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World Wide Wednesday

Deep Routes

In the Boston Herald, Gerry Callahan reflects on the Marathon bombing:

Now we will stick out our chests and vow to remain strong and vigilant. We will promise to show up next year in full force, but we know the truth. Patriots Day will never been the same. Our Marathon will never be the same. Some sick, evil bastards blew a hole in it. They literally knocked some poor runner off his feet a few steps from the finish line and prevented thousands more from reaching a goal they’ve been working toward for months if not years.

Late yesterday afternoon, a place where we normally celebrate the best of the human spirit was splattered with blood and body parts. Oh, there was still plenty of heart and courage on display, but there was no one crossing the line now. The race was halted, the day destroyed.

We’ll vow not to let the terrorists win, but the truth is, this time they didn’t let us win. They didn’t let anyone win. Damn them, all of them. Straight to hell.

At Grantland, Charlie Pierce does the same:

Nobody loves the Boston Marathon as much as the people who make fun of it year after year. This was the race that previously offered as a prize a not particularly expensive medal, a laurel wreath, and a bowl of beef stew. This was the race that, on one memorable occasion, nobody knew who actually won. I don’t know anyone who loved the race that didn’t mock it for its monumental inconvenience, its occasionally towering self-regard, and the annual attempts by Boston-area television stations to use it to win another shelf full of local Emmys. This includes me, and I’ve been around 25 or 30 of them, more or less, in one way or another, watching from the press truck, from the firehouse in Newton, from somebody’s roof, and very often from just barely inside the front door of the late, lamented Eliot Lounge. The Marathon was the old, drunk uncle of Boston sports, the last of the true festival events. Every other one of our major sporting rodeos is locked down, and tightened up, and Fail-Safed until the Super Bowl now is little more than NORAD with bad rock music and offensive tackles. You can’t do that to the Marathon. There was no way to do it. There was no way to lock down, or tighten up, or Fail-Safe into Security Theater a race that covers 26.2 miles, a race that travels from town to town, a race that travels past people’s houses. There was no way to garrison the Boston Marathon. Now there will be. Someone will find a way to do it. And I do not know what the race will be now. I literally haven’t the vaguest clue.

Quick Reads

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Food Porn

Chicken dip sandwich w/ au jus @ Crosby’s Kitchen

Bacon cheeseburger beef sausage w/ Coca Cola BBQ sauce, caramelized onions, and maple cheddar cheese + Mozzarella and peppers chicken sausage with pesto aioli, slow roasted tomatoes and burrata cheese @ Hot Doug’s

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