I take a shine to rock that rolls, spins, and shimmies across the floor mostly in a diagonal fashion. I covet a groove that comes at you fast and darts sideways at the last second. I like music circular as a sea anemone swinging on a pendulum.
So despite how much I enjoy the company, and restaurant recommendations, of certain astrophysicists living in Boston who are credited with installing MacBarf on my Star Apple clone circa 1987, I know I don't belong in this city. It vibrates at a frequency that strikes me as straight up vertical, staccato with locked knees and a ruler. (In striking contrast to Boston's roads, which are a hot scalding mess.)
Some towns I walk into and I feel my shadow blur and blend into the streets. New York.
In Beantown, it's like I got dropped in from a different altitude and teeter on the brink of the bends. Except in Boston, there would be no actual bends. They'd be ramrod straight up and down.