downeast

2007-06-05T10:43:00.000-04:00

I've decided to resuscitate this thing as a place to dump all the links and bookmarks I've collected over the years that I really don't need to keep around any longer. What's this have to do with living in Maine? Oh my goodness, nothing, nothing at all.

2002-05-21T10:43:00.000-04:00

This was fun for a while, but I've run out of things to say about Maine. Next week I'll begin somewhere else. Thanks for coming out to the sticks.

2002-05-21T09:42:00.000-04:00

Is this thing on?

2002-05-16T11:46:00.000-04:00

The Abalone Debate

Another entry from the "Things You'll Only See in Maine" department:

A bumper sticker attached to a truck that says

I'm pro-lifejacket
And I boat!

2002-04-30T14:55:00.000-04:00

Something in the Air

While I was using the bathroom earlier today, the fire alarm went off.

And man was I proud of myself.

I really wish I didn't find out later that it was just a scheduled test.

2002-04-17T10:34:00.000-04:00

Sammy, Dave. Dave, Sammy

I'm sorry, I'm just a little emotional today. I just read this article, and it has me weeping tears of joy, sadness, and horrifying concern.

It's not the first time that I've allowed myself to dream the dream of some reconciliation.

2002-04-15T11:07:00.000-04:00

Mi Casa Es....Es No Mi Casa

Sorry for the weeklong silence. I can best explain the reason behind it with a little quiz for you, the reader:

Q: You are supposed to close on a house on Thursday. On which day will you actually close?

a) Thursday
b) Friday
c) Monday
d) Canada
e) Thursday -- the following week

The answer, of course, is e, which has caused me no small amount of consternation and inquietude.

2002-04-08T11:22:00.000-04:00

The family and I went to the nearest "big" city over the weekend, and I didn't particularly enjoy myself. I know Stephen King thinks it's such a great place that he still lives there, but I really didn't see the appeal.

Maybe the city needs a image update, something to increase its draw to outsiders, something as quick and easy as changing the name by dropping off the last letter. Because I know I'd always look forward to a trip to "Bango."

Come to think of it, there are a lot of Maine towns that might sound better by dropping off the last letter:

Kennebun (don't they sell delicious pastries in shopping malls?)

Portlan (a new wireless networking configuration!)

August (it's summer every day!)

Yor (pirates!)

I think you'll understand why I left "Lisbon" and "Unity" off the list.

2002-04-04T07:34:00.000-05:00

"Rainy Day Fun and Games for Toddler and Total Bastard" -- cooling on the window sill at So New Media -- isn't going anywhere, bub. It's just going to sit right here, staring at you, until you buy a copy. Staring. Staaaaring. Staaaaar--

"Rainy Day Fun and Games for Toddler and Total Bastard" has to go to the bathroom. Wait here.

Today's reading is from I Corinthians:

"Thomas?"

"Daddy?"

"Let's try it. Say 'Q'apla!'"

"Ka-pa!"

"Q'apla!"

"Ka-pa!"

"Good boy! And, remember, don't tell mommy that I'm teaching you Klingon."

Hey! Look! Questions!

Joshua P. Munn asks: It's great to see the book come out -- I've already purchased 825 copies -- but do you foresee updating the site regularly again?

Honestly, Josh, if you're going to spend -- lemme see -- just short of five grand on a pay version of my life, you're not giving me a lot of incentive to live it for free. On the other hand, though, the shower cam will be installed next week.

More seriously, and far more unfortunately, this busy modern world of ours has left me with limited options and a simple decision to make: do I raise my kids, write about raising my kids, or write about having written about raising my kids on an intermitable book tour? I think you'll agree I've made the right choice.

Jennifer Whigham asks: My boyfriend is currently running around our house in long underwear with a cereal bowl on his head, screaming, "I start this war in the name of Raisin Bran!" Should I allow this man to be the father of my children?

Oh, yes. Unquestionably, yes. All he needs to do is soil himself and he's given you a pretty good idea of what having kids is like. Most men can only exhibit that kind of innocence while crying piteously after sex.

Rogers Cadenhead, apparently after sucking back a whole bottle of rum, asks: I'm trying to decide between your book and this one. Can you offer any guidance on which choice I should make?

Tough choice, Rogers. The soft, joyful laugh of children or the swaggering yo-ho-ho of crewmate-sodomizing pirates? Watching Barney or something that I imagine is a whole lot like watching Barney? Church- and state-approved early 21st century normality or the briny stench of sea-faring criminals and their deviant sexual practices? I can't tell you how many times I've been faced with exactly the same decision. But, ultimately, the right choice is the one that puts money in my pocket.

Well! Seeing as how "Rainy Day Fun and Games for Toddler and Total Bastard" hasn't come back from the bathroom yet -- and I'll bet you wouldn't want to be in there right now -- let's sneak off. With any luck, it won't remember that tomorrow's stop is at GIRO and we can be rid of it forever.

