A new day. Is it time for coffee yet?
Back in Middling City where I do and must hit the ground running.
The M.C. can learn a lot from Portland, ME. For a small city, with a generous heaping of travelers spending wads of cash, there is an impressive amount of restaurants - most better than here and in an unpretentious way. There is a greater sense of design and artfulness in Portland. This I always attributed to artists who have remained in the community and that the city embraced creative types rather than trying to squeeze them out of the scene via attitude and fire codes.
Portland has better restaurant selections (more sushi joints, more vegetarian and healthy places to eat), a busier downtown art film house, small businesses selling clothing and shoes (basically an impossibility in most of Buffalo) and an accessible waterfront.
Minus, and this is a giant one: bars close at 1AM.
When I worked at the non-profit summer camp for 10 years (and roared out of camp with my NYC pals) this took a whole lot of getting accustomed to. You want to say Hey, look, I'm from Buffalo and I'm a grownup and I will NOT be leaving at 1AM.
Other Portland Maine minus: too many pairs of comfy sandals. Sure, the cobblestones rival the ankle pain-causing ones of Rome, but what about fashion?
Love.

Attempting to blog from a Mac I spotted in the "lobby" of my former hotel in Portland, Maine (where I'm confronting ghosts of my Maine self from a decade or so ago), I was tossed off by an insistent girl.
But nobody is using this iMac, I stated, and I'll just be a sec...
Off I was tossed.
As I'm allegedly on vacation, you know, unwinding as the masses do (a concept completely foreign to Yours Truly), I didn't stand up and karate chop her.
Why did I unbook, unlatch, from the so-called *** hotel where I was attempting to blog? How about dead flowers in the lobby. How about unkempt staffers? How about armoire in the room with the doors missing! Three STRIKES and goodbye. While meandering about the Old Port streets in search of high times and Oban I spotted a true hotel, a brand new **** joint where I will be, the rest of this sojourn, resting my unweary head and enjoying the subtle tinkling of their Zen-like garden.
Caveat: when in Portland as in Maine do not wander into Eastland Park Hotel. It totally sucks.
Portland Harbor Hotel rocks, that's where you should rockstar stay.
I'm now on a rented Kinko's computer, typing fast as the meter is ticking.
Off for more salty good times.
Love.

Two stories.

1
The departed Beatles and I were hanging about and they were both moody. I was surprised by their sudden needs to cry and be sad. I'm not sure if the garden was celestial or Earthly but suddenly I glance over and John is raking a very lush garden and as I'm thinking Holy Shit, why is John Lennon doing garden work, he throws down the rake and is despondent as George comes up and says Hey, remember that old blues song we sang a long time ago, about the tree buried six feet under the ground?
At that point they walk away, arms about shoulders singing the song.

2
The man whose weiner I now know too much about was sitting in front of a, for lack of more suddenly polite and available term, café, with his date and was complaining about his dinner, Too fishy, he said. What type of fish was it, I queried. Haddock was the answer and I commented that haddock should not be fishy and did he feel well? He and his date said, in unison, that he had just vomited on the sidewalk and pointed at it about ten feet away. I was shocked that I didn't vomit myself at the sight of the fresh puke as I'm a complete lightweight at the sight of bodily fluids - snot, earwax, puke, piss, shit, blood, especially blood, on the scene and your Fav Nancy is a puddle of... all of the above and bones and such.
So as we're talking and I'm facing them - and the puke - a woman walks down the street with a puppy on a leash. As she's busy window shopping the puppy is busy eating up the puke. She notices this, screams, and yanks the puppy away. Weiner Boy and the date don't notice this and when she's out of earshot I replay the scene most vividly. Of course.
Onwards.