I don't actually live in Boston. I live in a dissolved municipality just west of Boston proper, called Brighton. I guess it's officially a neighborhood of Boston, but I address my mail Brighton, MA. None of this information is particularly important, except to say that when you visit Boston for vacations or business trips, you probably don't go anywhere near my apartment. I live on the B Green-Line of the MBTA, which is Boston's subway system. If you asked 100 people in Boston to name the worst train, they would all say the B-Line. It's the slowest train in the history of the world, and I refuse to hear arguments against that statement. I call it the "Old Green Snail". I have often ridden the train to school, and watched out the window as joggers keep up. Aside from the slow train it's a great neighborhood though. According to Wikipedia Michael Bloomberg and John Krasinski (Jim from the Office) were both born here.
--Can you believe The Office is still on by the way? Does anyone still watch it? Who do they think they are keeping that show on after Steve Carell left? I'm going to go the house where John Krasinski grew up and tell them how I feel, whether his parents live there or not, I think it's important that I take care of this.--
This is what my apartment looks like.
Things are getting a little busy in school, but this is a good thing, as we are learning all kinds of new exciting stuff. In my electronic news class we had to do an interview with a classmate about why they came to Boston to go to graduate school. Here is the interview that my buddy Alex did of me. Warning!! You may want to put on a life jacket, so you don't drown in my deep blue eyes.
Now, apparently there is some sort of "Frankenstorm" headed our way next week. But fear not, I have stocked up on all the necessities: beer, lots of candles, and more beer. So, I'll be fine. I do sort of feel like I need to knock off a few bucket list items just to be safe though, so if anyone has any "must do" ideas, please send them my way. For now I'll just hope this storm isn't too bad.
Thanks for reading, talk to you soon.
Friday, October 26, 2012
Sunday, October 14, 2012
When in New England...
On Friday afternoon, I could have told you 3 things about New Hampshire: it's a swing state, the capitol is Concord (pronounced Con-kerd, not Con-chord, which I didn't know), and Matt Bonner, "The Red Rocket," is from there. But Friday was a long time ago, and after spending the majority of my Saturday in the White Mountains, soaking in the glory of the Granite State, I can now tell you 3 new things about New Hampshire. First, it's beautiful. See..
Second, they don't tax their liquor. Which means that the bottle of whiskey I bought was about half the price it would have been if I'd bought it here in Boston. This is a genius tactic for a state like New Hampshire, that generally doesn't have a ton to offer. I mean, while it was lovely yesterday, in about 2 weeks all those leaves are going to fall and the state will be frozen and miserable until spring. Why not lure Bostonians to your boring state by having a permanent happy hour?
Third, they have the best gas station food (at least at the gas station in Ashland) that I have ever had. Naturally after a nice long hike, food is the #1 priority. Well, it was priority 1B, 1A was finding a bathroom...some of my pre-hike carboloading didn't agree with me. TMI, sorry. Anyway, after that crisis was handled I was all about eating. And lucky for me, the gas station came through. I got a quinoa salad with roasted vegetables, and it was delicious. My friends got caesar chicken wraps, and by all accounts those were great too. I was expecting to have to settle for a soggy gas station sandwich, the ones where the tomatoes turn the bread into a pasty layer that coats some random low grade meat, but instead we were treated to a great lunch.
While the liquor and the lunch were nice discoveries, New Hampshire itself was clearly the best part of yesterday. If you close your eyes and imagine what a small New England town looks like in the fall, you probably see the same things that most people see: big trees with all different colored leaves, small shops selling maple syrup and lobsters, picket fences, pumpkins on porches...all that stuff. Well that was the town we drove through to get to the trail yesterday. It was the New Englandiest town ever, and it was great. I felt like a Kennedy.
The hike was great too. There is no doubt that I have been spoiled, living in Seattle, getting to enjoy all the natural beauty without realizing that not every place looks like that. At the old KJR studio at 351 Elliott, our studio was on the southwest corner of the building, and without doing anything but spinning in your chair you could see Puget Sound, Mt. Rainier, the Olympic Mountains and the downtown skyline. This was a sports radio studio, and it had a view that a postcard would envy. This is to say that in Seattle, you get so accustomed to being surrounded by this stuff that after a while you forget that you are so lucky. It didn't take long for me to realize that I missed these things after I got to Boston. So yesterday, getting out into the trails and the mountains was very therapeutic.
