So sad to see the end of the World Cup.

The United States needed the World Cup FAR more than the World Cup needed the U.S. That’s a fact.

FIFA is a fucking bully mafia that will get paid wherever they go. They created some weird medal that our dumbo in chief put on himself! Who puts a medal on himself?!? FIFA sucks, no question there. I want to gob at my TV whenever they show the spineless chief, but I don’t, because, you know it’s my TV. I’d just have to clean it.

What the U.S. got from this event was a fellowship that we desperately needed. This was an organic PR victory that New Hampshire’s favorite vitriolic troll speaking for the dick-tator in chief could have never maneuvered or engineered. We got the chance to show from day to day we are not all chest puffing jerk-off's in the model of drumpf!

We're actually fairly nice and accommodating people who welcome other fairly nice and accommodating people. This was a chance for my nation to hopefully send folks who visited to tell their friends at home, "You know the U.S isn't really like that. They're nice. Just like us.”

The United States is NOT the message the current presidency sends to the rest of the world.

We have our problems, like every other country does. I don’t claim to know how to solve all, or frankly, any of them. I am a very simple man who enjoys culture.

And, as a result of that self awareness I will tell you, this World Cup couldn’t have happened in the United States at a better time. As a nation, we got the opportunity to show our better side.

And now I think, maybe the rest of the world hates us a little less…

Spain? Argentina? The United States won.

It’s a Monday morning and I discover my detail is not needed at the Narragansett Town Beach. I initially thought it might have been a quick pull of the trigger but then realized and accepted it was a smart move. I wasn’t needed down there. The last few days were brutal, temperature wise, and there was a steady stream of guests who had both seasonal passes and were looking to buy “Day Passes” to spend a little time at what I consider (admittedly with a preference) to the best beach in New England (I still love you Cahoon Hollow and my high school beach, Horse Neck, great beaches, both).

So, what now?

When I was a kid my family would head down to the Jersey Shore for a week with relatives in the town we’d once lived: Point Pleasant, NJ. It was a ten hour haul with kids and a dog in the back of a station wagon for the Kahuna and my mom. They piled us in the car around 4 in the morning when, like kidnap victims, we didn’t stir until we were long out of state, into the maze of Connecticut.

Those Jersey Shore rainy days were skee ball and arcade games as my folks had gray afternoon cocktails and caught up with their siblings. We got to know cousins we only knew through phone call updates. A rainout was not at all a bad thing.

As a kid when I woke up and when I was was told the day was called off I did two things immediately: I smiled and got right back into bed. I have always been good at two things: staying up far too late and sleeping far too late. Now, what?

As an adult I’d do adult things. Laundry, which I’d done yesterday. Pay bills, go to the supermarket and figure out the week. Maybe catch a buzz and write something down (like this). I find that I am missing the routine of walking from the HQ at the NTB South Beach Pavilion and settling into my day. It’s probably a football field and a half walk to where I spend my day. I have a bad foot and it is a WALK, yet I don’t mind it at all. I like my days there.

Most people my age don’t get an unexpected day off. Granted, it’s unpaid, which is not ideal but maybe I dig into a recipe, and/or binge the last season of “The Bear,” this television series I, as someone who has worked in restaurants, really enjoy. As a freelance writer I always had more open hours than expected, it’s just unexpected having been so busy last week on the beach. But, you can always find something to do.

Maybe, I am still the kid who got bored at the end of a “Snow Day” and hated admitting to himself that he liked the routine of a day to day thing. I like my thing at the Town Beach, and I admit today, I kind of miss it.

I spent my very first years in a beach community. My family and I lived in Point Pleasant, NJ. I was too young to know how wonderful it was. My dad would come home after work and my brothers and I were in the water from April until October. My mom would smile on the shore and endure the seasonal guests during the “season” when their friends would visit, drink beers, and go to the beach.

We were children.

Now, I work at the beach.

I work at the Narragansett Town Beach. It’s the best beach in New England. The only true contender is Cahoon Hollow down in Wellfleet, MA. That beach is legit. But it’s not the Narragansett Town Beach.

Everyone has allegiance to their local. I get that. ‘Gansett has always been my local, even when I wasn’t a local. Here’s why.

When my folks relocated they immediately asked about beaches and everyone pointed them to the Cape, My dad, a man we shall now refer to as “The Kahuna,” He said immediately about the Cape: “Rocky beaches? No nightlife? I don’t see the attraction if you’re not old school down there and even then it seems boring. Movies and ice cream? No thanks.”

So, my family found Narragansett.

Sandy beaches, lunch and a drink at the Coast Guard House. The Kahuna felt at home. My folks have since passed but they loved and cherished their time in Narragansett. I caught them more than once walking the beach hand in hand when I was out in the waves early morning. I cherish those memories of them and their love of this place.

And now I work at the Town Beach. It was an odd progression, worthy of another entry, perhaps. This one is for now.

I mainly man the North Admissions.

I like it. When I set up, it’s quiet, generally. I get a good look at the water, and it’s serene. I am ready for a rush of folks who have season passes, many who have established a familiarity. The families whose little kids remind me it is a birthday, which being there every day I remember and applaud, It makes me grin when some kid asks if I remember its a birthday, I often don’t but more often, to my surprise, I do.

When it gets heavy, there’s lot of traffic in my beach world but in all true honesty, the locals are a bigger headache than the day passers. When I call out loudly, which I have had to do often, “If you have a season pass, please just show me and keep moving directly into the Atlantic Ocean” they move slower than the folks I tell, “Please make that line away from the cars because one of you being struck by a car is going to kill the vibe in that line.”

And, in some cases, people are dicks. As the Kahuna always said, “Assholes don’t take a day off, they like their job too much.” But ultimately those interactions are fairly minimal.

So, now I work at the beach. I like it. I meet very cool families and individuals and the folks I work with are top notch. I think what I like the most is the team idea. I put my lunch every morning in the fridge that I think is “life guard” fridge. Obviously, I don’t give a fuck but when I go to retrieve it there’s always a circle of buff kids there and I always ask how their day is. We always have a joking chat and they’re the best.

Because it’s a team. I have always been best playing with a team.

And, since, it is Independence Day. I have often spent our day of Independence with this outfit from the San Francisco Bay Area called Grateful Dead. So here’s this for you. Big Man was there that day, and so was I, Jerry was lively. We all liked that.

Happy Fourth of July, my people. Light fuse and get away!

I am so out of sorts at the news that was passed me to me yesterday about the passing of my dear, beautiful Caren Oberg that I am not sure what I am about to write will even make sense. And that itself is confusing for a person who’s made a living as a writer, but then again, Caren always had a gift for confusing me in wonderful ways.

Caren and I met when she was a freshman at Niagara and I was a senior. There was some kind of instant spark which I later discovered she was capable of providing whenever she walked into any room. For a brief period I was blessed that her shiny spark shone on me. I graduated, moved back home to Boston and got a job in mutual funds. Terrible.

Except, I had an “800” customer service line so Caren could call me free whenever she wanted. We talked every day and plotted our summer plans. Me getting six months in so I could collect unemployment when we went on summer tour. She kept on me about my mail orders being right on time and bang zoom we were ON.

It was magic seeing a show with Caren. Our thing didn’t last the whole stretch, breaking down as a lot of young love does because boys are immature and the women are smarter. We did most of 1990 summer tour and knocked our thing off. Then, outside the Boston Garden during a fall run of shows I was having a smoke and this whirling dervish came flying up and with no hesitation jumped into my arms.

I am 6-3, so I could handle it but this tiny little sprite might have knocked another man down! The girl I was with went wide eyed that this little lady had not only jumped me but knew me by name. I introduced them, we had a catchup chat - a wonderful aspect of the Dead world - and my then girlfriend and I went in. She teased me, “So, THAT was Caren. I never thought I’d meet her!” I was understandably flummoxed but my current friend was cool and said, “She’s a sweetheart,” and I knew she was sincere about it.

Because Caren WAS a TRUE sweetheart. In absolutely every way.

Then, we were out of touch until Caren and I reconnected through the magic of social media. A Facebook message, “Could it be?” We were back in touch and catching up quickly. We’d both been married, she having children that she simply adored, me going on to scratch out a living as a freelance writer. We chatted fairly regularly and that was when she first told me her health was not great.

I was shocked initially. This was a girl who took good care of herself. Ate well, was in the water as frequently as possible, living a good life. Me, on the other hand, a smoking and drinking drug user. How on earth was it that she that was sick and not me? It simply didn’t make sense.

I cherish that we reconnected. I have always been a lousy boyfriend (and at one point a lousy husband) but Caren didn’t care because she always saw the beauty in the people she loved. As her situation got worse I vowed to myself that I’d get out to see her but never did which I will always lament. The closest I got was sending her an “Oregon Dead” hoodie, just last month. I wanted her to feel comfy and warm.

Caren Oberg was a woman I truly loved. She was smart and funny and beautiful and whipsmart in response to my smart assed self. I was given the privilege of having known her and for everyone who knew her better than me, I sincerely mourn for your loss. The world is less bright minus her and I feel that. I feel it hard.

She was truly the best. I am very sad knowing she’s left us. The only salvation I take is believing she’s now free of the body that was taken down and is now smiling and paddling out looking for a big one in a space of perfect waves and loved ones on her beach.

I love you, Caren. I always will.

My dear pal D.M. Casey alerted me that the actual “60 Minutes” footage has been unearthed.

It’s sort of how I remembered it but watching it now I kind of stood up harder to Kroft when he said he was there to talk to me. I lock eyes and he buckles… then I SPLIT.

“Nice meeting you!”

Worth a full watch. I show up around 11:00.

God Bless “60 Minutes” and journalism’s role in Democracy!

I was at home in Somerville, MA, doing a phone interview on a Sunday night with the singer of the Irish band, The Thrills, when my call waiting started jumping off. Conor Deasy, an affable fellow teased me, “Aren’t you the popular boy?” I apologized and admitted I had no idea what my sudden and unexpected phone traffic was about.

