Where's our Bell you Cheap Bastard?

Sign me up for the "Touch-A-Truck!"

Franklin is home to the nation’s first public library. Back in the day, the town founders were like “yo, Benjamin Franklin, we’ll totally name our town after you, how about a gift? We’d like a bell, please.” And Benjamin (who was knee deep in French Harlots) was like “Here are some books and a pithy quote instead, Sense being Preferable to Sound”.

The books are still housed in the library, which was one of mine and Lizzie’s favorite haunts. It also had NAKED LADY PAINTINGS, which are also a draw. As Lizzie and I were wandering through the reference room, we spied a rather scurrilous looking man on one of the public computers, and we decided that he must be looking at porn. We circled behind him, pretending to look at books pertaining to leasing laws in Massachusetts, and were disappointed to see he was just checking his Yahoo mail. Booooring.

He's the (Horace) Mann

What do you mean you’ve never heard of Horace Mann? Oh, you must not have grown up in Franklin. Seriously, ol’ Horace, the founder of Public Education, was a big hit with the teachers in Franklin, who made us recite poems on his birthday, and learn Horace Mann fun facts like that his brother drowned in nearby Uncas Pond because he went swimming instead of to church (the locals were like “ha ha! He is being punished for skipping church” and God was like “why are some of my followers such douches?”). Now Horace’s birthplace is a sad looking plaza, but look, someone left him delicious fries to eat. Also in this plaza is Wah-Sing, a crappy Chinese food restaurant which will give you food poisoning. They deal mostly in take out, so when you puke in your sink because you can’t make it to the toilet in time, they don’t have to clean it up. This plaza also marks one end-point of the “Franklin 500”. Teenagers, having nothing better to do in this rather quiet town, drive up the town’s spine (Central street, East and West) from Shaws to Stop and Shop, over and over and over again until they’re old enough to learn about drinking at Glass Hill, which is named after the broken beer bottles which line its sharp face. RIP, Horace, thanks for the education.

Get Thee to a Nunnery

Also in short walking distance from our former homes is the Mount Saint Mary’s Abbey, which is a silent order of Nuns. Living this close to an Abbey makes it very convenient for your Father to say things like “I’m going to send you to live in the Abbey if you don’t behave,” or “I’m going to stick you with the nuns until you turn 30,” etc. It’s a beautiful spot, though, and they sell delicious bread and chocolate. We purchased some of the aforementioned chocolate from an adorable (and ancient) nun, and damn (sorry) that shit was delicious. (It was wrapped in a ribbon that was covered in glitter, which got all over the place. There is a reason my friend Nick refers to glitter as craft herpes). We wondered how much longer this order would survive—living in a silent nunnery is no fun. The good jobs are all in parochial schools, where you can torture small children, a la Mrs. Hawisher.

Mount Street Mama, take me home

To your left, a picture of the "power cut" next to the house I grew up in.

Unfortunately, neither Lizzie nor my childhood homes are still in the possession of our families. (And Lizzie’s little 4-room house was knocked down and replaced with a McMansion). This makes things awkward when our rather large contingent of fans makes their pilgrimage to our youthful abodes, and the current owners are like “We’ve already called the police.” However, the farm Lizzie’s Grandparents owned, which is just a mile down the road, was foreclosed on by the bank back in the mid-eighties, and has yet to be sold. Hooray for trespassing!

The farmhouse burned down a long time ago (accursed hobos) but the lilac bush her parents used to have babysit her is still beautiful, and the remains of the chicken coop loom ominously, and legend has it that chicken ghosts still haunt it TILL THIS VERY DAY.

(IF YOU ARE MY DAD AND ARE READING THIS, STOP HERE, WATCH THIS YOUTUBE VIDEO AND THEN SKIP TO ***)

I asked Lizzie if she’d ever considered buying the property back, and she joked, “Hmm. Perhaps I could buy it and build a sex toy shop encased in a giant glass dildo you can see from the highway.” (CAUSE YOU KNOW, 'MERICA!!!!!)

And can you think of a better tribute to your family?

We discussed the logistics of the giant dildo building as we circled the property, Lizzie pausing every once in a while to tell me tales about almost getting trampled by one horse, and feeding another until it was too fat too ride. She told me the tale of when her father threw her uncle through a picture window, and another amazing story about how her grandfather went from being an undertaker to a being a farmer, which maybe involved transporting a dead body in a horse-drawn hearse which then actually turned out to be not-so-dead. The angry “dead” guy got out of the casket, and punched Lizzie’s Grandfather in the face, who then was like “PERHAPS IT IS TIME FOR A CAREER CHANGE.” (By the way, we decided that the giant dildo should be lit with fiber optics so it could change colors)

***On the way back, we noted that we had not been the only trespassers (teenagers probably drink up here all the time) as we spotted footprints which could only belong to a giant. I assume he tends to the chickens. My dainty lady foot is not match for Stompy McGhostChickenFeeder.

States of Snark: Hometown Edition

Our goal here at States of Snark is to visit all 50 states, providing commentary along the way. This weekend, Lizzie and I decided it was time to show you all around our hometown, Franklin, MA, which is about an hour south of where we each live now (which is pretty far away in Massachusetts terms). Without further ado, we present States of Snark: Where it began.

