Two things to keep in mind. First, we all adjust to our audience. If you’re at the MetroWest Chamber of Commerce, you say Ashland, because there’s a decent chance someone will respond “Clockers!” (high school mascot), and some beautiful connection might follow. But if you know the other person doesn’t know what a Holliston, much less a Taunton, is, you fudge it. Is it completely accurate? No, but so what? “It’s correct-ish,” says Deborah Schildkraut, professor of political science at Tufts University.

And that’s enough for the task at hand. The first rule of making conversation is to keep it going, which might mean you start big, sometimes really big, like saying you’re from Massachusetts, which never gets, “Sorry, I’m not familiar with that.” More likely someone says, “I got family in Hingham,” and then you can take it from there and get to the second rule of making conversation, which is to talk about anything but the weather, your commute, or geography.

And the second thing: People who didn’t grow up here don’t care if you’re not really from Boston. And people who are from here also don’t care. There are 351 cities and towns in the state, with plenty of natives who have never heard of, been to, or could locate Cummington (out west; Hampshire County), Goshen (next to Cummington), or Gosnold (on Buzzard’s Bay; smallest town in the state; around 70 people), and they’re not losing sleep over it. If it gets to a third date, maybe they’ll want to know. Maybe.

The only people who would be bothered are people from Boston who know you’re not from Boston at the exact moment you’re saying that you’re from Boston, and they’re nowhere around. So who cares? If you’re worried about your rep as an honest person, add “just outside of” or “around” to Boston. Anything west of the city along Route 9 or the Pike is understandable, even if it’s 30-plus miles away. But let’s be clear: No one from Cambridge, Somerville, or even Medford would ever say they’re from Boston. They’d rather die. You, on the other hand, are from Ashland. You’ve got nothing to prove. You’re a Clocker, dammit.

Got a question for the Salty Cod? Send it to editor@bostonmagazine.com.

Previously: Do I Have to Run the Boston Marathon to Be a Real Bostonian?

This article was first published in the print edition of the May 2026 issue, with the headline, “I Grew Up in Ashland, but I Tell People I’m From Boston. Is That a Lie or Just Efficiency?”

Dear Salty Cod: What are people trying to accomplish by wearing a fleece vest?

The easy answer is not much. Staying warm requires covering the skin—keeping heat in and cold out—something the vest, by definition, can never fully do, says Dustin Allen, clinical assistant professor and director of the physiology program at Boston University. It can be comfortable and make you feel warm, but “from a thermoregulation perspective, it’s idiotic,” he says.

Big deal that it’s idiotic. Sure, clothes need to perform, but they’re also for making statements. Back in the non-central-heating 17th and 18th centuries, when base layers were really needed, the vest was saying, “Why yes, ladies, that is my suit of armor. Would you like to touch my bevor?” (Protects the throat.) Or, since no one owned a lot of threads, if you had a silk embroidered vest, the message was, “You were doing okay,” says Michelle Finamore, a Salem-based fashion historian and curator.

So what would the fleece vest be saying? “I support public radio.” “Sorry, everyone. I’m off the market.” “I also love my Crocs.” All true, but the real, bottom-line message is: “I don’t give an eff,” a sentiment so pure Massachusetts that it should be on the new flag the state is still trying to figure out. People know the shortcomings. It’s not warm. It has no style. It looks foolish. (Not on you Mike Vrabel—you’re wearing the vest; the vest is not wearing you.) But this leads to the realer message of why anyone has one: “I got it for free.” Most likely it was from your tech-bro boss. (Huh, Mike Vrabel?) And whether it’s promoting a VC firm or failed robotics startup, we will always put it on, because the only thing we love more than bragging about a parking spot is getting swag and goddamn showing it off.

Oh, and we also love to be stoic and act rugged, and there’s no better garment to display these native qualities. Yeah, the vest doesn’t work in the cold. Guess what? That’s exactly why we wear it. We don’t want comfort. We want bare, frozen, numb arms while we clear a driveway or dig a fence post. All we need is a collar, and those deep pockets for our keys, phone, dog treats, hand wipes, and maybe a protein bar. Keep the sleeves. Save those for the babies in New York.

Welcome to “The Salty Cod,” a monthly column in which humorist Steve Calechman grapples with uniquely New England dilemmas. 

Dear Salty Cod: Driving west just to look at changing leaves? What am I missing?

Absolutely nothing. We got plenty of leafy trees right in town, so why ruin an entire Sunday driving all the way out to where? Framingham? Just like there’s no longer any reason to schlep to a theater since you’ve watched The Godfather at home. Or see the Eiffel Tower any farther than Vegas. Or eat Thai food anywhere but Swampscott.

