Winter Nor'football

Mainers, I've noticed, are very serious about about their Patriots.

Dump a couple feet of snow on a Mainer's driveway, bury his car and can the electricity for three days and he's probably not all that fazed. "Welcome to Maine," he'll chuckle while he digs a path to his front door.

But take that same gentleman and shove him into a seat at Gillette Stadium and his mellow tone will be overcome by an uncontrollable Patriots enthusiasm.

So when a friend suggested we catch a game this season, I was all for it. I wanted to see those fans in action.

And sure, when we bought tickets to the Dec 21st game against Arizona I figured it'd be cold. But really, how bad could it be?

Out tickets were booked through Our Tickets and Tours. The trip included a bus ride down to Gillette, a few hours of hearty tailgating, the game and a welcome ride back.

What we hadn't accounted for was the pounding of snow - oh, and the wind. There was a lot of wind. But they didn't charge us for that.

We met the bus in the Maine Mall parking lot at 5:45 a.m., most of us still half asleep. The sky was gray then, but quiet.

About an hour into the drive, the flakes started falling. When we stopped at a rest area, a good 2-3 inches had collected. (The tour typically stops at the NH Liquor Store, but seeing as we left South Portland at dawn, the liquor store wasn't open when we drove by.)



By the time the bus came to a halt in the Foxborough parking lot, the storm was fully upon us. But that didn't hinder the festivities. The grill was lit, the burgers cooked and the beers cracked open (you know, for those of us who opted not to start drinking at 6:00 a.m.).

I was decked out in snow gear, having decided that looking like the Michelin Man's misbegotten cousin was better than freezing my arse off.

It was a decision I'd live to appreciate, as all the folks meandering the parking lot in jeans and sweatshirts began falling victim to blizzarditis.



The march to the stadium was slushed. It was hard to look up to see where you were walking, seeing as the wind made a game of throwing ice pellets into your eyes if you looked up from the ground.

But our feet were still dry and we were charged for the game.

Course, had it not been for the football field just beyond the stands ahead of us, I would have insisted that this mass of bundled, snow-pants-wearing people were preparing to climb Everest.

We made it to our seats with some trepidation - the already steep cement staircase was packed with snow. Someone was going to take a nosedive before the game was over. I just hoped it wouldn't be me.



Despite the storm, there was still a good crowd, even in the nosebleed section we were in. And while it stunk to be so far from the field, our distant seats turned out to be a blessing when fans started chucking snowballs.

They were little ones at first, in celebration of a good play. But as the first quarter slipped into the second, and as two beers slipped into four, the snowballs grew.

I saw more than one basketball-sized ball of snow go plummeting onto the fans below. I also saw more than one thrower get tossed from the stadium.

At halftime my group huddled on the concourse. The Patriots were trampling Arizona and the snow was trampling us. Gloves were a moot point by now and Mark and Annmarie had snow in their pants. We considered ducking into one of the bars in the new Patriot Place, but decided heading back to the bus was a better cheaper decision.

We were, so sadly, the first to ditch the game. But the bus was warm and the grill was still producing burgers and BBQ pork, so I'm not ashamed of wimping out. (It was also my first time eating a Red Hot Dog. Decent dog, but the snapping scares me.)

The remaining bus goers trickled back eventually, each looking more thoroughly frozen than the last. And each still in good spirits despite not being able to feel their legs.



And as it turned out, there was a staircase casualty.

This fellow slipped on the snow-packed steps and fell down 16 stairs. He broke two fingers and a tooth, split his lip and royally sliced up his face. But I swear, he was still the most cheery guy on the bus ride home.

"I just went a$$ over teakettle. But I'm good. I mean, I'll have to get my fingers fixed and my tooth capped and maybe some surgery on my nose. But once my lip stops bleeding I'll be just fine."

Optimism as its best. Of course the beer might've helped.

The bus ride back to Maine was about five hours of risky roads. That bus driver deserves a medal.

He delivered us safely to the Maine Mall parking lot, where we discovered the mall had decided not to do any plowing.



Our cars were buried.

But once again Maine altruism came to the rescue (aside from the handful of folks in SUVs and trucks who started up their vehicles and quickly sped out of there) and we all spent the next 45 minutes helping each other dig out.