--Quick sidebar...in the last 3 paragraphs I have said nature is therapeutic, I romantically described a small New England town, and I admitted to eating a quinoa salad for lunch and loving it. The slow and painful transition into becoming a yuppie maybe complete. Somebody book my tickets to DMB at the Gorge next summer. Seriously though, that quinoa was awesome.--
One really funny thing that happened on the hike was the discovery of this piece of art work carved into a tree.
This is a photo of my buddy Justin and I, and some telepathic tree who know we were coming. What a coincidence. Serendipity perhaps. Whatever you want to call it, I felt like it was a good sign. The tree probably disagrees.
Oh yeah, one more thing about New Hammpshire. The state slogan is "Live free or die". That's 4 good things about New Hampshire.
-----Sports Time-----
I feel like I should probably say a word or two about living in Boston during the week of the Seahawks vs. Pats game. First off, no Patriots fan is afraid the Seahawks or of the 12th man. I have talked to tons of people out here, all of whom tell me the same thing about this afternoon's game. "The game might be close, but the Pats are gonna win." When I ask why, they almost all give me the same answer, "Cuz we're the Patriots." I guess 5 Super Bowl appearances in 11 years gives you right to some level of cockiness. Second, when you ask any fan of the Pats to explain how they will beat the Seahawks today, they can all give you the career numbers and highlights of every offensive player on the team..."Tawmy is supah sick, Gronk is a beast, Wes is healthy again, the run game is looking good," and on and on and on. They all fail to mention the same thing though...defense. Nobody has confidence in the Patriots D. And last I checked, defense is half of the game, and pretty important. Last, all anyone wants to bring up is the Seahawks vs. Packers game, and how lucky the Hawks are to be 3-2. Okay, we all agree that was a horrible call, no argument here. But, you can't ignore the fact that the Packers scored 12 points. TWELVE. That's a tiny number for such a prolific offense. It's also a fitting number considering what I think is among the biggest factors in today's game. The 12th Man. Tawmy maybe sick, but he's never heard a stadium like C-Link when it's rocking, and today it's going to be loud. I sure hope the Hawks can do something on offense, because the defense is going to keep them close. I'll take the Hawks 23-20.
Thanks for reading guys, it means a lot to me. Something like 600 page views on the first blog, which is insane. That's a lot of pressure, now I have to worry about being entertaining. Hope I came through here.
Follow me on twitter, @MrAndyBunker
Talk to you soon. Go Hawks.
Second, they don't tax their liquor. Which means that the bottle of whiskey I bought was about half the price it would have been if I'd bought it here in Boston. This is a genius tactic for a state like New Hampshire, that generally doesn't have a ton to offer. I mean, while it was lovely yesterday, in about 2 weeks all those leaves are going to fall and the state will be frozen and miserable until spring. Why not lure Bostonians to your boring state by having a permanent happy hour?
Third, they have the best gas station food (at least at the gas station in Ashland) that I have ever had. Naturally after a nice long hike, food is the #1 priority. Well, it was priority 1B, 1A was finding a bathroom...some of my pre-hike carboloading didn't agree with me. TMI, sorry. Anyway, after that crisis was handled I was all about eating. And lucky for me, the gas station came through. I got a quinoa salad with roasted vegetables, and it was delicious. My friends got caesar chicken wraps, and by all accounts those were great too. I was expecting to have to settle for a soggy gas station sandwich, the ones where the tomatoes turn the bread into a pasty layer that coats some random low grade meat, but instead we were treated to a great lunch.
While the liquor and the lunch were nice discoveries, New Hampshire itself was clearly the best part of yesterday. If you close your eyes and imagine what a small New England town looks like in the fall, you probably see the same things that most people see: big trees with all different colored leaves, small shops selling maple syrup and lobsters, picket fences, pumpkins on porches...all that stuff. Well that was the town we drove through to get to the trail yesterday. It was the New Englandiest town ever, and it was great. I felt like a Kennedy.
