Tá Sé Ag Cur Sneachta!

We live on a corner. See?

And that greyish rectangle below the arrow -- the one that's not the house, I mean -- that there's our driveway. See?

This is annoying enough as it is. If I'm coming from the north, I have to pull a 360-degree turn just to get in the driveway -- or else I have to pull forward and back in, which confuses the hell out of the poor bastard behind me. From the south it's not so bad: I can pull straight in and only once in a while scare the shit out of oncoming traffic by appearing to veer into their lane. But once I've fronted in, I've committed to backing out -- and although I know that I can swing around without actually causing a twelve-car pileup, the twelve cars piling up don't always know. So I tend to sit in the driveway with the engine running for an hour and a half, waiting for there to be no traffic coming, even though the traffic isn't technically in my way.

And you wonder why I drink.

Anyway, like I say, all of this is usually bad enough. But then winter comes. And, along with winter, snow.

Now, our street is, for all intents and purposes, a dead end. From where it starts at our house, you can see it abruptly ending in a poorly fenced-off cliff-drop to the water, but it's not officially labelled that way because there's a paper street down at the end that runs parallel to the river for about a hundred yards (and if you don't know what a paper street is, it's a street that's listed on all the maps -- it's named and everything -- but is not, in fact, actually there). And, since there are only six or eight houses on this allegedly-not-dead-end street, we tend to be a pretty low priority for snowplows. If they do come (which they only do when the snowfall exceeds a certain depth), they tend to make one run straight down the middle and leave it at that.

Except for the corner. They always plow the corner. They have to. Otherwise the whole street would be blocked off by accumulated snowplow piles like your driveway always is as soon as you finish shoveling. So, even if they don't go down our street, they do our corner. Our corner. And when they do, one of two things happens:

Either they come in from the north, take a very wide turn and shove the snow up against the fence on the other side of the road, in which case we have to shovel twice the distance of our driveway out into the middle of the road. Or they come in from the south, take a very wide turn, and shove the snow in our driveway.

Seriously, Mister Snowplow Fellow, do you not see the minivan sitting there? Do you think for one second that it might be just a decoration? Do you find Chuck (TFT) so beautiful that you can imagine him installed permanently in the front lawn as an ornament? Grr!

Needless to say, this is what happened yesterday. We shovelled a foot and a half of snow on Saturday morning, then another half a foot on Sunday afternoon, and when the plow finally came by on Sunday evening, it took one quick corner-sweep and blocked me in. I was watching football when it happened so I didn't notice, but Johnny was looking out the window and he did. He was livid. But then the snowplow guy made the mistake of pulling over to the side of the road a small ways down and sitting for a while. Johnny didn't even put a coat on, he just slammed out the door and went speed-marching through the sunset snow. I wasn't privy to the conversation, but he filled me in when he marched back. It went like this:

tap tap tap on shotgun-side glass; snowplow guy rolls down window

"Ye're not going to leave tha' like tha'!"

"Leave wha'?"

"Me driveway! Ye blocked me feckin' in!"

"Ah, jaysus, Oi'm sorry man."

"Where ye from?"

"County Meath. Ye're Dub?"

"Feckin' right."

"Ach. Oi'll come clear that fer ye, straigh'away."

And he did. Turned right around, came back, and spent five minutes backing up and turning around and clearing out the mess he'd put there. Other plows came by later and put some back, but not much. Not shoved right in there. Just the standard side-of-the-road stuff that everybody deals with. Not more than I could clear away in five minutes on my way to work.

But I don't have to. Because this morning, when I woke up, the drive was clear. Scraped down to the asphalt, snowplow clear. Big blue lawn ornament still parked in there and everything.

Gosh, but it's nice to be on the inside of a Townville clan for a change!

… If it’s the Last Thing We Ever Do

Okay, so it wasn’t just a pee-pee cake.

Remember July? When I wrote this? And this? And maybe a few more things that I can't find right now?

Well, in case you don't -- and in case you also don't feel like following those links to see what I'm talking about -- I'll sum it up: The Weymouth (a.k.a. Townville) police chief was suspended and eventually quit for reasons they wouldn't divulge at first, but which were later revealed to be a tasteless joke involving, and a "sexually explicit cake" delievered to, the (female) guest of honor at a department birthday party.

