The Write Stuff

iCan. iWill.

2011-10-14T11:23:00.000-07:00

As the news of Steve Jobs' death became widespread recently, so did the reflection and subsequent comments about the impact he had on people’s lives.
Jobs changed this world as much as anybody I could think of. His products have impacted so many lives and become so prevalent in our world. It is almost mind boggling to think about how monumental his impact was.
And it made me wonder why can’t we all do that?
We’re all not going create something like the iPhone, the iPad or the iPod. His creativity, his search for something new, his knowledge and understanding of technology and his business savvy all led to his success and makes it hard for any and everybody to match the kind of success or impact he had.
But can’t we try?
Wouldn’t it be great if when any of us pass away, the world can look back on our lives and chronicle the amazing impact we each had, how we shaped and improved mankind or how we made life better for the people around us?
It is a lofty goal but one that can be achieved. A little creativity, some desire to do good, some forward thinking and a yearning for positive change can make a difference.
The problem with much of this world these days is that nobody wants to make a difference. People might want to do what is best for them. We’re very much a me-first society. Our politicians, our athletes the people in power around us are often more concerned with their own existences and protecting their own assets than doing what is best for everyone.
There's too much focus on blaming people for why things don’t happen then trying to make things happen. My belief has always been, if you don’t like life, change it. If you're unhappy, find ways to be happy. If the world around you needs help, help it. It is easier said than done. But it can still be done.
We can all do that. Sometimes it just takes little steps or small actions that can do it. But it is often too easy to do nothing.
There’s a Simpson’s episode in which Lisa is convinced she’s losing her smarts and that she’ll become more like her father or brother, who sit around and watch shows calls “When Buildings Collapse” or “Real Life Surgery Mistakes”. She subsequently discovers that while the males in her family like to sport cooking pots on their head and ram into each other head-first, the women have become doctors and business women who have done something with their lives.
In this day and age it is so easy to fall into that lowest common denominator, where minds become numb from the brainwashing of popular culture. Everyone follows everyone else because that’s what people do. People go along to get along and nothing really changes.
People like Steve Jobs don’t settle for the norm. They look at the world, use their knowledge and see what can come of it. Sure, he made millions. But he also made a difference. It doesn’t take inventive products. It takes creativity and a want to do something different. It takes us looking and finding ways we can change things and have an impact.
The Steve Jobs of the world can change things in the large scale but it can be all our jobs to make a difference in whatever we can.
Jobs legacy shouldn’t be just in words like iPod, iPad or iTunes. It should be iCan and iWill.

Walking the Breakwater

2011-10-12T11:29:00.000-07:00

I took a walk on the Breakwater the other day.
Every trip over the mile-long stretch of granite blocks that lead to the lighthouse in the middle of Rockland Harbor is a journey for me. This one was different and even more memorable.
My new novel Breakwater is named for this granite barrier that protects Rockland Harbor. You’ll have to read the book to find out why the title is what it is.
One of the last chapters of the book though features a character walking the Breakwater and visiting the lighthouse on the last day it is open for the season. Since I finished proofing my novel on Saturday and sent a batch of final corrections to my publisher, it seemed like a fitting way to recognize the milestone. So on Monday, I took that walk on the Breakwater and visited the lighthouse on the final day it is open for the season.
It was a wonderful fall (almost summer-like) day. On the walk out I had a man with his dog following behind me. He let the dog off his leash and Fido scampered up ahead of me and spent much of the trip running before and after me, sniffing out every sent he could find. It was a beautiful golden retriever, the kind my dad would have loved to have had but never did in his lifetime.
I made me think of the time my father stumbled by stepping into an open crevice between stones on the Breakwater. As he fell, a golden retriever, one not too different from the one walking along with me Monday, raced to his side and gave him a quick lick of the face to see if he was okay.
As the dog and I walked further and further out on the Breakwater, I couldn’t help but remember that story and feel like my father was following along with me that day. It seemed appropriate since my father was a great influence and provided me a great amount of information that helped me in the writing of Breakwater. I didn’t “borrow” one of his sermons (actually maybe I did) like I did in my first novel Sons and Daughters of the Ocean but I was aided greatly by his own memoirs, which gave me great insight to his surroundings and life growing up.
When I reached the lighthouse I did my usual routine. I checked out the merchandise in the lighthouse. Being the diligent and determined writer/marketer, I inquired about the possibilities of having Breakwater made available to visitors of the lighthouse next year. I showed the volunteer “lighthouse keeper” the cover of the book. He loved it and said it would seem likely they’d want to stock it next year. So, maybe Breakwater will be available for purchase at the Breakwater. How cool is that!!!
Then I went up to the keeper’s quarters and looked at the photos on the wall. I noticed the shiny new floor. But I was more intent on finding the photo of my grandfather. Albert D. Mills was an assistant keeper at the Breakwater at one time.
My novel Breakwater is greatly influenced by the life of my grandfather. He was a man who faced great trials and tribulations in his life, yet he always persevered. I shaped the story of Hal Miller and his experiences after my grandfather.

After exiting the lighthouse, I enjoyed a seat on the back deck and enjoyed the sunshine and the cool breeze. I was sitting there waiting for the ferry to come by. I wanted to wave to a very special girl onboard. Her influence on my novel Breakwater was great as well.
I had always envisioned a follow-up to Sons and Daughters. It was part of a three-book plan that included a story about the privateering age (which will be my novel Sea of Liberty), Sons and Daughters of the Ocean and the final installment, based on the life of my grandfather and his sons.
As I began writing Sea of Liberty, I actually began contemplating the idea of not bothering with the third book. But this girl introduced me to an amazing woman. When I talked to her about my book writing, she vehemently told me that my grandfather wanted his story told. It was a story that I needed to write – and she also happened to mention how successful it would be when I did it. Within an hour of leaving her office, Breakwater was forming in my mind.
Whenever I’ve walked the Breakwater in the past, it would always connect me with my grandfather. I hardly knew him as a kid. I have only a handful of memories of him. He died when I was just five.
The Breakwater always seemed to be my pilgrimage to the memory of my grandfather. I’d walk out there and be reminded of him and the legacy of him. I used that in the book as I detailed the impact the fictitious Hal Miller had on his grandson Clark Miller.
Now when I walk the Breakwater, it feels like a piece of my history. It is as though my grandfather has passed the torch to me. It was always a special journey out there for me, but now it takes on greater meaning.
That’s why I wanted to take that walk Monday. It was a symbolic trip but one that honored the path I followed in writing this book. What made it even special was that I got to share it, in some way, with the people that helped me shape the work. The novel and I were greatly enriched by their influence. It is a book that wouldn’t be what it is without them.

Tuesday Morning's Alright For Fighting

2011-03-24T10:58:00.000-07:00

The game stopped. The gloves were dropped. The punches began to fly.

And apparently schoolchildren of all ages were horrified and traumatized.

Oh my God, they went to a hockey game and a fight broke out. How appalling.

This is the latest controversy from educators who know nothing about sports and don't seem to know a whole lot about educating.

It was School Day at the Portland Pirates game Tuesday. Apparently a couple of fights got some uptight educators and over-protective parents in an uproar. Little Billy and Susie saw a fight and are now scarred for life.

They went to a hockey game expecting the ice capades and got old-time hockey, where players play hard and aggressive - battling for a win and their jobs.

It left these appalled adults griping and searching for counselors while forcing Portland Pirate owners and coaches to apologize for the obvious - hockey games sometimes have fights.

These are the same types that would go to a car race and complain that it promotes speeding.

What happened is that the Pirates played a morning game on Tuesday. The arena was filled with grade school and middle school kids. It was an opportunity to recognize these kids and reward them for their efforts in school. It was the second year this event was held. Last year, there were no fights in the game.

This year's game featured a few throw-downs, some game misconducts (sent home without any supper) and time spent in the penalty box (a timeout seat).

By the reaction of school officials and parents, you would have thought they'd been taken to gang war and had to witness bloodshed and murder. Is a hockey fight really any worse than what these kids see on TV? Is it any more disturbing than the language these kids hear at home or anywhere else they might go?

If these people are educators and parents, isn't this a moment to educate and parent? They could explain the role of fighting in the game of hockey and inform the kids why it might be allowed there but inexcusable in other circumstances. That would take too much work. It is easier to ruffle one's feathers and blame somebody for such an atrocity.

Life is full of teachable moments. You can learn and benefit from them. Once again, this situation is a case in which the adults let the kids down. Those that are crying foul would rather bitch and moan than educate and shape the young minds they are there to nurture.

I heard that Pirates coach Kevin Dineen even apologized. He said last year he suggested his players tone it down and this year he forgot to mention it. Is this really where we want to go? Having coaches tell their players how to play the game to appease the overly sensitive people in the crowd that might be offended?

What's next - a PA announcement like they do about pucks that leave the ice warning people that players might act naughty and misbehave?

This is so ridiculous. First of all, if these parents and educators had a clue, they'd know there is fighting in hockey. They may not understand its role and the culture that exists in the game, but they should have at least known it exists. To take kids to the game and then be offended by what happens after it happens is their responsibility. Don't blame the game or the people that play it for a living. It's your fault if you didn't know what you were taking the kids to watch.

The Pirates have hosted a large number of church groups over the years. I never once heard pastors complain that the game didn't feature God-like behaviour. I suppose some might have thought it too violent and stayed away. Those that came to the game kept it in the proper perspective. Maybe the minister even used it in his message afterwards.

What really disturbs me is these people who know nothing about sports and the way the games are played that try to invoke their will upon the game. What happens on the ice and on a football field or on a basketball court can't be compared to every day life - especially at the professional level. Certainly there are acceptable behaviors and unacceptable ones and a need for class and sportsmanship. Those are all proper lessons to be taken from these games.

But when games are aggressive, intense, violent and there's lot of money, jobs and careers at stake there's an atmosphere that non-sports fans just don't understand and can't be governed by imposing their laws to the world of pro sports.

I often cringe when I attend meetings of the Maine Principal's Association and listen to some educators who have no clue about sports making vital decisions about school programs and athletics.

I remember one principal, when discussing the high school hockey scheduling system, clearly state that he knew nothing about hockey and cared nothing about hockey. Yet, this guy was voting on this item - and his school had a hockey program.

There are plenty of wonderful administrators and educators that understand sports. They know the environment and culture of sports. They also know the educational role it plays for athletes, parents, coaches and communities.

But there are some that are just downright scary. They know nothing about competition and just see sports as a way to instill their feel-good agenda on the world around them. They want to prepare little Billy and little Susie for life without them getting their feelings hurt or facing any kind of challenge or difficult situation.

It would be like people who know nothing about music trying to dictate how music programs should be run and how instruments are to be played. They'd take kids to a concert and complain that the music is too loud.

These people shouldn't be protecting young kids from the scary sports world that they don't understand. If anything, the sports world and its kids should be protected from them.

Just Thinking

2010-08-19T17:33:00.000-07:00

I swear either Michael Caine or Morgan Freeman are like in every other movie I see.

When I go from one place that doesn't have TV to another place that does, it makes me realize just how debilitating television is.

I find the whole thing about Homecoming floats really stupid. Does anybody really care if high school kids decorate the back of a truck to display in front of half-interested football fans at halftime? I'm not even sure the kids building the floats care.

And I hate Homecoming floats even more when the school extends the halftime break just for the festivities.

It cracks me up when soccer coaches scream at officials to blow their whistle. So when they do, instead of allowing for a play-on opportunity, the coaches gripe at that. Well, which do you want?

Apparently "All men are created equal" excludes innocent Muslims and patriotic gay people. I wonder if that was Thomas Jefferson's intent?

Taking a long hard look at the steps that you've traveled in your life gives one a pretty good perspective on how to get where one is going.

New York Jets wide receiver was pulled over for drunk driving last week. His team professed disappointment in his actions. So much so that they let him play on Sunday in a crucial game against Miami. I'm glad the Jets believe in holding people accountable and standing up for what is right - unless an important football game gets in the way.

For people whose job it is to pronounce people's names (news anchors, public address announcers) is it really that hard to find out how to say somebody's name before one proceeds to butcher it?

Now that Roger Clemens has been indicted for "misremebering" when he testified before Congress, what happens to the panel members that fawned all over him and kissed his ass that day?

Kevin Scott, an independent candidate for governor in Maine, says that his extensive list of driving infractions, around 35, shows that he's human. It also shows he is undisciplined, out of control and not much of a leader of men. And we don't need people like that running for governor - especially when we already have Paul LePage fulfilling that niche.

Tony Dungy has called out Rex Ryan for his profanity on the HBO show Hardknocks. But it is Dungy who ends up being painted as too pious while the foul-mouthed buffoonery of Ryan is laughed off. Profanity has become so common place in this society that people would rather curse up a storm than act and speak with a little more class and intelligence, even in front of their kids. I think that's pretty @$%^^& sad and really $$%%% up.

I think it is funny that I keep hearing these ads for Roger Waters' appearance at the Garden in Boston and every time, I can hear them playing the song Comfortably Numb over the ad. Of course, it was David Gilmour that sang that song for Pink Floyd and not Roger Waters.

The final combat troops have pulled out of Iraq after cleaning up George W. Bush's mess for seven years. With the government there in turmoil, I'd be tempted to suggest we send them the Cowboy Warmonger himself but that would just be cruel and unusual punishment for innocent people. I don't think we should wish him on anybody - unless it was before a tribunal for war crimes.

Speaking of which, it amazes me that the people that are jumping on the anti-Obama bandwagon were the same ones that stood by quietly while W wreaked havoc on this country and the world around us. So, obviously, they're not upset about the actions of the president, just his affiliation or maybe his race. It's just sad. Stand up for what is wrong because it is wrong. Don't defend it or ignore it just because of party affiliation.

I just wish people would work harder at finding solutions than they do in assigning blame.

More Randomness

2010-08-12T18:03:00.001-07:00

While I was on vacation, I didn't watch TV for three weeks and didn't miss it one bit.

While on vacation I got an email from a softball coach griping about how the Miss Maine Softball award was chosen. I think this coach's complaints would have a little more credibility if he wasn't sore about his daughter not winning the award. And, had this guy been so concerned about the selection process, don't you think he'd do or say something before a well-deserving player was picked over his daughter?

Did you see the guy that ducked away from the foul ball just in time to let it hit his girlfriend? I thought the fact that the nitwit was wearing his hat on sideways like he was stylin' would have been enough for the girl to dump his sorry punk ass already. But apparently an act of cowardice at the sight of a foul ball did the trick.

Car dealers/peddlers just make me feel icky.

Speaking of which, are there any bigger morons in the world of commercials than car salesmen?

Just for those keeping track, during my vacation I saw: deer, an eagle, seals porpoises, osprey, various ducks and sea birds and a mountain lion.

Just for those keeping track, during my vacation I read six books, including two that I wrote, and wrote a good chunk of my next novel. I even managed to have future chapters evolve in my head that are now just waiting to come out.

I discovered that just because the beer is imported and cost nine or ten dollars doesn't necessarily make it all that good.

It just melts a guys heart when a little girl tells him that she loves him and gives him a kiss on the cheek. Of course, it's not so bad when her mother does the same thing.

Wonders why it is so hard for people to return a phone call or respond to an email out of courtesy.

This whole Corey Pavin-Jim Gray thing has gone from amusing to annoying. Golfer claims he's misquoted, reporter confronts golfer, golfer claims reporter poked him and said "You're going down". If things got any more out of control, they just might have broken into a full-fledged slap fight.

By the way, I have never, ever, misquoted somebody.

And, Jim Gray, you should ask LeBron James to buy you a digital recorder. They're great for recording interviews and covering your ass.

Speaking of James, he's making a list and checking it twice of all the people that have hurt poor little LeBron's feelings. And, I assume, he's going to have a prime time special on ESPN and read them all.

I really get tired of people emailing me propaganda that basically states that people in this country should only be allowed to speak English. Let those of you not the product of immigrants throw that first stone. I think all those gripers should just be miraculously plucked from their daily lives and transported to some foreign country where they don't speak the language. We'll see how sympathetic they are then. Como esta usted?

I saw the brawl between the Cardinals and Reds, if you can call it a brawl. Baseball players really need to learn how to fight. They spend more time pushing, shoving and flailing than actually fighting. At least somebody managed to kick somebody - even if it did make him look more like a rockette than an athlete.

I swear it can't be too hard to be a weatherman.

I missed my chance to go to Oz when a tornado ripped through my hometown and I wasn't there.

I wish I could file a protection order against people that annoy me.

I wonder if the police scanner was as amusing to listen to 20 years ago.

I love how the littlest of things can spark a wonderful memory from your childhood.

Last I knew this country was founded on a search for religious freedom and escaping from religious persecution. So, it is rather interesting that the my-country-right-or-wrong crowd, the flag-waving religious zealots are the ones barking the loudest about the Muslim mosque in New York. Granted, I understand the controversy strikes a chord and is a sensitive issue, but the place is supposedly being built on private property and not on the "Hallowed Ground" of Ground Zero as many of the radical protesters indicate. Their opposition often borders on racism and seems more about politics than honoring the people and sight of the 9/11 attacks.

And Sarah Palin, just shut it will you? If the country cared what you had to say, you'd have been elected.

I get great amusement watching the local TV news when they offer up any old talking head to do the sports news. Between the butchering of names and knowing little about the sports they're reporting on, they're trying to fake it while oblivious to the fact that the sports audience will spot a fraud in a second.

Random Randomness

2010-07-15T14:59:00.000-07:00

Just thought I’d start posting random thoughts about random items that happen each week.

When BP is finished with sealing the oil leak, I’d like them to cork the gusher that I consider the mouth of Rush Limbaugh.

Jesse Jackson spouted off about Cleveland Cavalier’s owner Dan Gilbert and likened him to being a slave master. Correct me if I’m wrong, did anybody ask for Jesse Jackson’s opinion? I didn’t think so.

George H. W. Bush gets lost in the fog and grounded his boat on the beach. Kind of sounds like his presidency.

I don’t know what was worse with the whole LeBron James prime time special – watching James inflated ego at work or watching ESPN sacrifice its journalistic integrity.

Hey LeBron, Abe Lincoln called. He said he wants his beard back.

I like watching the Deadliest Catch, but I’m sick of Mike Rowe.

LA Laker Pau Gasol obviously must have been a soccer player at one time. A player that dives and flops as much as him must have learned that feat on the soccer pitch.

Speaking of soccer, if the recent World Cup didn’t generate enough interest in the United States then nothing is. The World Cup displayed the game at its best, but the majority of Americans could have cared less. So, let’s end any discussion of the sport increasing in popularity in the states. It’s not going to happen.

I can’t wait for the vuvuzela Christmas CD.

Mike Tyson has concluded that he has wasted his entire life and has accomplished very little as a human being. I guess that makes it unanimous.

Why can’t we reduce our dependency on oil by using the hot air of our politicians as our primary energy source?

Last week there were protesters in Maine to march against the development of wind turbines on a mountain range upstate. One of the protesters, from out of state, chained herself to the construction equipment. They should have carted her carcass to the New Hampshire border and told her to get out, stay out and mind her own damn business.

I’ve got some vacation time coming up next week. I’m thinking life would be better if we had vacation time for most of the year and then would work for just four or five weeks.

Speaking of vacation time, I'll get paid during those weeks but wonder if I could make a case for getting paid double for the time I stay away from the office?

I don’t know if it is sadder statement about our news agencies or about society itself that the major news stories in recent days are about Bristol Palin and Lindsay Lohan.

The whole loading up of free agents by the Miami Heat makes me think I’d root for the Lakers if those two teams meet in the NBA Finals and that makes me really feel disgusting.

While rummaging through old letters and photos the other day, I found a note that stated I was to report to the college dean’s office at a certain time. Hmm. Wonder what kind of trouble that was about?

I see there’s a remake of Hawaii Five-O hitting the networks soon. Once again, Hollywood proves it is completely out of ideas and has to resort to rehashing has-been shows.

Wish somebody would tell ESPN's Chris Berman that his shtick is getting tiresome. He's not funny, his "Back Back Back" or "Way Back" and all his stupid nicknames are getting old. And, he's not much of a journalist any longer, assuming he ever was one.

And it is people like Berman that make media types more interested in trying to be entertainers or celebrities rather than journalists.

Wonders why our forefathers didn't create laws to outlaw stupidity?

I had a press conference at Mall Plaza in South Portland today. That's where I worked in high school when Shaws was there. Bet I still could wheel 14 or 15 shopping carts through those doors.

Spellbound

2010-06-09T17:32:00.000-07:00

At first, I thought it was just a typo. A soccer coach, in a hurry, rushing to provide me information on his team, had hit the wrong key. Even if he had written "scedual" instead of schedule, it had to be a mistake.
Or was it? The coach went on to continually discuss his team's challenging "scedual" and convinced me not only that his team was in for a tough season but that also their coach can't spell.
What a fine product of his school department, I thought.
Frankly, it really isn't surprising. What I see done to the English language on a daily basis is usually shocking, if not appalling. Either people never learned how to spell, are too lazy to do it properly or just don't care. Whatever the case, they don't look too smart in the process. And it seems as though it bothers only me.
Now, as a disclaimer, I should state that I may be particularly over-sensitive to this issue. I'm a writer. Part of my job is to spell things correctly. Most of the time, I actually do - or at least come close. Therefore, I'm also fairly trained to find spelling errors and poor grammar. So, on most occasions, if you spell something wrong, I'm going to notice. Sorry. It's an occupational hazard.
Now I certainly understand that people are going to have typos. We all do. And not everyone spends the kind of time at a keyboard that I do. Therefore, most people aren't as proficient at typing as somebody in my line of work.
Still, some of the spelling and grammatical mistakes I see go way beyond hitting the wrong keys.
Between reading message boards online or perusing Facebook, the mistakes I find just make my jaw drop. I saw a post the other day by a Facebook friend that had seven words spelled wrong. I saw another one just posted this evening that had three in a span of five words wrong.
What really gets me is that quite often, I see posts like these that are posted by teachers. Coaches and parents don't do much better.
We got an email the other day from a school athletic director informing us of a bit of news. I don't think he actually spelled any words wrong, for a change, but his sentence structure and grammar was pretty abysmal.
First, it makes me wonder who taught these people their grammar. Then I wonder how much worse is this problem going to get when one generation passes along such apathy to its children.
I'd be mortified if I posted something publicly or sent an email that was filled with such errors. I'd be embarrassed and very unhappy that I was representing myself in such a way. I'm not an illiterate nitwit, and I'd prefer not to give people reason to think I am.
Yet, it seems much of the world is either too lazy or could care less that they are displaying such a lack of basic grammar skills. If I am a college graduate and a professional, which I am, I'd prefer my actions and public communications be on par with my education level instead of giving the impression that I flunked out of the sixth grade and never went back.
I think in this world where we communicate in clipped words and phrases and via texts and emails this was bound to happen. We're in an age of instant gratification. People spout off opinions and post them for the world to see at a moment's notice. They say what they want without regard to how they see it or how bad their oral or written skills are. In the cyber world, such skills don't matter any longer. Heck, sometimes their opinions are as hollow and their arguments are as flawed as their spelling, but it makes no difference. It is freedom of speech run amok.
That's too bad. The erosion of such skills is sad but what is worse is that people no longer care that they represent themselves in such a way. When people are too lazy or too apathetic to strive to be their best, it is a sorry world we have created for ourselves.
I used to look at all the crazy spellings of names that I see and roll my eyes at the parent's who, in an effort to be different or creative, came up with the unique name. Now I just wonder if it wasn't a case of being creative but a lack of spelling skills.
But, at least I know, that if I spell any of those names wrong in the paper, they'll care and I'll probably hear about it.

Deeply Rooted

2010-05-04T17:43:00.000-07:00

Contrary to some beliefs, I wasn’t dropped off on earth by aliens and I didn’t spring up from an organic-gone-wrong cabbage patch.
I actually have roots somewhere and rose up from a culture that helped shape me from its own image.
I was thinking about all that the other night when I was at the Auburn-Lewiston Sports Hall of Fame banquet. Local athletes were recognized, and they all acknowledged the environment that helped their development.
It got me thinking of the people around me that helped make me who I am. I began thinking that if I were inducted into a similar hall of fame in my hometown, who would I credit - or blame - for who I’ve become?
Now there is no such kind of recognition for esteemed products of Gorham, Maine, as far as I know. And my athletic career certainly wasn’t worthy of any kind of recognition. And that is probably the case for must all of us, but it certainly isn’t a bad exercise to think about and acknowledge just who the movers and shapers of our lives have been.
I obviously would have to start with my parents. I was the fourth child - obviously saving the best for last. My parents had distinct expectations for me but also weren’t strict. They gave me the freedom to be who I am and figure out what I wanted to be. I probably had the independent streak in me anyway, but they allowed me the space to learn my lessons and chart my own course - sometimes by doing things the hard/stupid way.
I had three older siblings and following them had a distinct effect on me - especially since I not only went to the same local school system as them all but also the same college. As a young kid, I’d try to be like my older brother, playing sports like he did. When I went to college, I was interested in working for the college paper, something he did at that school a decade before me.
My teachers had a significant role. Many of the things I do today can still be linked to certain teachers.
My interest in story telling was encouraged and nurtured by my first grade teacher Mrs. Briggs. I started writing stories and books as far back as then. Many of her insights presented in progress reports are still true today - such as that I do very well with things that I’m interested in (like consume all knowledge of such things) and that my desk could be a little neater but that I’m not concerned with such “mundane things”. And there was also the thing about liking to make the girls giggle. Still true.
One of our teacher’s aides, Mrs. Miner, suggested in sixth grade that I learn to type as soon as I could. That was after years of showing no potential in the penmanship department. As it turned out, I was a typing prodigy. I always say that when somebody asks “How fast do you type? that I respond by asking “How fast do I have to type?”
My mom was my first music teacher. She forced me to take piano lessons from her. In an effort to avoid that, I joined the band in junior high and learned to play the saxophone. I later also learned to play the bass guitar and the guitar from Mr. Mathieu, the high school band teacher. I had great experiences in the band and stage band in high school, and it fostered a great love and appreciation for not only listening to music but playing it. I can’t imagine life without it.
There were other teachers that were just great people that I enjoyed knowing and learning from. Mrs. Roy, Mrs. McKeil, Mrs. Thompson, Mrs. Chase, Mr. Evans are just a few that were integral parts of my upbringing. Whether it be Spanish, history or government, they all taught me their subjects well (even if my Spanish doesn’t do El Roy justice). They also were wonderful role models, mentors and friends that I enjoy keeping in touch with and continue to admire.
There were coaches that I had. Mr. Fish was the best. He gave me confidence as a young basketball player and showed interest in me as a player and as a person.
There were family friends. I didn’t know either of my grandmothers. But I had Mrs. Cushing and Mrs. Shaw. They were wonderful little old ladies in our local church. They showered me with attention and kindness. They were my surrogate grandmothers and were wonderful to me.
There were pastors. My father was a minister, but he wasn't serving a church when I was a kid. I had Pastor Bray, who was a great man of God with great dignity and integrity. He's always been the eptimoe of a minister to me.
I could probably go on and on. There are so many people, either from family, church, school, work or the community, that played some kind of role in my life.
In some aspects, much of my life is built around things of my own doing. I became the person because of decisions and paths that I chose. But positive influences through my life that encouraged, nurtured, guided and supported me not only steered me in the right direction but provided role models, expectations and lessons that helped me make the decisions and want to be who I became.
In this every-man-for-himself world where so many people are so self-absorbed and ego-driven, it is easy to forget where we came from and who helped get us where we are. I did my part to be the person I am, good and bad. But I didn’t do it alone. My life is deeply rooted in great people, great values and great expectations. I’m a product of a wonderful environment and a memorable community of people that served me well.
Now, if Gorham would just create a Hall of Fame and give me a call, I’ve got my speech already written - and typed.

Keag Party

2010-04-14T16:47:00.000-07:00

It didn't help that I was already hungry.
My fridge in The Cave is a bit sparse these days with the back-and-forth to the coast. Rather than restock for just a day or so, I was living off English Muffins until errands took me to further options around LA.

And then the menu from the Keag Store came across my Facebook page.
The Keag - pronounced Gig and if you don't pronounce it that way, you'll be immediately and forever looked upon as a person from away - is a small market, village store in beautiful downtown South Thomaston. It sits on the corner of Route 73, and if you pay too much attention to traffic or the public landing and waterfront before you, you might even miss it.
There are stores just like it all over Maine. You might drive right by it. You might never have heard about it, and you have no idea what you're missing. But the locals know. It's a small local establishment that has the stock items one might need late at night but also has a pretty good niche for area consumers looking for good local food. I've had their pizza for years and often told everyone that the best lobster rolls I've ever had were at the Keag. Of course, I've never bought a lobster roll anywhere else, haven't had to.
Lately I've gotten hooked on the Keag cheeseburgers, and it also has a pretty awesome breakfast - with eggs, hash, toast and coffee for under five bucks.
Another aspect I like about the Keag Store is that I've been going there for years. The store was originally opened by my grandmother's brother, one of the many Joseph Baum's on the St. George peninsula. I never knew about the family connection as a kid. All I knew was that the store had penny candy. And, though hard to believe, I actually made less money back then as a kid. My operating budget was merely pennies, unless I found a dime or quarter somewhere. Fortunately, I make slightly more than that now, and even more if a find a dime or a quarter somewhere.

The big thrill over the summer back then was to go to the post office in South Thomaston. Though our cottage is in Owls Head, we're not officially Owls Head peninsula people. It's kind of like we live in West Owls Head or East South Thomaston. The mouth of the Weskeag River empties into our cove. So, rather than go all the way over to the Owls Head Post Office, it was easier to go to South Thomaston. And, best of all, we could go there by boat.
We'd pull up the dock at the South Thomaston public landing, which is basically a parking lot and a boat ramp. I'd be given the responsibility of running up the road to the post office to get the mail. It wasn't a difficult task. I'd walk in and the fine clerk at the post office would either recognize me or know exactly what I needed when I told him our name. They kept a small pile of mail that would be forwarded to us. No need for a post office box back then.
After completing my task at the post office, I'd get down to more serious business - rummaging through the penny candy bins at the Keag. It was a wooden case with sliding glass doors. I'd slide them open and reach in and pick out whatever assortment I wanted.
It didn't compare to the brightly colored and, frankly overwhelming, candy stores I've seen today, but back then, it was the best I could imagine. I'd leave the store with a small brown paper bag with a handful of pennies spent on a good cause. I'd rush back to the boat with mail, candy and a smile.
So, it seemed kind of funny today as I sat at home that this staple of my childhood and life in that area would be reaching me via the Internet. The Keag Store's Facebook page was asking fans about what kinds of sandwiches they'd like to see. They also posted the daily special. Then the menu was posted, making the temptation complete.
I was ready to phone in a takeout order. When I'm in Owls Head, it's a short drive or quick boat ride up the river. From Lewiston, it isn't either.
So, it was a bit inconvenient and torturous to be teased by the Keag's offerings, especially on a growly stomach. But I couldn't help but think about how far life has changed and our world has evolved that the little Keag Store could keep me informed, keep me tempted and keep in touch with me from miles away.
Now I almost wait with anticipation to see what the daily lunch special might be or to see what ideas the locals have for improvements.
My suggestion? Make it so they can send cheeseburgers via the Internet to LA. If they can do that, that'd be great.
Of course, a virtual penny candy store would be pretty neat too.

The Puck Stops Here

2010-03-03T17:12:00.000-08:00

I listened to my usual dosage of sports talk radio today - and what the channel guide describes as hip, Emmy-award winning sports television - and there was no talk about hockey.

Well, it was fun while it lasted.

The sport has been the talk of sports news and talking heads for a couple weeks now thanks to the build-up of the Olympic tournament. Now the game of hockey has been put on ice.

It’s gone back to its regularly scheduled programing where most of the free world can ignore it - just like all the people that were cheering on Lindsay Vonn or Bode Miller can forget about the sport of skiing and ignore the World Cup season. At least there are those Ice Capade-like skating shows to keep the real fair-weather fans something to be excited about.

I was actually a little torn about all the hoopla about hockey.

On the one hand, it was nice to see the sport get a little attention. It was also nice to see some good hockey. Olympic hockey is so much faster and more exciting than the muddled down regular season game and a good taste of what is to come when the Stanley Cup playoffs come around - not that any of us will see much of it since the TV coverage is so sparse.

Playoff, or tournament hockey, can be pretty awesome stuff when teams are skating back and forth and the next goal and the winning goal could happen at any moment. It can be on-the-edge-of-your-seat riveting. I have a ton of great hockey memories of watching a nail-biter of a game go into the wee hours of the morning. Some of those marathon games I was covering.

It was also nice to see U. S hockey do so well and give Canada a scare - even though as soon as the U. S. beat Canada the first time, I knew a possible beatdown was to come. Fortunately the U.S. team made a game of it.

