36

JOEY PART 2




Every time I spoke at this new school, folks would turn and look at me. Some would smirk or laugh, and others might have raised an eyebrow, but my favorite reaction was when a girl would move a bit closer to hear me better.

There are actually four Maine accents, you see.

There is the Down-Easter Accent, and you hear this coming out of the mouths of the lobster fishermen and their families along the rocky coast of Maine. This is the one most folks have in mind of when they think of a Maine accent. But even we other Mainers raise our own eyebrows when we hear this accent spoken.

We regard it as charming, and a throw-back to the Revolutionary Era.

Next there is The County Accent. Aroostook County (The County) is the largest of the sixteen counties of Maine, and it is filled with folks who speak both French and English. That there is the reason for this accent. The County is located at the north of the state of Maine, which borders a foreign country, one that must not be named.

Canucks can be found there, understand.

The third Maine accent is the boring, cosmopolitan accent of the wealthy who live in and around the Portland area, a city that resembles San Francisco down to its cobble stone streets of the Old Port area, to the winding hills and wrought iron gates, brick sidewalks, and liberal minded gays. This accent continues down to the Kennebunk area, where the former Presidents Bush have a vacation home.


Then there is the fourth accent, the Inland Accent. I cannot hear it, but have been told that I speak it. To me, everyone else talks funny everywhere else I go. This is a combination of all of the other three accents, because the center is where all the others meet.

To the untrained Californian ear ("Duuude, check out those gnarly waves, maaaaan!") this particular Maine Accent sounds quite close to only one of the many British accents.

I know, odd, huh? It is not the Liverpoolian accent of the Beatles, nor the High British Class Accent of their Royalty. It is neither a Cockney one, but actually closest to the Newcastle Accent.

"Do you have any Grey Poop-on?" or somthing resembling that.

How this was received was in this manner:

"Duuude, you talk funny, ...like, are you from England or somthing?"

I would tell them, "Actually, I am from New England."

They'd nod and reply, "That's near France, right, bro?"

I'd say, "No, I'm from Maine, above New York."

They'd ask, "Is that, like, a state?"

Nothing existed outside of California, evidently.

++++++++++++++++++++++++

I stood there that fine April morning, savoring the sweet, buttery lusciousness of a cinnamon roll as big as your head, watching Little Joey make the girls get wet in their panties.

He had his own style of dance, and he was quite proud of it. He would show it to anyone who did not say no to his bravado.

He had the Machismo, the unfear of being large, at least in his own head.

Little Big Man Syndrome.

That would serve him well later on, and throughout his life, but only if he would have the brass nads to back it up.

He did. You have seen this in the Punk Fight Chapters.


Here is a tune that my sun wanted me to post for this. We never want our children to go through the shit we have gone through.

Sometimes, they go through even worse shit than we have.

God Help Them.






Here are three links to some nice pictures for a quiet Sunday morning.


Street installations.



Cole Rise pics.



Asa pics.



Thank you for reading this chapter. See you in the TDC forums, and next weekend, here, for a longer exploration into the Fuckno Story Series, good friend.


God Help You.

God Help Us All.




---willies out.
















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