Big whoop, I thought at the time. Tasteless, boorish, not that smart -- and, as far as jokes go, barely funny -- but not something somebody should be fired for. Give him a slap on the wrist, tell him next time to go a little lighter on the Hawaiian Punch, remind him what century he's living in and that you haven't been able to make "pubic hair on my coke" jokes in the workplace for twenty years. Then get back to talking to construction workers and staring down manholes while traffic crashes around you, like a well-paid Massachusetts policeman is supposed to do.

But wait. There's more. And it wasn't just a pee-pee cake. And it wasn't just Hawaiian Punch.

In yesterday's Globe there was an article. Also a picture of the guy. Real Adonis, this one, what? Maybe Paul Newman can play him in the movie. Especially now that he's dead.

Anyway, you can follow that link above to read the article in it's entirety, but you won't, so I'll sum up. In an exhaustive list of incidents dating back to 2004, the Globe reports that he (allegedly):

1. Groped at least four women at an office Christmas party. "One female told us that he grabbed her entire buttock cheek in his hand and then just smiled." When asked whether he had touched these four women, Thomas said, "No, not that I recall."

2. Played the Jimmy Buffett song "Why Don't We Get Drunk (and Screw)" over the Police Department intercom system.

3. Put two Hostess Sno Balls snack cakes together on a plate and presented them to a female police employee. (As best I can figure, he did not actually say "Heh, heh. Looks like boobies.")

4. Announced over the intercom that the same employee would celebrate her birthday by "pole dancing at Alex's," referring to a strip club in Stoughton, "and would be buying the drinks." (This is the so-called "joke" we knew about last summer. Did not know he said it over the intercom.)

5. In February, an employee reported seeing damage on Thomas's cruiser when the chief arrived at work at 6 a.m., but accident reports stated that the damage occurred later in the day. (In other words, he crashed his car over the weekend but claimed to have done it on the job.)

6. Drove his cruiser after he had been drinking. A Police Department employee said the chief pulled a motorist over, called in the wrong license plate number, and appeared to be slurring his words.

7. Employees report that the chief's voice, on that night, "sounded similar to when he would call the station late at night asking for a phone call to be placed to his cellphone as he had misplaced it during the night." (To which I have to ask: if he could call the station, why couldn't he call his own goddamn cell phone?)

So the moral of the story is: Not only did he deserve to be fired, but he deserves -- as Johnny would say -- to be strapped down and shot with balls of his own shite.

On a related note, BusinessWeek magazine has named Townville (a.k.a. Weymouth) the second-best place to raise a family in Massachusetts. Behind Malden, and ahead of Cambridge.

Officials in Weymouth did not return calls.

Townville. Feh.

This is the envelope for me to send my water/sewer payment in.

Can anybody tell me what's wrong with this picture?

Now, I know you can't see that the check inside is for north of $300. That is definitely wrong, but that's the Massachusetts Water Resources Authority for you, so that's not the "wrong" I'm talking about.

Here's a close-up:

Now do you see?

Hollywood, Schmollywood

Emmies! We won Emmies!

Oh no, wait. No, we didn't. So how exactly does the local news manage to put a Townville dateline on this story?

Record 13 Emmy wins for ‘John Adams’

By Robert Aicardi

Mon Sep 22, 2008, 03:52 PM EDT

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Weymouth -

“John Adams,” HBO’s seven-part miniseries about the Braintree native who became the first vice president and second president of the United States, won a record 13 of the 23 Emmy awards for which it was nominated, including five that were handed out during a prime time Sept. 21 ceremony on ABC.... etc. etc.


Well, let's see: Abigail Adams was born here, and the Abigail Adams Historical Society is based here, so if you interview its vice president (in paragraphs seven through ten of a thirteen-paragraph article) then apparently that qualifies.

So what does this local expert have to say? What insights can she, with her inside expertise, provide regarding this historic miniseries and the occasion of its historic sweep? Can she, for example, explain why Tom Hanks thinks he has to run up on stage first and hog the microphone every single time he's involved in any big group anything?

Well, no. No, she can't. We'll just have to keep assuming it has something to do with shame still lingering from Turner & Hooch. But here are a few choice examples of her oh-so-obviously Townville-tied reaction:

On the series in general: "People who aren’t history buffs may have found the pacing a little slow and thought that there wasn’t enough action, but what I liked was that the story wasn't sugarcoated."

For the Emmy-winning Giammatti: "I’ve seen him in comedies, and I think he did an excellent job."

And finally, for the pair: "Sometimes in a movie, an actor and an actress don’t quite click as a couple, but they (Giamatti and Linney) clicked as a couple."

