Posts by Nathan Graziano
It is an idyllic summer evening at the outdoor tiki bar at KC’s Ribshack in Manchester. The sun is starting to set, and a light breeze cuts through the packed crowd on a Tuesday evening as Nate Comp and Paul Costley take the stage, as they do every Tuesday evening—with rare exceptions—and as they’ve done on Tuesday evenings in various locations for the past 15 years.
I’m not originally from Manchester, but I’ve lived here long enough to know that speaking ill of the Queen City’s native son Adam Sandler can teeter on blasphemy, so I’ll try to tread lightly here.
“Many of our players live and die by their walk-up songs,” said the New Hampshire Fisher Cats’ general manager Taylor Fisher. “They love it.”
I have a mental illness. As multiple MAGA supporters have pointed out to me, I suffer from a crippling case of Trump Derangement Syndrome (TDS), and I need help.
I love beer. I love domestic beers and foreign beers and craft beers. I love beer from bottles and beer from cans and beer from taps. I love stouts and lagers and IPA’s and pilsners. I love regular beers and light beers. I love drinking beer and buying beer and thinking about buying and drinking beer. I love a beer in the shower and a beer after work and a beer before bed.
In the piece, I included an excerpt from my 2012 book, “Hangover Breakfasts.” Afterward, I received a couple of emails from readers telling me that they enjoyed the excerpt and wanted to know where they could find the book.
From Ponce de Leon searching for The Fountain of Youth, to Tom Brady switching to avocado ice cream, men have always looked for ways to thwart the effects of aging.
But there is a simpler solution for men looking to get their mojo back: It’s called science, according to the owners of a new male-focused business venture which opened up shop in Nashua in March.
As we approach the Fourth of July this year, which commemorates the signing of the “Declaration of Independence” in 1776, it is hard to miss the irony.
This year, I introduced a new holiday that will now join Emma Nutt Day—the holiday on Sept. 1 that recognizes the first female telephone operator—and Festivus on our calendars.
While cargo shorts have gone in and out of style throughout my 30 years of loyal wear, the war against them escalated in 2016 with an article by Nicole Hong in The Wall Street Journal titled “Nice Cargo Shorts! You’re Sleeping on the Sofa,” which was about a guy who owned 15 pairs of cargo shorts, and his wife kept secretly disposing of them until he was down to a single pair.
For those unfamiliar with power slapping as a professional sport, it is almost exactly as it would seem: Two competitors stand across from each other and take turns striking each other with an open palm to the cheek, with the intent of knocking out their opponent. Most fights are three rounds, or three slaps each, and if no one is knocked out—similar to boxing or mixed martial arts—the decision goes to a panel of judges.
On Friday, we officially usher in the summer of 2025, and I’m finding myself doing the things that older guys tend to do, such as reflecting on the summers of my youth with both nostalgia and disgust.
According to some people on the internet, between now and the time I finish this column, I might vanish. I’ll start to write a sentence and…
Poof. I’m gone.
Only the first game wasn’t the Fisher Cats. Instead, it was a rebranded team named the Manchester Buffalo Tenders, and their starting pitcher Rafael Sanchez just happened to throw a no-hitter, walking only two batters on 90 pitches through seven innings.
I’m particularly fond of using the term “douchebag” when referring to someone deserving of contempt. I’ve been drawn to the word since I first watched the iconic SNL skit set in the Victorian-era with Lord and Lady Douchebag.
But what exactly is a douchebag? Where did the term originate? And, more importantly, how can we positively identify a douchebag?
For English teachers, the stack of essays that need to be graded at any given moment is notoriously referred to as “The Pile.” The Pile of student essays starts to grow early in the course and doesn’t relent until your final grades are submitted. The Pile is daunting. The Pile is a horrible, ubiquitous, nightmarish entity that always lurks in an English teacher’s periphery at all times.
I woke up on Sunday morning and noticed a tick on the one anatomical place no male wants to find a tick.
The band, which includes two Manchester-natives—vocalist Demetri Papanicolau and guitarist/vocalist Nate Comp—informally started when Papanicolau and Comp found themselves in a jam room together one night in 2006. Comp took out his guitar and started playing Alice in Chains tunes, and Papanicolau joined in with his vocals. The two musicians played until 9 a.m. the next morning.
I should now probably mention—seeing this is essential to your understanding of the rest of the story that I’m about to unfold—that the basement is the one place in the world that has been designated as my own space. I write in the basement, and I watch sports on the flatscreen in the basement. All of my books are in bookcases in the basement, and all of my sports paraphernalia, movie posters and the motley art that hangs in my basement.
In lockstep—or maybe the better term is “goose step”—with President Donald Trump’s disdain for anything intellectual, New Hampshire House Republicans recently voted to pass a proposal, introduced by Rep. Joseph Sweeney (R-Salem), to eliminate the Division of the Arts.