For the first week, I kept hoping that my songs, and my songs only—Neil Young, Deer Tick, the Dead, Ike Reilly, etc—would play because I’m selfish.
But then a strange phenomena started to occur.
While I’ve never been one to gush over the weather, much preferring the dank basement to the great outdoors, last Sunday was an objectively idyllic afternoon to watch live baseball.
he Gray-Haired Man is busy. His specious excuse for not writing his own column this week is that he is busy grading essays, but it is more likely that he is busy drinking beers and watching baseball at Chelbys.
We had a good run together. When all was said and done, we spent more than four decades with each other. I would say that there were more good times than bad, but all good times must come to an end.
This evening, following a morning and an afternoon of rain showers, Dr. Heavey and I were attempting the 9-9-9 Challenge. For those unfamiliar, the rules are simple—although somewhat convoluted, depending on the source—basically stating that each contestant must finish nine beers and nine hot dogs in the course of a nine-inning baseball game.
While I understand the sentiment, this is analogous to treating cancer with Tylenol. The people who are really responsible for the dumpster fire that has been the 2026 Red Sox remain unscathed, largely Chief Baseball Officer Craig Breslow, who essentially lit the match.
Her doomscrolling, however, has become habitual. It is not only when we’re watching television. It is also while we’re driving in the car, or lying in bed, or getting ready for work in the mornings, or having drinks at a bar. My wife is constantly checking her phone for news that either angers or upsets her whenever there is a spare moment.
Jon and I had finished volunteering at the food bank and were driving back to the church to meet up with our prayer circle when the call came in.
We were also attending the comedy show “Smiles for 26.2 Miles” at The Strange Brew Tavern that night—I had also written a piece about the event for the Ink Link—which left Paige and I with roughly three hours to saddle up to some barstools and celebrate my birthday at the place where I should rightfully receive my mail.
It was apropos of nothing when my 22-year-old daughter recently sent a text message to inform me that not only do I listen to a steady diet of “Dad Rock” but I also dress as if it were still the 1990s.
At precisely this point of every year, somewhere around the Ides of March, I launch into the same sentimental, navel-gazing screed about baseball and the symbolic significance of the game, about hope and rebirth and poetry.
Liz, my wife, and I had been streaming “Tell Me Lies” on Hulu, which is a show that a 50-year-old man has no business watching, much less enjoying. We binged on it for three straight days, rarely moving from the couch, and, suddenly, it was over.
After weighing my vacation plans, comparing them to my financial ledgers, I decided to spend my Winter Break this year hanging out at Chelbys each afternoon, drinking draft beer with The Lunch Crowd, a group of friends who I rarely get to see these days due to my work schedule.
For those who may be unfamiliar with Padilla—and, let’s face it, he is not exactly a household name in the United States—his story is bizarre, yet strangely inspiring, in a dancing-with-madness type of way.
When we moved into our current house, almost a decade ago, my wife and I shared the downstairs bathroom. It’s a small, standard affair—a bathtub, a toilet, a sink—but it was tacitly agreed upon when we moved in that our three kids would share the bathroom upstairs, and we would take the one downstairs.
So now it is time to plan for yet-another Sunday night Super Bowl party, another debauched outing where everyone tries to pretend that they’re not going to call out from work on Monday morning.
One of the perks of my work is that I’m able to interview some excellent musicians and attend some excellent shows with some excellent people playing excellent music.
The towel, I’m going to assume, fell from the rack this morning as The Blonde Woman and The Gray-Haired Man were hurrying to get ready for work—harrowed as they often are at 6:30 a.m. while I snooze on their bed—and failed to notice the towel on the tiled floor.
I have a new excuse not to start the novel I’m planning to write: The Pats won, and I won a few bets on DraftKings. I can’t write today, I need to celebrate.
It’s a sad statement on where we are as a state, and a nation, that on the night before Martin Luther King Jr.’s birthday, The Granite Post breaks a story about a state representative endorsing segregated schools in New Hampshire in a private group chat on Signal.