The hike was great too. There is no doubt that I have been spoiled, living in Seattle, getting to enjoy all the natural beauty without realizing that not every place looks like that. At the old KJR studio at 351 Elliott, our studio was on the southwest corner of the building, and without doing anything but spinning in your chair you could see Puget Sound, Mt. Rainier, the Olympic Mountains and the downtown skyline. This was a sports radio studio, and it had a view that a postcard would envy. This is to say that in Seattle, you get so accustomed to being surrounded by this stuff that after a while you forget that you are so lucky. It didn't take long for me to realize that I missed these things after I got to Boston. So yesterday, getting out into the trails and the mountains was very therapeutic.
--Quick sidebar...in the last 3 paragraphs I have said nature is therapeutic, I romantically described a small New England town, and I admitted to eating a quinoa salad for lunch and loving it. The slow and painful transition into becoming a yuppie maybe complete. Somebody book my tickets to DMB at the Gorge next summer. Seriously though, that quinoa was awesome.--
One really funny thing that happened on the hike was the discovery of this piece of art work carved into a tree.
This is a photo of my buddy Justin and I, and some telepathic tree who know we were coming. What a coincidence. Serendipity perhaps. Whatever you want to call it, I felt like it was a good sign. The tree probably disagrees.
Oh yeah, one more thing about New Hammpshire. The state slogan is "Live free or die". That's 4 good things about New Hampshire.
-----Sports Time-----
I feel like I should probably say a word or two about living in Boston during the week of the Seahawks vs. Pats game. First off, no Patriots fan is afraid the Seahawks or of the 12th man. I have talked to tons of people out here, all of whom tell me the same thing about this afternoon's game. "The game might be close, but the Pats are gonna win." When I ask why, they almost all give me the same answer, "Cuz we're the Patriots." I guess 5 Super Bowl appearances in 11 years gives you right to some level of cockiness. Second, when you ask any fan of the Pats to explain how they will beat the Seahawks today, they can all give you the career numbers and highlights of every offensive player on the team..."Tawmy is supah sick, Gronk is a beast, Wes is healthy again, the run game is looking good," and on and on and on. They all fail to mention the same thing though...defense. Nobody has confidence in the Patriots D. And last I checked, defense is half of the game, and pretty important. Last, all anyone wants to bring up is the Seahawks vs. Packers game, and how lucky the Hawks are to be 3-2. Okay, we all agree that was a horrible call, no argument here. But, you can't ignore the fact that the Packers scored 12 points. TWELVE. That's a tiny number for such a prolific offense. It's also a fitting number considering what I think is among the biggest factors in today's game. The 12th Man. Tawmy maybe sick, but he's never heard a stadium like C-Link when it's rocking, and today it's going to be loud. I sure hope the Hawks can do something on offense, because the defense is going to keep them close. I'll take the Hawks 23-20.
Thanks for reading guys, it means a lot to me. Something like 600 page views on the first blog, which is insane. That's a lot of pressure, now I have to worry about being entertaining. Hope I came through here.
Follow me on twitter, @MrAndyBunker
Talk to you soon. Go Hawks.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Welcome to Boston
Believe it or not, there is actually a highway that goes all the way from Seattle to Boston: Interstate-90. On the Seattle side I-90 starts on the corner of Edgar Martinez Drive and Dave Niehaus Way, and in Boston, 90 ends near Fenway Park where Manny Ramirez once hit it with a home run and then did this...
If you enter the address where I grew up and the address where I live now into Google Maps, this is what you see...
And so if the simple thought of moving across the country to go back to school wasn't terrifying enough, I have this image perfectly illustrating the fact that there is an entire continent between everyone I know, and everything I don't.
3,082 miles, according to Google. Start out by driving west on Spencer Street, turn right on 48th Avenue South, turn left on Juneau Street, turn right on Rainier....turn, turn, turn, and you're in Boston. Google makes it seem so simple. And while this blog isn't being written for the purpose of delving into my psyche, I assure you that there wasn't anything simple about this move.
I find it fitting, however, that the road that leads from Seattle to Boston starts with Edgar Martinez and Dave Niehaus, because that's where mine started as well. If you don't already know, I am here attending Boston University to get my masters degree in broadcast journalism. Aside from compiling massive amounts of debt, the reason I am here is to get better at what I love doing: talking about sports. This blog will be dedicated to keeping those of you who are interested up to date with how that pursuit is going, as well as to fill you in on the occasional funny anecdote from my life. So here goes...