My car was the last to go (since there were three of us, we figured we could push ourselves out if needed). But even after their cars were free from the snow and onto drivable roads, a handful of people walked back to help us out.

That's Maine for you.



And after all the snow and the cold and the digging (at the mall and once again when my car got stuck in Portland) we each agreed it was a memorable adventure. I suppose you don't really know what kind of neighbors you have until you get stranded in a mall parking lot.

And in Portland, we have some pretty damn good neighbors.

Oh, and did I mention the Patriots won?

[Our Tickets and Tours manages trips to Patriots, Red Sox, Celtics and Bruins games. They're extremely well managed and heck, there are even on-bus raffles for your gambling pleasure.]

Lights on the water, a firework in the sky

I retain immeasurable respect for people who expend the effort to trim their homes with Christmas spirit.

For some, there might be a one-upper aspect to the endeavor ("Think your lights are so dang great, Bob? I'll show you what a real man's lights look like!") Even still, I like to think they're a altruistic gesture - a gift to passersby. A decorated house is evidence of a home owner's true yule tide devotion.

And hanging Christmas lights ain't easy. I remember spending the entirety of a December day stringing lights along the front shrubs. My brother and I created a lit pattern of colored bulbs that dazzled the senses! The design was so intricate, so heavenly, it was a risk to passing motorists. The distraction could potentially cause accidents.

We worked those lights until our fingers and faces were numb, only to have them unapologetically go dark just two days after they were hung (no thanks to the little devil across the street with the bad attitude and a pair of wire cutters).

But we're in Maine, folks. And with the water just over our shoulders it only makes sense that the holiday lights make their way to our floating fleet.

Saturday was the 8th Annual Portland Harbor Boat Parade of Lights. The parade was visible from the shoreline, but we opted to pay the $8 to watch it from the water on a Casco Bay Lines ferry.

Bundled passengers piled on the boat at dusk - some smart early birds snagged the tables in the enclosed upper deck and popped open a few bottles of wine.

There was a table of chips and cookies (I believe courtesy of local non-profit SailMaine - who also benefited from the event proceeds) and a small bar. Though it seemed most folks, us included, had come prepared with their own warming drinks.

At 4:30 we motored out toward the East End to find a handful of finely decorated boats passing by. From the other direction, a handful more came along.

In quick order they positioned themselves into a line, then played follow the leader through Portland Harbor.

And we stood on the deck, freezing but not caring that we were freezing, singing along to the holiday tunes blaring from the ferry's speakers and "oohing" at the watercraft.

And then came the fireworks, straight off the deck of one of the participating boats.

As the parade trailed by, that boat slowed, explosions momentarily brightening the dark sky. And the boat began to spin. Spin! I wasn't even aware a boat could maneuver like that, but there it was, sending up fireworks and twirling in the harbor.

I vowed right then and there to be ON that boat next year.

Purty.

O, the merry! O, the madness!

The masses converged at The Eastland Park hotel last night for some Merry Madness shopping. The lobby was packed to the gills with anxious shoppers waiting in line for a wine glass (what better to put complimentary wine in?) or biding their time in the lobby bar (what better way to keep warm?).

And while the line was admittedly long - and there was no doubt a bit of frustration when the signature "Merry Madness" wine glasses ran out - the mood was still more merry than mad.

But no group represented the holiday spirit more obviously than these ladies, whose accoutrements speak for themselves. Forget beer goggles. Classy ladies don wine eyes.

See all the pics from last night's Merry Madness

And the stellar attendance at the hotel poured over into the streets of Portland's downtown, where many local businesses stayed open until 10 pm to welcome the holiday shoppers.

While the shopping and holiday revelry went on, a friend and I popped into the SOAP (Sustainable Organization Advocacy Partners) offices on Fore Street. The folks there, along with Reverb and Good Focus, were getting all eggnoggy and festive on the third floor.

And what would "festive" be without a bicycle-powered drink mixer (it's hard to see, but there's a blender attached to the back of the bike). I missed the Greendrinks event that SOAP hosted back in August so it was my first time seeing the drink-cycle.

