Item #30 - Go to a Cock Fight

Disclaimer #1 - I went for the cultural experience, not the animal violence. Thus, the animal lovers can feel free to read on, because I assure you that while this post is very picture-laden, you won't see any pictures of battered and beaten cocks.

Disclaimer #2 - I plan to use the word "cock" a lot. Partly because I'm immature and it's funny. Partly because 3rd grade sexual jokes help to lighten the mood of a grim subject. Either way, by the end, you may no longer even enjoy the potential sexual double entendres. You've been warned. . . . . cock . . . . cock cock.
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JERRY: Kramer, cockfighting is illegal.
KRAMER: Only in The United States.
JERRY: It's inhumane!
KRAMER: No, Jerry, it's not what you think it is.
JERRY: It's two roosters peckin' at each other!
KRAMER: What?
JERRY: Yeah!
KRAMER: Well, I thought they wore gloves and helmets, you know, like "American Gladiators."
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This is a picture of me and my best buddy Tyler.

However, I should say that's a picture of me and my old best buddy Tyler. After 14 years of being the family dog, he passed on about a year and a half ago. He had cancer. He had numerous tumors. He had been deaf for about several years. Sadly, it was his time, and I had been preparing for it anytime I got to see him for the 2 years leading up to it, always thinking that as I left my parents house, it may be the last time I got to see him. But despite the prepping, I was utterly devastated, and broke down way more so than I probably should have. I cried the night my mom called to tell me. I cried the next day. I cried the day after that. I cried most nights that week. I cried a week later. I cried once a week for a few months after that. Like I said, I broke down a lot (and even just writing about it all 20 months later is kind of fucking with my emotions. I'm an engineer dammit! I'm supposed live in a glass cage devoid of emotions!).

But like I said, he was my best buddy. I love going home and seeing the family, but he was always the best part of the visits. I mean, I can talk to my mom on the phone. My dad, brother and sister. But Tyler was only available in person (except for one of the few times I used a web cam while talking my mom on the phone. She put the laptop on the ground, and when he saw me, he licked the screen. And yes, it was cute as shit).

And while he was the family dog, when I came home, he was MY dog. When I went to bed, there was no question that he was staying in my room. When I watched TV, he was right there. When I showered, he was right there . . . . outside waiting for me to open the door, you sick bastard. And to explain our connection like only dog people would understand - I would occasionally randomly drive home from grad school, without even telling my parents I was coming home. And as I pulled onto our street, and could see our front door from 150 yards away . . . Tyler was staring out the door waiting. Yeah, he knew, and he already had his toy in hand, ready to play.. We were boys (written while banging my fist twice against my chest).

So needless to say, I'm a HUGE dog person. I love them all, and I swear, they all love me. Cesar Milan? Learned everything from me. And based on my pick-up skills, I'm probably more likely to connect with the true definition of a "bitch" than the slang version.

Cats on the other hand? They can all kiss my ass. My ability to be a dog whisperer is inversely proportional to my ability to be a pussy whisperer (if Jennifer Love Hewitt ever turns to beastiality porn to make a quick buck, I think that's the requisite name of the movie). One time I stayed at my friend Hillary's place in Chicago. When I woke up, her satanic cat was one foot away from my face, ready to scratch a new orifice into it. Cleo, if you're reading this . . . I don't like your attitude. 

So when Michael Vick got busted for dog fighting, naturally I had to take a stance on it. I'm a dog person, and having them fight to the death for sport is fucked up beyond belief. And with Michael Vick running the show, my opinion on him was . . .well, it was what he grew up with.

I believe in fighting animal cruelty, but I believe just as much in the theory that everyone is a product of their environment. Say there's a couple of 21 year old racists. They're both probably assholes. But say one of them grew up in Greenwich CT and attended a private boarding school before heading off to Yale to do blow with Skull and Bones. The other grew up in the South in Inbred-a-bama and had a couple of parents whose idea of a comfortable hat was one with 2 eye-holes and a pointy white top. Again, both assholes, but the redneck is going to get a MUCH bigger pass in my book. Frankly, he never stood a chance.

