All This Stuff & So Little Time

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.