Monday, March 12, 2007


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,

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