“Well! I’ve often seen a cat without a grin,” thought Alice; “but a grin without a cat! It’s the most curious thing I ever saw in all my life!” --Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland
I’m confused.
I thought the question was, whether we should abandon our historic town meeting form of government in favor of a mayoral system?
But from what I have seen in recent weeks, we may be considering creating a Ministry of Propaganda instead.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
Then again, that’s no way to run a town, and I thought that was what the argument was about: the best way to run the town.
Instead we are hearing Reagan-era platitudes about ‘morning in America’, and ‘new beginnings’, and wild claims of an uber-mayor who will single-handedly keep the streets clean, improve schools, build parking garages, attract business to town, negotiate with Entergy, impose a blue-blazer dress code on all residents, put slot machines at Plimoth Plantation and sell hot dogs from a cart on Water Street.
Oh, and I almost forgot, spread the love.
And how are they spreading that love, today? Why, by press release and publicity events, and by what appears to be an endless loop of video tape being broadcast on the local cable access.
In between harmless half-hours of psychics and Japanese wrestling our local cable access station is featuring hours of interview and self-congratulatory commentary featuring supporters of a Mayoral system earnestly describing their ‘vision’ of a revitalized Plymouth.
To hear the so-called Unity party leaders today, they have nothing but the highest regard for the town’s elected officials, and always have.
To hear Unity leader Mike Jones speak this week, he believes Town Manager Mark Sylvia is a world class professional who is doing the best he can, ‘under the circumstances’.
(Then, sotto voce, the Jones Gang notes that the Town Manager is not one of ‘us’, that our elected officials are dishonest, and that the only way to guarantee accountability is to pay for a full-time city council and mayor )
Gone and (nearly) forgotten are the past several years of personal attacks on town officials.
Gone and (nearly) forgotten are efforts to delay or deny funding for new schools.
Gone and (nearly) forgotten are efforts to split the town down the middle, between families with children and retirees.
The new ‘Unity’ mayor –they say with a straight face, will be a Plymouth guy, on our side, with no ax to grind, no special interests to please, who will descend from the clouds surrounded by trumpeting angels and declare peace and prosperity in Plymouth.
The Unity party line is that they love everyone, are against no one, respect all town officials, embrace the unions, and that if it weren’t for the constraints of our existing form of government Plymouth would be the ‘jewel of the South Shore’.
Excuse me while I pull over to the side of the road and heave.
Do I need to say that it’s not that simple?
Do I need to say that a great deal of the fault for Plymouth not being “all that it can be” lies with us, the residents?
Do I need to speak to the preposterously low turnouts at elections, big and small?
But back to the Ministry of Propaganda’s prime time schedule, most of which –curiouser and curiouser, have the same producers, camera operators, and technicians.
It’s television by Unity, for Unity, and featuring Unity.
Particularly hilarious was a recent episode of a show called This Old Towne – in which the host hardly had time to ask any questions of his guests (all Unity charter commission candidates) because he spent so much time saying what great humanitarians they were, how right they were, how much he agreed with them, and how he was a proud member of their team.
According to Unity’s leaders, the only reason that there is organized opposition to their efforts to trash 400 years of town government is because town officials are worried about losing their jobs.
Think that through: a group of long time town residents, who devote countless hours to the town for little or no money, take constant abuse from residents and the media, are supposed to be desperate to hold on their jobs.
Excuse me while I pull over to the side of the road and have a good laugh.
Honestly, if its platitudes and self-sacrificing behavior that you are looking for, you need look no further than our existing form of government.
You may not like the outcomes, you may not like the people, but you should appreciate a system that allows for maximum involvement of town residents.
According to proponents of a Mayoral system, our existing form of government is antiquated. Well, yes, the test of a good system of government is often how long it can last. So when did the existing system become antiquated? After 100 years? 200 years? 300 years?
Everyone believes that the present system can be improved, enhanced, and made more accessible –especially if our townspeople are really interested in playing their part. But I for one do not believe we should start all over.
Maybe if Ronald Reagan were running for Mayor of Plymouth I’d feel differently. Not that I liked his policies, quite the opposite: but at least you got the sense that Reagan actually believed the words that were coming out of his mouth.
Instead, the Unity slate leaders seem to have adopted the Cheshire cat approach to town politics: no matter what happens, stick to the script and keep on smiling.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Taking Credit for Someone Else's Art
I want to do an art installation, and you can help.
