The rules are there ain’t no rules

I know I made fun of the new traffic configuration on Pine Street in Lewiston a few times, but now that time has passed and I’ve had the opportunity to drive that route, I can honestly say, without reservation, that it’s even worse than I thought. If the city is going to randomly paint new lanes up and down area streets, they need to produce and distribute a manual on how to use them. I mean, a really big manual. The lanes are marked by symbols that appear to be Aramaic. Is that a bicycle? A pair of lunch boxes rolling down a hill? A portly gentleman riding a pogo stick across the pyramids? I still have no idea how those lanes are supposed to be addressed. What if you need to turn or pull to the side of the road? Are you legally required to employ hover capabilities so as to avoid crossing those lanes?

Nerf lassoo!

What is it about motorcycles that makes people turn and scream random things? Everywhere I go, people as young as 2 and as old as 100 just drop whatever they’re doing when I pass so they can shout meaningless words at me. This little kid on Walnut Street yells the same thing every time. It sounds like “hamster bread!” The older lass on Pine Street simply looks up at me, smiles a toothless smile and yells: “meatball soda!” Of course, since she’s on Pine Street, I’ll cut her some slack, assuming that she’s tangled up and confused by those crazy bicycle lanes. Meatball soda pretty much sums it up, now that I think of it.

Good eye, champ

So, I stopped by the ball field at Marcotte Park in Lewiston the other day and, by golly, there was actually softball being played. Not soccer. Softball. Awesome, right? So, I parked my motorcycle and sat back for a spell. The first batter looked at every pitch and drew a walk. Second batter? Same thing. A batter later, more balls gawked at, another batter trotting down to first. Yawns all around. I mean, plate discipline is swell and all if you’re being paid six figures to get on base. If you’re just playing in a six-pack league, swing the bat already! Taking walks in softball is like going to a steakhouse and ordering salad.

POP, CRACK, SIZZLE

Every night, callers light up police switchboards reporting shots fired in various neighborhoods. Only it isn’t gunshots, it’s firecrackers. Happens every year around the Fourth of July. I’m thinking that this might be the perfect time to go down and take care of that traffic light at Pine and Bates streets once and for all. By the time cops figure out that this one’s for real, I’ll be giggling wildly five miles away.

Place Benny Hill theme here

A local fellow sent me a note relating the story of a woman who lost control of a watermelon, which then rolled all the way down Court Street, presumably while Keystone cops slipped on banana peels, a bald man chased pretty girls in mad circles, Daffy smoked an exploding cigar and Moe beat Curly with a hammer. At least that’s how it felt as I was reading it. I promise to tell you the whole story next week. If you’re really good.

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