Moxie and the launch of summer in Maine

June’s ending, and the approach of July 4th usually means one thing for those of us in northern New England—the start of summer.

While our southern brethren (in New Hampshire, Massachusetts, and Connecticut) always are six weeks ahead of us in spring warmth, and growing capacity, this time of the year is when the playing field gets leveled, and visitors begin flocking northward.

In addition to summer, this begins a busy time for me, and the subsequent release of my new book, Moxietown.

Currently, it awaits me at the printer, and I’ll be picking up copies on Monday morning. I had hoped to have them yesterday, but I had other Moxietown matters to attend to.

Yesterday afternoon, I was at WCSH to tape an interview with Rob Caldwell, for the station’s 207 program. Caldwell co-anchors the station’s locally-produced magazine show, which highlights local authors, musicians, and pseudo-celebrities, but more and more, nationally-known entertainers, and others, with ties to Maine are now appearing on the show. In fact, I learned that this program is the only local program of its type in the country.

I first appeared on the program back in 2005, for When Towns Had Teams. Since then, landing a slot has become increasingly competitive, so I was pleased to have the chance to talk about the book, and the upcoming Moxie Festival, in Lisbon Falls. 207 producer, Becki Smith, informed me that my interview will run Wednesday, July 9, just prior to the festival. The program airs at 7:00 pm.

Speaking of the Moxie Festival, which takes place July 11-13, in my hometown, I’ll be at Frank Anicetti’s Kennebec Fruit Company (aka, the Moxie Store) on Friday, July 11, signing copies of Moxietown, from 2:00 to 4:00 pm. I’ll be signing in the very spot where Frank Potter sat, during the event, back in 1982 that launched the entire Moxie phenomenon, now known at the Moxie Festival. I’ll then make my way uptown to the Lisbon Historical Society, to be on hand for their evening open house, at 6:00.

The day before, you’ll find me in Waldoboro, at one of Maine’s summer tourist destinations, Moody’s Diner. I’ll be there with the New England Moxie Congress for their annual day of Moxie memorabilia, Moxie Horsemobiles, and other related items that pay tribute, and promote one of the world’s most unique drinks. This is the initial event for the Congress, as they descend on Maine for four days of celebration, and spreading the good news of Moxie. I’ll have books with me, and once again, I’ll be signing, and hoping to meet folks interested in the book, as well as the history of Moxie.

On Saturday, RiverVision Press will be set up on Main Street, just up from the Moxie Store, selling copies of Moxietown, as well as remaining copies of When Towns Had Teams. If you’re in town for the festival, please stop by and say “hi.” I enjoy Moxie each year, as I see people from high school, and my past that I wouldn’t get to catch up with, otherwise. It’s become a special day every year, as 20,000 people (and sometimes more) descend on Lisbon Falls to pay tribute to Moxie, and all things orange. This year is really special as it is the town’s 25th anniversary of the festival.

There may be other events that come along, and when they do, I’ll pass them on via this blog. Lastly, I have another Moxietown excerpt posted here.

[Be on the lookout for the official RiverVision pace car on Maine's highways and by-ways, this summer]

George Carlin: More than seven dirty words

Hyperbolic hyperventilation has become the norm, whenever a celebrity passes on. It probably won’t be much different for George Carlin.

The comedian who excoriated American politics, culture, and consumerism, through black humor, satire, and his keen sense of observation, will now be hailed by the same suits that he enjoyed mocking. Like many counter-culture heroes, the latter years, just prior to death tends to find them gaining some measure of mainstream success. Carlin certainly had a large audience, and fame found its way to his door. He achieved success, however, on his own terms.

His routines, informed by place, people, and the parochial environs of Catholic school, found an outlet in comedy clubs in West Texas, after his discharge from the Navy in the late 1950s. Like many with an eye towards performing, Carlin first cut his teeth, however, working as a disc jockey, back when being a DJ was more than pressing a button or two. You ran your own board, were responsible for tight segues, and actually had some control over your music, and your between song banter.

Much of what will pass for eulogies will focus on Carlin’s “seven dirty words,” which is what brain-addled news poseurs will glom onto. Lost in much of the Carlin suck-ups, will be his amazing understanding of language, and the ability he had to cut to the marrow of American superficiality. As Carlin remarked to Art Bell, in an interview in the late 90s, about the human race, “I think we’re already ‘circling the drain’ as a species, and I’d love to see the circles get a little faster and a little shorter.”

Basically, Carlin saw life for what it was—shit—and didn’t soft sell it—a nihilist with a deadly sense of humor.

Carlin was married to his first wife, Brenda, for 36 years, before losing her to liver cancer, the day before his 60th birthday, in 1997—happy birthday! They had a daughter, Kelly. He remarried in 1998, and they would have celebrated their 10th wedding anniversary, two days after his death.

What saddens me about the passing of someone like Carlin is that he was one of a kind. While he cites obvious influences like Lenny Bruce, he worked diligently to develop his own material. Not pre-packaged for television, like many of today’s non-talents and poseurs, passing for funny in today’s world of the scatological and the stupid, there won’t be another like him.

