Can I be frank?

So Ward’s Neighborhood Market in Lewiston takes its backpack policy very seriously. I got shooed away from the deli Tuesday because I happened to be wearing one and, do you know what happened? By the time I got it all sorted out and returned to the deli, some scoundrel had bought the last 99-cent pack of Kayem hot dogs right out from under me. Well played, scoundrel. But I guess we all fall for the deli-backpack-weenie scam at some point in our lives.

Pop goes the nightmare

I’ve taken a lot of grief through the years over my deep fear – nay dread! – of ice cream trucks. The struggle is real and all, but so far this summer I haven’t seen a single truck nor heard the tinny version of “Pop Goes the Weasel” that rises from its hellish maw. It’s ominous in the same way the jungle silence is ominous when the bongos stop playing in the distance. Or something. I’m scared, all right?

Promises in the Dark

Have I mentioned that I caught Pat Benatar in the Old Port last week? Because I totally caught Pat Benatar in the Old Port. If you were a boy growing up in the ’80s, it wasn’t cool to admit liking Benatar, yet who among us has not jammed naked to “Shadows of the Night” in front of the mirror while using a hair brush as a microphone? Who, I ask you!

It came from Marcotte Park

Every day I ride by this former Lewiston ball field to behold the progress they’re making digging that sucker up and transforming it into . . . whatever it’s going to be. An air strip? Water park? Outdoor bowling alley? I know I read something about it. And every time I cruise by, I’m hoping to see something exotic unearthed by the bulldozers and backhoes. I don’t ask for much. The bony remnants of a brontosaurus would do it. The nose end of an alien spacecraft would be nifty, as would something inexplicable, like the rotted remnants of a pirate ship. Of course, whatever they find there at Marcotte Park they’re bound to keep under wraps, because let’s face it. We all know that what they’re really digging is an underground command center and subterranean highway system stretching all the way to that freaky airport in Denver.

Scaramucci

Are you like me? Are you sick of hearing that name yet? Who can blame you? Nobody, but nobody likes Anthony Scaramucci, including the man’s own wife, yet there he is, every day dominating the news headlines. I have a sneaking suspicion that this dude amounted to anything at all only because his name is so fun to say – if you haven’t coupled “Scaramucci” with “will you do the fandango” yet, you don’t know what you’re missing.

The good stuff

Because I was jonesing bad, my street connection brought me a fresh supply of Yodels. Four fresh boxes of the stuff. I can’t even imagine what the street value is. And when my wife spied the stash sitting on the kitchen counter, she asked – brace yourself because this is tough to hear – how Yodels are any different at all from garden variety Devil Dogs. Devil Dogs! And I married this woman! You think you know someone, man.

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