Sunday, March 25, 2007

New Hampshire, New Polls, Same Attitude

In a poll conducted Friday by the American Research Group, former Senator Fred Thompson (R-TN) jumped into the fray with 10% of the likely New Hampshire Republican primary vote, pulling support away from most every candidate in the field and making it a potential 5-man contest with McCain (23%), Giuliani (19%), Romney (17%) and Gingrich (11%). Thompson, of course, is the Freddy-come-lately of the GOP nominees, having said a couple weeks ago that he was considering a run. The motive for this being that there were no credible conservatives in the upper echelon of the Republican ranks, with Brownback and Huckabee gaining little more than 2% outside of their home states. Thompson, then, would be the standard-bearer of the right. Today's Caucus touched briefly on the issue, which we will discuss more later, but not until we watch The Hunt for Red October.

In other news, it looks like Hillary Rodham is erasing some of Vilsack's campaign debt in a possible QPQ. No surprise from QQQ. And I really hate to beat a dead source, but I gotta give props to Lamar Smith (R-TX) for at least sticking it the Clintons, regardless of Bubba's legitimacy. Smith asked Bill to speak to a congressional subcommittee on Presidential pardons about the Rich pardon, among others. Clinton declined, of course.

On a more earnest note, Rudy reminds us that we must stay vigilant against terrorists. Hey Rudy, better watch those "S"s, especially in the Red States! But who am I to talk? Rudy can point to his new perch atop the fix's Prez line and drop a fatty cry of "scoreboard!" while I sit at home and drink bourbon while the rain falls heavy outside my cabin windows.

Some more fun from the Hill, our boy Jim Webb suffered a minor foible when one of his aides was arrested for carrying a loaded pistol into the capitol building. It seems the guy was a former Marine, and just not ready to roll through the city without a piece. Point being, don't fuck with Webb.


Sorry for the delays. But things could be on the up-and-up, it's $3 drafts at M&D all week, and the forecast is for rain. Rain, and wind.

Bluebird,
BTB

Sunday, March 18, 2007

I'm Your Venus, I'm Your Fire, Your Desire

Gazing out my study window moments ago I noticed a dark orange light aglow off in the distance. Its position was indeterminate, in part because of the darkness caused by the glare of inside lights, so for all I knew it could just as well have been a low-lying star as a flashlight up in the hills; a traveler on a snowy night looking for some final peace before the work week. But then my teapot whistled, and when I returned from the kitchen it was gone. I turned off all the lights, save the dim glow of my computer screen, and I was able to see it once again.

A little research revealed that my light is the planet Venus, which at first disappointed me because I prefer to keep strange lights just that - strange. I took an astronomy class in college, and the main thing I learned from it was that I would rather not know about the position and make-up of the solar system. I just want to look up in awe. Every now and then pretend to know a constellation or two, but mostly just lie on my back in the late spring and imagine who else saw these same stars before me. Shays? Twain? Emerson? Metacomet?

And now I, with my transparent eye, sit looking upon them. Or it, rather, since it is just the one star. Not even a star, a planet. Like I said, at first I was disappointed to learn what it was. To actively learn, no less, by shutting off all the lights and doing a google news search. My curiosity prevailed over my desire to remain ignorant, to remain blissful. Had I never looked anything up I could have imagined, and truly believed, that it was a lonely soul out in the woods seeking high ground at 11pm on a Sunday, some two days after a late-season Nor'Easter left Quabbin Qountry nestled yet again under a thick blanket of snow. That would have made me happy, knowing that someone out there was doing what I always want to do - just say fuck it and go for a walk no matter when, no matter why. But I have excuses aplenty, and I just want to know that there is someone out there who doesn't.

"The greatest delight which the fields and woods minister, is the suggestion of an occult relation between man and the vegetable. I am not alone and unacknowledged. They nod to me, and I to them. The waving of the boughs in the storm, is new to me and old. It takes me by surprise, and yet is not unknown. Its effect is like that of a higher thought or a better emotion coming over me, when I deemed I was thinking justly or doing right." - Ralph Waldo Emerson, Nature

I remembered that quotation tonight, when I was wondering about the stars and the invisible eye. It made me think of the good old days running through Point Defiance on college breaks when I would high-five the ferns on the circle trail, and give a little elbow nudge to the salal bushes. Back when we knew each other. As for Venus, it hit me just when I started bummin' about the traveler that the planet was named after the Roman goddess of love of beauty. And if that's an omen for 3Q, then I'll take it even if it means having to give up on a few midnight walks through the woods.

Tea and oranges,
BTB

Thursday, March 15, 2007

Cah-lee-four-nee-ya

You know what? Screw you, California. I never liked you, anyway.

Back in Quabbin Qountry, its March Madness. What a weak tournament so far, the only good game has been VCU (which I picked) and if Gonzaga loses then I will have 2 of my 3 missed games be Sweet 16 teams. This happens to me every year. I do pretty well in the 1st round, but every 1st round loser of mine is a Sweet 16-er. Bah humbug.

