A few days ago, Jurvis, Maria and I met in the Boston Common to admire the official lighting of the city Christmas tree. As we all know, this tree is given to us by Nova Scotia, because one hundred years ago two boats crashed something people died we helped. Hooray!
The actual tree was like a mile away.
Taken by Maria.
Do city celebrations become more and more bizarre every year, or am I just becoming generally more aware? Have we always had a uniformed cop singing a Pavoratti-esque The First Noel? Radio DJs with breasts like mack trucks? Backup singers for LL Cool J telling us to remember the children, scantily-clad thirteen-year-olds pretending to fight over grown men, Elvis impersonators, river dancing, fireworks, bagpipes? What?
I will say this: the audience was having none of it. None of the DJs’ corny banter, none of the demands for applause, none of the call and response. “Merry Christmas, everyone!” A singer cried as she burst onto the stage. She was met with bored silence, a few raised eyebrows. “Uh, Merry Christmas!” Maria responded.
“I think this city is growing on me,” I said.