Now, I happen to be two degrees from Giamatti -- someone I know went to high school with him -- so I think it behooves me to see if I can't pass this woman's name along. After all, whoever he's got doing his publicity for him, they can't possibly top the skill of a woman who, when the article goes on to talk about the Adams homestead over the bridge in Quincy, doesn't manage to say Word One about the Abigail Birthplace museum here in Town. Man, you just can't buy that kind of press!

Ah well. Elsewhere on the local news site they're still debating about whether or not there ever was a pee-pee cake, even thought the ex-police chief who allegedly delivered it has since undergone bypass surgery in an attempt to change the subject.

Maybe someday, they'll make a miniseries about that.

No Joy In Townville

The outlook sure was brilliant for New England’s team that day;
The record 0-0, a whole season left to play,
And then when Sammy slipped his grip, and Pollard took his aim,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

As our hero got up to go, we heard his pain expressed,
And with him went the hope from each and every human breast;
They thought, "It is still football, everybody takes a whack—
We'd put up even money now, with Brady gone, that’s that."

We felt for Matty Cassel, the mood was like a wake,
When he comes in, people go home, but there's too much now at stake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat;
For there seemed but little chance of happy news from Brady’s CAT.

But Matt let drive a bullet, to the wonderment of all,
And Moss, the much despised, got his glue-hands on the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,
There was Randy with a first down and Matt Cassel’s fear deterred.

From sixty thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
And 81 looked to the door, hoping for number twelve;
Alas, the door was empty, they were cheering now for Matt,
Because Brady, mighty Brady, was not going to come back.

There’d been pain in Brady’s countenance as he stepped from his place;
There was pride in Brady’s bearing, but the truth in Brady’s face.
And when, responding to the cheers, Randy kept looking back,
No stranger in the crowd could want anything more than that.

Ten million eyes spent hours trolling for the latest dirt.
Five million tongues were wagging on how badly he was hurt.
The papers had to write about the game they played to win,
And wait for news from Foxborough of the condition Brady’s in.

And now theories aplenty came hurtling through the air,
Who would they sign, how would they do, would anyone still care?
Closed-mouthed stood Coach as always, close-knit the team he led—
Until "He ain't okay," admitted Belichick. "That’s it!" the haters said.

From the city, from the people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
"Kill him! Kill Bernie Pollard!" shouted some wackos on the web;
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Sammy kept his head.

With a look of resignation, Morris took the questions on;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade them move along;
He signaled to reporters, as once more the question flew;
“Do you think the hit was dirty?” “Look, I don’t think he meant to.”

“Foul!” cried the boy who'd looked in vain for his best friend
And “Blood!” cried some who didn’t want the dynasty to end.
But Coach is stern and cold, which is just how Coach plays the game,
When he tells us it will be a year till Brady moves the chains.

The cool has fled from Brady’s brow, the teeth are clenched in pain;
He pounds the ground with violence on the tape loop once again.
And now the QB holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Pollard’s blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout;
But there is no joy in Townville — mighty Brady's knee went out.

The Townville Times: Rang Dang Diggedy Dang Di-Dang

Remember the bridge I wrote about a couple weeks ago? The one that is the bane of my existence and will eventually be – if we don’t get out of Townville soon – the instrument of my ultimate destruction? Well, lookie the headline in today’s Wicked Local News!

Safety improvements made on Fore River Bridge!!!

Woohoo! All right! Maybe they’re fixing it so it doesn’t drop bolts in the river anymore! Maybe they’re fixing the clock so it opens on schedule instead of popping up and down like a whack-a-mole! Or maybe – dare I hope? – they might actually be starting the process of tearing the bastard down!

Let’s have a peek at the good news together, shall we?

A drive across the winding temporary Fore River Bridge tests the agility of motorists to stay in the travel lanes…

I’ll say it does!

…but this effort is a little easier because Mass Highway painted new white roadway stripes on the asphalt two weeks ago.

Oh bollocks, are you kidding me?

“This bridge is nothing short of a disaster right now,” said District 1 Councilor Victor Pap III while driving across the 210-foot span Aug. 18…

I’ll say it is!

…“But Rep. James Murphy met with me and (councilor-at-large) Brian McDonald to get the roadway lines painted.”

Oh bollocks, you’re still talking about the lines?

The new paint marks the lane boundaries for drivers going in each direction across the span and on each avenue of approach to the bridge.

Really? In both directions? Go-lly, what won’t they think of next?