Save us, mighty Prius

From Stuff White People Like (the blog), #60, the Toyota Prius.

Over the years, white people have gone through a number of official cars. In the 1980s it was the Saab and the Volvo. By the 1990s it was the Volkswagen Jetta or a Subaru 4WD stastion wagon. But these days, there is only one car for white people. One car that defines all that they love: the Toyota Prius.

The Prius might be the most perfect white product ever. It’s expensive, gives the idea that you are helping the environment, and requires no commitment/changes other than money.

The Toyota Prius gets 45 miles per gallon. That’s right, you can drive 45 miles and burn only one gallon of gasoline. So somehow, through marketing or perception, the Prius lets people think that driving their car is GOOD for the environment.

It’s a pretty sweet deal for white people. You can buy a car, continue to drive to work and Barak Obama rallies and feel like you are helping the environment!

For the purposes of full disclosure, I'm white, but I drive a Ford, sans bumper stickers, Obama, or McCain.

Champions once again

In New England, it’s easy to become a bandwagon rider. Pick your sport—baseball, football, and after last night, basketball. Maybe next year, it will be hockey.

Shortly, Celtic green and shamrocks will be adorning heads, chests, and other body parts, throughout these parts. When a team wins 66 regular season games, and blows through the playoffs, its easy to call yourself a fan.



Celtics fans were at a premium last year at this time, however, when Doc Rivers brought a listing crew into port, mercifully ending the worst season in recent memory. No one had any idea what the following year would bring. I do remember all of those who badmouthed The Truth for daring to suit up, show his warrior’s heart, and test his formerly-injured foot, all because they wanted the Celts to tank the season for a lottery shot at Oden’s damaged goods. I for one cheered every minute Pierce logged, and even wrote about it. No one deserves a championship more than he does.

My son shared this great blog post about the win last night. I could write a lot more about sticking with a team through the lean times, but I’ve only been officially onboard since 2002 (after abandoning the team in the late 80s), when Mark was home for Christmas break from school, and got me fired up about the likes of Ricky Davis, Mark Blount, Antoine Walker, and Walter McCarty, complimenting Pierce.

Today feels alright, and I’ll continue to follow my Celts, hoping that basketball doesn’t get co-opted by their recent success, like NESN turning the nightly Red Sox game into a pretext for Jerry Remy to be stupid.

Tim Russert, journalistic icon, passes

I want to weigh in on the passing of an iconic news figure, Tim Russert. I’m not going to eulogize the man, as that is happening in earnest, across much of the mainstream media, certainly on NBC/MSNBC, but even at rival networks, like Fox.

For political junkies (of which I count myself one), there was no better way to pass an hour Sunday morning, than sitting in front of the television, with coffee in hand, and watch Russert go toe-to-toe with his guests. All of the big names sat across from this product of the working class, who never forgot his South Buffalo roots, detailed in his memoir, Big Russ & Me, about his life, growing up in 1950s Buffalo, and his WWII veteran dad.

My wife came to love Russert, and even started using that somewhat unkind moniker, “pumpkinhead,” picked up from me, as a term of endearment. I’m not sure where I first heard it; it might have been back in the days when I’d listen to Don Imus, and he frequently would refer to Russert that way, in his affectionate, Don Imus style. When I called her to give her the news on Friday, it was one of those rare calls when the party on the other end is shocked.

I’ve been thinking a lot about passion, and how some people have it for what they do, and many more do not. Tim Russert had a passion for his work, which was the world of politics, as few journalists do. Rather than adopt the trademark, “I’m bigger than this interview” star syndrome that many news personalities possess, I think Russert never lost sight of the wonder of transcending his roots, ending up where he landed—smack dab in the center of American political power, and influence. While imperfect, as any mortal always is, he wielded that power as well as anyone could have.

Russert could be infuriating—none more so than when he was interviewing your guy/gal—and made them look foolish, or worse, unprepared. In an era of fluff pieces, and softball questions lobbed across, masquerading as investigative journalism, Russert did his research, was prepared, and made sure he asked tough questions, most of the time. Oh, he had his moments, and there were times I found him maddening. However, he understood the value of the follow-up, and more times than not, his interviews transcended ideology.

Watching this morning’s special Meet The Press trubute, was telling. In an age of cynicism, and with a panel of journalists, political operatives, and others, it is a rare sight to see people like Tom Brokaw, Mary Matalin, Gwen Ifill, Maria Shriver (via satellite), share from the heart, unscripted, and see a veteran like Brokaw, genuinely struggle to get through some of the segments without breaking down.

If you didn’t shed a tear during the heart-wrenching outro film montage, set to Springsteen’s “Thunder Road,” then I question whether you have a beating heart in your chest.

Journalism is floundering, and when it loses one of its true shining lights, that can’t be seen as a positive sign.

Tim Russert, you'll be missed by many.