The Cod understands. Traveling equals discomfort, and foliage means the Pike—the tight, wool sweater of roads—and quite possibly Route 2, a “highway” where no ride has ever felt one second faster. Yet continually dismissing the left half of our state is pure foolishness. Just ask Kristina Bezanson, a senior lecturer in arboriculture and urban forestry at UMass Amherst, who appreciated leaves and drives weekly into the city. Her verdict? It’s not even close. The west rules, and deep down, we know it. Sure, we put on a show with our Norway maples and honey locusts that no one knows the names of, and they do give off colors. “Yellow, brown, and bleh,” she says.

But out in the wilderness (that’s way past Framingham), there are sugar maples, red maples, hickories, birches, and black gums with more colors and multiple shades of the same color. These trees are sitting on big, open hills without any buildings or Amazon trucks to muck up the backdrop. Oh, and you also don’t have to hike to see them. You can pull over to the side of the road—and please, do pull over—and just stare out your windshield.

If this makes you reconsider, cool. Maybe you couple it with a trip to Springfield and finally visit the Naismith Basketball Hall of Fame. Or maybe you’ve accepted that leaves will never be your thing. Also cool. We all travel for something that seems nuts to everyone else. Like driving to Jersey and back in a night (hello, Pike) to see Springsteen for the 80th time. Or cruising up and down 6A searching for brass finials. Or waiting in traffic on Route 1 in Foxboro, all to sit outside and watch a sport that’s so much better on TV, drink $14 beer, wait two hours minimum to leave, and then do it for seven more Sundays as the weather gets colder and colder and colder…

Yeah, free leaves in the 413 sound pretty dumb.

Got a question for the Salty Cod? Send it to editor@bostonmagazine.com.

Welcome to “The Salty Cod,” a monthly column in which humorist Steve Calechman grapples with uniquely New England dilemmas. 

Dear Salty Cod: Boston drivers are notorious jerks. We race through red lights and honk at people while stuck in gridlock. But are there any moves so bad that even the nastiest local motorist would say, “No. Unacceptable.”?

Surprisingly, yes, and the Cod has seen much on the roads: last-minute U-turns, backing up 75 feet, cutting over three lanes in one sweep. Often, it’s to snag a parking space, and most of the suspect behavior, language, and hand gestures stem from the local, inborn belief that every trip should take 10 minutes, and it would if you, the person in front of us, would just go.

But, but…but, like Robert B. Parker’s Spenser, there is a code of behavior on the streets—certain things that no Boston driver will ever accept and no “sorry-my-bad-don’t-hate-me” wave will ever excuse.

No. 1. Jamming up an intersection. There’s zero chance of getting to the other side, but you got the green, so it’s kosher? Uh-uh. Just because you can go doesn’t mean you should go, unless your hobby is creating clustereffs. But if you could only wait until the very last second to put on your left turn signal, that would be the bestest.

No. 2. Getting into your car in a crowded parking lot and not leaving the space immediately. Sure, go ahead and stare at your phone. Look for something in the back seat. Ignore our gentle honks. And when we’ve decided to give up and move on, that’s the moment to back out. Bravo, jackass.

No. 3. Double parking opposite someone who has double-parked. Really, you never glanced over once to your left, saw a big object with four wheels, and thought, “maybe not here”?

No. 4. Refusing to let drivers merge when their lane ends or when they’re trying to change lanes in heavy traffic. Oh, they didn’t use their signal? Well, then, go right ahead. You deserve to get nowhere first.

No. 5. Finally, not allowing someone to parallel park. Hey, I can tell you’re trying to back into that space in a controlled and reasonable manner. Guess what? I’m gonna get up on your tail and cockblock you. Or I’ll just drive past, staying really close, achieving the same goal but convincing myself that I’m not.

Getting rid of just these five things would be a good start—all it takes is focusing on what matters most. Oh, then make sure people turn right on red, like right now. It’s only been legal for 45 years.

Got a question for the Salty Cod? Send it to editor@bostonmagazine.com.

A version of this story appeared in the print edition of the June 2025 issue.

Welcome to “The Salty Cod,” a monthly column in which humorist Steve Calechman grapples with uniquely New England dilemmas. 

Dear Salty Cod: What should be the official rock song of Massachusetts?

