Not So, Boston! Maybe, New York!

Boston gets a bad rap. Full Stop. Short of Cleveland, and in a whole other direction entirely than Detroit, I can think of no other major metropolitan city in America that serves as it own punchline.
"I live in an studio apartment. In Boston!" Roll on a snare drum, applause. I once had the poor judgment to gently rib an old friend of mine who had recently settled in Paris, and, more unfortunately, a Parisian mindset. His rejoinder was curt and to the point- the point being, he wasn't the guy living in Boston. Clearly, my opinion must be invalid, if it was produced by the same decision-making apparatus that led me to that horrible fate. To him, there was little difference from living in Boston to living in my own excrement, though, Proto-Marxist as he is, he might actually see some value in the latter.

Boston's reputation as a sort of American Purgatory wouldn't be quite so bad if it wasn't also entirely its own fault. Consider Copley Square, the sole city center I can think of named after an artist, and a mediocre one at that. Copley hosts the majestic Boston Public Library, first in the nation, an exquisite cathedral overlooking a delightful public garden with free, city-sponsored concerts, it is flanked by Copley Place and Newbury St., opulent shopping centers of international acclaim, and it is ten minutes from either the thriving art community of the South End or the sprawling hills of the Common. It is one of my favorite places in any city, and it highlights every single positive quality Boston possesses- a reverence for history and education, an elemental progressiveness, and an effortless accessibility.

And right there, in the middle of it all, is one conspicuous road sign-
New York, next right.
It's as if the city just isn't ready to let you love it. It knows that you'd rather be hanging out with its ritzier younger brother, humming "Rhapsody in Blue," and getting your kicks on its "twenty-four hour public transportation." So fine, leave it. It doesn't care. Fung Wah leaves every thirty minutes.

New York Syndrome hangs over the head of every Bostonian like some sort of Doom of Damnyankees. No matter how great the show may be at TD Garden, no matter how pleasant it may be to skate on Frog Pond, no matter how shitty the beer may be in Allston, the Bostonian cannot help but know, in his brain of hearts, that he or she is not at the Madison, not at Rockafeller, and not in Brooklyn, where the bands sound better, your pleasantries are more idyllic, and your man-children more man-childish.
In short, you're in Low-Rent New York.

This drives your average Beantowner somewhat insane. They find themselves trapped between a fervent need to prove something and an equally powerful push for denial. "There's no place like Boston!" you'll hear them cry, the trickle of blood from their freshly punctured lips drowned out by the powerful mental broadcast of "New What?"

And agonizingly, they have a point. There really isn't another place like Boston. Boston's schizophrenic character is something to behold- Puritanical, while fiercely progressive, Intellectual, with an unshakable blue collar pride, gruff, but surprisingly inviting. My sister, visiting from Fucksville, Brooklyn, remarked with a certain sense of shock that nobody in Boston seemed "too cool" for her. Despite all the posturing and frantic attempts to defend Boston as a "legitimate" city, it's hard to find people around here who take themselves too seriously.
I mean, if they were really all that cool, they'd be somewhere else.

Taken on its own, Boston is a rich, vibrant, and -I cannot stress it enough- accessible city that goes through great pains to avoid being overwhelming. Anyone who committed themselves could learn the ropes in under a month, with there still being a tremendous amount of the city still left to explore. It is unabashedly and unequivocally livable, and for that, it will always hold a special place in my heart.

It's very telling that a majority of the complaints lobbed against the city are usually matters of scale- why isn't the nightlife wilder, or transportation easier, or that richness and vibrancy more richer and vibrant-er. What those complains really amount to is- why can't I have the additional pleasures and reputation of a larger, more expensive, and unwieldier city without sacrificing the conveniences and joys I am accustomed to?

As soon as Boston can come to terms with itself, say "Hey, I may not be New York...and I'm okay with that," then it can finally break free of its unfortunate domestic notoriety as one of the wannabee 'burgs and share in on the same status it has earned internationally- a cornerstone of American History, an economic powerhouse, and a breeding ground of the prominent artists and intellectuals of the upcoming century.
And the weather would still suck.

New Song, Old Story

Almost a year ago, I started this blog as a way to chronicle my own march upcountry- making the arduous transition from New Orleans, land of the three-PM cocktail, to Boston, Hometown of the Protestant Work Ethic.

While there were trials and travails certainly worth mentioning (I was homeless. For like, a week), and getting a chance to air out my homesickness meant that my friends were given the briefest respite from my constant kvetching ("You know, in New Orleans, nobody cares if you drink by yourself at a bar. Here they all look at you funny."), the admittedly tired "Gee, things are different up North" angle really served as an exercise is writing consistently. Something I had tried before, and failed miserably, but dammit, this would be different.

It wasn't.

Well, to a certain extent. If anything, I've been doing a hell of a lot of writing, just not in the one place I designated as a place I would do writing. Sort of like that one time I vomited all around my sink. Pretty much exactly like that, actually.

I did some thinking while I was hungover on a bus, which is where I get my best thinking done, and I came to the conclusion that I would reboot this sucker, and ditch the whole "They call Circle-K 'CVS' 'round these parts!" angle for a simple collection of poetry and familiar essays that I've written, and will hopefully continue to write during my stay in the "insipid dryness" of Beantown.

Really, I just couldn't part with the domain name. That's a winner.