So while what Vick did was disgusting, and heinous, and wrong, and of course I disapprove of it . . . I get it. He grew up with it. No one taught him any better. All his friends did it. He went with it. And while yes, maybe he should have known better because it was illegal, so is drinking under the age of 21, and I figure at least 80% of you reading this got vomit-wasted by the time you could vote, so the "illegal" reasoning isn't going to scare off anyone who's been watching dog fighting since they had an allowance to gamble away.

As for whether or not the guy's legitimately repented since he got caught and went to jail? Totally different discussion. And really, how the fuck should I know? I don't have ESP . . . yet.

So while we were down in Puerto Rico, we needed a rainy day activity to pass the time. And apparently, Puerto Rico is kind of like the US' wacky fun uncle (not in the immediate family's household, but if you head over to his place, he'll let you do stuff your parent won't), because cock fighting is100% legal down there. So while I don't approve of 2 animals kicking each others ass for the sake of gambling, I do like the idea of taking in something that could be considered an exclusive local culture.

So on a rainy Saturday afternoon, we headed down to experience the product-of-your-environment belief in action. It may be illegal here, but it's part of their culture there. And what better way to show that than by opening with a picture of family fun night at your local cockfight!

 

Yes, this is a family of 5 enjoy an afternoon watching cocks beat the shit out of each other. They are eating fries and what we believed to be, ironically, chicken fingers. 

But for the entire cock experience, let's start on the outside. This wasn't what the ring Little Jerry fought in looked like - a gravel covered barn yard back room. This was legit. 

I assume this picture is as original as lying down on the Nation Mall with the Washington Monument placed in just the right spot in the background

Our tickets cost $10, but the high rollers paid upwards of $45 to get front row seats in the arena. Yes, the "arena." Behold, the Thunderdome for cocks, complete with mini-Jumbotron.

To get to the start of the fight, you actually have to start at the wall of cocks. All of the future combatants hang out in clear plexiglass boxes for the potential gamblers to size 'em up.

And when each cock's time has come, their cock box gets sent down to the ring via a cable-car like system. The cock in the hanging box below has decided to get amped for his fight by checking out the local tail. Yup - the 2 ring girls would take beer and food orders from the good seats in between fights.

Also done in between fights? Dust-busting the previous fight. Usually feathers, sometimes blood.

 

Once the cocks arrived in the ring below, the handlers got the cocks even more excited, as they gave them a bunch of little jabs with a stuffed cock. God forbid the match start and the cocks just want to hang out with each other and talk about their family life. The excited cocks were then placed into a pair of boxes, facing each other. 

This let the cocks build up some final moments of aggression, as patrons started the gambling process, which looked something like this

Can you understand what bets and what kind of money is being exchanged in this picture? No? Well, with the fast-talking Spanish going on, I couldn't figure it out either. This wasn't like horse racing, where all the horses get odds and you bet against the house/track. There was no "house" here. In the last minute before the fight started (and I'm pretty sure even during the fight), everyone started shouting out what cock they wanted, and how much they wanted to bet. Someone would eventually accept it from across the ring, and the bet was on. No ticket. No enforcement. Who knew a cock fight would have an honor system? At that point, it was time to remove each cock from their box, and let 'em go at it.

So the grim details on the fights. There was pecking. There was clawing. Sometimes there was blood. Often times there were some really messed up cocks by the end. And in about 15% of the fights, we saw what amounted to limp cocks. The fights had 15 minute time limits, but there was a definite winner after typically 3-7 minutes. And while I can't define what a losing cock looked like, like the Supreme Court and porn, you knew it when you saw it. The winners were then taken over to judge, while the losers, who ranged from beaten-pretty-well to barely-lifeless, were escorted out of the ring for what I assumed to be the only bit of "mercy" they would receive - a quick execution.

