tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1898616027381614772024-03-13T23:50:53.317-07:00Farrell StreetThis is the website for author, reporter and general writing enthusiast, Michael Farrell. In this space, Farrell features educated ramblings on topics such as sports, music, barroom adventure, and his return to the mean streets of western New York. He may also mention things about his novels "Running with Buffalo" or the recently released "When the Lights Go Out."
Thanks for stopping by, and enjoy your scroll.Michael Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456704796652317256noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-189861602738161477.post-5822436151302145452016-12-09T08:33:00.001-08:002016-12-09T08:33:51.007-08:00"When the Lights Go Out" - Chapter Six<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_vgXh0lUBgs/WByhc2217YI/AAAAAAAAAbA/zTs500E0XfwEC7WOxOdoRJP-owX405VfQCPcB/s1600/WTLGO%2B%2528cover%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_vgXh0lUBgs/WByhc2217YI/AAAAAAAAAbA/zTs500E0XfwEC7WOxOdoRJP-owX405VfQCPcB/s320/WTLGO%2B%2528cover%2529.jpg" width="213" /></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>(Author's note: </i><a href="http://www.farrellwords.com/when_the_lights_go_out_128794.htm">When the Lights Go Out</a><i> is about a lot of things. It's about family and the many
shapes it can take. It's about love and loss, and what we'll do to deal with
it. But more than anything, it's about music, our relationship with it and what
we'll do to preserve that relationship. After working in music as a college DJ
and intern, as a bartender at rock clubs, and now as a reporter and novelist, I
still don't fully understand my relationship with music. I don't fully grasp
why The Beatles' "Magical Mystery Tour" grabs me from beginning to
end. I can't explain why the sound of Neko Case's voice on "The Needle Has
Landed" makes me cry; why The Clash's "Stay Free" brings me back to my formative
years in the Southtowns; or why it took until my early 20s to understand the
perfection of every word of Bruce Springsteen's "Thunder Road." But
after existing in a variety of settings, standing or sitting and absorbing
chords and choruses and countless encores, I simply know I could never live
without music. It's not possible, and this novel exists as my love letter to
not only those who feel the same, but to those who need to create to feel
alive. This is for all of you, so please read its first six chapters on this
site, or simply buy the entire book <a href="https://www.amazon.com/When-Lights-Out-Michael-Farrell/dp/0692524479/ref=sr_1_5?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1481300816&sr=1-5&keywords=when+the+lights+go+out">here</a>. Thanks for following along with these
posts, and Happy Holidays to you and yours. </i></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: italic; line-height: 150%;">-MF)</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: italic; line-height: 150%;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><u>6<o:p></o:p></u></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Some see this guitar<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>And hear a distraction<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Others see you, girl<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>A walking attraction<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
-“You, Girl” by J. Nolan<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I stepped to our
office’s counter and saw her standing there, waiting and smiling.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Hey, I’m here to
pick up the entertainment license for Cigarettes & Coffee,” she said. “Do
you have it ready?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Of course it was
ready. Any license for the beautiful and mysterious Samantha was made a
priority. The only reason I knew her three-syllable name was because it was
printed on a yellow Post-it note, stuck to every manila envelope she picked up.
One of the functions of our office was to issue one-time licenses for events at
city bars and restaurants not zoned for everyday live entertainment. Sometimes
we licensed senior dances or college trivia competitions; other times we dealt
with singing contests at a coffee shop named after an Otis Redding song. On the
second Friday of every month, Samantha came strolling through our glass door to
pick up such a license for Cigarettes & Coffee, a soul-themed coffee shop
on Allen Street that, ironically, was a non-smoking establishment. The place
was famous for its Second Saturday Serenade, which featured musicians and
vocalists of varying styles vying for the event’s grand prize: free coffee for
the year. For this event, the shop needed a license. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Dark brown
shoulder-length hair was always slung tightly behind unpierced ears entertained
with white iPod ear buds. Her large blue eyes and mascara-laden eyelashes were
hidden behind tortoise shell-rimmed rectangular frames, balancing her hip
attractiveness with fashionable intelligence. She’d always tap her slim fingers
on our countertop and her canvas sneakers on the linoleum both to grab our
attention and, presumably, satisfy the beats galloping into her ears. If any
other consumer or bar owner tapped that counter, Pete and I purposely ignored
them until we heard their frustrated “hell-o?” ring over our cubicle walls.
