You know, kind of like the Rocky Horror Picture Show and all.

Dubie’s just whacked. And I mean that in a good and bad way. Sure, he might be fun to “have a beer with,” but let’s face it, the man is just off when trying to play politics.

Listening or watching Brian Dubie is like being forced to endure a bad imitation of George W. Bush. It’s just awkward.

But Dubie – like Bush — seems to just chuckle his way through life, stalling and bobbing his way around anything that feels “off script” for him. And “off script” for Dubie has quite an expansive definition, including (so far in this campaign): Engaging in debates, answering the media’s questions at length (Dubie gave them 11 minutes at his last news conference), and taking talk radio phone calls.

Hmm. What’s that about Dubie and talk radio? According to Gonzo Vermont’s sources, when Dubie was scheduled to appear on Johnson’s radio program, the campaign had two major concerns: 1.) The length of the interview, thus the amount of time to force Dubie to think and talk on his own, and 2.) The callers.

The Dubie campaign handled the “two issues” by implementing a strategy that even Brian could understand: Stall/evade and have your friends call in.

Cool, as Dubie would say.

Dubie implemented the stall with near perfection. The campaign arranged it so Dubie’s appearance on Johnson’s show would be “just before” the release of the campaign’s much-touted “economic plan for Vermont.” By having the release of the report scheduled in another part of the state at about the exact time the Johnson radio show was to end, Dubie got to say something like this about four dozen times in the course of the interview (read: stalling): “Our economic plan will be released later today, and the details are all in it. And I don’t want to steal its thunder here with you on the radio.”

Listen for yourself. And count how many times Dubie uses the release time/date of the report to evade any specifics about his economic plan and/or to dodge most anything he found to be politically uncomfortable.

Dubie’s little game of dodge ball continued when he met the members of the Vermont media at the plan’s official release and gave them exactly 11 minutes to ask questions about what he called (over and over again) a “very detailed plan.”

Well, certainly worth every bit of the 11 minutes he gave to the Fourth Estate to ask about it.

Ladies and gentlemen, meet “The Dubie Dodge.”

And it’s government funded! At least for the last eight years that Dubie’s been doing something – no one’s quite sure what – as our Lt. Governor.

Unless you drink the Red-State-Kool-Aid, it’s just weird. I mean, does Brian Dubie think we’re stupid enough to NOT notice his constant Dubie Dodges? I guess so. Over and over again.

But, then again, Paul Beaudry won the Republican nomination for Congress in Vermont. That should tell us a sweet something about the Vermont Republican crowd: Wrong & Proud! And the wronger, the prouder and the louder, baby – as Beaudry might say.

So Dubie stalled and evaded through the interview, embarrassingly so, killing time with his breathless proclamations about the release – oh the mighty release! – of his soon-to-be-released – OMG he said release again! – report. Got it.

And then the always-perky Mark Johnson (unless, of course, you dare to broach the subject of media sloppiness in Vermont) declared that it was time for listener phone calls.

The first caller was something like this: “Brian, you are running against the devil. Do you think that will be hard?”

Okay, okay, I’m paraphrasing. But I did run it through my Red-State-Voter-Translator.

But then the second caller had a probing question that went something like this: “Brian, your opponent is the devil. Does that scare you?”

Again, paraphrasing.

They were, of course, calls planted as firmly, deeply, and happily as the begonias on your porch. Which is fine, I guess, given the level of absolute ninniness of modern mainstream politics. Par for the course, as they say.

I’m still the idiot who believes there are other people out there like me who can smell the skunk that has settled so comfortably upon our body politic. Probably because I’ve always had a crush on Pollyanna. I was once certain, for example, that everyone was laughing hysterically like I was while watching a Bush debate. Any Bush debate.

The need for the Dubie campaign’s Mark Johnson strategy became apparent when Dubie went “off script” with his comments about the mechanically and politically bedeviled Vermont Yankee nuclear power plant.

“I’ve got two words for that,” Dubie said. “No, make that four words: Safety, trust, and jobs.”

Well, I guess if we let him count “and” as a word pertaining to Vermont Yankee, he got to four. Good luck with that.

And now we know why stalling and evading is important to the Dubie campaign when they let the Loose Cannon (aka: Dubie) roam into the scary waters of having to think on his feet.

Brian Dubie will be the gift that keeps giving this campaign season. Or, as Brian would say, there are four words for why you should vote for him: Laughter, entertainment, and amusement.

Cool.

But the best news is that I understand you are hearing those voices in your head too. Your neighbor told me about it. She heard them. You seem to be a loud thinker.

It’s going to be okay.

–

I’ve been using most of my louder thoughts to ricochet off the Worcester Range. The words break into tiny shards, then drop, softly, but still plenty sharp for the townspeople below.

–

Hey wait, aren’t you the guy who opposed the fireworks?

–

A mosque in the city?

–

Oh Mr. America, you can be such a stupid bastard.