To have that going on at the same time we were remembering the 1980 Olympic Gold Medal was quite timely. Even though the nitwits that wanted to compare the U.S. win over Canada as a modern day win over the Soviets needed a two-hander across the knees and maybe a good spear to the balalaika's.

Still, hockey was in the news. People were talking about it. People were watching it. And the game was getting a pretty good showcase and all the puckheads of the world were happy.

Of course, then there was the downside. With any Olympic coverage there is the multitude of bandwagon jumpers that all of a sudden give a puck about a sport they knew nothing about the day before the opening ceremonies and won’t pay attention to after all the torches are extinguished. It’s like all the people that show up at Super Bowl parties and couldn’t name one person on either team. They want to be at the party and want to watch the commercials.

That’s why I can hardly stand the Olympics anymore. It really isn’t about sports now. All the people that live and die with their reality shows suddenly become couch potato sports fan waiting for the next great “up close and personal” Olympic feature to give us some sad story about this or that athlete whose dog died or had bad acne as a middle school kid.

As I waited for the late news to come on one evening, I caught the award ceremony for figure skating. It included the Canadian skater whose mother died during the Olympics. The announcers fell all over themselves to be overly dramatic while production zoomed in close enough to make sure no footage of any tears were missed. It was nauseating at best and exploitative at worst. Yet, I bet the viewers lapped that stuff up.

When I was watching Sunday’s Gold Medal game in a bar, I was surrounded by people who knew nothing about hockey. When the U.S. pulled its goalie in the final minute, one women asked “What happened to the goalie guy?” Another person wondered if they’d have to play the rest of the game without said goalie guy.

Me, I just cringed. People were talking about hockey but it was kind of like people that talk about politics that are equally clueless about the topics at hand. It’s enough to wonder what the forefathers were thinking when they came up with the whole freedom of speech idea.

But now, after a few days of hockey talk, life returns to normal. It’s kind of like when a national event draws the country together and even gets the politicians playing nice. The Republicans act like human beings while the Democrats display some backbone and quit their whining. That only lasts so long and so does the the nation’s attention to hockey.

Now the world can get back to discussing American Idol and Tiger’s private life and leave hockey to the puckheads that truly enjoy the game and knows when and where the goalie guy might be.

Back To Reality

2009-09-18T08:29:00.000-07:00

I could feel blood pressure rise and a wave of stress come rolling in like a storm surge.
At first, I thought it was just because Dice-K was pitching again, but the list of things that needed doing in life made the edge-of-my-seat-while biting my fingernails anxiety of a Dice K start pale in comparison.
I had returned from vacation and life was returning to normal. I hate it when that happens.
This wasn’t any typical vacation. I was on the schooner Victory Chimes for a week. It is quite different from having a week off doing something else. When I’m spending a week or two relaxing at my beachfront cottage in Owls Head, I’m escaping from the world a bit and still manage to pay bills and keep track of the real world on occasion.
While on a schooner, it’s a different story. I returned to the mainland and discovered a week later that the Patriots had traded Richard Seymour. I learned that Republicans were trying to shout down the president (where were protests during the Bush disaster, I wonder?). Kanye West was making news and making me wonder who the hell is Kanye West and why should I care if he’s an idiot. Serena Williams was blowing a gasket on the tennis court drawing my attention to the sport of tennis briefly – very briefly.
While I was oblivious to what was happening in pop culture, I was also out of the loop in most aspects of my life. I lost track of what was happening at work. I had put off all bill paying and responsibilities until my return. My cottage rentals were taken care of for the time being. During my week-long sail, I had managed to put just about everything on hold.
All that was left to wonder was our destination each day, what kind of soup we might have for lunch, when or if Captain Fender Tender might annoy me enough to want to toss him overboard, whether the shirtless guy (who didn’t have a body to be shirtless) would actually wear different clothes at all during the week (he didn’t), whether there might be a good cat fight at the showers or if I could brow beat enough people to buy my book.
All in all it was a very good week. We had fantastic weather all week. There was no rain and no fog. We had sun every day, a few chilly temps and had some wind to sail by. The only drawback was some mosquitoes in the evening that forced us down below on some nights and a part in the steering mechanism that broke. That provided a delay but made things interesting as the Captain jury-rigged the steering and managed to get us back to Rockland without the use of a tow from a tugboat.
Even though it was my seventh trip on the Chimes, I was still able experience things I had not before. After sailing out of Rockland and through the Fox Island Thorofare, we crossed Eastern Penobscot Bay and anchored in Mackerel Cover at Swan’s Island. It was exactly where I thought we might go – in large part because I heard the captain say we were headed for Mackerel Cove. Hey, I’m a reporter. I’m a good listener and a nosey snoop.
From there we sailed up Somes Sound, which was a new treat, we then anchored in Bass Harbor that evening. We sailed to Brooklin the next day and watched another great sunset there. We were going to sail up the Eggemoggin Reach toward Castine the next morning but that’s when the broken steering pin was discovered. It forced a two-hour delay as the captain and crew tried to figure a way to fix a 100-year old part. Being too late on the tide to get under the Deer Isle Bridge, we sailed for Stonington instead. We anchored there for the evening, another first. That brief sail had bent the replacement pin the Captain had used to fix the steering problem. So, to be on the cautious side, he used the yawl boat to push us across Eastern Penobscot Bay. We anchored in the Thorofare and went ashore to North Haven and had lunch off Vinalhaven. Then we continued on to Rockland where we anchored inside the Breakwater for dinner. We had a wedding proposal on board that evening as well.
After dinner, the Captain decided it might be best to try to get into the dock that evening. So, under the cloak of darkness and limited steering, the Captain maneuvered the 100-foot three-master into the slip with ease. I was on fender duty that evening and barely had to react as the boat was guided into the marine quite smoothly. I don’t even park my car that effortlessly – as the scratches and dents on my rear bumper indicate.
But, the early arrival to the dock was too-soon-signal that the trip was over. Many began packing and taking things to their car Friday night. By Saturday morning, the trip was officially over. We said our good-byes and made our plans to rejoin the real world.
In past year’s I’ve had to make the leap quickly. One year I learned within a half hour of getting off the boat that my father had leukemia and had what could have been a few weeks to a few months to live. Another year I had a job interview on Monday for a publishing firm. I spent the next week sweating it out as one of three finalists over whether I might get the job and whether I actually wanted the job. I didn’t get it, probably because I didn’t know squat about the health care industry and my job would have been writing about it. I’m a sportswriter; my medical knowledge is limited to MRI and ACL.
This year I didn’t have events as significant as that to deal with upon my return, but it is still a challenge to catch up on the world and regain my normal schedule. I’m not awake at 6 a.m. to watch the sunrise anymore and I don’t have coffee delivered to me at 7 a.m. any longer. The things like coffee, bacon, sausage and eggs that I eat on board the Chimes are pretty much off limits for the rest of the year. I’m back to eating healthfully, I hope. I don’t have a cocktail hour at 4 p.m. every day and now snacks are no longer provided at 5 p.m.
What I do have is a job to get back up to speed on. I have bills to pay, rentals to book, books to sell, books to write and a Facebook page and blog that has been neglected. I have things to do, stress to manage and a pennant race to follow. Dice-K is pitching again. Tom Brady is playing on a wobbly knee (aren’t we all?). I have a life to live and distractions to distract me. Life isn’t as simple as it was a week ago. But I’m not eating till I’m stuffed this week and I have pretty good steering. So it isn’t all bad.
And, I have a vacation coming up in two weeks.

Tough Choices

2009-09-02T17:28:00.000-07:00

I've heard it described as beautiful, ideal and perfect.

The only thing I haven't heard the weather talking heads say is that "If you were going to be on vacation next week, you have picked the absolutely best week weather-wise - especially if you're going to be on a schooner."

They haven't said it yet but I know on one of the next weather updates they will.

The weather watch is just about complete. I've even started getting a gauge on the what the wind conditions might be. Right now, Monday and Tuesday is forecasting 5 to 10 knots, blowing out of the southwest. I'll take that.

So, now, I have an inkling of what the weather is going to be and what kind of wind we might have, which gives me a hint in which direction we'll sail.

Those are the first few things I think of as my trip on the Victory Chimes approaches.

My seventh trip on the three-masted schooner begins Sunday when I board the vessel and haul out Monday morning.

Now that the weather worries are taken care of, my attention turns to packing. I've got an idea what clothes need packing and what items should make the trip. I'm thinking it's going to be an all-shorts journey again this year, meaning only one token pair of jeans will get packed - unless of course, I decide to live dangerously.

So, that's one of the big decisions I have to make in the next day or so - whether I pack jeans or not.

Another choice I must address is my cocktail hour strategy. You see, when the Chimes drops anchor each day at four p.m. in some harbor in Penobscot Bay, the custom is to have the freezer lid open before the anchor even hits the mud. The various cocktails of choice begin to appear. Who thought sailing could be so challenging?

Of course, for me, the drink of choice becomes complicated. I used to pack a couple different six packs of beer and that would suit me for the week. But, I tend to get bored easily. I have the whole try-something-different-be-unusual-don't be repetitious thing going.

By Tuesday, I'd be sick of beer and want something else. So, last year I had beer and had provisions to mix drinks. This year I may do the same. I'll probably bring some brews but I also have a concoction of rye and Moxie that I might make - that should get people talking on board. I've also already got gin and tonic to mix but might opt for rum and ginger ale- is it bad luck to drink a Dark and Stormy on a boat? If I drink that and Lenny keeps whistling, we might be tempting fate a little too much.

Isn't it nice that the biggest choice and decisions revolve around long pants and what alcohol to bring on board?

That's what I like about sailing on the Chimes. I can toss aside all other problems, stress or things that sap my attention and focus. All that really matters is what kind of soup we're having for lunch, what I've got to drink with the appetizers at 4 p.m. and whether I can keep up with Lenny on lobster night. Last year, I failed miserably. I think he had 4 and I had 2.

I used care about where we're going. I still do a little. Being completely obsessed with where I'm going and what I'm doing next, I can't help but ponder where the boat is headed. I've already started thinking about where we're sailing Monday and it's Friday afternoon. The captain himself probably hasn't even thought about Monday's destination.

I've often sat on the aft deck and been able to listen (as opposed to eavesdrop) on the captain. I'd bring along my maritime chart and begin guessing by late morning where we might be going. Sometimes I'd be right - especially if I heard the captain say where we were going - and sometimes I'd be wrong, imagine that. Now, I don't really care. It's either likely that we'll go someplace I've been before and if we go someplace new, that will be awesome also.

I don't really have to worry about whose's going to be on board. I was fortunate when I tried the Labor Day sail - now officially called the Labor Day Hooker's Cruise - that I met a great group of people. So there will likely be 25 to 30 or so passengers on board next week and I already know close to half of them. It will be fun seeing them all again and picking up where we left off last year. There will also be some new people that will be fun to meet and help provide great times. Or they'll completely regret that they booked themselves with a batch of rug hookers and one smart ass sportswriter.

This is probably my favorite week of the year. It's a week of sailing out to sea and leaving most everything else behind. I said most everything else. I may do some keeping in touch with the mainland but otherwise, I'm out of circulation for the week. I'm chillaxin on a boat. I'm hauling sails. I'm eating and drinking. I'm trying to find the most gullible newbie onboard to tell far-fetched stories to - some of which are true and some of which are not. I don't think about work. I won't wonder how the Red Sox are doing. I won't have a to-do list in my head.

All that will really matter is what concoction I'll have at cocktail hour - or before and whether I'll regret not packing long pants or not.

Decisions, decisions, decisions.

Goose Rocked

2009-08-06T18:10:00.000-07:00

A lady once asked me if I was interest in lighthouses.
My reply was “Some of them.”
After she offered a puzzled look, I had no choice but to explain. There are certain lighthouses I care about, specifically the Rockland Breakwater and Goose Rocks Lighthouse – as well as a few others. My grandfather and great grandfather served both of those stations respectively. If I’m perusing various gift shops for lighthouse items, as I was that day when the saleslady asked (and probably regretted doing so), that’s likely what I’m looking for.
Today, I made my annual pilgrimage to Goose Rocks in the Fox Island Thorofare, the channel that runs between North Haven and Vinalhaven. It seems as though my summer isn’t quite complete until I’ve travelled the 15 miles or so out to sea to visit a key part of my family history. My great grandfather was the longest serving keeper there, from the early or mid 1890’s to around 1920.
The Rockland Breakwater I see all the time. I see it when I drive into town for errands. I see it when I walk the mile long Breakwater, something I do quite often over the course of the season.
Getting to Goose Rocks, however, is a bit more problematic. I pretty much have to rely on a trip in my brother’s boat or hope we pass it while on my September sail on the Victory Chimes, something we often do. My first trip out there was actually in my cousin’s lobster boat. He hauled out and boatload of Millses for a quick visit.
This lighthouse is pretty unique in and of itself. It’s a sparkplug light and it is stuck in the middle of the channel. It sits on a submerged ledge. The only access is by boat, and you need to scale a ladder to get up onto the deck. It looks just like Spring Point Light in South Portland, but there’s no candy ass breakwater for people to walk out to it on.
What makes it special to me is what it means to our family history and how my own life unfolded. I’m convinced that that lighthouse set the stage for my life to play out the way it has, to some extent. Had my great grandfather never served there, my grandfather likely never would have settled in Rockland. He wouldn’t have married a St. George girl and my father wouldn’t have been born or at least grown up in Rockland where he met my mother. I probably wouldn’t be sitting here or own in a seaside cottage that my parents bought around 1950 in hopes of visiting their parents in Rockland during the summer.
I don’t get the same charged up excitement I had when I would first go out to see the lighthouse. My first trip was actually a ferry ride to North Haven. There we met up with a woman that gave us a tour of the island and provided us a great view of the lighthouse from the land. My next goal was to get close enough to the lighthouse to touch it.
Sure enough, a year later or so, my cousin took us out there, after he took many of his own family out there. I’ve been out there three times with my brother since and by it on the Victory Chimes a half dozen or so times. I also went out there when the government was selling it.
I even considered trying to buy it. My wallet thought better of it. So did my common sense. I figured since it would be a hassle just to get my guitar up that ladder there might be other more important items that might be even more problematic, especially since I didn’t own a boat.
I knew a girl I dated once that lived on Vinalhaven. I couldn’t help but wonder what she would have thought had I bought the lighthouse and word got around enough for her to realize I had bought it and could be seen sitting in an easy chair, cranking Smithereens tunes and waving at passing vessels. She’d have been shaking her head and thinking it’s a shame how fast I had lost my mind.
Anyway, now I’m delegated to visiting it on occasion. I’m not so much in awe of it as I once was but I still love going out there and seeing it. When I made that first trip in my cousin’s lobster boat two members of the family made the comment “Who’d want to live out here?” Meanwhile, I was thinking “Wouldn’t I love to live out here!”
I’ve been inside it a couple of times and hope to get a chance to stay overnight there sometime. The new owners, Beacon Preservation Inc., offer visits for donations for the lighthouse’s preservation. They’ve recently put up a new exhibit highlighting the light’s history at the Rockland Lighthouse Museum. Most of the photos on display are ones I provided and included a whole generation of Millses.
Of course, my picture isn’t one of them. But they were nice enough to put the cover of my novel on the display. We’ll be updating the display next week with items of my great grandfather and maybe even a copy of my book, which is loosely based on my great grandfather’s life before he joined the United States Lighthouse Service. Go to www.kevincmills.com for more info.
Today’s trip couldn’t have been better. We had calm seas all the way out. We passed seals and porpoises on the way, and made great time through the Thorofare. We got to the light and dropped anchor and just sat there and looked at the light and watched vessels go by. One of my Douglass ancestors, my great grandmother’s family, owned Burnt Island at one time, which is just beyond the lighthouse in the Little Thorofare. And my grandfather worked summers on Widow’s Island, which is across the Thorofare from the lighthouse, when there was a hospital there.
Just like when I take my walks out to the Breakwater, I can’t help but feel in touch with my family’s past when I get out to Goose Rocks. It is always a great trip and pleasure to be out there.
Of course, it isn’t like I don’t see the lighthouse when I’m not out there. I only have a couple paintings of it at home and have half a dozen pictures of it here in Owls Head.
And I’m always perusing gift shops for more - just don’t ask me what I’m looking for. I just might tell you.

Cuts You Up

2009-07-30T11:26:00.000-07:00

It seemed like a good idea at the time.
I simply had three options. I could have waited out the tide, sitting on a beach nearby until the water had returned or I could have gone back around Spruce Head Island, braving a few swells along the way.

The other choice was to just up and get out of my kayak, walk across the mud flats and get to the water on the other side and continue on under the bridge at Spruce Head and paddle back home.
As I said, I thought it was a pretty good solution at the moment, especially for someone as impatient as I.
A few hours later while having a phone conversation, I acknowledged that maybe it wasn’t the brightest of ideas.
While on the phone, I explained that I needed a little nursing. “What did you do?” she asked. “Something stupid,” was my response.
Now I like to make cracks about me doing dumb things and showing a distinct lack of judgment. I’m actually the opposite. I like to think of myself as a fairly rational, sensible and calculating person that typically makes sound judgments and decisions. And yes, I’m sure there are numerous friends out there that would start a list and offer examples that prove otherwise.
That’s because I do tend do things once in a while that ultimately are laced with some regret afterwards, even if they typically make for a good story anyway. My feet bare the scars of that regret this week.
The other morning I had chosen to take my kayak out. I had a beautiful day with bright sunshine and warm temperatures. No, really, I wasn’t imagining it. There was sun, no fog, no rain. It was a miracle.
Anyway, I also had a low tide approaching. I shoved off about 8:30 a.m., proving that I am up at that hour on occasion. Low tide was at 10:30 a.m. I wasn’t sure how much water I’d have in the cove at dead low tide and I didn’t really feel like trudging through the mud and shells if I didn’t have enough water to get in. How ironic that is!
So, I started out paddling fully intending to take my sweet old time and time it just about right that I might come paddling back home by 11:30 or so, after the cove had begun to fill back up a bit.
I was initially planning on paddling straight across toward the Eastern side of Spruce Head and paddle that shoreline back toward the mainland. Seeing as it was fairly calm and I had a good as any opportunity to paddle out around the tip of Spruce Head, and had time to kill, I decide to do just that.
That tactical decision seemed to work just fine, even with a few large swells that made me sweat a little out in the open ocean. I navigated through Spruce Head Harbor and headed over toward the bridge that connects the island to the mainland. The water had emptied out, but I had thought that there was enough for me and my kayak to get through. As Fonzie used to say “I was wrrrrrrrrr”
Any approach to the bridge was blocked off by a ridge of mud and mussel shells. There was hardly any water. I really didn’t want to go back around Spruce Head again. I thought I might paddle over to Norton Island and take a siesta on the beach while the tide came back. Then I learned it was already 10:15. It was almost low tide. I figured I’d paddle around a bit and the water would come rushing back to provide me a quick and easy access to the bridge. Wrrrrrrrrr again.

I paddled around a small island. Beached the kayak for a bit and watched the osprey and noticed that periwinkles will peak out at you if you hold them in the water. Then I shoved off and went around part of Rackliff Island and into what we (meaning my Dad and I) call Baum’s Cove. After killing what I figured was a good hour or so, I made my way back toward the bridge, fully expecting there to be enough water. As I approached I realized it was as dry as it was before, if not more so.
That meant Mr. Rational and Sound Judgment had a choice to make. I went with instant gratification. I climbed out of my kayak with the full intent of walking through the mud flats and dragging it to water. Isn’t there a saying that says “You can lead a kayak to water but you may not survive with your feet and legs unscathed.”
It only took one step to tell me what I was in for. When I set foot into the mud and took that first legitimate step, I sank up to my knees. “This can’t be good” I thought to myself. Of course, I didn’t alter my plan, proving that when you mix my impatience with my stubbornness, it can be a bad combination.
I kept trudging along through the knee-deep mud. It was a struggle and exhausting, but I quickly realized that while I was breathing heavy and might be inviting a heart attack, I couldn’t take a break. If I stopped, I’d be stuck - for good (or at least until high tide floated my carcass out to sea).
Keep in mind, I’ve walked through the mud in my cove tons of times. I pushed my brother’s motor boat halfway out of the cove at low tide trying to get a jumpstart to North Haven one year. I had just plopped through the mud just a week before when a quick trip was cut short because of rapidly decreasing tide.
I finally reached a spot in the mussel ridge that seemed to have some sand in it and made it more stable. The crushed shells beneath my feet hurt a bit but it was still better than sinking up to my thighs and then trying to suck them back out of the muck. I reached the point where I could see the water but there will still a patch of mud and shells that I needed to get through. I hoped it wouldn’t be too treacherous. It was very treacherous. I sank three feet in with one step. With an abundance of shells mixed in with this mud, I was getting sliced and diced with each step.
I was providing ample entertainment for those on shore that was watching this adventure. Even the clammers busy at work nearby took a moment to gaze over at the damn fool trying to walk through the mud. Oh, and did I mention that I was barefoot? Had I been wearing any kind of footwear, it would have been lost in the mud.
I would pull my kayak ahead of me and push off it as I slogged through the final 10 yards or so. I finally got to water and settled back down into my kayak. My legs were covered in mud but I could still see scars and streams of blood trickling down my leg. The sting of the cold salt water on my wounds also announced that I had been hacked pretty good. For the first few minutes of kayaking back, I could feel that intense sting up and down my feet and legs. I started to wonder how much blood I was losing, since I could feel it on my foot peddle inside my kayak. I almost stopped to soak my legs in the water and wash them off along the way home but just kept paddling away.
I finally hit my beach a little after noon and washed off all the mud. Then I hobbled up to the house and showered them off. For the next 24 hours, it felt like my feet had been sunburned badly. It hurt to walk or simply wiggle my toes. The day after, it all looked even worse as all the little nicks and scars that I hadn’t noticed the day before appeared as they began to heal over.

I kind of figure that for all the clams and mussels I've eaten in my lifetime, a few of their distant cousins reaped a little retribution that day.

But don't worry. My annual trip on the Victory Chimes is in September. That features dinner out with my sailing friends the night we board, and it typically features fried clams for me. So, the scars may be healed by then, but I won't have forgotten. And I just may have an appetite for revenge that night.

A Matter Of Trust

2009-07-18T11:15:00.000-07:00

When the coverage began Friday night about the death of newscaster Walter Cronkite, one of the first things I heard was how he was considered the "most trusted journalist".

It immediately dawned on me that if I were to be described as a journalist, trusted would be the word I'd want.

That's what has always been my goal as a reporter. I wanted people to pick up the paper or magazine and see my name and immediately associate it with credibility. They'd read the story with full knowledge that they not only believed in my work but trusted it.

That's how I view other reporters. I see who the story is written by. If it is work by a journalist I respect, I'll likely read it and believe what I find in the story. If it is written by a reporter that I don't trust, I might bypass it completely or solely read it because I'm sure they'll have screwed up something so badly in the piece that I'll likely get a good laugh out of it.

I do the same for TV journalists. If Tim Russert reported something, I'd trust it. Same goes currently for someone like Chuck Todd or Andrea Mitchell. If it's one of those Fox nitwits, I won't even take it seriously. Most of the local sports talking heads are laughable. They try to be funny, when they're not and obviously lack knowledge of what they're covering. One TV journalist had to be rescued last week by their photographer - oh, sorry - their photo journalist - because when a golf ball was flying towards them and people yelled "Fore" they just stood there and nearly got hit.

Now, I know some people don't look at news the same way I do. It doesn't matter to them who is delivering the news. They don't care whose by-line is on the story. I've had people approach me to commend me for a story that they really liked - the only problem would be that I didn't write it.

Then there are others that when they hear my name, they'll be like "Oh yeah, I read your stuff all the time" or maybe they just remember my mug from the football picks we used to make.

It really doesn't matter to me whether they remember my name or not. I'm not in the business to literally make a name for myself. What I do care about is that if they do bother to remember my name that they associate that with quality work and trust.

I've been fortunate. I think I've been able to do that. I often show up at various sporting events and am told by coaches and athletic staff that they're glad to see me there - as opposed to other reporters that they can't stand or can't trust. Granted, sometimes they're happy to see me just so they don't have to report the score later.

I've had some tell me things off the record and beg me not to print it - citing the fact that another reporter they know would likely do just that, despite being told not to. That's a good way to give journalists a bad reputation.

When I was recognized by the Maine Interscholastic Athletic Administrator's Association last spring, one athletic director gave me one of the greatest compliments anyone had ever given me. He told me that people trusted me. And as if that weren't enough , he told me that I was one of the few that people could.

I work for a paper that could care less about the work I do or the credibility I've established. I can't remember the last time one of the powers that be commended me for a job well done and told me I was appreciated. Heck, when I was given the media award by the MIAAA last spring, the SJ made no mention of it in the paper or to me. I guess I can't complain. At least they gave me the night off, which is more than they were going to do for my father's funeral.

But, I'm not out to impress them. I'm not out to make a star out of myself like some reporters. I'm there to be a journalist. I want to to do quality work, treat the job and the people I deal with with respect and understanding. In turn, I want respect and trust.

I think I've not only been able to establish that but have also earned it. Coaches, players, fans and readers have come to understand, and hopefully appreciate, that.

The problem some newspapers have now is that they're losing that trust with readers and the people they're reporting on. I see many reporters that are just plain lazy and lacking knowledge about the event they're covering. Doing a half-assed job is just as good to them. There are others whose ego's are so big that they get in the way of their work and credibility. They like to brag about how much they do and how good they are - when they're not all that good at all.

I don't know how much time I've got left in this business. I've had one foot out the door numerous times. It is still a job I can enjoy and feel like I make a difference in.

Who knows where the newspaper business is going. The media is evolving into a faster-paced environment where the foundations of who, what, where, when and why are being replaced by sound bites, tweets and web posts. Journalists are trying to be media stars as opposed to doing their job credibly. It can be rather disgusting to watch because the job and its role is being diminished. I still think there is a place for trust in the media, but I fear that it is losing its place as journalism becomes more about entertainment and egos than it is about information and serving the public's interests.

I'm sure there will be a lot of talk about Cronkite's death and acknowledgement that he's of a by-gone era and that there won't be many like him anymore. That's kind of a scary thought.

I Kneeded That

2009-07-04T10:19:00.000-07:00

There are not many dates that linger in my crowded mind of trivial details – but July 5th is one of them.

There are only a handful of such dates that stir my emotions and spark my memory. Some are good recollections. Some are memories I’d just as well forget.

There’s April 27 – the day I was born. Guess I have to remember that one – as much as I try to forget it each year. But that was also the day I first saw the Smithereens play live. It was probably one of my best birthday’s ever.
There’s February 4 – that was the day I found the greatest girl in the world.

There’s September 11 – which I remember for obvious reasons – and some not so obvious.
There’s December 24 – that’s the day my father died. I can still hear the phone ring at 7:45 that morning – and I knew exactly what the call was about.

July 5 actually wasn’t a good day, but it turned out to be one of the best days of my life because of what it prompted.

That Friday morning was the day I blew out my knee, badly. I snapped my patella tendon – the one that keeps your kneecap in place. My doctor said it was one of the worst he’d seen. Having my kneecap sliding a quarter of the way up my thigh gave me a pretty good indication of that.

I violated just about every maritime superstition I knew of that day. I was going to sea on a Friday. The rowboat I was going to go out in had blue on it. I was probably whistling and ignoring the red sky in the morning just to completely tempt maritime fate.

The plan was to take two boats over to Port Clyde for the day. While my brother readied to depart in his, I was pulling up our rowboat – the Goomer Too – to ferry out to my Dad’s boat. Because of a severe thunderstorm the night before – which had me delirious with fright while at the fireworks in Thomaston (cause lightning freaks me out like nothing else) - the rowboat was full of water. I had to drag the boat up above the tide line to tip it over and dump it. Frustrated and impatient, I reached down and grabbed the bow of the aluminum boat, lifted it with one might heave and began dragging it up the beach. With the bow lifted, I stepped backward, needing only to go five feet or so. However, the storm the night before didn’t just bring rain, the riled seas brought lots of washed up seaweed, and as I stepped backward, my foot landed on seaweed.

Now, for you landlubbers out there, seaweed doesn’t really need a sign on it that says slippery when wet. That’s pretty much understood, and if you don’t know that , you should stay of the beach and rocks. Of course, even a know-it-all like me can get distracted enough to forget that.

When my foot hit the slippery seaweed, my leg went out from under me. With all my weight leaning backward, I fell right on my leg, popping my patella tendon with one giant severe snap.
I won’t even get into the whole drama of getting me off the beach. It wasn’t easy. A few hours later, I was in the hospital room. My knee had been surgically repaired. I was facing a long rehabilitation. My summer vacation was ruined, and I wouldn’t be able to drive for three months. For a brief few minutes, I felt pretty sorry for myself. I was lower than a snake’s belly in a wagon rut, so to speak.

But, it didn’t take long for me to snap out of it. I was helped by an eight-year old girl, my niece Caitlynne. She had been diagnosed with bone cancer that spring and had gone through drastic surgery just weeks before to save her life. I had actually seen her the week before my knee injury and was inspired by her strength and courage.

So, I sat in that hospital room determined not to let a little eight-year old girl show more guts than me. Right then and there, I put my game-face on. I wasn’t feeling sorry for myself anymore. I had the eye of the tiger. I was going to make this injury one of the best things that had ever happened to me.

I set goals for myself that day. While embarking on my rehab, I was going to get myself in shape. The recovery time was estimated to be about three months or more. I was determined to trim that. I was going to take on this challenge with a positive attitude and kick its ass.

I later took a Sports Psychology class that talked about dealing with adversity. We were shown a clock and it was divided into sections. The top of the clock, 11 to 12, was where your goals were, what your dreams are. The previous half or quarters were what you had to do to get there.

Around the 3 o’clock mark, however, was an obstacle. The prof said that quite often people encounter adversity on the way to that goal. If they don’t deal with it or overcome it, they remain stuck, living that never-ending cycle between 1 and 3. If you can endure that challenge and get over that adversity, you’re on the road toward your goal.

I related completely to that scenario. I've seen people get stuck in one bad moment and never get passed it. I didn't let that happen. From the first few moments of coherence after my surgery, I was determined to take something bad and make it good. I didn’t really know how I was going to do that. I had meager goals – eat right, lose weight, get in shape and rehab my knee with persistence. I did all that with an attitude that was determined and unrelenting. It taught me that I could do anything if I put my mind to it. I just needed the right attitude and to channel my stubbornness (which I have an abundance of). I didn’t just hobble past that hurdle. I took my crutches and beat it to smithereens. Then, I tossed the crutches away and limped off – glaring at anything else in my way with a “you wanna a piece this?” attitude, or something like it.
And, it paid off. I was driving almost two months to the day of my injury – without doctor’s permission of course. I returned home and began work a few weeks later. When the three-month recovery time estimate had elapsed, I’d been back at work for weeks and driving regularly. I was still building the strength in my knee but the daily walks and exercises had paid off. As if that weren’t enough, I lost about 30 pounds during that summer and would later drop about 40 more.

The benefits didn’t end there. Because of my lost vacation time and some awards I had won, I had extra time and prize money to spend. This was in the day when the paper actually rewarded us with cash bonuses for awards. Now, we might get a mention in the paper or ignored altogether.

I decided to use that time and money for something special. I decided to go on a schooner trip. The next July I sailed on the Victory Chimes. The following year I returned to the Chimes for a sail in September. It has become a yearly tradition, a week I anxiously await each year and has provided me a group of friends that are near and dear to my heart.

I think back to that July 5th now. I don’t really dwell too much on that morning and how my journey began. I still have the scar and my knee gets cranky once in a while – just like the rest of me.

It’s where I’ve gone and what I learned from that experience. It made me a better person. It taught me to be determined and committed to my cause and my goals. And I remain unrelenting in my pursuit of those dreams. I did turn a pretty bad morning into something special. The pain and misery I felt on the beach that day has been surpassed greatly by the resolve I’ve found inside and the benefits that came with it.

July 5 now reminds of the song “Beautiful Day”. It was one of the Leveller’s biggest hits in England. It goes “What a beautiful day, I’m the king of all time. And nothing is impossible in my all and powerful mind.”

How true. So, happy July 5, my independence day.

The Proof

2009-05-29T07:04:00.000-07:00

It has been the only item remaining on the list for sometime.

I made the list so long ago, I don’t even recall when it was. It was before my first guest appearance on television, before my first Maine Press Association award, before my first magazine article was published and before I was working a pro hockey beat - because all of those things were on that list of things I wanted to accomplish.

For the last few years, the only thing left on that “to do” list was to publish a novel.

Thursday, I came pretty close to accomplishing that feat. When the UPS man buzzed me, I knew what it was. My proof of Sons and Daughters of the Ocean had arrived.

