Sniffing & Chunking in Portland, Maine.

Bethany writes;

It is was our Saturday ritual, and it always occurred the week before a gig. Tom's band Luna Madidus is playing next weekend at the Portland club Blue - we were headed down to the city to  poster.  I loaded the 8x10s, thumb tacks, staple gun and a roll of tape into a canvas tote. Tom drained the dregs of the coffee pot into his travel mug and took the helm.

One minor adrenaline rush occurred a few miles into the trip when we realized the dashboard "Gas!!!" light was on.  Neither of us could remember when it had popped on - was it pulling out of the driveway, or yesterday during the 50 mile work commute?  We swung into the first gas station we saw.  While Tom gave the car a much-need drink, I squeegeed a week's worth of insect road kill from the windshield and front headlights.  Washed and fed, the Subaru made good time down the interstate and we pulled into the Portland's Old Port in about 90 minutes.

We traversed the city blocks between Commercial and Congress streets like a pair of blood hounds, sniffing out prime poster locations on  light posts, store windows and community bulletin boards.  There is an unwritten rule about postering. NEVER stick your poster over another poster with an upcoming gig.  Bad mojo will ensue.  However, posters of gigs dead & gone, and ads, even highly-descriptive escort ads, are fair game.

There is a visceral joy in the loud chunking sound a staple gun makes when driving a thick staple into a well-upholstered piece of plywood. I hogged the staple gun, and left Tom the thumb tacks.

Ninety minutes of walking, scouting, sniffing and chunking had me weary and on the raggedy edge of cranky.  We finished our trek outside of Blue where Tom  slid an envelope containing additional posters under the locked club door.

Looking up, Tom spotted it - Enterprise Records. Walking into this small store with cream colored walls, we were greeted by Rita Moreno teasing  her way through the lyrics of "America". 

As if pulled by an invisible bungee, Tom immediately strode to the Jazz bin.  He then became non-vocal, staring and flipping.  Soon, two other men strolled in and also began to wordlessly flip. Standing alone in the Ethnic music section I looked over and noticed that all three had assumed the same position. They each stood squarely in front of their bin, shoulders rolled forward, eyebrows furrowed, fingers rapidly flicking through albums.  Their heads were held slightly down and forward, in the exact position as if each were holding an unseen apple under his chin. 

I rifled through the Ethnic albums but found no Lomax. I turned to peruse the shelves of classical when I saw it. In the library-esque hush of the record store, I shrieked.  Three heads heads jerked up, apples soundlessly thumping to the floor. Grinning,  I held my prize aloft.


Tom was not impressed.  The two guys shot him looks of sympathy as he walked towards me.

"If I wasn't allowed to buy the Nimoy, you do not get the Monkees".
"But I just helped you poster!"
"For that, I buy you lunch.  But not the Monkees".

And he did buy me lunch, at our favorite pizza place by the water in Old Port.  Sitting side by side on tall stools at the bar, we split a large carmelized onion and calamata flat bread while watching the ferries maneuver in and out of the pier.




Records purchased:
Charles Mingus "Live", 1960
Ahmad Jamal "Happy Moods", 1960
The Charles Lloyd Quartet "Journey Within", 1967
The Charles Lloyd Quarter "Love-In", 1967

1 Benadryl. 1 Glass of Red.

Bethany writes;

The Black Fly is the unofficial mascot of the State of Maine.  It should qualify as "official" given that black flies suck and swill the blood from every Mainer during the months of April, May and June.  Tom and I theorize that they are chased out of Maine by the rounds of  illegal fireworks volleyed across the state on July 4th.

Last Friday afternoon I was in the back yard scrabbling about with a bucket and trowel, uprooting the thistle plants which had invaded our yard.  I had sprayed myself heavily with Citronella.  After 7 minutes of  digging, the Citronella had been sweated away.  At the 9 minute mark I was shrouded in a burka of black flies.  The tiny flies were sucking the blood out of me like a cherry Slurpee.

Tom, somehow sensing his wife's imminent ex-sanguination, stuck his head out the deck slider. "Hey, want to go on a trip into Camden?  We need stuff for supper".  I threw down the trowel with disgust and delight - disgust at the legions of thistle marching victoriously across the back yard and delight at the prospect of a trip to Camden.   In our years together, Tom and I have developed a rich language of "couple-speak".  In our marital dialect "trip to Camden" translates into "trip to the rekkid store".

I ran upstairs and, while pulling on fresh jeans and a clean T shirt, saw a sparkler spray of pink welts emerging on my arms and leg.  I popped a Benadryl to head off the rising tide of itchiness.

A quick stop at the big box grocery store supplied the fodder for supper.  Less than 10 minutes later and Tom was nimbly parallel-parking our hulking Subaru into a tight spot just outside of Camden Merchants' Co-operative.  This is a co-operative store displaying the wares of numerous local antique vendors.  Walking to the back of the store occurs at a slow stroll as your eye is pulled to the racks of faded silk blouses, cases of heavy necklaces and tie clips, sets of no-longer-fine china and  bookcases filled with cracked leather-bound books desiccating in the coastal air.

In the rear of the Co-op is  Spirit of Sound. When you walk through the doorway and into this rekkid room, the chattering sound of antique hunters quickly falls away; silent vinyl seems to absorb the ambient merchantile noise. The small space is crammed with bins of rekkids and album covers jackets emboss the walls.  An undercurrent of Billie Holiday softly cut through the air.

On this Friday afternoon, we were alone in the rekkid room.  I seized the opportunity and squeezed into a dim corner. I  lifted up the back of my T shirt and began to claw at an exquisitely itchy welt on my upper back.   A few moments later Tom abruptly barked with laughter.  I spun around, eyes wide, expecting to see a surveillance camera trained on my exposed back.  Tom was flashing the Vulcan peace-sign, holding the Nimoy record "The Way I Feel".  An intense but brief discussion ensued, resulting in Tom reluctantly refiling that acoustic gem.

Tom's spirits rebounded as the next bin contained an actual gem - the 1959 Mingus album "Nostalgia in Time Square".

In couple-speak, "trip to Camden" is a double entendre.  It means a trip to the rekkid store.  It also means a glass of wine at the local hip watering hole, 40 Paper.  We paid for our album and a few minutes later we were tucked into two high stools at the bar.  Tom sipped a glass of Pinot Nero and I had a Maipe Cabernet Sauvignon.  20 minutes later the mix of Benadryl and Cabernet began to work its alchemy on my brain.  I began to sense that my facial muscles were slowly sliding off my cranial bones.  And I began to giggle. about. absolutely. nothing. Tom looked at me and grinned.  He settled our tab and then ladled me into the passenger seat of the Subaru.  Once home, he fluffed a pillow on the couch and started to saute onions and garlic for the marinara sauce.  I curled up and slipped  into a deep sleep listening to our new Mingus album.  It was an epic nap. 

Photo Credit:  Wikipedia