Talk of the Town Ernie Anderson
Sniffle, sniffle
A nice lady (I think) who has been dropping off letters and newspaper clippings at the newsroom for years tells me she might have to stop now that the Sun Journal has moved down to Lisbon Street. She doesn’t feel like battling Lisbon Street traffic in order to drop off the goods, and who can blame her? I’ll be sorry to see her go if it happens. Her envelopes are always like Christmas morning for me. Ya never know what’s going to fall out. This time around, she included a single tissue, a response to my chronic weeping over the loss of 104 Park St., God rest its poor brick soul.
The forecast: Pain
God help me, the season of the snow map is upon us. Ain’t nothing like spending all winter squinting at those things to see where we lie (or possibly lay) in the forecasted snow totals. Lewiston always seems to be right on the line. Are we going to get a one-inch dusting? Or will we be walloped by a 16-inch monster of a storm? According to this here map, it depends on which side of Sabattus Street you live on.
Up your nose with a rubber hose
Apparently John Travolta’s sprawling mansion in Islesboro is selling for $5 million, which leaves me with one question: How in THE hell did Vinnie Barbarino score himself such a sweet piece of property? Last time I checked in on that dude, he didn’t even have a job.
On the borders of madness
A nice lady writes to tell me of an odd site out along Route 11 near the border of Auburn and Minot. There, next to a half subterranean dwelling, she says, is an assemblage of shrubbery fashioned in the design of a strange triangle. She included a photo, so I’m pretty sure she’s not on the glue. Since I have no idea about the origins of this ominous thing, I can only presume that this is yet one more hideous sign portending the rising power of Cthulhu, as foretold in the blasphemous Necronomicon. Prove me wrong, I challenge you.
That’s not a knife…
I got hung up going through the metal detectors at 8th District Court in Lewiston the other day because deep in a cargo pocket I’d entirely forgotten about were two items: a Bic lighter, in case I ever get stranded out near that creepy triangle of trees, and a small knife about two-inches long, in case I ever have to do battle with a miniature version of the aforementioned Cthulhu. Or, you know. If I want to slice an apple. Anyway, the knife was briefly confiscated but later returned to me. I’m just glad Crocodile Dundee wasn’t in court that day because he would have hurt himself laughing over the size of my knife.
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