Rooting For The Underdog: 10 Facts About Francisco Sclafani

If you’re only half-assed paying attention to our ever-heating Mayoral Race of Doom (we don’t blame you, there’s good TV on these days), you may be unaware of some of the underdog candidates facing elimination from November’s ballot after today’s preliminary election. Since the Big Three – Sefatia, Paul, and Greg – are getting the vast majority of attention, we here at The Clam Media Limited wanted to give our loud and trustworthy voice over to the folks with a little less household recognition. Everybody gets a voice, right? DEMOCRACY IN ACTION!

Our Candidates. Notice the man in the white suit and corsage. He had not been, to our knowledge, to a prom or wedding earlier in the evening. (Photo Kim Smith/ GMG)

Our Candidates. Notice the man in the white suit and corsage. He had not been, to our knowledge, to a prom or wedding earlier in the evening. (Photo Kim Smith/ GMG)

That’s why we chose to write our piece today on little-known, but certainly, uh, exceptional, candidate Francisco Sclafani, of Middle Street, or possibly Lookout Street, no one’s really 100% sure. Gloucester, anyway. If there’s one thing for sure, it’s that Mr. Sclafani has had some time to come up with very and intricate plans for Gloucester’s future. His first run for mayor was in 1995

Mr. Sclafani, whose definition of business formal includes "this white suit forever"

Mr. Sclafani, whose definition of business formal includes “this white suit forever” (Photo: Salem News)


Here’s ten factoids about this unconventional candidate you may not know:


  1. He has some solid reasons he’s running for mayor of a large city: picking up chicks, returning a maternity ward to at Addison Gilbert Hospital, and fixing potholes.
  2. He wants to desalinate ocean water, bottle it, and sell it to raise cash for the City.
  3. He wants to freeze-dry sewage and export it to third world countries for, you guessed it, cash for the city.
  4. He does not campaign door to door because “he is not built for long distance or for heat.” However, he exclaims that he is in excellent condition for his age, in case we have any qualms about his physical fitness to serve as an official.
  5. He has been proposed to six times. It is unclear by how many women.
  6. During debates, he has accused former City Councilwoman Jackie Hardy, who passed last year of cancer, of bribery.
  7. He writes his speeches on a typewriter and does not have a computer, probably unironically.
  8. In past elections where he has lost, he has asserted that his fallback plan if he did not win the election was to be a partner in a disco.
  9. He has planned to write a salt-free cookbook.
  10. He has written a self-published book called Breach of Faith. The author’s description of the book’s riveting, totally logical and appropriate plot is such:

Five cowards named Peter Russo,Samuel Sanfilippo, David Stelluto,Tomas J. Mathews, and David Bader: all paid assasin’swho live in Gloucester Mass. These five cowards attempted twice in thesame night to gangbeat me, only to leave me for deadin a pool of my own blood. The double gangbeating was a hate crime which left me with numeroushuman bite marks on my face, hands, and inner thighs. The numerous blows to my head by Peter Russowould have killed an ordinary man, but would cripple me for over twenty years,living in a state of limbo. My two bloodbrother’s and their wives, Maureen “shiteater” redman and Helen “shiteater” Sclafani stole my legally notorizedshares in the family business, and forged their own names on them, all thewhile swindling me out of million’s of dollars worth of real estate, dividingthe money between themselves, and their money laundering children, businesspartners, and an endless list of golddiging whores.TRUE LOVE IS WHEN ANOTHER PERSON’S NEED’S AREMORE IMPORTANT THAN YOUR OWN. LIVE EACHDAY AS IF IT WERE YOUR LAST. I can notbelieve my two brother’s who I loved at one time, would betray our love forpaper money. Tell my brother he did thefirst time he lied to me.

So as you head to the polls today, make sure you look inside yourself and think, “Maybe we really do need to freeze-dry our human waste.” You never know.