You know, a collection of unconnected stuff, artfully strewn across a designated ‘space’, signifying different things to different people, depending on the time of day, the amount of sunlight, socio-economic assumptions and the like.
Art is more and more not what anyone makes, but what we are subjected to.
Know what I mean?
The cool thing, or at least one of the cool things about installations, is that we all bring something to them: they require our participation.
That wasn’t always the case.
DaVinci didn’t need a long queue outside of the palace to verify the obvious: that guy could paint!
But modern art installations require participation: which in a way, is to say that all of life, seen from a particular perspective, is art.
Where am I going with this?
Nowhere.
I’m just sitting at home, opening my mail, and from my perspective CapitalOne – the big credit card company, is making an artistic statement that deserves a greater audience.
Actually, you probably couldn’t get a bigger audience than CapitalOne already has, but what they need is for someone, like me, to comment on the artistic aspect of their endeavor.
Or perhaps what they need is someone like me to gather others like me, together, to share the experience that each of us, individually, is experiencing courtesy of CapitalOne.
Did you ever see those sculptures – mostly busts, which are made out of hundreds of separate, flat slices of wood?
Are you familiar with that modern artist who uses a thousand tiny little painted pictures to assemble one portrait?
Have you received 173 separate mailings from CapitalOne –each one completely different from the other, yet each one making the same silly appeal to accept another credit card?
I have before me as I write, my favorite: what appears to be a brown paper lunch bag – with the words “Time Sensitive Documents Enclosed” written boldly across the front. In fact I have four of these: one addressed to me, one to my wife, one to my college age son, and one to Art Gecko, a pet that is well on his way to fertilizing the back yard grass.
How “Time Sensitive” can the message be, that comes every day, every week, every month?
I am not sure why they resorted to the brown paper bag approach. Maybe they thought it would appeal to my blue-collar sensibilities. But then why did they send me the same offer, enclosed in a shiny, shimmering futuristic-looking envelope, a few weeks ago? And why the 170 other variations on the same theme?
I can’t be the only one that is receiving this kind of attention – but that in itself seems absurd.
Can CapitalOne really afford to send every man, woman and child in America a new credit card offer every week?
And if they can afford to do that, why can they afford to do that?
Or maybe it’s my questionable credit-worthiness that attracts them: though I don’t look like a great credit risk, I may look like a sure-fire bet to pay loads of late fees.
Maybe it really is a joke.
Perhaps a long-forgotten college room mate, who made a billion dollars selling imitation Viagra tablets using Spam email messages, is now spending some of his ill-gotten gains torturing me with these endless mailings.
But back to the arts.
For the next year I want you to take every one of the unsolicited credit card offers you receive –not just CapitalOne, and put them in a big trash bag.
Then, next year on March 16, bring them to a local museum where someone with experience in installations can note the number and variety of your contribution, then arrange them in an effective way.
I envision the exhibition room shaped like a giant glass mailbox.
On the outside of the museum building there’ll be a giant slot where anyone could drive up, drop their letters in, and watch them fall on to the heads of those attending the exhibition, then scatter all over the exhibition floor.
We’ll have sponsors for our exhibition too: corporations love to support the arts.
We’ll have a special reception and fundraiser to benefit a worthy charity, at which executives from the corporate sponsors, selected guests, and a representative sample of poor credit risks will be able to argue about the artistic potential of direct mail.
Any funds leftover after the reception, the show, and the clean-up, will go to paying my existing credit card bills.
What’s in your wallet?
Mine’s overflowing with art!
You know, a collection of unconnected stuff, artfully strewn across a designated ‘space’, signifying different things to different people, depending on the time of day, the amount of sunlight, socio-economic assumptions and the like.
Art is more and more not what anyone makes, but what we are subjected to.
Know what I mean?
The cool thing, or at least one of the cool things about installations, is that we all bring something to them: they require our participation.
That wasn’t always the case.
DaVinci didn’t need a long queue outside of the palace to verify the obvious: that guy could paint!
But modern art installations require participation: which in a way, is to say that all of life, seen from a particular perspective, is art.
Where am I going with this?
Nowhere.
I’m just sitting at home, opening my mail, and from my perspective CapitalOne – the big credit card company, is making an artistic statement that deserves a greater audience.
Actually, you probably couldn’t get a bigger audience than CapitalOne already has, but what they need is for someone, like me, to comment on the artistic aspect of their endeavor.
Or perhaps what they need is someone like me to gather others like me, together, to share the experience that each of us, individually, is experiencing courtesy of CapitalOne.
