Limerick Challenge

I was recently asked, "Do you know any limericks about Dorchester?"

It's sad to say, but I don't. Boston's poetry scene seems to be centered more around Cambridge than the Dot. During my extensive excursions, I can't recall meeting one poet. I haven't seen any poetry readings advertised at the Mud House in Neponset, the Sugar Bowl in the Polish Triangle, or at Dot 2 Dot halfway between Peabody Square and Lower Mills.

This doesn't mean there aren't any Dot poets. The longer I live in Dorchester, the more surprises I discover. I expect tomorrow I'll learn that all the garrets between Virginia and Monadnock Streets are packed with wan consumptives wiling away their parting hours penning poignant verse. For all I know, a 'Dorchester Vortex Sutra' has already been composed and it has influenced the latest generation of hipsters.

Our editor has been thinking of imposing some structure on the Dot Matrix rather than inflicting whatever catch-as-catch-can whims onto the general public as has been our usual modus operandi. The idea of a Doggerel Day has been kicked around for awhile so maybe it's time to start a new format. For the foreseeable future we'll feature Doggerel Tuesdays, meaning that Tuesday editions of the Matrix will feature poetry. Some of it may be good but we suspect much of it will be of the other variety as befits the definition of doggerel. Quality doesn't matter so much as heart and good intentions.

Anyone who wants to submit some poetry, good or bad, limerick or free verse or rhymed and metered, earnest ode, is welcome to do so. Just email it to whaleheadking at earthlink dot net. If selected, not only will it be posted here, but we will include an uncritical review and a link to any site the author may maintain. Sorry, we cannot offer payment. The income this blog earns wouldn't feed a guinea pig. Your work will be read, however. That much we can guarantee, even if only by Whalehead King. If that doesn't seem particularly awesome...you're right. It's not, but that's all we can guarantee at the moment. Please limit subject matter and theme to Dorchester, Mass.

While I don't know any Dorchester limericks, I suspect there are more than a few out there. We'll see what gold pans out next week.

What is Bravery?

Boston's crooked streets are peppered with inattentive college students unused to the hustle and bustle of a big city. They lace thier way between opposite sidewalks with all the authority of the inattentive. Very few get killed.

There is never an ideal time to ride a motorcycle in Boston except 3:00 AM. The traffic and the road conditions are atrocious. September is an especially loathsome month out of twelve that all have thier particular bad points. New students are the bane of cautious speedsters tacking along the congested road's shoulder. Jaywalking and lane-splitting don't mix like two wrongs don't make a right. By October new pedestrians and seasoned scooteristas will be coexisting with few troubles. A new obstacle will menace those hearty souls who ply the roads on two wheels while a different manace will imperil those who travel by two legs. City living.

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.

Motor Scooters Set People Free

Scooters are everywhere in Boston. Not just stylish Vespas, though there are plenty of those, but all makes and models from the well known to the obscure. Gas prices being what they are, small engines balanced over the rear wheel have become more and more popular. Scoots are for sale on sidewalks in the most improbable neighborhoods.

Some members of the Peppermint Squad have been long-time scooteristas. Others are new to the machines, and they wing thier way down the streets with the zeal of converts. Motor scooters set people free. There is something about the wind in one's face and the fact that you are basically sitting on a chair in traffic that tingles the sense's.

The Boston Stranglers are a long established motor scooter outfit whose membership is mostly made up of vesperadoes. The Peppermint Squad doesn't distinguish between models. Their doors are open to all who love two wheels, even small motorcycles (but not pocket bikes!).

We point out that small motrcycles are those that are street legal. The miniature replicas of real motorcycles known as pocket bikes lack usual safety features, including mirrors and the members of the Peppermint Squad feels they do not belong on public roadways with their low profiles. Despite that, they bear those riders no ill will if they are respectful of everyone else's right to public thoroughfares and use thier machines with caution. Most of the Squad's meetings end with the cheer, "Cars are coffins!" Anyone who doesn't take up more space than they need on the pavement is saluted.

Tiny's Uniform

With a name as silly as the "Peppermint Squad" it goes without saying that the elected leader should be an oversized man named Tiny. This is the case.

Tiny Phillips is six feet four inches tall, weighing in at 315 pounds. He rides a Honda Metropolitan. This scooter's owner's manual states that the maximum weight the suspension can support is 250 pounds. Tiny rides with impunity in defiance of the manufacturer's specifications and he has ridden this little Metro for three years requiring no more maintanence than an annual oil change. The brakes have been tightened but that is routine for the cables on this trusty machine and have nothing to do with the heft of the primary driver. The tires have been checked and psi added, but again, this is nothing an elfin scooterist wouldn't have to do. Tiny's Metro jumps at green lights like a thoroughbred, going from 0-15mph in 4.3 seconds. He has escaped many a startling scrape because of trustworthy, Japanese engineering.

As leader of the Peppermint Squad, Tiny wears his badge of office proudly. Massachusetts has a helmet law so everyone, motorized or not, on two wheels is required to wear a helmet to protect thier cranium from miscalculated turns and short stops. Everyone in the Peppermint Squad wears a helmet even when they cross into Rhode Island, Connecticut, or New Hampshire where the headgear isn't required. They are citizens of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, after all, and they put personal safety before personal independence. Thier helmets are a mark of state pride.

The Peppermint Squad's leader, as specified in the club's constitution, is required to obey all of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts' civil statutes regarding required safety equipment. Head protection and eye protection are de riguer for all members of the squad when they are on patrol. The leader wears something else that sets him off from the rest of his pack. He doesn't always ride in the lead but he sports a badge of authority that separates the head from the body.

Before embarking on a group ride, as required by institutional bylaws, the elected leader of the Peppermint Squad dons a red bandanna around his neck, knotted in the back and with the edge of the long crease perched on the tip of his nose. The club's founders felt this gave the leader a vigilante look that was true their original intentions and lent an air of lawlessness and rebellion. The leader may look like a bandit but he is one of the good guys.

The Peppermint Squad isn't lawless. They employ hand signals when turning and they are the least troublesome of Boston's two-wheeled gangs, but they don't always obey the letter of traffic regulations. They enjoy lane splitting and running late night red lights that are red for no apparent reason besides an automatic timer. They zip through traffic like a warm blade through cottage cheese. Their engines run hot but their tempers are even.

Tiny Phillips, current leader of the Peppermint Squad embodies all the clubs traditions and intentions when he straddles the frame of his Honda Metropolitan and calls a fresh ride to order. His big butt on the seat of his little steed marks him in the pack as much as his badge of office. He has been leader of the Peppermint Squad for two years. He is a natural politician who rose quickly through the ranks. He doesn't wear a bandanna over his face to disguise himself. He stands out in traffic enough. He wears it to distinguish himself. The other members of the Peppermint Squad recognize he has earned the right to cover his features and they rally around him.