Well, it’s mid-April and that means it’s time to open the old mailbag. True, I’ve never actually answered letters in this column space — but I’ve always meant to and just you shut up. I can do it if I want.

Here are some questions I’ve received lately. Thoughtful, intelligent questions asked by people who are typically standing behind me in line at the Dollar Store.

By the way, these items from the hygiene aisle? They’re for a friend.

Where do you see Lewiston in 10 years?

I see Lewiston tucked along the banks of the Androscoggin River near the midpoint of the county of the same name. Why? Where do YOU see it? Are we expecting some geographical shift of some kind? Is Lewiston going to drift north and bump Sabattus out of its spot? That would be keen. Uncle Moe’s Diner would land right outside my front door so I wouldn’t have to drive there for breakfast.

Or maybe you’re speaking more geopolitically. If the declining crime rate continues over the next decade, by 2026, Lewiston will be a sin-free utopia where the only kind of hooking going on will involve barefoot youngsters fishing in the pristine canals. Out-of-work, former crime reporters will volunteer at barn-raisings and occasionally dance for rum down at the saloon. Actually, he’ll dance for hot chocolate with marshmallows. Lewiston, by then, will be a dry city, the result of the Allen’s Coffee Brandy incident of 2020.


Also, Pine Street will be gone. I don’t know where, just . . . gone.

Who do you like in the presidential campaign?

Nobody, that’s who — and for reasons that have nothing to do with personalities or platforms.

I believe — as strongly as I believe anything — that U.S. presidents are mere sock puppets, there to serve hidden hands that rule from the shadows. Mere props, these men and women who make such lofty promises – promises they wouldn’t be allowed to keep, even if they wanted to.

It’s horribly depressing, all of it, but there it is: an ardent belief that our political process is a masterful lie and that all of this vicious battling between the left and right accomplishes nothing but division and an illusion of choice. Someone will win the White House, sure enough. And then that someone will be about doing exactly as he or she is told, which was the plan all along.

Boxers or briefs?


How DARE you! But to answer your question: neither. I wear long johns all winter and simply cut sections from the leg as spring draws near. In a mild winter like this one, I was knee-length by late February, mid-thigh by the end of March and, now that we’re deep into April, my long johns are cut Daisy Duke style. It’s very comfortable and sexy.

Who do you suppose Negan killed in the season finale of ‘The Walking Dead?’

Glenn. No, wait! Eugene. Or possibly Abraham. But definitely not Daryl.

It’s horribly unfair that we have to wait six months to find out and the fact is, I no longer trust the show writers to play fair about it. They’ll probably come back and show us that it was Michonne who took the business end of the bat, but she survived by rolling underneath a dumpster and driving away. After four beautiful seasons, “The Walking Dead” writers turned into a bunch of dirty little cheaters.

Don’t you just hate this weather?

I do, man. And I’m pretty sure it’s my fault. You see, my beloved Suzuki DR650, El Mechon, is presently under the knife at Maine Cycle in Auburn. It’s got a cracked valve, you know, and some of the parts are back-ordered. As long as El Mechon remains out of action, the planet wouldn’t dare produce good weather in this area because that would just make me weep uncontrollably and run around making “vroom, vroom” noises in my Daisy Duke long johns. Nobody needs that. 

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