First, allow me to apologize for the lag-time between posts, I’ve never been busier since I stopped working.

My family and friends were supportive when I announced that I would be leaving my steady and rewarding job at the Enterprise to establish a career in Los Angeles. Though I was not quite sure at the time, nor am I now, how I plan to take full advantage of the opportunities offered in the City of Angels, people are pretty eager to get behind anyone willing to take risks in order to ensure personal fulfillment. I’m thankful for that, because if anyone would have broken down in purely mathematical terms how brazen a career choice I have made, well, I probably wouldn’t have listened. But, it would have made the months of planning the move a whole hell of a lot more stressful. In essence, in the last month, in the midst of the worst economic slowdown since people stopped getting polio and using slang like “cat’s pajamas,” I have done the following.

1) Quit My Job

2) Forfeited my Health Insurance

3) Cashed in my 401K

4) Moved to a state where the recession is in overdrive and unemployment figures are 3 percentage points higher than the national average

I tried to apply for a sub-prime mortgage to complete the quintfecta, but I believe I missed the boat.

I’d taken for granted how demoralizing and just plain weird the job search process can be. While I’ve had a few sit down interviews since arriving in LA, one of which ended abruptly when I revealed that do not speak Spanish fluently, most of my hunting has been done through an antiseptic web interface.

There’s nothing quite so disheartening as walking into a grocery store or a coffee shop, asking if they could use some part time help, and then being told to “check the website.”  I can’t charm a middle management barista into paying me 8 bucks an hour to pour coffee for grad students 3 days a week, y’know.  Instead, employers have determined the better way to screen applicants is to plumb their psyches with a series of confounding online surveys. Recently, while applying at a coffee shop whose name I won’t mention, let’s call them … SmarDucks, I was asked in a survey “If I ever find myself getting frustrated for no good reason.” I was tempted to inquire if being lobbed existential queries by a coffee shop through an online proxy constituted a “good reason.” Another employer, another coffee shop, inquired simply, “what makes you the best?” Not, what makes you the “best for the job,” or “best qualified candidate,” but presumably “what make you the best bi-ped to ever seek employment at a caffeine dispencery.” I was tempted to tell them about the extensive collection of WWF figurines I had when I was a kid, or my ability to mimic the “body slam” and “chair throw” action of said figurines in my younger days, because I really cannot think of any other way to fully express my best-itude.

These surveys also pose a series of moral dilemmas that would have even King Solomon splitting babies in two at a mean rate. Questions like, should you find your fellow co-workers slacking off while the clock, while the manager is delivering aid relief to a third world country while skimming some of the donation money to fund the release of his socially conscious indie rock band, about what time will Leibniz and Locke converge in Albuquerque? It’s no wonder so many guys I know with philosophy degrees ended up working in coffee shops.

It hasn’t been all bad out here in Los Angeles. In fact, it’s been mostly good. I had a moment the other night where I actually had to decide what I wanted to do, and it wasn’t the choice between “go to bed early” or “re-watch my VHS tapes of the 1991 World Series.”  Hopefully, soon, I will have the moral fortitude to and metaphysical rigor to start making some money, and enjoy all this crazy city has to offer.

Greetings from Los Angeles, Dear Reader.

On Friday, August 13 my girlfriend and I completed our week long cross country trek. Along the way, we delighted in the vast and varied fast-food landscape, indulged in radio programming that warned of the impending apocalypse and watched as the view outside our windows changed from green to beige to brown to red then back to green and then finally to whatever color smog is. Basically, we America’d the heck out of this road trip.

This was the third time I’ve driven across the country, so while I was still awed and amused by what the land of the free had to show me, I decided that I would seek another barometer to gauge the shifting communal temperature as we traveled west. Newspapers! Yes, though I’ve moved on from the Enterprise, I can’t help thinking like a reporter whenever I ride into a new town. What I found on this trip was, not only do newspapers serve the vital role of keeping community members abreast of hyper-local happenings, they’re also a great way for vagrants such as myself to get a fairly accurate snapshot of an area.

In Cleveland, Ohio the Plain Dealer led their Tuesday, August 11 edition with a story about a zoning board member who was also serving on a city council in the same county. You thought those sort of conflicts only popped up in Cape Cod, eh? Meanwhile, the sports section of the CPD was still lamenting the departure of basketball superstar LeBron James, nearly two months after he publicly spurned Cleveland in order to sign a contract with the Miami Heat. The next day, the St. Louis Post-Dispatch led with a story about a heat-wave that had been sweeping the country. Temperatures regularly broke 100 degrees in the mid-west and climbed only higher as we traveled west.

