Byline: Nathan Graziano

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.”