Desperate Houseguests: A Scatological Tribute to Maternal Love

I have a friend and neighbor named Andy who manages almost daily to fill me with the rankest of jealousy.  It’s not so much because he’s tall, handsome, and socially adept—as these are traits that lie safely beyond my reach.  Rather, it’s because he boasts an astonishing repertoire of useful skills—and each week, it seems, he picks up a new one that I’ve never even heard of.  I might swing past Andy’s place to fetch a pair of boots he’s volunteered to resole for me, and there he is in his basement, squinting behind a jeweler’s loupe, having decided that—really—any man worth his salt can facet his own rubies.

Where my friend really shines is in the field of home improvement and repair.  Last year he added an insulated mudroom to his 3-bedroom house in downtown Gloucester.  Which is to say, he planned and executed each stage of construction, from pouring the concrete foundation to installing reclaimed brass hooks for the tiny pastel coats of his daughters.  One day when I’d stopped by to admire his progress, Andy said, “Since you’re here, can you help me out with something?”  For a moment I got excited, believing I’d been called upon to survey blueprints and grunt in manly contemplation.  But he just pointed to a thick wooden post and explained with great precision: “I need to move that over there.”  Long ago Andy realized that, for the sake of everyone involved, I should be treated like a common draft animal.

HotForHandyman[A semi-autobiographical account by one of Andy’s many admirers]

I try to compensate for my total ineptitude around the house by keeping every surface perfectly spotless.  I approach tasks like sponging the baseboards with the intensity of a SEAL team maneuver, and my wife must warn me not to get overzealous with my scrubbing, lest I dislodge a fixture or furnishing I’m incapable of repairing.  Indeed, for a few weeks now, a loose hinge has turned one of our toilet seats into a magician’s trapdoor.  But I can patiently await someone like Andy to come and fix it, confident that when guests do plunge into the bowl, their bottoms emerge as clean and uncorrupted as a hand from a baptismal font.

Our recent guests have included two spry retirees from Virginia: my mother and father.  They are good and low-maintenance people.  But their annual visits last a week—and thus occasion special preparations, such as stocking the liquor cabinet and stashing the knives in hard-to-reach places.  This being their first summer stay in our new apartment, I decided to go all out with the cleaning.  In particular, I would spruce up the outdoor spaces, where someone might want to adjourn, cocktail in hand, in the aftermath of this or that disastrous political discussion.

One of the biggest tasks would be the roof.  It’s a large square of composite decking that—like other high points in Gloucester—functions as a roost-cum-bombing range for the local seagulls.  Exacerbating our situation is the nearby Cape Ann Museum, a permanent gull encampment whose shit-slick gables should be negotiated only with crampons and an industrial respirator.  Notwithstanding the birds’ filth and noise, I felt we had settled into a peaceful détente.  Every week or so, as splatters gradually rendered the deck uninhabitable, I would haul buckets of soapy water through a narrow hatch and scour the hot planks with a brush resembling a scalped hedgehog.  It isn’t such a bad job.  There’s always a breeze, and the views of the inner harbor are fine.  Moreover, by studying the deposits for variations in color, texture, and viscosity, I’d become something of a pioneer in the field of seagull digestion.  For instance, there seems to be a species of clam that sours the colon of an average gull, yielding an ochre custard that, when left to bake in the August sun, must be pried off with a putty knife.

On the evening before my parents’ arrival, I had completed this task.  And as I arranged new flowerpots and admired the immaculate surface, the cries of the gulls overhead sounded comforting, almost melodic.  But the next morning, when I cracked the roof hatch with a watering pail in hand, I heard a different sort of cry: keening, insistent, and very close. I pulled myself onto the deck and turned to see a runty, gray gull standing and squawking amid a tract of unholy foulness. It was as though the visionaries at Shoney’s had developed a new type of seafood restaurant—call it an ‘all-you-can-shit buffet’—in which drums of laxative aioli invite patrons to dine and crap in the same booth.