Did you ever see those sculptures – mostly busts, which are made out of hundreds of separate, flat slices of wood?
Are you familiar with that modern artist who uses a thousand tiny little painted pictures to assemble one portrait?
Have you received 173 separate mailings from CapitalOne –each one completely different from the other, yet each one making the same silly appeal to accept another credit card?
I have before me as I write, my favorite: what appears to be a brown paper lunch bag – with the words “Time Sensitive Documents Enclosed” written boldly across the front. In fact I have four of these: one addressed to me, one to my wife, one to my college age son, and one to Art Gecko, a pet that is well on his way to fertilizing the back yard grass.
How “Time Sensitive” can the message be, that comes every day, every week, every month?
I am not sure why they resorted to the brown paper bag approach. Maybe they thought it would appeal to my blue-collar sensibilities. But then why did they send me the same offer, enclosed in a shiny, shimmering futuristic-looking envelope, a few weeks ago? And why the 170 other variations on the same theme?
I can’t be the only one that is receiving this kind of attention – but that in itself seems absurd.
Can CapitalOne really afford to send every man, woman and child in America a new credit card offer every week?
And if they can afford to do that, why can they afford to do that?
Or maybe it’s my questionable credit-worthiness that attracts them: though I don’t look like a great credit risk, I may look like a sure-fire bet to pay loads of late fees.
Maybe it really is a joke.
Perhaps a long-forgotten college room mate, who made a billion dollars selling imitation Viagra tablets using Spam email messages, is now spending some of his ill-gotten gains torturing me with these endless mailings.
But back to the arts.
For the next year I want you to take every one of the unsolicited credit card offers you receive –not just CapitalOne, and put them in a big trash bag.
Then, next year on March 16, bring them to a local museum where someone with experience in installations can note the number and variety of your contribution, then arrange them in an effective way.
I envision the exhibition room shaped like a giant glass mailbox.
On the outside of the museum building there’ll be a giant slot where anyone could drive up, drop their letters in, and watch them fall on to the heads of those attending the exhibition, then scatter all over the exhibition floor.
We’ll have sponsors for our exhibition too: corporations love to support the arts.
We’ll have a special reception and fundraiser to benefit a worthy charity, at which executives from the corporate sponsors, selected guests, and a representative sample of poor credit risks will be able to argue about the artistic potential of direct mail.
Any funds leftover after the reception, the show, and the clean-up, will go to paying my existing credit card bills.
What’s in your wallet?
Mine’s overflowing with art!
Plymouth 2020
Mazz, a friend of mine from deepest, darkest Carver, was over the house the other day, and caught his first look at the Winter Olympics.
Where he lives – in a shack somewhere on the great expanse of cranberry bogs that stretches from the Myles Standish State Forest to Wisconsin, they have only recently been hooked up to the ‘telly-graph wires’: so the competitions in Torino were, to his eye, exotic in the extreme.
After a long day of watching mostly snow board sports, with a few glimpses of women’s figure skating, he suddenly sprang up from his perch in front of our 88-inch flat screen beauty, and announced he understood, he finally understood the criteria by which the participants were being judged.
And to demonstrate his insight, he then fell forward, doing a face plant into our vintage shag carpet.
Technically, Mazz misunderstood what was going on. But he was correct in concluding that the camera’s eye valued images of competitors falling, above all else.
The women’s figure skaters appeared to be champion fallers. The snowboarders seemed to use their butts to steer with. Highlights were rare, but mis-steps, trips, pushes, and pratfalls were shown over and over, in super-slo-motion.
I agreed with my friend’s general conclusion, but his enthusiasm also made me take another look at what I had previously considered a spectacular waste of time and money.
As I now understand - thanks to Mazz, the appeal of the modern Winter Olympics is that anybody can do what they do – stumble, fall, trip, get in fights, criticize, space out, and choke.
And if anyone can play, why can’t any town hose? And there’s no any town, like America’s Home Town.
Boy, imagine that: Plymouth, host of the 2020 Winter Olympics. Timed of course, to coincide with the 400th anniversary of the First Pilgrim Olympics - when there was only one country represented, and medals were given out a hundred or so years later, posthumously.
It could never have happened 20 or 30 years ago, when Olympic competitions were, for the most part, athletic.
But now that 16 year olds are being paid millions for doing the kinds of things our kids do in the basement - when we aren’t watching, Plymouth has a great opportunity.
