Perhaps you’re one of those people who thinks there are more important matters to discuss this week, such as who is winning the race for worst gubernatorial candidate of 2010 (it’s currently a five-way tie, unless you count the write-ins, in which case it’s too complicated to be sorted out), or whether students should be allowed to “grind” at high-school danc

As you approach Portland from almost any direction, it’s the first thing you notice, a welcoming indication you’re about to enter Maine’s most populous municipality.

There’s bad graffiti on everything.

If this state had reasonable laws, there’d be some kind of creativity test before failed art students were allowed to buy cans of spray paint. At a minimum, they’d be able to demonstrate they possess more originality than, say, the producers of TV reality shows.

I’m a big fan of human skulls. In fact, I carry one with me wherever I go.

If that seems a bit morbid to you, I apologize. But I’m attached to this particular skull. Literally.

It was part of the option package my parents bought before I was born. Without it, I’m afraid my head would get all floppy, like a politician’s.

You can hit delete on all those phony e-mails about helping a Nigerian prince transfer his fortune to a bank in the United States. You can slam the door on fraudulent contractors offering to spread sealant that’s actually black paint on your driveway. You can even close all your offshore hedge fund accounts, and give your ill-gotten gains away to bogus charities (“I’m calling from the American Society to Prevent Excessive Nostril Mucous”).

Because when it comes to separating gullible people from their valuables, there’s a much better method.

Perhaps you’ve wondered why the insects that live in white pine trees never get the flu.

It’s no wonder nobody in Portland ever has sex. Too much art, culture, festivals, nightlife, sporting events. Not to mention the Portland Water District’s policy of adding saltpeter to the water supply.

But there may be hope for the withered libidos of the state’s most populous city.

I’m not at all surprised this happened. I’m more surprised this sort of thing doesn’t go on all the time.

On Sept. 7, Maine State Police were summoned to the southbound lane of Interstate 295 in Brunswick after several motorists reported seeing a naked, middle-aged man walking south in the breakdown lane.

The man was said to be wearing nothing but a “bushy beard.”

I lead a sheltered life here in the hinterlands of western Maine. I don’t go clubbing on Wharf Street in Portland’s Old Port (latest advertising slogan: Now With Far Fewer Chances of Getting Arrested).

On August 11, the French Press Eatery in Westbrook held a grand reopening to celebrate its renovations, which included a bar and accommodations to serve dinner.

Three days later, the place closed.

The co-owner, James Tranchemontagne, said he didn’t have enough cash to keep the restaurant operating, thereby making himself eligible for the BP-Worst-Advance-Planning-Since-The-Gulf-Oil-Spill Award.

Several years ago, after a Red Sox game, a friend and I were eating prime rib at Durgin-Park in Boston, back before the place became a theme-park version of itself. Seated next to us at the long table was a tourist from Ohio, who told me he was making his first visit to New England. Naturally, he felt compelled to order the steamed lobster.

Big mistake. Here’s why: