G-8: Unsung hero of WWI

G-8 and his Battle Aces vs. the Reich's purple aces.

I've read this book.  I don't know why the events it describes were not covered in my "History of Warfare" class in college, or any formal education I've ever taken.  This is why I am an autodidact.

If this isn't true, it should be.  How many times have I said this in my life?  I live in a Fortean world.

The scooter bug bites (again)!

I've complained before about how driving a motorcycle in Boston can be a frustrating affair, even a bike as small as Kawasaki's Ninja 250. As much as I am enjoying my bicycle (and I am!) I've become addicted to engines and I enjoy the speed and freedom a motorized bike provides when I'm not actually stuck in gridlock. I haven't always driven a motorcycle. I'm a scooter man from way back.

I started off, many years ago on a 50cc Honda Elite four stroke, and I've driven many a 50cc Honda Metropolitan to Death's doorstep. It wasn't until I got a Genuine Stella, however at 150cc, that I needed a motorcycle license.

The Stella and I had a love-hate relationship. It had style. It had a spare tire. The technology was antiquated enough I could figure things out and fix them myself. There are any number of chrome accessories available that I bolted on like a character from the classic scooter film "Quadrophenia" though I didn't dress the part, which isn't to say I am not fashion-obsessed. The downsides were that the scooter is made in India and subcontinental engineering justly doesn't have the reputation of Japanese. While there aren't any plastic parts on a Stella, the whole thing is machined out of a solid block of pig iron. It is heavy. Then again, it had style and chicks dug it.

Like many people, including the Boston Globe, I've been thinking a long time that a motor scooter is the best way to get around our shared metropolitan area and I'm thinking something bigger than 50cc will be more up my alley, spoiled by power as I am. I was headed home on Old Colony Avenue today and I passed Scooters Go Green. What was parked out front but a beautiful avocado Stella... I had to make a tight U-ey over cobblestoned over trolley tracks for a personal inspection. Yeah, the scooter bug bit me again confronted with a replica of my old, trusty steed that gave me more scars on my knees than I can count and dislocated my shoulder. This one had white wall tires and was painted a darker shade of green.

I went into the shop and took a brochure. No shop talk. "This is all I need," I said and I left. Had we discussed the Stella and its price, I am afraid they would have reeled me in with the hook in my mouth. I'm still on the fence. I'm not ready to give up the Ninja and I don't really need two bikes (three counting the one with pedals). Though inexpensive by most standards, I'll be racking up bills for crash bars and other accessories.

My life may be about to get more complicated and if there is anything I don't like it's complications that contain more headache than mischief. Hopefully this reactivation of my scoot-fever will die down if I don't think about it too much. The brochure is within easy reach though.

A tip of the fedora and gratitude to April Streeter (from Sweden!) on treehugger.com for quoting my recent article about sharing the road and providing both attribution and a link. That's professional and we here at Whalehead Enterprises appreciate it.
It's not that great a movie but the final scene scooting along the White Cliffs of Dover feels like many a trip I've taken in other places.

The Flying Dotman

The Peppermint Squad, that intrepid gang of motor scooterists pledged to patrol Dorchester's tangled streets to promote Justice, Tolerance, and the Dorchester Way, have a legend that they share on rainy nights in their headquarters in Codman Square. It's been a rainy week in Dorchester and the squad was kept in home base most evenings, performing minor repairs to thier mounts and emptying bottles of Hoffenreffer Private Stock. The close quarters and malt liquor and repetative tap-tap-tapping of raindrops on the rooftop lent themselves the sharing of scooter folklore.

Cherrypicker asked Raisin, "Have you seen the Flying Dotman yet?" Raisin is a newcomer to this band of merry vesparadoes. Every rookie is called 'Raisin' until he or she has earned his or her 'peppermint-handle,' a monniker that cements their place in the squad's hierarchy. Raisin replied, "I've never even heard of the Flying Dotman."

Agent Widowmaker, who had been adjusting the brake cables on his "Princess Go-Go" Chinese scoot, looked up. "Beware the Flying Dotman, Raisin. You're lucky you've never seen him." Widowmaker looked dead serious and spoke in baritone though his voice is usally a bit higher pitched.