2002-04-03T12:25:00.000-05:00

Please Don't Tell The Chamber Of Commerce

The tides in Bar Harbor are quite striking, with over a ten foot difference in sea level between high and low tides. During low tides, a natural land bridge — the actual "bar" in "Bar Harbor" — appears in the middle of the harbor that connects the town to Bar Island, and for about three hours during each cycle one can walk or drive across it. If you don't pay attention to the time, you'll find yourself swimming back to your hotel or waiting about eleven hours for the bar to reappear.

Now, many things in my life have changed since my move here from Boston, but the glee I derive from messing with the minds of tourists is not one of them. And one of these days during the height of tourist season, as some of the roughly four million annual visitors descend on the town, I'll be standing on Bridge Street waving to them.

And I'll be waving an orange flag toward the bar, while standing next to my "ALL-DAY PARKING ONLY $3" sign.

2002-04-01T23:23:00.000-05:00

Words Will Never Hurt Me, Though They May Hurt You

In an attempt to cheer myself up, I dug out some old college writing notebooks today. I get a kick out of seeing how my writing skills have...well I don't think advanced is the proper term. Maybe "not gotten completely suckier" is more accurate.

Anyway, the stuff inside is mostly tripe, suitable only for burning to keep one warm. There are a few bits that I enjoyed seeing again, like this sentence describing a lack of focus:

I hold onto thoughts like handless people hold on to boiling-hot potatoes.

For every nugget like that, however, there are thirty things that would have been better off left inside the Bic:

Stripes! Wonderful, outrageous stripes! They're on shirts and sweaters! They're painted on athletic fields! A movie was named after them! Find them on tigers, raccoons, and prisoners! Hey Hamburglar, you're covered in them, too! Off-air television stations broadcast them in the wee hours of the morning, while you're up drinking scotch instead of getting those precious few hours of sleep that will help you function through your tiresome, meaningless day! Mr. Music Man loves stripes, and places notes atop them! Old Glory wouldn't be a grand old flag, a high-flying flag, without them! You may never have heard of striping data to hard disks, but that doesn't mean it doesn't exist! Why can't I escape the stripes? Why do they mock me with their omnipresence?

Although I shudder in embarrassed fear at knowing I'm responsible for such literary travesty, I'm happy that I have never inflicted these beasts upon the public (a mistake that some people are all too happy to make). But in the spirit of one man's garbage being another man's treasure, I'm offering all interested parties a chance to own some of the most self-indulgent nonsense that I have created. Fire off an email to the contact address on the left side of this page, and I will deliver these ill-begotten words to you, freshly ripped from the finest spiral notebooks that I could sneak out of office supply closets. You may receive a few sentences or several paragraphs, depending on how much torture I feel you deserve.

2002-03-29T14:52:00.000-05:00

Soul Food Chain

Some days, Nature piles on.

I've been in a foul mood the past few days, feeling like I have no real control over my life. It's an awful feeling, even if one rationally knows that there are no particular problems that cause it. I figured a nice walk along the shore would help lift my spirits, so I drove down to the bay for my lunch break. As I pulled over to park, I saw seagulls diving along the shoreline. Seeing birds always cheers me up, so it seemed that my plan was already working.

The gulls, of course, we're pouncing upon mussels and clams left exposed from the receding tide, then flying thirty-odd feet up to drop their catch onto rocks, which would crack the shells and allow the birds access to the helpless creatures within.

Thanks, Ma Nature. I hope you're not looking too forward to Mother's Day, 'cause I'm not getting you anything.

2002-03-28T11:27:00.000-05:00

Radio Clash

So I'm taking an early lunch, and decided to fire up Winamp on my computer to listen to a few MP3's I found this week while eating. Almost as soon as the first song, Swearing at Motorists's "I'll Only Sleep," started playing, my portable radio fell off the windowsill and nearly put out my eye with the antenna.

I know that the recording industry is trying to defend itself from online music piracy, but jeez isn't this taking it a little far?

2002-03-28T11:01:00.000-05:00

Crime Spree

These items made this week's "Police Beat" report in The Bar Harbor Times:

"A Bar Harbor woman complained kids were skateboarding on floats at the town pier and splintering the wood March 24."

"A pill bottle was found in Baker Park March 25."

And, frankly, this is all making me very nervous for the safety of my family. Next thing you know, people will be stuffing objects that are either wigs or human hair into car tailpipes. What? That actually happened to someone here last week?

My God, is no place safe?

2002-03-26T11:20:00.000-05:00

We're Number One

I just realized something on the way to work this morning: Maine is the only one-syllable state in the Union. It has more letters than the multisyllabic Utah, Ohio and Iowa — three syllables in four letters! — but takes less effort to say than either of them. For some reason, I'm strangely proud of this.

And as a result, I will always be against statehood for Guam.

2002-03-22T14:16:00.000-05:00

This Explains A Lot About Me

I was listening to the radio on the way into work this morning. A commercial came on with some perky background music, followed by an announcer's voice:

"Is there no humming in your plumbing?"

And the first thing that came to my mind was: "When did urologists start running ads?"

2002-03-22T10:25:00.000-05:00

We're Tougher Than You

Sure it's still winter — I don't care what the calendar says, I dare you to go outside around here without a jacket before May — but folks up here are into the grand tradition of self-delusion. How else could you explain this guy:

You might think you'd have to be insane to hang ten in the Gulf of Maine in March — and "ten" in this case refers to water temperature. But if you look closely at the photo, you'll see that the guy has the forethought to put on a motorcycle helmet before surfing.

Which makes perfect sense, really. You'll want head protection in case you accidentally crash into a walrus.

[Photo from The Ellsworth American.]

2002-03-20T11:54:00.000-05:00

Actual conversation from yesterday:

"Should we get the loon, or wait for the lobster?"

"The sticks and water is cheaper."

Sounds like quite a restaurant, huh?

But we were just getting new license plates.

2002-03-18T13:23:00.000-05:00

While helping the wife make a late dinner on Saturday evening, I switched on the TV to watch some games in the second round of the NCAA Men's Basketball Tournament. I love the tourney, have always loved it, always look forward to it every March as a sign of impending spring. Imagine my surprise when I flipped to the local CBS affiliate to find...well, it was basketball, all right, but not the college tournament. Instead, I was staring, slack-jawed, at the Maine girls' high school state championship game.

And I don't know what the marketing geniuses envisioned when they came up with the term "March Madness," but I'll bet everything I own that it wasn't the sight of a grown man throwing slices of bread at his television, screaming and wondering what kind of hellish primitive backwater he had moved his family to.

2002-03-15T13:55:00.000-05:00

Yesterday on the island, it was sunny and 55 degrees. Today, the temperature is below freezing, and it is snowing.

I am starting to believe that I do not live on an island, but instead live inside a novelty paperweight that is rudely shaken by a ten-year-old bully whenever things start to look too nice and settled.

2002-03-14T16:03:00.000-05:00

Living in a small coastal town means rarely having to contend with the ghastly front-page newspaper stories you'll see in the big cities and more criminally-advanced large towns. In exchange, however, you will be presented with more surreal headlines to interpret, such as this gem from today's Bar Harbor Times:

Dragger stripped to hull after running aground

In Bar Harbor, you can be pretty sure they're talking about a boat. In Boston, this would be a report from the vice squad.

2002-03-13T12:26:00.000-05:00

The rental house has a garage, and mounted to that garage is a basketball hoop. I shoot around with the boys most every day when I get home from work, if the weather cooperates.

Last night while shooting fifteen-foot jumpers under the floodlights, I noticed my reflection in the garage door windows. I thought it would be good to see how much my shooting form has deteriorated over the years, so I kept my eyes on my reflection as I took the shot. Swish.

Not only did my form look okay (well, as okay as it's gonna get at age 30), but I hit the shot. So I kept looking at myself shooting. Swish. Swish. Ten in a row, nothing but net.

And I realized that I might have been better than tenth man on our twelve-player high school varsity team, if only our gym was made entirely of mirrors.

2002-03-12T08:46:00.000-05:00

So I had the TV in the kitchen on this morning during breakfast. There's no cable or satellite hookup on the first floor of the house we're renting, so I left the TV on Channel 5, the Bangor CBS affiliate that gets the best reception with the antenna.

Tom Ridge, the national homeland security chief, was being interviewed by the horrid, horrid Bryant Gumbel. Ridge — who might be a perfectly nice fellow, but has the on-screen presence of bag of laundry — appeared on the show to announce the creation of a new national alert system to respond to future threats by criminal masterminds.

And with this news, I was truly happy. I've always known, ever since I was a little boy, that one day the BatSignal would get federal funding.

2002-03-11T12:10:00.000-05:00

There are a lot of deer on Mt. Desert Island, where I live and work. The island is one of the few localities in the state of Maine that prohibits hunting, and I just know the deer are wise to this.

While driving to training classes last week, there were deer — they're really just skinny cows, take a good look the next time you see one — lolling about in the middle of the road, three days in a row. As I slowed down to avoid creating a venison display case on my hood, the damned things just turned their heads and stared at me, not moving an inch, like they knew there wasn't anything I could do about it.

But they're wrong. Next time I see them out in that road, I'm going to stop in front of them, roll down the windows, turn up the stereo, and let this song fly out into the air.

I may not be able to shoot at them, but there's nothing in the Geneva Convention about deer.

(Song link from The Audio Obstacle Course)

2002-03-08T14:25:00.000-05:00

I knew that Downeast Maine was going to be very different from the Boston area before I moved here. I expected a slower pace, a more relaxed atmosphere, people who had no need for artificial priorities to instill some sort of importance into their daily routines.

But after nearly thirteen years of their absence from my life, nothing could have prepared me for hearing Molly Hatchet on the radio, twice in the same week.