1.

And I thought about you as I sat to gather my thoughts.

Come here, little thoughts, we’ve got people coming to check on you from time to time.

But you’ve been a bad little collection of thoughts, so easily distracted and willing to venture down paths that lead to: Nowhere.

Again.

2.

I’m on the side of the little man in the late-night talk show wars. Yeah, the one getting $42 million to walk away. Fight the man!

3.

Yesterday we traded homeschooling for truckschooling, and off we went. To farms, mostly, to gather the material needed to continue the notion that we like farms.

At the dairy and beef farm, we gathered beef from a nice French Canadian man who’s family jumped the border a generation ago and they continue the dream in smaller parcels today (“if a kid wanted a farm, my dad and granddad gave ‘em the land they needed to farm”). And farm tidily, I might add. We got the whole tour – from the automated back-scratcher (for the cows, not us), to the milking parlor, and to the giant freezers marked “meat.”

And so, with a box of meat in tow, off we went to the horse farm.

The lady limped out of her house to greet us.

“Rule number one,” I explained to my daughter (because, as we’ve discussed before, every moment is a homeschool moment), “do not ask about riding lessons from someone in a cast.”

“Duh,” replied Bel, our sarcastically-astute daughter. It was, as I realized later, a chilling and mostly accurate retort I heard for much of the day (But, honey, you’re not officially a teen until August! Good luck with that.).

We were in pursuit of a children’s saddle that would fit Bel’s increasingly-chunky Quarter Horse. Mission accomplished. Because the lady in a cast was apparently learning her lesson about being around horses and willing to part with any and all of her horse equipment – and cheaply.

She reached for the saddle we were most interested in – a classic, circa 1970’s, full of real leather, Simco saddle – with flower pleats! But her hand was chewed up, an indent that was masquerading as a future scar quickly made itself known as she reached for the saddle.

“Ouch,” I said. “Horse bite?”

“Yes,” she returned. “And an infection and an abscess and weeks of antibiotics.”

Cool. Gotta love horses.

I made her an offer for the Simco. Not surprisingly, she accepted – cast, scar and all.

“Wear a helmet,” she said to Bel as we loaded the saddle into the truck.

“Ya think?” I thought, as I limped back to the truck.

P.S. We would like to thank the cow for its extensive contributions to our farm visits yesterday.

4.

Fucking Democrats.

And that’s all I care to say about that right now.

5.

Well, other than this: Why do the Democrats think a response from a series of election failures based on their wimpiness and ineffectiveness should be remedied by more wimpiness and ineffectiveness?

Just wondering.

6.

I do believe they call that bright thing in the sky, “The Sun.” It has just poked me on my shoulder, apparently knowing that I need it.

7.

Fetch me my horse. And you, yours.

8.

Hello woods.

As most of you know by now, I’ve got a little work-exchange program going with my friend, Boots. In fact, I think we’re in our fifth year of trading time during the winter months.

I agreed to call it a work exchange only because I’m a good friend. But it’s really more like a social service from my end. Because, truth be told, Boots is required to leave the home at least once a week so his partner, Chris, can attempt to find some sanity (read: Boots-free time) in order to focus on her artwork.

I like to think of it as my own little United Way project.

But today was a payback day for me: It was my turn to venture to Boots’ compound in the middle of friggin’ nowhere to offer my labor. It started just fine as we hooked his big Percheron, Bart, to his homemade snowplow for the first time. I had the easy job: Hooking the chain to the goliath of a v-shaped snowplow and then getting the hell out of the way. Boots, on the other hand, had to hang onto the horse and skip across the ice and snow while the adrenaline from all involved skyrocketed from the scraping sound of the plow on the icy undersurface.

But it worked. And with little more than a horse, a wooden v-plow and two batshit crazy horsemen, the driveway was cleared of snow. Piece of cake. And carbon free!

I glanced at my watch and realized after the snowplowing adventure that a mere 30 minutes had elapsed. Oh my, what will we do next?

