Dear Creep,

I see you driving around every time I go into town. Twice or three times a day I find myself on one of the three blocks that comprise Bar Harbor only to see you driving through town in your pink jeep with the words “Barbie Sue” plastered in cursive on the side. Part of me assumes that if you weren’t screaming out for attention that I wouldn’t have paid it to you and would therefore have no idea that I saw you three times a day, but part of me is still impressed that if I go into town for 10 minutes I will see you three times on each of the three blocks staring blankly ahead underneath your visor and through your sunglasses with that not quite creepy smile that shows off the fact that you are missing one of your canines.

Park your car!

I have no problem with the demand for attention, but rather your wasting of gas. If you were polluting our environment for the attention and entertainment I wouldn’t mind, but this attention is empty. Blast some music, hit on young girls, masturbate openly, do something that makes the fact that I always look at you as though something interesting is going to happen worthwhile.

I’ve never seen your wrinkly skin and Morpheus-esque sunglasses and Hawaiian shirt grace the sidewalks, and to be honest I’m not sure that you’re not in some sort of Thornton Wilder written version of Speed where you must maintain a constant pace of 25 mph or your barbie-mobile will explode. Maybe you don’t have legs. Maybe you’re looking for your long lost wife who you lost on vacation 100 years ago. Maybe you invented a form of renewable energy that recharges in your car and you’ve just been testing it out all summer.

Just park! Talk to somebody! Show me that you are not robot!

I take back everything I’ve said. You are a brilliant post-modern performer who asks his audience to analyze themselves in watching them. You offer no evidence toward any reasonable conclusion which forces the sidewalkers of Bar Harbor to create their own story of what has brought you to their world.

-NG