During a meeting last month, McDonald urged the council to notify Mass Highway about the fading lane markings and poor nighttime visibility endured by drivers because of dim street lighting

Seriously, of all the things that are wrong with the Fore River bridge, poor lighting is not one of them. It’s a bridge, for one thing, so there are no trees or houses in the way, and it runs right past the U.S.S. Salem, for crying out loud. You think that old girl’s not lit up to kingdom come?

“Mass Highway was very responsive,” …

No! You don’t say!

…Pap said.

Huh. I guess you do.

“The lines have been painted and the street lights have been fixed. The roadway signage has been improved.”

Oh, now we’re worrying about the signage? I’ll tell you what sign down there needs fixing: the one that purports to tell you what time the bridge is going up! Beyond that, if I’m not mistaken, the only sign on the whole length of the bridge is one that reads “No Jumping” – and Johnny and I always wonder whether it's speaking to potential swimmers or attempted suicides.

A “no jumping” sign warns daredevils not to leap into the Fore River …

Ah.

…and motorists are cautioned against passing drivers while on the span.

Nuh-uh. No, they’re not. I know, because I’ve looked. Because it has solid lines, which usually means you’re not supposed to pass, but people go so slow sometimes. I just can’t stand it, so I have looked and looked repeatedly for signs telling me not to pass. I tell ya, they ain’t there.

Pap said the new signs are more visible to drivers than the smaller posters.

Posters? Oh.

“There were little antiquated signs on the bridge,” Pap said.

Ohhh…

North Weymouth Civic Association Vice President Sandy Gildea said the bridge should have signs stating speed limit strictly enforced …

Well -- aside from the fact that that sentence seems to be missing some quotation marks -- if it's going to have signs stating "speed limit strictly enforced," then the speed limit would have to be strictly enforced, wouldn’t it? So that plan’s out. Because the river is the town line: the bridge is technically in Quincy, but as soon as you touch ground this side you're in Weymouth. Nobody speeds going the other way, because there's a rotary as soon as you touch ground on the other side, and Weymouth cops have no jurisdiction over what you may or may not do while on the bridge. I don’t even know what the speed limit is on it. There is usually a cop sitting on this side of it, but I’ve never once seen anybody done. Which might have something to do with the jurisdiction-thingy, or it might have to do with the fact that the cop is usually nodding off, reading a book, or leaning up against his cruiser, staring off into the air.

… and placards listing emergency phone numbers for drivers to call during a crisis.

Oh, please. Call 911. Or just run down and goose the idle cop.

“We want a total safety inspection of the signs, (bridge) security, and safety,” Gildea said.

Um, well, actually, that doesn’t sound like a totally bad idea.

Pap said Mass Highway plans to install speed limit signs on the bridge to warn drivers. “What we are looking to have are speed limit signs that are more visible and additional signs to help drivers navigate their way across the bridge,” he said.

Um, let me guess: you get on it at one side of the river, then follow it over to the other side?

Some of the signs will have arrows to warn drivers about the curves on the span’s roadway. “We want to have arrows that indicate sharp curves on the bridge and that the area is heavily monitored for speeders,” Pap said.

Ah yes, the S curve. I'm used to it, so I'd forgotten. Yeah, okay, it mightn’t be a bad idea to warn people about that. Especially because it is a bridge and all, so if you fail to negotiate it you could wind up in the drink.

“There is a police cruiser parked on the Weymouth side of the bridge a few times each week that watches for speeders and I’m happy to see that.”

Oh, me too. I do hate to see public servants taking naps for free.

He said Mass Highway is considering the requests for additional warning signs by local …

Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! Is it too late to make requests? Can we have one that says “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here?”

…officials.

Balls.

“They are evaluating everything,” Pap said. “The last thing you want to see is 20 different signs because they would lost their visibility and prominence.”

True, true. I still think a little divine comic relief could go a long way towards relieving some of Townville’s ennui, though. Or at the very least, maybe save some other poor soul from suffering my fate.

The temporary span is used daily by approximately 50,000 drivers.

And I bet that – at some time or another, while waiting for the damn thing to go down – every single one of them threw something in my yard.


HAPPY TOWNVILLE TUESDAY, EVERYONE!!

With Respect

Sorry.

This isn’t going to be the typical Townville blog.

Something awful happened.

It wasn’t in Townville, technically; it was just over the border. Had I been home, I could have watched -- and felt it, apparently -- from in my house. But the poor bastard who died in the accident just moved here. With his brand-new bride, no less.