I lurched toward the gull, crunching discarded clamshells and calling him dreadful and illogical things.  Whatever vices the creature might have engaged in during his life, it seems unlikely that he was, in any meaningful sense, a “cocksucker.”  Despite my abuse, he just sidled away into a corner, leaving a set of dainty white footprints.  On cue, a massive gull swooped down and perched behind him on the rail, clutching in her beak the butt of a shopworn baguette.  This, I realized now, was the mother—and the gray fellow her spawn, no longer a chick but not yet old enough to ravage trash bags on his own. I broke into a fit of stomping and clapping, like a participant in some kind of disturbed hoedown. But it took three blundering charges to stir the mother from her roost and chase the juvenile into clumsy flight.

With my parents speeding down the Mass Pike, I had no other choice but to drop everything and clean the deck once again.  Brushing away dismembered crabs, I was reminded of my own adolescence—in particular, the squalor of my bedroom and my mother’s efforts to coax a growth spurt by purchasing endless quantities of frozen buffalo wings from Costco.  I was sure that if I looked hard enough I would find, under a loose piece of decking, a collection of beak-and-plumage magazines: “Gulls Gone Wild” or perhaps something kinkier.

Other chores beckoned.  And I moved into high gear—not considering for even a moment that, with their squat discovered, mother and son would return.  But sure enough, thirty minutes later we were locked in our second faceoff, and neither bird was any more inclined to budge.  This chutzpah, I realized, was my biggest sticking point with the pair.  I’ve been forced to dwell alongside other pests—most notably, in Houston, Texas, where the American cockroach can reach the size of an Almond Joy.  On one occasion, I found such a specimen on my kitchen counter, standing astride a scrap of endive.  It was large enough that I could see its neck articulate and hear its jaws work, like a small, clean-shaven yak.  Still, when I flipped the light on, the roach skittered away, aware on some level of its trespass.  These seagulls, on the other hand, acted like the roof deck’s rightful occupants.  Sure, when our monthly budget gets tight, a sublease sounds like a good idea.  But I would draw the line at a ravenous and incontinent gull, no matter the size of the security deposit.

After I’d shooed the birds once again, I realized I needed a plan for ongoing deterrence.  My first idea, a blazing palisade of tiki torches, seemed reasonable enough—but I was running out of time.  What do people use to scare away birds?  As I looked down at Andy’s house, just next door, I knew he’d have the perfect answer—probably an eco-friendly tincture of herbs he could grind by mortar and pestle in the corner of his basement that doubles as an apothecary shop.

As I brooded on my friend’s sweeping competence, I was suddenly reminded of a lark he had orchestrated last summer, a prank that enlisted his mastery of a zoom lens.  It’s a cliché, really.  One minute, I’m hiking with four guys to the bottom of the Grand Canyon, and the next I’m in a photo shoot, wearing only a wooden sign the National Park Service had installed for nobler purposes.  “Sensitive Area,” it read. “Keep Out.”  Perhaps it goes without saying that some Irish whiskey was involved.  But honestly, even if I had been sober, I never would have imagined that my friends would pay to have the best shot enlarged and turned into a life-sized cardboard cut-out of startling clarity.

This semi-nude doppelganger was unveiled a few months later, when the hiking party reassembled for a wedding in Maine.  Specifically, it was placed in the shadowy hall opposite the room where my wife and I were sleeping.  So that at 2AM, when she slipped out to use the toilet, she believed she was in the throes of a complete psychological breakdown.  During the rest of the weekend, Fake Adam (or, “Fadam,” as he was dubbed) found his way into a variety of other compromising situations.  Truly, I cannot overstate how unsettling it is to discover, as you rub your sleepy eyes and peel back the shower curtain, a second undressed version of yourself—this one not clutching a bar of Irish Spring.

Keeping my friends’ creativity and irresponsibility in mind, I thought it critical that Fadam not fall into the wrong hands.  So after the wedding he rode home without complaint in the trunk of our Honda.  Later, while wrestling him into the back of our walk-in closet, I caught my wife looking at us rather dubiously.  “What?” I said.  And in a rare moment of foresight: “You never know when a fellow like him might come in handy.”

