Yesterday I went to a farmer’s market.  You know what’s hard to find in a farmer’s market?  Farmers and anything actually grown on a farm.

They had booth after booth of healing lotions, strawberry tarts, and crafty little trinkets.  They had a trampoline for the kids.  I walked around a full twenty minutes before I found anything that resembled organic produce.

They had a massage booth.  I remember taking a tour of a farm when I was a kid in school.  We saw goats and chickens and crops.  I seem to have forgotten the part where they harvest massage booths. But I guess it’s nice to know that massages are in season.

I kept thinking I would stumble across a terrified farmer, huddled near the back:

“I’m Farmer Ted.  Please buy my fruits and vegetables.”

“Why are you stuck back here?”

“I’m a farmer, and they want farmers to keep a low profile at a farmer’s market.”

“Sometimes Northern California sucks, doesn’t it.”

“Let me tell you, farmers used to be somebody.  Hate daylight savings? Tough, it helps us with our crops.  Hated getting up early for school and going home at 3 pm?  Too bad, it’s so kids can help their folks with the harvest.  John Mellencamp used to do concerts for us, for Christ’s sake.  Now nobody wants us here unless we’re selling beads or giving psychic readings.”

On a completely unrelated note, my father has apparently been keeping a blog.  Three posts in nine months do not constitute a high rate of output, but at least he’s got something else to do besides mouth off in my comments.  (Note: People with pro-life sensibilities may want to shy away of the middle post.  And repeat to yourself: It’s only the Internet. It’s only the Internet.)