Three guys and a ladder

A perfect example of how things are done differently in Boston than in New Orleans:

Let's say you're driving down a street in Boston that is lined with old, overhanging trees, Melville Avenue in Dorchester for instance, and the branches need pruning.  This requires the following equipment:  A cherry picker to get into the high branches, a dump truck to collect the refuse, a pickup truck with lights to block off traffic, cones and signs to demarcate the work zone.  Each worker will be assigned cups of Dunkin' Donuts coffee.

Besides a man with a saw in the cherry picker, there would be a couple of extra personnel, let's say three but more probably five, to staff the operation on the ground when the branches come down.  One man would do the actual work while the others monitor the coffee supply.  There would be one supervisor at all times to make sure everything goes according to plan and one additional supervisor to stop in and monitor progress.  Of course there would also be a police officer, officially there to direct traffic but his or her time will mostly be spent on a cell phone or just enjoying the shade while watching the progress.

We were driving down Prytania Street this morning in front of Touro Infirmary where such a pruning operation was going on the New Orleans way.  The whole outfit consisted of three guys and two ladders.  One ladder was 24 feet tall and the other was a 12 foot model.  One guy was the saw man, climbing up and down the ladders.  One guy collected the branches as they fell and stacked them on the sidewalk.  The last guy directed traffic while holding the ladders.

We passed again after an hour and the crew had moved a little further down the street.  There was no evidence of any accidents and work was proceeding apace.

Sing along with Dot

Sing along with every dandy, bloke, schoolmarm, spinster, cripple, thug, harlot, tyke and babe that calls Dorchester home!  You know the tune...

Dorchester Man!

Dorchester Man!

Does what no other Bostonian can!

Is he strong?  Listen Bud,

He's got puddingstone in his blood!

Hey there!

Look out for the Dorchester Man!

Can he afford a loaf of bread?

Take a look overhead:

Wherever there's a tightrope,

He always speaks the right trope,

He always walks a fine line

Always just at the right time,

That makes him the Dorchester Man!

In the gloom of night,

At the scene of a crime,

At the speed of a stop light,

He arrives just in time

(to stop one not to commit one)!

Dorchester Man!

Dorchester Man!

Does what no Allston habitue can!

High degrees, he's ignored

Community is his reward!

He finds his thrills on the sidewalk!

He appreciates some straight talk!

He doesn't have any hang-ups,

He's had his share of bang-ups,

Wherever there's a tight spot,

He knows there's a home in the big Dot,

That's why they call him the Dorchester Man!

I did a pastiche on the same theme just seven months ago.  I don't mind returning to the same material to polish it up though.  This version is different and I think much better.  You decide.

Viva  Dot.

Schrodinger's Dorchester

Bright boys live in Dorchester.  You can read by the light of their dreams.

Your street address won't predict your destiny, but your zip code will.  If you reside in Dorchester, good things wait while you catch up to what your future holds.

Sharp sisters live in Dorchester.  There is the teenager just becoming giddily aware of the power that resides in her body and brain.  There is the middle-aged matron whose experience has made her patient and smart as well as strong and sturdily, solidly, stolidly, unmistakably beautiful.  There is the wrinkled seer who has seen everything that has come before and still welcomes tomorrow, knowing that tomorrow, while similar, will be better than every day that came before.  Life pulses in Dorchester, Mass.

It takes a keen intellect familiar with the surroundings to cut through bull feathers and poppycock.  The people of Dorchester know how to do that.  They aren't fooled by politicians' promises.  They aren't fooled by bait or switch.  The people of Dorchester know their neighborhood like Einstein knew physics.  It's instinctive.  Like Schrodinger's cat, Dorchesterites purr in front of their hearths, contented to say the least.

Smart Boys Live in Dorchester by whaleheadking
Many tee shirt designs available at Zazzle

Skirt Alert!!

Tweedledum careened into the Peppermint Squad's garage that is conveniently, if secretly, located off Codman Square. He killed the engine and shouted to all who could hear: "We've got D-cup Skirt Alert on Melville Street!" It was Friday evening and things were slow in Dorchester's motor scooter community, owing to the rain and all.

Cherrypicker was reading the Financial Times. She looked up and asked, "What are the details?"

