Let’s get physical
In downtown Lewiston one recent night, somebody called police to report some guy doing push ups in the middle of the road. Whenever I hear reports like this, I find myself wondering if the caller is using a euphemism. Like, maybe he’s saying, “Yeah, the guy is out there doing ‘push-ups in the road,’ if you get my drift. It’s disgusting.” Of course, maybe I’m just filthy minded and the dude really was just working out, and if so, I applaud him. Doing push-ups on downtown Lewiston streets is a good way to get motivated. You better get your 20 in fast, son, or you could be run over, mugged or possibly both at the same time. I’ve seen it happen.
Don’t call me, I’ll call you
Say, whaaaat? Apparently, Maine is running out of phone numbers, so our beloved 207 area code is going to be joined by a new three-digit number, which will join the family like some cruel, ugly stepbrother who’s always getting up in your business. I’ve got to tell you, I don’t like this news at all. I’m still reeling from the time they changed the Lewiston turnpike exit number from the sinister 13 to whatever the hell boring number it is now. I tell you, this city has not been the same since that change took place. Without that ominous 13 marking us as trouble, this city has become a kind of Lewiston Lite.
Scrub-a-dub
My friend from away has spotted more oddities in downtown Lewiston, which just delights me to no end. Today’s baffled report: “We saw this guy with a shower cap and an apron on walking down the street. He had his phone charger plugged into his phone but of course no place to plug it into. He was holding his phone up with the cord dragging. Why? Why did he have a shower cap on? It’s supposed to rain today so I guess he was prepared for the rain? Why not use an umbrella!?”
It all adds up.
Wait a minute. Shower cap? Apron? Phone charger? Maybe this guy was on his way to do some push-ups in the street, if you get my drift.
Batter (yawn) up
So Major League Baseball is back. Yippee. I’m mean, don’t get me wrong. I love the game as much as anybody. But with the empty stadiums and all the political grandstanding out there, I’d be more inclined to go watch a group of kids play Wiffle ball. In fact, with all the goofy new MLB rules — starting extra innings with runners on second, waggling your fingers instead of throwing pitches to walk a guy, etc. — pro baseball is starting to feel more and more like the backyard version. Don’t forget: catching balls off the roof is an out, ghost runners are allowed and if you hit a ball into Old Mrs. Pouliott’s garden, you better not go fetch it because she’s loaded with rock salt and won’t hesitate to aim for your delicate parts.
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