This morning’s headline says it all: “Bipartisan Accord on War Funding Bill.” Did you get that? Yeah, the “bipartisan accord” thing. For those who haven’t had enough coffee yet today, that means that – once again – BOTH the Dems and the Republicans in Congress are agreeing to give the Bush-led military another $165 billion to continue to wage wars in Afghanistan and Iraq well into next year. Yes, next year, past the much-anticipated and hyped date of 1.20.09 when all the good Dems were “hoping” everything would be magically “Obamafied.” Good luck with that.

But there’s really nothing new here. The Dems have been going along with Bush and the Republicans on these wars from the beginning. They overwhelmingly voted to authorize the original force and they’ve fully funded them every single time the big, bad Bush has asked them to. Oh sure, they’ve whined, and squirmed, and begged, and stomped their feet from time to time but, in the end, they’ve always blinked in this little game of funding chicken with Bush.

What’s truly amazing is that even though the Dems keep funding these wars, they keep spewing the anti-war rhetoric. Worse, no matter how high these contradictions continue to pile up, the Dem cheerleaders keep drinking the almighty Kool-Aid and dreamily shaking their “change” and “hope” signs. Go team, go! Right. Over. The. Cliff. Well, when you act like fools, you’ll often be taken as one.

This new war funding bill will keep both wars financially greased until at least May of next year, thus handing Bush one hell of a stick to turn around and poke the Dems, the nation and the world right square in the eye. Impeach him? No, say the Dems, let’s just keeping feeding the beast and his beastly ideas even while he’ll be lounging in Crawford planning his silly little library (sorry, Mr. President, but My Pet Goat is already checked-out).

The Obama campaign was clearly a major player in ironing out this compromise, knowing that it would certainly be a campaign issue. Thus, it should give the antiwar/Obama crowd a reason to stop and reflect what they’re cheering for. Why, for example, would Obama and the Dems punt on the war issue? Worse, why would they agree to fund these wars through what they hope to be the first four months of an Obama administration? Looks like that “change” will be coming later than we thought – if at all.

But I’ll answer my own questions. There shouldn’t be any surprise about the Dems punting on the war issue (again) because that’s all they’ve been doing from the beginning. It’s apparently all they know how to do: huff and puff and then roll over for a belly scratch.

As for agreeing to fund the wars well into what they hope will be an Obama administration, it’s just the first of what will be many, many cave-ins and cop-outs. Wait, it’s not even the first, because this morning Obama announced that he was opting out of public financing for his presidential campaign. But, he noted, he really likes the idea of public financing. Hmm, I’m beginning to see a pattern: Hate the war but fund it, like public financing but reject its funding. And yes means no, right? Got it. Go team, go.

By agreeing to fund the wars for another year, the Obama camp will be able to continue to dodge any specifics on the war issue throughout the campaign. And even if he wins, he’ll have four months to claim that his hands are tied by the yearlong war-funding bill that this Dem-led Congress is about to pass. What a shame, because it also effectively kills any real grassroots potential that could have been harnessed by the stadiums full of screaming Obamacons that will certainly surface in the fall. But they can’t let the issues get in the way of the campaign. It might interrupt the cheering, the check signing and the hope. Oh, the hope!

Vermonters will be interested to know that Welch, Sanders and Leahy will most likely be voting against the war-funding compromise. They’ve clearly got visions of the riff-raff dancing in their offices again if they do anything but vote against it. Yes, indeed, direct action has an impact from time to time. But, before too many Vermonters pat themselves on the back for being oh-so-different, consider that none of the three will take any political risks to kill the bill. You know, things like filibusters, lobbying the leadership to stop the games, and/or the introduction of an alternative bill that would stop the funding now. It’s their party – and they’re staying for the dance.

Make no mistake, the Dems own the war. And forget 1.20.09. The best we can hope for now is 5.20.09.

I tried to listen to Obama last night. I sat down with my ear to the radio and more than a feint desire to share in the hope. I figured it was time to stop walking by the party that was going on and, instead, step inside and see what all the buzz was about. So, in I walked, thanks to the static hum from National Public Radio.