Welcome to Boston
I have been here in Boston for a little over a month now, and overall things are going really well. My classes are challenging and interesting, my professors are enthusiastic and experienced, and I have had the great fortune of coming to school with a group of students who are passionate and inspire me to work as hard as they do. In summary, the BU experience has been really great so far. I've also been doing a sports radio show on WTBU on Friday nights (6-8 EST, wtburadio.org) which I really enjoy. The radio station is cool, it's totally student run, the equipment is ancient and often malfunctions and the studio is pretty much a closet. But everyone who works there loves radio, and has a great passion for what they are doing...basically the opposite of KJR. Ooooh, a shot at KJR. I kid KJR, I kid.
The thing that has been really funny about Boston thus far however, have been the "Welcome to Boston" moments. Those moments where your new city reaches out and introduces itself to you. For instance, in Seattle if someone was new to town, and they went for a cup of coffee at a corner cafe and the barista was rude to them for not knowing the difference between an Americano and a drip, you would say, "Welcome to Seattle." An introduction to the quirks of the city. Annoying? Sure. But every city has them. Only in Boston, people say "Welcome" in some really weird ways. I have 3 examples.
1. Move in weekend in Boston and the surrounding areas such as Brookline, Allston and Brighton (where I live), is notoriously crazy. It's referred to as "Boston Christmas" because so many students just leave perfectly good stuff on the sidewalk when they move out. I furnished half of my apartment with stuff that I found. I got a dresser, a microwave, 2 fans, an AC unit, a coffee maker, a bunch of rugs, etc. Just to be clear, this stuff is all perfectly good and clean, I'm not some dumpster diving hippie. Rich kids just leave their stuff out on the sidewalk instead of taking the time to move it or dispose of it properly. It's really great actually. So as my mom and I were on one of our scavenger hunts, we stopped on the side of the road to grab some plastic shelves and a lamp that was left with a free sign. While we were packing the rental car with my new furniture, a woman with a thick New York accent yelled at us, asking if we wanted a futon.
--Now, as I said before, I am not some dirty stinky hippie, I have standards. And while some plastic closet shelves and lamps are fine to get for free, a futon is something that you sit on. Nap on. Watch sports on. So I was skeptical.--
We followed her into her son's basement level apartment, where the futon lived, and she proceeded to convince us that it was very comfortable, she in fact had slept on it dozens of times. After about 3 seconds in the apartment, my attention was no longer on the futon however. I was focused on the middle Eastern war zone that we had just stepped into. A broken fish tank sat in the corner, a vineyard of wires grew from every outlet in sight, there were 3 TV monitors hooked up to the computer in the middle of the living room, and there were fast food bags and dirty socks everywhere. This was September 1, mind you. The place was supposed to be empty and clean by noon the day before, and yet it looked like a dumpster. Anyway, there sat the futon, and on it Kev, the son of the woman with the thick accent. Kev was playing with a helicopter that he appeared to have made himself. He couldn't have cared less that his apartment was a haz-mat sight, or that his mom was trying to give away all of his stuff to expedite the cleaning process. He simply sat there, totally content, playing with his toy. He was wearing khaki shorts, and a video game T-shirt, and looked like he was about 30. As his mom continued to push the futon and its virtues, he finally looked up to see me and my mom, nodding slightly at our presence in his cave. To be fair, the futon was actually pretty nice, but we didn't have room in the car, so we had to drive home to unload and then come back to pick it up. Kev and his mom were fine with this plan.
When we got back to Kev's place, there was a new character in the mix; Kev's dad. Not only was this new man Kev's father (very proud of Kev I assume), but he was also Kev's mom's ex-husband. And he was none too pleased that the futon that "he paid for" was about to be given away for free. Never mind the fact that the apartment had to be cleared out yesterday, Kev's dad wasn't about to part with this futon without a fight. Well, actually he just wanted $70, but he was a real douche about it. My mom and I decided that was a fair price, the futon was actually really nice considering its third world home, and I could easily get a new cover. We loaded the car, paid Kev's angry father, and made our way out of the cave. As we left Kev still sat there, undaunted, in the spot where the futon used to be, playing with his helicopter. I was asked later that day how moving in was going by a friend who has lived in Boston for years, and when I relayed the story of Kev and his garbage dump, he texted me back three words: "Welcome to Boston."