I opened the package with great anticipation and even greater fear. After struggling to try and revamp the cover artwork and get it to work with my publisher's template, I was afraid it would look distasterous and I’d have to start all over again.

When I pulled it out, the front cover looked pretty cool. I liked it. And in my hand I held my novel - a piece of fiction I’ve been writing off and on for most of this decade. It’s been so long, I can’t even remember when I started it.

The story is based on some of my own family history. It chronicles life in a small Maine coastal town called Brooks Harbor. The story focuses on three teens - Alfred Miller, Sarah Dyer and Sammy Jones - that have grown up in a village where sea-faring and shipbuilding has shaped their lives. But their close proximity to the sea comes to change them more than any of them can imagine. It is a historical novel based on true stories culled from the rich maritime legacy of my ancestors.

I don’t even recall exactly how I this particular story became my first serious attempt at a novel. I have had other ideas. If I had a book for every book idea that goes through my brain, I’d have an entire library by now.

I know Sons and Daughters of the Ocean stemmed from the extensive research and writing I did for a book on Mills family history and then another book on the life of my grandfather. Both books were 350-plus pages and took many years to complete.

After completing my book on Mills history, I kind of followed the old newspaper adage of “write what you know.” And a new novel idea was born, one which I could actually see potential in and maybe even finish.

My great great grandfather was a reknowned shipbuilder and built one of the nations’ first three-masted schooners. My great grandfather sailed on schooners for about 20 years before becoming a lighthouse keeper. Their lives served as a bit of a template for this story.

This work was also inspired a bit by the Civil War trilogy by Michael and Jeff Shaara. The Killer Angels and the subsequent works Gods and Generals and The Last Full Measure were excellent historical novels. I wanted to take the history I had researched and do something similar. I even have enough material from my family history to do a three-part series. In fact, my second novel, Sea of Liberty, is a bit of a prequel to this story, but more on that later.

Writing this has been a bit of an ardous process. As much as I love writing, I discovered what a challenge it is to write a piece of fiction when you are so trained and accustomed to writing about actual events and people. When I sit down to write a newspaper story, I have all the facts, details and perspectives in front of me. Many times I've seen this person or team play and can write from my own perspective as well as their's. All I have to do is weave it all together with a little flair and creativity.

Writing a story without those facts, details and perspectives was a challenge. I had to draw on a creative writing mind that is not accustomed to making things up. Many people tell me "It's amazing how that mind of your's works." But it was a chore to develop a process and force myself to be able to create characters, events, details, moods and personalities from scratch. That's why Sons and Daughters of the Ocean draws from a lot of my own experiences. I'll be able to go through the novel and pick out various characters or instances that are based on actual people or occurences. More on that later.

To force myself to write wasn’t easy either. That’s what I do every day. I often crank out at least five stories per week, if not more. When I have down time and put my slightly overactive mind to rest, the last thing I want to do is force it to write.

Eventually, I managed to find a way to create a writing mood and got myself in the frame of mind to pluck away at this story. Little by little it would progress. There were times I lost interest or couldn’t find the time. There was one point where I went an entire year without touching this story or even thinking about it. There were times I almost scrapped one of the characters or a story line but didn’t.

Of course, then there was my continuous attempt to tinker and fix and rewrite and redo and meddle and critique. I honestly still don’t know whether this is any good or not. I learned a lot about the process of writing, and I was a better fiction writer by the end of this endeavor than I was a the beginning. So much so that I often contemplated starting the whole thing over again and starting anew, utilizing the skills I’ve developed. But I figured I wouldn’t actually change all that much and instead stuck to my incessant tinkering and meddling until I finally got so tired of working on it, that I decided it was time to get it published.

Now the proof copy sits in my hand. At one time I realized that if I had just one copy published, that would meet my goal. I wouldn’t even have to have anybody else read it.

But, deep down, I want people to read it. I don’t know whether people will become engrossed in the characters and the story. I don't know whether people will be rivetted and be unable to put it down. I hope so. but we’ll see. Readers can at least be entertained by some of the various things I put in for fun. More on that later.

I'm glad this process is nearly over. I've spent many years thinking about and working on this story. I'm excited about this project being nearly completed and am excited about the others I can devote my attention to.

I have my book Sidelined destined to be done later this year while Sea of Liberty is being written. I might even finish that in less than a decade. I hope so. I've already got two other story ideas for novels to follow it. One of which could be a sequel to this novel (but isn't about sailing).

I'll post more info and details about Sons and Daughters of the Ocean on my webpage (www.kevincmills.com) once it is up and running. The book should be on sale in the coming weeks. I'm hoping this morning was the last tinkering I am to do on it. Well, at least until I'm working on the screenplay for the Hollywood movie version.

Welcome Back My Friends To The Show That Never Ends

2009-03-31T13:12:00.000-07:00

With just one quick riff through the opening chords, it becomes obvious to me what song is coming.

And the chills already begin down my spine and goosebumps bubble up on my arms.

That’s how I often know a concert is really reaching into my soul and grabbing my attention.

On this night, the Bodeans had barely begun to play. But when Kurt Neumann began the opening sequence of "Dreams", I was taken away to a heaven filled with amplifiers, guitars and Kenny Aronoff’s steady thump from behind the drum kit (a sound I still hear in my head).

Just thinking about it takes me back to that September Sunday night. I had been through a stressful week, and it was only getting worse. This Bodeans show at the Paradise was just the first show I was going to that week. I had the White Stripes on Wednesday and Paul McCartney the following Monday. Three concerts, 800-something miles in eight days. That was the good stress to help me forget the bad stress.

When the Bodeans roared into “Dreams” that night and belted out the chorus “Ain’t this what dreams are made of." The chills on my arm answered with a definitive “Yes”. I remember thinking this is one of those things that truly makes me happy. It is one of the greatest feelings in the world.

I’ve been going to concerts since I was in high school. The first show I went to, as a licensed driver, was Survivor and REO Speedwagon. Yes, that dates me. I wish I could say it was their reunion tours. It wasn’t. Saga and Pat Benatar followed with the J. Giels Band up next. From then on, my life has revolved around waiting for the next show and the next onsale date.

There was even the time when I was doing concert reviews for the newspaper. Between gigs I’d go to for myself and ones I’d actually write about, I was going to a concert at least once a month for a good year or two.

I once made a list of all the concerts I’ve seen and all the venues I’d seen them in. I don’t recall the final number but it was lengthy. Heck, there are a handful of artists that add up to significant numbers on their own. Between Bruce Cockburn, the Bodeans, Ellis Paul, the Smithereens, Richard Shindell, U2 and REM, there’s over 30 shows right there.

There are some shows I probably don’t remember too much about, but I bet if pressed I could tell you a little something about each one. I have binders at home that serve as scrapbooks to all the shows I’ve been to. They’re filled with ticket stubs, set lists, newspaper advances, concert reviews and even autographs of Ronnie James Dio, Allison Krause, John Gorka, Patty Larkin, the Saw Doctors, the Moody Blues, Jars of Clay and Margo Timmins, of the Cowboy Junkies. I even have concert photos from the shows I shot pictures at, including the above photo of Paul Stanley. I thought security was going to toss me because after being told what not to do while shooting photos, I did exactly that. Got a good shot out of it.

There are still memories from the various shows that are inevitably burned into my mind. There was the disco ball and sweeping lights that circled Foxborough Stadium as David Gilmour roared through the guitar solo of "Comfortably Numb" at a Pink Floyd show. I can never forget that powerful moment where light and soaring notes combined to create a feast of sight and sound that carried you away for those moments.

There was Tony Levin’s bass that thundered in my chest with each note during a Peter Gabriel show. I was in the front row, standing right in front of the bass speaker, where every note thumped inside my body as Levin looked down and smiled.

There was Billy Duffy’s bad ass riff as the Cult roared through their best stuff. Those catchy power chords had me in awe. http://www.facebook.com/ext/share.php?sid=51121946652&h=1dOO_&u=LrQMF

There was Bodean Sammy Llanas handing me his guitar pick after a stirring performance of “Naked”

There were the moshers and slam dancers that made the mistake of bumping into me. One got shoved forcefully into the stage as Live played at Great Wood during the Womad Festival. Another wound up on the floor, where other irritated concert goers began kicking him.

There was seeing McCartney for the first time. Being a lifelong Beatles fan, it was incredible to see one of the artists that had influenced so much of my musical foundation.

There was seeing a solo Peter Wolf at small club in Portland or the Dave Matthews Band at the Gray Cage at Bates College, sharing a bill with Big Head Todd and the Monsters.

There was the combination of mudslides and Social Distortion at Hampton Beach.

There was being in the seventh row as The Who played Quadrophenia. When Pete Townsend broke a string and was obviously frustrated, I hoped and prayed he smash the guitar. He didn't.

There was seeing legends I never thought I’d see, Roger McGuinn, Fleetwood Mac, Gordon Lightfoot, Simon and Garfunkel, Crosby, Still, Nash and Young and Rush.

There was the spur of the moment trip to a show in Augusta featuring 80’s metal bands and watching Cinderalla come out with some attitude and swagger and rock the house.

There was the first rock concert at the newly built FleetCenter, featuring REM.

There were second-row seats to see Radiohead, in their largest concert in America at that time - and the warmup band, Spiritualized, which I likened to the Moody Blues in a train wreck.

I could go on and on.
Some of the best concert going experiences were shared with friends. What got me thinking about writing about concerts is the fact that I went to see Shindell Sunday night in Portland. I went to the show with one of my favorite people. I’d looked forward to the evening for days. We drove down the Portland, relaxed in a pub in the afternoon before taking in the show. It was a fantastic day, and Shindell was excellent.

There was the Bodeans show at the Metro in Boston with another dear friend. It was great hanging out with her and watching the show. Even though she developed a crush on Kurt and wanted to become a groupie and follow the band to Providence for the next night.

There were a pair Smithereens shows with another cool girl I know. I even saw a Springsteen show with her years later. There was the Dokken/Sammy Hagar show at the Orpheum when a college buddy and I caught the train into Boston and barely caught the last train home. That friend and I caught AC DC in the old Boston Garden and then took a road trip to Portland from college a few years later to see the band again.

I saw The Firm at Boston Garden with my sister, who asked “Which one is Jimmy Page?” when the band took the stage. I saw a couple of shows with her, including the Moody Blues, when we met the band afterwards and she drooled all over Justin Hayward while getting his autograph.

There were the Pearl Jam shows which ticked off the powers to be at work when a group of coworkers and I took the weekend off to go to back-to-back shows at Great Woods. We missed the companies precious computer training sessions (which we made up in about 15 minutes later the following week) but had a great time.

I come across people all the time that have either never been to a concert or hardly ever go to one. I can’t imagine that. That experience is such a significant part of my life and existence that I can’t fathom it not being there.

Being a sports fan and a sports writer, the fan part gets lost sometimes. Sporting events are where I work. I enjoy the excitement and the atmosphere and am still surprised on occasion by what happens, but it is still my job. The emotional aspect of being a fan is often lost.

Concerts give that back to me. Granted I'm a pretty tame fan. I don't sing along (I'm there to hear the band sing not me and the tone-deaf people near me). I don't shout out requests. I don't get up and dance. I listen to the music. I watch the band. I analyze as only I can and enjoy the moment and the surroundings.

They’re social events, entertainment, opportunities to escape, a chance to lose oneself in the music (and a few mudslides and Irish drinks in a girlie glass). But the concert atmosphere does more than all that. It draws you into the world, connects you with the artists and their raw power, intensity, intimacy or the tender sounds of their voices and words - depending on the style of music. It can be a communal celebration, a shared experience for couples or an individual escape.

There will be times I will stop and pause and think to myself that I really need to go to a show. It’s like a junkie suddenly needing a fix. Sometimes I’ve thought that to myself and realized I had just gone to a concert a few nights before.

I don’t get to as many shows as I used to. I only go to see ones I really must see now. I don’t spend the ticket money that I used to or travel the distances I used to. But I still love the experience.

I’m fortunate to be thrilled by the excitement of sporting events or savor time spent on the water. Both are very unique experiences that I cherish. So is enjoying a good concert. It nearly gives me goosebumps thinking about it, but that’s the point. I go to the shows for the real thing.

My Father's Day

2009-03-08T07:15:00.000-07:00

My father sat in his chair reading contently.
It wasn’t an unusual sight. One of his favorite things to do would be to recline in his chair that overlooks our cove in Owls Head with a book in his hand. On this occasion, the story he was engrossed in was his own. This particular summer he was reading his memoirs. His own life story that he had written a year or so prior to that.
I’d watch him be completely enthralled in his own life story and tell him “Dad, it’s not like you don’t know how it ends.”
He’d laugh or at least acknowledge his smart ass son and comment about how interesting his memoirs were. I must say, he had a point. His story was quite incredible especially when you look at the man that rose from those early years of uncertainty and tragedy. In fact, he only wrote about his life up to the point that he got married and had kids. There wasn't much exciting to recant after that.
Today is my Dad’s birthday. There are a couple of ways I could recognize him on this day. I could spend the day in Owls Head at the place he loved and cherished. I could go out and buy a pie, something else he loved and cherished (but not for the same reasons). If I had gotten down to Owls Head, I would have visited the cemetery, even though I’m not sure his stone would be visible beneath all the snow. So I would have ended up working around the cottage doing various chores, all things he loved to do (even if he did fail to fully inform me about the significant amount of work and responsibility the place requires).
Since I couldn’t do all those, even though buying a pie option is still being considered, I thought I might write a blog about him.
One of the things that amazes me most about my Dad was the fact that he was such a normal person. I recall one lady referring to him as a gentleman – a gentle man, which he was (unless of course you accidentally back the car down the driveway by releasing the emergency break. His hand wasn’t so gentle on my backside in that instance).
He was a friend, a minister and a teacher to many, yet most people probably didn’t even know the adversity he faced growing up. In this day and age, his upbringing could have been described as a bit dysfunctional, but I’m sure he never would have called it that. I remember the morning of his memorial service and stopping by the church. I got into a conversation with the minister at the church and recounted some of the things my father went through as child. He wasn’t even aware of those hardships that my father faced.
My Dad was only a few years old when it was discovered that his mother had tuberculosis. My grandfather’s first wife died of that disease a year after their wedding in 1917. My grandfather married one of her closest friends, my grandmother, a few years later. My Dad, his two brothers and their mother spent much of the late 1920’s in a sanitorium. First they were in Fairfield and then were moved to Hebron.
Eventually all the boys were able to return home while Frances, their mother, stayed at the sanitorium in Hebron. My grandfather, a clerk at a manufacturer in Rockland, would make regular trips to Hebron when he could to visit Frances.
Most of my Dad’s interaction with his Mother was in the sanitorium. She died when he was just 10. From there, my grandfather raised his three young boys on his own. He worked hard but tried to make a good life for his boys. He made sure they were baptized, a wish made by Frances before she died. He gave them a fine upbringing and then watched all three go off to World War II. My Dad was a radio operator, and as a result he didn’t get sent to Europe until the late stages of the war. After the war, my Dad finished high school and went off to college, the first in his family to do so. He went to seminary and became an ordained minister.
Between reading his memoirs, researching the life of my grandfather and having numerous discussions about his life and upbringing, I know my Dad's story well. One day, he and I even made a trip out to Hebron. The place is all grown in and hardly any buildings remain, but he drew out a map and gave me a tour. Thanks to the sharp memory that I inherited, he remembered exactly where everything was. I drive by Greenwood Mountain fairly regularly think about that part of his life.
I can’t imagine growing up in such a scenario and certainly having limited access to your mother and then subsequently losing her at age 10 are circumstances that I can’t even fathom. I can’t help but think about the story of the day the telegram came to say that Frances was very ill. My grandfather tried to make arrangement to get off work and find care for the boys so he could drive to Hebron to be with Frances in her final hours. He didn’t make it. He got another message the following day telling him that she had died. My father recalls crying himself to sleep that night after learning that his mother was gone.
My Dad had a hard life early on. It was a life filled with hardship, adversity and disappointment. Yet, he never spoke of his upbringing in those terms. Life in the sanitorium, he said, provided him a place to live and play with kids his own age during the depression. It also allowed him interaction with his mother.
Between his mother and other influences at the sanitorium, the seeds of his desire to enter the ministry were sown. His father provided for his boys and was active in their lives in the church and the boy scouts. For a young life that was so difficult, my grandfather and father made the best of their circumstances.
And that was always my Dad. Like his father, he always moved forward and wasn’t burdened by misfortune. He lived a life of strength and courage, resembling one of his favorite scripture verses. You never heard him complain. He never showed any signs of bitterness for the travails he experienced as a boy. Those were the years that shaped him and defined him, and I think my Dad made sure they did so for the better. He used those experiences to make himself a better person and lived life with full knowledge that despite the adversity, he had many blessings as well.
I remember the day I learned the prognosis that he had gotten at Dana Farber. I had been away on a schooner vacation and returned home to hear what the doctor had said. My Dad initially downplayed it and said that it was leukemia, the worst-case scenario, and that he had to be sure he was careful with germs etc because his immune system couldn’t handle it. He made it sound like it was no big deal and nothing we hadn’t already been doing. It wasn’t until my Mother got me alone moments later when she explained that the real prognosis was that he could live another two weeks or another two months.
It turned out to be another two months. He died the day before Christmas, and I spent Christmas Eve writing his obituary. Never during that time did my Dad ever shows signs of anything but complete strength and courage, even though he knew his life was at its end. We spent those two months watching football games, watching Meet the Press, talking about the cottage and going through books and tools that he wanted to get rid of.
I could go on and on about various influences he had on me and my life. But as I reflect on his life and the hardships he endured, he proved to me that life is full of good and bad, but it can be what you make of it.
Hardship and adversity can break you down and ruin you or it can build you up and make you stronger. You can feel cursed or you can feel blessed. My Dad showed me that strength, courage and faith is enough to get you through most anything. Misfortune only dictates your life if you let it. He never did that. The simple blessing of his life shaped him and kept him going.
As I researched and wrote a 350-page history on the life of my grandfather, I developed a great admiration for a man who I hardly knew. He died when I was just six. In my Dad’s memoirs, he wrote about his own father “ Dad’s legacy was not in his property but in the life he lived and the faith he passed on to all three of us boys.”
That is great legacy left by my grandfather but one that my Dad also followed and left for me. My Dad was a better man for all he endured in his lifetime. As a result, I hope I am a better person, learning from him and his legacy.
Which has me thinking. I could go for a piece of pie. Happy Birthday Dad!

Hoopla

2009-02-12T13:23:00.000-08:00

This is a column I wrote a year ago about the basketball tournament, which starts in full Friday. It was our most read online basketball item. I thought I'd post it here - because I'm too tired and too lazy to attempt writing something better after finishing all the hoop previews for tomorrow's paper.

There will be moments that last a lifetime. At basketball arenas all over the state over the next week, there will memories made, and entertainment you just can’t find elsewhere, no matter how many Hollywood writers end their strike.It’s basketball tourney time. It starts in full today, and it is one of my favorite days of the year. I look forward to this day and week almost as soon as the previous one ends. Even as I scramble to gather information for countless previews, it feels like a last stressful dash toward Christmas Day. Except, I guarantee, over the next week, you’ll receive something you wanted, and you’ll witness something you didn’t expect.There are numerous reasons I love the basketball tournaments. It is not the eight days of driving to Augusta or Portland (or both in one day). It’s not the 15 games or so I’ll write about or the games I’ll simply watch, which will number twice that, at least. It’s not even the drama of who might win. I made my predictions already. I know who’s going to win. Well, I think I do.What I like about the tournament is the atmosphere, the excitement, and the buzz around the arena when a game is on the line. People are yelling, screaming, praying. Bands are cranking out the tunes. Fans are on the edge of their seats. Coaches are on the edge of a coronary.I like the people that you see. It’s like a family reunion. Over the years, I’ve met plenty of great people in the basketball fraternity. The tournaments provide the opportunity to reunite. You catch up, watch games, talk hoops and share plenty of laughs.I can step through doors of the ACC and feel like I’ve traveled to another world. It is where basketball is played around the clock and nothing else matters. You have limited contact with the outside world. All you care about is who’s playing in the next game or where you go eat between sessions?There will be bands that absolutely rock. I still haven’t gotten all my hearing back since the MDI band came to the ACC for the Class B state championship game a few years back. I was seated at the press table toward that end of the arena. Their thunderous volume and close proximity gave me a mighty headache, but they were tremendous. I remember more about them than I do the game.There are fans that are inventive and entertaining. I remember the kid that wore a box and dressed up as a robot. It made me create my list of “Things I’d have to be intoxicated to do.” Wearing a box and dressing like a robot is still atop that list. There are students that enjoy being kids and have fun, without being obnoxious. Who can forget when the Dexter fans brought out the Dexter Tiger in a wooden cage prior to a state game? That was one of the best bits I’ve seen. What about the raucous Mt. Abram contingent last year? They were a force and certainly a boost to their Roadrunners.There will be games that are absolutely ugly. There will be blowouts. There will be times that you feel you’ve been there all day and it’s only 11:30 in the morning. You go long periods without seeing the sun, assuming the sun is shining. You’ll even drive through at least one snowstorm to get there. You might have to swear off coffee by the time the week is over.There are going to be fans that act like idiots. There will be parents that make you feel badly for their kids. There will be coaches and players that make mistakes and let their emotions and actions get the best of them. The bad side of high school sports will rare its ugly head in one form or another. We’re in a culture where lunacy and self-involvement are becoming the norm.But, there will also be great moments that you won’t forget. I just saw a Wells team Thursday night in which the Warriors Sarah Quint hit a 3-pointer in the final seconds to force overtime. Wells went on to win in overtime. Quint told me after the game that they set up plays like that and practiced them, but she never actually imagined she’d have to hit a shot in that situation. She did, and it was amazing. It’s a moment she’ll never forget and neither will the fans that saw a very entertaining game. Can Survivor beat that?The basketball tournaments give us the opportunity to see heroes that last for more than just one day. We see amazing moments and unbelievable developments. Maybe in the coming week, I’ll chronicle some of my favorite moments from years past.Granted, we can see fabulous feats on television. We can watch the greatest athletes in pro sports. We can see drama in the movies. People can even tune into their favorite reality show and snoop into other people’s lives for their own jollies.The basketball tournaments give us the best of all that, but these are our kids and our communities. It’s the kid that bags your groceries and works at the local fast food place. It’s a neighbor down the street. It’s the kid of a friend of yours. And, even if you don’t know the participants, you are pulled into their world as you watch them play their hearts out. These are real people. They’re people from your communities that are facing challenges and overcoming odds. They’re stepping up and achieving. They’re doing things many us only can only dream of doing.I remember when Dirigo won a state championship at the Bangor Auditorium. Shannon Daley finished off a broken play in the final seconds and scored with a short baseline jumper. I remember the whole play moment by moment, including the jig that Coach Gavin Kane danced at the final buzzer. Afterwards, I talked to Daley outside the locker room. With tears of joy, she exclaimed, “I scored the winning basket in the state championship.” It was a moment she couldn’t believe and couldn’t explain. It is a moment I’m sure she’ll never forget. It is still etched clearly in my mind, and I’m sure fans that saw it can still picture it as well. It was a moment of unexpected greatness that many Maine basketball players might experience today or tomorrow.As the coming week unfolds, take time to notice them. You’ll realize that there are things you won’t witness anywhere else or in any other way. We’ll see the unexpected, the unbelievable and the unforgettable. There will be moments that make us smile, moments that make us laugh, moments that bring us to tears, moments that we won’t soon forget. It’s just basketball and a great chance for communities to rally around their kids, but it gives us all a whole lot more.

Super Party

2009-01-28T09:23:00.000-08:00

Escargot, blue mohawks and a dude called Poopie.

Now that's a Super Bowl party.

With the game that nobody I know cares about this coming Sunday, it got me thinking about Super Bowl parties and some of the ones I've ventured to.

I'm not exactly a Super Bowl Party type. I like the game, the food and the "beverages" but not the crowd of bandwagon jumpers who are there just because a party is going down. It is a night that teases the socialite in me but turns off the loner gene that I possess.

I usually actually want to watch the game - and sometimes yell at the TV and throws things (like last year, but we don't talk about that game any longer). Sometimes a large crowd of partiers gets in the way of that.

It's kind of like the time a group of friends all gathered to watch the NCAA basketball Final Four one Saturday evening. We began watching the games and eating dinner at a local bar. The next thing we now we're crowding 11 people in van, cruising the back roads of Maine to go bar hopping. I remember nothing about the basketball games, but unfortunately, can't wipe away the vision of the Pimp Daddy mooning everybody. It was certainly a memorable and fun evening, but not because of the basketball.

So, most Super Bowls I've watched have remained low key. I've either watched them at home or watched them with a few friends and family. Since my niece's birthday is often right around Super Bowl Sunday, we often got together for both occasions. She didn't really like sharing her birthday party. So, we just moved her birthday from January to early November. Problem solved.

The most interesting Super Bowl party was the one mentioned above. I wasn't really even invited to it. The Patriots were playing the Eagles that night, and rather than give me the night off to enjoy the game, the SJ thought it might be a good idea to make me work. I was assigned Super Bowl party duty. Since I struck out finding somebody I knew that was holding a party to attend, write about and watch the game, I had others set up potential places to go.

I started with a guy holding an outdoor grilling party. He was tearing down the back of his house to rebuild for his mother. He had a batch of friends over to grill all kinds of food - including escargot. It provided me the great opportunity to refer to the T.O. Has B.O. T-shirts and dump on Payton Manning in the story.

After spending a little time there, I went over to a house of guys where they were giving themselves blue mohawks. One of the guys was nicknamed Poopie. He later left the party in a snit over the betting rules. I was able to watch most of the game there, but rushed back to the office in the second half to start writing. I finished my story while monitoring the game in the office. I finished it enough to catch the end of the Patriots win. Here's a link to the story http://www.sunjournal.com/story/101569-3/Sports/Patriotic_parties/

Of course, with my task for the evening done, I just sat around watched the game and made a nuisance of myself (one of my strengths). While the editors were trying to decide on a headline that would look good on a poster they were doing of the front page, I suggested "Threesome". For some reason, they chose not to use it.

Most of the gatherings I attended in college were pretty low key. The one I remember most was me and my roommate ordering pizza just before the game. We chowed down and then both fell asleep in the first quarter. We didn't miss much because the Dolphins got trounced. I did watch the Chicago-New England Super Bowl with a bunch of Bears fans, now that was fun.

When Scott Norwood missed his infamous field goal that cost the Bills a win, I was at a gathering in a Boston suburb. I don't even recall who was there that I actually knew. It was a party that my sister set me up with.

One memorable one, of course, was the Patriots first Super Bowl win. Thanks to the Portland Pirates, I had to cover one of their games that day in the afternoon. I didn't have time to get my story and go anywhere else after. Instead, I rushed out to Gorham to watch the game with my Dad. I still remember watching the game-wining field goal and thinking "They actually did it." It was cool to spend that evening and share that moment with my father.

As I write this I realize, as much as I like the game and the strategies of it, what has made the past Super Bowl parties memorable haven't been the game. I barely recall most of the games, except the Patriots games (with one exception that we no longer discuss). What I remember are the people, the setting and the fun we had.

Now I'm kind of in the mood for a Super Bowl party. I wonder how many football fans we can squeeze into a van?

Bye George

2009-01-20T10:24:00.000-08:00

See ya. Wouldn't want to be ya!

The Bush era, I mean the Bush error, is over. Good riddance.

I've spent the last few hours watching the final moments of his dictatorship, even though he hasn't dictated anything in about six months. I've revelled in watching him leave power in disgrace and ridicule.

The ego-maniac, self-serving, religious zealot, war mongering dictator I won't miss at all. The bumbling, moronic dufus will be sorely missed.

I thoroughly enjoyed watching Bush's final moments and was nearly brought to tears and/or jumping up and down (or flashing an obscene gesture at the TV) as Bush boarded the helicopter and flew away.

But I will miss ole jug-ears in a way. Watching David Letterman won't be the same with his "Great Moments in Presidential Speeches", playing clips of Bush and ridiculing him with his own words. Fortunately, the Late Show has a clip of a sneezing monkey to replace the speeches of a bumbling jackass.

I'll miss the mockery that Will Ferrell made of him on Saturday Night Live. I'll miss the jokes from Jay Leno or John Stewart. Fortunately, but also unfortunately, we won't have GW to kick around any more.

As much as I'd like to see Bush prosecuted, tarred and feathered or even waterboarded, I know he'll likely get away scot free and won't learn the meaning of accountability. So the only justice we get is to watch Bush leave office in shame and disgrace. And I've enjoyed every moment of it.

The jokes and ridicule he has endured by comedians has been great. He'll go down in history not only as incompetent but also a laughing stock. His stuttering, mumbling and bumbling define his policies and his cowboy legacy.

It has been a joy to watch him squirm the last few months. He'd been rendered a lame-duck and useless national figure. Even when he tried to bolster his own record and rewrite his own legacy, he came off as an idiot and wasn't taken seriously. The White House web site has already replaced Bush with photos of Obama, and the word "Failure" in the dictionary has already been updated with Bush's likeness.

It all couldn't have happened to a better guy. I took great pleasure in watching today's ceremonies, knowing full well how bad it made Bush look. He was booed by the crowd and given the "Hey, Hey Goodbye" treatment. Classic. I could barely contain myself when Dick Cheney was wheeled out in a wheelchair. He looked just like the evil banker in "It's a Wonderful Life" I thought for sure he was going to say "I'm going to ruin you George Bailey." Of course, Bush and Cheney likely would have ruined that savings and loan also.

How sweet was it to have Bush sitting there during Obama's speech and making him listen to the new President's indictment of the last eight years. He was forced to watch millions celebrate his removal.

Today's ceremonies were about renewal, change and restoring hope. In a matter of hours, the country took out the trash and kicked it to the curb. The nation now starts anew.

I only hope I don't have to see George Bush ever again - unless, of course, it is while he's on trial.

Super Bore

2009-01-19T07:48:00.001-08:00

The Super Bowl pairing has been set. We're now in for two exciting weeks of mindless hype about the Pittsburgh Steelers and Arizona Cardinals. Yikes.

I'm not sure what is worse, that this is what we have left of football season or that football season really is over and now I'm left to watching the Bruins and the Celtics. Or wondering when Jason Varitek will come crawling back to the Red Sox. What's really scary and I concluded yesterday that at least I've got the Daytona 500 to watch in a few weeks. If the only sport I've got left is are the Turn Lefties, I've got troubles.

Too bad they can't play the Super Bowl game tomorrow and get it over with. I can't stand the Steelers and I don't give a hoot about the Cardinals. I'm now left to root for a team that got its ass handed to them in the snow at Foxborough a few weeks ago. To think that hapless team could actually beat the Steelers, I have my doubts. So I have no interest in the Super Bowl. I just might take a hiatus and move to one of those counties that has never tried a Whopper. Maybe they don't get the Super Bowl either.

Now my opinion might be a bit skewed because I'm still in mourning over last year's Super Bowl. Any time the talk turns to last year's game, I change the channel and walk away from the conversation. Don't want to talk about it. Don't want to hear about it. It used to be the same with the 1978 Red Sox or the infamous Game 6 of the World Series. Those, however, don't quite sting anymore. Funny how two World Series championships alters your perspective.

Now this football season has been pretty much a lost cause from the beginning. When Tom Brady went down with a knee injury, I knew the Patriots chances of a Super Bowl title were gone. It was questionable to begin with because of the Pats defense, which only got worse, and more injured, as the year went on.

I followed the Patriots season with mild interest. I didn't want to get too excited with their wins or too aggravated with their losses. I maintained a mild curiosity of the NFL all season even though all the teams I can't stand appeared to be the front runners.

My interest got peaked as the playoff chase narrowed and the Patriots were in contention. Even though New England got squeezed out, I enjoyed watching the Jets and Cowboys fall apart.

Then as the playoffs continued I was thrilled to see Goober and Gomer Manning get heaved out of the mix. All of a sudden, the only team I couldn't stand that was left was Pittsburgh.

My hope was that Baltimore would take care of business, but rookie Joe Flacco turned into Joe Flunko and the Steelers are the favorites in two weeks.

I probably wouldn't be anymore excited if it were the Ravens and the Cardinals. My slight hope is the fact that I've been able to watch the teams I can't stomach go belly up. So maybe the Cardinals will give me one more thrill by stomping on the Steelers hopes. I wouldn't bet on it. I think the Steelers defense will eat Kurt Warner alive and give the Cardinals a good old beating. The Steelers will do to the Cardinals what the Patriots did to Warner and the Rams years ago. They're going to put a bigger hurt on Arizona than Obama did McCain.