It had been a long day spent outside, mostly in the garden. The forecast of steady intervals of rain translated to a personal agenda of getting the rest of the plants and seeds in the ground. And so it happened – tomatoes, peppers, brussel sprouts, cukes, summer squash and one obnoxious zucchini plant all found their final resting place in our ever-expanding garden universe.

The garden put hope in my mind. Face it, there’s nothing more hopeful than putting delicate, greenhouse-raised seedlings into the jungle of the outdoors. Well, other than the hope that we’ll be able to battle the weeds and insects in the long journey toward the point of consumption. Indeed, it’s hard to be a pessimist at the outset of gardening season.

My garden mind, however, is in constant combat with my political mind. It’s an ugly battle, with no compromise offered by either side and a kind of endurance that makes the Hillary/Obama clash seem like the child’s play that it is – or was. I bring the two minds together by rather dopily totting around a radio –   tuned to news and talk — in my garden. Ah, let the cymbals collide!

And so it goes, my moments swing wildly from the lightness of securing my freshly harvested maple saplings into the tee-pee structures that will host my coveted Kentucky Wonder beans to the heaviness of hearing one pundit or newscasters after another tell me something inane about our political world (“Hillary really wanted to win” or “McCain spoke in front of an ugly green background.”).

But the worlds also collided while simply making a quick trip to the nursery for the missing plant in my gardening arsenal: cherry tomatoes (“Sweet 100s,” to be precise).  The man on duty seemed genuinely sorry that the Sweet 100s were out of stock.

“Everyone’s gardening this year,” he told me. “You wouldn’t believe how this economy is driving people to grow their own food this year. We can barely keep seedlings in stock.”

The collision had just begun, as he continued talking about energy prices, his search for firewood and some of the gut-wrenching experiences he had last winter while selling kerosene to heating-assistance recipients in the area.

“We’re right down the road from the office that hands out the $75 checks for emergency heating relief,” he told me. “And it’s hard – real hard – to watch these women come in here and tell me how little heat $75 worth of kerosene will get them and their families.  One woman was literally crying when I stopped filling her containers, pointing to her two kids in the car and telling me how they’re already wearing coats to bed.  I can’t even imagine what it’s going to be like next winter.”

So much for the Sweet 100s. Hope met reality. Let the cymbals crash – again.

And so I went, with other seedlings and a shot of reality I didn’t really ask for, back to my little garden of hope and willed oblivion. Ah, hello young plant life, I declared at the gates of the garden, let’s turn off the radio for the afternoon and enjoy each other’s company.

Until nightfall. Until the mental note from the morning’s kaleidoscope of news reminded me that it was going to be the night when the race of all presidential primary races would come to an end. It was going to be the night that South Dakota and Montana mattered. Not because anyone was going to try and remember that Pierre and Helena are their capitals, but because they would be marking an end to the Sartre-like primary season that seemingly had no end and – worse – little meaning. Is this what he meant by “Being & Nothingness”?

Click went the radio. To the “on” position, that is, in order to continue to try and push my rock of hope up the steep hill of reality. Everyone else seems to be hopeful about the guy, why can’t I? I’ll take what they’re drinking, please.

And it seemed like a wise decision at first. The announcer set the scene for me. He didn’t need to tell me that the crowd was cheering wildly – that much was apparent through the radio. But it was nice that he informed me that the crowd was filled with placards declaring that Obama was the “change we can believe in.” Cool. I’ll drink (to) that, even though it sounded a lot like what progressive-minded people chanted for Bill Clinton in 1992 (and we know how that turned out – hint: notice we’re still talking about the same issues?).

I listened. No, make that: I listened hopefully. I wanted to go to sleep with the kind of light-headed happiness that I was hearing from the crowd that cheered Obama wildly in that Minnesota night.

For several minutes I felt the hope. I really did. I heard the cheers. I was told about the scene in which Barack and his “purple-dressed” wife, Michelle, took the stage (and how they kissed). I heard Obama’s many messages of thanks. And I felt the lightness of believing in it all.

But then that bastard reality side of me kicked in. And it asked: What are you believing in? Hah! That’s easy, I told my bastard side, I’m believing in hope and the “change we can believe in.”

