“It is a curious fact that people are never so trivial as when they take themselves seriously.” ~ Oscar Wilde 

In the event you’re thinking the title of this week’s offering to The Way I See It doesn’t make any sense, you’re totally wrong. It makes lots of sense. Although I’m not sure saying that it makes lots of sense is any more resounding than simply stating that it makes sense. It either makes sense or it doesn’t, right? Are there actually degrees of sense? Does lots of sense represent more sense than just plain old sense? 

Confused? Sorry. This is how my brain works. 

Vitriol may be defined as venom, anger, bitterness, wrath and a number of other things, none of them particularly upbeat. So why, For The Love of Vitriol? Good question! And all good questions are deserving of a good answer. Unfortunately, I don’t happen to have a good answer. Don’t get me wrong; I have an answer, but I wouldn’t necessarily call it a good one. 

So here’s my answer. My Muse made me do it. 

Yup! That’s it. That’s all I’ve got. My Muse put that title in my head and whether it makes sense to you or not is totally irrelevant. I have to go with it. I always follow the lead of my Muse. If I don’t, I’ll have to deal with the consequences. 

If you’ve never been in the company of an angry Muse, I can assure you; it’s not pretty. It’s not pretty at all. Muses are a vindictive bunch, and being a writer, my Muse is crucial to my success. I must comply with her wishes or she’ll stop giving me inspiration and then I’m sunk, out of business, kaput! 

Right about now you’re probably thinking, this column is senseless, and you’re probably about ready to click on something else because you have no interest in wasting your time reading a bunch of gobbledygook. 

Perhaps you’d prefer to read about the naked guy who streaked through an Attleboro neighborhood last Tuesday night. It was pretty chilly outside that evening. What was he thinking? I’m guessing he had to have been beyond cold. 

If you want to bail out on me I can’t say that I blame you. I’m the one writing this and I’m not all that happy with it either. I’m about ready to cash it in myself. Seriously! What the heck am I thinking putting out a piece of trash like this? Where’s my journalistic integrity? Have I no shame? 

Okay, let me see. The answer to the first question [What am I thinking putting out a piece of trash like this?] is as follows. The word trash is subjective. Have you never heard the expression - One mans’ trash is another man’s treasure? 

You see, the definition of what’s trash and what isn’t [trash] is open to interpretation. In the interest of perpetuating the overuse of another clichéd axiom, I’d like to remind you that one mans’ ceiling is another man’s floor. 

With regard to the question of my journalistic integrity, I must ask; have you seen the TV news lately? Have you read the Boston Globe or the New York Times? The term Journalistic Integrity has become an oxymoron; the two words are mutually exclusive – like jumbo shrimp. They just don’t go together. 

Now to address the final question - Have I no shame? Now this one is tricky because the question is a negative. My response would be, Yes, I have no shame, meaning that I possess ‘no shame’ – I’m shameless. If I were to answer No to this question I would be saying that I do not possess the entity known as ‘no shame’, which would indicate that conversely, I do possess the entity known as shame – I’m shameful. 

Have I given you a headache yet? Does the title, For The Love Of Vitriol, make sense to you now? It should. I’m torturing you and loving every minute of it. 

Hey! Don’t blame me! You’re the one who chose to read this! 

As long as I’ve got you on the edge, let’s talk a little about Norton, shall we? I’m guessing there’s a better than average chance that if you’re reading this commentary, you’re a card-carrying resident of the Town of Norton. 

Now I must confess, I’m no historian, but if I were, Norton would not be the subject of my first documentary on The History Channel. I’d more than likely pick another more captivating locale like Chartley, for instance. After all, Chartley is the gateway to Norton. 

I believe I’ve mentioned previously that I had relatives in both Norton and Chartley when I was a kid growing up in Mansfield. Some of them still live there, but I won’t use their names here. I don’t want them to have rocks thrown through their windows in retaliation for what I say here. It’s not their fault they’re related to me. It was a mere accident of birth. 

When my family visited my aunt and uncle in Chartley back in the day, my cousins, my brother and I would sit out on their front porch and play that game where you pick a color and then count cars passing by that match that color. Whoever got up to eleven first was the winner. If no one reached eleven cars on that particular day, we’d continue the game on our next visit. 

I loved that game! We played that game from the time I was about eight right up until I was 17 and no one ever won, though I did get up to four cars before I headed off to Western Massachusetts to start school. I had the highest score ever recorded in Chartley over a 10 year period. I was so proud! 

I thought I’d broken my own record and reached five cars at one point. It was a foggy summer’s night and it was difficult to see the street from my vantage point on my uncle’s porch. On that particular night, my color was gray. You can imagine my disappointment when it turned out that my last tally was actually a goat that had strayed from the next-door neighbor’s yard. 

Yup! Chartley was a happenin' place! 

One of the things I like best about Norton is that it separates where I now live, in Easton, from Attleboro. Kind of like a buffer; a DMZ [Demilitarized zone] of sorts. I know being seen as a buffer may seem a bit demeaning, but hey; it’s a job, and in this economy I’d think you’d be appreciative of the fact that you’re of any use at all. 

And one thing I find rather strange about Norton is that for long stretches along Route 123 there’s no way on God’s green earth I can get a cell signal. I’m not talking about dropped calls; I’m saying there’s no signal – period! None! 

I’d expect that to happen if I were cruising around up in the backwoods in Maine, but come on now; on Route 123 just a few miles up the street from my house? It’s almost 2012 and I can’t even get a cell signal on a major road! What’s up with that? It’s like I’m driving through the middle of the Bermuda Triangle! 

Yup! Norton marches to the beat of a different drummer. Most municipalities have postcards with a picture of their town hall on the front, or maybe a photo of a statue of one of the town’s founding fathers, or even a nice snapshot of the downtown area, but not Norton. Of all the things they might have chosen to represent their town on a postcard, to signify what their town is all about, to announce to the world, this is who we are - they chose the Norton Flea Market! 

Irony! 

Make it a great week! 

Author’s Note: Gossip columnist, author and songwriter, Elsa Maxwell said, “Laugh at yourself first, before anyone else can.”  

It’s a sign of healthy self-esteem to be able to laugh when you’re the brunt of the joke. I laugh at myself all the time and believe me, there’s plenty of material. It never runs out. 

From my family to yours – Merry Christmas! Happy Hanukkah! Happy New Year!   

Bob Havey is an Easton-based freelance writer and a consummate trouble-maker. His column, The Way I See It, runs every other Wednesday at Norton Patch and his column, "The View From Here", appears each Tuesday at Easton Patch and on Wednesday at Mansfield Patch.