And as Merry Madness came to a close, and the contented shoppers meandered back to their cars (or rooms at the Eastland), a few friends and I headed to Dogfish Bar & Grille to enjoy a little Pete Miller acoustic.

The chill from outside was circumvented by a warm bar, local music and jovial crowd.

And with the Christmas wreaths all over and the snow-coated scene out the window, I couldn't help but get overrun with good cheer. It happens. And I liked it so much I kept a little for today, too.

Not that I had forgotten, but it was one of those nights that reminds you why fell for Portland in the first place.

[FYI, you can catch Tri-Mainer Pete Miller at Slainte on Jan 2nd]

What's the word for when your mind feels absent?

Ah yes, "absentminded."

Forgetful, preoccupied, amnesic.

Or maybe it's our brain's attempt to win Ashton Kutcher's favor by initiating mini mental episodes of "Punk'd."

But I tend to think that these cerebral blanks are just another ingredient in the lumpy batter of human imperfection.

We've all locked ourselves out of our apartment or blanked out in the middle of the grocery store.

We've all left the oven on overnight or driven the wrong way on a highway exit ramp.

And who hasn't sauntered out of the dressing room without their pants - at least once?

But lately, such episodes seem to have taken a severe turn for the worse.

Last Friday I opened my refrigerator to find a box of cereal on the top shelf. No big thing, except...where in Lucky Charms' name is the milk?

I found the elusive gallon hiding out in the cabinet - lukewarm and undrinkable next to a half-used packet of gravy.

Come to think of it, I'm not sure where that gravy came from either.

It's not the first time I've happened upon misplaced victuals.

I've discovered jelly in the cabinet and peanut butter in the fridge before (it occurred at the tail end of a two-week addiction to PB&J Saltine sandwiches. A childish snack, I admit, but it's comfort food for people who grew up in home where not a lot of "cooking" took place).

But the problem has spread from the kitchen.

On Monday morning, after my clock alarm awoke me to Mr. Nelson's "You were always on my mind" (there's irony here somewhere), I shuffled out of bed in half haze.

Despite being shrouded in the lingering effects of slumber, I felt the urgent need to brush my teeth. (For what it's worth, falling asleep with a cough drop in your mouth isn't a good idea. Most notably it's an obvious choking hazard, but even a sweetly flavored cherry drop will, by daybreak, advance normal morning breath into the realm of fatally toxic.)

So I grabbed my toothbrush, squeezed the tube onto the bristles and lifted it towards my pearlies. And just as the brush was about to greet my teeth it occurred to me: I was about to scrub my mouth with a generous helping of face wash.

Oops.

The tubes look awfully similar...in a not-at-all-similar kind of way.

I suppose I could blame it on an early morning stupor. And I could chalk up the milk/cereal swap to natural absentmindedness.

I'd like to excuse each of these minor transgressions.

But I'm not sure what do to with the latest mental lapse: the one where I (fully alert in the middle of the afternoon) attempted to plug my hairdryer into the handle of the toilet.

There's really nowhere I can go with that.

Now, if I could just remember why I sat down at my desk with a hammer and a bag of pumpkin seeds...

Acoustic in Cow Sh*t Corner

I didn't invent the name Cow Sh*t Corner.

That name existed in reference to a small part of Newcastle, Maine long before I came to the state. How that designation came to fruition...well, I'll assume you can figure it out.

But the place does exist. The sign says so. (So if anyone's sensibilities are irreparably offended, please contact the townspeople of said location.) Were it up to me, I'd have named the place "Nature's Gift Grove" or "Bountiful River Region" or something sweet and innocent like that. Because that's just how I think: sweetly and innocently.

But there are, unfortunately, persons out there who find humor in potty talk. Highbrow intellectuals (such as you and I, my fine-thinking friend) are defenseless against it.

So Cow Sh*t Corner it is. And a pal of mine just happens to reside there, down a single-lane road that cuts off from another long and winding road that connects to a similarly quiet and rural road not too far off from Route 1 in Wiscasset.

The place suits Kate, what with her four wheelers and dirt bikes and snow mobiles and whatnot. She keeps a handgun on her dresser, too, which I'm only allowed to look at.

