Talk of the Town Ernie Anderson
Stop and smell the flowers. Or don’t.
So the other day, myself and another reporter got a delivery of flowers at the Sun Journal offices on Lisbon Street. I was feeling like queen-for-day a little bit at first, but then I opened the card. So cryptic, that card. There was talk about world-changing events, subtle mentions of ongoing crime investigations and one demand that I look up a certain Auburn police detective to further clues. I did look up that detective, in fact. Turns out HE also got flowers and a cryptic note. It’s truly bigger than all of us. I’m just going to go back to believing somebody sent me flowers because they think I’m pretty.
That wall had it coming
Heard a call on the police scanner the other day in which a man had called for an ambulance because he had “punched the door twice and now his hand is numb.” OK, I can’t speak for every guy in the Sun Journal readership area, but I would wager that a good 90% of us have punched walls back in our days of youthful passions. Bad breakup with a girl? Punch that wall and hope you don’t hit a stud. Oppressive school rules got you down? Take your swing, bro. It’s your birthright. The point is, I’ve known a hundred guys who punched walls at one time or another and not a one of them ever called for an ambulance. What you do is grit your teeth, stick your mangled paw in a pocket and say “I’m fine” whenever asked. It doesn’t really hurt until you sober up, anyway.
MisnomerMisnomer
Can we really call it a “police scanner” anymore, now that police don’t let us listen to their radio traffic? I’d try to come up with a more accurate name for the equipment but really, I was just using this opportunity to complain one more time about the repugnant move to encrypt police chatter.
Poignant thoughts on the season
My friends, by the time you read this, November will be off the books. And that’s good because November is the bum tooth in the gaping maw that is the calendar year. November is the dull ache in the throat after you’ve vomited up the previous months. November is the withering pain of a traumatic injury to the groin of autumn. Or something … I don’t really know how this works anymore. Plus, the rest of my metaphors get really filthy at this point so just use your imagination from here on out.
Simply Having a Wonderful Christmastime
Hey, the last thing I want to do right now is talk about Christmas, but we want to know what your favorite holiday songs are, along with the ones you hate the most. Frankly, I don’t really need any of you because my list of hated Christmas songs is so long, it would fill the entire B Section of the Sunday paper. But send your thoughts to me anyway at mlaflamme@sunjournal.com and I’ll make you a nice cup of cocoa.
Author’s note
There will be no cocoa. Seriously, do I look like your mother?
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