Some people say that our national political discourse is out of control and filled, more than ever before, with the rancor and tension of partisan politics that threatens to destroy the fabric of our united nation.

Take, for example, this bit of tripe from today’s Portland Press Herald:

“If Sen. Olympia Snowe is really retiring from the U.S. Senate because she can’t stand the poisonous partisanship in Congress – and we have no reason to doubt her word on that score – then Maine is paying a terrible price for the rancor that has become business as usual in Washington, D.C.”

Still others say that Snowe’s departure signals the extinction of so-called “moderate” Republicans.

Hogwash!

We only need look just beyond Maine’s borders to find moderate Republicans, such as Senator Kelly Ayotte of New Hampshire or Senator Scott Brown of Massachusetts.

Not to mention that no one could reasonably say Lamar Alexander of Tennessee, Utah’s Orrin Hatch or John McCain are anywhere near Tea Party favorites.

Hatch was a close personal friend of the liberal lion, the late Senator Ted Kennedy, and they worked closely on several pieces of legislation.

If anything, there is far too much moderation in the Senate and not enough people to stand up and cry foul when necessary. But the media won’t tell you that.

Why? Well, have you ever watched C-SPAN? It’s more boring than watching paint dry.

More than 99.9 percent of the time, both parties in Congress are working cooperatively and doing a super-duper, stand-up job of figuring out how to further screw the people they supposedly represent.

The system is not broken. It’s fixed.

But the media likes to focus on the Rand Paul’s of the world, or the banality of Rep Joe Wilson (R-SC) who shouted, “You lie!” during a State of the Union Address by President Obama.

That kind of partisan hype makes for better Facebook updates and newspaper headlines than the recent bipartisan push to reauthorize the Defense Spending Act; or last month’s transferring of budget line-item veto power to the president, a scary proposition for all of us, depending on who is sitting in the Oval Office.

Did you see that in the newspaper or on your favorite blog?

And let us not forget what happened just a few days after the “history calls” moment, when Snowe voted along party lines to ultimately reject passage of the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act, more commonly known as Obamacare.

That nugget seemed especially important for Snowe to mention during last month’s Republican caucuses in Maine, where she was facing primary challenges from more conservative candidates.

Reportedly, Snowe votes along party lines nearly 75 percent of the time. Good for her! She’s a Republican, what do you expect? But does breaking ranks one out of four times make you a moderate? Please.

We have become a nation of sheep, bleating for civility and warm, fuzzy sentiment.

But what about Nancy Pelosi’s statements when the House was finally able to pass the controversial health care reform bill? We won…deal with it. Should Democrats be a bit more moderate and side more often with Republicans?

We conveniently forget the rancor that dominated the Continental Congress, the Burr-Hamilton duel, the partisanship that led to the Civil War, the impeachment of President Andrew Johnson, the communists-hunting era of Joe McCarthy or the vitriol expressed by Barry Goldwater, not to mention the more recent call for President Clinton’s impeachment.

Maine people, especially, should be mindful of those lessons and our place in history.

Look at how the GOP slung mud at Ed Muskie; or consider the wisdom of Margaret Chase Smith as she chastised McCarthy: “Have you no shame, sir?”

Instead of heeding the mindless, perfunctory analysis of media pundits, maybe we all should crack a history book every once in a while.

For a fun, yet historically accurate, reminder about our nation’s political discourse and the angry words used by our founding fathers, check out this video.

If you can’t find Biddeford Mayor Alan Casavant on Facebook, maybe you should have donated more to his campaign.

Actually, Casavant “took down” his “Biddeford Mayor Alan Casavant” page after learning that it violated city policy.

“After I learned that, I wanted to set a good example,” Casavant said. “So I immediately took it down.”

According to Casavant, the city is expected to review its computer policy in the next few days. The standing policy prohibits city officials and city employees from having websites or Facebook pages to discuss, promote or opine about city business.”

Casavant and other city officials and employees may, however, have their own personal page but it cannot be construed as an “official” page either by reference or inference.

For the seven people in the United States who are not friends with Alan Casavant on his personal Facebook, maybe you should send a friend request instead of making assumptions that you were banned.

Just sayin’….