Venues? We don’t need no stinking venues. We’ve got the old Armstrong Rink, and a soon to be abandoned Nuclear Reactor chamber. And most everyone else (like those crazy cross country skiers) can be stuck over in Myles Standish State Forest.
Alpine Events? No problem: a few million extra feet of ‘clean fill’ and Mt. Manomet (the former landfill) will have all the altitude we need.
The most difficult challenge we would face, as I see it, is in making these Olympics ‘Plymouth’s Games’, and not just some abstract, idealistic exercise in international cooperation.
Here I think we can take our cue from the Canadians, who managed to have Curling made an Olympic sport in time for the Vancouver Winter Olympics in 2010. And the Canadians aren’t done yet: they hope to have both Ice Fishing and Mosquito Swatting made demonstration sports in time for 2010.
What can Plymouth do?
Well, it is hard to rival Curling for pure cultural obscurity. We could have Candlepin Bowling on ice, but that might be expensive.
My personal favorite –a pseudo sport that combines all the falls of figure skating with the grass-growing drama of curling, is Beginning Skating Lessons.
Imagine endless hours of hundreds of four and five year olds clutching orange cones, and gingerly making their way across the ice, with the medal winners chosen by the mysterious votes of judges who tally the total number of falls, the total volume of tears shed, and the scowls of impatient fathers.
Another local sport that could make it to the Olympics is our own Parking Meter Jump –utilizing the existing downtown Middle Street lot competitors could use ramps of snow to leap from meter to meter to see who can go the longest without adding any quarters or being ticketed.
Cross-Rotary-Skiing could combine the endurance of traditional cross-country skiing, with our regional version of the demolition derby.
Outfitting our school buses with skis we could hold School Bus Relays, where competitors try to get kindergarten, elementary, middle school, and high school kids to and from school using the same bus.
For dedicated fans of the new ‘board’ competitions, we could add a slight twist. Instead of creating expensive ramps and half pipes of snow, we could just use the existing gravel operations on Beaver Dam Road.
Or for a real hot event, try half pipe competitions inside the abandoned reactor building. One fall and you’re toast!
There could also be a competition to see which country could fit the most Olympians on ‘The Rock’ at one time.
And what about a Mark Lord Monologue Competition?
Instead of the silly biathlon where skiers race around a course and take pot shots at paper targets, I’d have them ski down the re-created Leyden Street of Plimoth Plantation, build a new home for Governor Bradford, race over to the Wampanoag Settlement, dig out a canoe from a whole log, paddle that canoe over the pond to Plymouth Beach and take pot shots at Piping Plovers.
And to really boost the ratings, instead of allowing countries to choose their teams based on their athletic abilities or odd skills, I’d have the producers of ‘Survivor’, run the whole show.
That would really open up the whole Olympics, because no one would want to do too good, because they’d risk being voted out at the Tribal meeting.
I was wrong in not seeing the value of the Winter Olympics, and for that insight I owe a debt of thanks to Mazz.
It’s not just about falling down though. It’s about hyping up.
It’s about getting your turn in the spotlight, falling down, and getting paid no matter how you perform.
It’s about Plymouth 2020: A Turkey on Skis.
Where he lives – in a shack somewhere on the great expanse of cranberry bogs that stretches from the Myles Standish State Forest to Wisconsin, they have only recently been hooked up to the ‘telly-graph wires’: so the competitions in Torino were, to his eye, exotic in the extreme.
After a long day of watching mostly snow board sports, with a few glimpses of women’s figure skating, he suddenly sprang up from his perch in front of our 88-inch flat screen beauty, and announced he understood, he finally understood the criteria by which the participants were being judged.
And to demonstrate his insight, he then fell forward, doing a face plant into our vintage shag carpet.
Technically, Mazz misunderstood what was going on. But he was correct in concluding that the camera’s eye valued images of competitors falling, above all else.
The women’s figure skaters appeared to be champion fallers. The snowboarders seemed to use their butts to steer with. Highlights were rare, but mis-steps, trips, pushes, and pratfalls were shown over and over, in super-slo-motion.
I agreed with my friend’s general conclusion, but his enthusiasm also made me take another look at what I had previously considered a spectacular waste of time and money.
As I now understand - thanks to Mazz, the appeal of the modern Winter Olympics is that anybody can do what they do – stumble, fall, trip, get in fights, criticize, space out, and choke.
And if anyone can play, why can’t any town hose? And there’s no any town, like America’s Home Town.
