Black cord fever
When I was a young fella, I used to go out to the bars all night and then come reeling home with the drunken notion that 2 a.m. is a great time to make phone calls. All lit up and gregarious, I’d call ex-girlfriends, old buddies I hadn’t seen since kindergarten, distant relatives, close relatives and various others whose numbers just happened to be scribbled in my messy black book of love. Under the influence of Chez liquor, I’d alternately scream at the poor soul on the other end of the line, beg forgiveness, profess deep and endless love, propose marriage, propose a duel, rage, flirt and otherwise make a jackass out of myself. I grew out of this sordid habit by the time I was 23 or 24 years old, while it appears that our governor might need a little more time. I’m not saying Mr. LePage was hammered when he left his now-infamous phone message. I’m just saying I kind of hope he was.
Lies!
It’s September, it really is. I’ve checked and double checked the calendar and consulted with various experts on the matter. It’s September, all right, the beginning of the end. I tell you, I stayed in denial until the very end this time around. At 11:45 p.m. Wednesday, I commented to a friend that “there’s still plenty of August left in which to enjoy late summer.” Unfortunately, those remaining 15 minutes weren’t enough time for me to go camping, ride the Pirate Ship at Old Orchard Beach or skinny dip at Frenchman’s Hole. I did, however, go into my backyard and catch a bunch of fireflies in my mouth. At least I hope those were fireflies.
Sock it to me
Is it me? Or is the Lisbon Street construction project the eeriest collection of sounds ever visited upon the city. With various creaks and groans and squeals of metal on metal, it sounds like the birth place of the apocalypse. If you hear it from a distance, it sounds a bit like the German tanks rolling into the ruined city at the start of the Battle of Ramelle. I tell you, this doesn’t bode well for Private Ryan.
Socked
By the way, who gets the “sock it to me” reference in the item above? Ramelle? Sticky bombs? Eh? Ah, it’s all fubar.
Seven esses
If we’re to believe the latest news, there’s a giant snake, possibly an anaconda, still slithering around Westbrook, eating beavers and generally terrorizing the public in a remote kind of way. It’s awesome. It also reminds me of that ’70s clunker of a snake movie called “Sssssss,” which has a title consisting of seven esses. Try to look it up using fewer than seven and weird stuff pops up, including quite a few tribute pages to Selena Gomez.
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