And even though it's only about an hour from Portland, Cow Sh*t Corner feels altogether different. So a couple of times a year Kate invites everybody out - to bonfire, to grill, to drink and to abuse her collection of expensive outdoor toys.

We had planned on just such an evening this past Friday. The excursion was planned in conjunction with a trip to the nearby Montsweag Roadhouse in Woolwich. Another friend was schedule to perform her acoustic wonders there.

But then there was that whole ice storm nonsense, followed by power outages, business closings and canceled gigs.

Too bad.

But who needs the Montsweag when you have a working generator and a well-stocked wood stove in Cow Sh*t Corner?

So Andrea brought the music to Kate's dining room while the rest of us lounged on the floor in front of the wood stove, alternately drinking and singing along.

Not a bad way to spend a blackout.

The next morning (after warming our clothes in front of the stove) we made our way to the Alna General Store. The small shop is good for bread and beer in a pinch and also serves a pretty fine breakfast. (With real hash browns! Praise heaven! No offense home fries, but you simply can't compete.)

Saturday morning the locals were comparing notes regarding the storm's aftereffects: who had power, who didn't; who had a generator, who was still half frozen from a night in a cold house.

On his way out the door with a hot cup of coffee, one fellow turned back to the rest of us and said, "If anybody needs anything, or needs help with anything, you just give me a call."

Kate turned to me and said, "See? That's how it works in Cow Sh*t Corner."

"Hey," I retorted, "I checked on my neighbors too." [Insert pause] "OK, that's a lie."


Newcastle's not an altogether ugly place either, if you're into that unsullied nature-at-its-best kind of thing. Songwriter Steve Jones even gives a nod to the spot in a song (aptly named "Cow Shit Corner").

I tried to look up a few additional tidbits about Newcastle/Cow Sh*t Corner for your learning pleasure (much like I did for Bangor). But alas, "Cow Sh*t Corner, Maine" isn't to be found on Wikipedia and "Newcastle, Maine" didn't uncover much.

But the area does boast the jolly figure looming just off Route 218, constructed mostly from a old wheel barrow, who stands perpetually happy and waving to passersby.

It's no Paul Bunyan, but it's something.

Here comes Santacon, there goes Santacon

'Twas nineteen days before Christmas, and all through the Old Port
Some creatures were stirring - a fat, jolly sort.

The brewpubs and bars had been opened with care,
In the hopes that kind drinkers soon would be there.

A lone Santa appeared on Congress Street,
Headed toward town, with more Santas to meet.

Then a clatter arose in Monument Square,
Twenty or more Santas had congregated there!

Reindeer and elves and an advent calendar, too,
The poor onlookers knew not what to do.

Cars honked from street and Santas gathered 'round.
And I knew in a moment: Santacon was in town.

But there were no toys to be found, no sleigh to be seen.
Santa without presents? That's downright mean.

But these Santas aren't real - not even near it,
But they'll drink all day to spread holiday spirit.

And off they go down the street! A whole Santa troop!
And look! There's Rudolph leading the group!

Into Empire they shuffle, still sober and clear,
And hail to the bartender to get their first beers.

"On Guiness! On Geary's! On Allagash White!
On Prelude! On Pabst! We're drinking all night!"

From bar to brewpub, they dashed through downtown,
And drew laughs (and confusion) from other people around.

And I heard one explain ('twas the elf with the tights):
Happy Santacon to all, and a debaucherous night!

Santacon 2008 photos

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Christmas invades: From the rooftops to the inbox

That whole jolly holiday spirit thing is suddenly everywhere.

Even up.

Last night on Congress Street I happened to look upward. (In truth, I was analyzing the absolute magnitude of globular clusters on the gravitational structure of unclassified molecular nebulae. Just a little something I do on the side.)

There, on the rooftop deck of what I imagine to be a condo of generous proportions, stood a Christmas tree.

It's that time of year for such rooftop spectacles.

It's also that time of year when Uncle Frank gets hammered at dinner, regresses to his high school football days when he was known as 'Frank the Tank' and inevitably tackles poor grandpa before the mashed potatoes are even cold.

But most importantly, it's the time for holiday-related e-mail surveys.

It's said that a person's true nature is exposed only in the introspective responses to an e-mail questionnaire.

