COMPLETELY TRUE CONVERSATIONS AT THE BAR

REUNITED AND IT FEELS SO GOOD

Couple 1) OMG! It's so good to see you guys again!

Couple 2) You too! Where did you spend your winter?!

Couple 1) Indiana!

<Uncomfortable Pause>

Couple 2) Welcome back!

Couple 1) It's good to be back!!!!!!!!!

 

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STRANGE DAYS HAVE FOUND US

Strange Woman - "I'm not from here."

Me - "The devil you say."

Strange Woman - "No, I'm from Monhegan Island."

Me - "You must know the Barstows who run the Laura B. ferry from Port Clyde. Working on that boat for Jim Barstow was my first job when I was 12 years old."

Strange Woman - "No, I'm from Monhegan Island, not Port Clyde."

Me - "Welcome to Maine."
 

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PAINTING OVERALL

Loud Guy in Overalls - "I'm a painter!"

Me - "Oils or Watercolors?!"

Loud Guy in Overalls - "Just Houses!"

Me - "You're hired!"
 

A SHORT HISTORY
OF THE PRETTIEST PARKING LOT
IN MAINE

GOOD NEWS for all you From-Away recidivist jaywalkers!!!! You are now encouraged to visit the BRAND NEW Red's Eats on Northbound I-295!!!!!!


 

Apparently, this is the latest Maine Department of Transportation (DOT) plan to alleviate the persistent and everlasting traffic jams on Route 1 in Wiscasset. And I think it's brilliant. Hardly any of our lawmakers get their paychecks by driving through Wiscasset, but lots of them take I-295 because it's faster and there's less bait thrown at their cars.

Mainers refer to Wiscasset as "That Six-Month Traffic Jam." Tourists who blunder into it are enormously frustrated by the hours and hours they are needlessly trapped on the hot Wiscasset asphalt whilst on their way to much funner things in more interesting places. Funner things like being defibrillated for an afternoon. More interesting places like the queen's lair of a gigantic wasp's nest.

I'm here to tell you that those attitudes are extremely unfair, and I feel the need to change your insulting and outdated attitudes; local and tourist alike, with history and FACTS.

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For example, did you know Wiscasset is an Abenaki phrase that means "Deadly Malodorous Marsh Full of Poison Ivy and Wrathful Porcupines?"

In ancient times, the Abenaki used Wiscasset as a place to harvest vital pond scum to throw at their enemy's eyes and thus render them blind. The Abenaki also built the "Maine Yankee" nuclear power plant. Or was it the Miqmaq? Historians are still debating the matter.

As more dullard Europeans with haughty manners, no ice, and completely imperceptible senses of humor moved into the area, the Abenaki Tribe saw the writing on the wall. They fought a series of wars with just the stupidest names you could imagine. "The Cup and Squeeze War of 1648-1648" and "The Long Fight Against Those with Pale, Flabby Legs, and a Penchant for Mayonnaise," being two of the stupidest. Or funniest, depending on how you interpret history.

Then the Abenaki made friends with more endeavoring Europeans like King Kevin Philip and the French. That led to the French and Indian and King Philip's Wars where the Abenaki reclaimed their ancestral pond scum harvesting lands and the desolate, scum-less province of Whereswaldoboro.

But it was not to be.

More and more Europeans, unsatisfied with the lack of Wingstops and religious freedom in their home country, made the dangerous journey across the Atlantic to practice religious intolerance in an entirely new continent.

The Europeans also imported many contemptible and precious microbreweries with beer names like "Pumpkinhead" and "Shipyard Summer Ale." These beers were just awful. Even worse than your friend's home brews with all the settled bits at the bottom of the bottle. You'd leave about an inch of particulate beer and your friend would pressure you to drink it, even though he knew it would make your inevitable vomit have tendrils of blood in it.