It is Sunday morning, and I still cannot shake the groaning internal dialogue and the shivers that seized my spine less than 48 hours ago.

Maybe it was the photos: those black and white testaments to days of old, when men were men and felt invincible despite all evidence to the contrary.

Maybe it was the fruit punch or the company I was keeping on Friday night.

But whatever the reason, and regardless of the catalyst that triggered it, the ghosts were there and in full-force.

My mind drifted as I walked down Main Street in Biddeford under a cover of darkness sliced by a full-winter moon.

And it did not take long for the taunting to begin.

At first, it was just a collection of whispers; hard to distinguish above the din of passing cars and the music throbbing from an outdoor speaker at the Wonderbar Restaurant.

I tried to ignore the ghosts and their playful taunts, focusing my eyes on the young couple having dinner at a window table in Bebe’s Burritos, nodding to the young men who passed me on their way to the Oak and Axe.

But with each step along the sidewalk, the whispering became more defined and harder to ignore.

I kept my head down low, and took a long drag from my cigarette. I was on my way to meet Laura for dinner. I had neither the time nor the inclination to engage in this foolishness.

But the ghosts would not let go.

“It is a good night,” I heard one of them say. “Our city is back, there is life here.”

“Yas, baby,” another ghost responded between sips of Canadian Club whiskey from his hip flask. “We will not be forgotten or ignored by these punks.”

I pulled up my collar and steadied my course toward my waiting wife and the Chinese restaurant.

I could hear the sound of brawls from the Water Street tenement buildings, where tired mill workers were drinking warm Schmidt beers on a cold February night.

In a forgotten, smoke-filled, back room — in a building that no longer stands — Renald and Gilbert were arguing about Dempsey and playing their card game.

The stench of coal from the gasification plant was stifling. The second shift textile workers were counting the hours, and a line was gathering outside the Lightning Club, where young bucks combed their hair full of grease, and the school girls from St. Andre’s giggled with delight.

Further down the street, Sal Mineo’s name was illuminated on a marquee. The short-order cook from the Puritan — taking a quick cigarette break in an Alfred Street alleyway — nodded at me, before fading into the bricks of today’s reality.

I paused there for a moment — at the intersection of Alfred and Main Street, maybe a quarter-mile from the banks of the Saco River — feeling strangely content, despite my disquieting thoughts.

The ghosts — as many as 12 of them — kept walking, laughing as they continued down the street.

Only a few minutes prior I made an observation to others who also attended the opening of “The Way We Were” photo exhibit at the upper end of Main Street.

“When our economy worsens, our communities seem to become stronger,” I hypothesized. “Just like when the immigrants first came here in search of prosperity in the land of the free and the brave, we celebrate with one another and share common resources when not distracted by the lustre of individual gains.

“We know that we are okay, because we celebrate and commiserate with our neighbors, our friends and our peers.

“We are stronger, when we are together. We are better.”

Now, standing in the foyer of that Chinese restaurant, I could feel the warmth of the city streets.

And I could not help but think of my old friend Bob Dodge, a man I miss almost every day. A man who loved this city, the way a groom loves his bride on their wedding day.

It’s been three years since I’ve had the pleasure of seeing Bob’s infectious smile.

But I knew that Bob Dodge would be smiling tonight on the eve of La Fete d’ Hiver.

This kid who grew up in a Quimby Street triple-decker, left an unmistakable mark on his beloved hometown.

Who could be better to lead this community’s economic and community development efforts than a local boy  inspired by the Kennedy brothers and motivated by sheer passion and will?

I looked down the street, watching those laughing, joyful ghosts as they faded over the diminishing hill just beyond my view. “Hey, Bob,” I whispered . . . wondering if he was there.

Maybe it was my imagination. Maybe it was wishful thinking.

But I swear, he paused and turned back from his group, waving to me in the darkness.

“It’s okay, Randy” he shouted back. “Go have dinner, relax. Me and the boys will be back.”

And with that . . . the ghosts disappeared, fading into the mid-February darkness, and I was left only with the lingering words of French poet Arthur Rimbaud:

“Qu’il vienne, qu’l vienne! Les temps dont s’eprenne.”