"Who's the Flying Dotman?" Raisin felt his comrades were pulling his leg. Tweedledum pulled up a milk crate next to Raisin and, after settling in and taking a pull of Private Stock, told this story:

"On foggy nights when the moon is full, a specter haunts the skies above Dorchester Bay," he began. "No one knows how or why, but a doomed scooterist rides the fog on nights like that. He's an old-timer by the look of his ride. He steers a Honda Super Cub looking to find his way to the Great Beyond. Locals call him the Flying Dotman because sight of him portends an impending crash."

Tweedledum continued. "I was on Morrisey Boulevard one night, after a few pops at Tom English's, when I saw the Flying Dotman. He must have been forty feet tall leaning around a fog bank on his Super Cub faster than I would ever take a curve like that. He was glowing with an eerie light, surrounded by a green nimbus. Apparently, when he was alive Massachusetts didn't have helmet laws becasue he was only wearing a painter's cap. He took the turn and sped off in the direction of Mattapan, disappearing into a passing cloud. When I got home, I mustn't have put my kickstand all the way down when I parked because my bike was flat on the ground the next morning."

Raisin shivered. "I'm not going down Morrissey any time soon on a foggy night," he said.

"I wouldn't advise it," Tweedledum replied. Widowmaker nodded in agreement. Cherrypicker said, "Who's going to make a run to ODB Liquors? We're running low on liquid refreshment."

Peppermint Squad Assemble!!

Springtime again. The squirrels are out and the jonquils are poking up their heads; perhaps of more immediate interest, the Peppermint Squad has reassembled to full strength. Though maintaining a skeleton crew to man HQ and the dojo during winter months, the call went out the other night for the full ranks to convene today, March 28. Text messages clotted the airwaves and Bellringer Smith rode around Boston on his Honda Ruckus, parking at predetermined locations to play the tom tom loudly enough for all squad members to get the message.

At 8:00 AM, after coffee and eggs at Saints Diner, the Peppermint Squad assembled at their headquarters off Codman Square. Children were out and about on the sidewalks marvelling at all the motor scooters on Talbot Ave and Norfolk Ave. Their parents rolled their eyes at the buzzing cavalcade splitting lanes and zipping through traffic according to rules only a vesparado knows.

The usual suspects were in attendance: Tiny Phillips, Peanut Jones, Oyster Stew, Cherrypicker, Widowmaker, Flora, Bella Donna...etc. There were some newcomers as well. All the scooters were freshly washed and polished, chrome sparkling in the sun.

Tiny Phillips called the meeting to order and administered the Peppermint Oath for another year. He stepped down as squad leader and a secret ballot was conducted. A new leader was selected: For FY2009, Flora will be the Peppermint Squad's Commandant and Grand Biclops. With a current slate of officers elected and no old business to conclude, the squad rallied in formation and travelled down Melville Street to Dot Ave, down to Lower Mills, along River Road to Mattapan Square and then up to Simco where they dined on celebratory hot dogs, sharing the bridge over the commuter rail tracks with a group of Baptists who had just gotten out of church.

New scoot on the block

Oswald Chubb isn't a name anyone would wish to be born with. Oswald Nachtengale fathered Natasha Nachtengale and after she married Felix Chubb their first born son was named in honor of the her father. This is how Oswald Chubb got his name. There but for the grace of the angels go I. At least my legacy name is buried in the middle.

Oswald Chubb looks pretty much like you would expect someone with this name to look. He is a doughy, pasty, lump of a chap with bad skin, a bad haircut, and pants that are too tight for his belly and too short for his inseam. He makes his living in produce. He knows his vegetables. He has worked all the green grocers in Dorchester, serving stints at the bigger operations like Lambert's Rainbow Fruit, the Shaw's Supermarket on Morrisey Blvd, and the Stop & Shop a little farther down Morrisey. He enjoyed the prestige that accompanied employment at these large establishments but as he has gotten older he has used his expertise to improve the vegetable selection at smaller, neighborhood, corner shops. He has worked the oriental groceries along Dorchester's Umami Mile and gained experience with more exotic greens while introducing iceberg lettuce and bell peppers to the shelves.

Romance hasn't been a big feature in Oswald Chubb's life. He has had girlfriends in the past but his relationships were never mutually satisfying for either party. Like many people in Dorchester, Oswald Chubb takes the bus to get around. He thinks he would like to change his image into something a bit sportier and in this way, perhaps, increase his prospects with available members of the fairer sex. With this in mind he visited Scooters Go Green in South Boston, just north of Dorchester on Old Colony Avenue.