The Abenaki swiftly abandoned Wiscasset and Whereswaldoboro in favor of the more fertile lands around Skow-Vegas controlled by "The Mountain of Pure Rock" with their benevolent rulers Tom O. and Mr. Mike.

The Maine Yankee nuclear plant remained abandoned for over 175 years until Spectrum Business Internet and MBNA turned it into a "slightly radioactive" call center and day spa.
 

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Historians aren't quite sure when Wiscasset was thoroughly resettled by Europeans. Some say it wasn't until after The Atlantic Highway (Present Day US Route One) was built in the 1920's. Those historians argue this exposed the hardscrabble European settlers to iron tools, forcing them to abandon pond scum harvesting for good. Then they'd fell trees (The Wiscassetites, not the historians) onto the road to block traffic. They'd run out, thrusting roasted squirrel glands at the trapped travelers. This is where we get the word "Logjam."

The locals and motorists would negotiate a fair price to remove the trees across the road. It was never more than a couple glittery, expired MBTA bus passes or other baubles, or at the most, a tuppence.

Then the From-Away travelers, relieved of glittery junk and hunger, would be on their way to the next forced bottleneck of Camden where the hardscrabble locals used boulders and Whole Roasted Vole to block the only coastal road north.
 

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Other Wiscasset historians contend that only after an intrepid New Yorker "Al" appropriated a trading post at the site of the defunct Abenaki trading site; "Big Owls," did the average Wisscassetian's income rise above zero. Dunkin' Donuts and an Irving gas station soon followed to shower the locals in prosperity that included running water and metal forks.

Since then, the only significant event to happen in Wiscasset is a brick facade fell off a downtown building in 2019. It still isn't fixed, and the ruins provide a perfect place for tourists to greedily grab their Red's Eat's lobster roll and shove it into their gaping maw without the threat of having to share or be caught on a viral video by people stuck in traffic. At times there will be over 20 tourists hunched in the ruins, faces caked in mayo and powdered mortar, shoving inch after inch of that lobster roll as quickly as they can into their uncontrollable, animal-like, twitching faces.
 

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Speaking of twitching faces, what are the effects of all that vehicle exhaust on those tourists stuck in Wiscasset traffic? State and national studies have revealed that even when tourists return home, they become addicted to inhalants. Those not wealthy enough to afford whippets or whipped cream often overdose by sucking the black fumes from the tailpipes of Fed-Ex trucks. Other "Exhaust Addicts" return to Wiscasset every year, chasing a Dragon they can't possibly ever catch.

Despite, or more probably because of the modern-day Wisscassetites constant proximity to all that brain-damaging exhaust, they have cultivated a wickedly fantastic sense of humor. Every spring, Wiscasset erect signs along Route One that say "25 MPH -- Radar Enforced."

Other signs even have an actual radar detector that shows your speed, which is almost always zero unless a bicyclist passes you, or a state legislator's armed convoy needs to get to Augusta for a crucial vote designating the Official Maine State Nematode. Other radar guns show motorists actually going backward in time.

In the spring of 2022, every Midcoast resident laughed themselves into poopy pants when Wiscasset painted 15ft x 15ft glaring warnings in red and white on the asphalt that said "25 MPH." This was such comedic relief to the thousands and thousands of enraged motorists trapped on US Route One that road-rage assaults and shootings in the entire state of Maine dropped by a full 12%.

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The Future of Wiscasset?

These days there are no roasted squirrel glands, only lobster rolls. Perhaps in one-hundred years time, tourists from other galaxies will clog Maine's important teleporting facilities to get "Maine's Best Bloodworm Roll" from Red's Eats. Or maybe those tourists will just stagger around the street like zombies because of all the hovercraft exhaust. Only time will tell.

Changes: Wiscasset and Whereswaldoboro no longer exchange hostages to prevent mutual nuclear annihilation. Their warheads are now in neutral Maine towns like Bilgewater and Spunk Hills.