We already have songs in seven categories: generic, patriotic, folk, glee club, ceremonial march, ode, and polka, none of which anyone could hum. So do we really need a rock song? Eff yeah, because Ohio can’t be the only state to have one. (“Hang on Sloopy,” for the bar bet.) We’re the makers of Aerosmith, J. Geils Band, the Cars, Boston, the Del Fuegos, ’Til Tuesday, Billy Squier, and Dropkick Murphys, who all have viable hits—yet none of these should be the pick.

It should be Jonathan Richman and the Modern Lovers’ “Roadrunner,” far from a new idea. Legislation was first proposed in 2013 and continues to be proposed, and we see no need to rearrange deck chairs, because other tunes don’t measure up. “Dream On” isn’t about Boston and is a power ballad, and thus ineligible. However much J. Geils’s “Must of Got Lost” would be poetic, it doesn’t have the heft. As for “I’m Shipping Up to Boston,” those are the only five words anyone knows.

So that’s it, “Roadrunner” wins on all counts. Richman is a local kid (Natick). The tune calls out Stop & Shop, 128, and “I’m in love with Massachusetts.” The alternate version, “Roadrunner (Once),” also released in 1976, throws in Mattapan, Roslindale, and the power lines in Needham. The kicker? In both, there are no bad words, no unseemly images, no mentions of muggers or frustrated women that would give people pause. So if anyone remains hesitant, the only response is to ask what should be our Official Incredulous Question: “What more do you want?”

Now, nothing is ever simple when it involves a State House vote, and putting in the time to debate a rock song over, say, affordable housing, is a tough sell back in any district. But legislators, this is akin to a tap-in—and can and should be done this year. The Cod suspects that most Bay Staters would see the passage for what it was: honoring our cultural history and a great opening count-off. Not everyone, mind you. Some would complain, email, and even lobby for “More Than Words,” because this is still Massachusetts, and two of our top hobbies are knowing better and not leaving well enough alone.

Finally, the song isn’t without quibbles. For all the push, “Roadrunner” still lacks a high profile in some demographics. It’s not played after victories or shouted at closing time. It’s also slightly unintelligible, hard to follow, a little quirky. And this shouldn’t represent us, because…?

Got a question for the Salty Cod? Send it to editor@bostonmagazine.com.

A version of this story appeared in the print edition of the May 2025 issue.

Welcome to “The Salty Cod,” a new monthly column in which humorist Steve Calechman grapples with uniquely New England dilemmas. 

Dear Salty Cod: Why doesn’t Connecticut ever really feel like part of New England?

First off, it’s not like any of us are super tight to begin with. We’re a collection of states that tend to be crabby, independent, and suspect. None of us wants to belong together.

From a geographic perspective, though, Connecticut got hosed. Being at the bottom of the region, it’s easy to feel like an outsider—nothing more than an outpost for New York.

That might be a cheap shot (still true), but the distance doesn’t help Connecticut’s cause. I can leave Boston and, in less than an hour, feel like I’ve traveled to another state because, well, I’ve traveled to another state. One exception. Guess where? More than that, I want to travel because my neighbors have something I need and need real bad. Vermont? Skiing and syrup. Maine? Lobster rolls, then outlet stores. New Hampshire? Fireworks and tax-free washing machines. Rhode Island? Hearing an even worse accent.

Connecticut? Nope. You give no reason to come and get to know you. The best offering is the Merritt Parkway, a stellar road with amazingly quick on-and-off plazas. But it’s still a highway whose sole purpose is to make it easier to travel through the state and provide a 37-mile respite from, regardless of day, time, and month, the at-minimum two-hour backup on 84.

Oh, yeah, the famous pizza, the Greater New Haven Chamber of Commerce will bellow. I’ve been on Wooster Street at Frank Pepe’s and Sally’s. They’re both really good, but are they wait-three-hours really good? Not even close, and after 90 minutes in line, we’re left with two choices: A) Stay and feel like a fool, or B) Leave with nothing and feel like a bigger one. And all for pizza, whose greatness is made greater because it’s fast. Not in Connecticut. Strike, I guess, five.

But the biggest problem is that Connecticut doesn’t even attempt to belong. Its people root for the Yankees, Giants, and Jets, which is always a super-awesome icebreaker around here. It also gets claimed as part of the tri-state area and doesn’t seem to mind. (See: sports apparel.)

Whenever the legendary middleweight boxer Marvin Hagler got introduced as being from Boston, he’d quickly make a correction: “I’m from Brockton.” From Connecticut, we get nothing. No, “Thanks, but no thanks.” No, “Hey, spoken for.” No, “My God, give it up already.” You think Rhode Island would stay silent? They’d scream, “Keep walkin’. We’re New England forevah.” Sure, no one would understand them, but the love would come through.

