Every line I enter into my computer about the Hub is also part of a love story, because like a parent in the 1950s (or today, I guess) attempting to rationalize smacking their kids, I truly love the objects of my animosity. Oftentimes, it hurts me more than it hurts Boston to level such relentless criticism.
VALENTINE’S DAY SPECIAL: ‘TIL DEATH DO US PART
It goes without saying that this a seriously subjective roundup, compiled by our brain trust and the interjectors who barged into our discussions at the coffee shops and bars where our list blossomed.
REVIEW + FOTOBOM: ICEAGE AT GREAT SCOTT
Be it Davis Square in Somerville, the wild shoddy badlands of Allston, and even the nooks found around Fenway Park, what you’re about to read is a story involving intoxicated buffoonery all conducted at your favorite (or not-so-favorite) local haunts, be it drinking in public outdoors (but just for a photo), allusions to shooting pornography, and even men in ruffled shirts becoming threatened by small children drinking out of coconut shells in close proximity to them.
