DEAR READER,

As the weekend begins to creep into Friday and stretch to Monday, the traffic thins to an almost eerie normalcy and the bar windows open onto breezy patios taking center stage across the city. Summer is finally and officially here.

While the Fourth of July is the unofficial start of summer in Boston, June is the necessary month to prepare. Whether it’s locking down camping/hiking plans, making formal requests with the boss for three-day festivals, or stocking up on things to do mid-week when the summer light holds on for one more drink, it’s important to get your shit together now so you don’t end up rereading old books inside and alone. No one wants that and that’s why we do a Summer Preview.

From movies to music, arts to eats, and plenty of hiking along the way, this annual issue is our summer roadmap for the next few months—in between your sunburns and hangovers, of course. Whether you’re looking to slow life down or pick up some speed, there’s a flavor for everyone. So have fun jumping in feet first knowing that we’ve cut through the clutter and hand-picked the very best, or at least the most interesting, and try as many new things as you can along the way. What’s the worst that could happen? As Tennessee Williams once said, “All good art is an indiscretion.”

Jeff Lawrence, DigBoston Publisher + Editor

OH, CRUEL WORLD

Dear Hyena In The Apartment Above Me,

You have two laughs, and I hate both of them. Not necessarily equally, but there’s certainly a lot of hate to go around. One laugh is the one that you use when your lame animal friends are around – typically trying to impress them by laughing harder at sexist dick comedians on Neflix (that’s right, I can hear that much through the floor). That’s the one where you cackle like you’re gasping for your last breath, which I will admit gives me some hopeful thoughts and a dash of relief every time, but that nonetheless sickens me. The other laugh, the one you use when you’re alone, ’cause you’re a fucking phony baloney, is always followed by a gaping, “Holy shit!” Sometimes like five in a row as you calm yourself down from whichever Adam Sandler joke you fancied. Two laughs, comparably despicable. But neither of which you will need for the occasion on which I move out of this bitch and flood the toilet over your bedroom.