Got a question for the Salty Cod? Send it to editor@bostonmagazine.com.

So I gotta keep at it, maintain, be an inspiration for people. And as much as I love the gym, I’ve come to accept that certain annoying habits will never end. People who treat a bench as their desk. Guys who check their golf swing in the mirror. Guys who shave naked. (I don’t know what happens in the women’s locker room, but from what my wife says, it’s also kinda gross.)

My biggest issue? People who listen to music on their headphones. Is it that they sometimes subject everyone to their way-too-loud rendition of “Rock You Like a Hurricane”? Yes, but not entirely. It’s their cluelessness that other people exist and quite possibly have been trying to get their attention to see if, by chance, they’re done with the leg press—or do they have plans to marry it?

I lay the blame on the Walkman, the first real high-tech gadget of my youth. It looked cool and, unlike mini-fridge-size boom boxes, allowed you to strut around listening to cassettes without ruining your neck and shoulder. It also let you shut out the world. (No small thing if you were a teenager just trying to get from one end of the hallway to the other without being noticed.)

Aside from that, the machine is evil. It’s what started people having a personal playlist somewhere other than in their basement. Suddenly, everyone got the opportunity to decide: “Don’t like what I’m hearing. See ya.”

I guess that’s called freedom—a good thing, I suppose. Do I really want to force everyone on the gym floor to listen to “What About Love?” Well, yeah, I kinda do. Everyone could dance between sets, maybe use the squat rack to hold onto and express themselves more fully. Some would cringe (at both the song and possibly my sexy moves). But someone else might offer, “You know Mickey Thomas and Grace Slick sing backup?” And then another someone, who I’ve never talked with even though we’ve seen each other every day for three years, would say, “No way. Wait…hold on…okay, I can hear it. Wow. Just wow.”

The conversation would turn to judging every iteration of Jefferson Airplane or how Ann Wilson should be the permanent national anthem singer. Then someone would say, “Crazy for You.” No opinion or feeling. Just an awkward attempt to be part of the conversation. Others would stare because they’re adults and born after 1984. But inevitably, everything would lead to the only topic that matters at the gym: food. You’d learn who has the best coffee and the best cinnamon buns. (Never the same place.) Relationships would be formed. These would no longer be faceless people but people you could nod at as you walked by without stopping. The gym would become a pool of somewhat warmish water.

But the Walkman and its spawn took that away. It also led to the development of something even eviler, maybe the most sinister option in all of audio music: the shuffle button. Sure, I use it with my playlists to keep me guessing. I wonder which of the nine songs I picked will come on next? That sense of uncertainty creates such a good stress inside my well-developed chest. I feel so goddamn alive.

But the shuffle button lets us unilaterally play with time, history, and an artist’s vision—specifically, a musician’s. It’s not as though someone reorders book chapters or recuts a movie because they have a better sense of building an arc. But an album? Springsteen’s “Jungleland” may be the greatest closing track ever, but the next time I listen to Born to Run, I’m gonna allow an algorithm to maybe put it third. Who’s the effing Boss now?

So I don’t listen to music while I work out. I want to be present, and if I’m wearing earbuds, I’m in my own head, a place I’m already in enough. I wouldn’t get to have dumb conversations. More than that, I couldn’t listen in on dumb conversations, which really is the true benefit of working out in public.

It’s pretty simple. I’m not wearing earbuds, because I care about others. I’m about building relationships and making the world a little more kind, a little more loving. I put the first C into JCC.

Man, I’m awesome.

Or maybe not.

Maybe there’s something else.

There’s something else.

It’s my ears. I hate them, and they hate me. Earbuds refuse to stay put. Whenever I wear them, most of my time is spent pushing them back in, looking for some grip or angle that does not exist. It’s the same problem I have with a backpack slung onto one of my shoulders. It’s coming down in six seconds, and yes, I could use both straps, which is better for the back but doesn’t look as good (and yes, I work out my shoulders twice a week).

I don’t believe there’s any medical procedure to retrofit ear canals, and if there was, I’m sure it would be an elective, and I don’t have that kind of out-of-pocket cash. So that’s it. I’ll never be able to do curls to my JackedPumped3 playlist. The sooner I accept this, the sooner I can start living with this forever pain.

Or, you know, I could just buy the ones with hooks that go over the ears and make them never fall out. Thirty bucks. They arrived two days later.