So there will be no Townville snarking at The House and I today.

Won't You Be Mine? Please? Oh, Please?

Hey guys, guess what? I've got good news from Townville for a change!

I've put a video below that I'll discuss in a minute, but I know not all of you can watch videos at work, and I know some of you who can just never do, so I'll nutshell it for you:

Right here in Townville (a.k.a Weymouth, Mass.), not 2000 feet from the AssVac's very door, a person did a nice thing for a neighbor!

The End!

No, wait, there's more!

He did a nice thing for a dog!

Oh holy crap I think I might pass out!

Okay, what happened is, the house caught fire, and the people weren't home, so the next-door neighbor guy -- the 63-year-old next-door neighbor guy, incidentally -- threw a ladder up against the house, smashed the screen in, stuck his head and arms in through the window, and hauled out the dog. And not the small dog, either. The German shepherd, thank you very much.

I feel as though I've entered into a whole other dimension...

Now, this video doesn't really say any more detail about the story than I've already said, but if you've ever sat at home wondering "Gee, I wonder what it's really like where EGE lives" -- if you are at all curious about Townville as an actual living place and not just the parade of freak shows that I always feature here -- you might go ahead and play a couple seconds. Because that man, that voice, is this town.

I never really thought about it until I heard it on this screen, but the Townville twang is distinct from standard Masshole-ish. I'm no good at writing dialect, so I won't even try, but it's in the vowels and the syllabic emphasis and everything, right down to the gulpy manner in which certain consonants are dropped -- and not only the rs. That accent is Townville's own, and for the rest of my life I will recognize it just as surely as I do Worcesterian and Springfieldese.



Now if I could just learn to adopt it, do you think maybe I could get them to be nice to me?

The Townville Tang: My Fair Lady

I’ve decided to just give in and make News Tuesday all about Townville, since odd things just keep on going down. And I’ve decided to call it The Townville Tang, in honor of Kim’s revelation. I hope it’s not too boring for those of you from away…

Last week the Boston Globe wrote a story headlined “Temporary span is raising frustration on South Shore” – to which I responded: “Der!”

See, remember when I said yesterday that we drove 1000 yards over the bridge to the boat docks? Well, that bridge (called the Fore River Bridge) is, in fact, a drawbridge. Not the old-fashioned crank-kind that you could just speed up and jump over if you were an action-movie heroine and drove something with a bit more oomph than Chuck (TFT), but the kind where a flat slab in the middle disconnects from the sides completely and rises vertically. Like a nightmare.


Still, though, when we first moved here I thought it was quaint, in a forced-out-of-the-modern-hustle-bustle kind of way. When that bridge goes up, you have no choice but to sit and wait, just like people have been sitting and waiting at drawbridges for a thousand years. Or a hundred years. Or however long drawbridges have existed, which I don’t feel like looking up.

Patience has never been one of my virtues, however, and I pretty quickly got frustrated with the damn thing’s haphazard schedule. There’s a big LED sign on either shore that purports to announce when an opening is planned, but it inevitably goes up fifteen minutes late or early – which is, coincidentally, exactly the allowance you made in your departure time, and so exactly how much later you will be (or could have slept) as a result. And this is not to mention all the times that it just goes up unannounced.

Sometimes, though, it just gets stuck and stays there (which is reassuring, to say the least), and they have to divert all the route 3A traffic the long way 'round to the next-closest bridge. Ahem. Rte. 3A connects all the beaches on the South Shore, and the long way 'round goes directly by our house. I've learned the hard way that, if I’m hoping to pull the car out of the driveway for any reason on a hot summer day, I’d better pee first -- twice -- and bring a snack.

It would seem obvious that there’d be a web site for the bridge – just one simple page that would list their pretend-schedule and let you know if it was, at any given moment, up or down. (I always used to say “open” or “closed,” until about a month ago. I was relaying crucial to-the-minute info to someone about to make the attempt, and together we realized that while some people may intend “open” to mean “up, and therefore you can’t cross it,” it seems that others take it to mean “down, and therefore accessible to moving traffic.” God, it was like an Abbot and Costello routine when she hit the bridge and called me from her cell phone. “But you said it was open!” “Yes, so why did you try to cross it!?” “Because you said it was open!” “Right, so what were you thinking?”)