Needless to say, a February day with the thermometer topping 17 degrees Fahrenheit isn't a busy day in a motor scooter shop. Oswald Chubb had the staff's full attention. He wasn't planning on driving out of the lot. He was planning ahead toward spring, like every scooterist does. He looked over the showroom models and decided on 'The Rabbit' which is a sporty, retro-styled model priced at a mere $999.00. He tested the feel of the seat and the brakes on the floor. He liked what he felt and he pictured himself speeding down Dot Ave, passing a bus. He made a deposit and purchased a helmet.

Come mid-March Oswald Chubb will dashing through Dorchester on a brand-new, factory-fresh, creamsicle-orange Rabbit. Ladies take notice: there's going to be a new scoot on the block.

The Peppermint Squid

The old Vespa that forever needs repair is officially the Peppermint Squad's mascot. It is the club bike that everyone owns communally, putting in hours filing the gears and greasing the intricately interlocking parts. The time spent pounding dents out of the leg shield and sanding Bond-o would be worth a lot of overtime if squad members ever unionized. It is a labor of love though.

The Peppermint Squad picked up a new mascot this weekend: The Peppermint Squid. Widowmaker and Little Buddy were fishing for crappie and monkfish as the tide was coming in under the Red Line bridge between Boston and Quincy. The shore around the bridge is officially off limits to anything but trains. They didn't bring their scooters onto the tracks, but as well connected Dorchester denizens, they knew where to gain access to this coveted, MBTA-owned and operated fishing hole. The Peppermint Squad works closely with Carmen's Union 586, having helped on more than one occasion towing stuck trains over snowbound tracks. In thanks, they have been granted special passports that allow them to navigate into territory otherwise forbidden.

Widowmaker and Little Buddy were using 3/4 McPherson jigs, casting them out and reeling them in without much luck until Little Buddy shouted out, "I've got a big one!"

He did. He reeled in a three-inch long squid the color of weak coffee milk with a red stripe down each side of its body. "What am I going to do with this?" Little Buddy asked. Widowmaker said, "I think he's kind of cute. Let's take him back to headquarters."

They filled up their bucket with brackish Neponset River water and took the Peppermint Squid to Codman Square where they've fitted out an aquarium for their new friend. No one knew what squids eat but Flora went to the McDonald's on Washington Street and brought back a filet-o'-fish sandwich. This seemed to suit the squid just fine and he is adopting to his new environment rather well. Cherrypicker says she thinks she has seen the Peppermint Squid smiling at her.

Lay that pistol down

They call her Pistol Packin' Mama and just plain 'Mama' for short. The only pistol she packs is a water pistol, but she loads it with lemon juice. She doesn't squeeze the juice herself, she uses prepared concentrate for maximum effect.

Mama rides a Chinese scooter. Something called the YY50QB. It's a sweet ride. She sports a holster to carry her sidearm and she keeps a few bottles of RealLemon under the seat. Some wags like to ask, after being introduced, if she is 'red hot.' She replies, laconically as is her nature, "Nah. I'm luke warm until you get me riled up. Cross me wrong and I burn like a welder's torch though, not regular fire. I'll make you go blind." She will too. Lemon juice stings.

Mama's got dead-on aim. She's a sure shot. She comes from an old, shady, Dorchester family that is known for not taking any guff. She has a hair trigger and a short fuse. It is no surprise that she was early on recruited to sign on to the Peppermint Squad's combat battalion. She has a cool head in the heat of battle but if the tide starts to turn to the squad's disadvantage she can rally the troops and mount a charge, shooting bitter invective with her pistol leading the way.

Mojo in the dojo

Besides HQ off Codman Square and the satellite office in Kane Square, the Peppermint Squad maintains a dojo off Neponset Circle. Johnny Cake and Little Buddy were there all day Sunday practicing the finer points of scoot-jitsu. Johnny Cake is the leader of the Squad's combat battalion. He rides a yellow, Honda Big Ruckus with a license plate that reads BTLWGN.

Little Buddy rides a Genuine Scooter Company Buddy, kitted out with an illegal muffler to provide extra speed. It is the Peppermint Squad's official combat bike though the Big Ruckus is the official battle wagon that is deployed to lead a charge. The Buddy is equipped not only with an oversized muffler but with a number of fighting tools that make it essential for agressive operations. Among the Buddy's accoutrements are a cache of ball bearings attached to a quick-release switch, a smoke screen powered by a special blend of strawberry scented, Japanese, two-stroke oil, and mountings that fit a halberd making this scooter fit for fearsome jousting.