We finished up and made plans to meet up when they arrived to play in Boston. I’d just hung the call up, was rewinding the tape recorder, when the phone rang again. I answered with admitted annoyance with, “What?!?”

Of course, it was my mom.

She was laughing and asked, “Why didn’t you tell us you were going to be on ‘60 Minutes?’”

“Ellen, what the fuck are you talking about?” was my immediate response.

She then explained the scenario at my childhood home, my parents unwinding and wrapping up the weekend on the couch watching “60 Minutes.” A scene I’d witnessed countless time but I had no clue what she was talking about it and then she described the scene and suddenly it all came into focus.

“It was you!” she exclaimed. “You even introduced yourself to Steve Kroft!”

She described it in greater detail and I knew. I had visited my friends, Mark and Dalton, at their office space in Cambridge. I emerged from their building and was greeted by Kroft who, accompanied by a cameraman, I recognized immediately.

“Hey, Steve Kroft, right? ‘60 Minutes?’ Can I help you find somebody?”

He was, to his credit, totally deadpan, and said, “No, we’re looking for you.”

I now locked in and realized a quarter ounce of then illegal weed was in my pocket and locked eyes.

“For me, huh? What for?”

He broke and laughed, I introduced myself and beat it on the down the line. No reason to hang around when i was holding. Then, after calling my pals inside the building, figured it was the kind of B-Roll that never sees the light of day. Totally forgot about it until then, when to quote ZZ Top, I was apparently “Nationwide.”

My phone kept ringing and I didn’t answer. I needed to get out so I split my place and went to the Middle East in Central Square, Cambridge, MA. Always my safe spot, I walked in the front door on Mass Ave. and immediately some stranger said to me, “Hey, we saw you on ‘60 Minutes!’”

I nodded and smiled and having caught a buzz simply said, “Cool, I didn’t.” I then made it to my great dearly beloved and sadly parted pal, Joseph, whose family owned the bar and who maintained a legendary table in the back corner. He was grinning.

“Kielty!” he greeted me, “You didn’t tell me you’re doing TV now!”

I explained that I had no idea this was airing and told him what my evening had been about. We laughed - I had been oddly on TV in a few weird local things - but then it got weirder, because it hadn’t aired on the west coast yet… but my friends out there had been alerted.

“You have to watch “60 Minutes” tonight, trust me…”

The next morning I talked to my friend, Seth Meyers, who was then the host on “Saturday Night Live’s” “Weekend Update.” He and another friend, their then headwriter, Mike Schur, were cracking up when I told them that not only had I not known it was airing but I didn’t see it!

“Oh, we have friends at CBS, we’ll have a tape tomorrow!”

I asked them to please dub a copy for me, then I waited.

When the FedEx, which was actually mentioned in the segment for their iconic logo, arrived, I laughed and thought, “Alright, here we go.” The segment was based on a Harvard prof who took design students on walks and encouraged them to notice what most people don’t in their day to day hurry. The office building from which I’d emerged had a wide variety of door bells from the 50’s on, hence them making note.

At which point they met me.

To this day I am sometimes surprised by this. People who either saw it and knew me or remembered it and asked if that had indeed been me. I tell them the story that I just told you. How weird it all was: not having any clue it was coming, the surprised reaction from people who saw it before I had, that it still comes up unexpectedly at times.

On occasion - very rarely - I’ll tell a cool stranger that story. It’s a guaranteed laugh but you know what isn’t? What these dispshits at CBS are doing to “60 Minutes” now.

There are can not be a more random subject who showed up on that show than me, but the creative segments that “60 Minutes” always aired were off the beaten path and thought provoking. That shit is GONE. They introduced world leaders, influential artists and off beat thinkers like that Harvard prof to the nation and some might say the world. That was the beauty of what made “60 Minutes” the legend that it is.

The current management at CBS in unconscionable and anti journalism, which is not a healthy component of democracy. Democracy thrives on journalists asking questions.

Even I, with my soul as a journalist, asked unhesitatingly when jokingly told they were looking for me:

“For me, huh? What for?”

Ask questions. That is what America has always been great at, it’s what Scott Pelley was great at… and we’re losing that. If you consider yourself a Patriot, don’t let that happen.

I basically dust Mother’s Day now. I have no kids and my own mother has passed. That doesn’t mean I don’t hold my mum dear in my dark Irish-American heart (it’s important to identify as American, this mess is our problem and ours to solve) and laugh and smile at how wonderful she was. So, my mind wanders to countless examples of my adoration for both of my parents.

In 7th grade I got kicked off the school bus.

In a suburban scene like mine that was a big deal. Parents ran off to work with the trust that the school bus would ferry their children to and fro. Then, some miscreant like me starts throwing haymakers at a kid who threw gum that landed and stuck in my sister’s hair.

I am ejected from bus privileges. One week.

Prior to this decision, I sat in the “office.” Every kid since schooling has begun knows what it means to sit “in the office.” Years later while waiting to be arraigned on criminal foolishness, it was the same feeling. The same high backed bench that demanded your posture pay attention to what you’ve done.

I sat there and heard the Principal and the Vice Principal lament this.

Principal: “You called Ellen Kielty?”

Vice Principal: “I had to, there was a fistfight on a bus!”

Principal: “No, you didn’t. You never call Ellen Kielty! Never! That is last resort!”

That was because my mom took zero shit. She demanded the best that her local education should provide for her kids. She was an aggressive advocate that her kids were encroached to do better. If her kids weren’t occupied and engaged then that was on the school. She took this very seriously and she knew I was “easily distracted.”

When I got tossed off the bus, Ellen took me for breakfast every morning at Morin’s Diner in Attleboro. She told me that what I had done was right because you ALWAYS stand up for family. Then she told me about my own family and asked me about my friends. Those are some of the friends I hold dear to this day. Ellen told me, “If they’re great friends, you’ll know. I’ll judge you by your friends.” As, in most things, she was right.

Years after this my dad, the Kahuna, ponied up for a couple of my high school pals when we shared a house party keg bust, with bail money. I wondered what she was thinking but both got the Kahuna back the money back and Ellen smiled. “Not the best circumstance but impressive show of character, I know they’re good kids, I am glad you did too., considering how stupid this all was!”

My last week of middle school my mom pulled me of school. I spent the week at the pool with the high school kids who had already finished their academic year. I asked Ellen why I didn’t have to go to school that week and she told me.

“We were all afraid you might do something stupid, sweetie,” she said. “Aren’t you glad for that?”

I agreed but when I was allowed back for the last day of school I did toss a lit pack of firecrackers though the principal’s window on my way out of that school. That’s just always been me. In an odd way it still is.

But, my mom always knew best! When I admitted I had done that she nodded and said, “I know. I am just glad you admitted it.” How could I ever lie to her? She knew my everything.

My Mom had three of my siblings behind me, each as equal a handful as I was, and yet she had the wizardry of making each of us feel the center of her universe. Therein lies the indescribable magic of motherhood. The gift to give a sense of love that permeates you, despite any situation or age or location. Knowing a mother loves you.

My Mom was the BEST!

…so was yours!

They have cycled through lineups yet always simply delivered such remarkably great songs. Gary and Marc also share their talents with what might be considered an “alt-country super group” called Golden Smog. My dear friend, Packy, and I once spent a night with them at the Paradise in Boston and later laughed that the drummer was Jody Stephens who played in fucking Big Star! We didn’t have a clue! Wonderfully nice man.

So, listen to the Jayhawks. If you don’t know them, find them. It’s worth it and they are still doing it.

-Book Clubs: When I lived in the greater Boston area, an area that encompasses Cambridge and Somerville, MA, ripe with creative, smart and funny people, I had an idea about a book club. The impetus for this thought was a book called, “Million Dollar Bash, Bob Dylan, The Band and the Basement Tapes” ” by Sid Griffin.

I once passed this idea by a pal named, Phil. This guy is a remarkable musician (and I later discovered a fantastic lacrosse player, another thing I like) and equally passionate about that period of music. He and I had great talks about all kinds of music but I always loved his familiarity with that periodic happening in upstate New York when Dylan and The Band were making history.

Oddly enough, a new friend, called Jennifer, who I met through our mutual appreciation and admiration for a knockout and under appreciated band called the Figgs (great enough to get the call to once open for U2, but those cats are SO much more than that!) and she has a music oriented book club. Her next subject is, “A Man Called Destruction: The Life and Music of Alex Chilton, From Box Tops to Big Star to Backdoor Man,” so she is obviously very cool. Yeah, I meet cool people and I sure appreciate them! I need to finish my current read, In the Jingle Jangle Jungle: Keeping Time with the Brian Jonestown Massacre,” by Joel Gion. Judge me, I don’t mind. Pick up a book.

I suppose the point of sharing this is an idea I was once told by an English professor in my school boy days: “Writers write, and when they don’t, they read.” I love to read, and when I find a groove, I love to write… but I also love to listen and I love to read about how what I am listening to actually happened.

-Food: For the longest time I was the definitive “nervous eater” (great Boston band, by the way, “Nervous Eaters”) maybe because my teeth aren’t great. I always felt awkward that something might be stuck between my disjointed chops and so I avoided having a meal. Stupid me, I missed out on a lot.

Drinks don’t stay in your teeth, though. I learned that quick.

I have drank far too much, among other foolish endeavors, during this run around the thing called life. One of the many things I feel awful about missing during my runaround days is food. I was offered some fantastic dishes. I am friends with “James Beard” winners. My former wife was astounded at the culinary legends that I was friends with, but they were late night friends to me. She grew up around great food, the Clinton’s visited her parents’s restaurant once during a weekend at Camp David during Bill’s presidency . No messing around, that girl knew how to cook, present and eat.

Now, I cook at home.. and when it’s good, I really like it. It’s a lot like writing, when you think you got something right. It’s the way you want someone to hear what you’re saying. And sometimes you totally fuck it up and accept that you are in over your head and you blew it.

But, that sort of makes me grin (and clean up, obviously) because the part of me who took a hit of great Cali weed in the VIP section at Coachella still knows he can clean up a failed dinner and then go get a burrito.

And try that recipe again with more focus and determination. Second time’s a charm.

