, a boy of about six who – I learned moments later – had been requesting a trip to a Vermont farm.

“This has been his dream,” continued the father figure, this time directly engaging me, the sleigh driver. “And we did it. We made it come true!”

Poor Jackson. Because now he’ll always equate a tourists’ trap with a farm, perhaps permanently staining his understanding of the true agrarian ways.

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Sleigh Ride Encounters of the Recent Kind #2:

“I have a question,” called out the lady in the two-thousand dollar ski wardrobe and matching store-bought tan. “Where do you see the moose?”

I’ve learned that it’s better to hesitate when it comes to questions like these. Because my first reaction is never best when tips are in play.

“What do you mean?” I called out, as Mac and Jack the gray Percherons pulled us forward along the “wooded” path just a few hundred feet from the busy Mountain Road in Stowe.

“Well, we’ve been up here for three days,” the tanned-lady continued, “and we haven’t seen a moose yet. And we must have passed the moose-signs on the road a dozen times.”

Breathe, Moike. Breathe. And do not say: Moose don’t like tourists. Or: Moose avoid tourists traps. Or: Moose are scared of tans in February. Or: Come visit during moose-hunting season, when a moose can almost always be seen in the back of a Ford F-250.

Lesson: Thinking before speaking is important when tips are in the equation.

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I Make Lists

Cultural:

1.) Did you see?
2.) Did you hear?
3.) Did you watch?
4.) Did you listen?

Social:

1.) You’re invited.
2.) You’ve been bad.
3.) You are the best.
4.) You seem different.

Otherwise:

1.) I did it.
2.) I meant to do it.
3.) I felt good doing it.
4.) And I fully intend to do it again.

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Today I make this promise: If Cat Power will sing to me I will never worry about any of you again.

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Why is it that when I see Chris Graff I think of oatmeal? Or donkeys eating oatmeal? I think I need to get this checked.

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Oh yeah, one more thing: Thanks to Vermont’s Senate President, Peter Shumlin, for following the sage advice offered at this blog by using his authority to call for a vote on whether or not to extent the license of the Vermont Yankee nuclear power plant. See, that wasn’t so hard, was it? For him or for me. Now get it done.

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If they turned the coverage of Vermont politics into a television show I’m convinced they’d call it: Romper Room.

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It’s Friday, and I need to rock.

Try this:

Or this, just because it feels like a good Friday night intro: