I hate to say something unpleasant like this about my native state, but Maine has the stupidest criminals in the world. And the news about their ineptness is spreading.
In New York, felons from Maine are now unable to purchase a state license to commit crimes. Without that permit, they’re often forced to turn to even more reviled forms of employment, such as running for the Legislature or governor.
This past week brought important Maine news about art, energy efficiency, nutrition, bar demolition, and two guys walking around the state’s back roads with a six-foot-diameter globe. Any of those items could have been the focus of this posting if only …
If only I weren’t the sort of person who is easily seduced by the prospect of discussing the relative merits of prosthetic penises. In a serious and informational manner, I assure you.
I was traveling through the town of Industry (motto: Somewhat Less Industrious Than Our Name Might Indicate) recently when I had an epiphany:
There’s no industry in Industry.
In either sense of the word.
No smokestacks. No paper mills. No business parks.
Also, several people in hammocks taking naps. Two guys sitting in lawn chairs staring at a collapsed barn. A “Susan Collins for Governor” sign that somebody has been meaning to take down. Since 1994.
He’s the biggest celebrity on the planet, and there he was, walking around a coastal Maine community just like a normal person.
Well, not exactly like a normal person. A normal person wouldn’t attract the police, the gawkers, and the media. A normal person could eat ice cream or drink coffee in public without provoking international speculation about his choices and his motives. A normal person doesn’t wear a red cape and skintight blue longjohns with a big “S” on the chest.
I’m not obsessed with sex. I’m pretty sure that’s not because I have anything against sex. It’s just that I’m obsessed with beer, and that doesn’t leave much time for other obsessions.
I mean, it’s not easy to have sex and drink beer at the same time, without some leakage. And please don’t send me e-mails suggesting different positions. I’ve already tried every beer-drinking position there is.
If I was asked to choose my favorite government agency, I wouldn’t hesitate. Since there’s no United States Department of Free Beer and Bacon (a constitutional oversight for which I hold the Founding Fathers directly responsible), I’d have to go with the Federal Emergency Management Agency, commonly referred to as “those *!@#%?+! morons” or sometimes as FEMA.
The stereotypical image of Maine is of a peaceful, rural place, sparsely inhabited by lumberjacks, lobstermen and vacationing Hollywood celebs. More milkweed pod than iPod. Less Wii than weeds. There are cell-phone towers around, but mostly just to give the osprey a place to nest.
It’s not easy being a commercial fisherman in Maine these days. New federal regulations designed to protect the sardine stock limit the catch to a half-dozen cans a week if they’re in oil or eight cans in mustard sauce.
If they want to go after live fish, it’s even worse.
There has been much consternation in Maine this past week over Paul LePage’s garbage.
One of the things Maine doesn’t have that other states do – besides oil washing up on our beaches, casinos wasting our money, and Rod Blagojevich – is super-heroes.