There's a poll over in the upper left column for you — You! Many of whom I've never met! What trust! — to vote for your favorite name for my sprawling Maine estate. Write-in votes will be accepted in the comments section.
I've scooped the Weekly World News! Michaelgenrich.com has discovered a shameful chapter in political strategist James Carville's past: The Secret Brother He Never Loved!
Animals and crime! Animals and crime! A combination on this island that's as natural as cousin and cousin.
Today's Police Beat entry was reported from my hometown. No one should have to live in such close proximity to such dastardly evil.
SOUTHWEST HARBOR — A concerned citizen reported an injured duck on Feb. 13. Police notified the Acadia Wildlife Foundation, who agreed to pick up the bird and tend to it.
On the plus side, NBC has contacted me to develop a new television series in their wildly overextended franchise family: Law & Order: MDI. The pilot episode will involve a wig that has been removed from a lobster trap, and the injured duck who sold it to a group of wandering cattle. I don't want to jinx it, but I think I've convinced Angela Lansbury to get on board.
Holy cow, and I thought I had a problem with mixed metaphors:
"We'll say we've received the ball and are studying the ball and will continue to study the ball and that we'll pass the ball to experts because we've never quite seen a ball like this before."
— a U.N. Security Council diplomat speaking on condition of anonymity about North Korea's failure to comply with its disarmament obligations, quoted in an MSNBC report.
From James Taranto's Best of the Web Today
Busy day at work today, and the boy's been keeping us up the last two nights. Also, I didn't buy a newspaper today. This all means that I have literally nothing to say today.
I do, however, have a lovely image of political strategist James Carville for you to enjoy. I want this photo on a coffee mug or a thong, so if you're shopping for my birthday, why not go to Cafe Press and make it happen?
I have seen Carville twice, both times in Alexandria, Virginia. One time he was jogging down Union Street, near the Potomac River, shuffling along the road like a guy with chammies glued to the soles of his shoes who's trying to polish the asphalt surface. The second time, O Glorious Day, we were both selecting jellies and/or jams from the same shelf at Trader Joe's. The man was right next to me, and I couldn't think of a thing to say. When I recounted this experience to a guy I know, he told me I should have said this:
"Y'know, try as I might, I just can't picture you f***ing Mary Matalin."
James, if you're reading this — I promise you I've never tried to picture that. But I will give you fifty dollars if you'll rip off Tucker Carlson's bowtie and eat it on the next edition of Crossfire.
Dan suggested that my next From The Grave entry revive a letter I wrote to a particularly horrid former neighbor about five years ago. I'm quite happy to oblige:
Dear Obnoxiously Evil Ex-Upstairs-Neighbor (not her real name):You may have noticed that we no longer reside in the first floor unit of the building in which you live. You may be confused and frightened by this sudden change, much as a hamster becomes disoriented when his exercise wheel is relocated from one corner of his cage to another.
We have moved, and we will not be returning. This means that the Tammy Wynette songs that you play at riot-control levels will no longer reach our ears. When you yell at your children to "get in [their] fucking room," we will no longer hear you and wonder if your parenting technique is superior to ours.
Please don't misunderstand — our memories of you will not be completely negative. Your frequently changing hair color was our own private aurora borealis. We will fondly remember watching you flick cigarette butts from your patio and judging you on style, grouping, and estimated minutes subtracted from your life expectancy.
As a token of the appreciation we have for the unique experience of having lived in your vicinity, please find attached to this letter a piece of furniture that we want you to have. It is a free-standing closet, with one door conveniently ripped off to fit in with your overall decorating motif. You will find it useful for many things — we would suggest it as a possible residential solution following your next inevitable eviction.
I missed last week's promised Police Beat. I won't forget tomorrow's edition.
As a weakly offered attempt at apology, please enjoy these four Maine-related entries from The Smoking Gun:
Do Your Daughter's Panties Make Me Look Fat?
