Posts by Rob Azevedo
I saw pain in the eyes of one of these people today. He and many others lost a good friend they grew up with when a bullet to the face killed Jason Barry early last Friday morning in an alley off Union Street.
Surviving the lean times means you have to be willing to try the Dollar Tree shrimp lo mein.
When I stood in front of the back coolers at the Dollar Tree five nights ago, I was amazed at the ensemble of delicacies the store now sold. Or maybe they always have. I stick to the armpit and candy isle mostly. This was a new world to me.
Maybe 10 yards into the tree line laying beside a fallen tree sat Frank – lost, tired and confused. Frank, as I later learned his name to be, was, is, and likely will always be a homeless person. Worse than homeless, Frank is also touched in the head, not quite all there.
Got myself a “get out of town” pass for 48 hours recently without having any real reason to leave town. I just made my way toward Nowhere, all for the heck of it. Sometimes that’s the only place worth seeing. So I saw.
And if anyone else cares to bathe alongside me in Kate’s light, join us at The Bookery on Elm Street in Manchester this Friday May 24 at 6:30 p.m. where you can see Dobbins, Kate West, Nick Ferraro and Jasmine Mann — all incredible songwriters — joining me as I read from my new book, “Notes From the Last Breath Farm: A Music Junkies Quest to Be Heard,” which is for sale at the Bookery, and on Amazon.
Sunday in the city and I’m a hot mess, burned out couch side, copper tongue sagging out the side of my mouth, just trying to figure what to do with my day. So many hours left to kill before the “Battle of Winterfell” begins. If only I had a barrel of Dragon Glass to sharpen, or a hobby that involved something other than tending to my vices to occupy my time.
Catch Sean Rowe at the Capital Center for the Arts on March 31, if you can. You won’t regret it.
Catch this 5-piece folk/rock band Friday night at the Currier Museum’s Side Door Music Series – and bring some tissues.
Good times. But hey, it’s February; what more could I expect out of this lousy month?
It was to be a three-day jaunt, in and out. Find the sun, that was our only mission. Find it, then sit in it. Don’t move.
Forgive me Father for I have sinned. Now, show me the New Me.
I see oak and orange lights, frothy pints of beer, live music and fat burgers. I hear Van Morrison howling below a good conversation, a glass of wine, a crystal smile, and I think to myself, yes, it was a good night on the West Side.
And then, from out of the ruins of the other vehicle appeared an angel. I shit you not. Fresh from being practically T-boned, violently tossed and slammed in the collision, an older woman came stumbling over toward us, her arms out wide, reaching for the young girl before taking her immediately into her arms.
Next time I’m standing at a corner on Elm Street, sharing a slice of meat-lovers pizza and an orange soda with a homeless person on a Friday night talking about sports or family or about the missteps we’ve taken in life, I’m going to ask if they see more of a willingness from their fellow Mancunians to thumb a quarter their way, or slide a buck into a cup as they both look away.
When someone says that the downtown music scene is “deficient” and that the take over of the Rex by the Palace should be viewed as a rescue mission, I not only find that offensive, I see it as giving the Palace Theater a pass for failing the music community in Manchester for years now.
Wyatt had his hustle on, so I gave chase. That didn’t last long. Five steps in I went to my knees, then my face went crashing into the grass. Thump! Right on my nose, hands free. I was later told by a group of friends who were standing not far away, leaning against my newly rediscovered Dodge Dakota, that I stood up, took one step and face planted 207 pounds of Dad girth back into the earth.
Gunning my car up 93 North, crushing the lanes, barely hitting the brakes, feeding off my anger, my confusion, my fear that my favorite toy in the world, my Dakota, a truck I bought for the sole purpose of pretending to be Sam Shepard on the weekends, was gone for good, sold for scrap metal or a bag of dope.
I ignored both posts, not because I’m a total heathen, but because depression scares the shit out of me. I don’t want to talk about it, recognize it, feel the heat coming off the disease, because it seems that once “it” gets under one’s skin, well, you either try to burn it out with pills or tighten the belt all on your own.
