Posts by Rob Azevedo
Teddy Thompson is playing the Rex Theater on February 25th at 7:30 p.m. and you should be there.
No, he’s not dead. He just moved away with his special lady. But not like, “we’re heading to New Boston or the seacoast” kind of move. I mean, they move, moved. Like you can’t get Xfinity there. The Celtics games come on weeks later. Only videos available to watch are the “The Mary Jane Girls” and “Sha-Na-Na” outtakes.
Thankfully, you can do just that on Sunday the Jan. 29 at The Rex Theatre on Amherst Street where they’ll be hosting the “New England Winter Blues Festival,” a gathering of country heavy rock blues with some good grind-it-down sound, with a dash of Italian born rhythm and roots. The show starts at 4 p.m.
The new position did raise a few eyebrows at home. Most of the kids that I work with at the course, two I nicknamed “The Pope” and “The Pilot,” are about 35 years younger than me and in high school. They’re also classmates of my son at Pembroke Academy. “That’s just weird, Dadda,” my boy would say to me. “You work with kids from my school. You’re like 50-something. I bet they think we’re broke. Do you really make $8 an hour?” I really do, son, I told him.
But this “New Civil War” is really putting a hex on some plans I had going. I wanted to go dune buggy riding in the Arizona desert. Wanted to go see the Red Claws play in Maine. Wanted to watch my buddy walk the aisle again. But instead, I guess, I’ll be fighting with my neighbors. Is that correct? And what are we fighting about? Oh, yeah: Freedom. Same stuff we fought over way back when. Least we won’t have to rewrite the textbooks. Tweak here, tweak there.
My first attempt at starting an unauthorized Kickball League for The Homeless in Manchester was a tad fruitless (to say the very least), but not without a high degree of verbal gems to lick and consider in the days ahead.
Every morning I open the doors in the barn that leads out to the pool and kiss my Saint Christopher medallion around my neck and pray for clear water. And every morning I curse back at Chris, holding him in contempt for the oath he broke, leaving me, yet again, with a cloudy blue pool. Don’t make me move over to Saint Anthony, Christoper. He’s been after me for years.
Lounging on my couch, as I have for the last umpteenth number of nights, spun out in a rank stupor, now I have ghosts exhaling in my ear after dark, just when the wounds start to freshen. Stay with me…
GSM and The Bookery on Elm Street, a treasure to the Queen City, no doubt one of its finest births, are teaming up to record live shows once a month right inside the doors of the bookstore. I’ve listened to writers read their works at The Bookery, musicians play as well, and between the coffee and wine and shelves of books and the cool aesthetics of the entire store, it’s a perfect place to have people sit in the audience, nurse a drink and watch it all play out before your eyes. And it’s FREE.
Having moved from Manchester to Pembroke over the last six months, I must admit that the transition has not been easy. I miss everything about Manchester. I miss my daily drive down Elm Street. I miss Paul, Lucy and Nick. I miss eating lunch at Steve’s Restaurant. I miss walking home after midnight from downtown. I miss the grit, the snags, the seemingly endless array of characters in the Queen City.