With Samantha, we welcomed the rhythm. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Every time we
reached her, she’d remove her earbuds, smile and try to exchange pleasantries, with
comments on the weather or football or hockey or music. We kept our daily
responses to a minimum, with a stammering “hello,” “sounds good” or “goodbye.” Samantha
would occasionally make appearances in my nightly dreams, cameos likely ignited
by my timidity. Remarkably, these dreams weren’t salacious; they merely featured
her amid typical nonsensical dream imagery and conversations. That Friday, I tried
to have real interaction with Samantha, something actual to balance with the
exchanges in my sleep.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Your license is
right here,” I said, then handed her an envelope with the document inside.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“You know, I’m so
sorry,” she said. “I always come in here and I have no clue what your name is.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“It’s John,’ I
said, extending my hand. “John Nolan.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“John Nolan? Um,
okay.” She briefly paused to absorb the answer. “Oh, and I’m Samantha. Sam, actually.
But I guess you already know that since I see it’s written right here on this
envelope. God, I feel stupid.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Don’t worry about
it. So, um do you—”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Before I could
continue, the door behind Sam swung open to reveal an angry old man. He
barreled past her and slapped his wrinkled, heavy hands on the counter.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Where is Pete?”
he said, seemingly unaware of how loud he was talking. “I need to speak with
him right now. Immediately.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Sir, if you’ll take
a seat, I can find Pete and get him out here for you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Look,” he said,
“I don’t know who the hell you are, son, but I suggest you get Mr. Konarski out
here before I lose my temper. Northtown Windows and their installation department
are putting the goddamn screws to me, and Konarski’s work on my behalf has been
<i>egregious</i>. Do you know what the word
egregious means?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Sir, if you’ll calm
down I can get Pete out here and—”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Egregious,” he
bellowed. Startled co-workers peered over their cube walls at this disturbance
before he took a seat and yelled again. “Egregious!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I glanced toward
Sam, standing frightened, albeit still interested. She put the envelope in her
bag and backed out of the office, sure to keep her distance from the old man while
opening the door. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Well, hey, you
should check out the Serenade sometime. Every now and then, we actually host
real-life, skilled musicians,” she said. “It’s not always just vegan girls crooning
Tori Amos numbers.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Cool,” I said, uneasy
with the stewing gentleman in front of me. “Maybe I’ll pop in sometime.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“All right. Nice,”
she said, nodding her head. “Until then, it was nice to finally get your name,
and I’ll see you around, John.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Bye, Samantha.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Please,” she
said. “It’s Sam. Just Sam.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
She turned and
exited. My smile joined a hint of déjà vu, momentarily freezing me before
hearing the voice of the day’s visitor.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Hey, Casanova. My
taxes aren’t paying you to make nice with the broads,” he said. “Now either you
get Konarski out here or I’ll find the mayor’s office and make a goddamn stink
like you’ve never smelt before. You’ll have all kinds of time to chase skirts
after I get your ass tossed out into Niagara Square.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“One minute, sir,”
I said, then clenched my teeth and walked back to Pete’s office.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Um, Konarski?