And to the gambling victors go the spoils. And for the hombres in the front rows, the spoils were grande.

And from 2-10pm, they repeated this process over and over again. We stayed for about an hour and a half and saw around 15 fights. So in an 8 hour day? That's a lot of cock.

But over those 90 minutes, my acceptance of the rampant animal cruelty jumped all over the place. Parking and walking in? Actually pretty excited for something so different. Seeing the first cock go down? Ummm, pretty twisted and fucked up. Seeing 14 more cocks go down? Eh, it happens. When in Rome.

But as we walked out and drove home, and the entire afternoon set in, complete with a mental photo album of 15 animals bloodied and beaten in the name of sport and gambling, the animal lover in me came back. That . . . was indeed fucked, and I don't ever need to do it again. I'm glad I went for the once in lifetime experience, but if I end up back in San Juan again, it will remain a once in a lifetime experience.

Tyler would insist so.
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My favorite part of the afternoon was actually the the people watching. So in no connection to the rest of the story, let's take a look at our fellow cock fighting patrons and make up stories about them

This refined University of San Juan professor takes out a lovely lady for a first date. 

Mafia? Yeah, definitely mafia.

I believe this man's nickname is El Guapo

No Dos Equis, THIS is the most interesting man in the world

Item #29 - Go Spelunking

"I told you, we need to fill the cave with hot, molten lead, 'cause it's the only way to make sure Manbearpig never comes out. And I'm saying it and I'm totally cereal but everyone just keeps digging!"

"Well, see, the problem is, if we fill the cave with hot, molten lead, it will kill those boys too."

"They're already dead, didn't you listen to me"
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Spelunking (n): the hobby or practice of exploring caves
-Webster's dictionary

Spelunking (v): the act of exploring for the missing condom after deep penetration
-urbandictionary.com

When I was in Puerto Rico a week ago, my friends Bryan, Micah, Sarah and I went on a delightful little spelunking adventure. Since Sarah wasn't into the whole 4-way-with-3-guys thing, our "spelunking" adventure consisted of the first definition above, and I imagine it was the more enjoyable of the 2 options (I think.  Though attempting the other definition would certainly be a first for the list). It was an exhausting 10-hour day, so let's get to it.

The day would involve a whole lot of rocks, mud, water and heights. Thus, I wasn't bringing my camera. So while they do actually relay a good sense of the atmosphere and environment, you're stuck with the pics from the adventure tour's website,
 

The morning started out at 5:00am, as we had to get our asses to the bus stop for the van to pick us, and the other 12 spelunkers, up. And at 5:45, when it did pick us up, we realized that the tour guides would at least have a good sense of humor for the next 10 hours, as they opened to door and had the theme to Indiana Jones blasting (again, at 5:45am in the middle of a major city).

Then a 1 hour ride to the cave, in which the driver and main tour guide riffed the whole time. In Engligh or Espanol, it was damn funny.  Really, I can't recommend this tour enough if you just so happen to be in the Puerto Rico area. What? You don't have a friend living down there in a swanky paid-for-by-his-company apartment 50 yards from the ocean where you can crash for free? Pity.

We got to the site, geared up, and then basically stared down a 500 foot drop into a gorge/canyon-like area in the middle of the rainforest. If you were scared of heights or the native headhunters, now was the time to ditch.

The way down was a combo of zip lines . . . .

. . . and rappelling.  This really was how it looked going down. Rappel down 50 feet of rock, and then just kind of float the next 150 feet down.

And as you land at the mouth of the cave, it's really quite awe-inspiring.
 

 

One of the few times where you have to take a step back and say "is this legit? Am I in a movie? Am I on location?"

