Tainted love

The Dot's an easy lover, easy on the eyes. Shy and unassuming, the Dot will capture your heart and your soul. Ah, the games lovers play along leafy boulevards and byways, frittering away endless hours enraptured in mutual affection and devoted attention. If Dorchester were a woman, she would be Ingrid Bergman with a Boston accent.

The bells of St. Ambrose's, St. Brendan's, St. Gregory's and St. Mark's peal with Heaven's music. Of course. Dorchester is a little slice of Heaven transplanted here on earth. In a neighborhood of parishes, Dorchesterites suffer an ecstasy akin to that of St. Theresa.

It's hard to imagine Dorchester as a man. The borough is so soft and seductive, all curves and proper manners and dainty niceties. Dorchester nurtures with the overflowing milk of human kindness. If Dorchester were a man, I suppose he would be like the younger Alan Alda, all sensitivity and sympathy, tender in a tight spot and quick with an affable grin.

To make things right, you need someone to hold you tight when you toss and turn and can't sleep at night. Dorchester is like that. It will sing you a lullaby. If any one's love for Dorchester is tainted, it is tainted by admiration and goodwill. Dorchester doesn't command these qualities but it receives them all the same. People run to the Dot, not from it.