As far as scarecrows go, what Fadam lacked in three-dimensionality, he more than made up for with verisimilitude.  Honestly, if you think about those classic, straw-filled effigies—with their floppy hats and ill-defined faces—it’s a wonder that farmers succeed in harvesting any corn at all.  Still, to be effective, Fadam needed to establish a sustained and credible presence on the roof.  Thus, I had to position and secure the cardboard so that an errant gust of wind wouldn’t catch him broadside, flinging him into the middle of the street—or a child’s backyard birthday party.  This was accomplished by means of a phone cord the previous tenants had abandoned.  Wrapped and strapped to a black metal chimney at the center of the deck, Fadam looked to the human eye like an actor in a gay bondage flick.  Someone who, minutes before, had rung a doorbell—then asked the eager conclave if they’d ordered one hot Italian grinder.  But evidently the pair of gulls saw him differently, and they kept a wide berth.

fadamOn the second morning of my parents’ stay, I was enjoying a quiet moment on the deck when I heard someone padding up the stairs to join me.  Naturally, it was my mother who popped through the hatch, bringing along a glass of V8 and her broad streak of conservatism.  I watched her eyes settle on Fadam, who had the decency to present his plain cardboard back.

“What’s that?” she asked, with the bright innocence of her Midwestern upbringing.

Taking a deep breath, I introduced her to my twin—then diverted her attention with a clarification of Fadam’s purpose.  This, I supposed, was less than self-evident.

My mother’s eyes got very wide. And I braced for a tart assessment of my scheme—which, after all, carried a non-zero chance of landing me on the state registry for sex offenders.

But all at once, she broke into a smile. “My boy,” she said. “Always so clever—and handy.” Despite their striking inaccuracy, I received these scraps of praise like some other son might welcome week-old bread—or a regurgitated clam.

In return, I offered my mom a chair whose sightline was G-rated.

“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” she said, shrugging and sitting across from Fadam.  “How many times did I change your underpants?”

Far above, the diaper-less gulls wheeled and cried out.  I wondered where the pair of interlopers was now, and suddenly I couldn’t help but feel a little guilty about my anti-bird crusade.  After all, it was just instinct that had brought them to our roof, a mother’s desire to protect her young from all those taller, handsomer gulls with more practical skills.

I hoisted my coffee mug in my mom’s direction, but she seemed lost in a lingering appraisal of the harbor.  Or maybe, twenty years later, she was registering—in the ample curve of my flounder-white thighs—that all those frozen wings hadn’t gone to waste.  It didn’t matter.  I proposed a wordless toast to the dedication of parents everywhere—without whom we might not have learned much of anything.  Without whom we might still be squawking in our own shit.

A visitor’s guide to Gloucester Harbor Etiquette

by Josh Turiel

Good morning, Clam Nation. Most of you know me here as the Clam’s representative from Over The Bridge. Well, besides that and my work as a Actual Elected Official™, I am also a member of the boating community – being the proud owner of an ancient 25’ powerboat that I keep in my home port of Salem.


As a boat owner, one learns the etiquette of how to behave properly while boating. For instance, you should learn the boundaries of a harbor’s no-wake zone and always keep your speed below 5 knots (a knot is a mile that took steroids to add bulk). You should always give way to a vessel under sail, or one that is less maneuverable than you are. Blasting your horn once when leaving a dock is proper, and three short blasts indicate backing up (mainly ignored by small boats).


In my travels for fun and the pursuit of fish, I’ve learned certain rules also apply in different areas. Today I’d like to share a few of the things I’ve learned about boating in and around Gloucester Harbor, with explanations as needed.


Rule number 1: WE REALLY NEED THIS FISH!!!


Explanation: Not only are commercial fishermen and people who think they are commercial fishermen all over the place, they’re in a hurry. Some of them have decided that the next great catch is right in the middle of the channel, too – and they couldn’t care less that you’re trying to transit.


Rule number 2: Kayaking is a great and healthy fad.


