Apple Picking?

People in New England do all sorts of things that people in other geographical areas may not be aware of. They draw out the vowels when they speak. They label adjacent and often intersecting streets with the same name. The most baffling I have encountered yet is “Apple Picking”. Full disclosure, I have never been apple picking, or even invited. What the hell is this “Apple Picking”? I can tell you apparently it is quite the activity which will take up most of the weekend and requires months of planning. The name suggests apples and picking. I have gathered from descriptions that you roam the marvelous apple orchards and select your fruit, namely apples. You must pay for the apples you have labored for. From the apple farmers perspective this is genius. Bamboozling city folk to drive into the boondocks, clamor around harvesting the crop, and then PAYING you for it, this deserves a Tom Sawyer award!
Now some of you liberal fat cats would argue the aesthetic and organic beauty of the scenery and process. Fine. But call it a drive in the country, or escaping the city. Picking some fruit alone does not justify a full day, or day’s time. And what do you do with the trunk load of apples some guy tricked you into picking? You make pies, and bread, and cookies, and cider. Then you force it onto your friends and neighbors and poor homeless people. I know one guy that gets some apple product every day! Poor fella has developed such a complex that the sight of a bowl of applesauce makes him hop like a kangaroo. Other parts of the country have apple picking too. And there is a certain group of people that revel in the activity. We call them immigrants. You know how I pick my apples? Out of a bin at Stop and Shop.

T party

The subway in Boston is called the “T”. It was nicknamed this for Mr. T who once saved an entire subway carload of Bostonians by swallowing a grenade. Those of you that spend your commuting hours comfortably in private climate controlled spheres are deprived the joy of communal transportation. The first thing greenhorns notice is the smell. It is not unusual to be forced intimately close to an un-showered sewage worker who is dinning on squid with garlic sauce. This leads to another point of interest. People eat, talk on the phone to their mistress, clip their toenails, pick their nose and various other personal activities without hesitance. Advanced T riders can feign interest in other activities while covertly observing these spectacles. An open book, Metro, or earphones playing no music are sufficient props to create a biosphere of personal space. “What is a Metro?” I am glad you asked. A Metro is the free daily newspaper handy at all T stops or often lying someplace on the train. It is roughly 10-15 pages of the most topical and useless news available. It is easy to spot the folks that get all their news from the Metro as they will know nothing about the turmoil in Rwanda but can give you every detail of Lindsay Lohan’s last visit to a McDonalds in Ohio. Rookies should also hold on while riding the T to avoid falling into a veteran rider with every start and stop, bump or curve. The veteran, on the other hand, can text message while holding 15 grocery bags and a 200oz iced coffee from Dunkin Doughnuts.
While a book or Ipod is a good prop, it is not necessary as entertainment is infinite on the T. Here are some fun games to play.
The Runner- This guy starts chasing the T four blocks before the stop in hopes of catching it. If he passes any other riders approaching the station, they too will start running for the train. The urge to rush and catch the T is contagious. I have seen 80 year old ladies with purses the size of saddle bags match pace with some punk on a skate board in chase of a train. The best part of this game comes when Pete Punk and Grandma get to the train just as the driver closes the door. The train stays stationary for 4 more minutes until the stop light changes but the driver refuses to open the door, or acknowledge the presence of desperate commuters. The expression of disbelief and disappointment on the ostracized riders’ faces is priceless. This game is of course much less fun when you are the runner and grandma beats you to the train.
Eye Miscontact- This game can be played one of two ways. The easiest is to look at people until they notice you and then look away quickly. Once they look away, look back, continue until they squirm with discomfort or threaten to poke your eyes out with a corkscrew. The second way to play is pick someone at random and look them right in the eye. When they notice you and lock eye contact, don’t look away. They will glance away and look back. Continue looking them straight in the eye until they get off the train or start crying. For added fun do this with a scowl or silly grin.
T Guess who- This game requires a partner to play. It is just like the guess who board game but instead of picking a random card, you pick someone on the train to describe to your partner.
“Does your person have a porn star mustache?”
“Yes”
For added challenge instead of naming specific visible characteristics try making personality judgments.
“Does your guy like secretly playing with teddy bears and china teas sets?”
“No, but he once used a teddy bear to dry his dishes because he was out of towels”


For those of you sitting lethargically in your fancy cars, press another preset stereo dial.