On the western border of Missouri, I picked up a pair of quaint local papers at a grocery store. The Joplin Globe served as the daily paper of record for towns in Missouri along the Oklahoma border. The leading story told about how the town of Neosho’s police and fire department staff’s would be cut in half in the coming week. There was also an editorial lamenting the fact that the annual “Heartland Doll Show” would not be held at a local hotel convention center this year. The other rag I picked up was the Lawrence County Record. This weekly led its front page with a listing of school openings. T’was a slow week in Lawrence County. About 200 miles further down the interstate in Oklahoma, the Sapulpa Daily Herald declared itself on its masthead to be “The Guardian of the Plains.” The masthead also featured the statue of a buffalo standing stoically, as buffalo are wont to do, in a field of prairie grass. The paper featured almost exclusively stories about trailer truck accidents along Interstate 40, which runs from Missouri straight through to California.

By far the best newspaper I came across on the trip was the Gallup Independent. I picked up this daily at a rest stop in northern New Mexico that truly felt like the nexus of nowhere. The Independent, however, was chock full of engaging stories about a thriving and seemingly diverse community. Many areas in Southwest are home to Native American tribes, like the Navajo and Cherokee. The reporters at the Independent not only provided strong and concise pieces on local government, but they also went out of their way to highlight the tribes. In fact, the paper offered a special pull out supplement on Gallup’s upcoming 89^th Annual Inter-Tribal Indian Ceremonial. It was an excellent read.

I treated the papers I collected along the trip like gold. With internet access only available to us in our motels at the end of long day of travel, getting the news the old fashioned way still managed to make me feel like I had a sense of what was going on in the world. I even found myself religiously checking box scores along the way to monitor the progress of the Red Sox, a task that was once the highlight of my adolescent existence. Somewhere in my parent’s house, I’m sure, there are a stack of fastidiously highlighted and annotated Boston Globe’s sports sections.

It’s too bad that I’ve been repeatedly assured by media experts that newspapers, if not already dead, then at least dying. I mean, I still think they’ve pretty damn useful.

Dear reader

By the time you get this, I’ll be unemployed.

It was almost three years ago that I found a post-it note stuck to the phone in the cottage I was renting in Hyannis that read, “Call John P. 508 548 4700 begin_of_the_skype_highlighting              508 548 4700      end_of_the_skype_highlighting”

Then, as of the time of this publication, I was effectively jobless, though in those days I was able to buy white bread and canned tuna thanks to whatever scarce freelancing assignments I could scavenge.

The John P. in the note was, of course, Bourne and Sandwich Enterprise Editor John Paradise, the first person to reply to the countless resumes I had dispatched into the ether in the previous six months.

Shortly thereafter, I met with John for a brief interview at the Enterprise offices in Falmouth. I explained to him that I knew nothing about local government and had not written anything not related to girls volleyball in over two years. I added, however, that I was eager to learn and had my own car. A week later I was the newest member of the Enterprise’s newsroom staff.

Just last week, I had a chance to reflect on all that I’ve learned about the towns since coming aboard at the Enterprise. I was meeting with my replacement, the very estimable Alex Scofield, who asked what I would most miss about writing for “the paper.”

I told him it would be the sense of ownership and involvement that comes along with being a local newspaper reporter.

We both agreed that, though in the world of reporting there may be broader reaching, higher paying gigs, nothing matches the impact of the local weekly.

There are very few things in this world that I can confidently claim to understand, but I do think I have a solid grip on what matters to the people in Bourne and Sandwich who read the Enterprise. That’s a good feeling.

On Monday, August 9, I will be on the road to Los Angeles with my girlfriend. She will be enrolling in the University of Southern California’s School of Cinematic arts; one of 32 students to be accepted into the program. Thousands applied.

As for myself, well, as I’ve already clearly stated, I’ll be unemployed. Hopefully everyone in my and my girlfriend’s extended family will read this, negating the need to explain to yet another third cousin that I am, in fact, without job.

But, y’know, I’ve got goals, too.

When I was a kid, my dad helped me divine the thin line between brave and stupid. As an adult, I think I’ve found that if you follow that line long enough it takes you all the way to Los Angeles, where you convince yourself you can make money by making people laugh.