So, that leaves me with no interest in hearing all the hype of the next two weeks. I'm not really interested in the game. The Super Bowl tends to annoy me anyway since it is another one of those events where every yahoo comes out of the woodwork and pretends they're a football fan for a day. They're more interested in the stupid commercials and the partying than the game itself. It would be like me showing up and acting all giddy for the finals of American Idol. And, it would be a cold day in hell when that happens.

So, Super Bowl Sunday, I'm thinking my schedule is free. No commitments. No games to watch. Do they still run the Andy Griffith Marathon on Super Bowl Sunday? Maybe I'll give Tom Brady and Giselle and call and see what their doing.

The Final Countdown On Crazy Train

2009-01-17T20:32:00.000-08:00

If I hear that blasted Europe song one more time, I'm going to hurl. That one-hit wonder from the 80's needs its own final countdown.

If another basketball team storms out to the sounds of Ozzy Osbourne, I'll be going off the rails of a crazy train.

In my profession, I hear warm-up music every night. Quite often it is the same batch of tiresome tunes. Most of them are songs I never liked to begin with, but now, I really can't stand them. Yet, I hear them over and over again.

It makes me want to stand in front of a speaker at a Disturbed show so my hearing will suffer, and I won't have to listen to the current crap I endure each night. Maybe I'll just start using the earplugs I bought when I did a car racing story from Kyle Busch's pit crew. But, those just dull the noise, not eliminate it.

One thing I know a little bit about is music. Okay, I think I know a little bit about everything (but I do, so live with it). I think I have some credibility when it comes to the songs I hear basketball teams play. And, in my professional opinion the current choice of music is tiresome, stale and just plain sucks.

So, I'm thinking I should hire myself out as a professional music consultant. You want a warm-up mix tape that rocks? I'm your music man.

I've even got proof that my way works. This summer my brother and I both painted our respective decks at our summer places on the coast. I had Metallica blasting through the boom box, along with a little REM's "Accelerator." My brother chose to paint his deck with doo-op music. When I went down to help him and heard his tunes of choice, I wanted to do shots of paint thinner. Well, want to guess whose deck got rained on by Mother Nature? Not mine. Mother Nature obviously likes Metallica.

Now I know music is a matter of personal tastes. I just put together a mix CD that is pretty killer. Yes, it makes Squiggy get quite jiggy. It opens with the Dropkick Murphy's followed by Eve 6, Pearl Jam, Disturbed, Buckcherry, Ronnie James Dio, the Killers, Evanescence, Foo Fighters, Fuel, Red Jumpsuit Apparatus, AFI, the Exies and Puddle of Mudd (got to like a song that gets me singing "Maybe I'm the one that's just a little bit psycho" all day long) and then a little more Disturbed and Dropkick Murphy's.

If I don't feel like cranking up that disc, I've got the old standby's like Social Distortion, Metallica or the Crue's "Kickstart My Heart", which if I play while I'm on the treadmill, there's a good chance someone actually might have to kickstart my heart.

But, I doubt those tunes would please the guy that shows up at the workout room at work and likes to play tunes from the Country Music Television.

Now I'll admit my musical tastes have been criticized for decades now. My father always hoped that when I went off to college I'd take Music Appreciation class and actually develop a good taste in tunes. He said that's what happened to my brother. Look where it got him. He's painting to doo-op music - and facing Mother's Natures wrath for it.

I did take the Music Appreciation class. The only thing I recall is that I did take the class, but that is it. For someone who remembers just about everything, that must be a telling sign if I have no recollection of the class.

So, unfortunately for those tender-eared people out there, I still tend to listen to some pretty obnoxious stuff. When I'm in a good mood, it usually means I'm cranking the Smithereens or Social Distortion. Nothing like loving life while grooving to "In this world of pain I have no peer" or feel good songs like "Mommie's Little Monster" or "When the Angels Sing."

Now, I should mention that I do have some quality tastes in music. Out of the 500 or so CD's, I have some pretty good stuff and a wide variety, including my favorites like Richard Shindell, the Bodeans, John Wetton, Buddy Miller, the Levellers, Peter Gabriel etc. But, none of those are great warm-up songs.

But, I'd be psyched to hear a basketball team come out to the Bodeans "Closer To Free" (heck, I've heard it played in the grocery store) or the Levellers' "One Way" or a good Gabriel tune, but that's unlikely to happen. Besides, there are better choices, and it just takes a bit a creativity and a sense of humor. And I got both!

A team like the Cougars could come storming out to Ted Nugent's "Cat Scratch Fever". A team called the Ramblers could use Led Zep's "Ramble On". Even a local team called the Red Eddies (I have no idea why) could use Sammy Hagar's "Red". A winless team could use The Killers' "Mr. Brightside" as their theme song. Now, that would be funny. There's got to be something good for a team like the Blue Devils. Just about any Ronnie James Dio song mentions devils. Better yet, go with the Cult's "Lil Devil". If a team thinks their coach is a complete nimrod, they could go with Disturbed's cover of "Land of Confusion." If a team wants to display some attitude, go with the Crue's Wild Side. And, nobody could go wrong with the Cult. Pick "Rain", "She Sells Sanctuary" or "Love Removal Machine."

Speaking of the Cult, have you seen my head on YouTube? Check out the Cult video from Hampton Beach. That's my melon around the 20 second mark or so. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aMTc7v9Bprw

If team's want to go with the AC DC, put away "You Shook Me" and go with "For Those About To Rock" (you can't go wrong with a song with cannons in it) or the new song "Rock and Roll Train". Since I'm usually at girls' basketball games, the Smithereens "A Girl Like You" would be pretty cool. I could even sing along since I know all the words.

Now, I know teams pick music they like to groove to and their particular tastes dictate what junk they stick in the CD player. They're not too concerned with appeasing the musical tastes of the people in the stands.

But, keep in mind, if the Poison Pen shows up at your gym, ready to write something about your team, wouldn't you want to keep him happy by playing tunes he likes? I'm not threatening or anything, but do you really want to test my patience with a few minutes of "The Final Countdown" or "Crazy Train"?

So, next time a team puts together a new set list for warm-ups, they might be wise to pick a selection from the Squiggy Soundtrack. Remember, a happy Poison Pen is far better than the alternative. Just let it be known that you've been warned.

Snow Day

2008-12-12T07:50:00.000-08:00

Gotta love winter.
All of a sudden Mother Nature dumps a batch of snow or freezing rain on us and the world stands still, and I get a day, maybe even two, off. Now that's a Winter Wonderland.
Thursday, I didn't even expect it or see it coming. From what I'd heard the weather was coming in Thursday night. Maybe it would effect Friday, but I was counting on covering the basketball game I was assigned Thursday evening. I just happened to watch the noon news and discovered that schools were cancelling left and right. I made a quick call and my game was off. Woo Hoo!!
And, it seems unlikely many games will get played today. Another day off.
Now keep in mind, I'll end up covering a game, maybe two, on Saturday when they all get made up. So, I just end up switching days off. Still, I like the idea where suddenly, I have the day off and don't have to go anywhere or do anything. And, since the weather is so bad, I can just hunker down at home.
Of course, I'll grumble when I have to clear off my car. I won't like it when there's a snow storm and schools don't cancel games, meaning I'll have to drive through the slop to get to and from the game. I'll have to shovel some snow and trudge through the mess and slop that winter leaves. All that probably outweighs having a day off, but I'll take the gift of a snow day.
It is still like when I was a kid in school. There'd be a threat of bad weather. I'd forgo doing the homework or studying for a test, hoping Mother Nature would cut me a break. I'd be delivering papers in the morning just waiting for the fire horn signal or some sign that school was cancelled. It would be the ultimate thrill when I'd hear the blessed news. Of course, it was quite a downer if I discovered school was on as planned. That's when it might be time to strike up the fake cough and fever, which usually never worked.
Of course, the snow day would come and go and I still wouldn't bother and get my homework done or study for the test I got a reprieve for.
We have weather days other times of the year. We'll have rain outs in the fall or spring. Those just don't seem to be the same. The rain will flood the fields and make them unplayable but the rest of life goes on.
On a snow day, you try and avoid going anywhere. It's like the world just stops.
The closest I can come to something like this is during the summer when I'm on the coast. If we get a rain day there and we're fogged in, that nixes most plans. There will be no boat trips, no bike trips and probably even a walk on the beach isn't worth the effort. So, the bad weather gives the go ahead to just sit back and read and do nothing or waste a day to go into town and do errands.
Still, the snow day can't be beat. It's like getting a gift from Mother Nature. The weather is saying, "Here, take the day off. Do nothing. Enjoy."
Thank you. I think I will.

Idle Minds Want to Know.

2008-12-04T13:16:00.000-08:00

Now what?
The election is over. The Red Sox season is long done. The Patriots, well my hopes for them disappeared when Sammy Morris forgot he was supposed to block and watched his defender take out Tom Brady's knee. Oops. Sorry dude. My bad.
So, now I'm not sure what to do with myself. And that can't be good. Idle minds cause trouble. Just imagine what my idle mind can come up with? I fear to think of it myself.
All I need to do is open a folder on my computer. It's called the "Best of Squig". It has all the things I've created when the wheels in my mind are set in motion. There's the rewritten Night Before Christmas, a rewritten Jingle Bells, there's a number of phony stories and press releases I made up and sent to friends. I've got photos I've doctored. Heck, I've got a new version of the 12 Days of Christmas half written in my head right now.
The last month has seen a perfect storm of sorts that has left poor Squiggy with too much time on his hands and too few things of interest to focus his attention. If I didn't have that work thing to waste my time, I'd likely be going stir crazy - as opposed to just plain regular crazy. I've always said my mind was like one of those little gerbils running endlessly on the wheel. Well, Squig's wheel is spinning but finding little to fuel it.
I followed the election on a day-to-day basis for the better part of two years. I'm still interested in the political world but watching those shows just aren't the same. First of all, they're mostly talking about economics these days. If I knew anything about economics I likely wouldn't have been a sportswriter. I might have found a way to use my skills for some real coin. But, then again, maybe my skills only warrant the paltry sum of pennies I receive every two weeks.
The political campaigns also moved much faster than the political news now. They spent a good part of two weeks talking about Barack Obama's cabinet, especially Hillary Clinton. There are times I actually turn off the political stuff because it's too boring. The news cycle is too slow. They're talking about the same old stuff day after day.
Now the baseball season ended long ago, but all summer long, I've had the Red Sox to keep track of. Just like the election, I'd monitor the Sox status on a daily basis. Here in New England, we've gotten pretty spoiled where we simply await the next championship. The Sox came close but fell just short.
Typically, that'd be okay. They can't win it every year. Every other year suits me just fine. But, in other years, the Patriots would just pick up when the Sox season ended. But, with Brady's injury and everybody elses injury, and the fact that they have no defense, the Patsies have been too hard to watch. I long for the days when they'd blow out teams by 50 points. It was a relaxing afternoon of enjoying a little ass kicking. Now watching the Patriots takes patience, and I don't have patience. They actually seem to do better when I try not to show any interest.
It is obvious that the Pats may not make the playoffs, and even if they do, they won't go far. What is worse is that all the teams that are likely contenders for the Super Bowl are teams I can't stand. I may not be able to stomach any of the NFL postseason. I fear I might have to resort to watching the WNBA or rodeo's.
I do have the Boston Celtics, but their real season doesn't begin until April, when the playoffs start. So, it's hard to get too excited about them or follow them. Sames goes for the Bruins.
On top of all that, I just closed up our place on the coast and may not be back there for months.
So, with no election, no Sox, no Patriots, no seaside getaway to hold my interest, SquigNation is a bit unsure of what to do.
The local basketball season starts up tomorrow. That's a good sign, but I'm not sure if it is enough to keep me focused and out of mischief. We can only hope.
Now, what can I use for the 8th Day of Christmas?

Bush Whacked

2008-11-05T07:38:00.000-08:00

Thanks George.
I never thought I'd have anything good to say about W - good and nasty maybe. But, the fact is what happened on election day can be credited to George W. Bush. What became a Barack Obama ass kicking of John McCain and his party would never have happened if it weren't for W.
The Cowboy President created the climate that spawned Tuesday's reaction. His policies made a country cry out for help. His politics deserved and demanded change. His vision needed correction and direction. Obama was the right candidate at the right time. It was an electoral atmosphere that W created. Thanks George.
For all the failure we've seen over the last eight years and all the disgusting politics Bush has abused us with, Tuesday was judgement day. The war monger, the dictator, the man who conspired more than he inspired got what was coming to him. It was a beautiful thing to see as the United States of America gave George W. Bush the middle finger.
His poll numbers are almost lower than the number of doughnuts in a box of dozen. He's become a laughing stock. He's been shunned by his own party. His legacy will be as one of the worst and most incompetent presidents in our nation's history. As if that all is not fitting enough for this man's actions and evils, America repudiated him in a major way. The electorate opened a super-sized can of whoop ass on Bush and the GOP. The defeat might so damage the GOP party name that it might be years before it recovers. And Bush will be to blame. Yes, paybacks are a bitch.
I thought Obama would win the presidency the day he announced a year ago. I said Obama would win by six points or so and that he'd reach 51 or 52 percent. I even thought he surpass the 300 electoral college total. I didn't expect that he'd go over 350 and deliver a thumping this bad. He won in the Northeast, Midwest and the West. He even had some success in the South. The GOP, as one pundit put it, has been quarantined to the South. He won where he was expected to win and more. I took to watching the coverage on FoxNews, just because it was too much fun to watch their mopey faces and mournful appearance.
It's a monumental victory. Who would have thought an African-American, whose family were immigrants, would win the Presidency in such fashion. It's a historic moment and a repudiation of the racism that has plagued this country forever.
But, this victory goes well beyond race and black and white. It is a U-Turn from the policies and actions of a failed Bush. It doesn't just defeat the hatred of racism, it also defeats the Bush politics of fear and smear. American finally demanded solution instead of pollution from its leadership.
Bush took the oath of office claiming to be a uniter instead of a divider. Instead, he was the most divisive commander in chief I've ever seen. He claimed to be a man of faith but his actions and intentions bordered on evil. He was a hypocrite, a dictator, a religious zealot, a terrorist in cowboy boots. He lived by strong arm politics. He rule by fear. He didn't lead. He bullied. He had no morals and had no shame. He took our country backward and doomed it for who knows how many years to come. His legacy is one of greed, incompetence, a disregard of the constitution and the rule of law. He didn't serve America or its people. He served himself and his warped ideology. He ruled as if trying to show how tough he was, as if the W who'd always been a failure and a nitwit had finally become a bad ass. Instead, he just proved how big a failure he really is. He didn't have the Midas Touch. He had the Bush Touch, where everything he touched he screwed up miserably.
It all added up to retribution Tuesday. He presidency and his policies were authoritatively given the stamp of repudiation. America said, in no uncertain terms, "George, you're fired!"
W will be put out to pasture on his ranch and rest on his millions and get some cushy job with his oil buddies and live the high life. He'll rest on the laurels he thinks he has. He probably should be brought up on charges or put in jail or at least given a good flogging. Instead, he'll join the elite of presidential disgraces. At least the message is clear. The electorate spoke in volumes. Justice was served. Bush got what he deserved and took his party down with him.
I remember doing a story on the problems in coaching a few years ago. One coach, when asked if things will improve, said that it wouldn't be the current generation that changes things. He said it will be the next generation that does it. They'll have grown up under the poor conditions that exist and will have learned from them. Then the change will come.
That may have happened to some degree Tuesday. I've often said that America should demand more from its leaders. Tuesday, it finally did. Bush proved you can fool some of the people some of the time but not all of the people all of the time.

So, again, thanks George. Mission Accomplished.

And The Winner Is ...

2008-10-29T07:51:00.000-07:00

Maritime lore states that when the rats are leaving the ship before it hauls out, it is a clear sign that the ship is doomed.
That's how I now see John McCain's presidential campaign. Republicans are tossing McCain under the bus and endorsing Barack Obama. McCain campaign people are playing the blame game - with each other. There's even talk that McCain and his running mate, Sarah Palin, are at odds. Maybe even Palin is more interested now in campaigning for 2012 than for 2008. It appears the good ship McCain is taking on water. What a shame.
I had intended to make an election prediction some time ago. I had already mulled over how I thought the election would go and had honed in on the final percentages. But, I thought I'd wait for the debates and see how things shaped up after that. Then the entire election changed. What was once a close race that bore some analysis became an apparent landslide that warranted a postmortem. Now it seems the only question might be how bad the final damage is.
We're just over a week away from election day and here is how the race has shaped up.
Obama
I think he's run a decent race. I was a little nervous a month or so ago. It seemed that McCain's negative attacks were working. Obama was slow to counter. His ability to seal the deal and connect with working-class voters wasn't showing any great improvement. For a few days, I started to wonder whether McCain might actually be able to win this race.
Then McCain opened his mouth, told us how the economy was strong and watched as the financial structure of this country crumbled.
Suddenly, the Obama that seemed too calm, too above it all had just the right temperament and demeanor. He was cool under pressure and showed poise during the crisis. Funny how that happens. He demonstrated the same in the debates. He also showed a grasp of the issues and sealed the deal with voters as to whether he could walk the walk and talk the talk of a president. He's been gaining ground ever since.
It seemed that his change message was resonating but his inexperience was a concern. Once voters saw him handle a crisis and heard his message and saw him calm and collected, they were convinced he could not only be electable but successful as commander in chief. Meanwhile, McCain appeared erratic, temperamental and desperate to come to grips with what was happening. As steady as Obama appeared, McCain looked equally unsteady. Meanwhile, Palin didn't have such a great week either.
Obama hasn't made the mistakes to derail his campaign. He established a 50-state strategy and established a formidable grassroots campaign that may give his campaign a huge advantage against what appears to be a very unorganized and inconsistent McCain campaign.
Obama's pick of Biden has been okay. I know think he might have been able to get away with a Tim Kaine selection, but certainly Biden bolstered the ticket. He also did fine in the debate. He hasn't been the pit bull I expected and hasn't been the guy to help Obama win over the working-class voters as I had hoped. For the most part, I think Biden has had just a minor positive impact on the race. His mouth has only gotten him into trouble on occassion.
The landscape and climate has certainly worked in Obama's favor, and he's done well to take advantage. He's proved himself in tough situations and sold his message effectively. He even got away from the too professorial explanations he once had for questions. Even though he doesn't seem to have the intense fire or connection with voters that you hope for, that has helped him to a degree. He's appeared calm and steady and proven himself to be a leader. His polls show that he's winning over the electorate all over the map and in all categories.
There aren't many things I can think of that Obama could have or should have done better. I can't say he's run a perfect campaign, but he's run a good one, thorough, well-planned and with a consistent message. He's proven himself as a leader and shown he has a grasp of the issues and an ability to communicate it to the electorate.
McCain
First of all, I once liked McCain. I liked him because he seemed like a moderate and a straight shooter. When John Kerry won the nomination, I actually hoped McCain would be his running mate. I thought that would be a good ticket.
That McCain is not the same candidate I've seen in this election. He's sold his soul to the darker side of the GOP. He's caved in to the religious right and become a slave to the Bible thumping, flag waving, rhetoric spewing, fear mongers of whacko right. He's turned himself into such a narrow-minded candidate that he's a caricature of his former straight-talking self. His campaign has become more about pollution than solution. And, that's why he's getting his ass kicked.

The so-called honorable John McCain resorted to racist tactics, divisive themes, lying and any other tactic of desperation he could think of. He's come off as a grumpy and tired old man with outdated ideas.
McCain has had a couple of good moments in this campaign. I thought his attack on Obama being a celebrity was effective. He had the high ground on the experience issue. His ability to attrack indepents made him a candidate Obama should have feared. His Joe the Plummer rhetoric and "Spread the Wealth" attacks had potential.
But, McCain never took advantage of all that. He brought in Palin, nullifying his charges of Obama's celebrity and inexperience. His ability to reach the independents was compromised when he went to such great length to embrace the religious right's agenda.
Palin is an obvious mistake. McCain looks like he was pandering to the conservatives and to women. It's a desperate move that backfired. Palin has become a laughing stock to everyone but GOP's base. Her celebrity status brought energy to the campaign on one front but damaged its credibility on so many others. Trying to be so-called reformers was a way to shake things up, something McCain needed. He hadn't distanced himself with the failure that is George W. Bush. So, he needed something to sell to the electorate. His appeal with Palin was limited and will likely cost him more votes than he gets.
I don't know whether another VP candidate might have been better. Mitt Romney might have helped but might have hurt just as much - even though his help in Michigan and on the economy might have been a benefit. I can't help but think Tom Ridge might have been a good choice, especially helping in Pennsylvania, but who knows how much the right would have revolted. I wonder if Mike Huckabee might have made the base happy without all the credibility issues that Palin brought.
Anyway, his VP choice was a mixed bag (with lipstick). It killed his ability to nail Obama on the experience and celebrity issue.
By embracing the right so closely, he also sacrificed his hope of reaching middle of the road voters. He wasn't going to disavow Bush, until he made a desperate attempt of it last week. So any hope of a broader appeal to the electorate wasn't happening.
McCain's campaign has also been a mess. It's been unorganized and inconsistent. Each day he's brought a different message. Often he's contradicted himself. Gaffs like not knowing how many houses he had or not knowing who or what he was talking about in interviews didn't give voters confidence in the 70-plus year old who only looks young when he's appearing in footage where he's helping an elderly Nancy Reagan walk.
Then came the economic crisis. McCain said the fundamental of the economy were strong and then he contradicted himself. He looked desperate and clueless during that week. His stunt of suspending his campaign and blowing off David Lettermen didn't help. McCain very well may have lost the election in that span of a few days.
Basically, McCain had hoped to destroy the credibility of Obama. Voters would be left with no other choice but to pick the safer, more experienced candidate. Unfortunately for McCain, Obama handled himself well, he didn't self destruct and couldn't be destroyed. As Obama solidified his credibility and candidacy, McCain unravelled in his.
Since then, McCain has appeared as a desperate, irrational, temperamental and out of touch candidate grasping at straws to sway voters. And he's only made things worse.
Summary
Elections always come down to the lesser of two evils. McCain had hoped to so destroy Obama and any credibility he had, that voters would not dare vote for him. But, if anything, McCain has proven to be the more unreliable and scarier of the two candidates. Obama has survived relatively unscathed and weathered the negative tactics and the poor economic times well. McCain hasn't been as fortunate. The election was supposed to be a referendum on Obama, when he passed that test, McCain had nothing else. Ultimately, McCain has proven to be the greater risk, looking more like the status quo with no new ideas. For a change electorate looking for leadership, hope and something new, McCain hasn't offered it. He's offered more of the same politics and negative hypocritical rhetoric. And this time, the electorate seems to be smartening up and aren't falling for it. I think McCain definitely had a chance to win this election but he's run a poor and narrow-minded campaign. In the end, I think McCain lost this election just as much as Obama will have won it. He couldn't sell the electorate on an unfit Obama, and he also couldn't sell the electorate on why he's the better option.
Prediction
Originally, I thought it might be a five-point race. I didn't think Obama would get into the 50-percent range. So, I was going to predict that it would be a 48-43 Obama win. Now, I do think Obama can hit 50. I think the double-digit margin might tighten before the end of election day, but I think the final numbers will be around 50 or 51 to 43-44. It will be a margin somewhere between six and eight points.
As for the electoral map, I'm thinking Obama is headed for over 300. I have a feeling McCain might be able to secure Ohio and/or Florida but Obama will win most of everything else in the swing states - like Colorado, Iowa, Indiana, Virginia, Pennsylvania, Michigan, New Mexico and New Hampshire. He might pick up a few more red states, since there's been an average of a 14-point swing in 10 states that Bush won in 2004. They're all headed Obama's way now.

The high voter turnout should help Obama. A youth vote, which usually doesn't appear, might make a difference for Obama. Obama's grassroots organization should be strong to get out voters. But who knows what kind of BS the GOP will pull to nullify votes or sabotage election counts. In one state, the GOP was already trying to tell people the election is Wednesday, instead of Tuesday.

By Tuesday, the McCain camp could be in such disarray that GOP voters might just stay home and give up, promtping an Obama landslide. I think McCain will put up a decent enough showing, as GOP voters hope to salvage some of the senatorial and congressional races, to keep it within that six to eight point margin. But continuouss chaos on the GOP side and a momentum swing for Obama could make it an ugly night for McCain.

Victory Chimes 2008

2008-09-13T01:00:00.000-07:00

I can almost guarantee it.

Over the course of six days on the Victory Chimes, I pretty much know what is going to happen. Amidst all the heaving and hauling, sleeping and snoring, eating and drinking, laughing and laughing more, a week aboard the nation’s oldest three-masted schooner is quite predictable. I’m assuredly guaranteed to:

Forget about work.
Forget about land.
Leave all stress ashore.
Eat myself silly - or should I say sillier.
I’ll relish life aboard a boat.
I’ll smell the sea breeze.
I’ll smell something good cooking in the galley.
By the end of the week, I just might smell a bit myself - but won’t care.
I’ll laugh until my eyes water or my sides hurt - or both.
I’ll enjoy a good Uncle Enoch story - even if I’ve heard them all before.
I’ll get to watch the sunrise with a short-haired little cutie named Raquel.
I’ll offer a few favors to a couple of hookers - might even get some in return.
I’ll tell some sucker from away that if the lobster buoy handles point straight up, that mean’s they’re full.
I’ll see seals, porpoises, eagles and osprey.
I’ll explain to somebody that the bird they see is a sea gull not an eagle or that is a cormorant, not a loon.
I’ll sail the coast of Maine and love every second of it.
I’ll dred the final trip into Rockland Harbor and the subsequent docking.
I’ll see friends I haven’t seen in a year but pick up right where we left off the previous September.
We’ll share stories about trips past and make memories for trips of the future.
I’ll leave the vessel with less than I boarded with - meaning all my alcohol will be consumed.
I’ll experience or see something new.
I'll consume more cups of coffee in a week than I will all year - same likely goes for eggs, bacon, sausage and lobster.
Try as I might, I still won't eat as many lobsters as Lenny - same probably goes for bacon.

I'll wear shorts the entire week.
I won't put on a jacket unless I absolutely can't hack it any longer.
I'll be part of as many conversations about knitting as I will about sports, if not more. (And that is scary).
I'll meet some really cool people.
I won't be the most annoying person on board (not as long as Captain Fender Tender graces us each fall)
My summer-long (or year-long) anticipation of Labor Day will be well worth the wait.

Despite knowing what to expect now after six trips, each journey is different. Just like how the rug hookers are always working on new projects. It's always a new adventure for all. What kind of hookers did you think I meant?

The last few years the week has only topped the previous year. Last week's journey certainly didn't disappoint. We had sun and wind every day. We even got a little fog at the end. It was another great week and affirmation that a better vacation could not be had. Well, unless of course, there were REAL hookers on board.

Sunday

We boarded the night before. But a group of us like to be fashionably late. Nearly a dozen of us sailing veterans met for dinner after loading our luggage on the vessel. After dinner, we returned to the ship and began mingling with the rest of the passengers and checking out our rooms. I stuck to my strength. I opened up a beer and introduced myself. We hit it off so well, I met another just like it.

During the night, there came a scream from one of the cabins. We assumed it was either a nightmare, Captain Fender Tender was walking around without his shirt or Salty Sally's Turn Down Service had the wrong room again.

Monday

I'd been excited as soon as I heard the forecast for the first day. Temps were to be in the 80's and the winds were to be 15 to 20 knots. I was up early watching the sea gulls fight. The wait to set sail was a bit agonizing, but it always is. This time we waited even longer. Because of gusts of up to 30 knots, the Captain didn't want to attempt to leave the dock until winds subsided. The RNC hadn't even begun yet and the hot air was blowing across the country. After lunch, about a three-hour delay, we pulled away, getting an up close and stern-view of the Coast Guard cutter that we nearly backed into. I made the backing up beeping noise just to be on the safe side.

We had good wind across Penobscot Bay, and it didn't let up once we got to the Fox Island Thorofare. Because the wind was so brisk, the Captain decided to call it a day after two hours. We dropped the hook near the schooner American Eagle. We ran the yawl boat ashore for some to visit North Haven. The rest stayed aboard and got their game face on for lobster night.

After devouring enough lobster to make Mary Tyler Moore split her Capri pants, we were able to watch a glorious sunset and a night sky full of stars. A week like this was going to be tough to take.

Tuesday

We were off early with some good wind for the second day in a row. We sailed past Goose Rocks Lighthouse, also known as "My Lighthouse". We sailed across Eastern Penobscot Bay and cut through Merchant's Row near Stonington. We had a great view of Isle Au Haut as we entered Jericho Bay. It seemed as though we were headed for Bass Harbor or Swan's Island, but as we made our way toward Blue Hill Bay, the wind got a bit fluky. It was nice sailing back and forth. As the afternoon progressed, the Captain steered the vessel toward Brooklyn. We anchored there in a quiet and cozy cove. Most of us had been there before, but it is a nice peaceful setting, and there's always an array of boats nearby. The Mary Day came in and anchored there as well but too far away to throw dinner rolls at.

Wednesday

Brooklyn has been the setting for some pretty good sunrises, and this morning was no different. It made for some nice photos. Captain had talked about possibly sailing toward Mount Desert Island, depending on the wind direction. Instead, we hauled out early and sailed on the Easterly breeze down the Eggemoggin Reach. It meant for another trip under the Deer Isle-Stonington bridge, which is always a treat. The clearance didn't seem as close as it was last year, but it always seems to be a tight fit. We continued out around Cape Rosier and near Islesboro before going to Castine. Some went ashore, getting rained on in the process. The rest of us watched ships come and go and marvelled at the Maine Maritime Academy sailors training in small two-man racing sailboats.

After leaving the mooring at Castine, we headed for the cove near Holbrook Island. The Mary Day was already there having its lobster bake ashore. We thought about crashing the party or boarding their vessel while they were on the beach. But the appetizers distracted us. We had another nice sunset. The cloudiness overhead cleared out enough to see the stars in the sky that night. The bell buoy echoed loudly in the distance with notes from a Lynyrd Skynyrd song.

Thursday

The sunrise was a bit tame, rising up over Brooksville in a hurry. We were looking at a warm sunny day. After breakfast, the vessel went across the cove and dropped anchor near Holbrook Island. Some went ashore to walk along the shore. The really cool people stayed aboard and had a photo shoot and watched the crew wash the deck. Now that's entertainment.

Later in the morning, we beat down Western Penobscot Bay. We sailed past Searsport, Belfast and Islesboro. The wind was light early on. So light that I could hear the porpoises rise to the surface before I'd see them. Of course, it helps to know what they sound like.

The wind kicked up later in the afternoon. We beat back and forth across the bay until sailing past Grindle Point Light and into the harbor at Islesboro. We gawked at the "fixer uppers" along the shore. The Grace Bailey and Stephen Taber joined us.

We got a couple of Uncle Enoch stories before the Captain took Raquel (his dog) ashore. Later that night, we got a little raucous on deck. A boat came in late to the house that was formerly owned by actress Kirstie Alley. We thought for sure it was the Jenny Craig police coming to confiscate donuts. We briefly captured a hostage from the Stephen Taber but returned her for no ransom. Just because we're kind-hearted schooner bums. We tried to laugh louder than those on the Taber to prove we were having more fun. I think it worked.

Friday

We pulled out of Islesboro fairly early. Didn't want all the rich people to feel envious. We had inside info that we were headed for Rockland, but many of us figured that already. But we were also told that we might have a special docking because of precautions from the impending storm. Oh boy!

Before all that, however, we got a pretty good sail. We sailed out into Western Penobscot Bay. We cut through the islands off Islesboro and made toward North Haven. The Isaac H. Evans passed us and fired its cannon at us. We didn't lose focus on lunch though as they sailed on past. We sailed by the Owls Head Lighthouse and through the Mussel Ridge Channel. We reached the backside of Ash Island and neared Otter Island before turning back.

Apparently, they had toyed with the idea of taking me home and dropping me off, per unanimous vote, but they decided they could tolerate me a little while longer.

By the time we reached Owls Head Light again, the fog was moving in. When we reached the bay, we were fogged in all around. People were bundling up. Even I had to duck down to my bunk to change - media cards. I was still wearing shorts and a t-shirt - and a few goosebumps.

We could hear the Owls Head fog horn for a bit. Then, apparently, in an attempt to save energy the horn halted. Fortunately, we were close enough to Rockland to hear the horn at the Breakwater and see the orange glow from the Home Depot. That helped us find our way - in addition to the radar the Captain has.

We anchored at the South End. Many of the other Rockland schooners came in to anchor with us, but after supper, we ditched them. Psyche! We went over to the dock near the Coast Guard station and backed our way into a space there. The Captain even did it blindfolded. Good thing Captain Fender Tender was on duty to save us all.