I was in the political garden of hope and willed oblivion, where doubt and critical thinking are dispensed with like quack grass. I was in the middle of my day’s last collision, where I wanted to believe in the hope and the change but there was no meaning behind the words accompanying the mood. It was euphoria without meaning. It was faith without action.  It was hype without substance. And it was hope without reality.

Then I remembered the chuckle I got when I opened the mail earlier in the day. It came from a letter I got from the IRS – you know, the same one we all get when our tax rebates are tantalizingly close to arriving. But under the headline of “What You Need To Do,” the IRS told me this: “You do not need to do anything.” Hey, thanks for writing!

Ah, of course, that’s also the underlying message of Obama’s hope charade: You do not need to do anything. Just hope. And cheer. And wish. It’s the American Way, damn it.

Sorry, but I’ll keep my hope in the garden.

I hereby charge my friends, neighbors and fellow countrymen and women with citizenship malpractice. Oh yeah, and I’m charging myself, too. Because we’re all being pathetic. War, injustice, corporate crimes, eco-genocide and economic thievery surround us with the regularity of the air we breathe. And yet we continue to yawn.

“Oh please, can’t someone else deal with this?” we seemingly opine in our silent slumber. “Can’t we blame the other guy? The other party? The other nation or state? The other neighbor? Your spouse? Anyone, goddamn it. Just not me!”

But the stink of it all remains at our feet. Dick Cheney spews his venom toward our majority with a big, fatuous “so?” and we squeak like little mice in the corner. We run to our blogs and our friends and our neighbors and we say all the same thing: “Did you hear what Cheney said?”

Repeat it a million times: Dick Cheney said “so?” to a question about why the Iraq war continues despite the fact that 75% of the nation wants it stopped now. Let’s see who can repeat it the best. Let’s see who can express the most authentic-sounding shock and awe. Let’s all read it at every blog and listen to every pundit explain it over and over and over again.

Got it, people? Dick Cheney said “so?” to you and your opinions. And all we can muster in response is a cacophony of whines that merely report on his latest utterance of arrogance. “Hey, no fair! The Vice President doesn’t care!”

And why should he? What’s he got to be scared of? The little blogging mice? The platitude-filled pundits who keep steering us all toward the 18 millionth contortion on the “Hillary and Obama scenarios”? Or the people – we, the citizens – who just keep yawning in the face of each and every new slap to our faces?

At least Dick Cheney’s being honest. Moreover, he’s almost daring the citizens of this nation to wake up and challenge him  — and them. Cheney’s saying “so?” to the cameras to look polite. Off camera, it’s more like: Stop me if you can.

And, so far, we can’t. Because we’re not taking our own citizenship seriously. We’re abdicating an enormous amount of our power to the “powers that be.” Worse, instead of effective activist responses, we satisfy ourselves with ineffective repetitions of the crimes being committed against us. Talking about the injustices and outright crimes being perpetuated by our political leaders has replaced DOING something about it.

Imagine, if you will, if you went to a doctor and she said: “Yep, it’s cancer.” And then she left the room. Better yet, she got on the public address system in the office and announced: “This patient has cancer.” And everyone on staff and everyone in the waiting room just nodded about the horrors of it, called some folks they knew to repeat the horrors, emailed their list-serve about it, and then just carried on with their day and their lives.

We’d call that medical malpractice. Because in medicine, we don’t just expect a diagnosis, we also expect one hell of a good faith effort at treatment or, if you will, an activist remedy.

Oh, if modern-day citizenship only carried the same kind of expectations. You know, a simple kind of expectation that would follow the medical lineage between diagnosis and cure. And if we, the citizens, simply acknowledged the problems without effectively addressing them, we’d be accused of citizenship malpractice – a most serious dereliction of duty that has betrayed our ideals, our future, our health, our safety and the very foundation of our democracy that requires citizen leadership.

Consider ourselves charged – on several counts – of citizenship malpractice.

And our sentence? Stop the war and stop the injustice. Now – not after the next primary, the next vote, the next candidate, the next rally, the next month, the next promise, but now.

Get to work, America. And clear your record.

