“It is better to have loved and lost
Than to put linoleum in your living rooms?”

– LeRoi Jones, “Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note….”

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You talk too much when you drink, I told him.

I didn’t really have to be there.

I think he talks just as much when he’s alone.

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I’m like Nike – just doing it.

But it must feel different for Nike.

Because this doesn’t seem like much to advertise about.

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I took the dog to the vet today. He took one whiff of the place and planted himself. It was one, big: Nope.

I understood. I remember running from the doctor’s office as a kid when I heard the word, “needle.” I was out of there. And I remember the nurses and my mother chasing after me, telling me things like: The tetanus shot won’t hurt nearly as bad as the nail in your foot.

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In my family, we all take turns being crazy.

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If Broadsides had a Surgeon General, she would proclaim: “Too much Sparklehorse is not good for you.”

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This helps:

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Ever since Amazon, I like the mailman a whole lot more.

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As for politics, I’m planning the revolution. Stay tuned.

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Mostly because I’m tired of saying the same shit over and over again.

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I ran into an old friend at the store last week. He asked me: “I’ve been wondering what you thought about the Japanese nuke plants.”

“Don’t eat the fish,” I told him.

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We’re all fish now.

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What?

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Never mind.

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The moment has come: My daughter is faster than I am.

But I choose to remember the days not so long ago when I’d have to fake like I was trying to run just to keep the game interesting.

Oh my, we all fall down.

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Watch the herd, a horse mentor once told me. It’ll tell you most of what you need to know.

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And now the big news: We’re all just a little bit different now.

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But that doesn’t mean we can’t talk.

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Yes, we can!

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Let’s just be friends.

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Being liberal is easy! Repeat after me:

Goddamn Nader.

Welcome to the club. Now send your money!

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I’ll have a formal report to you in the morning.

“I wake up and all my yesterdays are gone.”

The Art of Drowning from Diego Maclean on Vimeo.

Oh shit, I forgot: I have a blog.

Whatever.

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Thanks for keeping me mildly entertained in the cheap seats (re: comments, you dolts).

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I’ve been busy pretending to be the new me. And it’s tricky trying to convince yourself of the new without worrying too much about what your old self might think.

If you know what I mean.

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I’ve been driving sleighs in Stowe. I wanted to be a horse logger and farmer. But then my bank account said: (cue laugh track).

And that’s nothing compared to what my wife said.

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Now I introduce my magnificent horses to people who answer the question of, “where are you from?” like this: “We have houses everywhere, Miami, Paris & Stowe.”

Great.

But, I tell myself as I load them onto the sleigh, for the next 30 minutes I’ll be totally and completely in control of your life as I protect you from all that could go wrong with a two-thousand-pound horse pulling your rich asses through the Vermont woods.

It’s weird. But it helps. In an equation kind of way.

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I’m not sure how I got here. I feel like I just walked in.

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But then again, there’s this: The lady who suggested I “rope a moose and tie it to a tree along the sleigh trail so the riders could see one.”

Of course.

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Or this: The bratty child who demanded that the Guatemalan nanny not be allowed to partake in the ride.

“You’re right,” said the mother, before pointing to the nanny with this: “You wait in the lobby for us.”

I walked with her into the Inn.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s free time. Away from them. I’m happy,” she told me.

Of course. And it was my turn to baby-sit the masters.

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Photos to come.

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Thanks be to friends like Chris Eaton who can take my call at 10:00 at night and fix my sleigh by the next afternoon. I’m thankful.

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I’m just like you.

Confused.

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About eight years ago I bought a horse called “Jim.” He taught me everything. And now we stand in the cold nights of Stowe and laugh about our journey.

Blessings, be counted.

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“The seats are cold,” cried the lady in the sleigh.

And how in the fuck am I supposed to respond to that?

Oh wait, I know, how about this:

I’m sorry, did you think you signed up for the limo ride?

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Earth to tourists: Sleigh ride = Winter. Winter = Cold.

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Politics? Yeah right.

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But, for now, I’ve got moose to lasso.

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Just for the record: Whatever.

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Go Jets.