The Big Country

Glass and Steel Versus Cobblestones and White Hats

One of the few—okay, only—things that I enjoyed over the course of the Red Sox sweep of the Yankees this weekend was the opening montage for last night's game on ESPN. Complimenting the usual hyperbole comparing the two organizations was an arty comparison of the two cities themselves. I’m willing to cede the dominance of one team over the other at certain times, but comparing the cities as equals? No dice (K). Boston is a small town--and a small-minded town--compared to New York.

I’m not the biggest proponent of Boston; it just never tickles my fancy when I visit. To be fair, I am coming at it from an odd angle. I didn’t go to school there and I’m not the biggest fan of beige-colored food. Still, in terms of virtues as a place to live, Boston is as overmatched as the Yankees bullpen was this weekend. Let’s give them South Station over the Port Authority and call it a day.

Monocle: Not so Farsighted?

Everyone was atwitter at the launch of Monocle the other month. And why not? Founder and fearless leader Tyler Brûlé is about as cool as Canadians come—unless you count Jonathan Cheechoo of the San Jose Sharks, and that’s mostly because he grew up in Moose Factory, Ontario—and the magazine billed itself as a hybrid of Wallpaper and the Economist.

It succeeds as such, which is exactly the rub: Monocle is incredibly boring. That's fine. So is the Economist. I love the Economist, but I harbor no illusions about it; I use it instead of sleeping pills on long flights, nodding off somewhere between the Lexington and Charlemagne columns.  And Wallpaper, well, it can be interesting. Despite the pleasure of seeing at the pretty designs across the globe, reading it makes me feel poor and fat--and I’m mostly looking at pictures of buildings.

And so, Monocle is a great hybrid of these two magazines. It has some interesting moments, but maybe there’s a reason no one chooses to write about the Norwegian oil boom. And, to be frank, I can’t believe I paid $10 for a magazine that doesn’t even have glossy pages. For the time being, I’ll stick to buying the Economist and whatever tiny bottle of red wine they’re selling in coach.