Being at the dock introduced us all to the real world again, despite shrieks of "Noooo!"", allowing us to go to our cars or walk the streets of Rockland. After settling in, many gathered on the deck with brews, M&M's and some stories from the Captain. We couldn't hear the other schooners, but it still sounded like we were having more fun. Three masts always are more fun than two.

Saturday

There was no sunrise, but we got to see a fine display of ladder tossing. Someone from the marine hurled an aluminum ladder into the road after tripping on it. Then he hurled it again. He earned a score of 8.75 from the judges, the lower scorer, of course, coming from the Russian judge.

As the rain began, we unloaded and the crew rejoiced to be rid of us all. We all departed and went home to sleep and begrudgingly return to our lives. Until next year.

The Tragedy Continues

2008-09-11T09:32:00.000-07:00

It is like an episode of the television series 24.
There's terrorist attacks, intelligence failures and a bumbling president. They've all led to chaos, mass casualties, a catastrophic attack on humanity and destruction of horrific proportions.
Unfortunately, it isn't just another show filled with so many casualties that you lose count or a Jack Bauer exclaiming "Damn it" with each roadblock he finds between him and heroism.
This is real. So real that a childhood friend was in one of those buildings and perished. His family received a portion of his remains, identified by DNA, years later. A former National Hockey League player and scout that I had shared many press boxes with was on one of the planes, heading for Los Angeles.
I've been watching the rebroadcast of the tragedy of September 11, 2001. It came on just before 9 a.m. and has been showing the minute-by-minute broadcast all morning. I happened to catch the beginning of it and have been hooked on reliving the drama and destruction all over again.
Many of these breaking news stories that get saturated with coverage by the cable news channels seem surreal. It's as if it is all just a TV drama and not true. Obviously 9/11 was something different. It was unbelievable to watch unfold, the breakdown in our leadership, our intelligence and our security. Our government failed us. It was evident not just on the TV screen but in the lives of people we knew.
As I've watched the rebroadcast of what happened that day, I'm reminded how horrific the whole thing was. We've settled back into our comfort zone and come to grips with the tragedy that happened that day. We've lost that feeling of horror, insecurity and mourning from sevens years ago. It has almost become like another bad day in history that our emotional attachment has left behind.
As I watch it all unfold again, I feel as though today should be a national holiday. It might actually be a holiday that doesn't get minimized by commercialization, car sales or a reason to party because we have the day off, but I never underestimate the callousness and stupidity in this country. Of course, a national holiday to honor what happened that day would bring out the flag waving, my country right or wrong, fanatics that sometimes blend idiotic with Patriotic. I've already started getting the propaganda emails telling us to "never forget".
Now seven years later, we haven't forgotten but as I look back on how 9/11 has shaped our country since it happened, it not only scares me but disgusts me.
Have we learned from that day? Are we better off since that tragedy? Are we more secure than we were back then?
Obviously, our travel has changed. Security is tighter. It has changed our mindset in this country. That is unfortunate but necessary. Maybe our intelligence has been shored up and security is better to prevent something like that. But I thought we were immune to that on 9/10/2001. We might be better prepared to handle an attack such as that, but maybe not an attack of a different nature - a nuclear bomb or a chemical weapon. I have no faith or trust in my government that things have improved. President Bush has been more intent on covering his own ass the last few years than protecting our shores. John McCain doesn't even known that Czechoslovakia doesn't exist anymore. That makes me feel secure. I have a little bit of faith in Barack Obama, but I'd be naive to believe government incompetence and bureaucracies would change so dramatically. I seriously believe that 9/11 taught us a lesson but one that we haven't learned from - at least enough to prevent a similar failure. We've actually spawned more terrorist and encouraged more hatred of our country in the last seven years. That doesn't make me feel more secure.
While the horrors of that day hasn't made us better equipped to thwart such an attack, the unity that was a result of the tragedy has all but evaporated. I remember the scene at the Super Bowl the following February, Bono, the lead singer of U2, was performing during the halftime show. The screen in the background rolled the names of those killed. He opened his jacket to reveal an American flag stitched inside. It was a great emotional moment.
There was feeling of unity not just nationally but all over the world. There was a sense that we could rise above such hatred and tragedy, especially if we rallied around each other. We did that - for a little while.
Since then, we've been inundated with partisan politics. We returned to a Divided States of America. Our politics promote and exploit that division while our electorate accepts it.
It is disgusting to think that yesterday the hot political story was about a "lipstick on a pig" comment that was taken out of context and used to smear and distort. Today, a truce has been called between campaigns. Tomorrow, they'll be back smearing each other and avoiding the facts that the country truly needs to address. With such a tragedy being recognized and so many lost lives being honored, you'd think our politicians could do better. Instead, they trivialize 9/11 and insult us and our concerns. And, again, the electorate doesn't demand better. But, if we don't expect civility in the world around us, why demand it in our political arena?
The worst has to be the politicization of 9/11. Bush declared that terrorism against the United States would not stand. Last I knew, the perpetrators of the attacks have not been brought to justice. Just like Bush hasn't found/fired the culprits the the CIA leak that he vowed to investigate. Instead, we've attacked a country that had little to do with 9/11. Meanwhile, the memory of the 9/11 victims were used and abused to justify such a war. Who's the religious zealot performing terrorist acts now? I could barely stand to what as Bush spoke at memorial services today. Here was the man who exploited 9/11 more than anyone and trounced on the memory of the murdered, standing their offering faint praise and platitudes.
Just last week at the Republican National Convention, the most graphic video footage of the 9/11 tragedy was shown. The drum beat continues. Playing on the fears of Americans, that awful day in 2001 is now used as a political tool. Scare tactics try to justify the current evils of past and potential future administrators while swaying a fearful electorate. It is sad, disgusting and offensive that the lives lost on that day are used in such a way. I can't help but wonder if the terrorists have actually won sometimes when I see how such a historic and tragic day has been tainted and martyred.
As I've watched the replayed coverage of 9/11 this morning, I've recalled the success and the failures that have arose from that day. Unfortunately, the latter is greater.
In our darkest hour, we had the chance to rise from the ashes and show the greatness that our country was founded upon. Instead, our leadership was as hapless post 9/11 as it was pre 9/11. We were told to shop. Instead of bringing out the best in our country, the tragedy has produced the worst.
I mourn the tragedy all over again today and feel sad that our country let us down seven years ago. I feel a greater sadness for the failings that I've seen since 9/11.

A Quayle of a Pick

2008-08-29T17:36:00.000-07:00

As the radio crackled with static, the NBC radio affiliate broke in with a news flash. John McCain's pick for VP was about to be announced.

Through the white noise I thought I heard the name Palin.

"Wow," I thought. "He picked Michael Palin."

I couldn't help but think about the Monty Python star singing the "Lumberjack Song" at the Gathering of Doom and Evil next week in Minnesota.

Then I saw clips of the actual announcement of McCain's VP, saw the poofy hair and realized it wasn't Michael Palin. He had picked one of the B52's. Okay, singing "Love Shack" at the convention next week would be a hoot also.

Then I got all the facts. It was Sarah Palin. The governor of Alaska. I guess the Dems have to give up on the Eskimo and Polar Bear vote.

Seriously, I remember hearing Palin's name, but I dismissed it. Remember, I had said that my gut felt that McCain would pick a name out of the blue. I wasn't thinking he'd pick one almost out of the continent.

He barely knows Palin himself. I don't know whether it's just his thing for former beauty pageant contestants or whether started to peruse a list of potential state governors and got too tired by the time he reached Alaska.

Palin is certainly an interesting choice. Obviously, McCain wanted to shake up things a bit. Of course, Walter Mondale felt he needed to shake things up and selected Geraldine Ferraro. How did that work out? Ronald Reagan could have run with Bonzo the chimp and won easily. (He didn't run with a chimp, however, but with the father of a jackass).

Palin is newbie governor who is probably a card caring member of the Pat Buchanan Fan Club. She's ultra conservative, bordering on extreme. Obviously, McCain's hope is that Palin will shore up his base and energize the throng of conservatives - also known as the close-minded religious zealots. It's like he picked a combination of Grizzly Adams and Mrs. Ned Flanders.

To do that, however, he has sacrificed his theme of questioning Obama's readiness. He really can't harp on Obama's lack of experience when as Keith Olbermann stated "Palin makes Obama look like John Adams." That was McCain's best argument against Obama. Actually, it was his only argument.

With Palin, he'll now focus on the message of being reformers and mavericks. It will be their counter claim to Obama's change message. But when their politics are so extreme and conservative, I don't know how maverick they can be to independents or anyone else. As Bob Casey said, they're so aligned with Bush and Cheney, they're not mavericks, they're sidekicks.

She softens the appearance that McCain is a rich old crow that is out of touch with working American's. He still is, but she doesn't seem to be. She eats moose for crying out loud.

I don't see what states Palin helps McCain win - other than Alaska (which McCain was going to win anyway). Certainly, she might drum up support in the conservative blocks, but I think Joe Biden's populist message works better in places like Michigan, Ohio and Pennsylvania.

Palin, I think, is a bit of a hail Mary pick. McCain needed something out of the norm. As I said before, I thought McCain would want to find something other than the Pawlenty's, Romney's and typical stiff white Grand Old Party bores. Palin is kind of like a third-down-and-very-long play. It might be a play he felt he needed. The polls already have McCain down by seven or eight points and that was before Obama's speech Thursday. His only hope might have been to change the dynamics and bit. And, I suppose, it might work.

But, I doubt it. I think there might be some backlash from some Republicans. Pawlenty and Romney's people are already miffed. Some are calling this the worst pick since Old Man Bush picked Dan Quayle.

I think her lack of experience will be revealed at some point. Joe Biden will have to be careful against her in a debate (he can't appear to bully her) but he should be able to expose her weaknesses. The fact that McCain is 72 and just picked a VP, who admitted hasn't paid much attention to foreign policy, is pretty scary. I think that won't play well.

I don't think Palin will help draw the Hillary Clinton voters. They're not going to jump on the bandwagon of someone that extreme. If anything, her selection might produce blowback. McCain picking a women looks a little like pandering or, worse, degrading, assuming soccer mom's will just up vote for her because she's a woman.

I think the negatives will ultimately outweigh the positives. I see Palin becoming a bit of a laughing stock, a female Dan Quayle from Alaska. I think her lack of experience will be exposed at some point. Somewhere along the line, I see her being a major detriment - that's saying a lot when McCain doesn't even know Czechoslovakia no longer exists or can't tell Sunni from Shiites.

She has a good story and appears to be a tough and promising candidate, but I don't think she's ready for prime time. The media scrutiny she faces in Alaska might pale in comparison to the national press. Notice I said "pale in" get it?

I think that will come into play and ultimately, this pick by McCain will be a failure. Usually, the VP pick doesn't decide elections, just ask Dan Quayle, but I think if Palin is a bust, it could be significant enough in a close race. Voters will ultimately decide that she is not change that they can believe in.

Of course, if she does a killer version of the "Lumberjack Song" at the convention, all bets are off.

Prime Chimes Times

2008-08-25T11:04:00.000-07:00

Next week I sail on the Victory Chimes for the sixth straight year. It is a week I anxiously await all year long. I'll recap my trip when I return, but for now, here's a look back at the previous six years. Every day aboard the historic three-masted schooner is great day, but here are my favorite days on the Victory Chimes:

July 2003 - From Burnt Coat Harbor to the islands off Stonington

Anchored in Burnt Coat Harbor, on the South side of Swan's Island, we waited a bit in the morning hoping that the fog would lift. It did slightly, but it still lingered as we left.

When we got into Jericho Bay we were greeted with fog, rain and heavy winds. The Captain said at one point it was gusting nearly 40 miles per hour. The boat was rocking pretty good.

The weather was so poor on deck, they chose to have lunch down below. It was the first time I noticed that the texture on the tables in the saloon is such that the plates don't slide.

Two girls from Florida had already been wrapped up in their winter parkas the day before. The blustery wind and rollicking seas didn't help their warmth or their stomachs.

Me, on the other hand, loved it. I sat on the bench on the quarterdeck and watched the ship toss back and forth. The wind would hit the sails like a fist and make the vessel lurch. I sat back cheering silently with every gust.

We were headed toward Stonington but the fog was so thick, the Captain chose to duck in for cover near Hells Half Acre and Coombs Island.

We anchored there for the night and took a quick trip ashore to Coombs Island in the afternoon. We sat around in the fog that evening and shared ghost stories.

We've had heavy wind and rough seas on other days in my six years but nothing like that trip across Jericho Bay.

July 2003 - From Stonington across Eastern Penobscot Bay to Carver's Cove off the Fox Island Thorofare.

Anchored amidst the islands off Stonington, we left that spot in the morning and yawled it over to Stonington itself. Still foggy from the weather the day before, boats were going ashore for sightseeing in Stonington. The Captain warned that thunder showers could be possible. Of course, forgetting that he has the weather radar at his disposal, I looked at the skies and figured, it doesn't look too bad. I didn't pack any foul weather gear and went ashore.

Sure enough, a heavy thunderstorm came through. And, I don't like thunderstorms. As the skies opened and the thunder rumbled, I hunkered under cover in the Purple Fish. It's an eclectic little shop with antiques/junk. One of the owners makes bookmarks with the schooners on them. Her husband sings sea shanties. He wasn't there that day. Good thing, listening to him sing as I anxiously awaited the storms to stop would have been too much to take.

I skipped the first trip back to the boat, but when the yawl boat began coming back, I had no choice but to venture into the thunderstorm. Running on a bad knee, that had been surgically repaired the year before, I hobbled my way down the street and back to the harbor. We crowded into the yawl boat and began the short trip back to the Chimes, only to see it rain harder. Michael commented that "It always rains when we go into Stonington." Now he tells us.

We huddled under a tarp but were all soaked. As the picture proves.

After leaving Stonington, we inched our way through fog across Eastern Penobscot Bay. The seas were pretty heavy. There were significant swells that had the ship rolling. I loved it, but one girl from Florida wasn't too enthused. She was sea sick most of the afternoon. The Captain wasn't too pleased either when another ship cut him off in the fog. He got a good yelling at.

We crossed the bay and entered the Fox Island Thorofare. I could hear Goose Rocks Lighthouse but couldn't see it. We maneuvered around so as to drop the hook inside Carver's Cove. It's a small cove behind Widow's Island on the Eastern entrance to the Thorofare.

It was an early anchorage for us but as the afternoon progressed the sun came out and the fog burned off. Michael gathered us all around and began to tell us a story which began "No $#%^, there we were." He then chronicled a less than fictional tale about warning people not to go into Stonington. The people ignored him and got soaked in the process, despite the efforts of the heroic future first mate. It had us all laughing heartily, and his little intro became out catch phrase for the rest of the week.
In the evening, we cracked open a bottle of wine someone had purchased in Stonington. There was no beer to be found in town at that time. A small group of us hung around on deck and got a bit unruly as the evening went on. At one point, Abby had to warn us that we were too noisy. She didn't want us to wake Todd, the first mate. We tried to quiet down and suggested the sign language teacher tell us jokes in sign language. That didn't help us quiet down at all. She even started teaching us dirty words in sign language. It only provoked more laughter and noise.

I wrote a bit of a poem later in the week. It referred to that evening with the lines "Abby came up, gave us heck. She threw our asses off the deck."

I ended that day by trying to sleep topside. I had been able to look at Goose Rocks all day and watch it shine its light that evening. I wanted to sleep on deck with its red light flashing and fog horn sounding. After a little while, I gave up on sleeping on deck and returned to my bunk.

It was one of the funnest days I've had on board, but the best thing was being able to spend the day with Goose Rocks in view and watching it shine at night.

September 2004, Swan's Island

We sailed out the first day through the Fox Island Thorough, past Stonington and into Blue Hill Bay. We anchored at Swan's Island, but unlike the previous year when we visited Burnt Coat Harbor, we were on the other side of the island. That evening we saw one of the most glorious sunsets I have ever seen. Looking across Blue Hill Bay and towards Mount Desert Island, the entire sky glowed with incredible light and colors. Sunsets and sunrises have provided some of the greatest moments on board the Chimes, but none of them compared to dusk that evening.

September 2004, From Brooklin, to Bucks Harbor, around Cape Rosier and into a cove outside Castine Harbor.

I'm not sure we ever saw the sun this day. It was the second day of the trip. We were anchored in Brooklin, where the Wooden Boat school is. We awoke to heavy fog. We went ashore and checked out Wooden Boat during the morning. This was the time that a group from Wooden Boat approached Michael as we unloaded at the dock. They asked whether they could take some students out to visit the Chimes. Michael's reply, pointing to their gear on the dock, was "Depends how much beer you have in that bag." They didn't seem to know what to make of that answer. I just laughed all the way up the pier.

As the fog lifted later, we made our way down the Eggemoggin Reach. It was my first trip down the Reach, and subsequently, the first venture under the Deer Isle-Stonington bridge. By late morning/afternoon, we were stopping for a quick visit to Buck's Harbor. We went ashore there and were on our way around Cape Rosier. We didn't have much wind. The yawl boat pushed us much of the way around Cape Rosier. Though we didn't have the sun, we had a good view of the land. We all sat on the starboard side of the vessel spotting bald eagles and gawking at the houses.

We pulled into a cove near Holbrook Island and Nautilus Rock and spent the night. A storm was coming the following day. We visited Castine that next morning and returned to the same anchorage to wait out the rain. One guy, from Kentucky, asked Michael "Isn't this where we last night?" He answered emphatically, "No -- Last night we were right over there." Pointing to a spot a few yards or so away.

September 2004, From outside Castine down Western Penobscot Bay to Owls Head and then to Rockland.

After waiting out the weather Thursday, we used the fifth day of the trip to sail down Western Penobscot Bay. We left our anchorage near Holbrook Island as the fog began to lift. It remained cloudy for much of the day, but we had good wind. Our bow was bouncing up and down most of the voyage down the Bay.

We had a great view of Islesboro and the mainland, from Searsport, to Belfast, Camden, Rockport and Rockland.

Goldie, a galley hand that year, decorated a potato and brought it on deck. The Captain put it on display with his charts. We named the potato, but I forget it's name. It was later chomped on by Raquel, the Captain's dog.

We pulled into Owls Head later in the day. A boat went ashore, and I decided to go along, even though visiting Owls Head Harbor or the lighthouse is not a rare opportunity.

I sat on the rocks to take pictures of the Chimes at anchor but then realized that the vessel wasn't anchored anymore. It was moving. It had raised the anchor and pulled out of the harbor. I was wondering what was going on, but figured the ship wasn't leaving (even if it wanted to). The Captain's wife and dog were still ashore. Plus, I was in Owls Head. I was only a few miles from home.

When we returned to the Chimes, the appetizers were served, a dip using the leftover lobster. At the same time, the Captain announced we were leaving Owls Head Harbor. He was dragging his anchor, and he wanted to try Rockland Harbor. Because the wind was blowing so hard, the crew needed our help in getting the vessel underway. So, we had to divide our attention between sailing and eating the appetizers. Sometimes sailing can be hard. Needless to say, we had a flawless sail set - and got back to the lobster dip.

We got under sail and out around Owls Head Lighthouse (photo to the left). We were met with a potent wind that blew across Rockland Harbor. We had a pretty good sail. The Captain, at one point yelled out to the cook, "Hold on to the turkey's Pammy!" The final night on board typically means a turkey dinner.

We anchored inside the Rockland Breakwater and had nice sunset that evening, despite the glow of the Home Depot.

The next morning, Raquel and I watched a wonderful dawn as the sun rose over North Haven and the Breakwater.

September 2005 From Port Clyde to Isle Au Haut

I awoke to the sound of the Port Clyde fishing boats leaving the Harbor as the day broke. It was a nice quiet sunrise with fishing boats, sloops and the schooner American Eagle in the harbor with us.

We started the second day of the trip by hauling out late because we had to wait on getting lobsters. There was talk the night before that we'd be headed for Monhegan Island. Of course, I had forgotten to charge my camera battery that morning while the generator was on. So, I begged Kelli to see if she could "charge my battery" for me in the galley. She did so, only if I promised to get her a Sun Journal Red Sox Championship t-shirt (which I did).

When we finally passed Marshall Point Lighthouse, the Captain steered the vessel East instead of West. He said because of a storm making its way, he wanted to be in Penobscot Bay instead. Sitting on the bench on the quarterdeck (where I can eavesdrop on the Captain's conversations), I heard him say we might go to a particular harbor. I didn't recognize the name but looked it up on my chart and discovered it was on the Eastern Penobscot Bay side of Vinalhaven.

We sailed through the outer channel of the Mussel Ridge Islands, which we had sailed the day before. I spotted my cottage in a brief instance as we passed the slight opening where I could view it through binoculars.

As we approached Vinalhaven, I spotted a whale in the water. The Captain saw it also, but I think we were the only ones that got a look at it.

We sailed past Heron Neck Light and could see Saddleback as well. At one point, the Captain began talking on the radio about anchoring in Isle Au Haut. That pleased me because I'd always wanted to go to Isle Au Haut.

He hadn't anchored there in quite some time but decided to give it a try. It made for a later anchorage than usual and had Raquel "anxious" about getting ashore to find a fire hydrant.

We anchored just outside the Thorofare. It was Lobster Night. So Lenny had his game-face on.
He and I went claw to claw and each finished with four. It was the first and last time I was able to keep up with him on Lobster Night.

That evening we had a glorious sunset and hung around on deck to hear some stories. Michael and I discussed whether we could see Goose Rocks Light from where we were. He said we couldn't. I was adamant that we could.

It was a great trip across that part of the Bay, but being able to anchor alongside Isle Au Haut (and go ashore the following morning) fulfilled my hopes of seeing that part of the Maine coast.

September 2005, Smith Cove, down Western Penobscot Bay to Islesboro
Smith Cove, from what I understand, is near where some of my ancestors had their shipbuilding operation. My great, great grandfather's house was barely visable from our anchorage, and it was exciting to be in a cove where my Mills, Douglass, Wasson and Farnham ancestors certainly had sailed.

I was up early and got some great photos of the sunrise. After breakfast, we hauled out and tied up to the mooring outside Castine. Some went ashore. Having been in Castine the year before, I stayed on board.

I went below at one point, and Kelli said something about what Adele was doing in the galley. She literally pushed me into the galley to give me a look. Before I knew it, I was holding blueberries on a donut while Adele turned the pastry into a female. Let's just say the blueberries I was holding in place were not the eyes. We would name it Vickie, and I've never looked at donuts the same way since.

When we pulled out of Castine, we headed down Western Penobscot Bay. We didn't have as much wind as we had the year before on a similar sail, but we had sun.

At one point, I went down below in the afternoon. I descended the rear companionway and began down the hall. I heard Kelli say "Here comes Kevin, he'll help you." I turned around and ran the other way, but my curiosity got the best of me. Having not learned by lesson with the donuts, I had to investigate what Adele was up to now.

When I got to the saloon, she had a coat hanger in her hand. She asked if I could straighten it. Being the big strong brute that I am, I did just that. I asked her what she needed the wire for, and she told me she had dropped her cell phone down the bilge.

She led me into her room and showed me the hole it had fallen down. Apparently, she had put the phone by the port hole, not knowing the hole was there. When the phone slipped from her grasp, it went down the hole a good three feet.

I stuck my hand into the hole but could only reach down as far as my elbow. I put the wire in to see how deep the hole was, and there was no way an arm was going to reach down far enough. At least not a huge bulging bicep like mine. So, the plan was that Adele would use the wire. I'd hold a flashlight into the hole so she could see. I cleared the top bunk of boxes (that's where the ship's store merchandise was stored). She climbed onto the top bunk and began fishing into the hole. After a few moments, she was able to hook it and bring it up. She was a pretty happy girl, and I had done my good deed for the day.

We sailed into Islesboro in the late afternoon and anchored there for the night. We had a fantastic sunset, but it was also a bit bittersweet because it was our final night and we'd be sailing back to Rockland the next morning.

September 2006, From Swan's Island, through Stonington, across Eastern Penobscot Bay into the Little Thorofare by North Haven.

We had anchored at Swan's Island on Wednesday and sailed out through Stonington Thursday. It was the sunniest day of the week. Therefore, it had been determined that the couple on board that had planned to get married would be wed on this day. What we didn't know was where the wedding would take place.

As we sailed across Eastern Penobscot Bay, I had hopes of going to Carver's Cove. That's where we had anchored on my first trip. It was one of my favorites spots because I could see Goose Rocks Lighthouse. I hadn't been sitting on the quarterdeck to listen in for any clues the Captain might give. I was daring him to surprise me.

But, judging by the direction and the time of the afternoon, I thought Carver's Cove might be likely. I was excited. That's certainly where I'd want to get married. (Like it would ever be my decision).

But, just as we got near the entrance to the Thorofare, he tacked to the Northeast - away from the Fox Island Thorofare. At first, I thought maybe he was just doing an about to kill time before anchoring, but soon enough, he was headed in between the islands off North Haven. It was what is called the Little Thorofare. It's a small opening between North Haven, Stimpson Island, Burnt Island and Calderwood. One of my Douglass ancestors once owned one of those islands.

We dropped anchor and had the wedding that afternoon. It was a nice sunny day for it and the brief ceremony went off well. We had plenty of photographers and even some video coverage of the event. Adele and Sally had put together a nice basket of gifts we had all collected for the bride and groom. I did my part by not hiding that basket on Adele and Sally. (I had told them where they could store it so it wouldn't be seen. I thought for a moment that I could move it elsewhere but didn't, knowing I'd be the immediate and only suspect).

We sat around following the wedding and discussed having a party that evening. That's when Mark told us that he had beer in his room.

We had the wedding cake on deck under a nice sunset. During the evening, we stood around and laughed about Mark's comment about beer in his room. Someone mentioned that we should all go visit him, knocking on his door expecting a party. My idea was that we should be IN his room when he arrived. When he appeared headed for his room, we gathered whoever we could and rushed down the back companionway. We all hid in Mark's room. We had arranged for his father to stall him a little. When he opened the door, we all shouted and made like there was a party going on. It was pretty funny.

The fog moved in that evening. I couldn't see Goose Rocks from where we were anchored, but I sat on deck and listened to its fog horn echoing through the Thorofare.

September 2007, From Bass Harbor out to Frenchboro around Swan's Island and into Stonington.

Bass Harbor is a lot like Port Clyde. Early in the morning, the fishermen are up and on their way. Many had passed us before the sun even came up over MDI. I was up early to watch the sunset.

We had no idea where we might be headed. Being Wednesday morning, there were many possibilities. Some hoped for Bar Harbor or Southwest Harbor. Swans Island seemed feasible.

We pulled up anchor and sailed out past Bass Harbor Light. From there, we continued South as if we were headed out to sea. We passed the Gott Islands and could see Great Duck Island in the distance.

We got well offshore and had a great view of the mountains on Mount Desert Island. We were so far out we were all on alert to spot whales. We had a sunny day and some good wind.

We sailed out past Frenchboro and got out to the backside of Swan's Island. At one point out there, we could see the back side of Isle Au Haut, but the most impressive part of the trip was we could see the mountains on MDI on the right while on the left were the Camden Hills. It's not often someone can see both mountain ranges in one panoramic view, but we had it.

We had lunch down below because it was too windy. That's when the whale appeared. A call came down from topside that a whale had been sighted. People raced up on deck to get a look.

There were a couple of other sightings later in the day.

As we neared Isle Au Haut, we tacked into Jericho Bay and charted a course toward Stonington. We pulled into a small inlet between islands, just across from Stonington Harbor.

We actually pulled in fairly early in the day. It allowed me to take the rowboat and row around the cove a bit. Two other passengers took the kayak out and got into a bit of trouble when they paddled outside of the cove and around the islands. Apparently, the "stay within view" order didn't register with them.

We had a nice sunset that evening, capping off a wonderful day where we all got to sail somewhere none of us had ever been.

Biden His Time

2008-08-23T18:01:00.000-07:00

Told ya.

I decided that Joe Biden would be the VP candidate for Barack Obama before the Democratic nominee himself made his selection. I picked Biden last Sunday. Obama decided on him later in the week. I think it was a good choice by both of us.

I like Biden because of his foreign policy credentials and his attack-dog ability, but I like him even more now that I've had a chance to think it over at length. His populist style, his energetic campaigning and his straight talking is not only a good fit but should make Obama a better candidate.

I see Biden being Obama's hit man. He'll protect him and give him space and allow him to stay on message. The bullying that has knocked Obama off track in recent weeks should end with Biden. His bark is as good as his bite. The fact that he's a regular Joe makes him all that much better.

I liken it to the role a hockey tough guy provides the skill guys on the ice in a hockey. Biden will earn respect for his toughness and his experience and that will not only bolster Obama but help ground him for the working-class blue collar voters he needs to reach. I really liked Jim Webb as a potential running mate, but I think Biden brings a lot of things Webb did and more.

As for the Republicans, as I said before, I think Biden's selection forces McCain's hand a bit. I think he has to go with Romney. He might want to pick Tom Ridge or Joe Liebermann, but he can't because he has to bow down to the conservatives. He might want Tim Pawlenty, but McCain knows he can't match up with Biden.

That leaves McCain with his own change candidate - because Romney has changed his position so often. I don't think he wants to pick Romney. If he can find a way and a reason to pick somebody else and still have a chance to win, he will. I don't see that happening though. He has to go with Romney.

And, I can't wait to see Romney have a sit-down with Biden in a debate. Pretty Boy Romney might just get that verbal wedgie he deserves.

One last thing. Anybody notice that Obama's text message that announced Biden as his VP came at 3 a.m.? Remember, Hillary Clinton ran that "3 a.m. ad" which questioned what happens if an emergency call comes in at 3 a.m. None of the pundits have picked up on that so far. It might be just a coincidence, but I think it would be funny if Obama's people sat around and said "wouldn't it be funny to send the text message at 3 a.m (with that ad in mind).

Veep, Veep Part Deuce

2008-08-20T09:31:00.000-07:00

Since I posted my VP picks, Biden has become the favorite to be Obama's right-hand man. Apparently, they WERE waiting for my input. It seems likely that Biden will be the guy.

The Republicans appear less certain. I think their pick may have a great deal to do with what Obama does. If Biden is the selection, I wonder if Pawlenty's stock drops. I see Biden opening a can of whoop-ass on Pawlenty in a debate. I think McCain would prefer someone like Ridge or Liebermann but knows the fallout from the right could be fatal. He may stick with Pawlenty or feel as though he has to suck it up and pick Romney and his hair gel.

It may depend on where McCain stands in another week or so. If he needs a safe pick, Pawlenty is the guy. If needs to take a risk he might go for Ridge or Liebermann. If he settles for something in between, it will be Romney. I think he really wants Ridge or Liebermann.

Of course, Obama has scheduled to campaign appearance Saturday in Springfield. That might fuel speculation that Obama has indeed selected Ralph Wiggum. If that's the case, McCain would have no choice but to select Ned Flanders.

Veep, Veep!!

2008-08-18T10:25:00.000-07:00

Who's going to be vice-president?

Who gets to oversee the fumagation and excoricism after ridding the VP quarters of the dark and evil presence that currently lingers there? Hopefully, it is someone that has a copy of the Constitution, some ethics and the name of a good exterminator.

The current VP stakes doesn't have the entire nation or world on the edge of their seats in anticipation - unless, of course, Michael Phelps were in the running. I had thought I'd make predictions for the two VP candidates, but when I went on vacation, I figured the selections would be made by the time I returned. Apparently, they're awaiting my approval. So here goes.

Democrats: For the longest time, I thought for sure it would be Jim Webb. He's a senator from Virginia with military credo. He seemed perfect. He's tough and fiesty. I was convicnced he was the man for Barack Obama. Then Webb pulled himself out of contention.
So, I've been unsure ever since. The list of names has been pretty constant lately.
Senator Jack Reed was mentioned briefly. I figure if I hadn't heard of the guy, that can't be good.

