You gonna eat that?

Somewhere in the Twin Cities early in the week, a dude called police to report finding a piece of plastic in his box of cereal. My friend, if that hunk of plastic turns out to be the Honeycomb Cereal baking soda submarine, I will gladly trade you a Kellogg’s vintage stretchy rhino, a Count Chocula glow-in-the-dark creeping monster and about 400 crappy monster stickers and Boo Berry-flavored temporary tattoos for it. I must have dug my grubby paws to the bottom of a thousand boxes of cereal back in the day in search of the baking soda submarine. Say, do you want to have breakfast at my place this weekend?

Gimme three steps

A hero copy editor this week saved me from a spell of abuse and scorn by pointing out that I had incorrectly spelled “Skynyrd” in a column about my graduation night. If you invoke rock ‘n’ roll in a rant about music from back in the day, you had better spell Lynyrd Skynyrd correctly. My shame is great.


Early in the evening on day three of what has become my permanent exile to Lewiston’s Kennedy Park, there was a young lady cavorting about in a Spider-Man costume. I mean, if Spidey is here, problem solved, am I right? Although to be honest, I don’t think it was so much a “costume” as it was “pajamas.” The sewn-in feetsies totally gave it away.


It’s never a problem getting people to open up to you in Kennedy Park. The problem is getting them to open up one at a time. The way people tend to talk in the park is VERY LOUD and ALL AT ONCE, so that it becomes a giant knotted ball of furious commentary. Which, now that I have had time to think about it, is definitely the name of my new garage band. There was one nice young lady named Isabella out there who had all kinds of poignant things to say. Unfortunately, she had a very soft voice and it was like trying to listen to a violin at a monster truck rally.

This might sting a little

At Central Maine Medical Center in Lewiston, a bee swarm landed near the main entrance of the hospital in the middle of the week. Jumpy hospital folk called Bill Hiss, a retired Bates College dean and beekeeper, to remove the swarm, but by the time he got there, an emergency room doctor was already fully decked out in a protective bee suit and taking on the buzzing invaders. I’m not even making any of this up. Hiss and the ER doc removed the swarm from a bush and relocated the giant, buzzing family to Hiss’ home. I tell you, a swarm of bees at a hospital entrance would completely cure me of any perceived affliction. No thanks, Doc. I’ll just treat this questionable rash on my own from the bee-less safety of home.

By the way

Wouldn’t it be awesome if, instead of bees, a fellow named Hiss was dispatched to take care of a nest of snakes?