Boy, imagine that: Plymouth, host of the 2020 Winter Olympics. Timed of course, to coincide with the 400th anniversary of the First Pilgrim Olympics - when there was only one country represented, and medals were given out a hundred or so years later, posthumously.
It could never have happened 20 or 30 years ago, when Olympic competitions were, for the most part, athletic.
But now that 16 year olds are being paid millions for doing the kinds of things our kids do in the basement - when we aren’t watching, Plymouth has a great opportunity.
Venues? We don’t need no stinking venues. We’ve got the old Armstrong Rink, and a soon to be abandoned Nuclear Reactor chamber. And most everyone else (like those crazy cross country skiers) can be stuck over in Myles Standish State Forest.
Alpine Events? No problem: a few million extra feet of ‘clean fill’ and Mt. Manomet (the former landfill) will have all the altitude we need.
The most difficult challenge we would face, as I see it, is in making these Olympics ‘Plymouth’s Games’, and not just some abstract, idealistic exercise in international cooperation.
Here I think we can take our cue from the Canadians, who managed to have Curling made an Olympic sport in time for the Vancouver Winter Olympics in 2010. And the Canadians aren’t done yet: they hope to have both Ice Fishing and Mosquito Swatting made demonstration sports in time for 2010.
What can Plymouth do?
Well, it is hard to rival Curling for pure cultural obscurity. We could have Candlepin Bowling on ice, but that might be expensive.
My personal favorite –a pseudo sport that combines all the falls of figure skating with the grass-growing drama of curling, is Beginning Skating Lessons.
Imagine endless hours of hundreds of four and five year olds clutching orange cones, and gingerly making their way across the ice, with the medal winners chosen by the mysterious votes of judges who tally the total number of falls, the total volume of tears shed, and the scowls of impatient fathers.
Another local sport that could make it to the Olympics is our own Parking Meter Jump –utilizing the existing downtown Middle Street lot competitors could use ramps of snow to leap from meter to meter to see who can go the longest without adding any quarters or being ticketed.
Cross-Rotary-Skiing could combine the endurance of traditional cross-country skiing, with our regional version of the demolition derby.
Outfitting our school buses with skis we could hold School Bus Relays, where competitors try to get kindergarten, elementary, middle school, and high school kids to and from school using the same bus.
For dedicated fans of the new ‘board’ competitions, we could add a slight twist. Instead of creating expensive ramps and half pipes of snow, we could just use the existing gravel operations on Beaver Dam Road.
Or for a real hot event, try half pipe competitions inside the abandoned reactor building. One fall and you’re toast!
There could also be a competition to see which country could fit the most Olympians on ‘The Rock’ at one time.
And what about a Mark Lord Monologue Competition?
Instead of the silly biathlon where skiers race around a course and take pot shots at paper targets, I’d have them ski down the re-created Leyden Street of Plimoth Plantation, build a new home for Governor Bradford, race over to the Wampanoag Settlement, dig out a canoe from a whole log, paddle that canoe over the pond to Plymouth Beach and take pot shots at Piping Plovers.
And to really boost the ratings, instead of allowing countries to choose their teams based on their athletic abilities or odd skills, I’d have the producers of ‘Survivor’, run the whole show.
That would really open up the whole Olympics, because no one would want to do too good, because they’d risk being voted out at the Tribal meeting.
I was wrong in not seeing the value of the Winter Olympics, and for that insight I owe a debt of thanks to Mazz.
It’s not just about falling down though. It’s about hyping up.
It’s about getting your turn in the spotlight, falling down, and getting paid no matter how you perform.
It’s about Plymouth 2020: A Turkey on Skis.
You Know What You Can Do!
My fiftieth column is coming up, in a month or so, and I know a lot of you are starting to wonder how to celebrate that momentous milestone.
There is some talk of a surprise party, another of a ‘cruise to nowhere’, and yet another group of dedicated readers that is in favor of a more formal recognition of my significant contributions to the public discourse: a plaque, speeches, and the like.
While I am not averse to any of the aforementioned activities, I would like to let you know that there is a simple, elegant, and relatively inexpensive way for you to let me know how much you appreciate these ‘ramblings’, and one that would also help to curry favor with my editors – a letter.
Not a personal letter mind you, scented or stuffed with cash, but rather a traditional, spur-of-the-moment, relatively inarticulate and hopefully angry letter – to the editor!
Is that too much to ask?
Actually, maybe it is too much to ask, or at least too much to hope for. After all, the average Plymouth resident has neither the time nor the vocabulary to communicate with me, regardless of the issue.