A Stamp Is Cheaper Than A Ticket
I took the two ambulatory boys skating over the long weekend. I skated along with the younger boy while his older brother took his new hockey stick into battle in a little pickup game at the far end of the ice. After a few minutes of watching Zach's adorable shuffling method of skating, I struck up a conversation with a guy skating alongside his four-year-old son. When I told him we'd just had the fourth child, he asked me, "So how's it feel switching from man-to-man to zone coverage?"
It was a funny line, but it was also a perfect analogy for child-raising: you're always playing defense. You need to guard against accidents, mean dogs, pedophiles, and Democrats, of course. But the kids are always on the attack too: sneaking ice cream, "remodeling" the house, placing roller skates and other high-comedy-potential toys on the stairs. So a parent must channel Bill Belichick to create a constantly-changing, anticipatory defense against the threats to your children and the threats your children pose to you.
But in the end, it doesn't matter what defense you play, because Kobe's coming to town every night.
(P.S. Yes, I mixed my football and basketball metaphors in one post. If you plan on being a regular reader of this site, I'd advise you to get used to such grammatical heresy.)
More complaining about the cold weather today. Yes, it's repetitive and boring, like a televised bowling match. But I stand by the writing advice of "write what you know," and boy do I know cold weather. We've lived together so long that we might be considered married by common law.
Anyway, today's severe weather alert from the National Weather Service warned of dangerous wind chills for yet another night. But this bulletin threw a curveball:
THOSE PLANNING TO VENTURE OUTDOORS SHOULD DRESS IN LAYERS...
Venture? Venture? We're talking about going outside, not trekking through the jungles of Zaire. When did going outside become a life-or-death decision?
COASTAL HANCOCK ME-COASTAL WASHINGTON ME- INCLUDING THE CITIES OF...MACHIAS...ELLSWORTH...EASTPORT... CHERRYFIELD...BLUE HILL AND BAR HARBOR 320 PM EST THU FEB 13 2003...WIND CHILL ADVISORY TONIGHT THROUGH FRIDAY NIGHT FOR WIND CHILL
TEMPERATURES OF 20 BELOW TO 30 BELOW...
BITTER COLD TEMPERATURES IN COMBINATION WITH BRISK WINDS WILL
PRODUCE VERY COLD WIND CHILL TEMPERATURES TONIGHT THROUGH FRIDAY
NIGHT.THESE WIND CHILL VALUES COULD PRODUCE FROSTBITE IN A SHORT PERIOD OF
TIME ON UNCOVERED SKIN. IF YOU ARE PLANNING TO BE OUTDOORS...DRESS
VERY WARMLY MAKING SURE TO PROTECT EXPOSED SKIN AND MINIMIZED
EXPOSURE TO THE WIND.
Late last night, I realized I was missing something.
I've owned a house on Mt. Desert Island for nearly a year. It's a nice house, but it has a problem. It doesn't have a name.
Martha Stewart's 26-acre estate in Seal Harbor is named "Skylands." My one-acre compound may not be as large or pink as hers, but dammit it deserves a name.
So for the next few days, I will be considering what to call the grounds that make up my island home. It must be pretentious enough to instill fear in the townspeople, yet warm enough to not frighten my children. I'm considering something with the word "farm" in it, since we have a handful of chickens and I have eaten a few tomatoes that I grew. Something containing "wood" would work, since we're surrounded by trees. But I'm open to anything. I really need a nice name to paint on a rock next to the "Severe Tire Damage" sign I'm planning on putting near our driveway to discourage tourists from turning around there.