So, that’s where I’m going. I think almost anybody who writes ultimately sees himself as a storyteller. Whether it is through writing articles or telling jokes, the relay of information is what allows us to come to terms the tension of constantly observing.

I hope to continue observing. And I hope I can tell stories that matter as much to the people who hear them as the stories printed by the Enterprise matter to you.

Best,

DAVID A. FONSECA

Hey Guys,

My name is David Fonseca. As you probably know, I’m a reporter for the Enterprise Newspaper group. I mean, why else would you be sending me three e-mails an hour for the last year and a half? You may also remember some of the e-mails I’ve been sending y’all recently. You know the ones? The subject usually reads something like “DON’T CARE!” with a body politely requesting you remove me from your mailing list.

Listen, It’s not that I don’t care that congressional challenger Sean Bielat condemned Barney Frank’s vote on healthcare, or that Nikki Tsongas gave her seal of approval for raising taxes during the recession (those are actual e-mail subject-lines.) I mean, to be fair, I emphatically DO NOT CARE about these things, but that’s not why I’m writing this letter. I write for the Bourne and Sandwich Enterprise newspapers. My job is to cover the issues that will have a direct impact on the lives of the people in those communities. And though health care and taxes and “liberals gone wild” (another e-mail header) have a roundabout effect on us all, I just don’t think I have any use for what you’re peddling.

We all have a niche to fill, and I understand that for you guys that role is spamming my inbox with poorly written political propaganda. But my readers likely care as a little about your political maneuvering as they do about that time I found a sweet Mitch Richmond rookie card under my bed when I was cleaning my room that one time. (You know the one, with the sweet powder blue and gold Golden State Warriors jersey that had the Golden Gate Bridge across the front. That was so fresh! Anyway, I digress.) So, please, let my inbox be, lest you be subject to more snarky needling on my highly influential and widely read blog!

Yours Truly,

David Fonseca

Reporter for the Bourne and Sandwich Enterprise newspapers

President of the Mitch Richmond Fan Club

It’s been exactly one week since an earthquake struck in the Haitian capital Port-Au-Prince. I’m not going to waste words describing the magnitude of this tragedy. It’s just too devastatingly sad. Like most people, in addition to feeling torn apart by the news reports being dispatched from Port Au Prince, I also feel helpless.

I’m also pretty furious, but not surprised, at how quickly pundits and other creepy zealots have pounced on this disaster and attempted to spin it into a political or religious issue.

First, Pat Robertson, best known as the founder of the Christian Broadcasting Network and the Host of the 700 club, suggested that Tuesday’s earthquake and the  generally desperate state of affairs on their side of the island of Hispaniola were a result of a pact the Haitian people made with Satan in order to free themselves from slavery imposed by their French masters and their leader “Napoleaon III, or whatever.”

Okay, so, let’s start by plucking the low hanging fruit.  Haiti earned their independence  through the course of many bloody battles fought between 1791 and 1803.  François-Dominique Toussaint Louverture led the struggle against the French, who at the time were under the rule of  Napoleon Bonaparte. “Napoleon III or whatever” did not come on the scene until the 1850s.

I won’t waste too much time on Robertson’s implication that what Haitians are suffering now is somehow their comeuppance for bad vodoo set in motion two centuries ago. Pat Robertson is … not smart.  He may have wielded some power and influence back when he was being plastered on the covers of magazines like Time for the revolutionary manner in which he was able to combine modern media and religion to separate the poor and naive from their hard earned money. Now, he’s just some guy.  He’s an affront to our collective intelligence that has evolved into a bumbling embarrassment.

But then there’s Rush Limbaugh, a man seemingly in control of his mental capacities and a voice that many, many people tune into every day for entertainment and guidance. *sigh* Some folks, like me, tune in to remind themselves that they are still capable of getting really, really mad at inanimate objects, like radios. I digress. Here’s a conversation between Rush and a caller transcribed  from his radio show that took place as rescue workers were still pulling dead bodies from the wreckage in Port Au Prince.

Justin of Raleigh, North Carolina: “Why does Obama say if you want to donate some money, you could go to whitehouse.gov to direct you how to do so? If I wanted to donate to the Red Cross, why do I have to go to the White House page to donate?”

Limbaugh: “Exactly. Would you trust the money’s gonna go to Haiti?”

Justin: “No.”

Rush: “But would you trust that your name’s gonna end up on a mailing list for the Obama people to start asking you for campaign donations for him and other causes?”