And I will freely admit that I have not done all that I might have done – to encourage the kind of raw emotional response that is so prized in journalistic circles.
Instead I have gone out of my way to be articulate, humorous, and self-deprecating.
Instead of writing about idiots, meatheads, thieves and perverts, I have written about moths and caterpillars, turkeys and Well Guys.
Instead of using my position to preach for the dissolution of the existing government and institutions, I have lobbied for a continuation of the traditional forms.
I guess it is a bit difficult to get readers riled up over a discussion of the various names of the thousand ponds of Plymouth.
There is not much controversy in the debate over whether we should call our local ice cream drink concoction a frappe, or a cabinet, or heaven forbid, a milkshake!
It is hard to argue with columns that wax poetic about snow, silence, and corn chowder.
Yes, I know it is difficult, but is that what friends are for?
For god’s sake, isn’t there anyone out there who can publicly disagree with me?
Maybe part of the problem is my intimidating intellectual abilities. Admit it, some of you don’t know what the heck I am talking about half the time.
Well, hey, there’s a nice subject for a letter.
Start off your diatribe by saying just that: “What the heck was that wacko Frank Mand talking about the other day, in his column about the Billington Brothers?”
Maybe part of the problem is that I am too concerned with ideas, too little with people.
The truth is I would love to have a local version of Trump or Martha to make fun of;
Every knows that a power-mad local cop makes for great copy;
A truly corrupt politician or civil servant is worth a half dozen columns or more.
So why don’t I go on the personal attack more often?
Honestly, I just don’t think we have anyone who really fits the bill.
As towns go, ye old Plymouth is relatively tame, relatively honest.
My biggest criticism of the town and its leaders overall is that they are unimaginative: not exactly a tar and feathering offense.
But if you know better, if you have the skinny, the inside dope, if you can name names well then do so now: preferably in a lovely, bitter, lengthy letter to the editor.
And while you are at it, you might wonder, ‘out loud’, why I don’t seem to be as bitter and angry as you are.
You might infer, imply or come right out and suggest that my silence on these and other allegedly controversial issues, is a clear sign of a deliberate attempt to suppress the truth.
I am not saying any of that is true, just that it wouldn’t do any harm (to me) for you to suggest that.
Conspiracies are great –for everyone involved.
You know, when I think about what I might want to commemorate my fiftieth column, a public accusation that I am at the heart of a giant conspiracy to suppress the truth, well that ranks right up there with the Cruise to Nowhere.
And if you did write a letter suggesting such a conspiracy, though I can’t promise anything, I can say that there is a high likelihood that I would have to respond with an angry column, defending myself, and naming you personally.
And well, after that, I’d be on my way towards, well -to be perfectly frank, towards another fifty columns about raccoons in the attic, the kingdom of Walmart, and the Billington Boys.
Don’t like it? You know what you can do!
There is some talk of a surprise party, another of a ‘cruise to nowhere’, and yet another group of dedicated readers that is in favor of a more formal recognition of my significant contributions to the public discourse: a plaque, speeches, and the like.
While I am not averse to any of the aforementioned activities, I would like to let you know that there is a simple, elegant, and relatively inexpensive way for you to let me know how much you appreciate these ‘ramblings’, and one that would also help to curry favor with my editors – a letter.
Not a personal letter mind you, scented or stuffed with cash, but rather a traditional, spur-of-the-moment, relatively inarticulate and hopefully angry letter – to the editor!
Is that too much to ask?
Actually, maybe it is too much to ask, or at least too much to hope for. After all, the average Plymouth resident has neither the time nor the vocabulary to communicate with me, regardless of the issue.
And I will freely admit that I have not done all that I might have done – to encourage the kind of raw emotional response that is so prized in journalistic circles.
Instead I have gone out of my way to be articulate, humorous, and self-deprecating.
Instead of writing about idiots, meatheads, thieves and perverts, I have written about moths and caterpillars, turkeys and Well Guys.
Instead of using my position to preach for the dissolution of the existing government and institutions, I have lobbied for a continuation of the traditional forms.
I guess it is a bit difficult to get readers riled up over a discussion of the various names of the thousand ponds of Plymouth.
There is not much controversy in the debate over whether we should call our local ice cream drink concoction a frappe, or a cabinet, or heaven forbid, a milkshake!
It is hard to argue with columns that wax poetic about snow, silence, and corn chowder.
Yes, I know it is difficult, but is that what friends are for?
For god’s sake, isn’t there anyone out there who can publicly disagree with me?