Johnny Cake originally trained under a Whooping Crane Wu-Li master in Oregon. Since moving to Boston, he has become the combat battalion's Adjutant General, directing training and formulating strategic manuevers. Little Buddy came by his skills watching 1970s scooter movies shot in Hong Kong. He practiced his moves late at night under the lights at Ronan Park when the cops were distracted elsewhere. He is the battalion's Attache General. The two of them keep the Peppermint Squad's fighting forces ship shape. By combining their two styles into a new form of scoot-jitsu they have welded together a rag tag band of scooteristas that have yet to meet their match.

A Gruesome Mission

Bella Donna packs a double whammy of desirable attributes. She is beautiful and young. To put icing on the cake and round out her attractiveness into a trifecta, she rides a motor scooter. She tools around Boston on a Piaggo Typhoon 150. That's a ride as sweet as an American girl with an Italian name. That kind of girl is easy to find in Boston but that kind of ride is pretty rare. A woman like Bella Donna is a rare find indeed.

Bella Donna, never to be mistaken for her arch nemesis, Bruto Uomo, grew up in idyllic Kane Sqaure in the shadow of St. Peter's Church. She was reminiscing with Trixie Herlihy last night about a wristwatch she lost when she was a child. She and Ms. Herlihy have been pulling duty at the Peppermint Squad's Meeting House Hill satellite depot, near where Bella Donna grew up. It is a fairly quiet outpost with ample downtime during which squad members can bond and share their memories and goals.

The ladies were sitting on the front steps sharing a nip of cinnamon schnapps and watching the world go by. Bella Donna told Trixie the story of how she lost her wristwatch after burying her pet guinea pig in Ronan Park. Trixie said, "That's so sad."

Trixie asked where the guinea pig, whose name was Piggy, was buried. Bella Donna gave a rough description of the whereabouts. She is young but people didn't regularly rely on GPS in those days so she isn't sure of the exact longitude or latitude. Moved to the brink of tears, either for the lost watch or the dead pet is uncertain, Trixie assembled a posse this morning. Luckily it had rained much of the night and stopped just after sunrise. The ground was wet and loose but the skies were sunny and dry.

Trixie led the posse which consisted of a gaggle of Peppermint Squad hangers-on wanting to score brownie points with a full-fledged member as well as Tweedledum who had nothing else to do and who happens to own a metal detector. Tweedledum pulled his motorscooter up to the others already assembled on Mount Ida Road. After dismounting, he flashed Trixie The Peppermint Signal with his left hand and said, "Where did you find these rubes?"

Trixie apologized, explaining that this was the best group she could assemble on short notice for a Thursday morning. The posse went to work. Tweedledum activiated his metal detector and, with Trixie's direction and a entourage of stumble-footed onlookers, made his way to the spot Bella Donna described.

The metal detector started to beep like a gieger counter on a forbidden planet and Tweedledum knew that he had hit paydirt. He announced, "If this isn't a watch, it's Fort Knox!" One of the posse answered, "I just hope its not a dead guinea pig!"

This remark put a damper on everyone's excitement. As the leader of this posse, Trixie selected a deputy, one of the wannabes whose hands shook the least and handed him a trowel to discover what was buried. The deputy stepped up to the task with aplomb and went to work in the muddy soil. Soon enough he hit paydirt: a rusted wristwatch circa 1994 with the hands stopped at precisely 3:14:55, whether AM or PM wasn't apparent. It was a Hello Kitty wristwatch and when the deputy held it in the air, the buckle end of the moulded wristband fell of into the grass.

Trixie said, "Bella Donna is going to be so happy to get her watch back."

Tweedledum said, "You did your good deed for today, Trixie."