2. During my first weekend here, I was out with a group of grad students who I have classes with. None of us really knew each other very well, since we had only been in school for about 3 days at this point, so we did what any normal 20-somethings would do, we went out and got drunk together. The night was fun, we were all telling stories of our hometowns, and why we chose Boston for school, and all sorts of other polite things you talk about when you are trying to be a grad student. As the night went on we ventured out of our small group of classmates, and started talking to some of the girls at the table next to us. I was having a nice chat with this girl from Colorado, telling jokes, buying drinks, all the semi-effective moves I've acquired throughout my bar going life. This went on for about an hour, until she and her friends decided to leave. Naturally, feeling proud of the fact that I had kept her attention and not said anything offensive for such a long period of time, I asked for her number. This is where things went "Boston". She just sort of looked at me like I was little kid trying to dress himself for the first time...her face read amused, but also a little embarrassed. "No thanks," she said, and walked away with her friends. I turned to my classmates in shock, I couldn't believe it. I was funny, my hair looked great, I bought her 2 beers, WTF? At this moment my buddy, who grew up in Massachusetts, put his arm around me and said, "Welcome to Boston."
3. I shipped the majority of the things that I own in boxes on Amtrak. Things like small framed pictures, dishes, books, autographed baseballs, and all sorts of other little things that I decided I couldn't move across the country without. This process takes 2 weeks, and being the procrastinator that I am, I waited until the last possible day to take the stuff down to the train station in Seattle. This meant that for the first 2 weeks I was in my new apartment the walls were bare, I had to eat off of cardboard, and I didn't have my baseball cards. It was a rough two weeks as you can imagine. When the boxes finally showed up in Boston, they came to a place called South Station which is located on the outskirts of downtown just across the water from South Boston. I rented a U-Haul truck and drove to the other side of town to get my stuff, and even though I got lost about 5 times on the trip it was fun to drive through the city. Anyway, when I finally found the station, I parked in the garage and went to ask the information desk where to go for Amtrak Express.
--As a quick aside, keep in mind this is a train, bus, and subway station, and if you have spent any time in train, bus or subway stations, you know that you can meet some interesting folks.--
So, as I walked through the station to find out where I needed to go, I was approached by a woman who appeared down on her luck. Dirty clothes, matted hair, plastic bags filled with god knows what in both hands, this woman looked like she had seen better days. I was reaching for change, assuming she was going to tell me some story about needing to buy gas or something, as she walked right up to my face. She looked me dead in my eyes, and with the confidence and swagger of Dirty Harry she said, "I just pissed my pants. So What?"
Holy shit. This woman just jacked my whole life up. "So What?" She looked right into my soul and called me out. I mean, what do you do? It was clearly a challenge, a "go ahead punk, make my day" type of moment. Seriously, what do you do?!? The only way to top her would have been to take a dump right there in front of her, but I really liked the jeans I was wearing and that would have been gross. This is not the type of person you want to get into a gross out contest with, I mean she started by pissing her pants, that's her FIRST MOVE. Needless to say I was beaten. So I tried to gather my wits as quickly as I could and respond. "Alright," is all I could muster. She stood there shrinking my manhood with her eyes for a few more seconds before she furled her brown and harrumphed. I was a disappointment to her. She chose me, out of the hundreds of people in the station, and approached what she thought could be a worthy opponent. But I was no match. It was checkmate after one move. "I just pissed my pants. So What?" So, you win. That's what.
Anyway, I went on to get my boxes, occasionally reliving this moment in my mind as I drove back to Brighton. I texted my co-worker Manny to tell him about the incident, and all I got back were the 3 words I dreaded most: "Welcome to Boston."
3,082 miles, according to Google. Start out by driving west on Spencer Street, turn right on 48th Avenue South, turn left on Juneau Street, turn right on Rainier....turn, turn, turn, and you're in Boston. Google makes it seem so simple. And while this blog isn't being written for the purpose of delving into my psyche, I assure you that there wasn't anything simple about this move.
