So, I’m riding around downtown Lewiston on the Suzuki as I’ve been doing for three years now. But today, everyone out there seems to be shooting me a strange look. The old woman with granddaughter in tow does a double take and nearly snaps her neck. Bunch of gangstas on a corner give me the old narrow-eye as though I just said something snide about their droopy pantaloons. A pair of girls whisper behind their hands and then bust out laughing. I stopped to see if I had something weird flapping out of my nose, but no. It wasn’t nose nastiness drawing stares, it was the new tuxedo riding jersey that wife bought me. And those gawkers were clearly in the grip of envy because I look dapper in that jersey with its bright red tie and faux carnation. Fools spend hundreds of dollars on the real thing and all I have to do is pull this beast over my head. I tell you, I cannot wait until it’s time to go to a funeral.

 

Degrees, that is. Amazing weather, and every time I head out into the woods (to collect butterflies and such) there are couples everywhere. The elderly walking on the foot trails, young couples exploring that crazy new thing called love, co-workers getting freaky on lunch breaks. Ah, spring. That time when a young man’s fancy turns to romance and every one of us feels like a Secret Service agent set loose in a Colombian nightclub.

 

Holograms? Really? That’s far out. Who’s next, I wonder. Jim Morrison? Elvis? Buddy Holly? Question: If you fling your bra and/or panties at the illusion of a dead rock star, what happens to the unmentionable? Does it fall harmlessly to the floor or just kind of float there draped over the rocker’s ghost arm? I’m very Zen. In case you haven’t noticed.

 

How much do you want to bet that some fool, upon meeting the Great One for the first time, asks: “Are you talking to me?” And how much do you want to bet that DeNiro kills that person and smiles while doing it?

 

Somebody invents a way to make crisp, sharp pictures look like crappy old Polaroids and gets paid a billion dollars for it. That’s messed up. If I can find a way to make prime rib taste like Spam, will someone pay me for it? No, really. Will you?

 

I have it on good authority that in parts of Turner, gray squirrels and chipmunks have completely disappeared this spring. My friends, how much more evidence do you need that Turner is just filthy with monsters?

 

You want to tell me that this isn’t somehow related to the Mayan prophecy? No Dick Clark, no New Year. Mayan fears vindicated!