Explanation: It is customary in Gloucester to speed up when you see kayaks nearby, in order to provide a wake for them to enjoy. This textural element eliminates the boredom kayakers experience when paddling on an otherwise smooth ocean, and their shouts of “Thanks. Thanks a lot.” are not sarcastic at all.


Rule number 3: Make fellow boaters aware of your presence.


Explanation: It’s been explained to me by a reliable native that one should approach at a high speed, whilst standing nude on the bow and broadcasting “Ride of the Valkyries.” Also be drinking. Sounds reasonable.


Rule number 4: When cruising at night, don’t forget to blast your music.


Explanation: Since you’re out on the water and away from everyone, you can really pump out every decibel that boat stereo can produce without worrying that you might wake the neighbors. After all, if you can’t hear them yelling from shore to turn it down, they can’t hear you. This also has the wonderful effect of making yourself noticeable at times where being nude on the bow just doesn’t work.


Rule number 5: Bridges were made to be open.


Explanation: There’s no reason to queue up at the Blynman Bridge. Motorists in Gloucester love to wait 20 minutes so you can slip in all by yourself. Think of the things that they throw at you while you pass as the confetti of love and welcome.


Rule number 6: The Inner Harbor is a welcoming place.


Explanation: People in working boats like nothing more than to be visited by Muffy and Skip while they are busy loading or unloading, or trying to get in or out of the harbor so they can work. They love to stop and explain their chores to the passers-by, and the larger the yacht that pulls up the bigger the tip should be given for their enchanting sea tales and salty language.


Also, a few hints about the sights you’ll see there: the beautiful sailboat with the screams coming from it is not a secret sex dungeon. It’s just the residence of one of our favorite local entrepreneurs. Be aware of drones flying near Rocky Neck (it’s science!) or any time there’s a local event of note. The Clam has a number of drone enthusiasts among us. And a tip on fuel – come well-stocked. Marine gas is always more expensive than mainland gas. And Gloucester gas is the priciest of all.


And one last thing to bring up about procedure. I consulted with Clameditor Jim Dowd as I prepared this piece. He told me that the proper way to enter Gloucester Harbor was to, and I quote:


“Come in under flying topgallants, Salute the Fort with starboard guns, dip flag, display pennants, pipe aboard the Mayor and her retainers. All ratings in dress uniform, man-jacks in Sunday wear.”


I’m no googin, but I’m pretty sure that’s about 90% made up. Or it may be a Gloucester thing. I’m not certain.


Keeping this local knowledge in mind should help you greatly in your navigation of scenic Gloucester. I encourage more tips in the comments, so we can produce an updated copy of this later on.

Nerdy Clams Need to Know, Part II

Nerdy Clams Need to Know, Part Two: MC Lars
by Len Pal, Clamrespondent and Co-Host of MC Hawking’s Podcore Nerdcast

It’s been a while since the first installment of “Nerdy Clams Need to Know”, in which I discussed the novel Ready Player One, the Fluxx series of card games, and the music of MC Frontalot. I promised that in the future I’d talk about Jim Butcher’s Dresden Files series of books, a game called The Resistance, and the music of Schaffer the Darklord. And I’ll still do all of that eventually, but not today.

Today I want to talk about MC Lars.


MC Lars created a style he calls “post-punk laptop rap”, using punchy guitar riffs and punk samples to drive his energetic lyrics, but the factors that really make Lars stand out in the nerdcore genre are his frequent use of literary themes and his extremely positive, upbeat attitude. Today’s hip-hop artists frequently rap about drugs and alcohol, violence, and sex. Lars raps about growing up, learning, counterculture, and quite frequently about great literature.

Yes, I said literature. I’m sure you’ve seen movies where some clever teacher manages to get inner city kids to appreciate Shakespeare by reading it to a beat as if it were a rap. Bonus points if you watched Free Enterprise all the way to the end and saw William Shatner’s rap adaptation of Julius Caesar. The idea of lit-hop isn’t all that new, but there’s a difference between doing it and doing it well.