I find it fitting, however, that the road that leads from Seattle to Boston starts with Edgar Martinez and Dave Niehaus, because that's where mine started as well. If you don't already know, I am here attending Boston University to get my masters degree in broadcast journalism. Aside from compiling massive amounts of debt, the reason I am here is to get better at what I love doing: talking about sports. This blog will be dedicated to keeping those of you who are interested up to date with how that pursuit is going, as well as to fill you in on the occasional funny anecdote from my life. So here goes...
Welcome to Boston
I have been here in Boston for a little over a month now, and overall things are going really well. My classes are challenging and interesting, my professors are enthusiastic and experienced, and I have had the great fortune of coming to school with a group of students who are passionate and inspire me to work as hard as they do. In summary, the BU experience has been really great so far. I've also been doing a sports radio show on WTBU on Friday nights (6-8 EST, wtburadio.org) which I really enjoy. The radio station is cool, it's totally student run, the equipment is ancient and often malfunctions and the studio is pretty much a closet. But everyone who works there loves radio, and has a great passion for what they are doing...basically the opposite of KJR. Ooooh, a shot at KJR. I kid KJR, I kid.
The thing that has been really funny about Boston thus far however, have been the "Welcome to Boston" moments. Those moments where your new city reaches out and introduces itself to you. For instance, in Seattle if someone was new to town, and they went for a cup of coffee at a corner cafe and the barista was rude to them for not knowing the difference between an Americano and a drip, you would say, "Welcome to Seattle." An introduction to the quirks of the city. Annoying? Sure. But every city has them. Only in Boston, people say "Welcome" in some really weird ways. I have 3 examples.
1. Move in weekend in Boston and the surrounding areas such as Brookline, Allston and Brighton (where I live), is notoriously crazy. It's referred to as "Boston Christmas" because so many students just leave perfectly good stuff on the sidewalk when they move out. I furnished half of my apartment with stuff that I found. I got a dresser, a microwave, 2 fans, an AC unit, a coffee maker, a bunch of rugs, etc. Just to be clear, this stuff is all perfectly good and clean, I'm not some dumpster diving hippie. Rich kids just leave their stuff out on the sidewalk instead of taking the time to move it or dispose of it properly. It's really great actually. So as my mom and I were on one of our scavenger hunts, we stopped on the side of the road to grab some plastic shelves and a lamp that was left with a free sign. While we were packing the rental car with my new furniture, a woman with a thick New York accent yelled at us, asking if we wanted a futon.
--Now, as I said before, I am not some dirty stinky hippie, I have standards. And while some plastic closet shelves and lamps are fine to get for free, a futon is something that you sit on. Nap on. Watch sports on. So I was skeptical.--
We followed her into her son's basement level apartment, where the futon lived, and she proceeded to convince us that it was very comfortable, she in fact had slept on it dozens of times. After about 3 seconds in the apartment, my attention was no longer on the futon however. I was focused on the middle Eastern war zone that we had just stepped into. A broken fish tank sat in the corner, a vineyard of wires grew from every outlet in sight, there were 3 TV monitors hooked up to the computer in the middle of the living room, and there were fast food bags and dirty socks everywhere. This was September 1, mind you. The place was supposed to be empty and clean by noon the day before, and yet it looked like a dumpster. Anyway, there sat the futon, and on it Kev, the son of the woman with the thick accent. Kev was playing with a helicopter that he appeared to have made himself. He couldn't have cared less that his apartment was a haz-mat sight, or that his mom was trying to give away all of his stuff to expedite the cleaning process. He simply sat there, totally content, playing with his toy. He was wearing khaki shorts, and a video game T-shirt, and looked like he was about 30. As his mom continued to push the futon and its virtues, he finally looked up to see me and my mom, nodding slightly at our presence in his cave. To be fair, the futon was actually pretty nice, but we didn't have room in the car, so we had to drive home to unload and then come back to pick it up. Kev and his mom were fine with this plan.