Maybe part of the problem is my intimidating intellectual abilities. Admit it, some of you don’t know what the heck I am talking about half the time.
Well, hey, there’s a nice subject for a letter.
Start off your diatribe by saying just that: “What the heck was that wacko Frank Mand talking about the other day, in his column about the Billington Brothers?”
Maybe part of the problem is that I am too concerned with ideas, too little with people.
The truth is I would love to have a local version of Trump or Martha to make fun of;
Every knows that a power-mad local cop makes for great copy;
A truly corrupt politician or civil servant is worth a half dozen columns or more.
So why don’t I go on the personal attack more often?
Honestly, I just don’t think we have anyone who really fits the bill.
As towns go, ye old Plymouth is relatively tame, relatively honest.
My biggest criticism of the town and its leaders overall is that they are unimaginative: not exactly a tar and feathering offense.
But if you know better, if you have the skinny, the inside dope, if you can name names well then do so now: preferably in a lovely, bitter, lengthy letter to the editor.
And while you are at it, you might wonder, ‘out loud’, why I don’t seem to be as bitter and angry as you are.
You might infer, imply or come right out and suggest that my silence on these and other allegedly controversial issues, is a clear sign of a deliberate attempt to suppress the truth.
I am not saying any of that is true, just that it wouldn’t do any harm (to me) for you to suggest that.
Conspiracies are great –for everyone involved.
You know, when I think about what I might want to commemorate my fiftieth column, a public accusation that I am at the heart of a giant conspiracy to suppress the truth, well that ranks right up there with the Cruise to Nowhere.
And if you did write a letter suggesting such a conspiracy, though I can’t promise anything, I can say that there is a high likelihood that I would have to respond with an angry column, defending myself, and naming you personally.
And well, after that, I’d be on my way towards, well -to be perfectly frank, towards another fifty columns about raccoons in the attic, the kingdom of Walmart, and the Billington Boys.
Don’t like it? You know what you can do!
White Stuff
My old snow thrower is up in Maine, in his junior year.
My new snow player is, well rarin’ to go: go out and play that is.
My Boro Snowblower is not too good in snow more than six inches deep, so I usually take it out two or three times during a big snow. When family from down south call and ask how much snow we got, I multiply the total snow fall by the number of times I had to go out.
We had 343 inches last year, really!
The guy across the street has his house on a big chain, so that when the snow falls it just picks up the house.
He never has to plow.
Then again, when we have a year like last year, sometimes he doesn’t come down for weeks.
The guy on my right has a Boro SnowChewer. Actually, I am being a chauvinist here: what I should have said is that the guy and gal on my right seem to both be out there when it snows, wo-manning their Chewer.
The lady on my left has a very short driveway, and uses a Krupps Snow-Juicer: it takes a very long time, even with her short driveway, but she says she gets about a half gallon of juice in the bargain.
The Infante family has everything heated: their driveway, their lawn, their mailbox, and their roof. Their lawn stays green the whole year. We tell new people they heat with nuclear energy.
It’s an odd sight, but one we’ve gotten used to: in the middle of the biggest blizzards, the whole Infante family out there on their lawn, in beach chairs, having snacks and watching the plows go by.
Of course there’s good and bad to the heated lawn thing. Last year, during the height of the snowfall, several weeks went by when everyone’s mailbox was buried under about ten feet of plowed snow.
So all the mail was delivered to the Infantes.
I didn’t pick mine up until May 1st, and Mr. Infante was not too neighborly when I did.
I’ve thought about getting a more powerful snow re-arranging device, but besides the expense, I am a bit intimidated by the terminology.
There are snow blowers, throwers, juicers, chewers, chompers, stompers and one that makes slurpees too.
Some are great with deep snow, some just with flurries and the like.
Some you are only supposed to use on paved areas, some on grassy areas, some on ski slopes, and some on ice.
The neighbors ‘Chewer’ has a heated driver’s area, a four-speaker sound system, fog lights and a Panini grill.
If you use the Snow Juicer on grass or gravel you could permanently ruin it, and the juice tastes horrible.
The Snow Stomper requires four guys from the DPW department to be harnessed to an old Flexible Flyer and marched around the yard until the snow has been stomped down to a manageable level.
I actually made the Chomper up: there’s no such thing –although my brother Bob used to eat more than his fair share of fresh snow when we were kids.
Some people say that the SnowThrower and the SnowBlower and the SnowBore are the same thing.
I supposed that’s true, for the first two: they’re only different in terms of the size of their engines and total snow re-arranging capacity.
