It has been an… eventful week so far here in Boston. We had the awful events at the finish line at the Boston Marathon on Monday, followed by an outpouring of support from around the country on Tuesday – the New York Yankees, a baseball team that, on a normal day, no Bostonian would admit is staffed by a single legitimate human being, played the Red Sox’s victory song, Sweet Caroline, during the third inning at Yankee Stadium last night – and all the late night comics were extremely supportive, despite carrying humiliating memories of being eaten alive at Nick’s Comedy Stop on Warrenton Street back in the 90s (and as someone who was a comedian back in the 90s, trust me: they were all eaten alive at Nick’s).
But now it is Wednesday, and as you might have read, Boston is not your normal American city. We’ve been here longer than almost any other city in this country, we were the first ones to chuck a hearty “fuck you” to out British overlords in the 1770s, and we were the setting of America’s greatest sitcom, where every single character drank in a bar all day and then went to work because even the most incredulous TV viewer had no doubt that not even hours of drinking could prevent a Bostonian from getting up and going about his fucking business.
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