Birds - This is a big time of year in the northeast for amateur ornithologists, though I am watching year round. Those birds that fly south for the winter, particularly a person favorite, the warblers, are heading north around now. Don’t get me wrong. I love my locals. The Northern Flicker, a distant relative in the “Woodpecker” genre, is a guaranteed smile for me.

When I was a kid my mom and I would take such joy when the Flicker showed up in our backyard on Pridemark. We’d frantically call for my dad to the point that he eventually thought we were pulling his leg. “Oh, you missed him,” my mom would say and he’d smile and say, “Of course, I did,” and look sideways at us both.

Then, he saw him!

It was while he was comfortably settled in a Laz-E-Boy recliner of the type that every man of his age earned. He was watching the “Master’s” golf tournament which he always enjoyed despite having never played a hole of golf. He’d sit back and nurse a gin and tonic, content in his own lawn having been mowed, usually by one of my brothers or I, though he sometimes would surprise us and beat us to the task. My mom would smile and say, “He likes doing it, it’s good for him to have a look around.”

It was on one of those sunny late afternoons that the Kahuna spotted his first flicker.

“Well, there he is, isn’t he,?” He said and gestured at a tree. And there he indeed was. “You guys were right, he does have a red vee on the back of his neck, you two were absolutely right! He’s a good looking fellow!” We called for my mom but in a strange twist of fate our flicker had darted off by the time she arrived. She grasped my dad’s shoulders lovingly and said, “You saw him!”

I have seen birds in a lot of spaces in the world and they always inspire awe, it’s such an easy source of joy. I am not one to tell anyone what to do, but having a look at a bird is a pretty great thing. Do yourself a favor, as I have often been told about life’s simplest pleasures, “It don’t cost nuthin.”

-Fountains of Wayne. Odd one, right? I was actually listening to those guys as I click clacked this missive last night. I even sent my brother and a niece and nephew a couple of songs by them. Anytime that I listen to those guys I am reminded of just how smart and talented they are.

A friend of mine named Selene, a fellow writer who has relentlessly reminded me that Rolling Stone magazine misspelled my byline the first time I appeared in their hallowed pages (enough, by the way) dropped a great line on me once about the Fountains.

“Your pals haven’t put out anything for a while,” she teased. “They’re waiting to find a word that rhymes with Tanqueray.” I laughed and nodded, then said, “You love them.” She nodded and replied, “Maybe not love, but they are good.”

They, in my mind, are way past “good.” Every time I play a song by them for a friend the response is, “Who is this? It’s fucking great!” I have been fortunate enough to have made their acquaintance and have DJ’d a few times at their gigs.

Their bass player, Adam, a simply splendid human who passed from covid and was my personal first casualty of that mess once asked me after a DJ gig for them, “Are you back tomorrow?” I affirmed that I was and he said with a raised eyebrow, “Do me a favor?”

I asked, “What you got in mind?”

He said, “I’d like, if you can, for you to focus on Patsy Cline… can you possibly accommodate that?”

I nodded and said, “Adam, I think I can make that happen for you.”

My former wife asked on our trip home, “Can you do that?” I said, “Absolutely, I can.” I texted a mutual pal called Josh and told him this request and he replied, “He wouldn’t have asked if he didn’t know you could deliver.” So. I did

After that Fountains of Wayne gig, second sold-out night at Brighton Music Hall, their singer Chris asked me, “That intermission music was Adam, right?” I told him that it was and he smiled and said, “I liked it, nice job.”

So, there’s a bunch of things that run through my brain box. More music than I expected when I got started on this but more music than I expected is a fairly regualr thing for me. If you’re patient enough to have read this much I sure appreciate it. Do me two favors: stay safe and love those who deserve… and maybe even those who don’t. They probably need it more.

Be good to one and other. We are in it for the long run.

I do find “Road House” a truly classic and confounding American mystery, yet it has nothing to do with our current woes.

I apologize, hopefully my hurry leading to error resounds.

Thank you, and my apologies.

If you read the “Kielty Konsideration,” you have to admit I have been pretty good about keeping it fairly politically neutral. Anyone who knows me, knows that’s not a particularly easy road for me to travel. I was educated at private East Coast schools from ninth grade to a Bachelor’s Degree, I have more than a passing familiarity with counter culture, alternative lifestyles and the good and bad accoutrements affiliated with both.

I might be seen as an agent unilaterally opposed to maga (forgive me, but I will never capitalize this organized outfit of degenerate racist mouth breeders).

I love music, have seen more shows and heard more records than anyone with my intoxicant history can be expected to remember, yet sometimes I still do (just the other day I was rummaging though that file cabinet in the back of the “Attics of My Life” (look it up) and found “Kiss Each Other Clean.” a record by Iron & Wine that a friend from Southfield UK insisted I listen to and have always loved).

I have done a lot of drugs, and the good ones I still enjoy. I have seen more shows and listened to more music than those drugs sometimes let me remember (though, I did remember that Iron & Wine was the stage name for Sam Beam and that I had once met him - a nice guy - at a Shins show, so take that memory loss!). I love sports, film, art, television, travel, birds, food and family. I treasure it all.

It’s my civilization. And this morning I discovered the current resident of Pennsylvania Avenue had fired off another addled, non-sensical social media missive, one that quite literally was threatening genocide. I had a long walk from a bus stop to the school where I was substitute teaching for the second half of the day, and I thought, “What if this was the last day of my beloved civilization? What would I be missing most? Most proud of? Most happy to have experienced?”

-Family. I spent Easter Sunday with my brother and sister-in-law. For whatever reason it has always been important to me that the word “sister” is in every description of Kathy, she is just so much more than my brother’s wife. Her immediate family are more familiar to me than my own beloved Jersey kin (Craig Mulvaney, shout out) and their children are now all adults and simply a joy to spend time with. My brother, Kevin, needs no introduction as the coolest motherfucker in my life and our brother, Mick, and his family are solidly badass, as well. Lots of good parents involved in that scene: the senior Kielty’s, (Tom and Ellen) are people I think of very regularly, and always with a smile.

None of these people would espouse exertiminating people.

-Friends. My family relocated from Point Pleasant, New Jersey to Attleboro, Massachusetts during the “Blizzard of ’78.” When school restarted for the locals we weren’t even registered. The first friend I ever made in the Commonwealth was a guy down the road from me called, “Joe.” He is still the best friend I have who doesn’t share my last name. My dear Ellen always taught us, “I judge you by the company you keep,” though she was forgiving in that. She never judged a book by a cover and she had a Border’s Books bonanza pass down Pridemark Lane.

Perhaps I first learned truly the value of friendship in the transition between those ready and rugged high school pals you’d quite literally grown up with and their newly minted collegiate associates who spawned into your new friends, as well. These newcomers has already passed the first gate: they were friends with dudes I already loved. Out of that, for me, has grown incredible friendships that I cherish today.

The President of the United States has never had a friendship remotely resembling what was just described.

I went to college.

That used to be my go-to line at graduation parties I wasn’t invited to. “Well… you know I have been to college, so I can talk about anything. What’s on your mind?” But, the thing is, when I left college I had been surrounded by so many equally “smart/smart ass” guys who I still count as friends. Some of those cats have come and gone, many have bought the ticket for the whole ride so far. Their impressions and influence have remained steadfast, and I value every single one. I am proud of being a Niagara Purple Eagle. Much as I am proud of being a Bishop Feehan Shamrock. Ellen taught me, “Hold onto the good ones.” I hope I have.

The man in orange face paint has never had those friends. He never will.

Then, I got out in the world a little more and I became friends I might have never suspected or expected. I am friends with athletes and musicians and actors and cooks and politicians and people who are successful with so many things that I love.

Drumpf has no friends who have not either bowed to him or garnered vast monetary gain as a result of a mutually lucrative - and anti-patriot - ideal. This is a person who, quite literally, has no friends.

-Everything Else. This is all the things affiliated with friends and family. I love music; I am friends with musicians. I love sports; I am friends with athletes. I love food; I am friends with chefs and folks who drive every restaurant you enjoy a meal in. I love every experienced birder who points out something I’d never have seen. I love my civilization and I lament that one disturbed individual seems intent on threatening that… in the name of my native land.

I love you, folks. I love you for reading my thoughts. I love my family and my friends and every peace-loving person who feels the way I do.

Bless, God, Allah, Jah, and anyone I am missing. The president of the United States is not in this field. This needs to stop. Otherwise, I suppose we’ll see each other again some day…

At least, I hope.

Every day I have a glance at the New York Times. The news certainly isn’t always good but I don’t blame the messenger and it’s some of the best journalism on the planet. And, in the midst of the current D.C. driven world madness there’s always something in their coverage of non-world events that at the very least piques my interest and often provides the source for a smile.

Last year that came in the form of an article titled, “‘Road House’ Still Reigns as the Best Bad Movie,” that I bookmarked for future reference. The headline basically says it all. This Patrick Swayze epic is, despite a decent cast, universally panned yet therein lies the appeal. Some movies are so bad that they’re, well, good.

They’re not good in a way that the traditional “cinephile” is likely to appreciate, though I applaud those that might. It’s good for shutting off your brain and suspending disbelief at the real life ramifications of the special effects impossibilities. It’s good, I’d imagine, to watch for the umpteenth time with a bunch of pals who have also seen it umpteen times when it pops up unexpectedly in the vast cable television universe. That ubiquity led to a legendary insider’s tale among film buffs.

Swayze’s “Road House” love interest is played by Kelly Lynch, an 80’s knockout and the offscreen bride of Hollywood mega-player, Mitch Glazer, whose association with the legendarily unpredictable, Bill Murray, includes such films as “Scrooged” and “Lost In Translation.” Their friendship has prompted an ongoing gag from Murray that has, by all accounts, been happening for years.

“Every time ‘Road House’ is on, and he or one of his idiot brothers (actors Brian Doyle and Joel Murray) are watching TV – and they’re always watching TV – one of them calls my husband and says, ‘Kelly’s having sex with Patrick Swayze right now,” Lynch told the AV Club. “They’re doing it. He’s throwing her against the rocks.’ I dread it. I know if it’s coming on – and I can tell when it’s coming on, because it blows up on Twitter when it is – I’m just like, ‘Oh my God.’ It doesn’t matter if it’s two or three in the morning.”

