Monday, February 27, 2006

Biddeford Maine Enters Post Civil-Rights Era

Somewhere between the lobster in Yarmouth and the garden parties in Kennebunk lies a little parish that time couldn't wait to forget. Biddeford, Maine is, to the naked eye, the sad remnant of a better time that wasn't much to speak of even then. The empty factories and a trash incinerator are directly in frame through a derelict trestle at the welcome sign, with Holly's Supergas pinkly waving the drivers past the Fish Shack near the brige where the townies rejected the advances of their anglophile masters armed in the name of religious and national purity to stamp these papist sons of Canadian rejects back into a right understanding of their places, in the French speaking section at the rear of the bus, nearest the bickhous (the outhouse) where they could be taken for bosses.
Perhaps it is only sympathetic that these children of the Bastille and orphans of Madame LeGuillotine, their crests fully vested fleur-de-lis could be simultaneously outraged with the sudden reappearance of their colonial enterprise, and so similarly, unapologetically resistant to it.
But that is what this story is about, enter Rory Holland, your host, and obedient servant.