Copley Square, a familiar place. A familiar place for beer drinking and hamburger consumption and overhearing hipsters badmouthing Red State America on a snoozy Sunday afternoon. Named after John Singleton Copley, portraitist to the Boston Brahmin. “But the people in this town … the people in this town make me feel like Sean Hannity,” my Obama-voting friend Eamon once told me there on leafy, liberal Copley Square. I nearly followed Eamon up to B-town after college, was planning on setting up above a cannoli shop in the North End and affecting one of those accents that drops the r and overdoes it on the äääää. I could have been there on the finish line that fated day, had my legs blown off by bolts and other metal bits.
I keep pulling lucky numbers, but I know that sooner or later an unlucky one will come up.
… on the Baltic Queen between Stockholm and Tallinn in late winter waters, March, with the broken window glass ice crumpling and scraping the hull of this un-Titanic, playing video games in the ship’s arcade, one has real-looking guns, aiming at real-looking people, my daughter starts to play it. “Aim this way, now squeeze the trigger,” instructs adolescent freckly finnic face (an Estonian though). And at the end of this “game,” after we’ve both been wasted by adversaries, he confides in me in the arcade dark, “I love guns.” He loves guns?
… Violence here and violence, ultraviolence, sex and violence. New York, Bali, Madrid, London, Boston, more unlucky numbers pulled. And who to blame? It’s not the pretty Malaysian Muslim girls with their peacock-like headscarves and round faces and scooters and ivorywhite smiles. It’s Timothy and Tamerlan and Dzokhar. The social cancer of those who kill and maim and ruin innocents to satisfy a vague political goal and succeed by seeing it never addressed because it is associated with their rotten blood-stained selves.
Some call these murderers “terrorists.” You and I know them better as “idiots.”