MC Lars does lit-hop extremely well. Like, “get your kids listening to it in middle school” well. After listening to Lars sing Hey There Ophelia, they’ll want to read Hamlet. Listening to Ahab will inspire them to read Moby Dick. And of course MC Lars’ favorite is Edgar Allen Poe; he brings several of Poe’s poems to life, and his track Flow Like Poe provides the best explanation of iambs, diameter, tetrameter, and pentameter I’ve ever heard, deconstructing rhythm and meter in simple and fun terms.

But there’s more to Lars than just lit-hop. As a true DIY indie artist, MC Lars raps about the music industry in tracks like Signing Emo, Download This Song, Straight Outta Stockholm, and What Is Hip-Hop? In Hot Topic Is Not Punk Rock, iGeneration, No Logo, and Hipster Girl, he raps about trends and subcultures. And what nerdcore artist doesn’t rap about video games? O.G. Original Gamer and Guitar Hero Hero lovingly illustrate that you can take gaming a little too seriously. Nerdy enough for you?

“Sure, Len – good enough. But why are you telling us this right now, instead of that other stuff you promised?” Well, two reasons, really.

First, because his newest album, The Zombie Dinosaur LP, will be released on October 6th.

I’ve been listening to The Zombie Dinosaur LP for about a week now. It has everything you want from an MC Lars album: Sublime with Rome (Is Not the Same Thing as Sublime) calls out the music industry for sending out what’s left of bands after the loss of key band members. Hipster Mom is a follow-up to Hipster Girl, showing how family can impact the hipster lifestyle.

Now that you’re addicted to lit-hop, you’ll enjoy Dragon Blood (inspired by Game of Thrones), Forgot About Jack (about Kerouac and On the Road), and Never Afraid (about being an avid reader since childhood). Triforce is a Legend of Zelda inspired introspective look at growing up and embracing power, wisdom, and courage. And If I Were a Jedi (That Would be Hella Awesome) and The Ballad of Hans Moleman will appeal to fans of Star Wars and The Simpsons.

And second, he’ll be playing at Thunder Road in Somerville, MA on October 11th.

You have between now and then to fall in love with his music, see the show, and probably even take a selfie with him afterwards! I saw MC Lars last year at The Middle East (along with mc chris and Spose) and can honestly say it was one of the most fun live shows I’ve ever attended. This is The Joyful Smiles tour, and I’m certain it will live up to its name.

So what now? As I’ve said before, I can’t really sell you on a musician just by listing song titles. You’re going to have to take the next step yourself. Go onto YouTube and search for MC Lars. Scroll through the results and find some of the titles I mentioned above, and then some I haven’t. If you like it (as I’m sure you will), go to iTunes and buy his albums. (Nerdy rappers gotta eat.) I’ll be back again with more nerducation in the future. Until then, stay out of trouble, you Nerdy Clams.


Questionable Campaign Decisions of Each of Gloucester’s Mayoral Candidates

There has been an ongoing semi-serious discussion in one of the Clam’s secret chat-lairs around how to attract media attention to the Mayoral Race here. It has all the elements of a hit reality show: Big personalities, political intrigue, Star Trek fandom, lunatics. The only thing holding us back from reaching out to a producer is finding a sure-fire mechanism to keep the per-episode fee from the city’s “Free Cash” fund, which has made the budgeting process a living nightmare.

Instead, as a public service and without endorsing anyone, we though we’d provide a handy guide to some of the more amusingly questionable campaign decisions made by the folks running for Gloucester’s highest office and in return you can help us out when, in retribution, the next mayor re-zones the lots behind our house as a “Beach Seaweed Compost Site.” Deal?

Great, then let’s Clamsplore!

Greg Verga

Greg is running a generally mellow campaign. He’s an out Trekkie and we like that. But he’s running against the Roman Legionesque ground game of Sefatia Romeo Theken and will need to convert a lot of her voters to win. Question: does the Starship Enterprise truck being driven outside the confines of the Horribles Parade help or hinder? Discuss.

