Boston, Massachusetts My Socks are Sticky Now

I’m sitting on the curb outside my hotel at 1 in the morning with no shoes on, cursing Vista once more for its persnickety network code.

Failing to resolve my in-room connection, I’m forced out into the cold to be scrutinized by hookers and derelicts.

Danced in Montreal.

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Rain started pissing down about half an hour before the dancing. Those who made the journey were undeterred, so we went out into it and got well-and-truly soaked.

What is it about dancing in the rain? Fun.

There were a handful of dissidents in the bunch. One challenged me to defend my outsized carbon footprint. Another walked off after reading the terms of the bog-standard release form. Fair enough, I suppose.

…is it a French thing?

I have to admit, being in Canada has thrown me for a loop. I mean, I knew it was up there. But do you realize they’ve got cities and cars and buildings? They’ve even got their own currency.

I grew up in Connecticut. You go north and you’re in Massachusetts. Past that, Vermont and New Hampshire. On the very fringes of existence, just before dropping off into the abyss eternal, there’s Maine.

But Canada…it’s like discovering a society of mole people.

All this time they’ve been up there!

Flight to Boston. Met up with my friend and former co-worker, Dan.

Dan is a designer on Rock Band, from the good folks who brought us Guitar Hero. They’re just about at code lock, so Dan let me come by and blow the afternoon.

Issuing my thoughts on the game would feel silly. The trajectory they’re on transcends gameness. They’re carving out a new hybrid leisure activity that is, in many ways, above critique. But if I had to come up with a quote to put on the box, I’d call it "The single greatest thing that’s ever happened, ever."

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These photographs carefully omit top secret details that are so flippin’ cool it hurts my brain to think about.

In case you don’t know, this’ll give you a better idea of what Rock Band is.

Dan is the only person I know with a cooler job than mine.

He begs to differ.

Because of a small permit predicament, the invites to Boston didn’t go out until a couple days prior to the event. That being the case, we still had a great turnout.

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We had enough people on hand this time that we were able to take some pictures of the actual event, rather than just a bunch of headshots.

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The cameraman in that last shot is named Sean. He’s a documentarian and he’s following me around for a couple weeks of this trip.

It’s not a reality show type of thing, so we don’t bother with the staged fights and teary confessionals. Sean is a serious filmmaker and he pretty much just shoots whatever is happening.

It’ll be nice to have a bit of this strange endeavor recorded for posterity. Still, it’s hard to get used to being followed around by a camera. I’m all mic’d up so he can record sound, which means there’s fancy electronic gear hidden beneath my clothing. When I dance, it usually comes loose and starts dangling in front of everyone. I find this enormously embarassing. It’s basically like getting caught wearing a wire.

I’m finishing this on the train from Boston to New York. I forgot that the route passes right through the town I grew up in. I haven’t been to Westport in four years. There really isn’t much for me to do or see anymore. It’s not even a pit stop on this third grand tour of the planet.

I feel kind of bad about that.