The Best Beard in Roxbury

Jackanape Jones, who rides the most tricked-out Lambretta on the Boston side of the Charles River, was paying a visit to the Peppermint Squad's satellite depot on Meeting House Hill on Tuesday evening. Mr. Jones is not one of the squad's active members. He is reservist who can be called to duty in the case of city-wide emergency as declared by either Boston's mayor or the Commonwealth of Massachusetts' governor. He has a special "Peppermint Reserve" badge cast in tin and shaped like the grasshopper atop Fanieul Hall and enshrined in the mosaic at Park Street's T station. Inscribed on the back is this legend:

"During a state of emergency declared pursuant to Massachusetts Civil Defense Act, Acts 1950, Ch. 639, as amended, or by other government authority, this identification will serve as a pass though police, fire and armed services checkpoints. The bearer of this identification is an essential member of an elite team of first responders and is required to report to the disaster team coordinater or the personnel pool as directed by the President ex officio of the Peppermint Squad, Dorchester, Mass."

It was a quiet night at the depot. Bella Donna and Trixie Herlihy were manning the phones and the phones weren't ringing. Jackanape Jones borrowed a squirt bottle of vinegar and water and polished the many mirrors mounted on his Lambretta's legshield. He would pause before he wiped down each one to admire his reflection. Trixie noticed that his pant leg rode up over his sock whenever he got in and extreme crouch. She observed, "Jackanape, you have very hairy legs."

Mr. Jones ran his hand through his hair and looked at Bella Donna as if she had made the observation. He said, "Yes, I'm very hairy on top of my head and below the waist. I don't have a hairy chest or hairy arms, thank goodness, but I've got a good shot of testerone running through me." He winked at Bella Donna.

Trixie said, "Isn't it a bother? You know swimmers shave thier legs to increase thier speed. Have you thought about shaving our legs to get better mileage on your Lammy?"

Jackanape Jones looked over at Trixie. He said, "No. The leg shield covers my legs too much to allow for much wind drag. It's a pretty aerodynamic rig. I have been thinking about shaving my head however."

The phones weren't ringing and there wasn't much excitement that night. Both women looked at Mr. Jones and asked in unison, "Why?" They weren't breathless, there just wasn't much else going on.

Jackanape Jones said, "I've been thinking I can grow a good beard. As you can see, I don't hurt for hair on the top of my head. I'd like to see what I can do with my chin. I want to shave my head and grow a beard. Not a hipster goatee, but a real, Walt Whitman, old, Jewish prophet, St. Anthony of the Desert kind of beard. Such a big beard may cut down on my scooter speed, but I think it will be very impressive blowing in the wind. I have to wear a helmet according to state law, so this haircut doesn't really do me much good on the road. It looks good when I'm in a pub, but I spend a lot of time on my scooter with my helmet on. I want people to see how much hair I can grow while I'm on prowling the streets."

Trixie asked, "Why?"

Mr. Jones answered, "As you know, I live in Roxbury. I am represented on the City Coucnil by Chuck Turner. You know the guy: Bold, Bald, Bright? He's got the best beard on the City Council. Its a real Roxbury beard. You know the only men who have Turner's beard beat? They're the monks at Mission Hill Church. Those monks have beards that put Chuck Turner to shame. If a man of God can sport a beard like that, I think Jackanape Jones can grow a beard of equal proportion out of his love of motor scooters."

Bella Donna said, "Jackanape, you're starting to sound a little sacriligious."

Mr. Jones said, "It's only an idea. I saw a picture of Chuck Turner the other day and he inspired me. He inspires a lot of people. I see the monks walking down Tremont Street almost every morning when I go to Mike's Donuts for my cup of coffee. The monks inspire me. I'd like to be an inspiration to somebody and I think a beard is a good way to assert my particular qualities."

Trixie said, "You've got enough enough chrome on this scooter to accentuate any qualities you have. You take this Lammy to a rally and everyone gawks at your twelve mirrors, your bumpers, your crash bars, your front rack, you back rack and your foot pegs. What more do you have to prove, Mr. Jackanape Jones."

Mr. Jones finished wiping down the last mirror, the factory installed one over the clutch on the left handlebar. He said, "I want to show that its not what you can buy, but what you are that makes you a character."

Bella Donna sighed and the phone rang. She got up to answer it and took notes during her conversation. When she hung up she barked out, "Jackanape you have to clear the premises. Trixie and I have a call to respond to. Trixie, we've got 325-a on East Cottage Street that needs our attention."

Mr. Jones suited up and headed back to his Lower Roxbury apartment. Bella Donna and Trixie Herllihy suited up, mounted thier scoots and headed to East Cottage to join a bucket brigade to douse a charcoal grill fire out of control.

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."

Why Peppermint?

