Scary stories make for a fine celebration of this season, marked as it is by the brightly colored demise of all New England’s deciduous green, but death runs deeper for me in October than it does for these yellow and orange and red and increasingly naked trees.
There’s an abandoned building where my favorite bar used to be. It billed itself as a café, but booze paid the bills, and on Wednesday nights the booze paid handsomely. Wednesday was open mic night, and if I missed a week it was because I was out of town. I went when I had to…
This could go one of two ways, he is either one of those Italian Americans who doesn’t speak Italian but knows the salutations and profanities OR he is straight-off-the-boat, and doesn’t speak any English. Either way I lose.
The audio was flipping back and forth between extremely loud top-40 Rihanna jams and extremely loud sports announcements for one of the three different playoff games that were on each screen. I spotted AJ at the bar and ran over, apologizing profusely and blaming the easy scapegoat, the MTA.
Last night, I survived my nightmare. After years of living in the city, two of them being completely alone, I came home from yoga to find I had a visitor.