I had heard that story and as someone prone to beating a joke to death until it’s eventually only still funny to me, I can appreciate it. But getting back to “Road House.” I had never seen it.

Serendipity being what it is, it was of course recently on BBC America. My instinctive first thought was, “Does this thing ever run on the actual BBC,” which seemed unlikely based on reviews. Between “Beechgrove Garden” and Cricket coverage, perhaps? The second thought was easy, “What’s my snack choice?” Then I settled in.

I wondered immediately, having done my share of time working the door in establishments serving alcohol after dark, what personal affection I might have for Swayze’s “Dalton” character. Allston, Cambridge and Somerville, MA are not nearly as chock full of roughneck characters as Jasper, MO and this personal recollection illustrates that.

I did a stint at the legendary Deep Ellum on Cambridge Street In Allston (a definitive Boston neighborhood) that offered exhaustive beer and cocktail lists, along with house-made charcuterie and a dedicated brunch menu. Prior to Covid they did banging business for 13 years (the expansive space was absorbed by their neighboring sibling, “The Lone Star Taco Bar” and by all accounts continues to turn out innovative and delicious Tex-Mex cuisine). One reason for their longevity in such close proximity to the collegiate (fake ID wielding) crowds was their policy, much like that at neighboring Fenway Park, that literally everyone was required to show proof of age. No exceptions.

Ultimately, it’s a smart policy for both purveyor and patrons. No establishment wants to lose their liquor license and as I explained countless times to empty walleted prospects, it’s generally not a great idea to ever be out in public with no form of identification. Heaven forbid you should suffer some physical indignity it’s a pretty good idea for anyone trying to help you out to be able to tell who you are!

One night some stranger didn’t see that logic. "Can I see some ID?" I asked. This admittedly older guy replied, "Really?" to which I responded, "Take it as a compliment or formality." He then begrudgingly pulled out his wallet and handed me his license. "Here, I'm 50," he said as though I’d asked for an internal organ. I smiled and said, And, now I know that you are, and that you have ID. Enjoy yourself."

That wasn’t his plan.

“It’s good that you know because now I'm going to leave." It was just then that I caught my first sniff of proof that we weren’t his first stop of the night and he’d already wasted enough time for both me and and the people patiently waiting in line behind him. I smiled, locked eyes and said, "That doesn't really worry me."

He then informed me,"It doesn't worry me that you're an an asshole," which made my shoulders shrug as my smile widened and I told him, "Cool, I guess we'll both have a worry free night then. Now, please step aside."

And… scene! Certainly not up to the impossible to equal bar set by the “Double Deuce” of “Road House” but then again, what is?

I won’t ruin the plot line for those of you who haven’t seen it - of which I definitely seem to be the minority - but suffice to say that the “Best Bad Movie” moniker fit wonderfully. Maybe because I went in knowing of it’s cult status, I loved every cheesy 80’s moment; the clothes, the cars, the characters, the cliches. I’d like to say it was all I expected but in all its fiery overstated glory it was just so much more. In fact I enjoyed it so much I felt compelled to dial up the remake.

It’s a mostly true cinema adage that a remake rarely matches the original and such is the sad fate of the straight to steaming 2024 version of “Road House.” It’s even more far fetched - remarkably so actually - than the original and lacks such profound and eternally quotable lines as, “Pain don’t hurt,” and “I want you to be nice... until it's time... to not be nice.” When it comes to “Road House,” much like Shakespeare, except no substitutes. Hear that, Gyllenhaal?

When the rumblings start they can be felt by both fanatics and casual observers. It’s a unique and special time: a season as distinct as any on the meteorological or religious calendar. It’s an occasion with tell-tale signs and rituals and when the devoted feel it coming that feeling quickly gets contagious.

I am talking, of course, about the NCAA Men’s Division I Basketball Tournament.

“March Madness.” It’s a national phenomenon, an entire country swept up in a frenzy of, “brackets,” the unique grid alignment illustrating each participating squad’s potential path to a national championship. This tool encouraging amateur prognostication for this distinctly American, “Lose and Go Home,” event is the essential ingredient in the “pool.” There is not an office, a social club, a tavern or even a nursing home that does not gather enthusiastic entrants together in a pool of contestants that eventually determines the most successful tournament visionary.

Work productivity goes down, television ratings go up, experts and dilettantes are all equal when the first round ball is tossed in the air. It is, it could easily be argued, “The American World Cup.” It’s the kind of event that draws in both the casual and obsessive observer, the curious and compulsive, the loyal alumni and uneducated enthusiast.

In the case of both events the fire is stoked through the qualification process. However, whereas the World Cup qualification is a process that can literally span years (The World Cup occurs every four years, NCAA sports championships are annual events), the process to punch a ticket for college basketball’s “Big Dance” often boils down to a one week process. After a twenty-plus game regular season, during which teams play opponents from within and beyond their own athletic conferences, they then compete with their conference brethren to determine NCAA tournament eligibility though a conference-specific tournament.

Pretty straight forward, no? The qualifiers for World Cup play? Well, according to Wikipedia, “The formats of the qualification tournaments differ between confederations. Usually, one or two places are awarded to winners of intercontinental play-offs. For example, the winner of the Oceanian zone and the fifth-placed team from the Asian zone entered a play-off for a spot in the 2010 World Cup,”

Huh?

So, maybe a little less uniformity, but whatever it takes to build the field, right? In the case of the NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament that means that many schools who do not win their conference tournaments are awarded, “At Large,” bids, inviting them to the tourney despite not being conference winners. Think of the fifth entry from the Big East as the college hoops equivalent of, “the fifth-placed team from the Asian zone.”

And, of course, sometimes, “the fifth-placed team from the Asian zone,” shocks, “the winner of the Oceanian zone” and pulls off an upset win. There’s a reason they call it, “March Madness,” after all.

Once the dust clears and, “The Field of 64,” (there’s four, “Play-In Games,” which technically now makes it a, “Field of 68, but let’s not confuse things) is determined; that’s when the fun starts. The first two days of the NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament are heaven for a hoops fan, days for which the multiple screens of the sports bar seem to have been created. 16 games each of those first two days, starting around noon Eastern Time, ending around midnight. After the first week you don’t have to sneak out of work as the games move to weekends, and unless you’re in Hawaii (who qualified for this year’s tourney, so good luck, Rainbow Warriors!) you don’t have to get up at some ungodly hour to watch your team compete. That’s a nice advantage over the World Cup.

A nice similarity with the World Cup is the passion. In my neck of the woods when Brazil wins a World Cup match it is a wonderful view into a community that I know too little about. There is a sense of unity in a shared celebration, a communal joy from a world foreign to me and a reminder of the diversity in my neighborhood.

It’s certainly not as extreme, but I would imagine that the good people of Oklahoma City will raise an eyebrow or two the first time they hear the distinct Wisconsin accents of Green Bay’s faithful, a world foreign to them. It can’t be often that the Rocky Mountains welcome — with open arms — as spirited a group of Garden Staters as they will when the Seton Hall Pirates and Co. arrive in Denver from Newark. And, make no doubt, they will welcome them with open arms. In Providence, where the high brow supporters of the likes of Yale and Duke will mix it up with the more rural followers of Wichita State and Baylor, the city has temporarily suspended its open beverage law. NCAA tourism is good tourism, and people know it. They also know the chance to interact with your rivals is part of the fun.

In addition to the rivalries and the regional perspectives and the traditions and the superstitions that both these remarkable events encompass, there is also the incredible disparity between opponents. When the College of the Holy Cross — consider them, with a losing regular-season record, this year’s ultimate, “fifth-placed team from the Asian zone,” — take on the West Region’s top seeded University of Oregon they will be backed by a student population of around 2,800 students. Compare that to the nearly 25,000 kids matriculating in Eugene and the World Cup equivalent might be Ecuador taking on the People’s Republic of China. And again, that’s part of the fun.

Because, in both, “March Madness,” and the World Cup, David occasionally beats Goliath.

In 2006 George Mason University, seeded at #11, defeated a top ranked University of Connecticut team that featured four future professional basketball players. This is like the World Cup’s legendary, “Miracle in Milan,” when in 1990 tiny Cameroon beat powerhouse Argentina, 1–0. In 2011 another #11, Virginia Commonwealth, beat another #1, Kansas. In 2002 World Cup play it was another 1–0 shocker, this time Senegal besting France.

World Cup historians are all familiar with,“El Maracanazo,” the biggest upset in the event’s history. in 1950 Brazil was matched against Uruguay and after handily beating both Sweden and Spain, the Brazilians needed only a tie to secure the Cup. The decision was such a foregone conclusion that newspapers in the vicinity of Rio de Janeiro’s Maracaná stadium had already printed congratulatory headlines. 200,000 spectators, the most to ever witness a World Cup match, assembled to see Brazil who they expected to be 1950’s champions.

Predictably, Brazil scored first but in the 66th minute the Uruguayans equalized and eleven minutes later they hushed the masses by scoring again, a lead they kept to claim the World Cup. Alcides Ghiggia, the winger who scored the game-winner, would later say of the crowd reaction to his goal, “The Maracana has been silenced by three people: The Pope, Frank Sinatra and me.”

The 1983 North Carolina State Wolfpack had played mediocre basketball throughout the season but after winning their conference’s tournament they went to that year’s NCAA tournament as Atlantic Coast Conference champs. They would need overtime to simply advance from the first round of the tournament, but having come from behind in the last minute of 7 of their final 9 games that season had earned them the moniker, “The Cardiac Pack.” They rode that rogue confidence all the way to the Finals against the top-ranked University of Houston.