When we got back to Kev's place, there was a new character in the mix; Kev's dad. Not only was this new man Kev's father (very proud of Kev I assume), but he was also Kev's mom's ex-husband. And he was none too pleased that the futon that "he paid for" was about to be given away for free. Never mind the fact that the apartment had to be cleared out yesterday, Kev's dad wasn't about to part with this futon without a fight. Well, actually he just wanted $70, but he was a real douche about it. My mom and I decided that was a fair price, the futon was actually really nice considering its third world home, and I could easily get a new cover. We loaded the car, paid Kev's angry father, and made our way out of the cave. As we left Kev still sat there, undaunted, in the spot where the futon used to be, playing with his helicopter. I was asked later that day how moving in was going by a friend who has lived in Boston for years, and when I relayed the story of Kev and his garbage dump, he texted me back three words: "Welcome to Boston."
2. During my first weekend here, I was out with a group of grad students who I have classes with. None of us really knew each other very well, since we had only been in school for about 3 days at this point, so we did what any normal 20-somethings would do, we went out and got drunk together. The night was fun, we were all telling stories of our hometowns, and why we chose Boston for school, and all sorts of other polite things you talk about when you are trying to be a grad student. As the night went on we ventured out of our small group of classmates, and started talking to some of the girls at the table next to us. I was having a nice chat with this girl from Colorado, telling jokes, buying drinks, all the semi-effective moves I've acquired throughout my bar going life. This went on for about an hour, until she and her friends decided to leave. Naturally, feeling proud of the fact that I had kept her attention and not said anything offensive for such a long period of time, I asked for her number. This is where things went "Boston". She just sort of looked at me like I was little kid trying to dress himself for the first time...her face read amused, but also a little embarrassed. "No thanks," she said, and walked away with her friends. I turned to my classmates in shock, I couldn't believe it. I was funny, my hair looked great, I bought her 2 beers, WTF? At this moment my buddy, who grew up in Massachusetts, put his arm around me and said, "Welcome to Boston."
3. I shipped the majority of the things that I own in boxes on Amtrak. Things like small framed pictures, dishes, books, autographed baseballs, and all sorts of other little things that I decided I couldn't move across the country without. This process takes 2 weeks, and being the procrastinator that I am, I waited until the last possible day to take the stuff down to the train station in Seattle. This meant that for the first 2 weeks I was in my new apartment the walls were bare, I had to eat off of cardboard, and I didn't have my baseball cards. It was a rough two weeks as you can imagine. When the boxes finally showed up in Boston, they came to a place called South Station which is located on the outskirts of downtown just across the water from South Boston. I rented a U-Haul truck and drove to the other side of town to get my stuff, and even though I got lost about 5 times on the trip it was fun to drive through the city. Anyway, when I finally found the station, I parked in the garage and went to ask the information desk where to go for Amtrak Express.
--As a quick aside, keep in mind this is a train, bus, and subway station, and if you have spent any time in train, bus or subway stations, you know that you can meet some interesting folks.--
So, as I walked through the station to find out where I needed to go, I was approached by a woman who appeared down on her luck. Dirty clothes, matted hair, plastic bags filled with god knows what in both hands, this woman looked like she had seen better days. I was reaching for change, assuming she was going to tell me some story about needing to buy gas or something, as she walked right up to my face. She looked me dead in my eyes, and with the confidence and swagger of Dirty Harry she said, "I just pissed my pants. So What?"
Holy shit. This woman just jacked my whole life up. "So What?" She looked right into my soul and called me out. I mean, what do you do? It was clearly a challenge, a "go ahead punk, make my day" type of moment. Seriously, what do you do?!? The only way to top her would have been to take a dump right there in front of her, but I really liked the jeans I was wearing and that would have been gross. This is not the type of person you want to get into a gross out contest with, I mean she started by pissing her pants, that's her FIRST MOVE. Needless to say I was beaten. So I tried to gather my wits as quickly as I could and respond. "Alright," is all I could muster. She stood there shrinking my manhood with her eyes for a few more seconds before she furled her brown and harrumphed. I was a disappointment to her. She chose me, out of the hundreds of people in the station, and approached what she thought could be a worthy opponent. But I was no match. It was checkmate after one move. "I just pissed my pants. So What?" So, you win. That's what.
Anyway, I went on to get my boxes, occasionally reliving this moment in my mind as I drove back to Brighton. I texted my co-worker Manny to tell him about the incident, and all I got back were the 3 words I dreaded most: "Welcome to Boston."
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