We've already had the annual burn (a little early this year, actually — I'm told it usually happens on or around Marathon Monday), and now that the Fenway Garden has had its Spring meeting the Victory Gardening season is more or less officially underway!  You could say it really, really starts with the Spring clean-up, on the 24th, but why quibble? And why wait? The weather's magnificent.  The miracle magnolia is in full glory.  The gardens are coming alive.  Nature calls.

And, of course, the gardeners answer.  I'm liking how our little row is coming together this year.  It's a good mix.  Bruno and Holly and Daphne and Eddy.  Skip, who got the angry squatter's plot, is battling him valiantly.  And Rita at the end of the row has been doing battle with an indefatigable flasher.  The Victory Gardens are not for the faint of heart.  Only the strong survive.  I think we've got a pretty good chance at victory this year. 

I have yet to see the flasher, but everyone else I talked to this morning has.  He seems to have taken a liking to poor Rita, but he has made appearances elsewhere in the gardens, too.  Tim, the President of the garden society, says he's an older guy, been doing it for years.

"Yeah," he shuddered.  "And sometimes he wears a thong."

For Rita it was short-shorts.  Apparently he just gets your attention and then pulls his shorts or thong to the side, and his junk flops out.  I told her: just keep your sheers handy at all times.

She was there last winter, checking on things, I guess, and she saw him.  In fact, the way she tells it, he was kind of chasing her down the garden path at one point.  She ran to the blue emergency phone — the one they installed in the middle of the park a couple years ago with the blue strobe on top. 

She says that despite the fact that when you pick it up it gives a location, the dispatcher would not send anyone without a street address.  So no one ever came.  So Rita got a lap-dance.  Poor Rita.  Says he wouldn't leave until she stuffed a buck in this butt crack.

When I spoke to Tim about the emergency phone, he said there have been issues with crimes in the Fens not not getting reported, but not getting recorded by police, for the same reason — no street address.  Imagine. 

Rita was worried that the burn-off in the reeds would bring all the freaks out.  Maybe instead of FensFest this year we should do FetishFest.  Sell victory thongs.  We're basically sitting ducks.  If you want a captive audience, come on down!