Houston’s Cougars were known as, “Phi Slama Jama,” an athletic fraternity of high fliers that included two future Hall of Famers but N.C. State slowed the game pace down, resulting in a 52–52 deadlock as the clock ticked away. That year’s college basketball crown seemed destined to be decided in overtime when State guard, Dereck Whittenburg, tossed a last-second jump shot up. As his shot fell short teammate Lorenzo Charles leapt up, caught it and slammed it through the hoop securing a last second win and the greatest upset in, “March Madness,” history. “Phi Slama Jama” had been beaten by a slam dunk.

Perhaps it is that sense of infinite possibility — among both participants and partisans — that bonds the two events most securely. The idea that anything truly is possible in these two magical and far reaching tournaments. And though a #16 seed has never beaten a #1 seed in the NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament the World Cup has had the equivalent occur.

In that magical year of 1950, when most Americans couldn’t discern a soccer ball from a volleyball that some joker had decorated with black spots, the Yanks beat the much-heralded British, 1–0.

Of course, after that stunning win the U.S. didn’t even qualify for football’s “Big Dance” for another 40 years! But here’s to, “Anything can happen… and will.”

In both events.

I don’t remember when I first met Joseph Sater or who first introduced us, though it was most likely our mutual pal, Steve Morse. It was likely around 1996 which means our friendship spanned thirty years and I cherish that relationship amongst the most important in my life. This past week my friend, Joseph, passed away and it hit me hard. I doubt that loss, much like that of Morse, will ever leave me but thankfully I have an abundance of great memories to draw upon from both, often memories that involve them both. Two unique and great men with whom I was blessed to cross paths.

In 1996 I was the receptionist at Rounder Records in Cambridge, a well-respected “roots” label staffed primarily by local musicians. At that point I’d bounced around a bit, Chicago, DC, bits of time in Northern California, all before landing back in the Bay State. After my second ill-fated stint answering phones at some mutual funds firm I came to a line. It was then, after one of my daily commuter rail journeys to South Station from the suburbs, I made a decision.

The thing I love the most is rock and roll music and the one thing I feel pretty confident I can do is write. Rounder put me in touch with an amazing cast of characters who opened up the Boston music scene to me, and inevitably to the initially intimidating Middle East. It was there that at a Sleater-Kinney show downstairs that I introduced myself to Steve Morse, the senior music critic at the Boston Globe. I bombarded him with my knowledge of the band, which I did repeatedly (always at the Middle East) until he relented and told me I could send him a record review.

Sally Timms’ “Twilight Laments For Lost Buckaroos.” My first shot, my first publication and the begin of a friendship with Morse that continued until the end of his life. Along the way he saw fit to introduce me to Joseph Sater, the owner of the Middle East. Thus began another friendship that would go the distance.

My career would eventually reach across the Charles, and across the country on occasion, but I have never forgotten and will never forget, that it began at the Middle East. In my travels I always considered the Middle East my “home club,” (I once sported a Middle East “Staff” tee shirt at Coachella and countless strangers in the VIP space nodded and said, “Great club”) and Joseph’s welcoming presence at his back corner table was a beacon following some adventure. As a single person I still remember returning each year from South By Southwest, backpack slung over my shoulders, and stopping at the Middle East for a burger (it was Joseph who taught me to put the fries on top of their signature oval burger and under those incredibly soft buns, a nifty trick I still often employ) between Logan Airport and home. That is just one of seemingly a million memories I have of Joseph and correspondingly the Middle East.

Oddly, I rarely actually technically sat at Joseph’s table, preferring to settle into the chair to his right. That seat had obvious advantages. No matter how loud and crowded the traffic around the bar got we could always hear each other and when the bar was quiet we had a shared view of whoever was approaching. The moments I cherished the most were in the gray zone between the quiet of the early evening and the bombast at the end of the night, when Joseph and I would settle into a good long chat about some local or world issue or some gossip we’d heard about one of the cast members in the endless non-fiction film swirling around us. Inevitably it would be interrupted by the arrival of some guest star, joining us and introducing a new voice and topic as Joseph called for another glass to share his red wine.

I was blessed to share Joseph’s company on a very regular basis for a few years (one girl I dated was once asked where I was to which she replied, “I don’t know, have you checked Joseph’s table at the Middle East?”) and it brought so much to my life. The friendships I developed with the Middle East staff - the most wonderfully varied people in the world - as well as with his brother, Nabil and sister, Sonia; the musicians I met and music I discovered as a result of being on the “House List” (it’s a lot easier to take a chance on a band when you can see them play for free); the experience of waiting on tables in the first crew at Zuzu (Joseph’s childhood nickname) when they made an attempt at higher level dining. Joseph gave me free reign of that wonderful space at the corner of Mass Ave and Brookline Street and I knew every step, from the organized clutter and chaos of the Box Office to the careful short cut through the kitchen to the back doorway from upstairs past the restroom to sneak out for a smoke to the dangerously steep load in/load out backstairs leading to the downstairs space.

I have often marveled at how natural and easily I went from an intimidated but perhaps brazen newbie to a Middle East regular. Among many anecdotes illustrating that, this is a standout. There was a time when my checks for contributing to the Globe were cut by the New York Times. Morse, my ad hoc boss, got a call from the Times accounting department, the gist of which was, “Do you know you have a writer up there cashing his checks in a bar?” He knew immediately who that writer was and which bar it was and laughed. Unfortunately, word got to the Arts Editor, a stuffy New Yorker with aspirations beyond Boston who declared me working at the Middle East a “conflict of interest.” My response: “What do you think I’m gonna’ write? ‘The band was abysmal but the falafels are fantastic?’” My days waiting tables were promptly over but my relationship with Joseph and time at his table continued unabated.

For many that iconic table was their only interaction with Joseph but I once again feel blessed that I saw him “offsite” often. He attended my wedding (where he rolled out a cooler on wheels full of booze for the party following the reception) in Rhode Island. I attended a few wakes and funerals with him and even once got him over to Fenway Park, prior to which we had lunch at Eastern Standard where the genial owner, Garrett Harker, embarrassed Joseph with effusive praise and a comped tab. There is no question that Joseph would have returned the favor and I beamed at being in the presence of two legendarily generous hosts, both of whom I called a friend.

Joseph met my parents, on more than one occasion. They loved him and stopping at the Middle East for lunch became a favorite destination on their visits. I’d always call Joseph, who was a rare presence there during daylight, but he’d always make an appearance. He met my brothers, at one point a framed photo of my nephew, Sean, and I on the downstairs stage when he was just beginning to walk hung beside Joseph’s table. When my music loving friends visited Boston the Middle East was a permanent stop on the tour.

As much as I wanted them to see this seemingly unassuming yet truly awesome venue that had hosted an awe inspiring array of acts, I also wanted them to meet the beating heart within its walls. That remarkably wise, funny, generous and kind man named Joseph Sater. A man I was honored and proud to call my friend.

A gazillion years ago I made a new friend. It wasn’t truly a gazillion years and in actuality I have always had pretty great friends. I have been really fortunate to have both made and kept some really people in my life. I remain in touch with a fair share of them and when they unexpectedly touch base I immediately smile at our shared memories and know how lucky I am to have made their acquaintance. Such was the case of of my enduring friendship with Lainey.

I met Lainey at Silver Stadium in Rochester, NY at a Grateful Dead show nearly forty years ago. We spent the next week together and we were eternally bonded in a sense. It wasn’t just the the physical thing, it was more that she sort of taught me how to be me. Don’t get me wrong, the physical was great too, she taught me how good sex works. She was two years older than me and just so incredibly attractive (and knew it) that she was an education all by herself.

But, she also taught me Edgar Allan Poe (which I eventually shared with my younger brother) and Camper Van Beethoven (a band I would meet and come to love both as artists and people) and I’d share R.E.M. with her (she loved them immediately) and birding (“In my hometown the only birdwatchers are old ladies,” was her response. “But, now I get it.”).

We camped around ME and VT for few days after those legendary shows at the Oxford Plains Speedway (looking at that video, it’s hard to conjure they’d be playing NFL football stadiums the following summer) and then Lainey and I were seemingly done… except we weren’t.

She went back home to CT to get ready for her senior year at Wesleyan where she was a Cardinal and I thumbed back to Niagara where I was a Purple Eagle. No email, no cell phones, which compelled us to become penpals and phone friends. We’d occasionally fall out of touch but sometimes surprise each other at Dead shows; Madison Square Garden, Hartford Civic Center, Boston Garden. Then, after I’d all but committed our thing to a wonderfully warm memory I got a message via social media.

“Could it be…?”

And there she was, in all her west coast glory. We fell right into rhythm and were on the phone that same day. She had gone out to Eugene, OR to go to law school and stayed, met and had two boys with her first husband. She is now happily remarried to a widowed doctor with two step daughters and a step son (“The hippy/yuppy Brady Bunch!” was her description). We both enthusiastically recalled our adventures and that we’d neither forgotten - or wanted to - one another. Then she told me of one particular memory she’d had this past autumn.

At the very beginning of our thing, we kept company with these heads from OR that all seemed to have these shirts that I coveted. They were awesome for their simplicity, kelly green with “Oregon Dead” in simple gold script and they all looked like they had been purchased at the Kesey Creamery Benefit in 1972 then passed on by generation. I tried to buy one, to trade for one, to beg for one. No dice. This was a tight fraternity.

Fast forward to the most recent college football season. The University of Oregon had hosted the University of Wisconsin, an odd coincidence since Lainey and I had separately seen shows in both states. The school decided to theme the weekend and the game around Grateful Dead. The Oregon Ducks wore Dead themed uniforms, there was “Grateful Ducks” swag everywhere, everything fueled by legendarily local and iconic brand, Nike, at a “premium cost” to say the least.

Which infuriated Lainey.

It wasn’t the athletic angle, she’s not that naive and was a jock herself (soccer and lacrosse back in Darien, CT; ultimate frisbee and regular runs at Wesleyan, still a runner and swimmer). It wasn’t even Nike. As she said, for the most part she likes what Nike does for her community. She and her family are sports fans and she has long since accepted logo’s on team uniforms.

But, as she said, “Grateful Dead is NOT a fucking team! Grateful Dead is culture… not a branding tool!”