One of the last times that happened? About 5 years ago working for a certain medical device company. Being the mature adult I am, I was working in the Uro/Gyno dpeartment, and the product we were working on required a visit to the University of Michigan Hospital. The anatomy PhD working with us was in charge of the test materials, AKA, the cadaver torsos. So, when it was time to test, she picked up a torso out of the sink, with just her arms, and flopped it down on the table. And it sat there, wiggling around, with all of its saw-off bits and pieces showing. She poked it a few times, took a second to think, and then said "nope, it's not thawed yet", before picking it, flopping it back into the sink, and turning on the hot water. It was the first time I saw all the sawed-off sections of a cadaver ("hey, she had a hip implant!"), and it absolutely made my think "am I being Punk'd by Wes Craven?" The medical device industry is SLIGHTLY different than my hometown auto industry.

The cave (part of the 3rd biggest cave system in the world, according the interwebs, which like the pope, are infallible) was a grab bag of terrain. In the picture above, you can see the stream running through the cave on the bottom left. According to the guide, flash floods can cause the water to rise at a rate of 1 foot per minute. So if you're in the cave, and you hear the guide blow 1 long whistle? Like Chris Rock talking about being on MLK Boulevard . . . . RUN. Get the fuck out.

Luckily, despite the rainy weekend, we avoided any flash floods. But, the river depth was all over the place. Some parts were wade-able. In other sections, we got to jump into from rocks 15 feet up.

(if only I had that dude's mustahce. THEN the Puerto Rican chicas would have been impressed)

Of course the cave had the requisite stalactites and stalagmites, and thanks to the aforementioned shitty weather all weekend, there were constant dips throughout the journey. Only a few more thousand years and this little guy up top will get up the courage to stick it to his potential mate down below.

On a few occasions, the guides had everyone turn off their lights. This was both cool (as you couldn't see 1 inch in front of your face) and frightening, as I have yet to mention the happy little critters running around. Crabs and bats and spiders, oh my. The crabs were, well, just crabs. The bats kind of hung out on the cave ceiling, which was more than tall enough for them to not be a concern. But these "little" guys?

Yeah, they were about 10" across. When we got to lunchtime, where we hung out in a giant cave room for about 30 minutes eating our double-zip-locked food, I saw one of these guys scurry away from the spot I was about to sit down at. Needless to say, the next 30 minutes were spent like a crack addict, slapping and itching any part of my skin that felt even the mildest tickle.

I like the phenomenon of the group mentality. If I was dropped into the cave where we ate lunch (the deepest part we went to) completely by myself, with a head lamp and a map, I'm sure I would freak THE FUCK out. But, when put into the same place with 15 or so other people? Meh. Someone will lead us out, and the laws of probability say that if some spider gets the munchies, he's only about 6% likely to choose me. And the bats (which may or may not be vampires) will probably end up grabbing one of the slower links in the chain on the way out. I like my odds!

So after lunch, we headed back out (was gave us a grand total of 3-4 hours of actual "spelunking"), and prepped for the section of the tour that was supposed to be actual work - climing back up. Our guide Rosano had me lead the way up, mostly because he saw my cat-like reflexes on full display climbing rocks in the cave. Or maybe he just had a thing for me and my gringo flair. Sadly, we'll never know. But the 25 minutes or so back up was actually the part you really didn't want to fuck with.

Lots of rocks. Lot of sheer wall faces. One more zipline.  Lots of makeshift steps made of rebar. If you didn't properly clip in your carabiner and had a slight mistep? Adios muchacho. Thanks for signing the waiver beforehand. Your emergency contact will be notified. Anyway, the climb was a little arduous, but still fun as shit. At one point, 75% into the climb, I looked down into the canyon, into the rainforest, looked at the zipliners bringing up the rear 150 feet below, and was able to have one more "yeah, this is pretty fucking awesome" moment. Somehow I wasn't able to have the same moment during such list items as good ole #10. And to add the yin to the yang of the Puerto Rican adventure, Item #30 will actually encompass the exact opposite feeling.

And after a post-spelunking shower, we made the hour trek back to San Juan.

