Byline: Nathan Graziano

Full disclosure: I’ve only read snippets of Megan Fox’s poetry, but I’ve read enough to make an informed opinion that is not…well, poetry. 

I’m not sure why I’m here because these photos have nothing to do with me, or my male gaze. They are about my wife, and reminding her that she is truly beautiful.

More importantly, the way they interacted on the stage—even when they had differences of opinions on policies or proposals—was civil, respectful and refreshing to see in a political forum. Both men stuck to the issues and never once resorted to the types of rabbit punches and ad hominem attacks that are commonplace in political debates.

But I would not be the teacher am I today if it weren’t for one dedicated and passionate English professor who I had in multiple courses at Plymouth State. In fact, if it were not for Meg Petersen, I doubt very much that I would’ve ever stepped foot in a classroom.

In the adult world, there are few clear binaries anymore. Nuances abound, and there are always shades of gray. But there’s one thing that remains relatively straightforward: You’re either a person who enjoys dressing up in a costume for Halloween, or you’re not.  I’m not a costume person.

For some reason, I mentally imagine myself—a metacognitive ballet that I perform in clogs—as 36 years old. In my imagination, I stopped aging when I was old enough to no longer appear awkward but still spritely enough to feel young. It was a good age, 36, and for all intents and purposes, I stopped aging then.

On Saturday, Sept. 23, I attended the Billy Joel and Stevie Nicks concert at Gillette Stadium with my wife and four of my friends.
Here’s a mosaic of the music and experiences from a night where I had the pleasure of watching two septuagenarian musicians remind all of us in attendance what it means to really rock ‘n’ roll.

For those who may not be familiar with the premise of “The Handmaid’s Tale,” it is set sometime in the not-so-distant future, following a violent civil war in the United States fought over ideological differences. Birth rates have plummeted due to environmental indifference and increased rates of STDs, and the far-right religious fanatics—many of whom posture as Christians—have established their own country named Gilead.

The only money that belongs solely to me exists in a Venmo account where I’ve squirreled away my earnings from various writing projects over the years. The money was intended to be a little scratch with which I could gamble and make frivolous purchases that would incense my wife, such as a reprint of Leroy Neiman’s painting of the final frame of “Rocky III”. 

While I’m still working through the trauma with a therapist, here is the quick-and-dirty: After consuming far too many whiskey sours at the open bar of a wedding where I was one of the groomsmen, I was loose, feeling the groove, cutting the proverbial rug with my girlfriend on the edge of the dance floor beside a bay window with crimson curtains.

But one friendship stands above the rest as the greatest friendship in American history, and that would be the bond shared between rocker Billy Squier and me.

I was stoned—too stoned—the first time I watched the 1982 film “Pink Floyd: The Wall.”

The collective response to a certain former president—currently the front-runner for his party’s nomination—being indicted for 91 felonies has now become pedestrian, rote responses from both sides of the political spectrum.

Before my wife left, as we were going through a particularly humid stretch, I noticed the pungent scent of pet urine emanating from the kitchen floor. A little back-story: in the past three years, to my dismay, our home has become a veritable animal farm, including the Existential Pug—who has penned a few columns for me—and three cats, two of whom moved into the house against my wishes.

While every other New England state has hopped onto the gravy train, New Hampshire has remained obdurate in its crusade to….what exactly? Protect the children? Prevent crazed gangs of potheads from raping and pillaging while whacked out on weed?