Fortunately, we'd managed to hear this week's "The Irrelevant Show," and some more interesting (to my 'Murican ears) Canadian indie rock played by a DJ named Sean who seemed to think a lot of himself, but was pretty amusing anyway. And we had the best fried clams I have had in about a million years at a place called Ossie's, not too far from the border crossing.
All of the sudden, there weren't a million different places to put your recycling. There were just garbage cans. And there were a lot more cop cars. And a lot more stores of every sort. We were in New England. Darn, I thought. I'm just now beginning to understand this calling-for-a-new-election thing. I'm not ready for McCain's out-there VP choice that's supposedly going to rend the Democratic party asunder by peeling off the PUMA's. I'm not ready for American idiocy and fish that's less than fresh and butter that doesn't taste like butter and and and plastic bags blowing around everywhere.
When we got out of the car in Bar Harbor, Maine, the air was warm and just a little bit humid. I could imagine Hudson River Valley air. It wasn't the oddball sideways mist of the Maritimes. I switched my jeans for a summer dress, and Ken and I plunged into the throngs wandering through eighty-five different venues where you can buy sweatshirts that say Bar Harbor and stuffed mooses and candles that smell aggressively of the piney forests.
Did I tell you that I finally read Anne of Green Gables, and I liked it? Turns out that the Canadian Adventures of Tom Sawyer is a proto-feminist tract, and better written than I would have expected.
I'm busy downloading music for my first show back home. I can't wait to hug my kitties, and to greet Treavor Hastings of Sonic Streams down in Round Pond on Monday. He's on a short Maine vacation, and we have some catching up to do. I'll be home on Wednesday night, and I'll be making fresh Cocktails with Chris on Friday at the usual time: four to six Eastern. By the way, that's five to seven, Atlantic. See you there.