You’ve got a real irritated fellow out here demanding to speak with you. Immediately.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Fuck, is he an
elderly guy? Walt Zimmerman?” said Pete. “I heard his gravelly voice from back
here.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“He didn’t give
his name. Whoever he is, he’s pissed.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I guess he never
read the specs on his installation agreement, and Northtown apparently switched
the brand of window to a more expensive one on him. But he signed it, and now
they’re scooping him for an extra eight hundred bucks.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“The store won’t
fix it?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Why should they? They
have a signed contract, and that’ll hold up over this old codger’s he-said
argument. What can you do, right?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“You have to come
out and talk to him. I don’t know how old he is, but I’d bet he’s not too old
to cause a scene.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I got that from
our phone conversations. Is he a big guy?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Not really, but
you should see his hands. Looks like they’re made of fucking stone. He slapped
those mitts down on the counter and the thing nearly caved.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh, that sounds
great. Fucking fantastic.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
He walked out from
behind his desk to follow me through the office and find Walt, still seated and
seething.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Mr. Zimmerman,
sir,” said Pete, “So, I’ve talked with North—”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Save it,
Konarski,” said Walt. “I don’t want to hear a single word of your bullshit
excuses. Am I getting a refund from those grifters or not?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Well, I—”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Jesus, what is it
about your generation of college-educated babblers? Can’t you go a second without
filling the air with excuses?” he said, arms folded across his chest. “I want a
simple goddamn answer: yes or no.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“No,” said Pete.
“They’re not going to budge, so you’ll have to take them to small claims
court.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Small claims
court?” Walt stood from his chair. “So let me get this straight: I now have to
go waste my time in a courtroom because your gold-bricking, Polak ass didn’t
lift a finger to handle my case? These crooks pulled a bait-and-switch on me,
dammit!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Mr. Zimmerman,” said
Pete before taking a step behind our front counter, “if you can’t calm down,
I’m going to have to ask you leave.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Leave? This is my
goddamned building!” He slapped his calcified paws on the counter again. “My
taxes paid for that chair, that desk and your salary. And what do I get when I
need your help? Not an ounce of effort!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“John, you want to
call security up here to escort Mr. Zimmerman out the door?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Sure,” I said,
then jumped back to my desk and dialed behind their showdown.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Security? Yeah,
bring ‘em up here. Maybe they can escort me up to our mayor and I can ask him
why city dollars are paying for slobs like Konarski here to get fat on my dime.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Pete took a deep
breath. It failed to calm him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“You know what,
you old prick?” said Pete, wide-eyed. “I’ve heard enough. If you didn’t want to
get slipped for eight hundred bucks by Northtown, why didn’t you read the
goddamn contract? The specs were written right there, in black and white.
Didn’t have your magnifying glass that day, Magoo?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Magoo?” said
Zimmerman, then folded his arms again across his chest. “Oh, that’s sharp. Like
the blind cartoon character, right? Who the hell do you think you’re talking
to, just some cranky old man? What say the two of us head out to Niagara Square
and I kick your fat ass down to the naval yard?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Pete stood firm
for a moment, staring at the gentleman before he let out a laugh, one of those
you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me laughs that bursts out in one pop. He tried to take
a step out from behind the counter, but I grabbed his shirttail and yanked him
back. Before either party could shout another word, two security guards pushed
through the door to flank both sides of Mr. Zimmerman.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“All right, sir,”
said one of the guards to Zimmerman, “let’s take a nice easy stroll to the
elevator, okay?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Sounds good to
me, fellas. Mr. Konarski and I were just talking about taking a little walk
outside, weren’t we Pete?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Goodbye, Mr.
Zimmerman,” I said, standing next to Pete as he gnashed his teeth, hands in his
pockets and breathing heavily. “Thanks for stopping in.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“That’s fine,
sure,” he said. “But God knows where this country would be if men like me were
replaced by cowards like you, Konarski. Coward!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
When the door
closed, Pete stormed back to his office and slammed the door shut. At first, I heard
silence. At second, I heard a loud scream and the sound of a fist repeatedly
smashing the side of a filing cabinet. After another moment of silence, the punching
resumed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Later that afternoon, well after North
Buffalo resident Walt Zimmerman was ushered out of our office, the encounter
with Sam was still swirling inside my head. Pete, sitting at his desk with a
bandage wrapped around his bloodied right hand, was still teetering on the edge
of rage after being verbally assaulted by a man nearly three times his age.