Republican Chuck Hagel was mentioned. I don't see that happening, but now that I see the race shaping up as I do, it might not be such a bad move.
Indiana's Evan Bayh has been talked about, but I don't see the benefits. Bayh might help bring Indiana, but he didn't do that convincingly for Hilaray Clinton in the primary. She narrowly edged out Obama. He has some national security, but Bayh is stiffer than Al Gore and twice as boring. He'd be a safe pick, but Obama needs his VP to bring something to the table.
I'd love to see Colin Powell, even if he is linked to the Bush disaster. But, I don't expect Powell to agree to it.
Virginia's Tim Kaine is another leading candidate. A few weeks ago, I thought he was the guy, but I think he's faded. He's a fresh face and brings some of the same essence of change that Obama does, but his weaknesses are the same as Obama. He's lacking in experience, especially in foreign policy. Had this pick been made a few weeks ago, Kaine likely would have been the man. If Obama was comfortably ahead, same thing. But the race has changed in recent weeks. The need for Obama to shore up his national security cred is vital now. That rules Kaine out.
Kansas' Kathleen Sebelius has been mentioned as well. Picking another women besides Hillary would not go over well with Hillary's faithful. So that won't happen.
Al Gore's name has even been tossed about. Yeah, right. He would have won the nomination easily had he run, but he didn't. With that in mind, he's not going to be VP again.
Sam Nunn has been another name suggested. I'm not convinced that it might not be Nunn. He brings the qualities that Obama needs with his foreign policy experience. I think Nunn could be a safer bet than some, but he's also a bit dry and blah.
So, where does that leave us? Even now, I can't help but think that there's somebody else that hasn't been mentioned that Obama will pick, but I can't think of another that fits the bill. Besides, what Obama needs at this point is a name with cred behind it.
I think that brings us to Senator Joe Biden. I didn't like the idea of Biden when I first heard it. Too old and too Washington, I thought. That still rings true. He's not exactly the symbol of the change message that Obama brings. But, the way the campaign has gone lately, McCain has made some headway with his questioning of Obama's experience and leadership. The election is going to be won or lost based on a referendum on Obama. If voters question his readiness and experience, he's doomed. Biden can combat that. Biden brings tremendous foreign policy experience. He's been visable and viable in all global issues. Another thing he'd bring to the ticket is the ability to be an attack dog. Biden does have a bit of foot-in-mouth disease, but his outspokenness and fiery demeanor is just what Obama needs. McCain and the Republicans are going to only get nastier. Obama either doesn't have the stomach to fight that convincingly or wants to appear above that fray. He needs somebody that can fight back for him. Biden can do that.
I think if you imagine who the Republicans might put up and envision a VP debate with Biden and whoever McCain selects, it could be a Biden KO - unless he says something stupid.
Biden won't a safe choice and isn't exactly a bold one either, but I think it is a move that Obama has to make. Kaine fits better in terms of message but Biden fills a gap Obama can't afford to ignore.
Republicans:
McCain needs somebody young, fresh faced and the embodiment of new times and new direction. So, yes, that would be Barrack Obama.
Seriously, that's the image McCain needs to rectify. McCain has the experience and he has the compelling story. Nobody questions his ability to lead or be forceful in world matters. Thus far, on the campain, however, he's also looked old, confused and lost in his message. He's stated that he's clueless about the economy. A fresh face could shore that up, but it also may mean dipping into a pool of lesser known and lesser experienced candidates.
Condi Rice has been mentioned. That'd be a stupid pick. He's trying to appear as though he's distancing himself from the current chaos on Pennsylvania Avenue. Picking an incompentent just because she's a woman won't help.
Tom Ridge has been mentioned. He'd be a good pick, if he can deliver Pennsylvania, but I'm not sure that he can. Ridge is also pro-choice. Recent reactions from the religious right indicate he'd be doomed if he picked a pro-choice VP.
So, that nixes Joe Liebermann too. I'm not sure he'd be a good pick anyway. He was okay for Al Gore, but he just looks like a bitter old Democrat trying to remain relevant. He's not going to make much difference in the election, unless he can deliver Florida and the Jewish vote. I don't think he'd play well with the religious base (fanatics).
Minnesota's Tim Pawlenty is another name mentioned quite a bit. He seems to be a likely candidate. I frankly don't know squat about him, other than he's a young governor from a swing state. He sounds like a safe pick, and that might suffice for McCain.
But, I think Mitt Romney is the obvious choice for McCain. Romney is fairly young, he has experience with the economy. He could help win Michigan and shore up votes in the Western states. He seems to fit McCain's bill in many ways.
However, I think McCain feels the same about Romney as I do. He's an ego-driven, waffling, rich pretty boy. He's the kind of guy you want to beat the crap out of and give him a wedgy. He's proven he'll say anything to satisfy constituents - like tell the NRA what a hunter he is when can't name anything he's hunted or talk about how he and his father "marched" with Martin Luther King (neither of them ever marched with King). A war hero like McCain would contrast sharply with a coward like Romney, whose sons have served the country well - by working in his failed campaign.
Romney makes sense but the fact that McCain can't stand him, makes me think Romney won't pick him.

I was going to say that McCain will pick somebody not on the list of recently mentioned candidates. Whether that's a Mike Bloomberg, Mike Huckabee or Charlie Crist, I don't know. I have a hunch that McCain will go with somebody that's a bit out of the blue - but still a safe bet. But, the more I think about it, it seems as though Pawlenty suits him. He's young, midwestern, a governor and fairly safe. (Even though, I'd bet Biden eats him alive in a debate).

It may even hinge on whom Obama selects. My gut says it will be a name out of the blue, but my head says it will be Pawlenty.

Of course, if Phelps declares his candidacy it could become like the Simpson's episode when both parties frantically court Ralph Wiggum. His campaign ad shows a picture of Ralph sitting on Lincoln's lap at the Lincoln Memorial, with finger planted in nose and the slogan "Pick A Winner."

Air Apparent

2008-08-16T06:53:00.000-07:00

Let's get one thing perfectly clear. I want to squash any rumours right now. I'll scuttle any scuttlebutt. Nip it in the bud or bud it in the nip as soon as possible.

The fact that I returned from vacation this past week just in time for Lewiston-Auburn's Hot Air Balloon Festival is a mere coincidence.

No, the Balloon Festival does not need me here. It has all the hot air it needs. I am not on stand-by just in case there's a hot air shortage. I was not summoned back from vacation because of a hot air emergency.

Yes, I am often told I'm "full of it" and hot air could very well be the "it" to which people refer, but that remains unsubstantiated. My hot airness and that of the balloon festival remains completely separate entities, for now and forever. Now, if it was called Squiggy's Hot Air Balloon Festival, that would be different.

Most would know that such a festival wouldn't interest me in the least. I discovered yesterday that the Balloon Festival has filled LA's skies for 16 years. And, yes, it is a coincidence that the festival began a year after I arrived here.

I'm still trying to figure out what LA and hot air balloons have in common that people would hold a festival. And, no, that commonality is not me!

Other than seeing the balloons in the sky, I've hardly paid attention to the Balloon Festival over the years. Sometimes I've been out of town, but most years, I've returned from vacation the week prior, just like this year - and keep your comments to yourself!

I've never been to the main grounds of the festival. Never even seen them. I'm not exactly sure where they are, but I have an idea where its located - and avoid it like the plague.

Festivals have many of the things I don't like - crowds being atop the list. Making it worse, much of that crowd could be tourists - even though, if I were from away, I wouldn't plan my vacation around being in LA for the Balloon Festival.

I don't do the arcade thing any anymore. Carnival rides lost my interest decades ago. So, I've never really found a reason to attend a balloon festival. Now that I realize that I've gone 16 years without giving the festival any notice, I don't expect that to change. It's just like I've never watched an episode of American Idol or Dancing with the (People that may or may not be) stars or don't have an ATM card or cell phone. I likely be sure to maintain those streaks. I'm stubborn like that.

Now, I'm not exactly opposed to festivals. I've always wanted to go to the Newport Folk Festival. There's always some pretty good artists and bands playing. I'm just opposed to driving all the way to Newport - oh, and the crowd thing again.

I do go to the Lobster Festival in Rockland every year. I've been every year for as long as I can remember, and I'm still trying to figure out why. Typically, I go on the Community Day, when I'm not charged $10 to set foot in a parking lot I usually access for free. I spend my 45 minutes to an hour looking things over. I'll buy my annual piece of fried dough - unless I splurge and go for the Thai food - yes, Oriental chow at the Lobster Festival. I told you I like to buck trends.

Then, as I leave, I wonder why I bother every year. I don't like the crowds (I still recall the year I attended in a wheelchair following a knee injury - I shudder at the memory. I don't care about the rides. I'm not going to drop any coin on the cheap carnival crap they sell to suckers. I do like to peruse the artist tents. This year's collection was pretty decent. Best of all, I didn't spend a cent on any art. One thing I've found about art is that it's fun to look at and fun to look for something you really like, but if you find something you must have, it's going to cost you. I've got $600 worth of art on my wall as a result - and those two pieces were to squelch the urge I had to buy a larger piece for $800 on its own. (I actually inquired about purchasing that piece later only to learn it was sold, whew, that was close).

Anyway, Maine is full of festival's, but most of them I ignore. I did attend the slightly obscure Lack of Love Shack Festival one year. In fact, if I'm not mistaken, I was a bit of a co-founder of that event. (If it's something stupid, bizarre or mischievous - and fun - there's a likelihood that it was partially my idea.)
The Lack of Love Shack Festival was a simple affair, tucked away at the end of a street in a small town in Maine. The Lack of Love Shack is actually a camper, but that's all I can reveal. You probably don't want any further details. There were no rides, no crowds. There wasn't even fried dough. But, there was food and some brews. We listened to the Red Sox lose, received consultation from Dr. McGillicuddy and gathered round a bonfire. There was even a guy named Ringo there. Ethel was crowned the Queen of the Lack of Love Shack Festival and a good time was had by all.

There's been talk about having a Squiggy Festival, but frankly, isn't every day a Squiggy Festival?

Of course, if a festival were named for me, it would have all the things I'd want. So, there'd be no rides, no crowds, there'd be fried dough, some good tunes, maybe a libation or two - oh, and plenty of hot air.

One Nation Under Squig

2008-08-13T17:52:00.000-07:00

Occasionally I’d flip over to the Olympic coverage last Friday night and flip away in disgust.

I’m sure you all were equally disappointed. With each passing country that was showcased in the pageantry of the opening ceremonies in Beijing, there was no sign of SquigNation.

No, apparently SquigNation is not Olympic worthy as far as the Greek Gods of the Olympic Committee are concerned.

But, if teeny weeny countries, ones in which Bob Costas has to explain where they are located geographically, are included, why not SquigNation?

Being a one-person province, it’s not like I’d take up much space. They could have snuck me in between Togo and Antarctica. I could have just strolled along, certainly better dressed than in the ensemble the US team apparently purchased at Preppies R’ Us. I might not have worn anything exotic like some of the other countries, maybe just some orange oilskins and some L.L. Bean boots and one of those Gorton fishermen hats. I’d just try to blend in. Or I might dress like the Dali Lama and see if I could push a few buttons.

But, no, SquigNation was not invited. President Jugears was so appalled that he was holding up the American flag backwards in protest to the injustice of it all. Not sure if it was a case of Ass Backwards or Backwards Ass. Thanks, W, but you’re support is the last thing I need. And, a cry for justice from you rings a bit hollow.

Now, I’m not exactly the world’s biggest fan of the Olympics. I used to love them as a kid. I also liked crayons and playing with plastic army men. I’ve grown out of all of that. Same goes for the Olympics.

It has become an exaggerated American Idol or Dancing with the Stars. All the bandwagon jumpers that haven’t paid attention to swimming, gymnastics, skiing or any other Olympic sport are now leaping aboard. It’s just like the night of the Super Bowl where people come out of the woodwork because it’s another society created festivity to feed a bored culture. It’s hardly about football anymore.

Now the Olympics are the same thing. They're about mindless hype and promotion. They’ve been teasing to the games for so long, I was tired of them before the torch was lit. They’ve taken over the airways to the extent that almost nothing else matters in the world. At least NBC pulled its coverage off the main network so it could air some soap operas. Wouldn’t want to take all the get-a-lifers away from what's truly important.

People are riveted by little Susie Olympian or big Bobbie Olympian, from some smalltown USA. If the networks are lucky they’ll find an athlete with a deformity, a tragedy to overcome or an ill family member to make their story extra gripping. People who couldn't give a hoot about sports will be glued to the TV, hoping to watch the USA kick the ass of every other nation and feed our need to feel superior. Our Dictator in Chief will fan the flame by attending the Olympics and hope the spirit of the games make people forget how hard times are and why he should be put in rings and left in a Chinese prison.

The national pride generated by something like the 1980 Olympic hockey team doesn’t exist anymore. It’s all about who can win the most medals and who can cash in the most from their Olympic success. For some, the Olympics are about the experience and the opportunity to compete on a grand stage, but for most, it’s about money, ratings, celebrity and feeding a pop culture that mindlessly eats this stuff up. I have to admit that I even get caught up and watch the drivel sometimes. I did actually flip back and forth briefly to the opening ceremonies and have checked in on occasion this week. I might even watch some of the events that include some locals that I have done stories on this week. And, I hate myself for doing so.

But, for the most part, the Olympics will go on without SquigNation. It’s too bad. I would make an excellent competitor. I could row circles around the competition in my Sea Goomer. I’d be a one-man wrecking crew in water polo, if my horse could swim - and if I had a horse. I’m definitely in weightlifing shape - able to lift 12 ounces and even some of the heftier sizes on occasion. I’d be a natural in the shooting competition. They don’t call me “Shooter” for nothing. I’d dominate in the sailing competition - because my boat would be armed with a cannon. I’d dazzle fans with a floor exercise to Social Distortion’s “Mommie’s Little Monster”.

That’s probably why SquigNation wasn’t invited. The last thing the Olympics needs is a little character, fun, spontaneity and edginess. It’s now about the pomp and circumstance and spoon feeding the masses of the reality TV generation.

Now that I think of it, I’m glad I wasn’t invited. I wouldn’t want to lower myself to such a display. SquigNation has its standards.

Squiggy Returns

2008-08-11T10:46:00.000-07:00

The dreary cloudiness equals my mood. I take the steps begrudgingly. My stomach feels trepidation, and my blood pressure rises with each step. My head begins to swirl like an engine trying to start after weeks of rest.
That's what it was like when I returned to the office this morning.
I haven't set foot there since July 19th. I've had nearly three weeks off. No work. No thoughts of work. No stress from work. The SJ was tucked in a closet in the back of my mind only to be entered (or forced open) at a later date. That date has arrived. My three weeks on the coast ended yesterday. My exile is over. I escaped from the world but have now returned. Squig is back. Happy days are here again!!!!
Today, I just returned to the office to check my mail, make sure my desk still had my stuff on it, hinting that I still have a job. I haven't exactly begun working again. I'm just preparing my frame of mind for such an occasion. I kind of have a comp day since my vacation began a day late. So I may actually make some calls and do a story tomorrow, but I can't promise anything. I'm like the Bush administration (how often do I say that). I'm not setting a timetable to actually do work. I'm setting a time horizon.
I'm not exactly excited to be home. It's nice to return to the world after being secluded for so long. I can watch Hardball and Countdown tonight. I can catch up on politics and sports. I've been out of the loop on both recently. I've tried to keep up by reading the newspapers but with no cable, it is hard to keep in step with all the scuttlebutt. Did I hear it right John McCain selected Paris Hilton as his running mate? That certainly might bolster his economic policy but probably won't help him find Czechoslovakia any easier. I heard Manny Ramirez got shipped to La-La Land. Good place for him. I heard Russia invaded Georgia, and President Jugears condemned the act. Now that's the Rednecked pot calling out the Red Menaced kettle.
But, as nice as it is to return to a life of normalcy, it also hard to give up the carefree life of an ocean view and the escape it provides. Over the last few weeks, I've spent more hours in a boat of some kind than I have in my car. That's always good. I didn't worry about work. I hardly checked my email. I paid a couple of bills. All that mattered was the weather, the boating conditions, what book I was reading, what I had in the fridge that needed using up, what cocktail should I make. Life was quiet and simple and responsibility was minimized.
I cherish that time away. I always wondered if I could stand to be down there alone for a long period of time. Now I wonder if I'd ever get tired of it. During the rainy days of last week, I had a few anxious thoughts of returning home, but at the same time, I could stay down there on my own for longer. I like doing the social thing. I like hanging out with friends and having a good time with various people, but I also like my alone time. I like doing my own thing and getting away from everything and everybody.
During my three weeks on the coast, I didn't have to worry about anybody else. I ate and drank what I wanted. I did what I wanted. The only time I was dependant on someone else was when my brother was at his place and would take his boat out. I'd adjust my schedule around his boating plans. Otherwise, I was on Squiggy time. I took time to relax, read, think, enjoy the scenery, pick a few notes on my guitar or mandolin on quiet evenings on my deck.
I wasn't a complete loner for three weeks. I went to a party with a variety of friends (and jello shots). I interacted with neighbors and family. I even went to a bar a couple of times to catch the live coverage of my nephew's Little League baseball team playing in the New England Regional tournament on NESN. Never thought I'd impress people by name-dropping my 11-year old nephew.
But, that's all over with now. I'm back to the real world. My job awaits. My car still needs a new blower motor. My computer still runs as slow as a horse I once bet on - and probably needs to be put down like that said horse. The fall season is fast approaching and life is beginning to speed up again. And, there's a whole 19 days until my next vacation.
Vacation recap
Week One
Things got off to slow start. The TD Banknorth 250 was delayed by rain on Sunday, July 20. After waiting out the rain most of that day, the racing was postponed until Monday. I was asked if I was available, meaning I was working Monday. My vacation was put on hold. Your welcome, boss.
Rain didn't stop there. It delayed things on Monday as well. What could have been a 4 p.m. start of the 250, delayed it until the evening. That put us all up against our deadline of 10:50 p.m. I had sidebar duty, but with the race running late and a 10:30 p.m. finish looking likely, I had to come up with something. I had a potential story with Kevin Harvick leading the race, but if he won, the reporter doing the main story would handle that. I finally decided to do something on his crew chief, a Vermont native with ties to the race. I had two stories in the works at once, but consolidated them and filed the story without quotes with 100 laps remaining or so. I was putting the whammy on Harvick's chances but had to give the desk something to work with in case the race ran late, and I couldn't get quotes. If Harvick lost the race, I was in trouble to scramble for another sider. The race ended about 10:20, and Harvick won. I rushed down to the track, running over fans in the process. I got quotes from the crew chief and raced back to the press box to file by 10:50. Then I grabbed a quote or two from Harvick and submitted a write-through by 10:55. Whew!!!
Wired from a mad-dash to deadline, I got to the coast about 1:30 a.m. The first week was decent weather-wise, better than I expected. The first couple days I got in a couple kayak trips and bike rides. I did my annual look around town during a rainy day and then drove inland on the weekend to visit friends at a party and returned by 11:30 p.m. that evening.
Week Two
My brother arrived to begin his month-long stay down the road. I rode my bike into town for groceries and then had a couple of good boat rides in my brother's boat. We went to Metinic Island, a good 15 miles or so out to sea, not far from Monhegan. The next day, we went to North Haven and visited Goose Rocks Lighthouse, where my great grandfather was the longest serving keeper. It was great boating weather those two days. I got some kayak trips in as well. The weather worsened later in the week. We checked out the Lobster Festival, just because it's there.
Week Three
My nephew arrived for his two-weeks. We celebrated his birthday. I squeezed in a few good kayak trips around the bad weather. We took my brother's boat to Rockland and watched the schooners leave. We fished and waited for the Navy ship to depart. I caught nearly 10 mackerel during that stretch. We also got in trips to Tenant's Harbor and another to Rockland Harbor. We also cruised through the Mussel Ridge Islands and did some fishing off Fisherman's Island. About 20 mackerel got jiggy with Squiggy, and we had a haul of between 40-50 fish, our best in years.

Overall, I got some reading done. Got some thinking and research done for my second novel. I didn't get some of the kayak trips I wanted to and didn't get in the island bike ride I had hoped for, but sometimes you take what the weather gives, and I feel like I made the most of what Mother Nature provided. Now, the weather sounds as iffy this week as it did all of last. The good thing about that is, now, I don't care. I'm not on vacation any longer. Life isn't and no longer has to be perfect. Well, not until my next vacation.

Temporary Permanent Vacation

2008-07-19T12:03:00.000-07:00

Goodbye cruel world. I’m leaving you today. Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye.

This will be the last post for a little while. I’m going on vacation. Which means I’m disappearing. I’m getting away from the world. Putting a giant "Do Not Disturb" sign on my existence. Most won’t hear from me until I come back in three weeks. If I come back. (Don't worry, I always return, even if I don't want to).

Now, I’m not exactly disappearing. Anybody who knows me knows where I’ll be. Finding me or reaching me will be another story. I hope to avoid checking my email. I may not even answer the phone, if I’m even inside enough to hear it ring.

I’m going to be so out of the loop that I won’t have SportsCenter for three weeks. I won’t have cable news. I won’t have Countdown with Keith Olbermann or Hardball with Chris Matthews.

If something significant happens in the world and I’m unaware of it, it is often because it happens during this time of year. There will be a players traded in some sport or some news breaking somewhere. Because my absorption of the news will be to a lesser extent, those details just may elude me.

Who knows, maybe John McCain will have learned how to use the Internet by then or maybe even discovered that Czechoslovakia no longer exists. The way he's been changing positions, and copying Obama, McCain might even be a left wing liberal by the time I return.

Maybe Brett Favre will have made up his mind and we'll be spared the daily babble about his on/off retirement.

Maybe Manny Ramirez will be through with his annual summer tantrum and be ready to play for a contract and/or a World Series title.

Maybe the Red Sox will find some middle relief help.

Maybe I'll be excited about the start off football season and not be reminded of the Super Bowl everytime the Patriots are mentioned.

I'm not going to be disturbed by all that between now and early August. I'm not going to worry too much about politics. I'm not going to think about work. I'll follow sports little by little. I might do some projects around the house, but only if I'm really bored. These will be weeks for drinking - not thinking.

When I return, I'm sure I'll have plenty of things to say on my blog. Maybe I'll make an election prediction. I could size up the VP stakes, if they haven't been selected by then. I'm sure I'll be able to spout of about this or that. Lacking for words or an opinion is hardly a concern for me.

For the next few weeks, all that will matter to me is where I should go on my bike? Where should I go in my kayak? What boats trips with my brother are in store? Is today a grill day? Which concert DVD should I chose - the White Stripes, Saw Doctors, Social Distortion, U2, REM, Dropkick Murphy’s, David Gilmour, Bodeans? Do I play my guitar or my mandolin? Which books do I read? What should I concoct in the kitchen? What kind of cocktail should I make?

It should be a time where my blood pressure drops significantly while my level of happiness soars. I will leave much of my everyday world behind, and most of it, I won’t miss.

At this point, I barely have any plans for my three-week hiatus. I may take in Lou Gramm’s appearance in Rockland. He’s the former lead singer of Foreigner. I hope to take my bike on the ferry to Islesboro, North Haven or Vinalhaven. There’s a gathering of friends that I may attend, even if it means a lengthy drive inland. Otherwise, I’ll see what each day and its weather offers and go from there.

During the spring months when I’m working and preparing my cottage, it are weeks like these that are the payoff. That work is done. Now, it is time to kick back, relax and enjoy the place and forget about everything else. Life will be a beach for the next three weeks.

So, goodbye cruel world. I’m leaving you today. Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye.

Get Your Motor Runnin'

2008-07-16T17:27:00.000-07:00

This week, I’m a gearhead. Vrooom!!!!
Okay, maybe I’m not much of a gearhead. But, this week is the T.D. Banknorth 250, the richest short track race in these parts. For our coverage area, it’s one of the biggest events of the year. That means this week, we’re all focused on auto racing. Of course, some of us are also focused on an impending vacation, which begins as soon as my computer is packed, and I walk out the door of the press box at the Oxford Plains Speedway.
I’ve said in the past that I’ve always wanted to write an autobiography, but I didn’t know anything about cars.
A lack of motor skills becomes a bit of a hurdle this week. I’m writing about a sport I don’t know a whole heck of a lot about. Yet, being a good reporter means you either know you’re stuff extremely well, or you can pretend that you do. This week it is the latter.
It used to be most of us didn’t have to worry about the Turn Left people. They could go around in circles endlessly, and we wouldn’t care. We had a person that covered the sport and handled all the auto racing coverage on his own. He spared the rest of us the task. That’s not the case anymore.
We have four writers working on various stories. All of us will be at the race Sunday. We’ll have a couple of photogs there as well. Over a third of the press box will be filled by our people. It’s nice that once a year we can flaunt our numbers and destroy the competition.
This has meant that auto racing has to be part of my lexicon. My duty in recent years has been to cover the big name Sprint Cup drivers that come to the track to help bring in fans. It has been Kurt Busch, Matt Kenseth, Kyle Busch, Denny Hamlin, Terry LaBonte, Ricky Craven and Kevin LePage. (That's me lurking beneath the stands in the photo above as LePage's car goes by). This year it will be Kevin Harvick. It’s a bit comical that all these race fans go ga-ga over seeing these guys. Me, I’ve got to talk to them and barely know who they are. Though, since I first started covering the 250, I have paid attention a little more to the sport. I’m certainly more knowledgeable than I was, almost to the point that it scares me sometimes.
I also do a feature here or there on some of the local drivers and work up some other stories or notebook items. I usually have three or four stories during the week leading up to the race and another two or three on Sunday. This year, I’m slated for just one Sunday, a story on Harvick’s day. I’ll probably come up with some notebook stuff as well, just for fun.
It actually has become an event I look forward to. It makes for a long day. I get to the track around 10:30 a.m. and leave somewhere after 11 p.m.. I end up walking a couple miles between trips from the press box around the track to the pit area. I’ll make that trek three or four times in a day.
One year, I was on the infield during the race doing a story on Kyle Busch’s pit crew. It was the only time I truly had a deadline story to write after the race. After Busch’s engine blew midway through the race, I was able to sit in the dark on the infield and write out a story in a notebook as the race wound down. Afterwards, I had about 20 minutes to get back to the press box and get the story filed for Page 1.
It’s a chaotic atmosphere to say the least. I’ve been there during practice sessions the Saturday prior to race day and returned the next day to feel the intensity revved to the max. With engine’s roaring, people on edge, crowds of fans and a lot of money at stake, the atmosphere in the pit area is other worldly. A wrong step could get somebody miffed, get me yelled at or get me run over. Or all of the above in one instant.
Talking to auto racing people is a different experience as well. Needless to say, I don’t get too indepth about racing and all the ins and outs. When racers get talking about their cars and their races, they often talk in a language most wouldn’t understand. They don’t even use technical terms like thingamajig or doohickey. It’s kind of like when skiers or surfers talk in their own gnarly jargon. At least hockey players just talk normal, with the exception of an ability to use curse words in the most creative of ways.
It can be a challenge on this beat to tell a story accurately, completely and without making a fool of myself. Fortunately, I’m pretty versatile, and I like the challenge of covering something I’m unfamiliar with. My goal is to do it so well that you can’t even tell I know nothing of what I write. Of course, when I do that, I just get assigned more of it.
This week has been light compared to other years. I had the press luncheon on Monday and got some interviews done. One feature is already written and ready to run. I’ll finish off another preview feature tomorrow. I interview Harvick on Friday and then will likely do something on his practice sessions Saturday. Then, Sunday, is race day.
Being a reporter is about wanting to cover the big events. You want to be there and write about the games or races that everybody is interested in and talking about.
So, I'll get my previews done. Pick out a computer. Find my earplugs and become a true gearhead for the day. I'll get my motor running and get revved up for Sunday's action.
Then, on Monday, I'll put it in neutral and go on vacation.

Come Sail Away

2008-07-14T12:16:00.000-07:00

I loathe a parade.
When I think about parades, I recall navigating around Wiscasset on the Fourth of July or trying to outrun the frenzied parade crowds at Disneyland (Come on Goofy, take my hand, lead me to the world of self).
To me, parades typically mean crowds and traffic jams. Both tend to push me over the edge.
As a kid, I might have enjoyed them. Hey, people dressing up in costumes and throwing candy to me gets my attention and interest.
But the only fond parade memories I've had lately have been at championship parades for the New England Patriots and the Portland Pirates. What made those pleasant were that I didn't even see the parades. I had VIP access, hung out by the stage where the ceremonies were and had little hassle to deal with - other than the confetti in my hair. And, I got paid for it.
Friday, however, I found a parade even I like. The only traffic hassle was finding a parking spot in Rockport. The rest of it was smooth sailing, literally.
I went to the annual Schooner Parade in Rockland. Two years ago, I watched it from the end of the Rockland Breakwater. I was going to do that again, but the salty air and possibility of being on the water was too tempting for me. The schooner Heron was going to take part in the parade and they welcomed me - and my credit card- along.
It was a great way to watch all the schooners in action, and I got four hours of sea time as part of the deal. Anytime I'm floating (unless it's face down), life is good.
We sailed out of Rockport at 12:30. I'd never been on the Heron before, but it's a small two-masted schooner that was built by its owner. It does three hours sails in the afternoons and evening all summer. The captain is called Twig. Yes, it was Twig and Squig on the Brig.
It's a neat, sleek boat, and it was fun to sail on. It was in stark contrast to the behemoth Victory Chimes, of which I'm a proud member of the Captain's Club. I couldn't help but laugh when a person from away helped Twig with the halyards and raise the sails. It was a simple two-man operation. The helper was a bit winded and wasn't sure if he should have volunteered to have to work so hard. On the Victory Chimes, it takes over a dozen of us to raise the three sails. On the Heron, Twig had one of his young daughter's help with the headsails.
Being accustomed to the large deck space of the Chimes, the tight confines of the Heron made it a challenge to maneuver, especially on the bow where the boom of the staysail and I were dancing and jousting all afternoon. I only got hit in the back once and ducked just in time later when it was swinging for my head as I tried to change my camera's media card amidst a tack. Of course, there were no famous Chimes frozen turkeys on the loose either. (You have to be a Chimes veteran to know why that's funny!)
Once the schooners all lined up for their numerous sails past the Breakwater, we got in line as well. Most of the windjammer fleet were there. There were also some small sailboats and plenty of motor boats, kayaks and working vessels dodging each other. It was vessels galore.
Armed with my camera, I bounced between the port and starboard side of the bow, ducking and dodging the boom with every move. Everywhere I looked there were schooners. At one moment, I was torn between shooting this one or that one.
It kind of reminded me of when I'd shoot concert photos. Tour managers would typically allow me two or three songs to get some shots. Then I'd be moved out from in front of the stage. It would be a frenzied few minutes of shooting pictures. Fortunately, schooners mug for the cameras more like Kiss than turn away from them like Alannis Morrissette. I was in constant motion shooting whatever floated by.
I used up most of my digital media, about 200-plus photos, and most of my battery life. At one point, I tried to save on media space by vowing to not take anymore photos of the Chimes, since I have a ton of them already. By late afternoon, we were on our way back to Rockport while the other schooners were anchoring up inside the Breakwater.
Twig's wife brought in the headsails and furled them up. Twig and his daughter's handled the other sails. On the Chimes, it takes close to a dozen on each sail to do the furling, especially if we're trying to reign in the sails amidst a sudden squall in the Fox Island Thorofare. I think we lost one passenger that day when they got swallowed up in the canvas and was never found. More appetizers for the rest of us!!!
I've been watching the schooner parade/schooner races since I was a kid. We'd go out in my Dad's boat and zip around all the vessels. I even have one of those trips on video. The tape ends with the rumble of thunder and my Dad saying "I think we better get out of here." We raced back to Owls Head and got ashore just before the clouds opened up and poured.
I've watched a couple from the Breakwater as well. Two years ago, my brother and I raced up in his boat and watched from the dock. We charged tourists $5 to have their photos taken by the descendants of real lighthouse keepers. Okay, we didn't do that, but we should have.
This experience was different from all of those. It offered a very unique perspective. Even in a motor boat, you can't really be part of the action like you can when you're on a sailing vessel. We'd sail side by side with other schooners and take pictures of people taking pictures of us. I'm sure their photos are better than mine - because I'll be in their photos.
There's just nothing like being on a vessel like that. For those few hours, all that mattered was where the wind was blowing, where the other boats were, what made for a good photo and where I was in relationship to the boom - and the cookies. I can't think of anything that makes me happier. All last week, my back bothered me because I strained it the previous Sunday. That's why exercise should be outlawed. Yet, during those four hours on the water, my back didn't bother me once.
It was a great escape. It helped me escape stress and frustrations instead of be the cause of them. Not many parades can do that.

*By the way, the story on the Chimes frozen turkey is a classic tale of the sea. A loose frozen turkey, dropped by a crew member, rolls down the deck and injures a passenger. That person had to be airlifted off the boat because of clotting. The spouse threatened to sue, and the Captain had to file a report with the Coast Guard because of the rescue call. Fortunately, the turkey passed the required drug test. Like the Captain's Uncle Enoch stories, it's a tale I've heard numerous times but laugh hysterically with every telling.

Well, Doggie

2008-07-10T16:56:00.000-07:00

Now this is the kind of campaign promise we need.

I heard Barack Obama’s interview with his wife and daughters the other day. It was revealed that Obama has made the promise that when the election is over, win or lose, the reward will be a dog.

Now, I wasn’t quite sure if that’s a promise of a dog for all of us or to just his kids. I’ll have to look into that because I don’t want to miss out. I’m still steamed because I didn’t get my free taco that Jacoby Ellsbury won for me with a stolen base in the World Series.