More to talk about this weekend, with firefighters, gays, buses and all the rest.

Winterhook,
BTB

Monday, March 12, 2007

Darkness

It smelled like Bozeman when I rounded the mailbox at the end of my driveway and headed South on Gulf Road. The straggling spirits of the ancient New England orchard fields were once again pretending to have some spray in them, although their once-fruited buds now produce a scent more reminiscent of meadows and sweet country air. I could almost hear the black-billed magpies in the distance, could almost see the chocolate milky stream swollen alongside the trail. Instead I saw nothing, only the darkness overhead as I estimated each step up toward Knight's Corner, happy that I was once again running without gloves.

Republicans are also in the dark, according to the latest NYT/CBS poll of GOPers, prospects are bleak within the party, with only a 6% difference in party faithful who believe one of their men will take the White House next year over a Democrat. Furthermore, the favorability ratings of the Big 3 were stuck at 50, 32 and 14% respectively for Rudy, Mac, and Mitt. The again, with a stud like Dubya preceding you, failure is imminent by comparison. And so enter Fred Thompson.

. . .

I was in the middle of posting this latest, and relatively meaningless, entry on Monday night before I was interrupted. Now here we are on Wednesday, and any semblance of a theme has been flushed away like sediment caught up in the roaring Scarboro Brook that flows thick with snowmelt out of my backyard. Honestly, as the premature political season wanes and the Quabbin snow waxes, it is easy for my thoughts to veer away from Barack in favor of my nightly barracks; easy to opt for McCheese over McCain; the Jukebox over Giuliani. Now I know how the general electorate feels, especially if they are drunk.

I guess there comes a time in every man's life when politics takes the back seat. And when I say every man's life its more like in every man's Month....or week. But there is always elementary school. There I know they don't care about politics so I can't even pretend. There I know they hate me so I can't even pretend. There I know I am getting paid, so it is that much harder to dream.

See you in the gutter,
BTB

Wednesday, March 7, 2007

Idiocracy

Spurred on by an op-ed article in today's Times, I came home and On-Demanded the film Idiocracy. The article mentioned Idiocracy in reference to Ann Coulter's lastest piece of worthwhile rhetorical brilliance because of it's...brilliance, as well as the context of the word. Then again, she doesn't "think there's anything offensive about any variation of faggy, faggotry, faggot, fag." So It really wasn't an issue. "Well, the thing is -- one is, yes, it can be used that way, I gather that's the way Isaiah Washington used it, That, I think, is an incorrect of the word -- use of the word." Heaven forbid anyone mistake her intentions! She seems so clear about them! Really, she should have nutted up, gone all British on us and called him a "poof." Alas, to paraphrase the old Bill Clinton line that Ms. Coulter loves so much, it depends on what the meaning of the word "faggot" is.

I digress. In Idiocracy, writer/director Mike Judge tells the story of America in 2505 where a half-millennium of lust, catch-phrases, corporatization and mass-reproduction by the illiterati has led to a world of absolute buffoons on the brink of destruction. Luke Wilson is cryogenically frozen and accidentally awoken in 2505 only to be disgusted and astounded by what he sees. Coincidentally, his ability to use such words as "disgusted" and "astounded" has him ridiculed by the locals for talking "all faggy." The point being, Judge's picture is a spot-on representation of a dystopian America. It is the kind of place driven by sex, money, explosions, bar code tattoos and corporate sponsorship. The kind of place with "adult" Starbucks, "adult" tax returns, masturbation networks and Costco Law School; where the President is a former WWE star and justice is served with Monster Trucks and brought to you by Carl's Jr. But don't feel left out, boys, it ain't all its cracked up to be.

In such a world, you might find a POTUS who says stuff like "I'm the decider" and "Well, you know, I think a lot of people are in this fight. I mean, they sacrifice peace of mind when they see the terrible images of violence on T...TV every night." A world where suburban housewives take lessons in pole dancing, and where the things people drink are called Xtremo and ESPN the Flavor. Here, kids get called a "fag" for knowin' shit about dividing fractions, and kids who are perceived to be fags get beaten into concussive states, or worse. It is too bad Ms. Coulter wasn't around to explain that the defendant didn't mean anything by it. He was only beating the shit out of a guy for being a faggy swimmer, not for liking guys sexually or anything like that. No biggie! Sean Hannity would understand. Not to be Slander-ous, of course, because I'm sure neither would condone the act.

Hey, wait, all that last paragraph is happening now! Holy Shit! To be sure, I play a vital role in society's downfall. Lord knows I have seen the Juggernaut video three or four dozen times, and anyone who was subjected to more than 20 minutes at the Da Brat Stable House last summer knows what sort of incessant Marc M. catch phrase buffoonery, with all of it's vulgarity and generally unconscionable vocabulary, went on ad nauseum between my housemates and me. Irony knows some bounds, after all. But of course, I don't mean to call today's cultural state ruinous or anything. On the contrary, come on out to Quabbin Qountry any time if you want to see just how flavorful things can be. But I try my hardest not to forget the simplicity, the labels, the laziness and the selfishness that I see every day, and that is just in my elementary classroom. I won't get started on Washington. Maybe all we need is a little straight talk, or maybe that's the problem. I just hope we aren't seven years too late.



Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go upstairs and masturbate.

Ahoy with an India'n,
BTB

Thursday, March 1, 2007

Madness, Woman Madness

Yo, Word:
http://thecaucus.blogs.nytimes.com/2007/03/01/gingrich-calls-current-debates-lunacy/

Ahoy,
BTB

"This incident...smacked me in the eyes one peaceful Sunday morning a few weeks ago"

I'm back on the sauce. The strong sauce, that is. Ever since that one magical week in December, 2004 that I spent holed up in Mocha Joe's basement cafe in Brattleboro, VT reading the magnificent journal of Nixon's re-election, Hunter S. Thompson's Fear and Loathing: On the Campaign Trail '72, I have not been the same person. Prior to that week I had seen life through a different set of eyes. It was a set of eyes that was far more naive, foolish and willing to settle. A set of eyes that had not read the words vile, swine, freak, or maniac nearly enough. Upon closing the back cover of the book, I ruminated for a few hours and then immediately got on the horn to spread the gospel. Within days I was in my car driving south to Guilford, CT where I left my bargain copy of the text with a crew of intellectually and soulfully untouchable gentlemen hoping it would spread like gonorrhea at Mardi Gras, and hoping I would never see it again. I can't promise results on the first, but I will vouch for the fact that I never saw that short, fat, red tome ever again. I held it in my memories, but I never held it close to my breast to keep me warm on some of those hairy Allston nights later on; nor to keep me sane on those riotous stable nights in the summer of 2006. Perhaps that whole freaky period (December, 2004 -Present) was too far removed from a real election to make it worthwhile. Perhaps I was afraid. Then again, maybe I just never got around to replacing it.

That all changed this past Monday. Wandering around Northampton after an offseason high school track practice looking for a copy of the New York Times to bring into a coffee shop so that I might climb upon it's pretensions to gain the proper footing to flirt with an older, liberal local female sipping a pot of organic green tea at 5 in the afternoon I came upon a bookstore with seven copies of '72 stocked among it's verbal weaponry. It was a true omen, seeing as I hadn't been able to causally locate a copy in some years, in spite of noticing title upon title of Gonzo Papers, Las Vegas and Hey Rube but never the Golden Goose. I picked one up and haven't looked back.

"It was just before midnight when I left Cambridge and headed north in U.S. 93 toward Manchester--driving one of those big green rented Auto/stick Cougars that gets rubber for about twenty-nine seconds in Drive, and spits hot black divots all over the road in First or Second ... a terrible screeching and fishtailing through the outskirts of Boston heading north to New Hampshire, back on the Campaign Trail ...running late, as usual: left hand on the wheel and the other on the radio dial, seeking music, and a glass of iced Wild Turkey spilling into my crotch on every turn (43)."

That is where it begins, both for Hunter and myself: a commitment to the '72 Campaign Trail and a deep-rooted love of Austin Nichols, bred on cold nights after closing up Harriman's Pub in West Dover, Vermont and warm nights dreaming of the gulf stream in Cotuit, Massachusetts with Manchester, Nashua, Keene, Berlin and all the rest on the docket.

The Lord knows that I am a small fraction of Hunter S. Thompson, but the Lord also knows a thing or two about inspiration. With that said, it is likely only a matter of time before we see some sort of bootleg publication of Thugs and Cowardice: On the Campaign Trail '08. Then again, given that the New Hampshire primary was in March of 1972, perhaps a more fitting title would be On the Campaign Trail '07-'08. Frontloading, shame be thy name.

In the meantime I have briefly traded digs, tonight choosing The Spoke over the M & D, in part because of prior engagements and in part because this is the kind of place where you can see fat, drunken townies mingling some 10 feet away from a table full of pre-gaming sorority sisters on their way, ultimately, to The Pub. Over yonder sits a woman on a barstool with a Weezer tattoo on her neck. The whole fuckin' pie, by the way, with wings and everything. She is obnoxiously loud, and probably prefers Beverly Hills to Why Bother?. To Hell with that. In the words of Rivers, "I know I should get next to you/You got a look that makes me think you're cool/But it's just sexual attraction/Not something real so I'd rather keep wackin'/Why bother? it's gonna hurt me/It's gonna kill when you desert me/This happened to me twice before/It won't happen to me anymore." Then again, who am I to judge?

Lastly, let me give a shout out to the Indian Hill Cemetery (aka the Sem-ET-ery, copyright James S., 2004). I randomly thought about this place tonight because of the facebook and it's infernally lovable newsfeed. I have seen so many sunsets at that place, it's not even funny. Yet how is it that I hadn't thought about the place in 3 years?? O hallowed Indian Hill. Hail, hail, Mattabeseck.

Meanwhile, it's Ballard Bitter all the way. Ya Sure? Ya Betcha!
BTB