Pot o' Bold

Once again, it’s time for me to solve all the problems for our state government.

The last time I undertook this project, I suggested that schools close in the winter and stay open in the summer to save on heating expenses.

Since then, heating oil prices plummeted by something like $2 a gallon. Yay me.

Now, then, on to new business. It has come to my attention that Augusta is hard up for cash.

“Maine lawmakers … are pinning their hopes on Washington to help address a looming $800 million-plus shortfall,” writes Francis X. Quinn of the Associated Press.

Okay, first of all, how can you go wrong as a reporter with a name like “Francis X. Quinn”? I picture a svelte, dignified gentleman in a fedora and necktie, oozing integrity.

Or maybe he’s a leprechaun. Either way, I’m ready to believe anything this man says.

“Reflective of State House anxiety and uncertainty,” says Quinn, is “Gov. John Baldacci’s decision to put off a State of the State address until later this month.”

It seems Baldacci can’t summon the gonads to stand up in front of the entire state and say, “We’re broke, so I am about to sell your children to the Church of Scientology.”

He’d rather wait to see if Uncle Sam is willing to be our sugar daddy.

Yeah, get in line.

Our governor has built a reputation for being willing to make the “tough” decisions. By “tough,” of course, I mean “stupidly wrong and destructive.”

Remember all that money we were supposed to save from consolidation? Yeah, it’s a funny story…

Let’s try something more substantive: legalize marijuana, then tax it like crazy.

I can’t figure out why we’re devoting law enforcement resources to control a plant that is less harmful than alcohol, cigars, and most public drinking water.

There are more than 500,000 alcohol-related deaths in the U.S. every year, according to the Washington Post.

I tried to look up statistics for marijuana-related deaths, but I couldn’t find any. That’s because they don’t exist. It would be like scouring the Internet for “toothbrush impalement-related deaths;” sure, it probably happens now and then, but not enough for anyone to bother keeping track.

More compelling is the fact that 42% of Americans have tried pot, according to a survey by the World Health Organization. I’m sorry, but any law that makes almost half the population (including at least two or three presidents and a 14-time gold medalist) criminals is some kind of wicked bogus law.

Let’s face it: the only reason cannabis is still illegal is because hippies like it. Hippies seem to annoy the government.

But with my proposal, we can still stick it to the hippies with outrageous taxes.

If we still haven’t made up the shortfall after that, Baldacci should nominate several of the state’s wealthiest summer residents to positions in his cabinet.

That might be the only way we’ll be able to collect back taxes from them.

You have to admit, this is one bold plan. And, if our stimulus-happy congress has taught us anything, it’s that bold = right.

If only the state government would heed my words. You can do your part: clip this column and send it to your state representative.

Be sure to put “Francis X. Quinn” in your return address.

The Naked Five

The University of Maine men's hockey team is once again plowing through the NCAA tournament, despite losing six of its last eight regular season games. For a while it looked doubtful they could plow through a bowl of popcorn.

If you’ve never been to a game at Alfond Arena in Orono, you don’t know what you’re missing. The atmosphere is one-of-a-kind, mainly due to the students who occupy the balcony and remain standing for the entire game, showing more maturity and hockey knowledge than the rest of the building combined.

Get tickets anywhere outside the student section, and you’re likely to end up sitting near the same three people: The Guy Who Thinks He’s Very Clever, The Impatient Guy, and the Guy Who Takes Hockey Way Too Seriously.

Impatient Guy: “Shoot it! SHOOT IT, FOR GOD’S SAKE!”

Me: Uh, the ref hasn’t even dropped the puck yet… Okay, there it goes.

Clever Guy: “Well, I guess we won that face off, hahahahaaa!”

Serious Guy: “Will you shut up? I’m trying to watch the game.”

Me: You didn’t miss anything. The puck went out of play and hit some lady in the mouth.

Impatient Guy: “C’mon, SHOOOOOOOT IT!”

Meanwhile, the students are displaying the teamwork and careful planning necessary to execute a unified insult that’s actually somewhat entertaining (i.e. “I’m blind, I’m deaf, I wanna be a ref”). It makes me proud to be from Maine.

The heart of the student section at Alfond Arena is The Naked Five, a group of muscular, shirtless fraternity gentlemen who each paint one of the letters of “M-A-I-N-E” on his chest.

The Naked Five jump up and run around the arena, yelling, waving flags, and ringing bells, every time someone makes it through the concession line without spending more than $10.

