Menino and Magliozzi, I Hardly Knew Ye
Although I recognize Tom Menino’s salt-of-the-earth goodness (he wasn’t called the “urban mechanic” for nothing), his death marks the first landmark Boston moment I’ve not emotionally responded to in my lifetime. I realize it’s because his entire mayoral reign (1993-2014) dovetails with my time in NYC. Have I finally become more of a New Yorker than a Bostonian? My new license plates would suggest so but–as I type this–I learn of the 
death of Car Talk’s Tom Magliozzi, and it hits me like a ton of bricks. He was the best wiseass (and, ironically, crucial in keeping my car Sadie alive). It’s such a Mass cocktail of tragedy and oddity: two Italian-Boston working-class heroes with startlingly similar names dying within days of each other. I can’t help admiring the confluence even as I realize no one here will care. Oh, I miss my people. Maybe you really can’t take the Masshole out of the girl.
Insert Androgynous Symbol Here
In a word: Prince. In more words: Prince’s eight-minute set on SNL last night blew my socks off. I just love that His Prescient Present of a Purply Purpleship is still so amused and amusing, is still rocking amazing absurdities like third-eye sunglasses, is still running so casually deep, is still making music that I actively love. (J’love both his new albums). Plus: Leave it to The Artist Currently Known as Prince to achieve a good sound mix on normally lousy-sounding SNL. In general: I just really want Princey to have my babies. Also: Prince Prince Prince.
‘Horns’ Doesn’t Blow
Like his father Steven King, author Joe Hill has a knack for finding the realistic details in supernatural stories. In his 2010 fantasy novel, Horns, he investigated the thin line between good and evil – the latter, he suggested, being awfully accessible to even the finest of fellows. With linguistic and emotional integrity, Hill infused new life into the imagery of these by-now hackneyed polarities. In Alexandre Aja’s new film adaptation of this book, though, something got lost in translation – namely, subtlety. What’s left is a heady indictment of the bad seeds lurking in all of us, even the most delicate of flowers. Oddly enough, “Horns” still entertains quite nicely, perhaps because it offers a well-conceived alternative to straight genre fare.
Daniel Radcliffe is Ig Perrish, a radio DJ who has become the town pariah since his girlfriend, Merrin (Juno Temple), was kidnapped, murdered, and left under their favorite treehouse. Everyone, including the cops, considers him the culprit since she was last seen dumping him during a screaming fight. Protesting crowds and TV crews even follow him wherever he goes, wielding signs that say “Burn in Hell” and shouting “What’s it feel like to get away with murder?” Ig is too distracted by his enormous well of grief to care what anyone thinks, though; Merrin was his childhood sweetheart, and only the hope of finding her killer is now keeping him going. The problem: The killer left no trail whatsoever, and Ig has no means by which to uncover one – that is, until he wakes one day with horns sprouting from his head. Continue Reading →