They say there was a secret chord
On Nichols Street in Lewiston, near the Sabattus Street end, is a funky pothole in the shape of a guitar. If you hit it at appreciable speed, the tragic clank of your shocks blowing apart sounds a bit like the opening of Jimi Hendrix’s “Are You Experienced.” Ask me how I know.
What’s so funny?
So, I was shopping at Hannaford the other day when I realized that everyone I passed in the aisles was smiling to him or herself. Everyone. It was like the entire store was privy to some mildly amusing joke that I wasn’t in on. Was it me? Was I the mildly amusing joke? I checked to make sure I was wearing pants. I was. Something dangling from my nose? Nope. “Kick me” sign taped to my back? Not this time. I never did find out what had filled so many people with so much mirth, but the next time I see them handing out free samples in the produce department, I’m gonna get me some.
Music hath charms
OK, which of you predicted that I would get trapped in a hammock by a skunk before the end of July? Congratulations. You win the pool. That fuzzy critter waddled beneath my hammock late Sunday night and then didn’t want to leave. I lay (or possibly lie) paralyzed in the hammock, book frozen in my hands, and silently went through the list of things to do when skunks attack. Play dead? Puff your chest out and pretend you’re a larger animal? Sing to it? I went with the latter idea and what do you know? The skunk, the wife and three neighbors fled at once.
What are you eating under there?
You know what I still don’t understand? The whole trend of wearing the pants low and the underpants high that you still see all over downtown streets. Just moments ago I spied a guy struttin’ down the street with his jeans around his low thighs and his underwear pulled up to his ribs. What’s the point? It’s a statement, I suppose, but exactly what IS that statement? It’s like volunteering for a wedgie and then proudly putting it on display for all to see. Which is crazy because back in my day, a wedgie was a shameful thing. One extricated himself from that humiliation as quickly as possible and then never spoke of it again. I’ve heard.
Swiped from Facebook
It’s more than a week after the Fourth of July and people are STILL shooting off fireworks. For crying out loud, people, the holiday is over. One errant sparkler nearly set my Christmas decorations on fire. (Yes. I stole that joke. I truly have no shame when I’m eager to top off a column.)
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