You could throw a brick at one of these guys and it would shatter. I take comfort in knowing that the brick probably has a higher IQ.

During my last year in college, my best friend and I drove down to Boston for the conference tournament at the FleetCenter, as it was called in those days (I’m not sure what it is now – something like TD Banknorth Center of Gardening and Corporate Excess).

The fraternity responsible for The Naked Five, Alpha Drinka Toomucha, for some reason could not make the trip. They instead dispatched one member to try to round up a makeshift Naked Five from the crowd.

Naturally, my brawny frame stood out. Ah, who am I kidding. When I turn sideways I look like a pregnant question mark.

But it turns out a surprising number of people were reluctant to join The Naked Five, and he was desperate for an “I.” Otherwise they would have spelled “MANE.” Not good.

As soon as we got the paint on we started running around the building and yelling derogatory comments about the other team, the Boston College Turkeys. Then a security guard informed us that the FleetCenter did not allow partial nudity, except during WWE events.

We spent the rest of the game wandering around with our shirts half-on, ready to pull them down if we saw any sign of someone official-looking. At one point, after a goal, I accidentally ended up falling behind the other guys, which resulted in a spelling error (“MANE?”).

We lost that game. I blamed myself. I vowed to get into better shape – right after baseball season.

Not at Home at the Home Depot

Every time I walk into the Home Depot, I wonder who else is as clueless as me, and who else might actually know something about carpentry.

Almost every guy there looks competent. Pencil behind the ear, tape measure clipped to the belt, they all wear blue jeans and thoughtful expression, ready at any moment to grab a radial arm saw and get down to business building that shed, or that condominium, or, in my case, that Oddly Trapezoidal Collapsing Flower Box.

In the store, they masquerade as carpenters, plumbers, electricians, etc. They stare intently at different flooring options, as if calculating the exact square footage they need. In truth they are trying to figure out if they can get by without a floor, and if The Wife would notice.

Observe how the male specimen follows the ethos of his gender when approached by an orange-aproned drone. “Can I help you with anything?” asks the employee, who is really saying, “I know you don't know anything about insulation; you've been staring at it for a half-hour.”

And yet the male must maintain the image of competence, the same primal urge to have everything under control that keeps him from asking directions. So he says, “I think I'm all set.” If desperate, he might say, “Well, I'm really leaning toward the Owens Corning R-13, what do you think?” Saying this much is a risk, because what if Owens Corning R-13 is a stupid choice, not at all what one would use to weather-proof the outside of a doghouse?

I imagine there are hundreds of thousands of Americans ready, like I am, to sue The Home Depot for false advertising. Their slogan, “You Can Do It, We Can Help” is completely misleading.

I suppose they could wiggle out of any liability by pointing out how their ad doesn't specify what they mean by “it.”

If “it” means “getting out of the store without waiting in line for 45 minutes,” I'd have a case.

If “it” means “getting bad advice from a guy in the plumbing section whose only expertise about plumbing comes from showering every five or six days,” I could be in for a long day in court.

But supposing “it” refers to anything having to do with successfully completing a home renovation or repair project, payday for me.

If they really wanted to “help,” they would set up booths in every department where experienced handymen or handywomen would point out how much money and time I would save by hiring them, particularly when you include the cost of marriage counseling.

Painting is the worst. Our most recent home renovation called for me to paint a ceiling white, which was the most physically demanding task I'd had to undertake since playing racquetball the day before, so naturally I resented having to do it while my wife took care of the baby.
When it looked like we might run out of paint, I strategically avoided covering a few inconspicuous spots. I didn't pay much attention to drips and such, mainly because I got distracted into the groove of Led Zeppelin on my mp3 player.

When my wife came in, she frowned. An act of war. She was disappointed over me doing a 100% pristine Michelangelo-quality job on our ceiling.

Having endured almost 90 minutes of tortuous backbending labor, I lost it. I threw a berserk temper tantrum like you wouldn't believe. I'm pretty sure I got the neighbors' attention, which is hard to do because our neighbors are horses.

How dare she live the life of luxury and then jump down my throat with her nitpicky demands?

We called in a friend for a third opinion. “Dude,” he said, “it looks impressionist.” I guess that's not what one looks for in one's family room.

Some friend. Real helpful, thanks. I told him he missed his calling. He should have gotten a job at the Home Depot.

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