Lewiston High School, Class of '02

This is a re-post of a story I wrote back in `08, which I retold to Tess Van Horn and a friend earlier tonight. I think it's still funny. 


The girls and I decided to eat massive Rosie's cheeseburgers this weekend before going out to karaoke. I'm sitting there, burger juice dripping down my arm, and I see a man who I'd met a few weeks before. Since he was new in town, I prayed there was no cheeseburger on my face, turned around and said hello to the Carhart overall-wearing man on my left, Matt. We exchanged pleasantries, but it was brief, since it's not exactly polite to carry on a conversation while holding a giant cheeseburger.


A few minutes goes by, and a man comes over to our table, and crouches next to me and introduces himself.

"Hey, so how do you know Matt?"

"Matt??" I did not see the people Matt with the Carharts came in with.

"You know, my friend Matt," he gestures.

"Ohhh. That Matt." I explain that he's a friend of a friend, who I'd met only once before, meanwhile I'm thinking, what the hell is this guy doing over here, where could this possibly be going. You see, this man, who for the purpose of this story shall remain nameless, taught at my high school. It escapes me what exactly he taught, Jobs for Maine Graduates or something along those lines in the vocational wing. His classroom might have even been attached to the school store. Anyhow, I knew of this man for two reasons- the first was that my locker was right outside his class, and he was a young, handsome new teacher; the second was that he had to leave his job because he slept with student. That's right. He's Mrs. Robinson. From what I understand, the chick was 18, not that it makes it okay.

So he's going on and on. "You look so familiar, where have I seen you before, do you work downtown, etc." I'm thinking, "Holy effing shit I can't believe this is happening." Two of the three other people at my table had no idea what was going on, the other watched in horror.

It was at this time that I decided to go big or go home. I looked him directly in the face and said, "I went to Lewiston High School." He shut right up. 'Caught with his pants down' as my mother would say. It looked like I had sucker punched him in the stomach, and I wish I was quicker at the draw with the camera on the iPhone. He proceeds to make some even more awkward conversation about the high school, finally asking me if I was proud of my Lewiston heritage. I blinked twice for emphasis (did he really just ask me that?) I said I didn't know how to answer his question, because really, nine o'clock at Rosie's was neither the time nor the place for me to explain my complex feelings of being born and raised in Lewiston, let alone in front of two Bates graduates (humble, but proud and very defensive.) Finally acknowledging his defeat, he stood up and left with a meek, "Go Blue Devils."

These Boots

It's no secret that one of my favorite songs to karaoke is "These Boots Are Made for Walking," by Nancy Sinatra. It's easy, short and I have a little dance, and it works because even in the summer, I'm usually wearing boots.

A few months ago, I was running across Middle Street to see Tess Van Horn at the Black Parrot, one of the best clothing boutiques in Portland. That day I happened to be wearing a pair of caramel colored imitation-leather knee high slouch boots. I got them at the Salvation Army for six dollars, and wasn't totally crazy about them- my old Nine West boots had huge holes and were in dire need of repair. Six dollars for new boots was a lot less than the fifty dollars I'd probably pay at the cobbler to have the Nine West boots repaired.

So this woman, probably 50 something-ish, sees me run into to the store, parks her car and follows me in. She says that she loves my boots, and asked me if I got them there. I tried to not look completely shocked- there was no way in a million, bajillion years I'd ever be able to afford ANYTHING at the Black Parrot, let alone the boots! They were six dollars and not even leather! She told me they were a great find, I blushed, agreed, and tried to explain that she should just get Frye boots, which are expensive, but would probably last her the rest of her life. She shrugged and left the store.

At the time I could've never anticipated the events of last week... I got tipsy at (well, before and during,) the Black Parrot anniversary sale, and went home with these Rachel Comey boots. Thank you, student loan refund.

Dark Shadows

It's a fifteen minute walk from my apartment to Tess's, through the heart of the West End. It was extremely windy, dark, about 9pm on a Friday night. In addition to an actual cemetery, which to me, is scary in the daylight, most of the houses on these streets are huge brick mansions with vast, expansive yards which create a lot of dark shadows. Most of the windows in these houses were dark. There are no cars, no other pedestrians, not even any fanatical dog-walkers. (Even people who live in the heart of this neighborhood agree that it' haunting... check out the story at maine. Magazine.) Lady Gaga coming in through my earbuds is not blocking the deafening rustling of the trees in the wind. Through this noise, I hear a creaking, like metal on metal. In my wildest imagination, I can't think what terrifying thing could possible be producing this noise, but that's just it- the unknown is so much scarier than the known. It was discovered earlier in the week my boots are NOT made for running, so to take my mind off of things lurking in the shadows, watching my every move, I do what I always do when I get scared: I called Laura and leave her a lengthy voicemail in a panicked tone of voice and arrived at my destination in one piece.

The next day she says she has a story to rival my story, which yeah, wasn't really that spooky unless you were there. Big deal, I was freaked out by the WIND. She was cleaning out a closet in her house (one that hadn't been used since she moved in,) and there was...

...a body bag.

They couldn't identify it at first, was it a tarp, or a garment bag... because other than people who work in hospitals, funeral homes, and oh yeah, people who watch Grey's Anatomy or Six Feet Under, no one should know what a body bag looks like. There was a toe tag, and a little contents key to mark weather the body had an infectious disease or was decomposed or whatever other ailments dead bodies might have.

Holy. Shit. Was their landlord plotting a murder??

Free Records and Theodore Treehouse

At some point over the last few years, I took a break from my perpetual search for the most exciting, new, awesome music, only to face dismay and ridicule from my friends. It's partially because I stopped working at the string of various record stores which fueled the fire for six years, and partially because my time is devoted to other things (like, writing this blog?). A few "new" bands have trickled in here and there, like Fleet Foxes, Midlake, Bat for Lashes, Lil Wayne, Lady Gaga, but I'm embarrassed to say that I can't remember the last time I set foot in a Bull Moose, and most of the music I've purchased recently has been either digital (Whitesnake, More than Words) or vinyl. On the side of the road a few days ago, in a "free box" was the mother of pearl best free record ever: a live Fleetwood Mac disc from 1980, the Tusk Tour. I gave it to Tess, because she loves Fleetwood Mac more than anyone, ever... Gosh, I'm an amazing friend. But this is an adequate portrayal of my recent music acquisitions. Records from free boxes on the side of the road.

I digress. So, for my listening pleasure there are my Pandora stations, (which have seeds ranging from AC/DC, Beyonce, Cat Power, Johnny Cash, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, and so on and so forth), my records, public radio, or best of all, all of the amazing local bands here in town. I wrote a spot for the Pure Pop blog, my old stomping ground, and composed a list of all of my favorite local musicians. Friends who saw it considered it a bit of a roast, but seriously, I love everyone. (Even the Clash of the Titans, even the Awesome, even the haters who say all anyone in this town cares about are cover bands. Darn shame I missed that Guns N Roses tribute...)

For us, myself and my peers, Portland is a young, transient place, much like Burlington, where people are always coming and going, enriching the creative community. Every few months there is a new local band to be discovered, and I can't get enough and it's amazing. First, there was the Enchantments. Then Diamond Sharp, Cult Maze, the 500s, Feel It Robot, Spencer and the School Spirit Mafia, and a band I just discovered at a free show at Space- Theodore Treehouse. It's like they were inside my brain, playing exactly and only the music I wanted them to play. We danced and danced and danced and it was amazing.