Bringing music onto the gym floor was a different, more visible kind of statement: I’m here but not here. But then I had to try them, and even though I’m a physical marvel, I was, well, I’ll admit it, scared, scared I’d become antisocial and add to the isolation in the world. Truthfully, though, my bigger worry was that I’d like it.

And?

It was the second thing. I liked it a lot, and I don’t plan to go back to my old ways, because I get to listen to music, my music, the best music ever, for 30 glorious, uninterrupted minutes. That doesn’t happen anymore to a guy like me. I’ve worked from home for decades, so I’ve had zero commute for decades. My kids took over the radio a couple of years ago, and a seven-minute trip to CVS each week can only do so much to fill up my soul with rhythm.

The gym, that’s my new basement couch. I just wish I’d realized it sooner, but I was clinging to this idea of “being friendly” and “creating community.” Yeah, that does look pretty silly when the words are written out.

And it’s not like I’ve given up on talking to people. When I walk into the gym, I’ve got my eyes open, head up, and I’m wearing what I call a “warm scowl,” the official emoji of New England. (Well, it should be.) It’s the clearest way I can announce, “Please approach. I’m so goddamn friendly.”

But after I hit the padded floor, no more chittychat. It’s time to lift a massively average amount of weight, and for that to happen, I need something to give me the extra goose. And is anyone going to say anything better than the Who? No. More powerfully concise than Tom Petty? No. More inspirational than Springsteen? You know that answer.

Here’s one of my secrets: I need the music to restrain my worst impulses. Left on my own, I tend to wander. It took me 15 minutes to finish this paragraph when I could have done it in three, but I realized mid-word that I really needed to know who was in the cast of The Outsiders.

I also have a new problem. As much as I love my music, I need more, like a lot more. I immediately created 10 playlists, nine songs on each, with no problem. But while lifting a weight over and over and over and over has never been boring, hearing “Little Red Corvette” for the second time in 10 days was too much repetition for this man to take. I thought I could easily fix it, but instead, I was hit with a sad realization. Forty-five years of listening, and all I like is 99 songs? Eff me.

Then I remembered that I never put “What About Love?” anywhere. So I did, and I’m in triple digits, thank God. But wait, that just makes another problem. No one else will hear the song. There will be no dancing, no discussions about coffee and cinnamon buns, no togetherness.

Not if I don’t sing that mutha out loud and off-key.

You certainly could, because it’s just another relationship that we didn’t ask for, and your neighbor might be a jerk for any number of reasons. Not keeping their lawn neat and green. Playing music too loudly and having it be Bob Seger. Owning a hot tub and never extending an invite.

Snow always ups our orneriness because it’s unlike all other yard work. Raking and pruning can wait. Snow has to be dealt with, like, right now. The problem is we don’t want to go outside. It’s cold out there, and the snow might be heavy, sticky, and wet. But then we remember that we’re from New England, goddammit. Snow removal is our fifth sport. We might whine, but we don’t shiver when it’s 40 degrees (you, Californians) or become paralyzed by a one-inch dusting (hey, Atlanta). No, we put on our five layers—sorry, one light one—and go shovel and scrape until we can bust out an ottoman/space saver, sending the message that the job is done and “Don’t you dare take what’s not yours.”

Then it comes. A white stream over the fence, thrown by a snowblower (also never been offered). Oh, and it’s dirty snow, the final kick in the privates.

It might sound like a green light to haul off, but my first sentence did say “could.” Chucking snow over a property line isn’t illegal; at least, I’m pretty sure it’s not. There are 351 municipalities in the state, and I haven’t read all 351 sets of bylaws. (Truth is, I got about 348 to go.)

But in practice, if you’re gonna hate your neighbor, you need a good reason, and stuff that’s gonna melt on its own does not constitute enough “just cause.” Here’s enough: A bunch of us used to take our dogs to the playground for 15 minutes of morning crazy play. We all knew that off-leash wasn’t allowed, but we’re big risk-takers up here on the North Shore.

A new neighbor moved into a house abutting the field and started calling the cops on us, ending our playgroup. Two years later, I still ignore the guy every time I pass him as he walks his own dog. Yes, two years later. Because holding onto stuff is so local that the women’s pro soccer team looking for another new name should consider becoming the Boston Grudges.

Unless the snow goes into your window or your child’s face, you can at most be miffed. The best recourse is to pack that newfound snow into balls to chuck at that specific tree. Balls that…whoops…miss every time, but somehow manage to pelt their Rivian.

Got a question for the Salty Cod? Send it to editor@bostonmagazine.com.

First published in the print edition of the February 2025 issue with the headline: “Can I Get Mad if a Neighbor Throws Snow on My Lawn?”

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