Let us guess: You’ve lived in the area for years but have never actually made much effort to explore the city (and look like a day-tripper? Quel horreur!).

At Bostonista, we love brushing up on our town’s scenic history, but, like you, can’t stomach waddling aboard one of those clunky neon tour tanks and squawking up and down Beacon Hill. Instead, we’ve been satisfying our curiosity under the radar with Audissey Guides, a locally owned company that offers free self-guided audio tours available for download on its site.

A few months ago, we trekked from the Park Street Church to the harbor, but skipped out on an equally overlooked (by locals, that is) part of town. Luckily, Audissey recently released a new walk specifically devoted to the nation’s first public botanical garden. Here are some of our favorite stops in the aptly named Public Garden.

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I’m not in the business of throwing around terms like “dictator,” or “fascist state,” but I will say that here at Boston magazine our candy supply is largely at the whim of one woman. This woman really likes M&Ms. Not that I’m complaining.

Over at Cambridge chocolatier L.A. Burdick, locals have a real choice, and it’s not peanut versus plain: a box of Barack Obama, or chocolate a la John McCain. Available through the November election, the shop’s SElection 2008 features assortments of chocolates “meant to celebrate the all-American background of two of the Presidential candidates.” (more…)

If you dig art but hate pretense, or just want to revel in others’ ineptitude, head over to the Museum of Bad Art’s (MOBA) installation in the basement of the Somerville Theater. The museum’s impressive collection was culled from dumpsters, yard sales, private donations, and trash day heists.

Each carefully chosen piece demonstrates a depth of incompetence nearly impossible to fake—misguided attempts at perspective, cornball subject matter, and/or bizarre color palettes. But while the art is bewilderingly, um, challenged, the terse observations by the curator(s) make this collection an absolute late-night “to do.” (more…)

Bostonista loves being driven around in pretty much anything. Except, that is, stuffy, malodorous hotel courtesy vans (we swear they must be universally manned by Fung Wah grads). Is it too much to ask to get carted to and fro in something a little cooler—not to mention greener—than those air polluting gas guzzlers?

Apparently, it isn’t. This month, one of Boston’s favorite warm-weather hotspots (you know, the one with the rooftop pool we’ve been raving about all summer) is starting a transportation revolution.

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Yes, we made it to work today. And, considering last night was the annual Best of Boston party, that’s no small feat.

Creatively held at the Conley Container Terminal in South Boston, the summer’s most talked about bash (and most exclusive guest list) hosted 1,500 partiers and celebrated 350 award winners. For security reasons, guests were shuttled from drop-off points via trolleys (which gave the evening a bit of sorority formal flair) and school buses (which lent a dose of summer camp nostalgia) to the event entrance. As PR riot Chris Haynes spun it, “The school buses are hilarious! What fun!”

With such a vast crowd of winners, socialites, and publicists, it was impossible to get face time with everyone, but Bostonista—and our silk Alexander Wang romper suit, which was not a Fashion Masochist test drive, thank you very much—stole moments with some of our favorites: Mario Russo (whose Louis Boston locale won Best Salon), Ben and Tonya Mezrich (both were fresh of a plane from Paris, the latter wearing a spangled Paillette dress and Louboutins she bought there), an old man who says he does something in politics called Tony Nunziante, Jeffrey Lyle (Best Hair Colorist, Blonde), Bryan Rafanelli (who masterminded the party along with Boston’s crackerjack marketing team), and Debi Greenberg of Louis Boston (winner of multiple awards), among others.

And though we were too busy schmoozing and sipping on Moet , our cube neighbor just told us the Celtics’ NBA trophy also made an appearance. Victory all around! (more…)

Yesterday was dark, moody, with occasional downpours, a perfect backdrop for a trip to check out one of the strangest buildings I’ve ever stumbled upon in Boston. Squeezed between the Fenway and the turnpike is a creaky, century-old edifice built specifically for artists during the gilded age, called Fenway Studios.

Stepping in from the rain, I was greeted by a terra cotta tile floor, a wrought iron pendant lamp, and deep wood paneling. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I could see the elevator ahead—one of those expanding metal grate kinds that you can lose a finger in. All of which felt vaguely foreboding.

Once on a floor (there are four), the long hallway hosts an endless number of wooden doors, each with a unique knocker, some brass, so wood, which give a glimpse at the artist working within. Every unit has 14-foot high ceilings, a loft for sleeping, and boatloads of windows, all facing north for that perfect indirect light that artists adore. And each artist, some of whom have lived here for more than four decades, presents his or her own interpretation of what it means to be an esthete. (more…)

The next time Bostonista accepts an invitation from Chowder for an evening on the town, you can bet your bile duct it won’t be a weeknight. Especially if said evening involves the bar at Eastern Standard. More specifically, an evening at Eastern Standard that entails a flight of cocktails numbering in the double digits.

(To review: Chowder, weeknight, Eastern Standard, double-digit cocktail flight, not happening again. Any. Time. Soon. Or at least not until August.)

Here’s how it happened. (more…)

Every year, a few hundred of Boston’s best (looking) and brightest (looking) young professionals slap down a few hundred to swan—and later, swing dance—through fine art while sipping fine champagne. An under-45 crowd is plucked, tucked, and tarted up—tastefully, of course—in Louboutin heels and Dolce & Gabbana suits. Flirtations are initiated, deals are brokered, and social circles are paparazzied.

The kickoff to the summer event season, the MFA’s Museum Council party is the place to see and be seen if you’re young, fun, flush, and into top-shelf open bars. Saturday’s sold-out, Latin-flavored soiree began on the steps of the museum’s Huntington entrance, where gals in floor-length gowns emerged from limos and posed for photos (we disentangled ourselves from a Metro Cab and hid behind a column to swap our flips flops for three-inch Choos).

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So far, this Bostonista has been on the sidelines of the economic downturn. I don’t own a home and I don’t have kids. So what if my carton of Rice Dream costs a wee bit more than it used to? Without any of life’s major responsibilities, I figured I was recession-proof. Until, that is, I tried to get to New York last weekend.

First, I thought I’d drive—until my Jeep’s AC conked out and a quick trip to the pump left me holding a $75 receipt (up from $40 three years ago). I turned to my old standby, the trusty Amtrak. But whereas I used to train to NYC for under $100, now even the less desirable Regional route cost triple digits. The upscale Limoliner has jacked its fees as well—to $89 one-way—and I was too late to hop aboard the best deal around, the new BoltBus. Flying, with to- and from-airport fares, was out of the question.

I ended up with Amtrak, a wallet ache, and a pessimistic outlook on summer travel. But then I got to work on Monday morning and all was momentarily right again, thanks to new gas-conscious deals from two area resorts.

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Bear with us as we sneak in one last SATC post. Today we’re analyzing the wardrobe of a minor player: Carrie’s apartment.

Much has been made of Carrie’s ridiculously fabulous lifestyle, supposedly on a quasi-employed-freelancer budget. Yeah, she owned $40 grand worth of heels. Yeah, she took endless four-block cabs while wearing said heels. And yeah, there were the drinks, the daily shopping, and the seemingly hourly catch-up meals with the girls.

But at least the television set designers kept Carrie’s apartment somewhat average (…if you consider a rent-controlled Upper East Side one-bedroom “average”). We took comfort in the fact that Carrie’s bedroom and bathroom sort of resembled our own less-than-posh digs.

If you’ve seen the movie, though, you know that Carrie’s pad gets a major makeover. And even though her new place drives us crazy in a “is sex columnist actually code for hedge fund manager?” kind of way, we still like to ogle.

Here’s what happened: (more…)