Posts by Nathan Graziano
But fret not, dear reader, as Alexander Pope penned, “hope springs eternal” in another form for me these days. Hope springs in the form of a gambling application called “DraftKings” that The Gray-Haired Man—the bozo normally responsible for writing this column—recently introduced to me.
I’m not sure who needs to hear this, but I’m going to say it anyway for those who do: Your beer choice does not determine your sexuality or affect your gender identification in any way.
And despite the fact that poetry remains a rare art form where its practitioners outnumber the audience, I’m going to try to make the case that poetry is not only relevant, but it’s the most important thing in the world.
While driving through my hometown, it occurred to me that West Warwick and Manchester—the city where I’ve lived and raised my family for the past two decades—are essentially the same place, a similar kind of “home” for me.
I earned my moniker based on my average tip. I was so terrible at serving the public their meals that my shifts were restricted to Wednesday lunches where seniors ate half-price, and my section was limited a pair of two-tops by the kitchen. On occasion, I was assigned a four-top when the manager pitied me, in the way one might pity a three-legged dog.
A few days before St. Patrick’s Day, while I was at Chelby’s, having beers with friends when a discussion about the virus started. Most of the patrons were dismissive, downplaying it, but I sensed a subtle pall hanging over the bar—an ominous lump in my throat.
The tattoo is a daily reminder to me that while my condition on earth may be absurd, it’s ultimately up to me what I decide to make of it. By acknowledging this absurdity, I can choose to embrace the Grinds, laugh at them, scorn them, whatever it takes to carve out my own meaning and find that elusive happiness.
Aside from the gimmick, the movie is also genre-bending, a sneaky shape-shifter. The viewer will see in “Cocaine Bear” whatever they choose to focus on.
A relative Luddite, I’ve faced off with numerous technological windmills in my search, trying Amazon and eBay, as well as some deeper searches, but I always fell, defeated. At one point, I purchased a VHS tape with two episodes from Season 1—“The Prettiest Week of My Life” and “Bored Straight”—but the complete two-season oeuvre continued to elude me.
These days, however, the Red Sox tone-deaf owner John Henry and their smug Head of Baseball Operations Chaim Bloom—a low-rent version of the once-dynamic GM Theo Epstein—signed a few former All-Stars, a closer incapable of handling the new pitch-clock, and an overpriced Japanese outfielder. This was the sum of an off-season for a 2022 team that finished in last place in the AL East.
Tales from the Queen City was an inaugural event concocted by Rob Azevedo as a way to bring community together around the city we all love.
When your wife suggests a menu for watching the game —The Super Bowl, not the Puppy Bowl, although she’ll actually watch the latter—act tormented at the thought of consuming spicy Buffalo wings and loaded beef nachos and juicy cheeseburger sliders. Show the kind of excruciation usually reserved for Russian novels.
The 48-year-old Queen City native and Manchester West alumnus is ordinary in appearance, average height and build with short hair and a trimmed beard, wearing exactly what you might expect a middle-aged man fitting his profile to be wearing: blue jeans and a pullover.
As I’ve been begrudgingly hurled into middle-age—soon to be old and cantankerous—it’s now high time for me to pass into this vast world of adult condescension and critique “the kids these days.” Only I can’t speak from a place of exasperation, only concern, when I say, “The kids these days are not okay.”
While she was not a Shakespearean scholar, my grandmother—who was an avid reader and one of the few mortals I’ve known deserving of canonization—was fond of using a title of one of The Bard’s plays for its idiomatic wisdom. “All’s well that ends well,” my grandmother would say at the resolution of any issue, ranging from a brush fire to an inferno.
I tried to slow my breathing, struggling to recall the techniques that my wife—a yoga instructor—taught me to use in states of intense anxiety. For a football fan and a sports gambler, Wild Card Weekend is a religious observance, and with a quick spit of discourse, suddenly, my grandiose romantic plans came crashing to earth.
Pack some workout clothes in a bag in your backseat and drive directly to the gym after work. Do not stop at the bar for a pitcher of draft beer and buffalo wings, even if your buddies’ cars are in the parking lot. Wrong parking lot. Laser focus, fatty. Keep driving.
And peace on Earth. But if world peace can’t be procured, I’ll take Cheese of any kind, but I have a penchant for Brie and Sharp Cheddar.
Full disclosure: I listen to Christmas music stations—during the commercial breaks on The Sports Hub—when I’m driving alone. I suppose it’s fair to say that I enjoy Christmas music, even if I’m not gung-ho about the holiday itself.