I grinned widely reading that and I am grinning again typing it out and knowing I’ll be sharing the enduring Deadhead idealism from an attorney in Oregon! I was not surprised. What she did next though did surprise me.

She asked for my address, to which I jokingly reassured her that we had also legalized and she didn’t need to risk her license for me, and a week later a package with my very own “Oregon Dead” hoodie and a long hand written letter acknowledging our pre Internet correspondence arrived. She’d made a run of 100 hoodies, sold them for $50 each (less than half what the “official Grateful Ducks” hoodies with all proceeds going to a local “no kill” animal shelter.

She’s on her third run.

“Sometimes the light’s all shining on me”

The wind is howling outside my window right now. Hard enough to have woken me up.

When I was a kid I’d go dashing out face first in those winds. When I was 12 or 14 or 17 or 20.

But I am not that kid anymore. And that sucks.

Even in my 30’s and 40’s, I loved playing in the snow. Now, I watch and thankfully it brings back fond memories but makes me yearn for my youth. When I could get out there and really get in the heart of a snowstorm. Not just be a pedestrian on the sidelines.

I have never once been on snow ski’s. My winter activities were always middle class suburban. Snowball fights, building a snow fort, getting a day off from school. Memories I still hold.

I was reminded of those during our first recent big snow fall. Ellen, my mom, would always ask, “Did you stock the feeder?” She grew to share my love of birds.

This year, my first in a long time with a window feeder (courtesy of my beloved brother and his family) I noticed the normally ground dwelling feeders would visit the feeder when the snowpack eliminated their usual hunting spots. A friend noticed me making note of a Red Bellied Woodpecker (a rare window feeder, and a huge deal to me, because owls and woodpeckers are my two favorite local species).

I suppose I write this because I am awake and I just refilled the feeder now on the window above my desk, but also because it’s an honesty that maybe not everyone knows.

I love a loud and raucous crowd adoring an equally loud and raucous band. I have loved it almost as long as I have loved birds. Almost.

It’s the worst sound on earth. That rustling sound in a lousy little spot where life has relegated you to spend some time. Then, when lying in bed in this rural outpost that you never imagined after living after living six floors above your comfortable urban home. Now, you have something “new’ in your life.

Mice.

I had experienced this nuisance once before, three years ago. So, I did have an experience with this in a decidedly rural outpost. But I never saw one. Recently, I’d hear rustling and wonder if I was hearing things. A lifetime being around very loud sounds has always made me suspect but then one recent morning I heard a rustle and glanced behind my shoulder and my thoughts were confirmed.

My cousin, Maureen, once told me, when I lived in Somerville. MA, “It’s never just one,” and she was accurate. There were two little bandits on a shelf beside my refrigerator, pacing around as though they owned the place. My two immediate thoughts: “You do not belong here” and “You must die.”

I called my brother after capturing photos of one hanging out on the lid of my crockpot and he quickly came to the the alarm. I had already gone in search of mouse traps, the first two stops were sold out and I was told, “This winter is cold, they are everywhere looking for warmth.” Okay, I thought, so am I, but my place is not a rodent “warming station.” I took an odd solace knowing I wasn’t the only one dealing with this headache.

So, I found and we set the traps, my brother showing me the mechanics and when he left, around 4 PM, he said, “I’d be surprised if you didn’t get one by 6.”

At 5:55, literally, I heard the first trap snap.

In some sense it was validating, the idea that what I had thought I might have imagined was actuality. But, then it got to be more.

That first night all four traps we had set captured intruders. Yet that wasn’t enough. The next night, another three. I live in a VERY small studio apartment and the idea that mine wasn’t the only heart beating here as I slept was disconcerting. The death toll was at 9 and I had slept last night to awake and check the traps with no action. Perhaps the enemy had been beaten back….

Except before I went to sleep last night I once again heard that rustle, glanced back over my shoulder and saw one rodent soldier. I actually smiled, thinking, “Five snacks laid out for your last meal, comrade. Enjoy.”

So, this morning I awoke, wondering which spring activated bistro he had chosen to dine in. Nothing. All traps still intact. Curious, for certain, but ultimately just a matter of time.

But, as I sat down to write this missive, a bagel in the toaster, feeling this war may have been won, I heard a rustle to my left. I glanced over and there that little bastard was, nestled in a Red Sox visor I’d been given years before as a Red Sox promo at Fenway. He was slow, weakened by the lack of food that had been hidden from that top shelf.

I sprang into action with only the fervor an old man with a bad foot could achieve. The lacrosse stick on the other side of the room was too far a weapon but beside the fridge was a baseball bat.

Bruce Benedict was a Major League catcher. He led National League catchers in 1981 with 73 assists and 48 baserunners caught stealing. His defensive skills earned him a spot as a reserve on the 1981 National League All-Star team. He had 696 hits in 2,878 at bats for a .242 career batting average along with 18 home runs and 260 runs batted in.

And, today, he had one more hit.

I had been given his broken bat at McCoy Stadium, home of my beloved Pawtucket Red Sox, by a batboy when I was probably a 12 year old kid. A big leaguer’s bat is a huge souvenir for a little kid who never dreamed he’d eventually become friends with Big Leaguers. I have always held on to it. Yet, now, it was a tool of use.

I hesitated, having never killed anything larger than an a pesty insect, but I know this had to be done. So, I ended this rodent and literally shook.. Then, shook after thinking, “What the fuck?!? I was having a decent day!”

Anyone who knows me knows I adore the outdoors. The keyword there is “outdoors.” When that line is crossed, when creatures from the outdoors decide to venture indoors then trouble ensues. I have hated having had to kill 10 mice in the last week, but I take solace knowing they never should have been here.

I have to fill the bird feeder. They never come inside.

I had initially planned a photo of the mouse I had killed here and then thought better of that. I am sorry for any confusion.

Until very recently I was working as a substitute teacher in North Kingstown, RI. It was a good gig, reliable (teachers with tenure don’t hesitate to call out), decent pay and hours and I have always related to kids.

One of the few drawbacks was getting to and from school without wheels. I took public transportation when possible but the notoriously lousy Rhode Island Public Transit Authority (RIPTA) recently began running their first buses too late for me to get to school for the opening bell so I often was reliant on Uber. Not ideal but it got me there on time and I would also take RIPTA home at the of the day. The bus stops were rarely close but I’d just try to thumb a ride. I have never minded that, I usually meet nice people.

That was until some self righteous parent took issue with it.

The way it was relayed to me was that this woman had picked up her sweet little cherub and the kid looked out the car window on his trip home, and told Mommy, “Hey that guy was my sub today!”

Which was apparently the inspiration for this chick to lose her shit

She called the superintendent and went off. “It’s so dangerous!” Then why didn’t you pick me up? “Why kind of message does that send?” I’m off school grounds and off the clock, Ma’am. “I don’t think I want someone with that kind of character who makes those sorts of choices teaching in our school system!” Don’t you think I was subject to a background check, not to mention that I had just spent the previous three days with junior.

And, that evening is when I received a call, was told she had significant pull, and my services would no longer be needed. I was shocked. The secretary immediately began rationalizing. “Well, it is against the law.” That gave me a laugh and I told her, “Tell that to the cops who often pick me up and have told me that it’s not even a misdemeanor.’ “Well, you have to admit it’s dangerous.” That one actually annoyed me and I said, “Isn’t that my worry? I didn’t realize NK was so concerned about substitute teachers, I am touched.”

At that point it had become obvious I was fighting a losing battle but I ended with this admonition.

“You know this kind of could have gone one of two ways,” I began. “This woman could have taught her kid a lesson in kindness, pulled over and given her child’s temporary faculty member. Maybe even struck a conversation, I have been told by a lot of the people who have given me a lift that I am a fairly interesting and friendly person!”

Instead the lesson that kid got was, when you see someone doing something you don’t like you should notify their superiors immediately and if you have any juice get that person punished!

I don’t envy that kid’s upcoming high school social life. Everybody loves a narc, right?

You know, I remember exactly where I was when Jerry Garcia died.

I was in my car after a sales call in Washington, DC and when I turned on the engine and WHFS had “Touch of Gray” on, I smiled and thought, “Well, that’s kind of cool, they never play the Dead on ‘HFS. Then the DJ said, “That concludes our tribute to the late, great, Jerry Garcia.” And I was like, “What the fuck?”

He had been the source of countless false death accounts. Everyone knew he was not a heathy man but this one seemed serious. I mean, HFS was legit (and a great radio station much like WBCN for a Massachusetts kid like me) so I pulled over as soon as I saw a payphone. Keep in mind, this was 1995 so cell phones were a dream of the future.

My brother was working in mutual funds back home in Boston and had an 800 number which I dialed up immediately. He and I had seen the Dead a couple of months before in DC and Garcia looked and sounded awful. My brother was starting a new job that Monday and I remember looking at him and saying, “We should maybe go.” He responded, “Really?” We’d seen a fair amount of shows together and I was like, “Yeah. Let’s split.” The one and only time we ever left a Dead show early was the last one we ever saw.

So, when I reached him on the phone when I heard Garcia had passed I was halfheartedly expecting it to be another rumor and the first thing he said, before I said anything, was, “It’s true. He’s gone.”

Fast forward twenty something years and the world has changed immeasurably. So, when I got a text from an old pal asking, “Did you hear anything about Weir?,” I sort of dismissed it. Despite a juvenile life that brought me in the same room with this outfit known as Grateful Dead I have been pretty checked out of that culture. Sure, I still had and wore Dead tee shirts which became increasingly seen as “cool” in an archival sort of way as I transitioned to my dream life as a “rock critic.” I was continually surprised when some indie band told me how much they loved Grateful Dead music.

Is the Dead now cool?

And, it turned out they actually were. This band that I set out to listen to, and admittedly sort of find myself with a Kerouacian manner, to have as the soundtrack to seeing my nation, had been accepted in polite society. Right on. When my parents thought of them as some sort of traveling drug flea market I remember my mom hearing “Uncle John’s Band” when I was sitting outside, sweaty and drinking an underaged beer (my folks never cared, God bless them!) after cutting the lawn and her saying, “Oh, I like this! Who is this?”

