Looky loos

So, I’m riding the back roads of Weld. Or possibly Dixfield. Or possibly Wilton. And I come across a car parked at an odd angle near the center of the road. It’s a four-door and every one of those doors is wide open, as though a hive of killer bees flew in and caused every rider to flee. But it wasn’t killer bees, it was a moose. A common moose stomping around in the woods next to the road. The men and women from the car were out there, too. A pair of women gaped from the road shoulder. One of the guys had run right into the woods, stumbling his way through undergrowth just a few feet from the beast. He aimed a disposable camera, looking for that perfect picture or, possibly, a Darwin Award.

As I drove by, I glanced at the license plate. I was hoping upon hope that it would be from Connecticut. Or New York. Or Guam. But no. The car and its riders were from right here in Maine. Which means these four eager beavers were in violation of a very simple Maine code that dictates that we can get excited about things like moose, foliage and Stephen King sightings, but we can never show it. You don’t see people from New York jumping up and wetting themselves over the Statue of Liberty. You don’t see Floridians turning cartwheels at the sight of an orange grove. You don’t see folks from California going all Price is Right over naked, liberal hippies. Show some cool, Maine folk. That moose is laughing at you.

No motorcycles!

Nice area, Weld. Or Dixfield. Or possibly Wilton. Spent a few nights in Mount Blue State Park and oh, the splendor of the Maine woods. Trails everywhere. I had my dual sport along and I was looking for some one-of-a-kind trail riding. And yes, the trails were all over the place. But no, I couldn’t ride them. Because two out of three trails was marked with signs the likes of which I’ve not seen before. NO MOTORCYCLES, those signs declared. And to emphasis this affront, they included the image of a dirt bike with a slash through it. It made me feel dirty and unwanted, like Snoopy when he tried to enter the library.

I don’t know what a motorcycle did to you, people of Weld, Dixfield or Wilton. Did one of them date your daughter? Steal your job? Take you out and then fail to call? Say mean things about your momma? On behalf of motorcycles everywhere, I apologize. Mount Blue. Tear. Down. Those. Signs.

Twilight Zone marathon

I watched so many damn episodes over the Fourth of July weekend, I don’t think my upper lip will ever pull away from my gums. P.S.: It’s a cookbook, they’re Christmas toys, the ugly lady really is just a human, they were on Earth the whole time, Burgess Meredith breaks his glasses, those calls are coming from the cemetery, both gunslingers drank the potion.

Snee!

All kinds of guesses as to what noisy bird has been raising hell in my backyard. Is it a gray catbird? A common grackle? An Eastern phoebe? A mud hen? All quality suggestions, and I thank you. Of course, for every legitimate guess, I got two that went the other way. Big Bird? A pterodactyl? Jawa Jawa? The pugilistic bird from “The Family Guy”? You people are demented.

Anthony trial

Over. And with that, I never, ever, ever, ever have to watch the Headline News channel again. I accidentally got a glimpse of Nancy Grace one afternoon and now I’m blind in one eye and I have man problems.

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