Well, first we watched the dogs play (my dog is the lab):

And then, after lunch, Chris – a professional photographer – asked me to pose in order to document my very impressive display of facial hair:

Finally, Boots asked me to help carry the laundry inside so it could be hung to dry. It was truly a Brokeback Mountain laundry moment:

Oh boy, it was a busy, busy day. And almost as effective as voting for Ralph Nader.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. You’ve been checking and I’ve been checking out. From blogging, that is. Because, when push comes to shove, a man’s gotta make a few bucks before the entire economy implodes from its own hubris. Or, even better, a man’s gotta hone a few skills that will most certainly come in handy when the economy implodes from its own hubris. In case you’re missing the important points above, let me repeat: When the economy implodes from its own hubris.

Yep, I’ve been pulling logs with the trusty fellows, Boots and Big Jim. Boots is the man. Big Jim is the horse. And I play the intermediary between the two. You see, the logging days usually go like this: Boots wields his mighty chainsaw, drops trees, limbs them, and then cuts them into – usually – 16-foot logs that Jim and I pull from the woods to the landing. And back and forth and back and forth and back and forth we go. All. Day. Long.

I’ve really got no complaints. It’s fine and honest work. And, better yet, it keeps my mind off the ninniness of being in today’s rather numbing world of false idols, ill-begotten notions (is that Jesus I hear coming?), and the near-complete lack of a coherent or inspiring response to the outrageous pillaging of our future.

Oh America, go back to sleep. We’ll wake you when we need you to fight another war.

But, speaking of politics (insert laugh track here), the ninnies are ruling the day. When they’re not greasing up their Obama dildos, they’re wagging their fingers of discontent at anyone and everyone who happens to find it objectionable that the so-called “anti-war” candidate has decided to keep the big, bad Bush’s Secretary of War in his cabinet. Oh ironies, is there no end to your delicious presence?

Don’t blame me. I voted for Nader. Imagine the craziness of lining up the issues with your political beliefs and then voting accordingly. But, then again, I’m the one following a horse around in the woods for a “living.” Ass, meet face. And then get back to work.

Speaking of ass-faces and politics, how about all the hand wringing in Vermont about trying to iron out the differences between the Vermont Democratic Party and the Progressive Party? The question of the week amongst the people who can’t seem to cleanse themselves of the sheer nothingness of mainstream electoral politics is this: “Why can’t they just get along?” To which, I say, quite simply: “Why?”

Silly me, I keep thinking that politics in a democracy is about articulating differences and then letting the voters decide. But that’s apparently soooo 1780s. You know, back when they used horses to get around. Oops, there I go again on the horse fixation.

But, seriously, while these electoral control freaks are at it, why don’t they just go all the way and begin a discussion of merging any and all political parties in Vermont so that we can just do away with the fucking elections all together. Viola! Democracy “messiness” solved.

The reality in Vermont is that we already pretty much do that anyway. Because our electoral elite (the elected few and the even fewer who bow to their feet while pretending to be a part of the “media”) just keep getting elected and re-elected until (or even before in the case of Jim Jeffords) they start to lose their minds from the boredom of the game.

Yep, we’ll just streamline the whole mess and call it Vermont’s Party of Incumbents. And, oh my, look how “tri-partisan” it already is: Douglas the Republican, Leahy and Welch the Dems, and Sanders the Independent. Cue the blissful music…

Now, please, will the rest of you issue-oriented pricks please stop muddying the electoral waters? Or, if you continue, we’ll have Seven Days and Green Mountain Daily continue to plunder you into somnambulism over their apparent obsessions with anything and everything to do with…hmm…themselves. Can’t they just get a blog? Oh wait, nevermind.

Paging Thomas Paine. Thomas Paine, come in. Oh please, can someone please find Thomas Paine and bring him to the Democracy Courtesy Desk IMMEDIATELY.

Whew. I did it. I gave you words. And now you’re all saying the same things to yourselves: I kept checking back for this shit?

Yes, you did.

And now I’ve got to get back to work. I brought my new loaner horse home yesterday, a fine looking Percheron named Lance (I’m pretending he’s named after Lance Armstrong but, given the fact that he came from Amish country, I doubt it). If all goes well, he’ll be teamed up with Big Jim for this winter’s installment of “Sleigh Rides with Mike.” Make your appointments soon.

Welcome back. Now stop your bitching.

[Disclaimer: Any and all snarkiness found within the previous (and following) meandering words are the result of "Jack the Carpenter" and his gift of music that accompanied this computer moment. The Stranglers, to be precise. Thanks, Jack.]