Anyway, if a presidential candidate is dangling the possibility of a dog as a campaign promise, he’s likely going to get my vote.

Sure, health care would be nice. Lower gas prices would be helpful. World peace, well that’s not going to happen. Racial harmony, dream on. A vibrant economy would be good, but that won’t entice my cheap employers to throw me anymore coin. So, I know the one way a candidate can truly come through for me is to get me a dog.

I’ll even make up signs. I’m "Barking for Barack". Or "I’m voting for John McCainine".

Obama's already on the record about the dog. I’m waiting for McCain to up the ante. Maybe he can provide me the exact kind of dog I want. It has to either be a German shepherd, that I will name Schultz (as in Sergeant Schultz - I know nothing) or a golden lab or retriever, that I will name Jethro (as in Bodine).

If McCain can make that promise, I might be tempted to sell my soul and actually vote for the Grand OLD Party. But, I’m not counting my dog biscuits quite yet.

Of course, there’s more to the promise than just getting a dog. If I wanted a dog, I'd just go out and buy one. It’s more complicated than that.

I’d need a new job. My work schedule and travels just aren’t conducive to caring for a pooch. Though a German Shepherd would come in handy at a soccer game when some crazed mother wants to complain about why I didn't mention little Susie's name enough times. They'd have to talk to Schultz.

I’d also need a new place to live. I can’t have pets where I’m at now. I’d need more money. Rover’s got to eat, and Squiggy’s got to bring home the Alpo. There’s the added responsibility. The only creature I’ve had to care for and be responsible for is me - and those results are certainly mixed.

So, if a candidate will promise me a dog and assure me of all the other conditions, they’ll get my vote. Let the debate begin.

And, by the way, if you’re running for the Senate, you better be promising me some flea powder.

Squiggy Clean

2008-07-10T16:20:00.001-07:00

Time to come clean.

There's been a bit of talk about steroids regarding "older" athletes recently.

With Dara Torres' recent success in the U.S. Swimming Olympic Trials, the debate raged over whether she is just a physical phenomenon or a juiced up Mom with swim fins. One sports talking head went so far to say that we're in such an era now that anybody over a certain age has to be suspected of using when their achievements are so great. That must include me, since I'm a year older than Torres.

So, with that I'm mind, I thought maybe I should make an announcement. I'm clean. It's all me baby. All that I do and all that I accomplish is not a result of me juicing up, pumping up, popping pills, using the clear or any other enhanced substance. I'm just a unique being and freak of nature. I've avoided the roid because I haven't needed them.

Some might wonder how that can be. I’m faster than a speeding mullet. More powerful than the locomotion. I’m able to leap into tall buildings in a single bound.

The speed and magic of my fingers working a keyboard has to be fueled by something. My ability to run a 17-minute mile (on a treadmill) certainly creates speculation.

I can literally row circles in my Sea Goomer. That can't be natural.

I almost passed a car on my bike the other day. Of course, I was cruising downhill and the guy driving the car ahead of me was like 100-something, braking all the way.

I can lift weights, 12 ounces at a time, without getting tired. Heck, I can even lift them when I'm tired.

I bet I can still hit that free throw where I stand back to the basket and shoot the ball facing the opposite hoop. It might take a few tries, but I know a girl that witnessed me hit that shot. Too bad it was the only thing I ever did that truly impressed her.

I still produce a mean pass rush, especially when its my overly anxious four-foot-high nephew that will heave the ball when I start chasing him and growling at the same time.

I can still blast a whiffle ball high into the tree tops and do my home run dance.

Yes, I may possess unbelievable physical gifts, but I'm just your average multi-talented, overly blessed, skilled, intelligent and modest award-winning sports scribe.

There are no needles with my DNA on them - no underage country singers with my DNA on them either. There's no trace of cream on my body, other than sour, ice, whipped or Bailey's Irish - and most of that evidence is internal. I don't like taking pills. I don't like injections. So, if I don't want needles sticking me in the arm, I'm not going to get poked in other places either.

Skeptics will certainly argue, "But you've got a huge head. That has to be steroids." No, I just have a large head, thank in part to genetics - to house my large brain and immense intelligence.

I don't suffer roid rage. I suffer from a temper that might go off if somebody presses the wrong button. Remember, don't frig with Squig.

My body is a temple (okay, maybe a temple of doom). I'm typically careful about what I drink and eat. No, seriously, I am. The only liquids I drink are water, milk and juice. No soda. No sports drinks. No energy drinks. I hardly drink coffee. I do make an occasional exception for beverages of an alcoholic nature or even a bowlful, especially if it's on fire. I rarely eat red meat. I rarely eat eggs. I've often checked out at the grocery store and had cashiers comment how much healthy stuff I buy. No, I'm not kidding.

So when my body is a bastion of healthfulness and cleanliness, there is no need to clutter it up with artificial enhancement. I'm all natural. I'm juice-free, pills-free, roids-free and guilt free. Thought I'd clear up any rumours or speculation.

The Forbidden Fruit

2008-07-02T16:50:00.001-07:00

It couldn’t happen to a better fruit.

The tomato has recently been tainted by reports of salmonella. The world is now avoiding it. If fast food places like McDonald’s and Burger King, the bastions of healthy eating, are concerned, that can’t be good.

Welcome to the club everybody.

I’ve been at odds with the tomato for decades. Superman has Kryponite. Squigman has the tomato.

It might stun many to hear that the tomato makes me shudder at the mere thought of one.

Yes, this is the same guy that will eat jalapeno peppers like peanuts, will chomp on a habanero on a dare or take a bite out of raw lemons (stating that if they’re good enough for Stonewall Jackson, they’re good enough for me). Heck, I’ll gladly tip a bottle of Tabasco or Frank's hot sauce and chug it down or slam whatever cocktail friends think of to put in a shot glass for me. (But, I'm partial to kamikaze's, if you're taking notes - and buying)

But, you won’t likely see me eat a tomato.

When the recent news broke about the tainted tomatoes, my Mother reminded me and advised “Don’t buy any tomatoes.” I replied, “I never do.”

Now this phobia goes way back. When I was a kid, I loved tomatoes. I’d put sugar on them and eat them willingly. Then - I can recall it clearly to this day - sitting at a picnic table at my grandfather’s house in South Portland. There were tomatoes for the eating. As I went to devour one, I discovered a bug crawling inside it. I can’t recall what kind of bug it was, but that was the end of my taste for tomatoes - and bugs.

To be honest, I’ve come a long way since then. I will actually eat cherry or grape tomatoes. Even though I’d be hard pressed to pop one in my mouth whole. If I cut them up and mix them in a salad or something, they’re fine. I’ll even slice a large tomato to put on a sandwich or chop up for whatever I’m cooking.

The basic rule of thumb seems to be, if I can’t see it, I’ll eat it.

My father always hated sour cream and vinegar. He’d cringe at the thought of either. But, he’d often eat things with either ingredient, or both, if he wasn’t aware they were in the food item he was eating. He’d gladly enjoy something that had sour cream or vinegar in it, but then complain something was “sour” when it didn’t have either.

Apparently, this hot little tomato doesn’t fall far from the vine. I’m kind of the same way, I guess. If tomatoes are mixed in with foods or I can’t see them, I’ll eat them fine - even when I know they’re there. Yet, just the thought of taking a sliced tomato and eating it sends chills up my spine.

My list of things I’d have to be really drunk to do might not even include eating a tomato. Because no matter how many shots, Scorpion Bowls or Pearl Harbors I drink, I’m pretty sure you couldn’t get me to eat a tomato.

I don’t know why such a seemingly minor trauma at a young age has made the tomato the scourge of my diet. Hey, if I could explain the reasoning behind a lot of things I do, I might be a bit more normal - and boring.

I bet if I found a bug in something now, it wouldn’t faze me in the least. I’d just look for the hot sauce.

But for those of you that have been forced to give up tomatoes because of this Sal Monella guy and his tainted fruit, don’t worry. You won’t miss it. Just kick back with a Guinness, pop a couple jalapeno’s, wash them down with some Frank's hot sauce and try a couple lemon wedges for dessert. Now that’s good eating.

Almost Famous

2008-07-01T14:02:00.000-07:00

I see famous people.
The other day, my job was to drive to Portland, wait around, talk to Abby Wambach, drive home and write a story about it. It was as matter of fact as that.
As I thought about the assignment that day, I realized that it really didn't faze me in the least that I was interviewing somebody famous. Wambach is one of the premier soccer players in the world. The only thing that made it different than interviewing somebody else was that I had to go through PR people to arrange to talk to her. Other than that, we sat down and chatted for a few minutes and went on our separate ways. She was a great interview and very nice. I even heard a commercial on TV the next day touting soccer, and I recognized her voice before seeing her face on the tube.
In my line of work, I talk to famous people somewhat regularly. At least a couple times a year, depending on various assignments. In fact, the place I interviewed Wambach was the same spot at Hadlock Field in Portland where I interviewed Olympic wrestler Rulon Gardner a few years ago.
It's a funny thing this job is. Because of my employment, I can walk up to people and ask them questions. Sometimes the people answering the questions are famous. If I had another line of work, it probably wouldn't be acceptable practice to walk up to Abby Wambach and talk to her about the future of Women's Pro Soccer or ask Terry LaBonte about how his car is running or ask Sidney Crosby about the game that night. When I interviewed Crosby, while still a player in the Quebec Major Junior Hockey League, he was surrounded by fans, autograph seekers and gawkers. Yet, I was the only one in that bunch he was talking to. Same with Denny Hamlin. He had won a race the night before and rushed to Maine for the T.D. Banknorth 250. After waiting for his security guy to let me talk to him, I took matters in my own impatient hands and stalked him to the concession stand and forced myself through the crowd of fans to talk to him. Talk about the power of the pen.
Sometimes, I even get to ask stupid questions. Like, asking Kyle Bush how he handled the lobster he had at lunch or asking Adam Vinatieri how well he can kick wearing L.L. Bean boots. (he didn't know, he'd just gotten the boots that morning). I even got to ask Deion Branch about his opinion on Robert Kraft's dancing. I even got to ask the Hanson brothers (the Slapshot guys) serious questions.
Whenever I get these kinds of assignments, I can't help but think how ordinary fans would envy me. When I've talked to race car drivers at Maine's biggest car race each summer, fans will be hovering around various pit garages waiting for autographs and pictures. There I am being escorted through the ropes to talk to Kyle Busch, Kurt Busch, Matt Kenseth or whoever. I remember the year Kurt Busch was there to race. I hung around his garage the day before the race as he practiced and tinkered with his car. A photographer and I stood around discussing how they had sent "Dumb and Dumber" to cover it. Not sure which one I was. Neither of us had ever heard of Kurt Busch a month prior to that, yet there we were hanging out around his pit crew, something real race fans would love to do. One year, I was even stationed trackside with Kyle Busch's pit crew during the race.
When I was covering the Portland Pirates and pro hockey, I dealt with hockey players all the time. They're the greatest. They're all down to earth and most I've talked to have been pleasures to deal with. To me, Olaf Kolzig isn't the NHL goaltender. He's Olie the goalie, the guy I met while he was trying to photo copy his taxes.
At the NHL All-Star game in Boston many years ago, I was down there to do a story on former University of Maine star Paul Kariya. Then I was working on a story about a potential Major Junior League team coming to Maine. So I talked to a number of players that once played in that league like Denis Savard, Martin Brodeur, Ray Bourque and Mario Lemieux. Many of them were very cooperative and interested in discussing the potential of that league in the United States.
There have been some that haven't been so great to deal with. One of the first times I went down to an NHL game in Boston, I was hoping to talk to Wayne Gretzky about his team's goaltender, who had played in Portland in previous seasons. I didn't bother with the media cluster around Gretzky in the locker room, hoping I might catch him for a one-on-one later. That didn't happen. I ended up chasing him down the hall, but he was rushing out of the building. Such is the case with stars of that caliber. I might still have it all on tape. Me trying to get his attention, and him saying "I got to go. I got to go." I think I even put that on my answering machine once.
The worst had to be former Cincinnati Red George Foster. He was part of a barnstorming baseball team. I tried to talk to him following a game at the University of Maine. He stood by his locker cracking jokes, trying to act tough and cool in an attempt to avoid me. I gave him a disgusted look as if I was saying "Hey, are you willing to talk to me or not?" I asked a question or two and then walked away, figuring I'm not going to waste my time with him.
Most big names aren't like that. You don't have the trust and report you might have with a local athlete or coach, but the famous athletes know the game as well. They know if you talk enough and say what we might want to hear, we might get what we want and leave them alone. They know if they're respectful of me, I'll be respectful of them.
That's why interviewing a personality like that usually isn't that special. Famous people are just people - that are famous. I have to treat them as such and vice versa. I can't go in all giddy and awe struck because I'm talking to some celebrity.
When I had that interview with Rulon Gardner, earlier that evening our intern photographer asked to have her picture taken with him. I couldn't help but cringe. I want to be professional, ask good questions and not make myself look like an idiot. But, that's usually my goal with whoever I deal with. Sometimes I'm even three for three, but something looking or acting like an idiot comes naturally.
If anything, maybe they should be excited to talk to me. Afterall, there's only one Poison Pen. I thought getting interviewed by me might have made Abby Wambach's day, but then I realized that she had met Slugger the Sea Dog and had her picture taken with him. Unfortunately, we all take a back seat to Slugger in that regard.

Tim Russert 1950-2008

2008-06-13T16:00:00.000-07:00

Sunday mornings at 9 a.m. will never be the same.
In a life where I am often on the go and unsure where exactly I might be at any given time, one safe bet was that on Sunday mornings, I'd be watching Meet The Press.
That is why I was so saddened, shocked and heartbroken this afternoon when I learned the Tim Russert had died suddenly from an apparent heart attack.
I feel such a great sense of loss. It is not often that something happens that makes me realize that life will never be the same. Russert's loss is one of those moments for me. I can't recall any news that was more devastating to me since that morning a year-and-a-half ago when I learned that my father had died. Russert's loss leaves a significant void in this world. Politics and journalism will never be the same.
I don't recall when or why I started watching Meet The Press. Even if I wasn't able to watch it live on Sunday's, I'd always tape it and watch it later. One of the reasons it became such a can't miss program for me was Tim Russert.
Whether it was on Meet The Press or when he'd appear on other programs, when Russert talked about politics, I'd want to hear what he had to say. I can't think of any other television journalist that I liked, respected and admired more. When he declared last week that Barack Obama would be the presumptive nominee for the Democratic Party, it wasn't news I didn't already know or assume, but it meant a great deal more coming from him. I trusted his instincts, his knowledge and his insight. When Russert spoke, he spoke volumes.

He seemed like a regular guy. He was a blue collar, Irish Catholic that didn't forget his roots and didn't try to be somebody else. He always talked about his beloved Buffalo Bills. He wrote a book about his reverence for his father. He seemed like a fun person, but he was also a brilliant reporter and interviewer.
In this day and age of the Hannity's and O'Reilly's, people that fake journalism and tout agenda's, Russert was the epitome of fair and balanced. He was tough. He knew his stuff, and he'd challenge the people he interviewed and questioned their ideas, their words and their actions. He did it all in a respectful way. In an era where politicians are liars and hypocrites, Tim Russert could hold them accountable.
Tim Russert wasn't about himself. He was about the issues. He was about the truth in politics. He was a giant in his business, but he seemed as down to earth as any one of us. This son of a sanitation worker connected with viewers and politicians. He was one of us and respresented us in his work.

I haven't read his book about "Big Russ", the story of his father, but Russert and Meet The Press often reminds me of my own father. There were Sunday mornings in Owls Head or one of those final Sunday mornings when I went down to Gorham to visit my father weeks prior to his death. We'd watch Meet The Press together on those mornings. My love of history and politics was something I always shared with my Dad. We'd discuss the issues of the day.
As a journalist myself, I wasn't drawn to Russert because of my profession. I'm a political junkie. I love listening to pundits and hearing candidates answering the questions I want to ask. I could always count on Russert providing me the information I sought and the opinions and insight that informed.
Now as I reflect on Russert and his work as a journalist, I can't help but notice that many of the things I liked about him are traits that are very important to me when I go about my job.
He was a man that did his homework. He was prepared and knew the issues he dealt with. He was fair and respected but also liked and considered a friend by peers and contemporaries. He brought a passion and enthusiasm to his work. He reported and informed. He made the world of politics and journalism that much greater.
I feel bad that I never had a chance to meet him because I know I would have liked him. But that would make today even harder. I've been listening to colleagues offer tributes to him on the news as I write this. I still can't believe it. Tim Russert was a constant, a guy and presence that I always thought would be there. Politics, journalism and humanity are lessened today.

If it's Sunday, it's Meet The Press. But it will never be the same.

Truth And Lies

2008-06-11T07:12:00.001-07:00

Those who have never heard their knee pop should never criticize those who have.

I was stunned to hear the gibberish that was spawned over the weekend about Boston Celtic forward Paul Pierce and his knee injury in last Thursday's NBA Final opener.

Pierce was injured in a collision with his own player early in the third quarter. He went down in a heap, grabbed his knee and was in obvious pain. He was carried off the court and put in a wheelchair in the back halls of the FleetCenter.

I've seen plenty of knee injuries in my lifetime - have even had a couple myself. I thought for sure, Pierce was done for the series. When Celtic center Kendrick Perkins rolled his ankle moments later, I was just about ready to hit the remote and find something else to watch.

Then just 1:45 of elapsed gametime later, Pierce came bouncing out of the tunnel, looking like a prize fighter ready to rumble. He returned to the game and hit back-to-back 3's in the quarter and help the Celtics open the lead.

It had people making Willis Read references. I don't know about that comparison. When Reed returned after a serious injury and spark his New York Knicks it was well before my time. I likened Pierce to the playoff series years ago when Larry Bird shook off an injury in a collision and returned to the game to lead Boston to victory. It may not have been a warrior effort like Reed's, but both Bird and Pierce provided a pretty good sports moment and gave their teams a significant lift, especially if you're a Celtic fan.

Then all the Laker beat writers and fans began to cry. They said Pierce was faking. He was acting. He was milking the situation for drama. Maybe the LA people should take off their designer sunglasses and actually see what is going on.

Of course, these are the same people that cheer on their beloved Kobe Bryant, a rapist, an adulterer, a liar and a whiny self-absorbed egomaniac. How about his pathetic press conference with his wife following his "rendezvous" in a Colorado hotel. Now that was worthy of an Oscar - and jail time.

Even if Pierce, for some odd reason, had choreographed the entire thing, that certainly doesn't speak well of the weak-minded Lakers that folded their tents following his return.

Certainly Pierce may have overreacted a bit. His knee wasn't as severely hurt as he initially thought. Last I knew, that's not a crime. He had waited his entire career to reach this plateau and play for a title. Now he hears his knee pop and feels the pain in his knee. Anyone in that situation would be scared and thinking the worst.

When I hurt my knees, I never heard them pop. When I dislocated my left knee playing basketball, the fact that my knee cap was a bit left of center was an obvious sign of a serious injury. Well, that and the fact that it hurt like hell. When I ruptured my patella tendon in my right knee (that's the tissue that connects your knee cap to your lower leg), my knee cap, free from its lower attachment to my lower leg, had risen up toward my thigh. Again, it was obvious that something was wrong.

In Pierce's case, he may not have had those signs, but when your knee suffers a blow like that the last thing you're going to be thinking about is jumping right back up on it. Once the trainers came to his attention, they looked it over and determined he should be carried off and put in a wheelchair. It wasn't until the original trauma had subsided, and he had the opportunity to examine his range of motion and weight baring that it was determined he wasn't as injured as first thought.

How many other pro athletes have you seen carried off or stagger off with an injury only to see return a bit later? It happens all the time. Pierce's case was just a bit more dramatic, especially in the atmosphere of the NBA Championship.

That still doesn't give people the right to criticize his reaction. I can see Laker fans saying something idiotic like that. That's what fans do. They check their common sense at the door when they follow the masses of fanaticism. Intelligence is overwhelmed by a mouth and heart consumed by blind allegiance. LA beat writers should know better and show professionalism.

Reporters are taught to write what they know. When they get into trouble is when they attempt to analyze things they know nothing about. Unless you've felt your knee pop or come apart and know what that pain is like and what fear that creates, you have no right to criticize those that have suffered through that kind of experience, regardless of the severity of the injury.

We Don't Need No Color Code

2008-06-04T11:24:00.001-07:00

From the pain come the dream

From the dream come the vision

From the vision come the people

From the people come the power

From this power come the change

... Peter Gabriel

It isn’t often I can sit in front of the television and see history like this occur.

History happens every day, and with the glutton of cable news channels, it isn’t hard to see news made hour by hour - even manufactured (if I accidentally put Fox on).

Tuesday night was different. As I hunkered down for another evening of watching political coverage, it dawned on me the relevance of what was about to occur. At some point, Barack Obama was going to surpass the total delegates needed and become the presumptive nominee for the Democratic Party.

Now such an ending wasn’t completely a surprise to me. I thought he’d win it when he first announced his candidacy back in Springfield, Illinois (not the Springfield where the Simpson's live). I had my doubts at times. His early campaign reminded me of one of those up-and-coming teams that aren’t quite ready to win yet. Many of those teams have to lose one before they win one. When Hillary Clinton appeared assured of the nomination, I started to accept the idea that Obama might not win.Of course, a funny thing happened to Clinton’s coronation. She ran a lousy campaign. She rested on her laurels and her husband’s coat tails. She ran on inevitability instead running on change - in a change election. She took the nomination for granted, assumed Obama was too green to make a difference and figured she’d have the primary completed by Super Tuesday. Oops.

Now, Clinton is pretending she hasn’t seen the election results. She’s got her hands over her ears, yelling “Naaaa Naaaaa Naaaaa” to anyone trying to tell her she’s lost. The shoo-in is about to be told to shoo. Meanwhile, Obama has become the first African-American nominated to be president.

I don’t have any African-American roots. I can’t think of a time where racism has really impacted me. Yet, it was captivating to watch this great moment in history evolve right before my eyes. I got chills when he stepped to the podium in Minnesota with the roaring crowd behind him.

This was a shot heard round the world. America, a place that has been trying to combat racism and prejudice since its inception truly lived up to its doctrine of “All Men Are Created Equal.” Of course, Clinton apparently didn’t hear it. As this country was making history, she was too self involved to even acknowledge it.

Obama’s story is an amazing one. His father was from Kenya. His mother is from Kansas. He grew up in various places around the world and sought to find the American dream. His story isn’t unlike many of our own. My ancestors were English, Scottish, German and Irish - the only French I have in me apparently is from French Fries and French Toast. They all came to this country looking for a new start and new possibilities.

Certainly, there have been presidential candidates that are products of American’s great melting pot, but none like Obama. He has lifted the discourse, or at least tried, above race. He has shown that it is not the color of one’s skin but the brightness of one’s ideals. He has brought a message of hope and change. He has hinted at the dawning of a new age, where people share ideas, hopes and dreams with civility and understanding. He has weathered, thus far, the race-baiting of the Clinton's and the smear tactics of the Republicans with dignity and class.

He has given reason to care about politics again and care about the direction of our country, bringing some hope that a difference can actually be made. I am proud to have been able to attend the caucus in Maine during the primary election and be part of his victory in our state. It was a state assumed that Clinton would win, but Maine was part of his string of consecutive victories that paved the way to the nomination.

Generations of this country have worked for this moment. Men and women have died for the cause of freedom and equality. Obama’s nomination shows the progress that has been made and that what is right can overcome the fundamental wrongs that are interwoven in our history. I’d be naive to think that racism and prejudice has been eradicated. There will be people that won’t vote for Obama because he’s black. There are others that are just as closed minded that will not vote for him because of his name. It is still sad that such a modern society can still have people promote such hatred and a lack of understanding.

This journey to reach equality and the ideals this Democratic society was built upon still has a ways to go. While President Jugears tries to force-feed democracy down the throats of people in the Middle East, Obama’s nomination serves as a true example of democracy at work. Obama promised to bring change when he began his candidacy and with Tuesday’s victory in the primary, he has delivered just that.

The Ending Will Come - From Out Of The Blue

2008-06-03T08:20:00.000-07:00

At some point, you just want it to end.

That's what former National Hockey League goaltender and coach Glen Hanlon said after his Portland Pirates won a grueling overtime hockey game a few years ago. As we stood in the hallway of the Worcester Centrum following the early morning win that kept the Pirates playoff hopes alive, Hanlon talked about the seemingly never-ending string of overtimes his team had just endured. It was as if we all wished for some kind of ending, not really caring who actually eventually won.

Whenever I see an overtime hockey game, that comment comes to mind. And last night, it was prevalent once again. I happened to pick up the Detroit-Pittsburgh playoff series on NBC last night. Because of the NHL's idiotic television coverage on obscure cable channels that I don't have, I didn't even realize the game was on REAL TV last night. I jumped on the bandwagon early in the first overtime and quickly was drawn into the drama. One goal would give the Red Wings the Stanley Cup or one goal would give the Penguins a chance to play another day. I'm not a fan of either team but can't stand the Penguins. So, I was a Red Wings fan for a night.

Overtime hockey is the game at its best. You can't beat the drama where the next goal decides it all. I especially enjoy them when I'm watching at home. I can enjoy the excitement and the suspense without the stress of deadlines and editors breathing down my neck.

Of course, some of the overtime games that I've covered are the most memorable, and like that comment by Hanlon, they all come to mind when I watch a game like I did last night.

That game in Worcester is one I won't soon forget. The Pirates were favored to win the series but dropped the first two games at home. Facing elimination in Game Three, it appeared they were headed for a sweep. They were trailing in the second period, and I had already begun tinkering with a potential obituary - (the lead I had was used two days later when they were ousted in Game Four). Portland rallied in the third period and took the lead. So I rewrote the story and had it done. From the make-shift press row in the upper deck of the Centrum, I had my computer shut down and put away. I was just waiting for the Pirate win before rushing down below to the media room to file a quick story before getting quotes. Then Portland got a late penalty, and Worcester scored in the final seconds to tie it. Fortunately, there were thousands of screaming Wildcat fans there, and nobody heard the words that came out of my mouth. They certainly would have warranted the soap treatment.

Fortunately for me, I had had a gut feeling overtime was due that evening. So prior to the game, I had done a 20-plus inch notebook to use as filler, just in case. Good thing I did.

Two or three overtimes later, the Pirates won. It was like 12:30 in the morning. I was sitting in the stands by that point so I'd be close to the press room when the winner was scored. When I sent a rushed story without quotes, I asked how much time I had for a write-through. I was told 15 minutes. I got home about 4 a.m. or so and had to drive back to Worcester two days later to watch the Pirates lose.

Then there was the Easter Sunday Pirates game that went on forever. Fortunately it was an afternoon affair. Deadline was no worry. This was another two or three overtime game and had Portland fans recalling the "Bud Stefanski Game" back in the Maine Mariner days. I was at that playoff game. It was the longest game in Mariner history at that time. I can still vividly recall Stefanski diving across the crease for a loose puck for the tying goal in the final seconds of regulation. The Pirates weren't so lucky. Saint John dominated most of the game and ultimately won. Portland goalie Sebastien Charpentier played outstanding and you couldn't help feel bad for the guy afterward. With his playoff beard in full bloom, he kind of looked like a sweaty Ewok from Star Wars. He said sullenly that he was just trying to play his best and please all the fans that had doubted him earlier in the season. You just wanted to hug to poor guy.

There was also an elimination Game Five in Springfield one year. The Pirates had won the first two games on the road but couldn't close it out at home. I ended up having to return to Springfield for Game Five on my birthday. The Pirates lost on a redirection in front in the third period, 1-0. It was a stunning loss and the playoff season that was expected to go on for weeks was over.

As stressful and unpredictable as those games are, they're pretty fun. I might be a bit nerved up because of deadlines, but I can be freakishly calm during those affairs. It is one of those instances where I know I'm doing something most people probably couldn't do. It's not often my job gets the adrenaline flowing like that, but it can be a thrill to get your story done and filed in minutes in those circumstances - even if you have a four-hour drive home afterward.

Last night, I couldn't help but want the game over with. But you can't just turn off a game like that, especially when the Cup is being shined in the back room somewhere just in case. I was dozing off at times, but got my second wind for the third period. There were people involved in the game that I've interviewed in the past, Penguins Coach Michel Therrien and players Sidney Crosby, Jimmy Howard, Sergei Gonchar. I remember Gonchar coming to Portland when he couldn't speak English.

He came on the ice after missing time to an injury and spearheaded the Penquins power play that produced the winner early in the third overtime. Just like the David Gilmour song says "The ending will come, from out of the blue. " Game over.

It was almost 1 a.m. Finally, the game was done. And even better, I didn't have a story to write. I shut off the TV and went to sleep.

Just Gimme Some Truth

2008-06-02T07:39:00.000-07:00

They've called him "sad" and referred to him as a "miserable beast". They've called his actions puzzling - even though they had seen advance copies of Scott McLellan's book over a month ago.
They've tried every way imaginable to disparage the former White House press secretary, but one thing I have not heard him called by the resounding right wing propaganda machine is a liar.
McLellan released his book last week that critiques the War Monger's administration. His revelations weren't much of a surprise. What do you mean the Incompetent Cowboy manufactured the reasons for war? President Jugears is really a steadfast religious zealot alcoholic that's as stubborn as a jackass (my apologies to all jackasses)? The White House is full of liars and egomaniacs, there to serve themselves and their cause rather than the country? You mean Mr. Compassionate Conservative couldn't give a damn about New Orleans and the Katrina victims. Well, duh!!!
Some of us knew all that long before McLellan was serving as this three-ring circus "yes-man". I'd figured that out before America decided that it might be good to reelect an idiot because they'd like to have a drink with him and like his cowboy belt buckle.
But this isn't an I told you so rant. It is not surprising that McLellan is selling his former boss down the Potomac River. It is not surprising the book's release has created a buzz. What is interesting is that the reaction is more around the fact that a Bush loyalist went against the Crawford Cowboy and his rodeo clowns. Nobody really seems to be up in arms about what he actually says in the book.
The Drawlin Dictator and his cronies are trying to smear and cloud the issue with all kinds of talking points to avoid the truth - which is exactly what McLellan says they did about Iraq. If they make discussion about the man and question his ethics, his sanity or anything else that might stick, people might not notice that a pretty reliable source says that President Bushleague sent thousands of troops to their death for a war that wasn't need and was drummed up by fear mongering. Maybe they won't be aware that his flunkies gave up an undercover agent's cover to smear her husband. Maybe the fact that the country is in disarray and divided because of this idiot's arrogance and incompetence will be overlooked. It's all white noise to cover their white lies.
It's a pretty sad commentary on this society. Apparently the truth doesn't matter anymore. It is appalling enough that King George has people out there with the gall to actually defend his actions and degrade those who seek to find accountability. But it is even worse that we've reached a climate where the actual truth doesn't really matter anymore.
It's not surprising. Lying is a way of life these days. People like Marion Jones and Barry Bonds don't come clean until they absolutely have to. For Jones it was immanent jail time for her steroid use that forced the truth out of her. Bonds is still hiding behind lies and his trainer, who also is avoiding telling the truth. So is Roger Clemens. He's become a laughing stock and one thing he apparently hasn't injected himself with is truth serum.
Politicians are probably the worst. Hillary Clinton speaks of dodging sniper fire in Bosnia and says she was tired when she said that. No, she was lying. John McCain states how the troop levels in Iraq have been reduced to pre-surge levels. They haven't been. Mitt Romney talked about his love of hunting and watching his father marching with Rev. Martin Luther King. Romney never saw his father march with King and the only hunting he's ever done is search for new hair gel. Bill Clinton wagged his finger and claimed ... well, you know.
The truth gets twisted and mangled by these people because they know they can get away with it. Much of the advertising on television is devoid of the truth. Maybe they don't outright lie about their products but the truth is certainly stepped upon significantly. And people fall for it.
We've become a society where the truth isn't demanded. We don't hold the lying masses accountable. We're all guilty of shading the truth and often hiding from it. Sometimes the truth is hard to swallow or difficult to acknowledge. It is easier to lie or shade the truth than face facts. Society is more interested in glitz than substance. They're easily distracted than dedicated to doing what is right.
The truth is George W. Bush deserves to be strung up by his cowboy boots and dragged across his Crawford Ranch by Big Brown (Brownie you're doing a heck of a job).
But we know he'll never be held accountable for his actions - other than his miserable poll numbers. Whatever happened to expecting great things from our leaders? Whatever happened to expecting the truth and holding those that avoid it accountable?

The truth has become a casualty in this society. People don't have the moral character to tell it, and others don't care enough to demand it. And that's no lie.

Why Does It Always Rain On Me?

2008-05-15T18:51:00.000-07:00

It’s not nice to fool with Mother Nature.

Well, it’s not wise to frig with Squig either.