You're encouraged to have a post-spelunking shower no matter which of the 2 "spelunking" definitions you participate in.



Though the trip was 99% of everything I could have hoped for, I'm still a little disappointed we didn't catch a glimpse of Al Gore's nemesis . . . the elusive Manbearpig.

Next time Manbearpig. Next time.

Item #28 - Visit Puerto Rico

"Hola, Jerry! I'm into this Puerto Rican day! The sights! The sounds! The hot, spicy flavor of it all! It's caliente, Jerry!"   -Kramer
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I took AP Spanish my senior year of high school. It was taught by Mrs B (anonymity protected), who also happened to be our religion teacher.

Since my high school was an all-boys school, and since we didn't have to hold back in front of girls, we acted even more immature while at school than the average teenage boys would. That also meant we were basically an 800-person strong "old boys club", passing down rumors and myths from class to class. Every class had a story on why the typing teacher, Mr Bacon,was apparently kicked out of the brotherhood (the male version of nuns that taught 20% of our classes). Our class' myth? He got caught having sex with Mrs B . . . . I can neither confirm nor deny this rumor.

On the very first day, we were given a non-graded assignment. Get up in front of the class, and in Spanish, give an impromptu 1 minute summary on what you did over the summer. Fairly simple, and since the entire class was now entering its 4th year of Spanish, it was fairly easy. But being the boys club that we were, we decided to have a fun with it.

I got to go with the first half of the class - the kids who went on day #1. I forget what the entire 60 seconds entailed, though I'm sure it was something along the lines of "Jugaba al fútbol. He trabajado en un cine." (I played soccer. I worked at a movie theater). I decided to finish though with the always hilarious mom joke. "Fui a la casa de Micah para ver su madre." (I went to Micah's house to see his mom). Technically, nothing dirty to Mrs B. I mean, I'm just a friendly kid who wanted to see how Micah;s mom was doing. SEE her.  But the point got across to the class. 

The next day, the rest of the class gave their speeches. Micah, the resident class clown, had a day to figure out how to not be out done. Again, I'm not sure how his whole speech went, but I know it finished like this: 

Micah:  Fui a la casa de Al para hacer su madre (I went to Al's house to do his mom). 
Note - the previous phrase was uttered while Micah did the following:

Mrs B:  Micah! Get out!

Micah: What? I thought "hacer" meant "to see" 

This story maybe one of those "funnier if you were there" stories, but I still think someone doing pelvic thrusts while talking in Spanish about doing his friend's mom in front of the religion teacher is still amusing regardless. 

15 years later, Micah and I would reunite to try and use our Spanish knowledge for good. Our friend Bryan had been working down in San Juan, Puerto Rico, for the last year and a half, and I had been wanting to get down there at some point. Last year, I talked about it, and did nothing about it. This year, it was time to actually show some initiative. So after 5 or so months of half-assed planning, I met Micah and his girlfriend Sarah down in San Juan for a 3 day weekend, crashing at Bryan's.  

There's no great narrative to the San Juan trip, so we roll with lazy bullet points instead:

• This is the best picture of the beach I have. Notice something? . . . An utter lack of sun. 80% of our non-excursion time, it was raining. And watching Hulu in San Juan is really not that more exotic than watching Hulu in Boston (though both Community and Parks and Rec were fantastic last week. Seriously people. Get on board).

