La La How The Life Goes On

Archive for April 2013

Boston Strong

Posted on: April 20, 2013

What can be said after this, the shittiest week in the history of weeks?

The joy de vivre, the camaraderie, the community goodwill of the Boston Marathon torn asunder by the violence of bombs.

The death of three innocents, the maiming of hundreds, the terrorization of thousands, many of them children.

The unfortunate bigotry in the aftermath. The misinformation designed to divide us. The slow sussuration of fear turning to anger.

And then the past 24 hours, from the moment of the bombers’ ID, where it felt like time was passing just a beat faster than normal. That each second was shortened by a millisecond, giving the impression that all was as expected, but leaving us with an undercurrent of inchoate unease.

The moment last night when it became clear that a convenience store robbery, carjacking and murder of a police officer were not a random confluence of criminal events but all part of the larger narrative in which we were unwillingly playing a role.

Every moment of today, as we sheltered-in-place, following the pursuit of the suspects from our homes. Feeling concern for law enforcement, for the good people of Watertown, for ourselves should the remaining bomber elude capture. It all felt surreal. And sad. And yet somehow we were sanguine that all would be well.

Why?

Because of the spirit of Boston. It is easy–and entirely accurate–to characterize our denizens as nutty drinkers who care too much about sports teams. Or, alternatively, as uptight semi-racist provincials. Or perhaps all of these rolled into one. It is also entirely accurate to characterize us as the biggest-hearted Massholes you will ever meet.

Within seconds of the attack, countless citizens and first responders ran toward the blasts to help. Within minutes of the attack, gravely-injured victims were being tourniqueted and comforted and transported to safety. Within hours of the attack, thousands of people had opened their homes to stranded runners. Within 3 days of the attack, Jeff Bauman, the terribly injured victim who lost both of his legs, woke from sedation and helped ID the bombers. Within 5 days, every element of local, state and federal law enforcement worked together to bring these suspects to justice. Five Days.

Some voices on Twitter saw today’s shutdown of Boston as encouragement for terrorists. NO ONE here agrees. What it ought to tell them is that Boston is a city that will fucking hunt you down, and we will indeed stop the fucking trains to do it. The sense of injury and insult, that someone would attack innocent supporters of our beloved and storied Marathon–on our unique and precious Patriots Day–was so profound and so acutely painful that there would be no turning back, no quarter given. We were all in until the bitter end.

And here we are. At the end. Of the beginning. The victims have a long road back to health. The families of Krystle Campbell, Martin Richard, Lu Lingzi and Sean Collier will never be whole again. The Marathon will go on, forever changed. But what will never change is that when attacked, this city, this community, this Commonwealth will band together, stand together and work together, come hell or high–and dirty–water.
image

image

image

image

image

image

image

image

Advertisements

A particular gentleman who does not enjoy appearing on this blog is about to turn 40. I will therefore say little about him in particular, except to say that he finds himself constantly shocked that 1990 was not 10 years ago, that kids these days don’t really know anything about The Police or Sting, and that damn he just feels like time is flying by too fast. Like, how did Mick Jagger and Paul McCartney–who were considered old when we were young–get to be eleventy-seven?!

Here’s why. For the past nine years we have had little kids! Trust. Nothing makes you feel like time is that “giiiiiant suckin’ sound” heralded by Ross Perot back in the day than looking at your 9 month old, blinking, and then noticing that she is now almost 9 YEARS old. What have we done exactly in those 9 years? Climbed the Alps? Cured cancer? Swam with the dolphins? Nope. We have raised an heir and a spare. Done the daily grind. Fallen asleep from exhaustion. Oh, hello 40. We didn’t see you sneaking up on us. But there you are.

So you can approach The Big Four-Oh in two ways. You can freak out, acquire inadvisable plastic surgery, buy a Ferrari to drive your mistress around and dress like Simon Cowell. Or, you can accept your rightful place among the Eminence Grises with grace. As I continually tell this person who will not be named but whose name rhymes with Fada, “turning 40 is better than not getting to turn 40.” Believe that. Which he does. But 40 is different for everyone.

imageMe? I am comforted by the fact that Simon LeBon has grown old with me. I mean, back in 1986 when I was 14 and he was near 30, I knew in my heart that our marriage and eternal love would not be possible. The age gap would be too hard on our families. And the press! Well, you can just imagine the Jerry Lee Lewis comparisons that would rend the very fabric of Simon’s love for me and for Duran Duran itself. No. It must needs be the love that dare not speak its name. But now? Age ain’t nothin’ but a thang! Two middle-aged New Romantics getting it on?! That’s a god damn reality show! So cry me a river that rock stars get old. It just means that this girl now has a chance! (Call me, Simon).

Yes, I LOVE being an old fart. I get to say things like, “flibbidyfloo! Get offa my lawn!” Or, to my 20 year-old college student babysitter, “That girl looks like Julianna Margulies. From ER and The Good Wife.” Blank stare. “Never mind. I’m saying she’s pretty.” Like, obviously she has no idea who Julianna Margulies is! She was about 8 years old when ER was on! And it would have been like someone asking me in college to identify anyone on Murder She Wrote–or any network show besides Seinfeld. “Abe Vigoda! You don’t know Abe Vigoda?!” I’m 20. You are a senior citizen speaking Sanskrit. Please go away so I can drink more beer.

I revel in my out-of-touchness. I plan to enjoy it until I have to get back in-touchness as Bambina approaches teenagerhood and having my finger on the pulse of Kids These Days will be mission critical. Right now if you ask Bambina to imitate a teenager, she pretends to text while driving while squealing “Justin Bieber!” Truly hilarious–and naively sweet–to behold. The real thing will be less hilarious, I’m sure. So trust that I am going to be ALL OVER that situation. I will know what YOLO means.i will not be hoodwinked into believing that you are “going to the mall” because I will know that teenagers no longer go to malls. Oh yeah. I am on that. But until then, I am all good with The Kids thinking I’m a relic.

Which is not to say that i do not remain the most awesome relic ever. Because in the meantime I am also reminding my husband that he and Heather Thomas are finally Of Age. image