Many of you good, probably drunk people have sent me your photos of the canals in Lewiston, which were recently drained. I appreciate all the images of busted computer monitors, bent shopping carts, sad-looking boots, bald tires, wrecked bird cages, ancient TVs, ugly sofas and doorless microwave ovens scattered half-buried in the muck at the bottom of the canals. It occurs to me, though, that you’ll send me photos of mud and stinking water while I’ve never received a single Christmas card from any of you people. I’m getting mixed messages about my place in your life.

I just get it for the articles

I wanted to go commando into the flotation pod, I really did. (For context, glance to your left if you’re reading the good ol’ newspaper. Glance at this if you’re not.) Getting naked in a semi-public place is always a thrill, but no. I had a news photographer along with me and, as one bystander pointed out, “We’re not shooting a Playgirl spread here.” True that. I refuse to pose for Playgirl again after they stiffed me the first time. Burt Reynolds got WAY better play than I did.

Foliage season!

Ah, bite me. I’m not ready to talk about this yet. No peeping until I say so.

Shotgun heaven

Sketch master Bill Eldridge got me again, this time whipping up his own rendition of my shotgun prowess out on the range in Bridgton. I appreciate the tribute, my good man, but let me ask you: Why am I always sweating in your sketches? Do I have some kind of fever or something? Give it to me straight, man. Am I dying?


No. Just, no. I don’t care if Shaw’s already has a display set up, it’s still technically beach weather, so there will be no talk of pumpkins. Not a word. Don’t think I won’t find out, either.

Dirt: An American Campaign

When I wrote the novel by the above title, I worried that my fictional presidential campaign was too absurd for any reader to believe. Along comes the Hillary vs. Trump stand-up comedy show and now I realize that my premise wasn’t absurd enough. Clearly I should have included more fainting spells, comb-overs, metal things falling out of pant legs, Rosie O’Donnell references and cuckolded old guys from Vermont. Now Hillary and the Donald are exchanging medical records like a couple of young swingers about to hook up in a bar. Only Franz Kafka, or possibly Bukowski, could write fiction as weird as the 2016 presidential campaign.

Only subscribers are eligible to post comments. Please subscribe or to participate in the conversation. Here’s why.

Use the form below to reset your password. When you've submitted your account email, we will send an email with a reset code.