When I was a boy and other dull stuff

Where I was born and edjumacated, they had 22 inches of snow over the weekend. I won't say "that's nothing: when I was a boy we had to trick or treat on July 4 to keep from getting snowed out." Because it ain't true. My town was the flatlands by New Hampshire standards. It was cold on October 31 evenings more often than not. It did snow once or twice, but nothing like 22 inches...nothing like two inches.

Watching the blundering utilities try to spin their third inept response to emergency in eight months does raise an intriguing question or two. First, is this their idea of lobbying against reforms that would enable communities to run their own municipal utilities? Second, is this supposed to be a GOP demonstration of the always-superior efficiency of the private sector? Or third, should we just say "thanks for the yucks?"

Speaking of yucks, there's Herman Cain's denial du jour. But seriously, I think the denial is more plausible than his tax plan.

In just a few minutes, I can ethically turn off the porch light and pig out on the remaining candy.

Once in a while...

,,,I find myself on the side of the online commenters. The tale of the witless family who became so panicked in a seven-acre cornfield maze that they called 911has elicited actual humour and wit from a segment of the population chiefly known to grunt. That is nearly as astounding as the story itself.

I'll cut only a small bit bit of slack. Maybe one has to be country-raised to be able to walk into a cornfield at dusk and know how to walk out again: namely, pick a direction and walk. The easy walk, of course, is between the rows. It can also be the longest way out. Most farmers up my way plowed and planted the long way, so it was nothing to have a cornfield 200 yards wide and two miles long; even in New England. However, this is a seven acre field: that's about 500 by 600 feet, about half a city block. From the middle, one could walk five minutes in any direction and be out. Anyone could, that is, but people who might well get lost in their own living room. (Be sure to follow the link and take note of where in the field these people actually were.)

Here, next door to hysterical Salem, it is already the crazy season. Danvers, where the cornfield maze lies, is not only equally infected by seasonal nuttiness, it's where the witchcraft delusion actually happened. Hmm.

I have my Halloween costume

The trouble with being at home so much is that one sees too much daytime TV. I guarantee that no dead actor, no dead musician (no names please) has had as much posthumous exposure as the late Billy Mays.

What we're looking at here is daytime TV of the Living Dead, which ought to merit a costume. That thought ought to scare the robes off any other Halloween figure you can think of; even Lord Voldemort or Dick Cheney.

If Billy were still with us, he'd probably be selling it, bless him.