This week, I’m afraid a particularly fiendish stretch of work – much of which has involved making a newsletter look more like a magazine – has left journey-home-Jon ill-equipped for his customary blogging detail. In fact, it’s left him on various different trains napping, and thinking a whole lot more about the weekend coming than the weekend recently gone (a long, Labor Day one, in which me and the lovely Jacqueline took a trip back to Boston, the city where we met).
All of which (you’ll just have to take my word for this) is the most tremendous shame for you. Were it not for lapsing into sleep (and now third-person verbiage) instead, I would doubtless have prepared for your reading delectation a snappy little travelogue as brim-full of verve, insight and wit as this replacement for it, well, isn’t. A whirlwind evocation of Boston and its neighbor Cambridge, indeed, replete with the redolent wafting of New England smells, resounding to the nasally intonations of that JFK-style burr, and forming, as a whole, a panoramic canvass of game-day Fenway Park, leafy Beacon hill, lazy Boston Common, the wide river Charles a’rolling, and clever-clever Harvard Square a’bustling and a’beeping (the Massachusetts car horn positively never a matter of last resort).
More than likely, dear reader, you would also have found me battling the hot, burning after-glow of an existential crisis. And asking the question, why oh why is Boston a city that me and Jackie ever left? (We replaced it first with Morristown, and then Chatham, New Jersey – two faraway places never knowingly responsible for the quickening of pulses.)
But – like I said – that’s just what you would have got… Here we all are instead, settling and trying to make the best of it – you wondering wistfully what terrific tails I might otherwise have marvelously told (no?), and me increasingly supposing the handful of chocolate-covered coffee beans I ate around about an hour ago was, roughly speaking, a handful too much. (Long sentences and a giddy overuse of parenthetical remarks surely, I suggest, tell-tale signs of a jittery mind too little rested.)
I simply must, though, apprise you of one happy thing before I put this groggy post to bed. In the middle of our trip last Sunday, my powers of persuasion were somehow sufficient for Jackie to go see with me not one, but two, films she didn’t want to watch. In Harvard Square’s AMC, the none-more-London alien invasion caper Attack the Block, and, in the downtown Boston AMC, the racing driver documentary named after its charismatic subject [Ayrton] Senna.
Quite the coup, don’t you think? Especially as all I offered in exchange was a tolerable amount of shopping time along the way about the boutiques of Newbury Street (we zig-zagged across it, from French Connection to Betsy Johnson, from a shoe store we didn’t know the name of to some other place with knickknacks, bric-a-brac, and stuff). Then again, I must admit, late-summer heat and a blister growing ever-larger on Jackie’s foot hurried her along to a seat inside – any seat – a good deal more than me. (Oh, and the both of us enjoyed both movies very much.)
But never mind the ponderous specifics of that. What I really want to say is – wow – movie theaters in big cities really are amazing, aren’t they? And – damn, humbug, dog shit and nuts – movie theaters outside of big cities really, really aren’t. Our choices back home in the less-than-sprawling-outer-bit of New Jersey are always awful. Every single time, the same old dreary, lowest-common-denominator tat that passes these days for mainstream ‘entertainment.’
Forget everything else, I can’t even begin to describe how much I miss Boston for its movies. This week at its Brattle Theatre, for example: a Woody Allen retrospect. Fucking-A, missing out on that sure makes me wanna weep.