• Speaking of percentages, 98% of all Puerto Rican girls at the bar wear heels. And 96% of those girls were good looking. Multiply those numbers together, and you get a very high number of good looking girls in high heels . . .  all of which I'm just going to stare at while holding a drink instead of actually having what the Puerto Ricans call "cojones." If only I knew a pick-up line in Spanish besides asking them where the library was.
• In Barcelona, it definitely helped to know some Spanish, though you could probably get away without knowing any at all. In San Juan? Yeah, you didn't need any. It really was like Spain and the US had some sexy time and made a baby.
• Bryan picked me up from the airport. As we were getting off the highway on the way to his place, I wondered aloud about the cuisine down there . . . . and then we immediately drove past a Starbucks, Subway, Burger King and Uno's Pizza. Even my weak palette was disappointed by those sights. But we did make it to some delicious hole-in-the-wall Mexican food and tequila the last night. Viva!
• Fun fact for the day - more Puerto Ricans live off the island (typically in the states) than do on the island.  Mind? . . . blown.
• The weekend also consisted of 2 events worthy of their own itemization, as I would have counted them no matter where I was. They'll get their own posts. Puerto Ricans spiders, and Puerto Rican cocks. Yeah, you're intrigued. 

Item #27 - Take a Duck Tour

"Quack"  -Everybody on a duck tour, forced at gunpoint by the tour guide
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Last week my sister was in town. It was only the second time she had been here in my nearly 8 years of living in Boston. The first time, she was a fake-ID-less 20 years old. And she had come here with my mom. And they came in the middle of February. And she had mono. So basically, this time I could have taken her to a T.G.I.Friday's and she would have probably had a better time and been more impressed with what the city had to offer. But being to good big brother I am, I gave her the proper Boston exeperince, which included Marathon Monday festivities and a sophisticated wine tasting. And on Sunday, it included a Duck Tour.

For the sheltered, the Duck Tour is a tour bus that's also a boat. About an hour driving around Boston, and another 30 minutes in the Charles River. It's Boston Tourism 101, like the Statue of Liberty is to New York.  But just like Lady Liberty, the majority of locals here have never actually done it. Add in the fact that I HATE looking like a tourist, and I most certainly hadn't done one yet.

If hell exists, and God sends me there because of that hobo I killed back in '02, there will be an hour of every day set aside where I have to recreate the experience of being a tour guide for my mother through Faneuil Hall and Quincy Market on 4th of July weekend, which happened last year . . . . my god . . . the horror.

So I sucked it up and took little sis for a car-boat ride through Boston. And ya know what, I learned a thing or two about my fair city, and now, I think I'll share the historical stories of that day with all of you*.  So let's learn a thing or two about Boston, which for your information, is also known as Beantown, The Hub, America's Walking City, The City that New Kids Built, and The Birthplace of Jorts.

Off we go on a magical tour!

Here's our tour guide The Joker.

According to his bio:  "Undoubtedly the biggest card at Boston Duck Tours, the Joker is on deck to show you a one of a kind tour of Boston. Straight from the gambling tables of Las Vegas, he felt he should take a gamble and shuffled off to Beantown. Do you wear a suit to work? Don’t feel bad. The joker wears all 4! Truly a diamond in the rough, when you join The Jokers’ club, he will be in your hearts forever. Growing up with a pack of 52 others was not easy. The Jokers’ life was a flop, but he turned it around and here he is giving tours on the Charles River". . . . Yup, 90 minutes of high comedy (I hate to admit it, but he was amusing).

This is the Hancock Tower, named for one of original signers of the Declaration of Independence, Herbie Hancock.

It was built in 1976 to commemorate our country's bicentennial. Due to the fact that architects in 1976 didn't have computers, they fucked up their wind calculations, resulting in thousands of mirrored windows popping out and falling to the ground like the gargoyles at 55 Central Park West during the reign of Zuul in New York City. One hundred and twenty people ended up dead due to the falling windows. This is what is now known as the Boston Massacre. The Hancock Tower now has 1 black stripe of windows near the top of the building to commemorate those that died.

This is the Granary Burial Ground.

It sits directly across the street from the Beantown Pub, and happens to house the tomb of Sam Adams, making it the only place where you can drink a Sam Adams directly across from Sam Adams. Other famous people buried at this particular cemetery include Ben Franklin's parents, Mary Goose (AKA, Mother Goose), John Hancock, Paul Revere, Red Auerbach, Ernie "Coach" Pantusso, Steven Tyler, and Banksy.