Anyway, there isn’t. A website, I mean. And I had the brilliant idea last month that I should mount a webcam to my roof and start my own. I could probably make dozens of dollars selling advertisements geared towards the ones of thousands of folks who would check in (“If you make it across the bridge, buy gas from us!” and “If you don’t, buy it from us!”). Unfortunately, although this might just work in wintertime – if I mounted it from the top of the chimneystack, built a little shelter for it, and then also never burned wood in the fireplace – the little green, flat, fluttery things that dangle from tree branches all summer would quite effectively obscure the view for half the year.

Not that I would have ever got around to it, anyway. Because if anybody’s going to be climbing ladders around the AssVac, something about her had damn well better be looking nicer when they climb their asses down. So if there’s anybody out there reading this who lives closer to the bridge than I do, you can feel free to steal my idea. I guarantee it will be well-appreciated by at least one Townvillean. Although maybe only one, as it turns out. Because when I told my bright idea to a friend who lived for six years in the house directly behind ours, she didn’t understand my frustration with the bridge at all. And when I got all red-faced, ranting about the 15-minutes early/late thing, her response was “Jeez, you really do have bad luck, don’t you?” So maybe it is just me, after all.

Okay, so what was my point? Oh, right, the article. Well, the gist of it was not – as one might logically assume from the headline – that residents are annoyed by the delays. No, it turns out that the main thrust of the article was “Erin and Johnny, you are wrong, wrong, wrong. And also trapped like a couple of poverty-stricken rats. Bwah-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

See, we thought (and had been telling people for a while, though I don’t remember where we got our information) that this was a temporary bridge, that it had been built to last 15 years and had been up for something like twelve already with no plans for replacement. The first part we got right – it’s a 15-year temp – but this article says it’s only been up since 2004 and plans are in place to take it down by 2020. There are a few problems with this, however:

1. We moved here in April of 2004. I know I drove over that bridge with One Friend the last time she visited us in our old apartment. I don’t remember when that was, but it was summer, so it had to have been open since at least 2003. Liars!

2. Even if 2004 was not a lie (which it was), and even if this new bridge will be in place by 2020 (which it won’t), that’s still 16 years on a 15-year temporary bridge. And it’s already falling down. Seriously, if you’re the kind of person who rides roller coasters with your hands in the air and watches Kevin Costner movies for the acting, then you should check out the article (here's the link again). In it, they quote this guy who walks under the bridge every day and has a bucket in his house full of rusty old bolts that he’s picked from the ground beneath it. The officials claim those bolts were dropped by repair workers, but I don’t know which would make me feel worse: that the bolts did, in fact, fall spontaneously out of important bridge-parts, or that the materials they’re fixing it with are that rusty and old. Scylla, I'd like you to meet Charybdis...

3. (And most importantly, because who cares if the bridge falls down as long as noone I know is on it at the time). We’re never going to be able to sell this house! We’re stuck here! Unless Superman comes back to life and flies backwards around the world to 2003 (in which case, I suppose, we could change our minds and never buy her in the first place), there is no way the market is going to recover enough for us to unload the AssVac. Even if we finish all the work we have left to do on her (which we won’t) before our rate adjusts in 2014, they’ll be building one bridge and tearing down another one a thousand yards away! Who the hell’s going to pay any kind of decent money for a place like that? And, of course, if nobody does, then we’ll be the ones who have to live in a construction zone. Forever.

Ah, well. On the bright side, Johnny hasn’t had any income in a while, and future building-trade prospects are looking pretty grim. So if we’re very lucky, we’ll be in debtor’s prison before roadwork begins.

I hope it’s quiet there.

The Townville Times

When I implemented News Tuesday, I thought I’d be commenting on important stuff like rat’s asses, flying figs and how much they’re charging for a cup of tea in China. I did not intend for the discussion to constantly hit so close to home. But Townville just won’t lay down!

This little burg that we live in is the small-towningest place I have ever real-life seen – and it is technically about four times larger (population-wise, at least) than the town where I grew up. They don’t like strangers here, for example, and they keep trying to get new and illegal laws passed in order to keep them out. They give you tickets for parking on the street in front of your own house, despite the fact that it isn’t posted anywhere on the street itself or in the bylaws that such a thing’s illegal. Even the Post Office, for some reason, keeps different hours than every other P.O. in the whole U.S. of A.

And now this, from the Boston Globe (you'll notice that I've left the real town name in there this time: that's because I'm hoping to be google-able on this. I haven't been able to find any blog-gossip about the situation out there as of yet, but if it happens, I want to be in):

Weymouth Mum On Chief's Leave

WEYMOUTH – Weymouth officials remain tight-lipped about the decision to place Police Chief James Thomas on paid administrative leave.