Changes: Wiscasset no longer prints it's own currency, funds its hand-picked shadowy Paraguayan Death Squads, or demands all payments to the town be made in gold krugerrands, goats, or "lasses of virtue true." Today, they accept only goats.


Changes: Instead of using felled trees to trap thousands upon thousands of travelers on Route One, local Wiscassetites have become very literate and agile in things like legal injunctions, frivolously invoking the Endangered Species Act, and whining loudly to prevent the Maine DOT from alleviating the crushing traffic in the self-proclaimed "Prettiest Village in Maine" at any cost.

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A Warning:

Look at (and click on) these actual, factual pictures of Seattle. They are of people who refused to have their property water-cannoned so Seattle could become a mostly-horizontal city.

After long, tedious negotiations with the holdouts to no avail, municipal authorities authorized developers to water-cannon the entire hillside around the holdouts' property into Puget Sound.

So the next time you're stalled out in Wiscasset traffic, exhaust-high, screaming so loudly and unintelligibly at all the exhaust-high jaywalkers around Red's Eats that your windshield fogs up, remember the rich, local history that plants Wiscasset solidly in the "Petulant Toddler" group of Maine towns that need a giant Bath/Woolwich-like overpass to cut through all its bullshit.
 

SIDEWALK OF
MOIST & CLAMMY TERROR

This spring was perpetually moist and clammy. Not clammy in the sense that Liana and I went out to dinner for fried clams and cioppino a lot, but more like what I envision shaking hands with Kevin Spacey would be like.

Not only has this spring been perpetually moist and clammy, but this summer is shaping up to be a moister and clammier than even this spring. Like shaking hands with Quentin Tarantino.

The crappy weather should have worried me this spring. But the thing that REALLY kept me up at night was the sidewalk out in front of my shop. Seriously.

It started a week and a half before Memorial Day when a confident young man poked his head in my shop and told me they were ripping up and replacing the sidewalk in front of the shop tomorrow. When I asked how long it would take, he assured me, "Three days, tops. And the sidewalk will be open during construction."

Despite working most of my adult life as a contractor, I didn't suspect a thing. And that's the part that hurts the most. I didn't see it coming. I had gotten old. I was no longer the predator. I was the prey.
 

The next day, Three-Man Crew blocked off the entire sidewalk, including the entrances to Black River Gallery and my shop. They told people not to use my front entrance, but rather come in through my back door right next to my cash register, where I would have the opportunity to legally blow their heads off as robbers or just a plain old violently-insane home-invasion enthusiasts.

Over the weekend, I saw people walking down the middle of the street. I can't blame them inasmuch as the sidewalk was blocked off and there was no signage to tell them what to do. I gaped in horror as a gigantic pickup truck with dual vertical exhausts and a bumper sticker that read, "I'D WALK A MILE FOR FRIED BREAD" narrowly missed a mother and stroller.

On Monday, 3-Live Crew got back to the scene. The older man with a substantial beard (Ol' Grizzly) appeared at roughly 9am and sat on my bench out front with what looked to be a large coffee. Clean Shaven Guy showed up around 10am. He walked down to the Red Cup and got a coffee and sat down next to Ol' Grizzly on my bench around 10:30. Then The Owner showed up around 11am without a beverage of any kind.

They didn't look as rested as I thought they should have.

I was joyous when they finally started laying bricks sometime in the afternoon. Even the dust and horrible noise of the brick saw couldn't break my spirit. They were making good progress, and all I could hope for was maybe a little less brick dust in my lungs and shop.
 

Sometime in the middle of the week, all work seemed to stop. I looked out my front door. What I saw didn't encourage me.

Ol' Grizzly wandered to and from the job site to the public parking lot at random times for no apparent reason. He always had a mostly-empty coffee cup in one hand. Clean Shaven Guy fretted endlessly over an EDM (electronic distancing machine). He had his hands on his hips and grimaced a lot. The Owner flitted about looking busy on his cell phone. But if you actually followed him for a minute, you could see The Owner wasn't talking to anyone regarding the project at hand or construction in general. It sounded to me like he was talking about his plans for the weekend.