DOG TOWN

This last weekend a large troupe of adventure seekers and myself escaped the city in hopes of finding some ruins, artifacts, or in the least ghosts. Our destination was a place called Dog Town which is a very old forgotten city. Back in the 1600’s a few hundred people moved inland in hopes of escaping the barrage of pirates and buccaneers on the coast. They set up a village and made fruitless attempts at agriculture. It soon became clear that the soil was much too heavily laden with rock to make farming a successful endeavor. Most people deserted the village. Those that stayed were mostly widows, their husbands meeting the treacherous fate of the fisherman life. The widows kept a large number of dogs for protection and this is how the town got its name. As is often the case with places on the fringe of society a large number of shady characters collected here as well. Namely witches. Some accounts name up to 100 different witches all living in the quickly dissolving remains of a village. The most notorious witch was named Tammy. She would often be found entertaining pirates with week long rum binges. And any that passed her house without paying homage would be forever cursed. When she died the surrounding towns were so relieved that they funded an elaborate funeral for her complete with a silver lined coffin in hope of blocking her evil hexes from the grave. All the structures have long since crumbled and been hauled away. The only evidence remaining is scattered foundations and cellars surrounded by thick forest and glacier boulders the size of houses.
After setting up camp we trudged into the woods eager for a spooky encounter or amazing archeological find. I was feeling a little overwhelmed with our large group of 13 people so almost immediately wandered off. Aaron, Theresa and Jesse came with me. No sooner had the voices of the rest of the group faded away then a small hunched woman appeared from behind a dark boulder. The thing to do when one encounters strange people in the wilderness is to avoid eye contact and move away slowly. This technique works well for door to door meat salesman too. Instead Aaron looks right at her and then turns to me and says “look at the beak on that hag!” as soon as he says this we all become paralyzed. The old woman approaches. As she nears the smell of sulfur and mothballs turns my stomach but I am unable to move away. She explains that we have crossed her land without paying the proper toll. Thanks to Aarons never stopping mouth, we are now held under her spell and will forever walk the woods never to see home or rest again! We have only one chance to save ourselves from this ominous future; we must find all the ingredients for her witches brew before the sunsets. Then like a vat of cookie dough at a weight watchers convention, she disappears. We all become reanimated and when we finish pummeling Aaron set to work searching. After hours of what seems to be walking in circles we manage to find the following items:

Throat of frog


















Eye of newt















Brain of mole















Wart of toad















Red mushroom


















Purple mushroom




















Poison berries



















Leg of grasshopper

We return to the place we saw the wench and set them all down on a flat rock. She reappears like a vat of cookie dough at a bulimic convention. She is pleased that we have managed to find all the rare ingredients. She releases us from the curse but warns us never to return. Aaron offers to sleep with her. Being unflattered by his offer she tells him that for the rest of his days his forehead will be as greasy as a basket of fries. We make our way out to the car to find the rest of the group is still stomping around on hollowed ground.
We decide to wait for them while drinking a celebratory bottle of wine.
After returning to camp we feast on hotdogs of all shapes, sizes and textures. There is an improve comedy hour with music accompaniment and then we burrow into sleeping bags hoping that we wake up in the same biological condition we go to bed as.

A-Bridged

Last night we were hanging out in the kitchen discussing the finer points of Governor Palin’s stellar debate performance. Frank (the cat) came running in from the deck looking very upset. He stopped in the middle of the room and turn taking an aggressive stance looking at the door. I was not immediately alarmed; he tends to act crazy and often runs around like he is being chased by an imaginary pit bull. I looked towards the door and saw the glowing green eyes of nighttime creatures and goblins. I thought that Frank had no doubt been out talking trash to other cats and one had crossed his bridge to try and teach him a lesson. Then a small hand reached out and grabbed the screen. Frank (the person) shouted “it’s a raccoon!” Aaron, being slightly braver than a 12 year old girl in a haunted house, slammed the wooden door. I pushed him out of the way, excited to see the wild invader. When we got onto the deck I saw the distinct fluffy stripped tail end cross the bridge and scamper up the closest tree. When we spotlighted the bandit we saw TWO raccoons. It appears it was a nice couple out for an evening stroll, one large guy and one smaller female. The big guy was twice the size of Frank (the cat) which is really saying something. They were not in the least afraid of us. We sat starring at them, and they sat starring right back at us. The big guy actually hissed and growled. Frank (the cat), now backed up by all of us, was acting very brave standing on the edge of the bridge posturing at the coon’s. Now we have to figure out a way to keep the local wildlife and homeless from infiltrating onto our deck and very possibly our house. My first idea was some sort of pulley system so we can raise and lower the bridge. I consulted our in house engineer who informed me the upgrade would cost 2 million dollars and 18 months to build.