So suggest away, in the comments section. Besides the "farm" and "wood" explanations I gave above, here are a few other things to keep in mind:
- Our dog, Elly, enjoys running around and urinating on all areas of the grounds
- The wind chill should be under -40 later tonight
- Some famous Mt. Desert Island landowners, besides Martha: David Rockefeller, Caspar Weinberger, Jimmy Buffett, Paul Newman, Connie Chung and Maury Povich
- I call the property a "compound" because we have a nice big shed, a smaller garden shed, a chicken coop, and a doghouse
- The word "lobster" is not acceptable in any function whatsoever
Lyrics that come to mind when I see this photo:
I laid a divorcee in New York City
I had to put up some kind of a fight
The lady then she covered me with roses
She blew my nose and then she blew my mind
- Honky-Tonk Women
When I'm ridin' round the world
and I'm doin' this and I'm signing that
and I'm tryin' to make some girl
who tells me baby better come back later next week
'cause you see I'm on losing streak
- (I Can't Get No) Satisfaction
Just as every cop is a criminal
And all the sinners saints
As heads is tails
Just call me Lucifer
'Cause I'm in need of some restraint
So if you meet me
Have some courtesy
Have some sympathy, and some taste
Use all your well-learned politesse
Or I'll lay your soul to waste
- Sympathy for the Devil
And also one that must put the Democrat Party into fits:
Wild horses couldn't drag me away
Ed. note: Tony Pierce has been doing this sort of thing for years.
Today's entry from the past was written in July 2000. It is about relationships and betrayal:
I held her head in my hands this morning and whispered, "I forgive you."She had made me so angry last night that I couldn't bear to look at her. The evening was spent in steely silence, as I replayed her betrayal over and over in my mind. She had taken away the one thing I wanted most with no regard to my feelings, and I wanted her to suffer for it.
I went to bed upset, always the wrong thing to do, cringing from her attempts at physical contact. When I awoke this morning to see her warm brown eyes sadly seeking forgiveness, however, I finally realized what an obstinate jerk I was being. She's family, and she will always be more important than any other thing the world may provide.
I know she's just a dog, but it was a damn good turkey sandwich.
The crime wave on the island continues, shockingly claiming new species amongst its participants:
BAR HARBOR — Two black-and-white oxen ran up the Indian Point Road Saturday morning. Shortly after, they returned to their farm.
Shortly after what, precisely? After stealing ashtrays, perhaps?
For once, I can announce inactivity ahead of time. More posting the afternoon of February 6, including: Police Beat, From the Grave, some observations on the United Nations, and maybe a recipe or two.
Jonathan David Genrich, born today at 9:01 AM in Bar Harbor, Maine. 7 lbs. 14.4 oz., 23 inches long.
Mama and baby are fine. Daddy is exhausted, which is odd considering how little work he did.
Every year, some respectable friends of mine throw a lavish Christmas party in suburban Boston. One of the highlights is the annual Yankee Swap, where inappropriate gag gifts wind up in the hands of those who covet them least. My take this year was a calendar of quotes from the President, which seems to have been a big seller over the holidays.
The calendar, billed as "the very curious language of George W. Bush," is supposed to help the owner feel smug and superior while reading verbal gaffes from a guy who admittedly is not a very good public speaker. Curiously, however, the quotes they've chosen almost always make me more sympathetic towards the guy. For example, here is today's entry:
"We ought to make the pie higher."
The calendar's creators apparently want us all to think the following: "Higher? He should have said bigger! Ha ha! What a dumb monkey the President is!"
Well guess what, cheese: higher is bigger. Ever been to Pizzeria Uno? They don't increase the diameter of their pizza pie to make it bigger — they make it a deeper and therefore higher pie. A higher Yao Ming is a bigger basketball player than Allen Iverson. A higher Sears Tower is a bigger building than a one-story schoolhouse. And a higher Bill Clinton is....oh, I'm sorry, he never inhaled, right?
So if the President wants to make a higher pie, resulting in everyone's individual piece being higher as well, he's more than welcome to do it. Just don't change the recipe to require a few more tablespoons of my tax dollars.
On the drive to work today, the local morning news clowns announced that Caribou, a city roughly 220 miles north of my island home, was experiencing freezing fog. That's ludicrous. It's enough to make me send this suggestion over to Augusta for consideration as the new state motto:
Maine: Ain't Nothin' We Can't Freeze