Mayor Sue Kay confirmed that Captain Brian Callahan, the senior captain in the department, has been named acting chief, replacing Thomas. But she would not explain why the switch was made.

"I'm afraid I can say nothing at this time," Kay said in an e-mailed reply to a request for comment. "Please respect the seriousness of the situation. My answer must be 'no comment.' "

Nor did officials confirm reports that Thomas had his gun and badge taken away in the days before being placed on leave.

I first read about this in a different, local newspaper on July 15. It apparently happened sometime on the 11th. The above Globe article was published July 20. Today is July 22, and still there’s no more news forthcoming. The chief of police is abruptly unseated and relieved of his gun and badge (the Globe here says that last bit’s unconfirmed, but the other article I read presented it as fact so I am, too) and for a week and a half the town officials don’t believe residents have any right to know the reason why?

Okay, kids, it's speculatin' time!

Weymouth Officials Insist the Truth is Out There

WEYMOUTH – Police Chief James Thomas was abducted by aliens last week and replaced with a carbon-based life form claiming to be Brian Callahan.

“How should I know whether it’s really Callahan or not?” Mayor Sue Kay said in an e-mailed reply to a request for information. “I haven’t seen him naked – yet.”

Nor did officials confirm reports that the alleged Callahan has repeatedly filed formal requests to be allowed to “phone home.”

Or, how about:

Weymouth Will Survive

WEYMOUTH – Police Chief James Thomas was seen dancing around Bicknell Square on Friday night lipsyncing to Donna Summers’ “ MacArthur Park,” using his gun as a microphone and wearing nothing but his badge pinned over his willy. He has subsequently been relieved of both.

“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that title,” Mayor Sue Kay said in an e-mailed reply to a request for information. When informed that it referred to the “someone left the cake out in the rain” song, she had no comment as to just how long it took to bake it.

Nor did officials confirm reports that replacement Captain Brian Callahan has changed the stupid lock and made Thomas leave his key.

Last, but not least:

Weymouth Bans Hooting

WEYMOUTH – Police Chief James Thomas was abruptly unseated and relieved of his gun and badge last week following a nasty public incident involving flying figs.

“Why are you asking me these stupid questions?” Mayor Sue Kay said in an e-mailed reply to a request for information. “What does any of this have to do with the price of tea in China?”

Nor did officials confirm reports that rat’s asses were involved in the above-invented incident.

Sheesh. No wonder Townville has the highest suicide rate in Massachusetts.


Happy News Tuesday, everybody! Anybody out there want to have a go?

Offal I Can't Refuse

The news this week is brought to you by Sara over at Lovely Listing. Only not really. Not in the sense that she gave me any money, or asked me to mention her, or even knows who I am or has ever read The House and I. For all I know, she’s a member of some vast right-wing conspiracy and wishes I would go step on more frogs so she can out me for the plague-wrecker I am. But she’s my new favorite blog, so I’ll talk about her till they come make me stop!

See, what she does, is: she takes photos from real estate listings -- really ridiculous photos of strange rooms and odd angles -- and gives them these little captions that make you laugh and laugh. Go there! Now! Look! Read!

(For future reference, she is in my blogroll under the name “My Listing-Lover.”)

(For past and present reference, those of you who’ve been in my blogroll for a while, you are now all called “My Something-Lovers.”)

(For search-engine reference: this is not a sex thing – although I wouldn’t mind a couple thousand of those porny hits.)

Now, on to the news of the week:

I know it will shock you to discover that I'm featuring an item this week that affects only me – well, me and 54,000 other folks, but I don’t give a holy hoo about any of them. It comes from Sunday’s Boston Globe, the South Shore Section, and there is no link. I had to type this. So I took the liberty of adding editorial comments. I also re-paragraphed it a little to make it easier to read in this format. Here goes:

TOWNVILLE [where I live] —

Residents don’t have to sort their recycling anymore. [can I have a HOLLA!!]. Glass, plastic, cans, paper, and cardboard can all go in the same recycling container [I’d throw in that final comma, too, but that’s just me]. And residents no longer need to use a special recycling container, but can throw everything in a regular trash barrel [oh my god, I think I’m hyperventilating], which they mark with a recycling label provided by the Department of Public Works [oh, crap, so I can’t just chuck it in the bin with the regular trash? Balls].

