Maine infected me at the age of 12, in Brunswick, on a family trip from Minnesota. The bug was more or less dormant until I moved to Boston in the late 70s, spread a little in flirtations with the mountains and lakes of New Hampshire and Vermont, and now, with the bemused tolerance of my wife Cynthia Dockrell, has set in without cure.
I have a new essay out at Connotation Press . I probably shouldn't admit it, but it describes someone who's almost the perfect definition of a Masshole.
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