Lizzie and I met in Mrs. Hawisher’s kindergarten class. I clearly remember her crying her little heart out on the first day of school, probably because she had some prescience and knew that our new teacher hated children. Mrs. Hawisher, turning her cool gaze first to the crying Lizzie, and then to the rather nerdishly eager me, gave me a little shove in Lizzie’s direction as if to say, “Make that Stop.” And though I will forever detest Mrs. Hawisher for putting me in the corner after I got upset because Tommy Robillard stole my crayons (she wouldn’t let me out until I spelled “brown” correctly. That is a hard one for a five year old. Seriously, I have a fucking steel-trap memory; you commit an egregious infraction like stealing my crayons, and I will remember that shit until the end of time, or until I get my revenge) I am forever grateful that she chose me to comfort the sobbing Lizzie, because we've been bffs ever since.

Magically, Lizzie and I, turns out, lived a mere five minute walk from each other. Here is the intersection of Mount and Upper Union Streets. (Quick, it’s time for the ‘what would your porn name be’ game—your childhood pet and the street you grew up on—I’m Fuzzy Mount, nice to meet you.) It was a rather idyllic section of Franklin, and we spent many an afternoon wandering through the woods and looking under rocks for salamanders. Exciting, no? Please enjoy our trip through memory lane. Look out for the high tension wires.

Photographic evidence

Haha. I forgot we made this nod to Pietro when we visited Four Corners later in the trip. Pretty awesome alien drawing, don't you think?

Italia!

Hello my friends! So as many of you may know, Lizzie and I are going to take a little side trip this year (before what is going to be an epic 50-states jaunt to Kansas) to Italy. In honor of our upcoming European travels, we thought it time to share the story of Pietro.

While in Santa Fe during our New Mexico/Colorado trip, Lizzie and I had dinner at a delicious Mexican food restaurant (I still recall the blue corn chips and salsa, fondly) and then decided to see what the Santa Fe night life had to offer. Though it wasn't snowing like it had been in Colorado, it was pretty damn cold, so we rushed down the street, when suddenly the sound of a large brass swing band caught our attention. We followed the sound, Pied Piper like, and it led us to a bar, which was sunk into the ground, sort of like with the "Cheers" bar. We went down the stairs, and were quite surprised to see that the band outnumbered the clientele. There were only three or four people, and the band played one more song, and then left (as did the rest of the clientele). Lizzie and I didn't feel like going back into the cold, and just decided to stay and gab. We made friends with the bartender, as we often do, and he even offered to share his soup with us. Spotting the Mylanta amongst the bottles, Lizzie and I declined, and boy are we glad we did.

Oddly enough, as we were sitting there, the bartender kept making phone calls, and strange men would come into the bar, give us a curious sort of look, and then disappear into a back room. Eventually, Pietro showed up. He sat down next to Lizzie, adjusted his fingerless-gloves (hobo chic) and started to talk to us.

Pietro (and honestly we weren't sure if this was his actual name, or if we made it up. It doesn't really matter, I suppose) was from Italy, very handsome, as you can see by the picture, and apparently had been hopping from port to American port, working pleasure boats for the wealthy. Lizzie finally asked him what he was doing in New Mexico (and note: he appeared to be in league somehow with the bartender, and obviously been here before) and he said (in an Italian accent)

"Oh, you know, I have been to Roswell, to, you know, see ze aliens"

(NB: I can only imitate two accents, French and occasionally Irish. When I write in Pietro's voice, imagine me doing a French accent while trying to do an Italian accent)

Lizzie goes, "Oh, aliens, huh?" (Pointed look at me). "Did you see any?"

He smiles his handsome smile. "Yes, I did. They let me take pictures. Would you like to see them?"

Lizzie nods emphatically. "Of course."

And then Pietro showed off that hilarious sense of humor we'd get to experience to the extreme a little later.

"HA HA HA HA," he said, "Zee aliens do not let you take their picture!"

BOOM, ROASTED.

Lizzie and I, properly told in quite the "Oh Snap" moment let Pietro enjoy his hilarious joke, while we enjoyed the hilarious joke that it's weirder to think that "aliens" would let you take their picture than to believe that aliens really exist.

Anyway, Pietro, ever the charmer, told us of his plans to go back to Milan. He flirty flirted, and then yelled to the bartender:

"I like these girls! Hey! Do you have anything to put in girls' drink to make them sleepy?!"

(Use the Italian accent again)

And the record, she spins off!

Oh, Pietro. I'm sure many women find the concept of date-rape drugs charming. Right. Seriously, does that work for you? We decided that it was time for us to move along, but before we did, we asked Pietro if we could take his picture (to find out if he was an alien). He decided that the picture would be much better with me in it, and as Lizzie snapped the photo, he dragged me in and made his best Duck Face, while I made my best "holy shit are you for real?" face. Then Lizzie and I ran (not walked) back to Mod Maude, giggling the giggle of the horrified for pretty much the rest of the night.

Anyway, we sort of expect that we'll run into him when we're in Italy, because that's how things work with us. We're currently checking into international laws with regards to taser imports, just in case...