Do you know who has the best urinal in all of the Twin Cities? The Androscoggin County Superior Court, that’s who. On the first floor of the old building, in the men’s room (duh) the urinal rises halfway up the wall starting at the floor. The thing is so mammoth, you literally can’t miss, no matter how drunk or unbalanced you might be. Try it out the next time you’re over at the courthouse paying a fine for that horrible thing you did. And consider this tip your Christmas gift. Seriously, this is all you get.
Who are you?
There’s a troubling trend lately at Wal-Mart and at several other fine shopping centers in the area. I’ll be walking through the aisles, shopping for perfectly normal items that are none of your business, when a stranger, completely unprovoked, will utter my name and just keep on walking. They don’t say hello. They don’t introduce themselves or any of that nonsense. They just mutter my name while walking past and that is that. It happens twice a week and sometimes more. Who are you people and what do you want with me? Did we go out at one time or another? Do I owe you money? Are you my conscience? It’s creepy and unnerving and I kind of like it.
Rock around the clock
And speaking of Wal-Mart, they’re not going 24 hours this holiday season. You learn that the hard way when you show up at 3 in the morning only to be turned away by a snarling worker at the door. Remember when Wal-Mart told us they were going to be a 24-hour store all year long? And how they took that away, but consoled us by promising to stay open all night around Christmas? Yeah. It’s getting so you can’t even trust the giant trillion dollar corporations anymore.
I call this one Joie de Crank
There’s another trend lately wherein drug agents who seize narcotics in raids will present their evidence to the public by way of rather artistic photos of the loot. We’re talking real avant-garde work here — bags of crack rock splayed strategically next to handguns and their gleaming magazines. Bags of deep green weed displayed in triumphant arcs or proud parabolas. A modest spray of crack pipes to represent man’s constant battle with his own inner failings. Dirty drug dollars arranged in neat rows against the backdrop of the drug agency emblem. It speaks to me! My guess? The drug agent responsible for this artistic flair will one day cut off his own ear and mail it to his honey.
And speaking of dope, my self-described “crazy old French lady” friend has been partying in downtown Lewiston. At 7:30 a.m. one recent morning, she was driving down Pine Street, near Bartlett, when a tall man in a fur-lined coat tapped on her car window and offered her some pot. “I’ve got one foot on a banana peel,” she told me, “and one foot in the grave, and this guy wants to sell me weed?” Then she giggled out of control of 20 minutes and stuffed giant handfuls of Fritos into her mouth.