Posts by Rob Azevedo
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.
It was a terrible week, a beautiful week, a week full of strife and wonder. My mother, only 78 –
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.