I was once shocked to discover that a good friend of mine thought "Skittles" were the best candy to describe her personality. I, of course, was shocked by that information. I mean, you think you know a person and then to hear something like that. Well you can be sure I shunned her like a contagion.

But e-mail questionnaires can be entertaining in their own right. And it being the holiday season and all, I decided to let Christmas Spirit envelop me altogether.

So with good cheer and warm wishes I completed this Christmas-themed survey:

1. Wrapping paper or gift bags? Newspaper and duct tape.
2. Real tree or artificial? Real trees are easier to light on fire, but artificial ones are easier to harpoon through your neighbor's front window...but I have neither, to answer the question.
3. When do you put up the tree? See above, I have no tree
4. When do you take the tree down? I said I don't have one! Now BACK OFF!
5. Do you like eggnog? Yes, as long as it's made with hot chocolate and amaretto - and doesn't have any egg or nog in it.
6. Favorite gift received as a child? "Real Baby." It was an electronic baby doll that cried and blinked and moved around. Very realistic to a 7-year-old. Or wait, no, that was a real baby I stole out of a shopping cart at the grocery store. Apparently the "real mother" was not pleased, had me arrested and fought to ban me from all public places. To her I say: Where's your Christmas spirit, lady? Sheesh. Someone doesn't know how to share.
7. Do you have a nativity scene? Does a collection of Jesuses count? Is Jesus plural Jesi?
8. Hardest person to buy for? Why would I buy something for someone else?
9. Easiest person to buy for? Seriously - am I supposed to be buying other people gifts this time of year? This might explain the dirty looks I get from my unimpressed family on Christmas morning.
10. Mail or email Christmas cards? I prefer them mailed to me, thank you.
11.Worst Christmas gift you ever received? 101 Dalmatian's t-shirt with matching socks (complete with paw prints on the feet for extra traction)...when I was 18. Thanks grandma.
12. Favorite Christmas Movie? Elf for the laughs, Christmas Story for the "fuuuuudge," and Fred Claus for the Vince.
13. Favorite thing to eat at Christmas? Alcohol.
14. Clear lights or colored lights on the tree? Both. I think all lights should live in harmony.
15. Favorite Christmas song? Baby, it's cold outside. But enough about the weather. I'm not sure what my favorite song is.
16. Can you name all of Santa's reindeer's? Why bother? The only one who matters is Blitzen.
17. Open the presents Christmas Eve or morning? Sneak peak Christmas Eve. Pretend to be surprised Christmas day.
18. Most annoying thing about this time of year? The realization that Christmas is the BEGINNING of winter, not the end. And now we have all this cold and snow without the hope of cool free stuff wrapped in shiny paper.
19. Favorite ornament theme or color? I've gone with "The Invisible Christmas" theme this year. Next year I'm planning for "Every thing's made of soda cans"
20. What do you want for Christmas this year? Peace on Earth. Or a vacuum. Whichever one is on sale.

A head shot's worth a thousand (not necessarily true) words

Pictures offer "a thousand words" that are, of course, 100 percent presumptive and are in no way indicative of reality. Even still, it seems like you can glean a good deal from a solitary photo.

Particularly if that photo is a head shot on Facebook. (After all those years successfully dodging the MySpace bullet, I did succumb to the Facebook siren song.)

And amid Facebook's virtual gifts, fan pages and pokes (which, thank heaven, have lost their original luster and are rarely used nowadays) I came across a group celebrating my junior high's graduating class of '92.

There are only a handful of folks I kept in touch with from those dreamy K-10 days. So naturally I started browsing the members. Ah, the memories!

There's Karen, who helped me crank call the gym teacher (pretending to be her Spanish-teaching pal, Senorita Glen). And Amy, who was there that Halloween night that I tried smoking a cigarette for the first time.

Knock Facebook if you will, but it really is entertaining to hearken back to those schooldays gone by. Maybe get in touch with old friends, maybe not. Either way, it's worth a gander just for the memories.

It's also fascinating to see what became of scrawny Tim or that shy girl from Home Economics who accidentally sewed her hair into a pair of shorts. (On a side note, is it any wonder I can't cook when the only thing I recall learning in Home Ec is how to prepare hot dogs and s'mores in the microwave?)

Sure, Facebook is a personally crafted snapshot of a person's life - a highly edited biography. But even the head shots seem to offer a wealth of information:

"I'm married" [Just an educated guess, of course]

"I have kids! And they're crazy adorable in a way that might make you feel apologetic about the cute factor of your own children." [That includes any current or future offspring]

"Who cares about being single. My heart belongs to happy hour" [Ain't no shame in that]

"My dogs are my life. And yes, they have a place at the dinner table while I make my 6-year-old son eat in the basement." [Rightfully so. Look at those li'l fellers]

"I remember the name of every person who picked on me back in school. And I've already googled their home addresses."

Ah, fond memories of schoolmates past. And gratitude for having been nice to that chick with the gun.

OK, Christmas. You can come in now.

The lighting of the Christmas tree in Monument Square means that the holidays are no longer an eventuality.

In the near distance we can hear the rumble of impending eggnog hazes, shopping highs and heated brawls with a rebellious roll of wrapping paper.

We're now inescapably set on high-speed collision course with good cheer and holiday spirit.

I know, it's a hard reality. But there's no point in fighting it. (I tried to a few years ago but gave up the effort after one of Santa's husky henchman threw a perfectly wrapped brick through my apartment window.)

So now I choose to accept the holiday season with open arms. Well, mostly. There's still something I don't trust about those reindeer. Particularly Donner (aka "Dunder"). He's got crazy eyes and a fight club attitude and I venture to say he's been plotting a Christmas takeover for decades.

Any Christmas now Santa could find himself "accidentally" trapped between the weighty bricks of a collapsing chimney and the boot-melting flames of a recently lit fire. (A fire lit, no doubt, with a pack of matches stamped with the logo: Reindeer Saloon, North Pole.)

But besides that little issue, the holidays are great.

My colleague Avery wrote a blog entry about last Friday's tree lighting that will make your heart glow: "Crowds pack Monument Square for tree lighting"

But amid the Christmas carols and Santa spotting, I witnessed another astounding phenomenon: The rarely seen "Rising of the Toddlers."

During the ceremony, children are hoisted atop their dad's shoulders, one after the other, until a forest of shoulder-sitting kids rises from the crowd.

Scientists have been studying the spectacle years, although the true meaning of the practice is yet to be fully understood.

At any rate, other local holiday lights went bright on Friday as well, including the multi-colored orbs hanging from MECA's facade and the lighted trees in Tommy's Park.

Friday was also the first day of the Portland Downtown District's 12 Days of Christmas.

What in St. Nick's name is that, you ask?

It's 12 days (Fridays, Saturday and Sundays until Christmas) of freebies and giveaways, courtesy of the local shops/eateries downtown. And yes, each day corresponds with that old Christmas carol.

Friday was "Partridge in a Pear Tree" day. After the Monument Square tree was adequately lighted and Santa had long left the stage, some friends and I meandered through the Old Port (which was bustling with foot traffic after the tree lighting) in search of a Partridge in a Pear Tree shop window.

There were twelve partridge windows around town - we just needed to find one. Easier said than done. After walking a few blocks and seeing nothing, I began to question the decorative theme of every window. One shop had a small pine tree with a wooden owl crouched next to it.

I started thinking that "Owl near a Pine Tree" might actually be what we were looking for.

But wait! There! A pear tree in a shop window! And look, partridges in it!

The shop window belonged to Tavecchia on Exchange Street (clothes for the adventurous woman - my, my). Inside we dropped our names into the contest box. The prize for Partridge in a Pear Tree evening? Nutcracker tickets.

None of us won.

That's cool. I'm holding out for the Kids Crooked House they're giving out on Dec 21 anyway. If you've ever been to Buck's Naked BBQ, then you know what the crooked houses look like. If not, the house is going to be displayed in Post Office Park through the month of December. You can peruse it there and maybe peruse a mischievous local sleeping in it (and hopefully not doing anything else in it).

Sure, I'll have to pretend I'm a kid to enter that contest, but I fibbed much worse for much less when I was young.

Santa doesn't give Barbie Dream Houses to just anyone.