Beer truck crashes into Limerick barn

And about 100 people wrote or called to ask me where I was on that particular afternoon. Why does an accident involving a truck carrying hard cider make you people think of me? It’s very hurtful. Or maybe it’s the limerick part of the story that motivated your minds. I’d go ahead and write one about this incident if only it had occurred in Nantucket.


A colleague at another newspaper this week got screamed at by a woman who fumed over his use of “lay” when clearly the sentence called for “lie.” Or maybe it was the other way. I don’t know because if I live to be 300 years old (and I might; I take care of myself) I will never understand the lay/lie conundrum. I could enroll in a two-year college course whose sole focus is a deep examination of the proper uses for lay and lie. Three minutes after accepting my diploma, I would completely forget everything I’d learned and some old woman would spring, ninja-like, out of the bushes to deride me for it. It’s gotten so bad, I stayed up late one night, weeping, and wrote a song about the matter. It goes a little something like this: “Lay/lie. You got me on my knees! Lay/lie. I beg you darling, please.” Hey, that’s pretty good. I’ve gotta market that.

Don’t do it

Right now, a dozen of you are preparing emails or making phone calls because you believe that you can teach me how to understand the difference between lay and lie. “All you need to do,” you’re going to say, “is remember this one simple rule.” You people. You’re like a timeshare salesman or some know-it-all brother-in-law with a guaranteed, can’t-miss, get-rich-quick scheme that I’d be a fool to pass on. I ain’t buying it. I’ll just continue doing what I’ve always done, refusing to use lay or lie under any circumstances and writing around the situation even if it requires five extra paragraphs to do so.

Cumby’s coffee

What’s going on with Cumberland Farms coffee, anyway? It’s actually good. Real good, I would say. This fact clashes with my newly established coffee snob status, in which I look down my considerable nose on any cup of joe that isn’t freshly ground and prepared cold-brew style, or at LEAST prepared in a French press. Now, as in the beginning, I find myself perfectly content with a cup from a gas station. These are troubling times.

Joe who?

Why do they call it “joe,” anyway? Is it in honor of anyone specific? If only there was some source of relatively useless information from which to seek an answer.

Naughty or nice

This season marks the first I can remember when Santa and his Festival of Lights came jingle jangling through the Twin Cities on the weekend, when I wasn’t around to write about it. I can only draw the conclusion that Santa is making a concerted effort to avoid me. Is it because of that thing on Pine Street? Because I already explained that it was mistaken identity. I thought she was a crossing guard. Come back, Santa! I have a list!

Tell me all about it

Have you ever worked in retail? Are you still seething about that horrible customer who brought you to tears, on your birthday no less? Or that boss who made you work the Returns Desk the day after Christmas, wearing the elf outfit? My condolences. I want to hear your retail nightmares – bad or even good (there’s such a thing, right?). Contact me at [email protected] or 689-2876 for an upcoming story.

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