–

What I Did Not Learn in Therapy:

I’m not so sure about something: You.

Mostly because it takes the pressure off: Me.

They frown on that shit.

–

Daughter Test: I got to stop cutting wood early the other morning to take Izzie, as she’s now demanding to be called, to her dentist appointment.

It was over by noon.

So, being the responsible father that I am, I gave her two choices (it’s all about empowerment, baby):

“I can take you back to school or we can go home, grab the kayaks, and go to No. 10 Pond and head to our favorite swimming spot for the afternoon.”

I’m big on offering choices. I learned it from my parents, the folks who convinced me as an eleven-year-old that seeing “The Exorcist” was a fine “choice.” [Note to self: Mention this to future therapists).

Izzie – as she’s now demanding that she be called – passed the test: She chose me! No, not the kayaks, the gloriously clean and crisp waters of No. 10 Pond, and an afternoon of total water play, but me.

Deal with it. It’s my blog.

I’m glad Izzie passed her test.

–

Speaking of Izzie, her new school recently had a “parents’ night” for the parents of the “new kids.” On the way there, I got words of warning from both the girl and woman in my life about behaving myself. My daughter didn’t want me to embarrass her by, say, talking. And my wife didn’t want me to…well…do the same.

I had been warned.

It’s a good thing, too, because I had to sit through things like this:

“We do things differently around here,” said the principal to the gathering of about 200 parents in a school’s elegant auditorium. “We call everyone by their first name, students AND faculty.”

Oh my.

“The kids don’t have a hard time with this,” he continued, “but the parents do.”

My wife put her hand on my knee and gave it a gentle squeeze, providing a quick reminder about the warnings delivered on the way there.

“So let’s practice,” the principal said.

My wife squeezed harder.

“I’m going to say, ‘hello, parents,’ and I’d like all of you to say, ‘hello, Keith,’ right back to me.”

I began to lose circulation in my lower leg.

“Hello, parents!” he called out, just like he said he was going to do.

“Hello, Keith!” we offered back, just like he asked us to.

I suspect I will be in a knee brace for the next six years.

–

I would very much like Keith to call me Mr. Colby.

And that goes for the rest of you, too.

–

Wait, I’m having a school flashback:

–

Class dismissed.

Oh yeah, and then buy the book.

On the way, just outside of Hardwick, I noticed I was following a big, shiny black van with license plates that said: GOVERNMENT. It was also sporting a “Vermont National Guard” decal.

I knew where they were going: To the home of the Walden man, Tristan Southworth, who died last week in Afghanistan as a member of the Vermont National Guard.

And I guess I’m getting old, too. Because calling the 21-year-old Tristan “a man” seems odd. He did, after all, only just become legal to buy a cold can of beer at the same Hardwick Quick Stop that I stopped at on Sunday afternoon.

Tristan’s home is about a half mile from our camp in Walden. Or about a mile from the home we lived in for nearly a decade while dutifully serving our Walden Time.

Walden, of course, is wicked cold, isolated (No store! No post office! And nobody seems to notice!), and economically challenged. It is, therefore, prime recruiting ground for young men and women like Tristan who are looking for some way to “stick around.”

Frankly, we should be ashamed of what we are offering our youth.

Imagine, for example, if a young man like Tristan was offered a chance to serve the country by helping to truly protect it from the real boogeymen: poverty and its sinister and willing accomplice, greed.

Sticking with that theme, consider these words from the Vermont National Guard’s mission statement:

[To] p rovide to the State of Vermont trained and equipped personnel to protect life and property, preserve the peace, order and public safety. Add value to our communities by involvement in local and state programs.

Please, which part of this mission involved sending a Walden boy to Afghanistan?

I only met Tristan once, as far as I can remember. He was a little boy, probably about six. His mom was friends with Steve Hale, a friend of mine too, the fella who first called me, “Moike.”

Steve was about as local Walden as local Walden can be. But we hit it off really well. We organized the “locals vs. the flatlanders” softball game. Yes, game. Because, quite frankly, we (flatlanders, duh) were so bad that it was hardly worth the effort.

Steve invited the Southworth family to be on his side. And that’s when I met Tristan.

Like I said, I didn’t know him. But following the government van to Tristan’s house on Sunday made me want to try and remember him.

I gathered apples throughout the day, looking down the hill toward Tristan’s house from time to time. You could hear the cars coming and going.

It was a rare but perfect Walden day: sunny, warm, no bugs and the water looked thick in the late-summer light.

I picked apples. I swam. And I thought.

The best I can report is: This sucks.

We were fooled. We refuse to admit that we were fooled. And we continue down a national warpath that is killing thousands of U.S. citizens like Tristan and hundreds of thousands of Afghanistan and Iraq citizens, many innocent civilians.

Until we realize that war is the most pathetic and misguided place to channel our so-called patriotism, we will continue to be fooled. Time after time.