Over the last month, Mother Nature has been toying with the Squigman. And Squiggy don’t like that.

We’ve been blessed with some gorgeous weather of late. I’ve been at softball games basking in the warm glow of the sun and the annoying swarm of black flies. Yet, on my days off, when I’ve needed similar weather to paint my deck, Mother Nature has dictated otherwise. It rained on SquigNation.

Painting my deck isn’t exactly a thrill I’ve been longing for. Frankly, I almost could care less. So what if the stain is faded and wearing off and needs repainting? When you have an ocean view, I’m not looking at the floor boards on the deck. However, being a responsible owner (that’s almost as funny to say as boasting that I have a minor in Biblical Studies), I have to keep up appearances, especially since I’m renting the place to pay the bills.

Don’t want people to arrive and be disgusted and exclaim “My goodness, the deck needs painting! Edward, let’s go. We’re leaving. We want our money back!”

Facing the inevitable, I did all the scraping and bought the paint over a month ago. That very day, we had bright sunny skies and warm temperatures. My brother and I had even entertained tackling the job that afternoon and getting it over with. After reading the directions, something I shouldn’t have done, it suggested having temperatures above 50 degrees for 48 hours straight. This was during a week where the daytime’s warm temperatures were plummeting faster than George Bush’s approval numbers. So I waited. Besides, putting off work is my strength.

Late April, the temps were still too chilly. The first May weekend it rained. It wasn’t supposed to. The weather forecasters said Saturday would be decent but Sunday would be rainy. I hoped maybe I could get the preliminary cleaning work done. The weather was horrible both days and the weekend was a complete washout. It was a waste of time even going down there with the hopes of getting work done.

Then came last weekend. Weather guessers predicted doom. Rain Saturday, more rain Monday. The good news was the chances of doing a softball game Monday were slim, but so we’re the chances of getting any painting done. Then the prognosticators began to waver, like they were plucking the leaves off daisies. It’s going to rain. It’s not going to rain.

I left for Owls Head with a slight hope of getting something done. Sunday was going to be nice. Worse case was that I’d at least get the cleaning done, but I knew Mother Nature might yank my chain once again. I was already contemplating giving up on the painting for now and breaking out the deck furniture (which was all stored inside the house).

When I awoke Saturday morning, I did errands in town waiting for Mother Nature to show her hand. Upon my return, the weather was decent enough but could go either way. I hastily got down to cleaning the deck out front and did the same to the back. After washing both down thoroughly, I broke for lunch. The hope was that the wood might dry and decent afternoon weather would open the door for painting in the afternoon. I anxiously anticipated the chance to paint. No, really, I did.

The noon weather report said there would be possible showers but otherwise, it would be clearing as the day progressed. I had sunny skies and all looked good. I put in a Metallica CD and got ready to slop it on.

I can't remember the last time I painted something. It was likely the last time the Gorham house was painted, before my parents realized they were running out of kids and had siding put on. I used to get as much paint on myself as I did whatever I was painting.

With that impressive painting resume, I tackled the front deck first. With each plank completed, the deck looked a little grayer. So did the skies. It remained cloudy and a threat of showers persisted. I contemplated trying to do the back deck first instead, not wanting to ruin the front if it rained. I decided to gamble. I rolled the dice and kept painting out front. Good thing I didn’t recall that when I usually gamble, I lose money.

By mid afternoon, I got the front deck done - with all the paint on the wood and none on me. All I had to do was wait and see if Mother Nature had anything to say about it. I waited anxiously. I watched the clock. Eight hours of drying would be between 8 and 10. Would Mother Nature actually cut Squiggy a break?

The radar on the 6 p.m. news showed no signs of showers approaching. I was in the clear.

Or so I thought. Rain was no long a concern, but I didn’t like the look of one of my pet sea gulls. I have two that linger around my beach. This one was sitting on the big rock that begins a series of ledges that extends from the front yard. At first, I thought it was just admiring my work. Then it dawned on me that it might be looking at the pristine, newly painted surface and tempted to make its own mark on the deck. Not like it hasn’t done it before. Then I feared maybe a raccoon would come out looking to sniff paint fumes and put little paw prints all across the deck. Not like they haven’t done that before either.

I was on guard to protect my fortress, but the sea gull was only interested in the bird seed on the ground. Raccoons never appeared. Looks like I made it. Word must have gotten around about my achievement. Sandpipers stopped by the rock where the pet sea gulls hang out. Chipmunks came to visit. A red cardinal even flew in for a viewing.

The following day Mother Nature made Mother’s Day warm and beautiful. I finished the back deck and was already plotting setting up the front deck Monday morning - before doing the softball game I had thought would surely get rained out. What was supposed to be another washout weekend turned out to be just what I needed. I even got a few precious moments to sit on the deck and bask in the sun and remember why I do all the work I do at that place.

I didn’t fool with Mother Nature, and she didn’t mess with me. It was a good weekend all around.

Now Mother Nature and I are in negotiations regarding my vacation weeks.

A Boatiful Day In The Neighborhood

2008-05-06T06:13:00.000-07:00

It was a beautiful cold and cloudy day. Just a hint of fog and sea breeze and a steady drizzle. It wasn't exactly boating weather, but that's what were were about to do.

Frankly, I wasn't all that enthused about the annual launching of my brother's boat. Damp, dark and dreary aren't exactly ideal boating conditions, but the boat was ready. My brother was hauling it back from Rockport where it had recieved its spring tune-up. And boat owners don't bring their prizes back from the dealers just to park in their driveway.

Boat launching has been an annual ritual for years. For decades, I helped my father launch his (in much warmer weather). Then when my brother purchased his boat, I became his hired hand as well. One year I even had a birthday cruise, which is an exception since my birthday is in late April. This is one of the earlier launchings he's had since then.

With the tide on the decline, he was running late. The mechanic had accidently run the battery dry during work in the last few days. That delayed arrival. We hurriedly had to lauch my "Sea Goomer", a rowboat I adopted after it washed ashore one winter. Because we were already a couple hours down on the tide, we needed the extra boat to tow another rowboat out to the mooring. Otherwise, we wouldn't have enough water to reach the rowboat with the motor boat upon our return home.

While my nephew, Jesse, got the rowboats in the right places, I helped clean the boat cushions. Polishing boat seats doesn't usually excite me, but it was at that moment that the anticipation of the launch crept in.

My ancestors were ship builders, sea captains, merchant mariners and lighthouse keepers. I think my high blood pressure is a result of all the sea salt in my veins. When I started getting the cushions cleaned up, I knew we'd be back on the water soon. I was like a golden retriever, panting, tail wagging, fully aware that a trip was inevitable. Pretty soon I'd be sticking my face into the wind, ears flapping all the way.

We had to take the boat to Rockland to launch since the tide was down so low that launching it in the nearby river in South Thomaston wasn't feasible. The boat ramp in Rockland already had its dock in place that runs between two boat ramps. That was going to make it easier.

In launches with my father, my job was often doing all the physical things that needed doing as well as remembing all the things that my Dad would always forget (like bringing the boat keys etc.). Wesley's boat is much lighter and easier to launch. With the ramp there, all I had to do was hold the ropes and wait for the boat to float off. Any time I can launch the boat without getting my feet wet is a success.

Because we launched in Rockland, we had a much longer trip home than the short trip up the river we'd have from South Thomaston. The weather was actually warmer than it was when we pulled the boat up last October. We had a gusty, chilly wind that day and had to fight a North wind and heavy seas all the way into Rockland Harbor. It made us both wonder whether pulling the boat up earlier would be prudent in the future because the brutal temperatures weren't just any fun. We'll probably say the same things this year when we pull the boat in late fall amidst similar conditions.

The only boats on the water on this spring day were a few working boats, the Vinalhaven ferry and a few lobstermen. Apparently, none of the other pleasure boaters craved the gorgeous conditions of a dank, drizzling early May afternoon. Weather forecasters were saying we weren't going to get much rain. They had also said it was to be sunny that day. I was fully expecting the rain to increase as soon as we pulled away from the dock. Sure enough, it did. But with any boat trip with my brother, I can usually recount conditions that were much worse. Considering the seas were light and there was hardly any wind, this was a pleasure cruise. I had my winter coat on, my hood pulled up and my winter gloves keeping me warm. Rain or sea splash couldn't touch me.

We hit some seas rounding Owls Head Light, which was on by way, but otherwise, it was a smooth trip.

Of course, the launching and the trip along the Owls Head shoreline en route home, had distracted our focus away from the tide. By the time we reached our cove, it was questionable whether we'd have enough water. I've pushed my brother's boat halfway out our cove at low tide in the middle of August, but I wasn't hoping for that opportunity in early May. We got the oars ready, and he had the motor up as we edge our way through the cove. Three feet of water decreased to two and then one-and-a-half. As we neared the mooring, he cut the engine, and we paddled the last few feet to tie up the boat.

Jesse and I hurriedly hopped into the tiny rowboat, which my brother hasn't given a name yet. All three of us couldn't fit in the rowboat at once. So Jesse would drop me off and return for my brother. The water was shallow, but it looked like we might have a clear path to the shore for me to step out. That optimism ended when the bottom of the boat ran aground on the mud. I was able to pole us forward a bit, but there was no escaping a barefoot walk through the icy waters and sticky mud. I shed my shoes and socks and stepped out. The mud is actually a bit warm. The walk wasn't as cold as it was a few years ago when we had to do that same things in late October. It took hours for my feet to warm up that day, but it provided plenty of laughs for our neighbors who watched us have to wade ashore.

Wes had to do the mud walk as well and dragged the boat with Jesse sitting inside.

Afterwards, Jesse stood on front lawn shivering in the rain looking less than excited about the adventure. I was wet and cold. My feet still had mud caked on them. But I was happy. I tell people that when I'm wearing my red winter coat, that isn't good. It is a sure sign of cold and miserable weather. But, if I'm wearing that coat and I'm smiling, it means I probably just got out of the boat.

A boat trip in the warm temperatures of July and August is always a treat, but a trip in early May certainly isn't boring. Just ask our neighbors.

Assembly Required

2008-05-06T05:52:00.000-07:00

Since we all came into this world with all our parts assembled, I think all the things we acquire and use should arrive the same way.
Any package that says "Assembly Required" is just forecasting potential dangers. It should also say "Could Try Your Patience". Or warn "This product Could Produce Rampant Cursing". It might even state "This Product Stands A Better Chance Of Being Destroyed In A Fit Of Rage Than Being Assembled Properly."
Now SOME assembly required isn't too trying. If I buy a new flash light and it says assembly required (which it won't) I'd have no fear. If I buy a VCR or a new DVD player, I'll be good to go in no time. If the assembly means plugging stuff in, I'm okay. I'm quite adept at plugging the orange thing into the other orange thing and the white thing into the other white thing - or at least plugging stuff in until the machine works. But, if it requires hardware, any kinds of tools, washers, screws and directions, I'm not too enthusiastic.
When people notice that I type with all my fingers rather than the one-digit style of other reporters, I state that I have magic in all five fingers. But like Kryptonite is to Superman, handiwork is the biggest threat to my skills.
I was putting together a small portable grill I purchased the other day. Now how hard can it be to assemble a $6 grill? I didn't think it would take too long. And, it didn't, but it reminded me how much I hate having to put things together. I saw a rocking chair in a store the other day and the price was $10 more if it had to be assembled by the store. I couldn't help but think I'd want more than $10 if I had to assemble it.
Granted, I'm not blessed with a whole lot of patience. Actually, it might be determined that I was born with absolutely no patience. So when I buy something, I want to be able to take it out of the box and flip the switch and turn on whater thingamajig makes the thing go.
I get aggravated when I have to take the protective tape off a new CD. With all the CD's I've bought (between 400-500) you'd think I'd be able to tear that security tape off in an instant.
When I have to put something together, I'm inviting all kinds of misfortune. It might test my handiwork skills, but it almost assuredly will test my patience. I could lose a integral piece of the product just taking the gizmo and its guts out of the box. I could lose that crucial part somewhere during construction. I could get completely baffled by the directions that often look like a five-year old drew them. I could put the thing together backwards and have to start all over again. I could lose my patience along the way. I could get frustrated, watch by blood pressure rise and blurt out profanities as I try to keep from exploding. When that fails and I do pop a gasket, I may just destroy the product in a fit of rage - cursing its very existance in the process.
The only time I'd ever hear my father curse was when he'd be putting something together and it wouldn't go just right. Fortunately, he was never around when I've had those moments. I'm kind of like a Yosemite Sam version of Ralphie in "A Christmas Story". When Ralpie drops a nut while helping his father change a tire, he drops an F-Bomb that earns him the soap-in-mouth treatment. After dropping that one nut, I'd have likely hurled the others at the car and let loose a series of "Frickin, Frackin, @$%&%$ @#$%$&!!!!!
Fortunately, the grill didn't tempt that kind of fate. Good thing too. At $6, I wouldn't have been too afraid to hurl it into the ocean. I got most of the pieces together inside and began putting it together. I saw no pieces for the legs that the grill rests on. The box was empty. I was already envisioning having to take the @$%#% thing back to the store. I double-checked outside and there they were, where I first opened the box. I tried to make sense of the directions but they used a different kind of English than I'm used to. The handle had its own proper name. I can't recall it because I tossed the directions already. But couldn't it just say "Handle"? It was almost easier to go by the photo on the box than the instructions provided. At least then I would know that it looks like it is supposed to.
It actually didn't take me too long to complete the assembly. I had it all together, looking just like it does on the box. There were no missing pieces. There were no leftover pieces. Nothing was put in wrong or backwards. Nothing got broken. I didn't even utter a naughty word - even though I may have thought of one or two. I put the grill away and tossed out the box and directions. Nothing broken and my mouth didn't taste like soap. Assembly complete.
Let's just hope that when a renter goes to use it this summer, it doesn't fall apart, prompting them to question "What idiot put this together?"

Bites of Spring

2008-04-25T07:20:00.000-07:00

We all have various signs that tell us spring is here.
The tax deadline looms, the Red Sox are sputtering out of the gate and the Bruins are wrapping up another early exit. Notice I didn’t mention the Celtics. Apparently they’re going to be visible this spring.
I know it is spring when I’m actually working outside again. Now standing on the side of a snow-covered mountain at the U.S. Alpine Ski Championships at Sugarloaf earlier this month doesn’t quite count. I’ve already covered two softball games outside in the last week and have another today. After existing in stale, stifling basketball gyms or frigid hockey rinks over the winter months, it is nice to see the light of day again. Granted, it can be a bit like roulette. I never know what kind of weather I might get at these early spring games. That’s why I have a whole arsenal of coats in my car. I’m ready for just about any situation. I even have my plastic bag at the ready, which I use to cover my scorebook while covering a game in the rain. Hopefully, I’ll have nothing more than these 70-degree temperatures for the rest of the softball season. I can live with that.
All that aside, the real signs of spring to me isn’t the IRS, the Red Sox or another softball season in Maine. It is the osprey that has returned to Maine and has nested back on Spaulding Island in our cove. It is the eider ducks that swim by, replacing the harlequin ducks that have headed back to New Foundland. It is the ability to drive my car with the window open and the radio cranked. It is my version of driving with the top down.
Then there is Dorman’s. This is the ice cream place in Thomaston. It is a place I’ve gone since I was a kid. The place is even older than me. Yes, it is THAT old. When it opens for the season in mid-April that tells me that it is spring for sure. There have been years where I’ve stood in its gravel parking lot, shivering from the cold April temperatures and ordering ice cream. It was anything but ice cream weather, but Dorman’s was open. Spring had arrived.
I made my first trip back to Dorman’s last week. It is really the only ice cream place I ever go to. I’ll hit DQ once in awhile for a slush on a really hot day, but that may be the lone exception. There are a number of dairy places around home, yet I can count on one hand the total that I’ve been to in two decades here.
Dorman’s is the place that was always a treat to go to as a kid. One trip we’d be allowed to get whatever we wanted (within reason), but the next trip we’d have to settle for an ice cream sandwich or something like it. It is nice to be all grown up (yes, I know it’s a stretch for me to say that) and discard those rules and buy whatever I want. When I won a bet that the Red Sox would be in first place by July 4, the prize was a sundae at Dorman’s. I was young and naïve in those days and would actually bet with my heart rather than my head. Not sure I’d even bet the Sox will be in first this July, but it is looking good. When I injured my knee and couldn’t drive for two months, I celebrated my return to the road with a trip to Dorman’s (after a quick stop at Wasses' hot dogs). My Dad used to pull his car right up to the front of the building. I’d explain to him that the place was not a drive-through. He’d explain that he wanted to see what the flavors were. “Dad, they’ve been serving the same flavors for 50 years!” I’d tell him.
These days, Dorman’s is getting a bit squeezed out by big business, but it still thrives. That strip of Route One is starting to resemble the corporate corridor you see everywhere. The diner (where I ate my first whole pizza solo) that used to be across the street is now a hotel with a movie theater and chain eatery next door. A Lowe's is being built next to them. There’s a new development moving in right next to Dorman’s. They apparently tried to buy Dorman’s out, but Dorman’s held firm. The little shack that has served up ice cream is still going strong after 50-plus years.
Today, I’ve got a softball game in the warm spring sun. I’ll probably drive with my car window down and the tunes arockin’. And, just to make sure it is spring, I’ll stop at Dorman’s on my arrival in the Midcoast.
After all, we should support these small businesses and fight the corporate takeover of our traditions. I’m ready for that battle, with nuts and whipped cream on top.

A Cackling Tonya Harding In A Pantsuit

2008-04-24T09:40:00.000-07:00

When Tonya Harding realized she couldn’t beat her competition to achieve her Olympic dreams, she congratulated her foe and showed tremendous sportsmanship and class in defeat.
Okay, not exactly. Because her skills couldn’t overcome her competition, she resorted to nefarious means. She “allegedly” hired a get-a-life hitman-wanna-be to lay the smack down on Nancy Kerrigan. As Kerrigan lay dazed, confused and wounded from an assault, Harding appeared charming and innocent and poised to take advantage of Kerrigan’s unfortunate downfall.
I bring up that story to preface my thoughts about Hillary Clinton. She’s a cackling Tonya Harding in a pantsuit. Though Harding came from white trash sleaze, Hillary is resorting to such. She’s slinging as much mud as she does the suds while pandering to blue-collar bar patrons.
The former First Lady has reached the point where she can’t win the Democratic nomination on her own merits. All she has left is to degrade, lie and smear her way, hoping that Barack Obama suffers some “unfortunate” mishap that allows her the chance at the Presidency. Too bad Bubba didn’t pardon Shane Stant (Kerrigan’s assailant) just so he’d be available.
Hillary and her husband, the former Pervert in Chief, have proven to be hypocrites, shameless liars and classless candidates that have resorted to the same fear mongering the last eight years of dictatorship have given us. The Clinton’s attitude of winning at all costs is truly scary. It is the same unwavering and unyielding stubbornness (and incompetence) that Tweedle Bush and Tweedle Cheney have given us.
We actually shouldn’t be surprised. I’m certainly not. I vowed long before the 2008 race began that I would never vote for Hillary Clinton. While the Clinton administration had some positive economical results (how couldn’t it after Bush was too busy looking at his watch to see a recession coming? – guess that runs in the family). But who could forget the scandals and the twisting of truth during Clinton’s eight years. Just the mention of scandal has to bring to mind Bubba’s finger wave and his vehement denial. All of which were lies. I actually wanted the bum impeached and booted back to the Arkansas swamp he slithered out of. The only way to prove the Clinton's are telling the truth is to have video footage (like in Bosnia) or a stained dress.
So why should we trust them now or put them in power again? I certainly had no intention of doing so, even though I figured the Democrats would be so stupidly smitten that they’d nominate Billary anyway.
Of course, something happened on the way to the Clinton coronation. She ran a lousy campaign. She assumed she was the front-runner and ran like an heir apparent. Meanwhile, Obama roared right past her and captivated voters with a message of hope and change. Clinton ran on her name and her husband’s career while Obama ran on a belief that we can get away from the spin politics of the last two decades.
Now Clinton has found herself in a dire situation. She’s losing the delegate count. She’s losing the popular vote. Mathematically, she’s got little to no chance of overtaking Obama. All that is left is for her to hope she or somebody else can deliver the right kind of hit job and take him down.
It’s kind of like the losing team in a basketball game. All they’ve got left is to foul and foul and hope somehow they can win. Sometimes it works. Just ask the NCAA National Champions from Kansas.
The Clinton’s have been playing this game all along. They haven’t been trying to sell themselves but convince voters it is better to go with the devil you know. They’ve lied about Obama’s record. They’ve changed their tune on Michigan and Florida, now that they need them to win. They’ve pandered shamelessly. They’ve played the race card and tried to exploit gender issues. They’ve simply done everything and anything possible to besmirch Obama and said whatever necessary to win. Their actions have been laughable at times but much more deplorable and disgusting.
Unfortunately, that kind of politics works. Look at the ads that are on television. Look at the most popular shows. They all cater to the lowest common denominator. As I watch these commercials or hear about these shows, I often wonder "How stupid do they think we all are?". Pretty stupid is the answer. Since politicians know that Americans can be idiots, they exploit those that are more interested in what’s going on with Brittany Spears than Iraq. Voting is one of our most precious rights. People have fought and died for it, yet it is often sullied by people who are too apathetic or too distracted by anything to be bothered. Politicians know this all too well and seize the opportunity against a hapless electorate. Because the media gets bored with the policy speeches, they thrive off the white noise that candidates hope distract and influence the voter. You are left with Willie Horton, Swift Boat ads and Shrillary's 3 a.m. phone call.
As much as I love politics, it often sickens me. I recently saw a movie about Robert Kennedy and a documentary about Martin Luther King Jr. Both gave me a glimpse of a time and a spirit of hope that existed. I can honestly say, I haven’t seen many people provide such optimism and a hint that things actually could change for the better. Obama, in my opinion, is somebody that does just that. Yet, Hillary Clinton is more concerned about her own ego, her own power that she is willing to take this nomination to where, I thought, only Republicans go.
I have already decided that if, somehow, Hillary Clinton gets the nomination, I will leave the Democratic Party for good and become an Independent. I certainly will not vote for her in the fall.
I don’t think she will get the nomination, but desperate times produce desperate measures. And the Clinton’s have already proven they have no shame and no conscience. They’ll do anything to get elected and damn the consequences. Who knows how much lower they’re willing to stoop.
Of course, Tonya Harding did get to the Olympics. Kerrigan won a medal. Harding broke a lace early in her routine and had to start over. She failed miserably and was an embarrassment. All she had left was a sex tape and her celebrity boxing. She hasn’t been heard from since. If only the Clinton’s could suffer the same fate.

Moose Meet

2008-04-18T05:16:00.000-07:00

Have you ever had someone just give you a look of contempt? Ever been flashed a glare of annoyance and dismay?

I got that look the other night - from a moose.

I was settling in to watch the evening news the other evening while in Owls Head. Looking through my windows and across the cove, I could see the front yard of one of the neighbors in the left corner of the cove. I just happened to catch sight of something out of the ordinary from across the water. I grabbed the binoculars and confirmed my suspicions.

"Holy Bullwinkle, it's a moose," I thought to myself.

I grabbed the camera and hoofed it down the road like a teeny bopper at a New Kids On The Block reunion appearance.

Seeing wildlife is nothing new around our cove. I've seen osprey, eagles, deer, raccoons, seals, ducks, geese, foxes and even a waddling porcupine or two. I even spotted two moose cross the cove from the island at low tide one morning. I tried chasing them down, but they ducked for cover fasther than Hillary Clinton facing sniper fire.

That's the only time I've seen a moose other than at Baxter State Park. The closest I've been to a moose lately has been by walking past the moose drop earings at L.L. Bean.

So by the time I reached the end of the road the other night. The moose was still standing down by the shore. I tried to move stealthfully - or at least as stealthfully as guy built like a retired out-of-shape linebacker can.

When the moose became aware of my presence, it didn't really seem to care. It first made a move toward the woods but then continued up the road. I crossed over to the opposite side of the paved road from it. I was probably 2o or 30 yards away. I began to try recalling the signs of when a moose is about to charge.

"He shakes his head and wiggles his ears," I thought. "No, that's an elephant."

I realized I didn't know what a moose does just before it charges. Even worse, I couldn't remember what to do if it does charge. Do I run, play dead or pray? Maybe I just step up and deliver a roundhouse right into the snout, just like John Candy did when he popped Marty Moose at Wally World in the movie Vacation. I could see the headlines. "Award-winning journalist KO's Moose."

After looking me over and giving me a look like I wasn't worth bothering with, it turned and headed into the brush. Of course, that meant it was headed for our dirt road. So I walked up with the intent of take pictures of it as it crossed.

The moose didn't look to pleased to realize he hadn't rid itself of me. I moved on down the road, like I was heading home, and waited. Sure enough, the moose came out of the woods and started down the road, as if he was following me. ("Look what I found Mom, can I keep it?").

He stopped and looked me over a bit. I wasn't too worried about it charging anymore. It had long skinny legs like a few seven-foot-six NBA postplayers - all limbs and no skills. It seemed to be a bit disgusted that everywhere it turned, there I was. Apparently, it doesn't like the paparazzi treatment anymore than Brittney Spears.

It turned away and began walking away. He returned to the main road and headed across the field. I continued to following, talking to it all the way, but it just ignored me.

When another person with a dog came out of the woods on the other side of the field, the moose showed just how spry it was. It took off with a gallop, looking a bit like a horse I once bet on (and lost). Finally, the moose had ditched me and taken off up the road to continue his early evening saunter.

While I recant my tale of meeting a moose to others, I can only imagine what it is telling its friends about me.

Two-Wheel Time Machine

2008-04-13T11:22:00.000-07:00

I hadn’t gotten more than 50 yards when doubt crept in.
The hamstrings started to ache. The biting, chilly wind blew through my body. I quickly began to assign blame for this predicament.
“Who’s dumb idea was this,” I pondered.
Being a master of stupid choices, the blame quickly settled in familiar territory. It was supposed to be a simple bike ride around Lewiston. Having been to the workout room at the Sun Journal the day before, I was looking for an easy day of it. Of course, I always say that and end up working harder and more sore than the day before.
My backpack was loaded with my keys and a couple of Ronnie James Dio CD’s. I’d do a quick ride around town and make my way to the SJ and finish my workout there on the treadmill and elliptical.
Of course, the sunny skies that appeared through my windows from the inside looking out didn’t forecast chilly temperatures or the brisk wind. Here I was wearing shorts and trying to end the revolt of my muscles in mass protest to activity.
As I cycled past Bates College and made my way toward Lewiston High School and the Colisee, I settled in and couldn’t help but be reminded how biking always reminds me of my childhood.
Maybe it is the feeling of getting on a bike and a few simple leg movements and you’re in motion. It almost seems magical. The air is rushing by. You’re balancing on the edge of these two tires. You’d think the simple task of turning the car key and stepping on the gas would provide the same thrill. Sometimes it does – at least until somebody has to buy the gas.
Granted, I don’t have to travel far to find the juvenile in me. I was voted “Best Kid” in our family by one of my nephews, and he was about four or five at the time. But as I continued my ride I continued thinking how it reinvigorates the kid in me. I almost tried to bike through the handicap parking signs at the Colisee like a slalom course but thought better of it.
I’ve only had this bike for about nine months. I probably wouldn’t have it at all except the SJ’s wellness program contributes to such purchases, and I find any way possible to make the SJ give me more money. I’ve even contemplated taking up smoking just so I can quit and get the SJ’s allowance for those that give up the habit. Too bad they don’t have allowances for all my bad habits.
Anyway, today was just the second time I’ve had the bike out since last fall. There were still some snow banks out there, and I even steered clear of the Colisee, even though it looks like all the snow on the roof is gone. A hockey referee from Canada parked inside the barriers and too close to the building a month or two ago. When the snow on the roof let loose, it came roaring down and crushed his SUV. How do you say, “Look out below” in French?
With each trip on my two-wheeler, I can’t help but think back on the days when I used to ride my bike as a kid. We’d ride our bikes everywhere. I know some of the roads in Gorham better by bike than I do by car. We’d cover miles and miles in one day.
I didn’t have my bike down in Owls Head for more than one summer, but now when I ride up there I can’t help but reminisce about those days. I’d ride it over to the peninsula to see a girl. I even rode it into Rockland to see her at work, only to discover she wasn’t working that day. I learned not to assume at an early age.
She and I, along with another friend, even rode our bikes from Owls Head to Rockport to spend the day with another friend. I still wonder who conned me into that trip. That was probably my my first experiences that a pretty girl can convince me to do just about anything.
I rode my bike by her house last fall on a trip to Owls Head Lighthouse. At least I wasn’t riding with a boom box in my hand and a basketball under my arm like I did back then when I’d go shoot hoops at another friend’s house.

Today, riding a bike feels a little bit more like work. It’s kind of like kayaking. It’s fun and a great chance to enjoy the outdoors, but if you’re not careful, you might accidentally get a lot of exercise.
I tell people that I’m a triathlete. I’ll take out my kayak. Then I’ll ride my bike. Then I’ll sit on my butt and read the rest of the day because I can’t move because my muscles are on strike.
But as much as it makes my muscles revolt, it makes my spirits soar. It’s the same thrill and enjoyment I had when I’d ride my bike anywhere and everywhere as a kid.
So next time I head out and start to second-guess my bike ride, the kid in me will tell the old timer to shut up and ride.

Dawning of a New Blog

2008-04-12T09:02:00.000-07:00

I’m not exactly a model of conformity.

I’m far from a go-with-the-flow kind of guy.

If it is the rave of the nation and more popular than white bread (which I don’t eat), I typically avoid it.

I’ve never watched one episode of American Idol or Dancing with the Stars or the Apprentice. I’ve never used an ATM and don’t have a cell phone (of course, if someone would like to donate an Iphone, I’d gladly cross that one off the list.) I don't have a daily appointment with Dr. Phil, and I haven’t even been in a week-long funk just because Oprah’s dog died.

If I’m wearing green on St. Patrick’s Day, that means I forgot that it was St. Patrick’s Day. If I’m wearing Christmas colors at Christmas, it is purely an accident. If it were "Spirit Day" in high school, the last thing I'd do is wear maroon and white, our school colors. Most of my favorite bands (Bodeans, Smithereens, Social Distortion, Levellers) are ones most people have never heard of.

With all that said, starting a blog isn’t exactly going against the tide. Seing as I’m currently employed in a dying industry, I can attest to the popularity of what W calls the Internets.

Blogging has semi-literate people all over the world sharing their thoughts and opinions - even if they don’t have thoughts or opinions worth sharing. Being the marching-to-the-beat- of- a different- drum type, you’d think I wouldn’t want any part of adding to the white noise of blogmania.

In most cases, one might be right. The last thing I want to do is follow in the path of what everybody else is doing.

However, I do like to write. It might be the one God-given gift that is marketable - even though I've yet to make it truly profitable. Some people actually think I’m kind of good at it. I also have a variety of interests (pick a topic - music, sports, history, politics), and plenty of knowledge about them. I can also be a bit opinionated, just a little. I’m kind of like a line in a Mark Heard (bet you’ve never heard of him) song “Don’t ask me my opinion, because I like to talk and I might tell you.”

So if a blog isn’t tailored-made for a smart-aleck, never wrong, know it all like myself than what did Al Gore invent the internet for anyway?

So, here I am. Welcome to Notes from SquigNation.

My ancestors provided glimpses of their life through diaries. I have a diary from 1883 while my great grandfather sailed on a coastal schooner. I also have various diaries that my grandfather kept during his lifetime. My father even chronicled his life with his own memoirs. I remember him reading them over at our cottage in Owls Head the summer after he had given us all copies. He was pretty captivated as he read his own life story even though I told him “Dad, you already know how it ends.”

I can’t promise my blog will be that captivating. I think it’s a safe bet that it might be informative, interesting, controversial, funny and unpredictable. Kind of like me.

Like the diaries of my ancestors and my father’s memoirs, my blog should provide a glimpse of the world from my slightly near-sighted eyes. The way my mind works, who knows what that might produce. Just sit back and enjoy the show.

I’ll post periodic entries about various topics whenever the spirit moves me - or whenever I have an idea in my head that needs to come out. I might even post some of the early chapters of my novel, "Sons and Daughters of the Ocean". I might even explain SquigNation, for those who don’t know. Your participation, input and interest is certainly welcome. Feel free to pass the link along to friends (or enemies).

One of my favorite remarks/joke, which would make my Dad laugh every time (even though it took him a second to get it) is “I’ve always wanted to write an autobiography, but I don’t know anything about cars.”

This might be the closest I get to some sort of an autobiography. I don’t know whether it will be a Yugo, a Lexus or a Lemon, but it could be a pretty good joy ride. So let’s step on the gas and go, driving cautiously through Dixfield, of course ...