Seen in the background below is the relatively new Zakim Bridge. It was built as part of the Big Dig in Boston, a massive civil project that took 72 years and $4 trillion dollars to complete.

Boston is now 100% free of traffic since it was completed 5 years ago, and every time you drive over the bridge going south, leaving Charlestown and entering Boston, you stop at a toll booth where they now give YOU $1.25 for crossing the bridge. The homeless have been known to rent Zip Cars and cross the bridge hundreds of times in a day as way to make some quick cash. Mayor Menino is working on closing that loophole.

This is Bunker Hill Community College. Good Will Hunting was filmed there. The room where they filmed the scenes inside Robin Williams' office now houses a statue of Matt Damon and Ben Affleck having hot man on man action on the couch. You can push a button at the bottom of the statue and here famous lines from the movie, however, Ben Affleck's accent is still terrible.

The tall building all the way to the right is the Prudential Tower. It's the 2nd tallest building in Boston behind the Hancock Tower.

The building to the left of the Hancock is the Berkeley Building, AKA, the old Hancock Building. The steeple at its top actual acts as a weatherman for the city. When its steady blue, you can expect a clear day tomorrow, and when its flashing blue, it will be cloudy. Red means rain is coming and flashing red means snow. White means there's going to be a solar eclipse while orange means a solar flare will most likely disrupt your cellular service.  Purple indicates rain, but it specifically calls for purple rain.  Flashing purple signifies a Prince concert. Green means a plague of locusts while flashing green means the locusts will be particularly surly. If the lights in the weather beacon resemble a lava lamp, it means Mt Wachusett is about to blow. And if the beacon is pink, it means hide yo kids, hide yo wife, because the end of days is upon us. 

The windows below can be seen just across from Boston Common, a few doors down from the Bull and Finch Pub (which was used for exterior shots of the bar from the show Two Guys, a Girl and a Pizza Place). Note that the flowers are all planted in running shoes.

This is of course the home of Rosie Ruiz, who famously cheated in the 1980 Boston Marathon. She had her twin sister Juanita start the race and run the first 13 miles before faking an injury and dropping out. At mile 23, Rosie stumbled out of the crowd and ran the last 3 miles at 4:45 pace. Race officials became suspicious when they noticed the soul patch on Rosie's face, which has long been known to belong the the more evil of 2 twins.

Speaking of running, here's a picture of some random dude running along the Charles River Esplanade.

The Charles was created in 1755 after the Erie Canal was built, which diverted half the Great Lakes water to the Saint Lawrence Seaway and the other half down the Charles to Boston Harbor. During the Revolutionary War, the British sent their submarines up the river to deliver supplies to their troops, aiding them in their victory in the Battle of Eastborough  (to disassociate themselves with this blemish, the people of Eastborough eventually renamed the town to Wooster). Since the American troops were still developing sonar, they had to resort to MacGyver-like tactics to stop the submarines. So, they gathered every teabag in the county and dumped them into the Charles River. The tea bags eventually got lodged in the propellers of the submarines. The submarines subsequently sank, but their remains have helped form gorgeous coral reefs up and down the river. Sadly, they're not visible, as the vast amount of tea bags dumped during this Boston Tea Party have caused the Charles to be permanently colored brown. The familiar color of the Charles River led to Francis Scott Key to write the song "Dirty Water", which is now played after every Red Sox win.

Yeah, so that was fun. No really, the tour was pretty fun, and for $32, not all that pricey. Definitely recommend it for all your tourist types. And it actually gave me a new found appreciation for living in such a fucking awesome city. The history. The bars. The architecture. The natural beauty. Yup, me and Boston renewed our vows that weekend. Stories of the post-vows 2nd honeymoon? . . . . NSFW.

*To paraphrase Senator Jon Kyl, facts about Boston and Boston's history not intended to be factual statements**

**Political humor! I'm so enlightened and sophisticated!