Worse, many good Democrats will be fooled again tonight by President Obama’s speech to the nation regarding “the end of the Iraq War.” They will allow themselves to feel better about the new rhetoric and the timelines. Oh, the timelines!

But they will be fooled. Because from the moment President Obama says that, “the combat mission is over,” there will still be 50,000 U.S. soldiers in Iraq and twice that many “military contractors.”

“Wink, wink, nod, nod,” is what Obama is offering the nation tonight.

Because he can. That’s what we, the people, tolerate: Strong leaders! And liars! Well, as long as the liars are on “our team!”

Sadly, the script for tonight has already been written – and well-rehearsed: The Good Democrats will cheer that “their man” has a plan for calling war something not so unpleasant and The Good Republicans will jeer since “their man” isn’t able to do the same (and better!), damn it.

Did you detect the difference? Good. Keep it in mind in November. Or not.

Otherwise, just keep saying this to yourself in the mirror whenever you hear “the parties” speak: Keep fooling me. Bring it. I like it. Over and over. Go team. Better than YOUR team.

And, whatever you do, don’t admit that Tristan in Walden had absolutely no business being in Afghanistan doing what he was dutifully doing for a U.S. military/industrial complex that is being led by a man from one party while the members of the “other” party happily play along.

Ah! Two-party bliss!

The same two-party bliss that led to the policies that took Tristan Southworth from the wilds of Walden to the all-too-different wilds of Afghanistan.

Support the troops? Hear, hear, cried the party faithful. Both parties.

Whatever you do, don’t spoil the mood. The two-party mood, as in: Support the Troops! (Read: And the absolutely incomprehensible and simply unsupportable reasons to support the mission that these troops are – wink, wink, nod, nod – trying to carry out.)

Got that? Good.

But the truth of the matter is: Tristan Southworth should have been picking apples with me on Sunday in Walden.

Which is to say: Stop the wars. Now.

Rest in peace (yes, peace), Tristan.

Sales were slow at first. But then we remembered from our Farmers’ Market days that abundance sells. So, instead of putting a couple dozen ears of corn on the table, I harvested about seven dozen and piled them high. Bingo.

I couldn’t pick the corn fast enough – by the wheelbarrow full. Which, of course, begs the question: Why, Moike, did you plant so much goddamn corn?

To which, I can only answer (as I have on several times to my wife): Because.

It works sometime. That, or she’s just come to privately accept that she married a fucking idiot nearly twenty years ago.

Yeah, that’s it.

But the corn was selling. Flying off the table. Word was spreading through the town, I just know it, that “Colby was selling the best goddamn corn in all of the land.” And they flocked for it.

My mind swam in the deep waters of corn-king possibilities.

“Vermont,” I thought, “meet Iowa.”

And there truly could not be a better ambassador. Hand, meet glove.

I admit it, some of my corn ideas were stupid. One Google effort revealed a gentleman who had one of the exact same ideas as I had.

I didn’t let it deter me.

Until tragedy struck the budding corn enterprise.

“Dad?” my daughter called out. “Where’s the corn table?”

“What?” was the only thing that came to mind.

“The corn table. It’s gone.”

And it was.

The corn sold so fast that the empty table looked like a free offering to the community. And off it went, apparently, to some happy folks who snagged one beauty of an antique table.

But the table can be replaced. Maybe. If we bought a table now and lived with it for a hundred years.

What can’t be replaced is the dream that died with that table.

Yes, this is to say that the corn dream is no more. The theft of the corn table was the surest sign yet that being the corn king isn’t worth it.

It’s clear: Corn attracts crime.

And I will not subject my family to it. Period.

Friends and neighbors: I am out of the corn business.

P.S. Please return my corn table.

[Update: At 5:27 pm this evening, just as I was feeding my family another meal of corn (and chard and beans, etc.), a man knocked on the door. "I was told that I took your corn table." Gotta love small towns and blogs, baby. But wait. Now I've got my corn table back. Oh shit.]

And I had this on my blank screen: Good start.

I wasn’t much in the mood to write. Too much thinking.

Sometimes, a friend once told me, it’s best to get into your body and out of your mind. And so it was.

Running, perhaps. From it, for certain.

This blanket of newness, scratchy and odd fitting.

Fuck.

One day you’re a homeschooling dad.

And the next you’re just unemployed.

Oops.

I think, from the readers’ end of things, the only think you’ll notice is a loss of a whole bunch of recent comments. [Note to Petey: Please don't rev up your conspiracy motor. And I'm pretty sure it all has nothing to do with 9/11.]

There will also be a continued lack of photos, the original problem I set out to fix. But I failed. Add it to the list.

Finally, I wanted to warn readers that I will be paying personal visits to each and every one of you in the coming weeks. I want to get to know you like you know me. Thanks to ReaderMap, I know where you live and more than I want to know about many of your personal habits. Which is to say, I know about the best times to visit you.

I look forward to meeting you.