The change to “single stream” recycling [meaning: we take it down the road and dump it in the River, so why get your hands dirty?] started this month when the town switched its waste disposal contractor to Capitol Waste Services for curbside collection [why not Capital Waste Services, I wonder? Ah well, if anybody googles them and finds anything bad, I don’t want to know about it. Hear?].

“We anticipate increased recycling [erm, you mean I could have been not doing it all along, using sorting as an excuse? Balls!] and increased recycling revenue [lemme hear you say “tax cut!” and then we’ll talk], just because this is easier [you know what would have been really easy? A little notice in the mail, or a door tag, or something. Who the hell reads the Globe South section? Besides me, I mean.],” said DPW director Robert O’Connor.

Among the items that can’t be recycled through the program are plastic bags, fabric, foam packaging and Styrofoam, aerosol cans, and food waste [so what you’re saying is: you haven’t invented any new technologies or anything. Got it. But, um, while we’re at it, can we get a ruling on used tin foil? It’s been a point of contention at the AssVac for a while.]. More information [blah, blah, blah]…

Okay, this is me again. And you might want to stand back and block your ears, people, because I’m fixin’ to shout…

I DON’T HAVE TO SORT MY RECYCLING ANYMORE!!!!!!!!!!!

This doesn’t change much in terms of my actual daily life, of course. I may not have to separate the paper from the cans, but I do still have to pick out the stryofoam when Johnny throws it in there (and maybe used tin foil), and I do still have to keep it all apart from the cigarette butts and the cat poo. Although you really ought to be able to recycle cat poo, don’t you think? I know a dog or two who have a few ideas in this department, if the DPW is interested…

But if you’ve known me for a while, you know how much I hate recycling. (Don’t remember? You can read an oldy but particularly Goody post right here.) I hate it, hate it, hate it, hate it, hate it, hate it, hate it, so every little bit of my not having to do it counts. In fact, I’m having tiny little lazy-orgasms right now, just at the idea that I could go get a Rubbermaid-type bin with a decent lid to keep the rain out, slap one of those whatchacallit stickers on it, keep it outside with the regular trash barrels, and never again have to keep two weeks’ worth of trash inside my house!

I think I need a tiny little cigarette.

Of course, though, that would mean walking outside with every box and can, instead of just to the back hall. Which would probably mean some sort of temporary transfer bin. Which would inevitably become my job to empty. Just like the disgusting, smelly, fruit-fly-laden compost guck. Which was also decidedly not my bright idea. And for which I’ve also been scolded (I throw eggshells in the trash can, so?). And which I therefore also hate.

Hey, Capitol Waste Services! Can we get a ruling on the worm-food? Preferably before Johnny and I turn each other into it?

Thanks so much!


Happy News Tuesday, everybody!

The Fix Is Out

It's getting to the point that I can hear that toilet running even through the closed-tight door. Crap!

I've gotta do my taxes today - today! - so I can fix that thing tomorrow. Tomorrow! Or, well, okay maybe Saturday. Which I suppose means I could put the taxes off until Friday or so...

When I get them both done, though, I'm going to buy myself a digital camera so I can finally start showing y'all the disgusting hole I live in.

Course, that'll probably break on me as well. So what's the one thing I should post a picture of before the camera breaks? The outside of the house or the grossest thing inside it? The nicest thing we've done so far or the worst thing left to do? Just don't say me: I'm not posting a picture of myself - or of Johnny, either.

This is still Townville, after all, and I haven't said the nicest things about it. Just in case anyone in this place actually reads, we don't need to risk being recognized when we walk down the street. Two sidewalk incidents are plenty, thank you.

Then again, I suppose there is a chance they'll recognize the house.

Well, if I stop posting after I put the pictures up, I guess you'll know what happened.

TOWNVILLE UPDATE #2:

That ordinance I was all fired up about last week? The one that would give bigoted old men with too much time on their hands the right to spy on folks who don't speak perfect english? Failed, resoundingly. By a vote of 8-2. And one of those two guys says he only voted yes because - well, I don't quite understand his reasoning but he swears he doesn't actually support it. They told the gentleman who proposed it - apparently this is the second time he's done so - to go home and stop bothering them.

Yay, Townville!

TOWNVILLE UPDATE:

Town Council has voted to disallow all hats in chambers. Hue and cry results. So far, a newspaper survey of high school boys shows the prevailing sentiment to be “I’ll wear a hat there if I wanna.” No speculations yet as to what business a bunch of high school boys would have in Council chambers. Still okay to kick the shit out of strangers on the sidewalk.