Tweedledum stood at attention while addressing the night's shift leader. He said, "A woman approximately 5'6" tall and 145 lbs was seen on a Tomos Streetmate in the vicinity of Shawmut Station. She was heading west wearing a full face helmet and travelling approximately 25 mph under slippery conditions. Peepeye is following her awaiting further instructions."

Cherrypicker asked, "If the subject is wearing a full face helmet, how do you know he or she is female."

Tweedledum grinned. "There's no mistaking the gender in this case ma'am. This is a D-cup alert."

Bella Donna also happened to be on duty on Friday. She rolled out of her beanbag chair and said, "Oh for the love of Pete! Do we have to go on anther bra measuring patrol? Isn't the Pepppermint Squad about treating all motorscooterists as equals? This is just demeaning. You didn't accept me for membership because of my female attributes and Cherrypicker here, no offense, Shift Leader, is no lady. Let's let this subject pass through Dorchester unmolested without ogling her."

Cherrypicker looked Bella Donna up and down. She looked at Tweedledum, who had a mischevious gleam in his eye. She looked at the other members manning the clubhouse this rainy, Friday night. She made an executive decision. Cherrypicker said, "Donna's right. Show some respect to a lady. She doing twenty-five on a rainy night. She doesn't need us bothering her. She's got enough to look out for. Signal Peepeye to desist his bivouac."

Tweedledum went to the Peppermint Squad's official cell phone and tapped out a message in code. He went back to Cherrypicker's desk and stood at attention. He said, "Your orders have been executed." Cherrypicker waved him away and said, "Why don't you reconnoiter with Peepeye and bring us back some rotis from Upham's Corner?" Tweedledum said, "Aye-aye," and mounted his motor scooter to brave the elements again.

When Tweedledum had gone, Bella Donna looked at Cherrypicker. She said, "It would be nice to see how a Tomos Streetmate handles in inclement weather."

Cherrypicker said, "Hindsight is twenty-twenty and I wouldn't go faster than fifteen on a night like tonight."

Cherry Pie

Subject: Farrah Mint. Age: 27. Height: 65". Weight: 137 lbs in full gear including full face helmet. Mount: Silver 2004 Kymco People 150.

When Farrah Mint was inducted into the Peppermint Squad in the spring of 2006, the other members bestowed a fitting code name on her. Ms. Mint first encountered the squad while they were patrolling Blue Hill Avenue ranking burrito shops. Intrigued by the pack of motor scooters steering in tight formation, Ms. Mint pulled her People 150 into the rear of the line and followed to el Munchito Express on the corner of Morton Street. Introductions were made and after a period of probation and indoctrination, Ms. Mint was invited to join this jolly fellowship.

Ms. Mint is a militant, lesbian feminist. Her scooter is festooned with stickers that trumpet her interests, proclivities and beliefs. She doesn't live in Dorchester. Her home is in the Allston section of Boston, on the other side of the city. When she attends Peppermint Squad rallies she usually has a companion holding on tightly and it is rarely the same companion twice. Farrah Mint likes the company of students from the Berklee Music School. She stops by Berklee's neighborhood and entices new acquaintances when en route to Peppermint Squad hijinx. She uses the lure of motorscootering adventure as bait and drives like a madwoman so that her passengers have to squeeze the driver with all their might. Haven't we all done this more than once?

In Dorchester, while on official squad business, Farrah Mint is known as Cherrypicker. The name is proudly embroidered on her jacket.

One day at the squadhouse, Peanut Jones was once again reapainting the legshield of his little Metropolitan. Cherrypicker pulled into the bay door, kicked down her stand, shed her helmet and coughed at the fumes from Peanut's spray can. "Peanut," she said, "You paint that bike every day. That paint will kill you like the chemicals killed Duane Hanson. I've got a better idea for you."

Peanut stopped spraying. He was a little woozy from the fumes.

Cherrypicker popped her seat and rummaged in the trunk underneath. She said, "I've been thinking. You know how I've got my bike covered with stickers? I get a scratch and I put a sticker over it. You can do the same thing and still keep your color scheme." She pulled a roll of packing tape out of her trunk and said, "Voila! Your problems are solved."

Peanut said, "When I paint, I feel like an artist."

Cherrypicker scoffed, "Look at this bike. You're no artist, Peanut Jones. Besides, I stole this roll of tape from the FedEx store. Think of how much money you'll save."

Peanut was woozy but not too woozy to save a few bucks. His scooter has slowly been mummified with unispiring, brown packing tape since that day.