Well, I’m trying to turn the page. But it often feels like a 16-foot log rather than a wafer-thin sheet of pressed fiber. You know the feeling. But I’m a lucky man, you know. Lucky enough, that is, to continue to bump into people who simply inspire me with all things that people should be inspired by in this crazy life.

I remain in awe, for example, of all the very moving and heartfelt comments I’ve received from folks in the last couple of weeks. I’ve been at general stores, schools, farms, co-ops and sidewalks and every other place it seems and been stopped and offered fine words of support and/or personal remembrances of the old horse that died, Big John. And to all I continue to say: Thanks, I needed that.

Thanks to the always-reliable Boots we got back to work last week with Big Jim. We still had the orders for firewood to fill and, with the price of oil, people can get pretty anxious over their wood supplies this winter. Jim did great, even pulling the old team sled back to the barn from deep in the woods where he and Big John had left it. And we got the wood pulled, cut, split, loaded and delivered. Nice work if you can get it.

I’ve also visited a couple of horse farms in a rather cursory attempt to find a new teammate for Jim. I keep telling myself not to rush into it but it’s hard – and slow — going in this deep snow with just one horse. Moreover, I got four calls for sleigh rides last week (my big sleigh requires a team). We shall see.

Visiting other horse farms is one of my favorite things to do. You get to witness the enthusiasm, the passion and the near-maniacal-like dream of doing things the old, slow and sustainable way. It seems like no matter whom you visit, they’re eager to show off their horses, their homemade equipment, their barns and the way they do things. And, more often than not, you’re greeted by a bevy of their family members who are seemingly in a competition to see who is more excited by the visit. I know the routine because I’m guilty of it whenever anyone shows up at our place to see our little horse world.

Too often – as you know – I get caught up in the ninny political side of Vermont. I get worked up over the charlatans who “represent” us and the excruciating lack of progress or even meaningful activism on the issues that remain near and dear to my heart. But what I don’t often show is my intense love for the people and the land of this state. Vermont’s been my home for nearly twenty years, half of that in the uniquely quirky Northeast Kingdom. From the day we unloaded the moving van at our first Vermont house — an off-the-grid abode in Walden — and encountered the “real” people of Vermont, I’ve been in love. You’ve just got to avoid the “professional” politicians and their starry-eyed sidekicks who are all too willing to see hope in a lie and progress in pure gimmicks. Yeah, you know the story.

And so it is. My little world. With my little family. In this little Vermont community — Worcester — that never ceases to teach me about the importance of such little communities. The kind of community whose school principal and secretary write notes of support to this blog over our loss of a horse. The kind of community where you get a hug or a thumb’s up sign of encouragement while pumping gas. The kind of community where a neighbor offers to weld my broken horse gear. Or another neighbor offers a horse to borrow. Or another neighbor who stops to ask, “how’s the revolution?” Not a bad life if you can get it.

We’ll see what tomorrow brings. Onward.

My trusty old horse, Big John, died on Friday. He was 23 years old. And the best damn horse around. Period.

Friday started out like the perfect day. It was mild. The fresh snow was hanging in the trees and the sun was making everything magically sparkle. And we had work to do since a neighbor, friend and client had put in an order for firewood.

My partner in crime and horse logging, Boots, arrived and we harnessed up Big John and his partner, Big Jim. The first order of business was to open up the logging trails by hooking the team to my small sled and taking a joy ride. It’s a way to knock the snow down, warm up the horses and get one hell of a beautiful ride through the woods.

But as we climbed one of the hills, Big John started coughing. I thought he just had something stuck in his throat – a hay remnant from breakfast, perhaps. We got to the top of the hill and I noticed his head was getting lower and lower. I stopped the team, peered around the side to get a look and see if he got a line tangled or something. Instead, I saw blood. Big John was bleeding rather profusely from his nose.

Boots quickly unhooked the team from the sled and I started to ground drive them toward home with thoughts of a plan upon our return: call the vet, get him in the barn, get towels to clean him up, etc. We were a half a mile back in the woods. And we only got about 30 feet before I noticed John wasn’t going to make it home. He was leaning on Jim, almost walking sideways, barely able to hold himself up.