Justin: “Absolutely!”

Limbaugh: “Absolutely!”

Transcripts from his show also have Rush trashing president Obama for his unnatural affinity for “the downtrodden.”

What Limbaugh is doing is depressing and obvious. Literally hundreds of thousands of people are either dead or homeless in Haiti because of this earthquake, and all Limbaugh sees is an opportunity. I know, as well as you do, that Rush Limbaugh is just an entertainer. His disdain for “the Left” has made him millions, probably closer to billions. He’s got every right to chase those dollars, too.

But, really? Limbaugh knows that the Obama administration would not skim donations meant for disaster victims or use the outpouring of support as a opportunity to add names to their mailing list is not only absurd. However, he also knows suggesting it is really, really good for business. Again, that’s what’s so pathetic. So many are dead and buried in mass graves. So many more will die and the complete collapse of Haiti’s infrastructure means that most will do so without the modest comfort provided by a hospital bed. Yet all this guy who has made billions by stirring rancor on the radio can think about is how he can use this as an opportunity to make the president look bad. Is there ever a time to completely stifle our discontent with government as concerned citizens? Of course not. But when it’s completely fabricated you may want to consider shutting your fat face the hell up.

Anyway, here’s my humble suggestion on how to discuss issues related to religion, race or politics in the wake of a disaster like this. Ignore them. At least for now. The wounds are too fresh and emotions too high. Find a charitable organization that you trust and give an amount you feel comfortable with. Anything beyond that won’t do any good for anybody.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the role of community newspapers since Bourne Fire Department Deputy Chief Paul Weeks was arraigned on three counts of rape.
I have become a acquainted with Deputy Chief Weeks in my nearly two years of covering the Bourne Fire Department. First as a Lieutenant, then as a Deputy Chief, he was frequently around the department’s Main Street headquarters, where most of my reporting on the department is done. He appeared to me as somebody who understood the role of the department in dealing with the media, as he has always been eager to provide me with whatever details he could related to incidents that were responded to on his shift. As with most of the folks I deal with on a regular basis in Bourne’s public safety offices, he is not somebody I would consider a friend, but a friendly resource. (Reporters aren’t allowed to have any friends.)
I’m writing this not in an attempt to insulate Deputy Chief Weeks from the very serious charges he now faces, but to give you an idea of some of the difficulties reporters face when having to write negative things about people with whom they have developed a working relationship.
Those relationships? At a community newspaper? They’re everything. Establishing trust with folks in your community is just about the most important thing you can do as a reporter. It’s how you will get the tips that will account for about 95 percent of the copy you file every week, and how you can be sure that people will at least consider picking up the phone when they see that it’s you calling, and they know you want to talk about something they did wrong. Being able to handle relationships with sources in a way that allows you to speak candidly while not alienating them in the process is a hard earned skill that I’m striving to attain. I think being able to maintain such a dynamic makes for good newsgathering.
Here’s the rub, though; you can only be perceived as betraying somebody’s trust once you’ve earned it. And though no good reporter (or decent human being) would ever aspire to undermine anybody they’ve establish a trusting relationship with, it’s very easy for people who live in the public eye to feel betrayed. Deputy Chief Weeks has helped me do my job better by providing me information I need to write about his department, so I can easily see how he would feel betrayed by opening his copy of the Enterprise, seeing the words “Charged,” “Rape,” “Arrested,” and “Weeks,” all in a story with my byline on it.
We all have jobs to do. I’d like to believe that If a reporter is doing their job, the right way, that they’re not betraying or taking advantage of anyone. People may be hurt by what a reporter writes, but only if they’re in a position where the public has a right to know about the stupid, embarrassing or dangerous things they do. What Deputy Chief Weeks has been accused of doing is a combination all of things, so its our job to report on it, not matter how uncomfortable it might make us, or our sources.

It’s 4:30 on a Thursday afternoon. Not usually an ideal time to be blogging, but I’m waiting for one more phone-call to come in so I can finish my last story of the week and head home.

I figured I would use these spare moments to share some various and sundry thoughts on topics both local and global with you all.

