5:30am in Boston

The tuxes-/fireworks-/Zombies (the band, not the internet cliché)-themed New Year’s party we’ve been planning and anticipating is most likely not going to entirely succeed. There will probably be some guests, and some booze, but the tuxes and the fireworks are looking less likely every day.

The weather in Boston and Chicago is dreadful. Friday afternoon I opted to break the bank on an Amtrak ticket to New York instead of taking a bus. It took three and a half hours. It was like magic. A bus that departed New York at 1:00 on Sunday afternoon, on the other hand, arrived in Boston at 7:30. We crawled behind two snow plows for what felt like two hours of that trip. Fortunately I had been tipped off to Bolt Bus, whose buses have two rows of seats removed, giving every row an extra four or so inches of leg room, which sounds trivial but is in fact not trivial at all.

Logan Airport was madness at 6am on Monday. I boarded my plane fifteen minutes before takeoff. JetBlue is not all it’s cracked up to be. There really isn’t any noticeable additional legroom. The snack selection isn’t as exciting as you might expect. And the TVs embedded in the headrests of every seat is an awful idea. Even if yours is off, your eyes are irresistibly drawn to every other screen in front of you, all of which are on. This of course requires that all the shades be pulled down to reduce glare. It’s a depressing sight that’s ripe for a photo in Adbusters.

If nothing else, staying with my folks in Chicago over the holidays slows things down for me and offers me some faint clarity and perspective that I wouldn’t have otherwise. I’m looking forward to next year. I do feel a little smarter. I think I even have a better idea of what I want, and maybe even the motivation to do something about it.

Anyway. It’s nice to know that there’s a whole weekend between this trip and beginning work again.

As much complaining as I do about my home suburb, I sure look at it backwards. The neighborhood in which my parents now live used to depress me — you get the sense that nobody under the age of 60 lives here — yet it might be one of the few remaining authentic neighborhoods this city has. Decades-old oaks and elms shield ’50s ranch-style houses. This is where the Boomers spent their childhood, playing baseball in the streets of this newly-developed suburb before riding their bikes to Cock Robin.

In reality I should be grateful that a place like this still exists. It’s the kind of place The Clientele or I Like might write about.

And as long as I’m in a generous mood, here’s a Flickr set of some of the more photogenic parts of our suburbs.

Dan McPharlin

Boarding in a couple minutes. In Chicago through Tuesday. I can’t believe we have to wait ten months for another fall. I call that this one didn’t count. I was supposed to have bought a new bike. Instead I didn’t, and it’s probably gonna be snowing when I get back, and we have a Christmas tree and a bowl of unshelled nuts in our living room.

I’d never had a Christmas tree of my own in my adult life, and I have to say it’s pretty awesome.

Incidentally I think this is the least anxious I’ve been getting onto a flight in recent memory.