I stopped them, sandwiched myself between them, feeling John’s 1800 pounds now pushing me against Jim, and unhooked them. Boots took Jim and set off for the house. I stood in denial with John, talking to him and trying to coax him to walk home with me. This was the first time he had ever stopped when I was saying go. He shook his head, as if to say “no” but also to shake the blood from his nose. But he listened to me for one last time and struggled to walk another ten feet or so. And then he laid down.

He took several last gasps of air with his huge head in my lap. And then his massive and gentle body became still. It was over. Big John died, only minutes after being the willing worker he had been for his entire life. All I could do was wail. And wail.

My vet said the cause of his death was most likely an aneurysm, not that uncommon for an older horse. Working him and keeping him in shape was the best thing I could have been doing for him, he told me.

And John liked to work. He was more of a people horse than a woods horse – the opposite of Jim. He loved to pull people in my big sleigh. He loved parades. And he loved kids.

His biggest vice was not wanting to be caught while he was hanging out in the pasture. It drove his previous owner crazy, and it didn’t make me too happy either while chasing him around and around in the morning when we first got him. But then my daughter offered to help. Presto. Big John would never run from a kid.

Since we live right on the road, people are always stopping to look at the horses. And we love to talk about them and show them off. Oftentimes people will ask — or we’ll offer — to give them a ride.

“Oh yeah,” they’d say, “which one can I ride?”

I’d point to Big John, the biggest of the big horses, who stood 18 hands – a good six feet high to the top of his back. Yep, a ladder was useful – if not required – to get up on him.

“Very funny,” they’d usually respond.

But it was no joke. Big John was the gentlest of giants. He never did anything to hurt anyone or anything. When kids or scared adults got near him he wouldn’t so much as breathe hard, almost as if he was trying to reassure them that everything was fine. And it always was. He had dozens of people get up on his back, most of them kids, and he’d very slowly walk around and give them a thrill of a lifetime.

In the spring and fall I would often put John’s famous double saddle (yes, a two-seater saddle!) on him and ride him to the elementary school to pick up our daughter, Isabel. The school’s secretary even joked once that she was going to amend the parking lot signage to include a horse sign since the current signs offered a place for “cars” and “busses” only.

Nothing fazed John. He’d ride between the busses, through the parking lot, and around the excited children – even letting the kids surround him and hug his leg. We got there early one day and he even let me ride him around to the back of the school and put his face to my daughter’s classroom window.

“Isabel,” I heard her teacher say, “your dad and your horse are here.”

Big John also did parades. Isabel and her friend rode amongst the fire trucks and other mayhem in the Worcester Fourth of July parade – with John’s hair braided and flowers in his tail and mane. I will never forget the looks on people’s faces when they saw these little girls on such a big horse.

He was also my teacher. Before I had John I only had Jim and a dream of being a “teamster.” John made that dream easy to attain. He stood patiently as we figured out the ins and outs and buckles and straps of hooking up a team. And off we went, high stepping through the fields, into the woods, through town, up to the town green, to the school and, of course, to pull wood, too.

There’s nothing like the bond between the teamster and his horses. Imagine the trust – or, if you’d rather, the leap of faith – required to take a one-ton prey animal, hook him to another one-ton prey animal, hook them to a heavy piece of equipment, and then drive them with a one-inch leather strap in your hand through all kinds of scenarios that are completely and totally contrary to their instinct to flee. It’s remarkable. And powerful. And moving.

While I’m sad beyond words about John’s passing, I’m thankful for the six years we got to work together. He taught me so much about patience, trust, teamwork and a singular focus one needs when working in tandem with such large animals. And I’m relieved that he died quickly in one of the most beautiful areas in our woods.

Getting John buried was no easy task. There’s more than two feet of snow on the ground and, as I said earlier, he died a half of a mile in the woods. We made all kinds of calls and visits to people we knew who had the big equipment necessary to both get to him and dig the hole. All but one couldn’t make it for one reason or another. Having been raised around horses, he knew what we were going through.

If I helped him dig out his trailer and load his excavator, he said, he’d help give John the burial he deserved. And so he did, crawling his way back over the trail and digging the giant hole.

