There she was: the love of my life — the woman who helped me seethrough the painting, so to speak — dazed and bleeding on the floor of The 5 Spot. Panic gripped my brain, blood trickled from a gaping wound in her head, and a murmur went through the crowd as everyone turned their attention from the stage to the woman splayed on the ground. Frantic thoughts buffaloed through my consciousness: Was she OK? How did this happen? Were we gonna miss Jonathan Richman's second set?
She had to have known, even in her concussed state, that my loyalties would be torn. She may be my one true love but he, on the other hand, is Jonathan motherfucking Richman, patron saint of nerdy punks and quirky pop tunes. The first time she went to my parents' house — back in North Reading, Mass., right off 128, just past the Stop & Shop, natch — she had to take the very lengthy, very detailed "Modern Lovers Walking Tour." She knew that Richman is my Elvis, the performer who had most shaped my life and my skewed views on love and romance, and who taught me almost every trick I know when it comes to wooing a lady.
We went to Government Center — we didn't put any stamps on any ledgers — and we'd been through the Lonely Financial Zone by the sea. We had been to the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, though we didn't have the money to see the room where they keep the Cézanne. We had walked through the Fenway in the afternoon, our hearts in our hands. We talked about how we would grow dignified and old, and how nobody ever called Pablo Picasso an asshole. We walked around on a summer morning, bop-she-bop-she-bop, enjoying the breeze and the smells of the dawning, bop-she-bop-she-bop — if ya catch my drift.
Read the rest here if you want to, and I assure you, you do. It's one of the cutest and most enjoyable things I've read in a while.