Why does a bunch of rowdies rough around the edges, obviously capable of holding thier own in a brawl, choose a name at odds with all appearances? It is true the members of Dorchester's most visible motor scooter confederation have thier sweet side but can anyone take a gang called The Peppermint Squad seriously? People should and they do.

The name Peppermint Squad, like most things out of context, seems odd to the unitiated but it has a proud history. We are forbidden to tell all the details that surround this choice of monniker but we can put some rumors to rest. Some theories posit that breaking down pepper-mint down to its component words reveals the intent behind the name selection. The gang's members are indeed spicy and refreshing at the same time but that isn't the reason. It is true that oral hygiene is important to club members and they do engage in a group brush-in before embarking on patrol so that they display winning smiles without spinach in thier teeth, but toothpaste wasn't a deciding factor in picking thier name. It is also true that they have pep at the throttle and thier flagship scoot is a 1954 Vespa PX that is painted mint green where it isn't rusted. The Vespa PX, affectionately nicknamed 'La Fuomo del Campo Fillegro' doesn't figure into the equation.

The choice of name rests in the Squad's archives. This is a literate bunch that knows they are performing a historic act, cohering together in a selfless act of community involvement, one motor scooterist at a time. They have kept records that are deposited at the Boston Athaneaum every ten years since the club was founded. Their is one volume currently on file and Volume II is due for delivery in 2010. The club has stipulated, however, that public access cannot be granted until the year 2061 when Volume VI is completed and deposited and settled on the shelf.

We have been given permission to drop a clue because the Board of Directors is tired of repeatedly being asked, "Why are you called the Peppermint Squad?" Squad members love a mystery and they love a treasure hunt and they love a puzzle as much as the next person. Tiny Phillips, current club president has issued this statement with the tacit approval of his compatriots: Schrafft's Candy Company is involved in the choice of the club's name.

The Wise Bo'sun

Bo'sun Jones and Peepeye Culpepper were at Peppermint Squad headquarters off Codman Square in Dorchester during a squally night last March. They were involved in the perennial club project of rejiggering the gear box of the squad's flagship, vintage, mint green-around-the-rust-spots Vespa PX.

Peepeye laid a wrench on the dropcloth and said, "I got a catalogue from a gambling supply wholesaler the other day."

Bo'sun took a swig of Red Bull then reached with an awl to clean some rust and oily build-up out of the third gear sprocket. He said, "What of it?"

Peepeye said, "It got me to thinking. This outfit in New Jersey sells roulette tables for $2,700 a table complete with wheel, cash box, a full felt playing board, and chips in six different colors. I was thinking about how we're always looking to raise money for orphans and stray dog adoption programs. I was thinking maybe the Peppermint Squad could get into the casino business. You know, I was thinking we could run roulette games to raise money for the club."

Bo'sun picked up Peepeye's wrench and handed it back to him. He said, "Tighten that cowl hook will you?" He said, "Peepeye, we live in Massachusetts. The only people who can host that kind of gambling are Indian tribes and the mob and that is only theory. The lottery doesn't count; the Commonwealth runs that racket all by themselves and roulette is very different from running numbers anyway. We'd have the law all over us in no time. Nobody is allowed to play table games in Massachusetts, that's why people go to Connecticut. "

Peepeye said, "We're the Peppermint Squad. We're like a tribe. We're a tribe of scooterists. We're vesperadoes, lone wolves banded together in a bond of blood brotherhood and blood sisterhood. There isn't anything I wouldn't do for a fellow Pepperminter."

Bo'sun replied, "It's not the same. The Squad isn't a recognized 503(c)(3a)(k) charitable, sovereign organization. Sure we do our part for widows, orphans, abandoned pets, veterans, the homeless, the underemployed, debtors behind on thier mortgages, barflies behind on thier tabs, students behind on thier tuition loans and rakes behind on thier alimony, but the goverment doesn't officially recognize us. We play by our own rules; that's what makes us the Peppermint Squad." Bo'sun flashed Peepeye the Peppermint Squad hand signal.

Peepeye threw his wrench across the room. He was frustrated. He said, "I just know a roulette wheel would keep all the hungry babies between Mattapan Square and Codman Square in powdered milk for the winter!"