But the SnowBore is clearly different. While the others only come out after the snow has fallen, the SnowBore is usually going back and forth, up and down the street, long before the first flake has fallen, making exaggerated claims as to how much snow ‘he got’, and how long ‘he was out there’.
I’m not trying to claim that I am expert in snow removal, far from it. But I do think I have made the right choice as regards snow removal equipment, and I’ll tell you why.
The most important factor to consider when removing snow is how long the job will take.
You want the job to take no less than one hour, no more than four. So estimate the amount of area you have to clear, and the capacity of the device you are considering purchasing, so that after a six inch snow fall you will be out of the house for 2 ½ hours.
Much less and your significant other will doubt you did the job right.
Much more and they will suspect you’ve been hanging out at the mailbox with your buddies, drinking beer, smoking cigars, and telling snow stories.
If you time it just right, when you come back in the house you’ll find that you are appreciated –as much for the work you’ve done, as for the quiet time they’ve had without you.
My new snow player is, well rarin’ to go: go out and play that is.
My Boro Snowblower is not too good in snow more than six inches deep, so I usually take it out two or three times during a big snow. When family from down south call and ask how much snow we got, I multiply the total snow fall by the number of times I had to go out.
We had 343 inches last year, really!
The guy across the street has his house on a big chain, so that when the snow falls it just picks up the house.
He never has to plow.
Then again, when we have a year like last year, sometimes he doesn’t come down for weeks.
The guy on my right has a Boro SnowChewer. Actually, I am being a chauvinist here: what I should have said is that the guy and gal on my right seem to both be out there when it snows, wo-manning their Chewer.
The lady on my left has a very short driveway, and uses a Krupps Snow-Juicer: it takes a very long time, even with her short driveway, but she says she gets about a half gallon of juice in the bargain.
The Infante family has everything heated: their driveway, their lawn, their mailbox, and their roof. Their lawn stays green the whole year. We tell new people they heat with nuclear energy.
It’s an odd sight, but one we’ve gotten used to: in the middle of the biggest blizzards, the whole Infante family out there on their lawn, in beach chairs, having snacks and watching the plows go by.
Of course there’s good and bad to the heated lawn thing. Last year, during the height of the snowfall, several weeks went by when everyone’s mailbox was buried under about ten feet of plowed snow.
So all the mail was delivered to the Infantes.
I didn’t pick mine up until May 1st, and Mr. Infante was not too neighborly when I did.
I’ve thought about getting a more powerful snow re-arranging device, but besides the expense, I am a bit intimidated by the terminology.
There are snow blowers, throwers, juicers, chewers, chompers, stompers and one that makes slurpees too.
Some are great with deep snow, some just with flurries and the like.
Some you are only supposed to use on paved areas, some on grassy areas, some on ski slopes, and some on ice.
The neighbors ‘Chewer’ has a heated driver’s area, a four-speaker sound system, fog lights and a Panini grill.
If you use the Snow Juicer on grass or gravel you could permanently ruin it, and the juice tastes horrible.
The Snow Stomper requires four guys from the DPW department to be harnessed to an old Flexible Flyer and marched around the yard until the snow has been stomped down to a manageable level.
I actually made the Chomper up: there’s no such thing –although my brother Bob used to eat more than his fair share of fresh snow when we were kids.
Some people say that the SnowThrower and the SnowBlower and the SnowBore are the same thing.
I supposed that’s true, for the first two: they’re only different in terms of the size of their engines and total snow re-arranging capacity.
But the SnowBore is clearly different. While the others only come out after the snow has fallen, the SnowBore is usually going back and forth, up and down the street, long before the first flake has fallen, making exaggerated claims as to how much snow ‘he got’, and how long ‘he was out there’.
I’m not trying to claim that I am expert in snow removal, far from it. But I do think I have made the right choice as regards snow removal equipment, and I’ll tell you why.
The most important factor to consider when removing snow is how long the job will take.
You want the job to take no less than one hour, no more than four. So estimate the amount of area you have to clear, and the capacity of the device you are considering purchasing, so that after a six inch snow fall you will be out of the house for 2 ½ hours.
Much less and your significant other will doubt you did the job right.
Much more and they will suspect you’ve been hanging out at the mailbox with your buddies, drinking beer, smoking cigars, and telling snow stories.
If you time it just right, when you come back in the house you’ll find that you are appreciated –as much for the work you’ve done, as for the quiet time they’ve had without you.
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