“I’ll take it from here,” he said to me as he prepared to put John in his final resting place, sensing that I didn’t want to be around for that part of it. “I’ll say a prayer for him,” he added while giving me a caring touch to my shoulder and a motion for me to leave.

Later, when we all went to see the grave, we were moved by the makeshift cross he had made with two branches and a shoelace. Isabel and her friends later added to the simple shrine (see photo below).

It was a long weekend for all of us, including, of course, Big Jim and the other three horses. For much of the day after John died, Jim stood and stared at the trail that leads into the woods and about every ten minutes would let out a loud whinny, calling out for his teammate or some answers. We had none.

Thank you, John, for giving us all so much joy. We will never forget you. Rest in peace — you earned it.

Guy Debord described our predicament best in 1967: We are living in the “society of the spectacle.” While he wrote it 31 years ago, it sure felt like he was describing last weekend. And so it was, the sound and the fury of America’s great spectacles draped us like a wet blanket. The Super Bowl and the Presidential “race.” All, in the end, signifying nothing but the continuance of the spectacle. And over and over it goes.

But now America wakes to the constipation of consumption. We arise to that awkward moment between the flashes of nothingness. Our eyes stinging from the visions. Our bodies aching from withstanding the gluttony required to watch and to listen to the charade. Our minds filthy with the false promises of hope and change and the illusion of winners and losers.

America, you’ve been given your marching orders: consume and vote. Pick a product and a prophet:

Pepsi or Coke.
Paper or Plastic.
Hillary or Obama.
Democrat or Republican.
Giants or Patriots.
CNN or Fox.
The Baby Jesus or the Crucified Jesus.
Chevy or Ford.
Us or Them.

Lights. Camera. Action.

All signifying nothing, indeed.

Hmm, I wonder if Hillary or Obama will be willing to get out of the way for a Nader campaign? Isn’t that what Anthony Pollina’s asking the Vermont Dems to do for him in his race for governor? I tell you, he must have bought a lot of people a cup of coffee during all his time at the coffee shops because – for some reason – people keep taking him seriously. Pollina is clearly the Teflon-wrapped loser of Vermont electoral politics. He just keeps losing and being nothing more than mediocre in his non-electoral endeavors but the media and his Prog sycophants keep drinking from his well. Perhaps that’s his greatest achievement: Doing very little other than basically hanging around but still being taken seriously. Not a bad gig – albeit boring after the first couple of decades.

Take Pollina’s current campaign for governor. After getting barrels full of ink for months with his little game “considering,” “thinking,” “intending” to challenge Gov. Douglas, Pollina has now announced that he’s raised more than $100,000 for his campaign. Great. Nice work. But what about the issues? Not a peep. I’ve read more about his haircut than his stand on any of the major issues.

I’m sorry, if you’ve been considering, thinking and intending to run for the state’s highest elected office for months and then raise $100,000 to do it, I would hope your single source of communicating with the voters would look better than this. Go ahead and click on his campaign website and see for yourself: The only function working there is the function to provide your credit card number and give him cash. Issues? None. Bio? None. Vision? Zero.

Wasn’t Pollina the one who understandably complained about the fixation the two big parties had with raising money? Yes, he was. And he once believed in campaign finance reform and public financing of elections – until, that is, it got in the way of his own political ambitions. Boy, oh boy, how times change. With convictions like these, who needs a third party?

I remember when the Pollina who gleefully gobbled up $300,000 of the taxpayers’ money to run for lite-guv in 2002 spoke about how insidious it was that candidates from the two major parties would build financial war chests to scare away the electoral competition. Oh well, never mind about that Pollina. Because the new one is now all for sucking up the cash, making it the focal point of his early campaign and trying to scare away the competition that seems all too scared of its own shadow anyway.

I guess I’m just old fashioned but I always thought a progressive or populist campaign would seek to highlight the issues and rally the people – not just their checkbooks. But, so far, Pollina’s campaign has made it clear that unless you’ve got a credit card and a willingness to just blindly believe that he’ll do and say the right things on the issues, it’s got no use for you.

Hey Tony, nice haircut. Now how about putting your thinking cap on and serving up some actual position papers, policy statements, visions, etc. And, please, update that website already. Or are you just waiting for the voters to visit with you at the coffee shop?