A woman asked me why I didn’t attend last Tuesday’s City Party. I hesitated before I answered because I knew what I was going to tell her would most likely contort whatever image she had of me beyond recognition, if not redemption. But I owed her the truth.
I explained it’s not because I don’t enjoy a good party (or a good city for that matter), but having recently streamed Black Sunday on Netflix, I’ve developed an undue paranoia about being in large public gatherings.
To refresh your memory, this was the 1977 thriller in which Bruce Dern portrays a disgruntled vet intent on blowing up the Super Bowl with – wait for it – a blimp.
Now, the rational part of me knows inherently that between Homeland Security, our own police department and the fine folks at Goodyear, this will never happen.
The dark, strange fantasist in me, however, can’t turn off the storytelling machine long enough to believe it. When I’m on a jag, my mind is like the ’72 Mercedes I owned in the ’90s. Once the glow-plugs were warmed up and the diesel engine was cranking, I’d be damned if I could actually get the beast to actually turn off without idling for 15 minutes after the key was back in my pocket. It’s the same when I get a notion. The motor starts and won’t stop. This is great for the writing gig but makes me a bore at parties, especially city parties. You know, the ones where it’s up to a plucky squad of misfit vigilantes to save the day. Continue reading “Die Hard with a Viognier: J.M. Berry saves the City Party (in my mind)”