Bo'sun calmed him down by saying, "You're right Peepeye, but that isn't the way to go about it. We'll raise money the honest way, the way the Commonwealth of Massachusetts prefers. We'll have rallies and show off our scooters taking up collections wherever we go. We'll participate in parades to raise awareness. We'll be active wherever there is space enough to park our scoots. We'll hold scrap metal drives, bake sales, raves, and beauty contests. We'll be visible and we'll tell people what we're about. Raising money for a good cause isn't about gambling. It is about investing in the community. That is what the Peppermint Squad is all about."

Peepeye fetched his wrench out of the pile of empty Good 'n' Plenty boxes and ladies' undergarments where it had landed. He looked seriously at Bo'sun for a moment and then shook his head. He offered to shake Bo'sun's hand. He said, "I guess your right, brother. I still want a quick fix, but I guess your right. Let's raise money legally. The legal way is the Peppermint Squad way."

Bo'sun shook Peepeye's hand. He grinned ear to ear while he exhulted, "That's the Peppermint Squad way, brother!"

Eastie Contingent

With a girly name like the Peppermint Squad, it is safe to assume that this Dorchester-based motor scooter gang has always had a strong co-ed component. Boys and girls like to play together and the people in Dorchester always feel the female compliments the male in more ways than one. Despite thier pansy-style monniker, the members of the Peppermint Squad keep the trunks of their motor scooters well stocked with brass knuckles, blackjacks, collapsible batons and rusty chains. One never knows when a rumble will break out.

The East Boston Contingent buzzed into Dorchester last night, crossing the border on Dot Ave at 7:37 PM under cover of a gibbous moon. The Peppermint Squad is tough, but it has its softer side. The Eastie Contingent is a rough-and-tumble gang of roustabout scooterists who are as flinty and unyielding as the tarmac at Logan Airport. The Peppermint Squad welcomes women in the ranks. The Eastie Contingent would welcome them too if any applied for membership. What woman wants to congregate with a group filled with brutes named Dark Horse, Spaz, Mumbles, Iron Butt, Pollo Loco, and Musty Jake? Members of the Eastie Contingent are ugly, dirty, mean, and cheap.

A flurry of text messages reached Peppermint headquarters and the Saturday Night Watch was dispatched to see what the Easties were doing so far from thier home turf. According to reports, the interlopers looked like they meant trouble. They were riding down Dot Ave with a hungry look in thier eyes and with thier tongues hanging like thirsty wolves.

The Peppermint Squad intercepted the Eastie Contingent at Field's Corner. Dark Horse hailed Tiny Phillips who happened to be on duty at the clubhouse when the alarm was sounded. The two gangs circled each other is a buzz of 50cc droning in the parking lot in front of the Food Basket supermarket. Once the pagentry had been exhausted, Dark Horse and Tiny met in conclave apart from the throng of parked scooters. It turned out the Easties had spent all their money on tolls in the Ted Williams Tunnel. Dark Horse asked Tiny if the Peppermints would spot thier across-the-Charles scooter brethren a beer before they headed home. Tiny Phillips agreed. Courtesy is the Peppermint Squad creed. The Peppermints and the Easties shared pints of Pabst Blue Ribbon at Tom English's before the Easties headed home. Thus violence was averted in Dorchester again and the Peppermint Squad was promised reciprocal treatment should they ever be found north of Maverick Square.

America's Oldest Restaurant

One of the Peppermint Squad's most esteemed epicures is a Yamaha Vino rider who goes by the code name "Oyster Stew." Though not a soup man, Oyster Stew, or "Stewie" as he's known in the heat of battle, parks his tricked out burgundy and aluminum Vino in front of the Holocaust Memorial in Haymarket when he pops into the Union Oyster House every Wednsesday night.

The shuckers expect his arrival between 7:00 and 7:15 and they reserve a seat at the raw bar. He has been a regular at the Oyster House for a decade and a half. He doesn't take vacations or leave Boston on Wednesdays which means he is the longest continous customer. He has no business that takes him out of town during the week.

In the 1990's Stewie used to order up a plate of Narragansett little necks but the crop turned south in the summer of 1997. Never order shellfish in months that don't contain the letter 'r' in thier names. After weathering a bout of the 'Narragansett Trots' that was the bane of many a New England oyster affecianado, Stewie switched to Delaware cherrystones. They didn't quite do the trick so in 1999 the man named Oyster Stew sampled the gamut of oyster varieties the world's harbors offer. If it is a bivalve classified by Linneas, our man has tasted its flesh.

