At the Montello Night of Stars, you find a lot of men and women posing as reporters to enhance ambiance of the celebrity event. They wear lavish hats with “press” stickers stuck to the brims. They don overcoats with belts cinched tight. They carry microphones and battle each other for position. Very impressive. If they could get whining about hard work and low pay into their routines, and perhaps fuss with their hair a little more, they’d have the reporter roles nailed down.

Somewhere in Lewiston, a man with a Slurpee was reportedly harassing people downtown. Or possibly, a man with a scorpion. Sometimes the voice on the scanner is very hard to hear and we’re not sure which it was. Either way, be afraid. Be very afraid.

 

You might remember – if you’re completely bored and having nothing at all going on in your life – that I was vexed last year by a bird that constantly shrieked, and I quote: “SNEEEE! SNEEEE! SNEEEE!” With the help of your wisdom, I was able to identify the raucous creature as a catbird. Which really did nothing to alleviate the pain of listening to it every morning. This spring, there is no sign of that cat bird. And good riddance. I am, however, haunted by another feathered friend bent on waking me up in the morning. This one emits a long series of cheeps that sound to me like somebody whistling through their nose as they sleep. You know: “WHEEEE! WHEEEE! WHEEEE!” Very bothersome. So once again, I turn to you and your giant Book of Birds. What is it, I ask you? And also: May I sleep in your spare room until it goes away? Thanks. I’ll bring my own sheets.

 

Presently paying the piper for having a lurid affair with a woman who was not his wife, the handsome fellow is getting raked daily through the muck. And deservedly so, if the allegations are true. But how to adequately punish a man like Edwards for his sins? Easy. Make him get $6 haircuts from a training school for the remainder of his life. Boom! You’ll never see or hear from him again.

What you’re thinking is correct: I AM very much like King Solomon.

 

 

I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. Every time I find myself at a red light that refuses to go green because my motorcycle doesn’t have enough metal to trigger the activator thingy, I’m going to deduct one dollar from my property taxes and explain with a note at tax time. I’ll let you know how that works out.

 

So early in the week, I witnessed an obviously drunken couple having a loud argument on a Pine Street porch in Lewiston and one of them was shirtless. Guess which one it was. No, go on. Guess. That’s right! The woman! Is this a great city, or what!