Spring is a hard time to live in Boston. I imagine it’s a lot like fucking Angelina Jolie; even if it’s amazing right now, you know that there’s a good chance that tomorrow you might find yourself dealing with a long stretch of painful itching and Asian children.
In Boston, it’s not uncommon to find yourself having your lunch outside and then having your dinner through an IV tube because you crashed your car on black ice. The weather turns on a dime here. It’s like Mark Twain once said: “If you don’t like the weather in New England, it means you’re not legally insane. This court finds you guilty as charged; you are hereby forbidden to approach within one hundred yards of Miss Jolie, Mr. Reuter.”
They say that the spring weather here is so volatile because we’re susceptible to getting stuck in masses of cold air from Canada. The meteorologists call these “high pressure systems,” but I prefer the old New Englander term: “act of war.” After two straight March weeks of temperatures in the 20’s, I would be completely willing to nuke Montreal. I hear fallout’s a toasty 75 degrees, and it would finally get my parents to stop bitching about the length of my hair.
So it’s hard to tell when springtime’s really here in the city. There’s only one really clear sign, and thank Christ, yesterday I finally saw it.
I was walking up to the bank to get some dough for lunch and to make sure that they hadn’t installed any surveillance cameras that I wasn’t prepared for, when I passed a girl walking in the opposite direction. Now, this was not a hot girl. At best, we’re talking a Last Call Beauty Queen; the kind of girl that you only nail at 3 in the morning at her place under a fake name. But sober? Not with your dick, another guy pushing and some other dude tasering my prostate to get the Goddamned sordid mess over and done with so we could put it behind us with some fine Jack Daniels Old No. 7 Shame-Dullin’ Liquid Amnesia.
However, this particular girl was wearing a sundress.
Fuck your robins; I saw the First Tit of Spring.
Which means it’s only a matter of weeks before we get to see the First Degenerate Sleeping and Vomiting on Himself on Lansdowne Street. And when you see that, quit gawking and call me a cab, will ya?
