A heapin' helpin'.

New England is a funny place. Not funny, you know, "ha-ha", but funny in that sort of David Lynch-Twin Peaks/Beverly Hillbillies/Chevy Chase in "Funny Farm" sort of funny. Just, you know, a little off.

So today was something of a homecoming, since the last time I saw New England was May 14th, 2002, as I was staring out the back of my fiance's as-yet-unstolen 1992 Honda Accord, fiance in the passenger's seat, fiance's dad driving the Penske. I'll be the first to tell you, I liked Boston while I lived there. There were things I would change, but overall, I think it's a much better place to live than San Diego. About the same number of fake personalities, but fewer fake body parts. By far. And a nice public transportation system.

But, as I alluded to above, there are some things that are just a little, well, different, about New England.

As I tried to leave the rental-car parking lot, in my rather nice Hyundai Sonata (Blue), I was stopped by the ubiquitous person in the little hut who makes sure the car matches the rental agreement. Only this person looked about 80 years old, and I swear to you, had a wooden leg. Thing is, it wasn't just a wooden leg; it wasn't like some pegleggy kinda' thing, the sort of thing that MCA raps about in "Shake Your Rump", but rather a fully fake leg, complete with fake shoes, fake socks. But it wasn't prosthetic; it was definitely a wooden leg. No mistaking this leg for an actual leg. It's just that this old guy had decided that, lest he offend people with his wooden leg, he oughtta wear matching socks.

So I pulled up to the guy and showed him my rental agreement and asked, nonchalantely, "What's the best way to get to the 93?" And he tells me: "Here, I won't tell ya', I'll show ya'. Gimme your map." I give him my map. "So you take this street here for a mile and a quarter. EXACTLY a mile and a quarter, that's the airport exit." Dale interrups: "And that'll put me on the 293?" Old guy: "NO! YOU DON'T GET ON THE 293 UNTIL I TELL YOU TO GET ON THE 293!!"

Whoa.

That was an unexpected outburst. I basically stopped listening, and followed the signs (which were perspicuous enough).

One of the simple pleasures of living in New England is Dunkin' Donuts coffee. Their donuts are pretty much neither here nor there, but the coffee is seriously where it's at. So before I got on the 293 (whenever I damn well pleased, I might add), I made sure that I stopped off at a half gas station/half Dunkin' Donuts. Only I didn't realize this when I pulled in, but apparently the Carnival had stopped at this very gas station. Guys in stilts were walking around harrassing people as they were trying to pump gas. Two guys in New England accents (you know the one) were yelling into a microphone something about a raffle. I tried to slip by unnoticed. So I get in there, and order myself a medium coffee.

Let me repeat that. A medium coffee.

Now, anywhere else in this great nation of ours, you order yourself a medium coffee, and don't specify anything else, it comes black. You want cream or sugar, you add that shit. Not in New England. If you want black coffee, you better say "black", lest it come with about 200 extra calories. Much to my dismay. That's something I'm going to have to remember.

I'm tired. I'm going to go to beddy-bye, considering I've slept approximately three hours in the last twenty-four. Gotta love me some of that New England air conditioning, though.