“Grateful Dead.”

She seemed almost disappointed and called my dad. “Tom, do you know who this music is?” She seemed almost exasperated. He was typically nonchalant. “Sure, it’s the Dead. I like ‘Sugar Magnolia’ more though, it’s got more of a swing.”

Ellen. Mind, Blown.

She couldn’t believe that her husband had some sort of secret knowledge of their first son she wasn’t keen to. My father simply asked, I think initially when we were shooting hoops in the backyard and there was that same reliable boom box out there what it was were listening to and I said, “The Dead.” He nodded and said, “They’e not at all what I expected, it’s really good.”

Beat it on down the line (if you got that, you GOT that) five years and Ellen, who always had huge welcoming ears, now LOVES Grateful Dead music, which brings us to the sad demise of her favorite.

Robert Hall Weir.

Our dearly beloved Bobby has left us. From that text from an old pal asking, “Did you hear anything about Weir?” I braced for my phone to explode, which it did.

Bobby was what every kid my age dreamed of being. He was the guy you wanted to be and the guy girls wanted to be with. And he was Jerry’s best friend (which over a lifetime seemingly became as much a burden as a blessing). In the later years of their partnership Weir admitted, “Oh, yeah, I was often his ‘bag man.’” He even copped to sometimes indulging with the big man, but those admissions always came across as a little brother doing whatever he could to get closer to a lost sibling with whom he shared a family business.

The first time I met Weir was at a Dead soundcheck with my “boss,” if anyone could ever refer to the eternally accessible and endearingly legend that was Steve Morse as a “boss.” It struck me that in “Dead World” they spoke of each other by last names, almost like teammates on a sports outfit. “So, you’re here for Garcia, right?” Weir asked Steve and he said he was. Morse went off to do an interview with Jerry and I was left alone with Weir.

I have rarely been starstruck but I admittedly was in that moment, left alone with this guy I’d seen perform countless times. His icebreaker, “So what’s your deal, you’re Morse’s towel boy?”

Always last names.

We ended up chatting about sports, he told me that he had sort of bounced around from one private school to another in the Bay Area and had played organized basketball but always imagined had he been bigger he’d have played football. He had formed an organized “hard touch” recreational league and his team, the “Tamalpais Chiefs” was named for the mountain side his home was based against. He had become an avid cyclist.

I ended up meeting him a few times after that. Always amicable in that way that people like Bob Weir are. When you are a celebrity on that level, he once told me, it was the best of all worlds. “I can get in wherever I want,” I remember him once telling me, “But once I am in the big shots all look at me and think, ‘Where do I know that guy from?’ And by the time they figure it out, I’m gone.”

I once asked him what the key to a good life was. He shrugged his shoulders and said, “How would I know? I have never even had a job! This has been my life since I was 16 years old. The “Golden Rule” seems to work, and if you diverge from that just don’t get caught!”

And every time I ever had a brief chat with him I was reminded of the joke about a man first admitting to his therapist that he couldn’t focus and felt he might have diminished attention. The therapist nods and then, looking out the window says, “Check out the ass on that girl on the bicycle!” Flighty in the extreme was Bob Weir. And, to use a very much out of time phrase (and with sincere apologies to our female readers) that one Dead crew member once told me, “Weir gets more ass than a toilet seat.”

But, we was an interesting cat, for sure. I feel fortunate that I not only saw him perform so much but that in a sense I met the guy. I was asked today if he knew me and I said, only as much as the most recent time I saw him he remembered me and said, “Globe right? Morse’s guy?”

Which is fine by me. Fare thee well, Bobby.

On a sidenote, Caren Oberg is a truly wonderful woman I saw a LOT of shows with (Bobby note, she and I were at a show in Raleigh, NC when they lost power in the midst of “Promised Land.” When they got it back the band went right back in ON the note. When I reminded him of that and asked Weir said, with a smile, “Well, despite what people might think we DO know the songs”). Caren could use a hand right now. The readers of the “Kielty Konsideration” have been remarkably generous to me and Caren is a truly kind soul so if you have anything to spare she would send you the most glowingly appreciative smile imaginable. Tell her Kielty sent you, that will give her a grin too! Thanks, people! And as always, thanks for reading!

https://www.gofundme.com/f/keep-carens-caregivers-by-her-side?fbclid=IwY2xjawNyczlleHRuA2FlbQIxMABicmlkETE3anduN0UxeEJJWTlkQksxAR5JPCbeNvxh4EZezNZuUxTQFdj3egpaGRmCrMJZRg0XMF-zrcpXFEiQ1QIQ-g_aem_aj_pksf6elmKGR7lFff14w

Happy holidays, people!

I know I have been away for a bit. The good news is that I was working on a project that I was pretty excited about, the bad news is it’s turned out to be a much more complicated process than I had prepared for going into it. My enthusiasm has admittedly ebbed and flowed but I’m hanging in there. As a fairly horseshit year winds down I remain optimistic that I will one day look back fondly at 2025 as the year I began a fulfilling project.

However, obviously, the “Konsideration” suffered as a result and for that I apologize. This project was always on my mind when I had any free creative time but it was more than just that that has had me absent. The current goings on in this nation I love with all my heart have moved past disheartening to infuriating. I could have easily written 10,000 words this week on how inappropriate it is for a sitting president to commandeer co-billing on a venue dedicated to a slain former president and the thing is that this jackass gave me fodder on such a regular basis I could have written on his puzzling egomaniacal megalomania seemingly on a daily basis.

But, that’s not what I wanted, or want, this to be. I’ve done that sort of blog in the past and I found people had no interest with being bombarded on a regular basis with my ideas about who belongs on the “naughty” list (and if you want a voice that repeatedly roars I am sure you already know where to look). So, that being said…

My resolution is to get back into a regular groove with the Kielty Konsideration. I am far too fervent a political junkie to fool myself into resolving to pay less attention to the news but I can resolve to share the beauty or humor or sadness or anger or joy in the people, places and things I encounter in my own existence. Truth be told, when it’s really happening writing this thing is a blast. There you have it.

For now I have decided to go into the archives for a couple of holiday reminisces, and suitably vintage artwork and an off the beaten path carol. If you had an enjoyable 2025: congratulations, keep up the good work! If not feel free to lock psychic arms with me as we bullrush 2026. “Nollaig Mhaith Chugat!” A good Christmas to you!

When my Mom was a kid, the tradition at her house was that you didn’t get the Christmas tree until Christmas Eve. Her Dad, my “Pop Pop,” (what a strange designation, but one that my own Dad owned to his grandchildren) would bring it in and my Grandmother would have the ornaments waiting. As smaller children they were told that Santa himself would bring them a tree, on Christmas Eve, a bit of a mystery considering that the rest of the neighborhood already had theirs.

They’d have a little party, just the small and immediate family after everyone but my Grandfather had come from a festive meal at some nearby relative’s home, while he finished another long work day. When my Grandfather was done working - and potentially imbibing - at the brewery where he worked, he’d bring the tree in. He’d settle into his favorite chair with a glass of something stronger than the product he produced, and enjoy the kids decorating the tree.

They’d have a wonderful time and get the tree all dressed up for Santa, then be sent off to bed. Just a few hours later they’d awake and magically there would be at least one gift -usually more - but always that one they’d spoken about the most and were most hopeful for, waiting for them under that fresh Christmas tree. Gifts that my grandparents had worked hard for, in overtime hours at the department store where my Grandmother worked, or in the many hours my Grandfather put in at the brewery.

Later there would be be a great feast: a turkey dinner, and if it had been a good year maybe some ham, too, and lots of laughs. Despite anything else, Christmas was - and is - a time for the children, and they made sure it happened right for theirs. After dinner, relatives would arrive and more laughs, and surely more drinks, would fuel the yule fire. They played records and told stories and jokes and admired that brand-new tree.

Years later, my Mom told me that her older brother had revealed a secret to her as an adult. Their tradition of the tree arriving on Christmas Eve was based not so much on tradition, but on practicality. There’s no cheaper time to get a Christmas tree than on Christmas Eve. What could these seasonal merchants possibly do with six foot harvests of fir and pine the day after the holiday? A tree could be had for as little as a dollar on Christmas Eve in the 1950’s.

My Grandfather focused on scraping together his and his wife’s hard-earned money on purchasing each of his three children that one special gift they wanted the most -and my Grandmother never saw a price she couldn’t haggle with - and maybe a few small items for each of their stockings, rather than pay out for a tree in advance of the holiday. When the holiday budget was exhausted, when the gifts and dinner were paid for, only then was the tree purchased.

Always, on Christmas Eve.

I was the oldest of four and as a result, the first to discover how things played out with Santa. My siblings were still very much locked in (as was I, to the point that an elementary school teacher took my parents aside and told them, “You need to tell him, at this point he’s getting picked on and defending Santa”). My Dad told me over the summer, such a smart and thoughtful move. Gave me one more season of belief.

But then, a new adventure began.

My Dad loved to go out shopping for last-minute gifts on Christmas Eve. And, now he had a new accomplice he could trust. I so cherish him taking me out with our shared secret and him asking if the things he was thinking about might go over well the next morning.

He’d shop for everyone with nothing huge, that stuff had already been procured, but just making me feel so close with this trust about some other things that he and I picked out for the family. He’d always give me a wink and a nod when something we’d picked had struck gold on Christmas morning.

We’d have lunch and maybe that was the greatest gift. Just having a burger and fries with my Dad and talking about the holiday and what was going on with me. We’d always get home in time for Christmas Eve Mass and then a great neighborhood celebration before we were allowed to open one single present at home after leaving gracious neighbors on Christmas Eve.

The Christmas holidays my parents provided for my siblings and I were joyous. They made them the memories of legend, things you just will never forget. Anyone who was ever in our home during the holidays knows how warm and welcoming they were. My parents provided that. No shortage of laughter... or food... or beer (nobody ever seemed to come empty-handed that’s for sure!).

I hope your loved ones did that in their own way, too. Everyone has their unique traditions, it’s what makes family and makes this special. I am at the age where I know most of my peers are providing that for their own kids. Embrace that, they’ll never forget. I sure never have.