There are a lot of thing about living in Sandwich that I know better than to complain about. There’s not a ton of night-life or industry, sure, but in a roundabout way that makes the town a far more relaxing and laid-back place to reside. However, if there’s one thing I that gets me all righteously indignant on a daily basis, it has to be the lack of sidewalks, especially on Old Main Street. I walk my 13-year-old Jack Russell Terrier down Old Main every day, and I usually have to drag the little guy into somebody’s front yard every 45 seconds when a car comes barreling down the road. It’s only inconvenient in the summer. However, its absolutely frustrating in the winter months when people’s front yards are outlined in snow drifts. What do we do about this? I don’t know. Sometimes it’s nice to complain about something without offering a reasonable solution, though. It’s downright Patriotic, in fact.

I listened to President Obama’s health-care address in my car on the radio last night after attending a school committee meeting. I thought the President gained momentum and confidence as the address progressed. It was a practical and well paced response to both the legitimate and ludicrous concerns about health care reform. I had my notebook on me while I listened, so I jotted down some questions his speech raised with me and I’m hoping to be far more engaged in this debate during the stretch run than I was during the last few months. Judging from what I saw of the town-hall meetings during the summer and general level of discourse surrounding this issue to this point, I don’t feel like I’ve missed a whole hell of a lot, yet.

Speaking of last night’s address, I wonder how Senator Joe Wilson (R-South Carolina) is feeling this afternoon? While me and this guy probably have next to nothing in common, I sure know how it feels to be on the border of losing your temper in a public assembly, especially when you feel like the guy controlling the mic is full of crap. He should have read by last blog entry! Pack a PB&J next time, Joe.

Football starts tonight. I enter a fantasy football league every year and every year I promise myself that I’ll find a more productive way to waste 20 bucks. My participation is solely the result of peer pressure from a group of guys I post on a music forum with. I like football. I mean, I am a human being after all. But I don’t follow it with the same zealotry as professional basketball, which is two months away from filling a massive void in my life. Anyway, I was lucky enough to draft Adrian Peterson. So there’s that.

Basketball! I guess it has come time to bid see-ya to a fund and productive summer of pick-up hoops. As the summer fades so do the avaiable hours shooting around outdoors. Prior to this summer, I had not set a pick or swatted away a lay up in anger in probably eight years. I started shooting baskets at the Henry T. Wing School back in May. At first, I found myself playing games of one on five against hordes of eager fourth graders. I was out there almost every day in June, despite the rain, and even managed to recruit a small but dedicated group of adult ballers to start playing with me on the regular. My favorite memory from this summer comes from our rainy June, when, during a soaking wet afternoon, basketball-buddy Brian and I spent probably four hours playing two on two against two brothers who were visiting from Kentucky. We won a few games, lost a few more and slid around the rain slicked court like it was a hockey rink. I felt like a 12-year-old; It was freaking brilliant. Also, I’ll just point out that being 12 rules way harder at age 25 than it did at age 12. That day is also when I received the best nickname that’s ever been bestowed on me in my entire life; White Howard. It still makes me laugh.

By July our numbers had grown to a point where we could run full court game. By August we were meeting regularly and I was, to my own surprise, scoring a basket or two and pulling down a reasonable amount of rebounds in every game. I was no longer embarrassing myself, at least. I spent essentially my entire Labor Day playing basketball. Appropriately, it was with the same small and devoted group of ballers who I had formed a bond with at the start of the summer. It was fantastic. If Labor Day is supposed to be a celebration of the end of the summer, I couldn’t think of a better way to do it than to spend the day getting the living crap beat out of me by a few close friends on a beat up old basketball court.

Once, while a freshman at Taunton High School, I earned an afternoon in detention for drawing a pair of eyeballs on small, round pieces of paper and placing them under the lenses of my glasses. The mock-eyeballs were created in order to give my teacher the illusion that I was awake, while I slumbered at my desk. Actually, the real reason I went through with the stupid gag was to make my classmates laugh.

From what I remember, nobody really got the joke; the eyeballs weren’t very convincing. However, my teacher, Mr. Caia, sensed that whatever I was doing in the back of the classroom with poorly drawn eyeballs underneath my glasses was certainly askance of whatever students are supposed to be doing (probably paying attention) and swiftly dropped the punishment hammer on my head.

I’m sometimes reminded of this story when I attend a public meeting, whether they are selectmen, school committee, planning board or shore and harbor. I’d like to think I have at the very least an average attention span. In fact, compared to the current generation of whipper-snappers being raised on social-media, texting and any other buzz-thing that makes me feel decrepit, I’m sure my ability to remain attentive would seem to span the horizon. Yet, there are times during these meetings when I honestly struggle remain engaged.

