No muppet is an island

One of the great things about Boston is that, really, nothing here is done with subtlety. Life here is a participatory sport. There's some unwritten rule that even if a particular event doesn't personally really concern me, it still does concern me. How many times have I heard someone remark, "Only one more week until boating season starts..." and thought, "Wait, what? You don't boat!"

There's just something about this city -- maybe because it's centered around such a small downtown area -- that makes it so we find ourselves in the midst of just about every event, even if we don't plan to. Any day there's a Red Sox game, I find myself in an energetic crowd of people with jerseys and painted faces, and this requires no effort other than emabarking on my regular commute home. On St. Patrick's Day, I made no effort to go out, because I just had to step out of my office to be in a crowd of loud drunk green people. The walk across the crowd to the subway entrance and a beer out of my fridge once I got home was enough St. Paddy's Day for me. Any day there's a concert at Symphony Hall, all it takes is a walk from Bread and Circus to the Mass Ave T stop, and I can get sandwiched between hairdos in fur coats and run over by limos, just like the paying customers get to.

Last night really took the cake though when I unwittingly stepped onto the Orange Line as Sesame Street Live got out and found myself in a sea of bobbing Elmo balloons.

For the whole ride home, I heard little voices singing Sesame Street songs and watched toddlers pressing the buttons on those light-up propeller contraptions and promptly getting hit in the face. I pretty much got to take in the essential parts of the show, only this didn't require me to drop a couple hunge on tickets or take any time out of my day. Or to have any kids.

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