I grew up in Laurel Springs, New Jersey but I always say “Philadelphia” when people ask where I’m from. It says so on my birth certificate and I’ll never budge on that.
Missing were the station wagons and the minivans Robert had noticed on his drive earlier that evening. In their place were old Cadillacs with sharp fins and turquoise paint, and antique Fairlanes with their cloth tops down to the stars above
The shrieks and the screams and the wild accusations shot across the beer hall like bullets. Bullets that I ducked and dodged on my way up to the stage and all the way out to the parking lot.
Ten minutes to cross town. Ten minutes-worth of car exhaust and sewer stench, and mustard-stained, pretzel wrappers that rise in ghostly notes against the brownstones. Ten minutes of peace. Ten minutes where I hide under headphones and nothing plays but the city--the tenor sax born of screechy brakes; the chorus spills from a corner cafe; … Continue reading Crosstown Transfer
We've learned nothing of tornado drilling in the past three hundred and sixty-four days. We've learned nothing at all.
I’ve been to a few shows, but it always feels like I’m a curator at the dinosaur exhibit. So many dusty, old bones lying around. So many hip replacements squeaking and popping to Frankie Valli’s greatest hits. It gives me a creepy feeling.