Maine is the place to be if you want lobsters. But not Red Lobster restaurants.

This state’s got moderate Republicans in high public office. But no electable GOP conservatives.

And during the summer, there are hideous creatures in tightly clinging thong bathing suits. But nary a hideous creature clinging to the side of a building.

I can understand why Mainers aren’t interested in franchise seafood and being dictated to by the religious right. But I’m puzzled by our preference for the monstrosities who lie around on our sandy beaches, as opposed to monsters who hang around all year and are carved out of sandstone. Must have something to do with money.

Which is a roundabout way of noting that Maine comes up short when it comes to gargoyles. Real ones, anyway.

In 2004, the state’s only true ‘goyle was removed from its perch on the side of Hubbard Hall on the Bowdoin College campus in Brunswick. It had bat wings, vampire fangs, devil horns and all the other traditional attributes of its species. And like its relatives around the world, it suffered from an internal complication that proved fatal. The creature had deteriorated due to the freezing and thawing of the water that ran through its guts, because, like all true gargoyles, it was really a rain spout in disguise. After over a century of dribbling on passing scholars, it was in danger of dropping sizeable chunks of rock on them.

When Bowdoin announced the stone beast’s removal, it promised a replacement would be hoisted into its place within a year. But it actually took sculptor Walter Arnold three years to create a duplicate. And only when Arnold finished did I learn that gargoyle 2.0 was a fake.

Earlier this year, the reproduction assumed its position. On a nice day, it’s probably hard to tell it from the original. Same snarl. Same bad attitude. Only when it rains is the difference obvious. No longer does water run through it. And that means it’s not really a gargoyle.

The word gargoyle comes from the Latin gurgulio, which means windpipe, the same root that gave us gargle. These carvings first appeared in the Middle Ages, and their original purpose seems to have been to cover unsightly rain spouts on cathedrals. To justify this architectural whimsy, church historians have claimed the beasts were meant to remind sinners of the horrors of hell. But no one really knows why the original designers of the spout covers chose demonic creatures, other than that it was a more interesting concept than, say, cucumbers.

As Arnold, the creator of Bowdoin’s flying horror, put it on his Web site, “Gargoyles … have always given carvers and sculptors a chance to use their creativity, to explore the possibilities of stone and imagination. They free us from the limits imposed by most other types of carving, and this was especially true in the Middle Ages.”

Regardless of the reason for their existence, gargoyles became an established part of cathedral design, spreading across Europe and eventually reaching the New World. But not Maine. The great churches of the Pine Tree State are notably bereft of this traditional ornamentation. Whether it was Yankee austerity or rural poverty or a lack of esthetic appreciation for beasties from the nether regions, Mainers opted to skimp on satanic stoneware. Even Bowdoin, home of the state’s last gargoyle, wasn’t particularly enamoured with the species. A few years ago, Patricia Anderson, author of a book on the college’s architecture, told me Hubbard Hall was probably supposed to have a ‘goyle on either side of its entrance, as well as others on its back side, but only one of them was ever completed, whether due to financial constraints or a desire for asymmetricality remains unknown.

Which is not to say that Maine has no fantastical creatures adorning its architecture. Egyptian heads keep watch on patrons entering the Bangor Public Library, possibly reporting their reading preferences to the Department of Homeland Security.

On the elaborate trim around the front door of the Oxford Building on Portland’s Middle Street reside a pair of Maurice Sendak-like demons, one smiling and one frowning, and above the ugly blue awning overhead, a dragon is just visible, crawling through the leaves of some mystical plant.

In Portland City Hall plaza, creatures called green men inhabit the handles of the huge urns. Further downtown, art deco faces adorn the Fidelity Trust Building in Monument Square, cherubs dance on the Maine College of Art on Congress Street and mysterious visages stare from the Masonic Building across the street, as well as from an 1868 building on Free Street.

There’s an antique shop in downtown Hallowell with several monsters sitting on its roof and gables. They appear to be of more recent vintage than most of the shop’s wares, although, to be fair, they’re still older than Bowdoin’s ersatz creature.

And I’ve heard reports of a withered, angry face peering from a State House balcony, although this can probably be attributed to a disgruntled conservative Republican getting a breath of air.

Technically speaking, none of these things is a gargoyle. The correct term for fantastical figures that hang around on buildings, without concealing rain spouts, is a grotesque. If you don’t want to get too picky about it, any of these carvings will probably satisfy your desire to view gargoyles in their native habitat. If, however, you demand something closer to the real thing, there is an alternative, short of booking a flight to Paris or Prague.

You can visit Fairfield. This central Maine town’s single gargoylian attraction might not stack up to Notre Dame or Prague Castle, but given the exchange rate for Euros, the local architecture is a bargain.

In Memorial Park stands a 15-foot-tall fountain decorated with metal faces that spout water. Much of the fountain is new, the result of renovations completed about a year ago, but the gargoyle-like parts were salvaged from the decaying 1895 original. And in Town Hall, one of their brothers is on display, having been discovered in storage after the new fountain was completed. Even though these faces aren’t made of stone, and they don’t cover rain spouts, they’re as authentic as Maine gets these days when it comes to medieval monstrosities.

Unless you count conservative Republicans.

[[tagline]] Al Diamon’s column appears monthly. Grotesque comments may be e-mailed to [email protected].