They all seemed confused about what to do now that the old sidewalk was gone. My suggestion was to have one person measure (Ol' Grizzly), one person cut (Clean Shaven Guy), and one (The Owner) person place the new bricks. But what did I know with years and years of practical and academic construction knowledge? Pet stuff, that's what.

I ventured out of my shop.

"You're not leaving this all here over the weekend, right?"

Unfortunately, the only person on duty was Ol' Grizzly. And he wasn't giving up any secrets on his sacred bench. He was only authorized to swirl the remnants of his coffee around the bottom of his day-long, soft, leaking, coffee cup looking thoughtfully at the ground.

It was the Thursday before Memorial Day. It was 2pm. The job site was abandoned. That's when I emailed the town a letter:
 

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Your Eminence,

Can you please give me an update on the work that's going on in front of my shop? The original estimate was for it to be completed in 3 days. That was 9 days ago, and there's only one old guy on-site today. Notice I didn't say "working." I'm worried all their equipment is going to be left there over the Memorial Day Weekend.

Not only has it impacted my business greatly, I've seen a few 'near misses' between pedestrians walking down the middle of the street and cars coming off Todd Ave. I'm guessing Memorial Day and the increased pedestrian traffic is going to make this happen more frequently. Hopefully not with more dire consequences.

I remain,
Donald Walter Kingsbury II (esq.)

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And to the town's credit, all of Three-Live Crew's equipment was out of the parking spots and there was a pedestrian corridor over the unfinished sidewalk on Friday. I'm sure Three-Live Crew wasn't happy about it. But Memorial Day is the first time us shop owners in this town can grab a little liquid cash to fund summer inventory purchases. And my neighbors at the gallery could finally lure in a customer so long as they had sturdy footwear.
 

3-Live Crew returned on Tuesday and put all their junk back in the parking spots and blocked off the sidewalk like before. I noticed an additional pickup truck in the parking spots, but I didn't see an additional person. I assume the pickup was so Ol' Grizzly  didn't have to wander out into the dangerous street to do whatever he did in the Public Parking Lot.

Over the next couple days, 3-Live Crew continued to show up late and leave early. When they were at the job site, all they seemed to do was stare at the ground like they had been hypnotized by some kind of Brick Cobra.

I wrote the town another letter:
 

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Your Eminence,

Can you please give me an update on this work? It appears as though they've strewn the sidewalk and parking spaces with their equipment, but no one is actually, physically here.

If this is going to continue with their equipment in the parking spots in front of my shop and their sidewalk operations ongoing, I'll need to talk to someone at the town regarding compensation. My business is down thousands of dollars since they started.

I remain,
Donald Walter Kingsbury II (esq.)

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The word "compensation" did it.

3-Live Crew actually showed up the next morning and worked on the sidewalk until the late afternoon. Even Ol' Grizzly.

And just like that, they were gone.

Next month: "Birds Ascendant"
 

~ Don (Not a Dog)

IT'S MY TURN!
IT'S MY TURN!
IT'S MY TURN AT THE BLOG!!!!

Dear Don; Your crappy blogs, (Sorry, "Harbor Dogs' Stories") sound exactly like Auggie's crappy blogs (Sorry, "Harbor Dogs' Stories"). I accuse you of intellectual laziness.

I challenge you to a duel at a location of your choosing.

--Signed,
     Johnny Bologna

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Dear John;

I did not rise up from the pustulent froth of sobriety to engage some common churl lacking verisimilitude and rigor in their wanton potshots at me and my defenseless 12-year-old senior dog.

As you stated, the accused gentleman retains the prerogative to choose both the weapons and the location of the duel. I shall choose Bushmills Whiskey as the weapon, and this Fire Ant Hill just outside Urethra, Arkansas as the location.