Since 2005, Oyster Stew sticks to Prince Edward Isle oysters; wild, not farmed. They are not as good as the Stonington (Conn.) three points he remembers from when he was a tyke but they'll do the job just fine when washed down with the appropriate accompaniment. Oyster Stew doesn't take his standing order of a bakers' dozen with cocktail sauce or lemon. He eats his oysters with a pint of hard cider at the ready and on the side. Daniel Webster would be proud.

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.

Weiner Relay

When the Peppermint Squad makes a collective decision, it doesn't need to be unanimous to stick, but once it sticks it is glue and then the rubber meets the road. A few months back the gang had been chilling at thier secret base, the location of which still hasn't been revealed (nor will it be soon). They hatched a plan for a weiner relay through Dorchester, with one detour through Newmarket Square just across the Dot border in Roxbury but, this being Boston, no one really knows what is what since it is all Boston all the time. The second to last stop was at Castle Island, technically South Boston but part of Dorchester historically. Though it is all one city now, territorialism is still important and Dorchester historians track one time line while South Boston Historians have thier own particular Year Zero. In South Boston, the calander starts with BB: Before Boston Annexation. Current years are demarked AB: Absolutely Bostonian.

The first Peppermint Motor Scooter Weiner Relay was run today. The official transcript is being prepared by the Peppermint Squad's club secretary as this dispatch is being written. Eveyone has had thier fill of important actions that have seen the light of day and will live on in legend until no one is left to tell the tale. Word has already trickled to other motor scooter fraternities and sororities and thier envy has been conveyed by the usual street-telegraphic means: tin can phones, stacatto piston shots out of broken mufflers, nose-rubbing gestures across the bar at Yaz's International Dublin House, a red sneaker on top of the light pole at the intersection of Adams Street and Columbia Road, and a fresh fish on the front steps of a certain reporter's house a few blocks from the Savin Hill T station. Something has happened.

Big things happened in Dorchester today. Big things happened bigger than anyone can imagine or the participants expected. Napoleon never thought he would be emporer when he started his career, likewise Tiny Phillips, president of the Peppermint Squad didn't realize that once this inaugural weiner relay went through its first lap, the event would promise to run in perpetuity.

What started as a whim promises to become a tenet.

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.

Peppermint File #2

We continue profiling members of Boston, Mass.'s Peppermint Squad, a footloose bunch of ne'er-do-well motor scooterists who have decided to take to the streets in the cause of Truth, Justice, and the American Way. By American, they don't mean gas-guzzling. They mean eccentric and independant. What is a motor scooterist if not either? If he or she were one of the herd , they would be either on a bicycle or a motorcycle. The members of the Peppermint Squad ride neither. These profiles are taken from the files of the BPD Substation III-C located south of Park Street in Dorchester.

Dorchester is the biggest and most diverse of Boston's neighborhoods. It is fitting the Peppermint Squad, Boston's biggest, most diverse scooter gang, should patrol these streets before all others.

Our subject today is known by a fictitious first name while keeping the last name he was born with. Peanut Jones isn't a small man but he has a hard shell. He isn't large. One year, he and Tiny Phillips got into a thumb wrestle to determine who would be head of the Peppermint Squad after two indecisive run-off votes. Tiny's thumb is twice the size of Peanut's and Peanut ended up being Vice Chancellor of the Privy Chamber. This is a coveted appointment but not as plumb as being club president.

Peanut Jones rides a Honda Metropolitan. His scoot has scratches all along the lip of the left leg shield and all over the left hub over the rear wheel. Mr. Jones is right handed but he has a stigmatism that causes a blind spot in his left eye. He looks in his left rear-view mirror, sees sunny skies and then, schwoops! a new scratch. These things happen and Mr. Jones has grown used to breaking out a can of spray paint to cover his latest mishap. He paints his little Metro tan. Peanut Jones rides a hand-painted, tan scoot. Isn't that cute?

As a member of good standing in the Peppermint Squad, Peanut Jones has no bones to pick and no dirt to dish. As a Vice Chancellor he has been sworn to uphold the squad's honor. Anyone looking for tabloid-worthy news should look elsewhere. Peanut Jones is taciturn. He takes his place in the pack, doesn't show off (how can a tan scooter be showy?) and fulfills the privy role of his office.

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.