We'll give him credit, he nailed the "bold" in "To boldy go..."

We’ll give him credit, he nailed the “bold” in “To boldy go…”

UPSIDE: Characterizing the opposition as “The Romeoulan Empire” would be epically awesome.

Paul McGeary

Paul has held the position of interim mayor on and off for a few years and president of the City Council. He knows the job and is pretty wonky, which is good. But he’s never run an opposed campaign and all over town are these:

Can someone explain the gecko here? Anyone?

The Flintstones are confusing enough, but can someone explain the gecko here? Anyone?

No dis to whomever does the handmade signs, we firmly believe they are a folk-art native to Gloucester and are fascinated with them as such. But do they make more people want to vote for Paul? Magic Eight-ball says: “Reply hazy, try again later.”

The upside: Demonstrates fiscal responsibility by saving on printing costs.

Mayor Sefatia Romeo Theken

I would not be at all surprised if the physicists at CERN someday use the Hadron Supercollider to discover a ‘Sefatia Particle,’ which in the standard model will be the carrier of the “strong vote force.” If you look at historical totals the woman attracts votes the way my navy blazer collects pet hair. Her greatest weakness was the decision to break her promise not to run for mayor this cycle, thus putting her trust into question. Therefore, was the following image a good idea?

Jazz hands a plus, though

Um, Your Honor? Ms. Mayor? We’re back here…behind you.

Most often campaigns choose to show the front of the candidate where the face is typically located. Additionally, seeing the back of the candidate arms outstretched to a crowd gives off an…um…we don’t know…

Anyone else? Just me?

Anyone else? Just us?

Upside: Gloucester could do with some loaves and fishes right about now.

Francisco Sclafani

Oooh boy. Where to start? So, we’ve lived here a couple of decades and have to admit never having heard of this guy until this year. We actually saw the picture of the last mayoral debate and had to ask, “Did a guy heading to the reception hall from a wedding accidentally wander into the Sawyer Free Library trying to buy some smokes, somehow winding up at the candidates’ table?”


All the way on the right. With the corsage.

This guy is a treasure trove of whack. Check out this 2007 GDT article on his for a summary of the cray.

Your beloved The Clam intends to do an entire post on the bulk-freighter of lunacy that is this particular fringe candidate, including excerpts from from his absolutely loonboots 400+ page memoir “Breach of Faith” which we will quote at length and you will collapse into a drool-soaked coma from laughing, trust us.

Note to readers: Do you have a full copy of this book? Get it to us and we will read it in its entirety and post about it, probably while drunk!

Upside: If you are one of those men who just wants to watch the world burn, look no further.

Dan Ruberti

Mr. Ruberti has been running for mayor as long as I can remember. We used to love seeing his floats in the Horribles, which would always somehow incorporate his K-Car and some up-cycled scrap he’d found like an old carousel or a UFO he’d made from auto parts. His running for mayor became less funny a few years ago when it forced an unnecessary run-off election costing the city tens of thousands of dollars. I’m all for quirky, but that was pothole-repair and textbooks the city lost just to support his perennial joke candidacy.

“It’s not a joke!” you say? “How dare we?” you say? Well that leads us to Mr. Ruberti’s highlighted questionable electoral decision for election 2015. Apparently candidate Ruberti confirmed he’d be attending the September 3 debate at the Sawyer Free, but never showed up.

Clint Eastwood debating Dan Ruberti

Clint Eastwood debating Dan Ruberti

Look, we’re down with the rogue candidacy bit. But it’s not cool to have people accommodate you in the actual process that real candidates use to define how they would lead our city and not even bother to show up. We hate to say it, but if we are going to have more than one novelty candidate per cycle we need have to have a separate debate for them in a bar or something. There they can yell about chemtrails or how the red Chinese are infiltrating our water supply or how jet fuel can’t make steel burn or whatever, but at least not impede the rest of the process.

Upside: The Clam volunteers to moderate.