These times usually occur during any portion of a meeting agenda referred to as “Report of the …” or “Update From …” For those who regularly attend public meetings, what these words indicate is someone is going to talk: a lot.  The inflection of his voice will likely remain unchanged while he talks, and he may or may not repeat himself multiple times. After this person finishes talking, the committee will ask him questions, which will likely initiate a response from the original talker that could potentially last longer than his original talking session. This call and response session, in real time, lasts about an hour to an hour-and-a-half. To the audience, though, it can feel twice as long.

Yet, now that I’m an adult, with a reputation (gulp) to maintain, I can no-longer engage in the kind of tom-foolery when bored or frustrated in a public setting as I did when I was a 14-year-old. Additionally, though all this talk may be mind numbing, couched deep within it are potential news items. Essentially, for the sake of doing my job well, I need to pay attention, and, for the sake of appearing like a responsible adult and not a petulant child, I also need to look like I’m paying attention.

I’ve picked up a few habits over the last year and a half in order to help me do that. For starters, I never go to a meeting on an empty stomach. For me, doing anything while low on fuel is a risky proposition, but for meetings, it’s especially unadvisable. Usually, when I’m hungry, I swiftly cycle through three emotionally states: cranky, inconsolable and confused. If I don’t find a way to consume a couple peanut-butter sandwiches before the third cycle ends, I either fall asleep or wander peacefully into traffic. Needless to say, I make sure that I’m well fed before I brave a meeting.

Secondly, I try to find somebody I know and can sit next to during these meetings. Having a companion to sit through a meeting with makes you feel a little less isolated in your torment. Also, a lot of the times during public meetings, I’m compelled by an innate urge to blurt out “OH, COME ON, SERIOUSLY!?” at least a dozen times. Usually this happens when a speaker will say something along the lines of “like I already said,” and follow that by expressing a sentiment that was, actually, just like something they already said. Sitting next to another person helps kill the urge to submit to instinct during such times of righteous frustration, if for no other reason than to avoid embarrassment.

Finally, even though public meetings are tedious, the topics discussed during them are often important. The reason people buy local papers is because they care about what’s happening in their schools, on their beaches, in their sewers and on their roads. They don’t have time to go to the meetings where these things are discussed in excruciating detail; so they trust people like me to go, and to pay close attention. In fact, it is in particular our diligence in these municipal matters, which a lot of larger newspapers have moved on from for reasons with which I could fill out another blog, that has allowed us to carve out a niche and stay vital.

So, I guess what I’m saying is that, considering the hard work that a lot of reporters who have come before me have done to carve out this niche, it would be exceedingly bad form for me to fall asleep inside it.

Before I ever receive a copy of my police logs, they’re “scrubbed” by Bourne Police’s Police Lieutenant. The rhyme or reason behind what get’s blacked out and what doesn’t is a little bit of a mystery to me. It’s one I’ve never really pursued too deeply, though.  If there’s ever anything written under the black mark that looks like it could be important, I just ask for it.  Almost always, the lieutenant provides the information I need; if he doesn’t, he’s usually got a pretty good excuse.

Sometimes, though, the blackouts make a log entry seem about x1000 more compelling than it probably really is. Take, for example, this entry. What looks to be a not-so-neighborly dispute over errant garbage could become much more entertaining through the power of the ad-libing.

Okay, looks like we need a place, a proper noun, a personal pronoun, a proper noun, a plural noun, a proper noun, an adjective and another proper noun.

Do your best commenters, reader participation is highly encouraged!

Planning weddings is such a drag. Not that I would know from personal experience, but I’ve heard the sentiment related by more than a few who do. One of the biggest hassles is sorting out the invitations; deciding who gets to come and who does not. Weddings are events, I imagine, that everybody wants to be a part of. Not only to witness the nuptials, but also to indulge in the free booze, food and live entertainment. There’s also the opportunity to mingle with other single young people and, of course, drink booze.

I’ve been snubbed on a wedding invite, and it stung for a bit, until I remembered what weddings are like. People actually refer to farmer’s almanacs to make sure they land these things on the nicest weekends of the year.

How selfish!

I also recognize that weddings are expensive, and with each invite comes added cost. Especially in economic times like this, it makes sense to trim your wedding guest list to a select group of folks who might, I don’t know, appreciate the ceremony more than the open bar.

For some, though, the shame of being dissed during wedding season is too much to bear. Take for example a family from Bourne, who despite not being invited to a family wedding, was still gracious enough to send a present.