Greetings, comrades.

You may have noticed our last edition was a bit of a grab bag as opposed to the one topic long form that was our initial bedrock. Between summer vacations, heat stroke and bug bites our staff is currently spread pretty thin so rather than go through extended publishing droughts (which bum us out more than you, trust me) we figured we’d do more frequent patchwork missives to keep the line moving. This doesn’t mean our more long form focus is a thing of the past, just that we’re waiting for the lightning to hit the bottle before we screw the top on and consider it captured. Cool? We sure hope so.

So, without further ado:

-Major League Baseball, and by all accounts mankind in general, lost a good one last week when Hall of Famer Ryne Sandberg left us. I lived in Chicago for a spell in my post-collegiate youth and have returned a fair amount. I love that town, but not nearly as much as that town loved their “Ryno” and the tributes from Cubs alums and other notables in the “City of Big Shoulders” (“Windy City” and “Second City” are too easy, read Carl Sandburg) speaks to a fandom that any sports fan would respect.

Before Friday’s game Cubs legends, Shawon Dunston, Jody Davis and Rick Sutcliffe delivered second base onto the field in the perennial Gold Glover’s honor and Cubs alum (and former Sox hurler as well as a cancer survivor himself) Jon Lester was spotted in “The Friendly Confines” sporting a Sandberg jersey. On Saturday the Cubs wore blue tops with no listed surnames and Sandberg’s number 23, which will also be worn on a patch affixed to jersey’s for the remainder of the season. Even Chicago Bears Head Coach, Ben Johnson, offered condolences before his daily pass conference remembering Sandberg as “a big part of my childhood.”

Sandberg played second base for 15 years with the Chicago Cubs and was inducted into the Hall of Fame in 2005, and the team retired his number 23 jersey that same year. He was also an MVP, a ten-time all-star and nine-time Gold Glove winner. Cubs fans cherish “The Sandberg Game” when on June 23rd, 1984 he hit two game tying homers in the bottom of the 9th and 10th innings (think about that!) against the rival St. Louis Cardinals in a game the Cubbies eventually won.

In addition to his prowess on the field he was known for kindness and generosity. Lou Cella, the sculptor who immortalized Sandberg with a statue outside Wrigley Field said, ”They say, 'people, don't meet your heroes,’ they'll let you down. They're gonna hear people say, and I can back it up. This was a hero you wanted to meet; this is the one who isn't gonna let you down.”

A quote from his Cooperstown induction speech speaks volumes to his approach to life and the game he loved.

“The reason I am here, they tell me, is that I played the game a certain way, that I played the game the way it was supposed to be played. I don’t know about that, but I do know this: I had too much respect for the game to play it any other way. And if there is a single reason I am here today, it is because of one word: ‘Respect.’”

-In continuing with musical reminders (this might become a “thing”) I give you two more pleasant memories that blipped on my radar again recently/

I was first turned onto Dressy Bessy around 2000 by Robert Schneider of Apples in Stereo and a more enthusiastic supporter a band can not have than he. His fellow Denver, CO friends eventually followed in the estimable footsteps of the Apples (guitarist John Hill plays in both bands) and were a second generation addition to the Athens, GA “Elephant Six Collective” that counted such DIY indie legends as Neutral Milk Hotel, Olivia Tremor Control and Elf Power as founding members. I simply adored the combination of power pop sensibilities and clever guitar melodies that Dressy Bessy brought to the mix and singer Tammy Ealon’s vocals often reminded me of Natalie Merchant in early 10,000 Maniacs. If they perhaps sound vaguely familiar it might be because their songs "If You Should Try to Kiss Her" and "Just Like Henry" were featured in the 1999 indie film “But I'm a Cheerleader.”

I was recently hipped to this interview/performance by an insider in R.E.M. world and given Stephen Colbert’s recent newsworthiness it seemed particularly timely. The host’s “Colbert Report” persona very obviously strikes a chord with R.E.M.’s political sensibilities. Promoting “Accelerate,” an oft overlooked rocker in the band’s catalog (prior to entering the studio they had worked this material out in a five night run at the Olympia Theatre in Dublin, IR, portions of which were later released as “Live at the Olympia”), I was not disappointed giving it a revisit listen and the opening line of “Houston” seemed prescient given this summer’s mess in Texas hill country. “If the storm doesn’t kill me, the government will. I’ve got to get that out of my head,” Michael Stipe sang of the heavy rainfall in late May and early June of 2007 that led to widespread flooding, particularly in the Houston area. This was also the last year of the George W. Bush presidency prompting the singer to comment, “When the empire is going down the toilet, it's easy to write great, angry songs.”

-And what better springboard than R.E.M. for our next absolutely non-political thoughts.

Now, it would admittedly be easy to read this as being about politics, but it’s not, it’s about decency and ever since the current resident of Pennsylvania Avenue was caught bragging on an open mic about his lack of hesitancy to grab a woman by a certain part of the anatomy it was readily apparent that this person was, regardless of party affiliation, sorely lacking in decency.

Now that the perpetually promised transparency gag has been played out to such a huge extent that even his own maga-verse is calling him out you think he’d pipe down. He’s certainly been admonishing everyone else to put it away but biting his tongue is not in this guy’s playbook. Within the last week he has essentially referred to one Jeffrey Epstein victim as stolen property from his Mar-A-Lago spa, a faux pas that my friend, Seth Meyers neatly summarized this way. “Going out of your way to explain that you cut ties with a monster, not because he was a monster, but because he hired people away from you just makes you sound even worse. That’s like saying you stopped inviting Charles Manson to parties because he wouldn’t use a coaster.” When the resident tried to congratulate himself for not accepting an invite to his pal’s island (‘In one of my very good moments, I turned it down’) Seth cracked, “Refusing sex with underage girls shouldn’t be one of your finest moments — it should be all of your moments.” 

Funny stuff. Here’s another knee slapper.

Convicted pedophilic sex trafficking felon and Epstein gal pal, Ghilslaine Maxwell, whose sentence mandated maximum federal security imprisonment, was moved this week to a minimum security Texas work farm in a move that has yet to be explained or justified by anyone. Bonus points for not having the… decency… to alert the victims’ families of the move. Here’s a little fun background that angry elf Karoline Leavitt is in no hurry to deliver.

Maxwell was/is a pal of both the resident and attorney general, Pam Bondi. In that same role in the Sunshine State, it was Bondi overseeing U.S. attorney Alexander Acosta when he approved a plea deal that allowed Epstein to plead guilty to a single state charge of solicitation, in exchange for a federal non-prosecution agreement. The resident rewarded Acosta for this favor with an appointment to Labor Secretary. When the Epstein shit eventually and inevitably hit the fan all roads led to Acosta, who resigned quickly.

Now, as if this wasn’t enough, check this shit: the former Attorney General Bill Barr worked at the same law firm as Acosta when he made that deal. Now, guess whose father hired Epstein to teach math and physics (despite not having a degree in either) at Manhattan’s prestigious Dalton Prep? That would have been Headmaster Donald Barr, Bill’s daddy. You seriously can’t make this shit up, it’s all easily researched and regardless of your political leanings it’s all decidedly indecent.

That little tale is icky enough but our man without morals wasn’t done. When asked about a pardon for Sean “Puffy” Combs in an interview with Newsmax he replied, "I got along with him great. Seemed like a nice guy. I didn't know him well. But when I ran for office, he was very hostile. ...” He was then asked if his answer was "more likely a no" when it came to a potential Combs pardon. "I would say so," he said. So, what the gist of this is is this: "You know, the 'Freak Off's' don't really bother me so much, it's that he wasn't nice to me. That's where I draw the line.” That’s not party or politics, that’s a need for an ego stroke, pure and simple.

And, just to dispel any notions that he was capable of the slightest shred of decency or simply to prove that he absolutely didn’t give a fuck about appearances he signed an executive order on Thursday to reestablish the Presidential Fitness Test for American children and reinvigorate a national sports council. He grinned from ear to ear introducing Lawrence Taylor, an NFL legend who admitted he wasn’t quite sure why he was there and who also happens to be a registered sex offender. His victim? A 16 year-old runaway.

Politics? No. Decency? NO.

-Finally, in a note that might seem Boston specific unless you are a music fan who understands the importance that small independent rock venues play in the vitality of the art form known as music. If so, then read on.

Years from now, when the Taco Bell Cantina that currently occupies 1222 Comm Ave in the once and forever known as “Allston Rock City” neighborhood of Boston, MA has escaped the city’s collective memory, people will still speak of the previous resident.

Great Scott evolved from a local blues bar after opening in 1976 through a collegiate phase to become an indie rock club that was named eighth in the well respected website Consequence's "100 Greatest American Music Venues.” This was driven largely by GM, Tim Philbin and talent buyer, Carl Lavin who brought in "the pill,” an indie/brit pop dance night that accelerated Great Scott’s undeniable presence. Featuring a live performance each week that gained such a devoted following that ‘pill” reunions continue to sell out, it was a Great Scott institution as was the regular “Fenway Sessions” with founder, Mark Kates, often previewing European acts for the first time in the United States warming up before heading to New York. However, after Covid neither was selling out Great Scott any longer.

On May 1, 2020, Philbin announced via social media that they would not reopen after the pandemic, writing “From... its emergence as one of the best live music venues in the city, Great Scott has meant many things to many people.” For this correspondent it meant seeing acts like MGMT and Gary Clark, Jr in a 250 cap room, it meant DJ’ing for people who got excited hearing something for the first time (and once at their Christmas Party) and it meant friendships with like-minded souls like Carl and Tim that continue to this day.

And, now, in collaboration with their longtime sister bar, O’Brien’s (another fine room to see something musically unexpected) Carl and some partners, buoyed by over $300,000 raised in a “Go Fund Me” campaign, are looking to re-spark that flame. And they need your help. This missive to Carl’s lovely wife, Kerry, says it all:

If that link doesn’t translate you can also find it here. Thanks for doing your part… and for supporting the arts (including us!).