Holding a fresh Tim Horton’s coffee, I leaned into his office to see him
staring ahead at nothing in particular. He was still breathing heavily. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“You want to take
a stroll out to the monument, have a smoke?” I said. “Might calm you down a
bit.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Who the hell does
this happen to? What kind of grown man gets verbally undressed by someone’s
grandfather, then takes out his embarrassment on a filing cabinet?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Not sure. Are we
talking drunk or sober?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Regrettably sober,”
he said while massaging his knuckles. “Is it wrong that I was scared of that
guy?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Absolutely not.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I really thought
he might jab a pen into my jugular. Christ, he had to be involved in Korea or
some other conflict, right? I’m scared of him, and I don’t give a shit who
knows it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Let’s take a
stroll, okay?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“You don’t think
he’s waiting outside the building, do you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“My God, let’s
just go.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The elevator
stopped on the first floor and we exited past the overhead lobby murals of
Indians and buffaloes and steelworkers toiling in front of the American flag. Before
striding past the busts of former Buffalo mayors Frank Schwab and Grover
Cleveland, we stopped and patted their copper scalps before bursting through
the revolving doors and down the steps to Niagara Square. Thankfully, Mr.
Zimmerman was nowhere to be found. We reached an empty bench, sat down and lit
our cigarettes in the shadow of the square’s towering McKinley Monument.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“So,” I said,
“before your scrape with the war vet, you missed an appearance by our
Samantha.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Aw, are you
kidding?” he yelled, then took an exasperated drag. “As if things couldn’t get
any worse. What did you say to her? Anything?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“It wasn’t what I
said to her; it was what she said to me. Kind of freaky.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Explain.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“You know how I
told you that she pops into some of my dreams?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Sure.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Well,”
I said, “today, she said an exact line from one of the dreams.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Something dirty?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“No, you fucking creep.
In the dream, we were sitting at a table, and I looked at her and said,
‘Samantha, my name is John, John Nolan.’ Then, she leaned across the table,
looked right at me and said, ‘It’s Sam. Just Sam.’”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“So what?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Before she left
today, she said the exact same line.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Pete leaned back
in his bench and took another drag.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“John, for a
married man, you have pretty boring dreams. Maybe after the baby’s born, you’ll
kick it up a notch. I’d be embarrassed to tell you some of the shit I dream
about.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“So you don’t find
this a tad freaky?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Pete pondered the
details and exhaled smoke toward the square’s traffic circle.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“What kind of
drink did she order at your dream table? Beer, scotch, gin? What?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Seriously? You’re
hauling out your genius drink selection theory on this? It’s a yes or no
answer. Was this odd or not?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Okay, it was odd.
Even a tad spooky,” he said. “Now, my turn. What was she drinking?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Pete had this
theory about how a man could tell everything he wanted to know about a woman
based on her bar drink. Vodka revealed a volatile problem drinker with a torrid
past involving bad break-ups. Rum enabled sloppy drunks to recklessly sing
karaoke. Whiskey was simply a deal-breaker. And according to Pete, imported
beers apparently indicated a heightened level of European traveling experience
he didn’t want to hear about. With these aforementioned choices all cautionary
tales, Pete exclusively gravitated toward ladies drinking the domestic light
beer trio of Miller, Coors and Bud Light. He claimed women sipping these
selections appreciate the simplistic taste and social compatibility of
watered-down American beer. They’re not after an escape via Long Island iced
teas, or an image afforded through a dry, two-olive martini. These women just
want to be; they present themselves as everything every reasonable male has
ever searched for. They love dogs, hate cats. They hold doors for the elderly,
say, “God bless you” to the sneezes of strangers. They like the Beatles, but live
for the scruffy, leather jacket-wearing 1975 version of Bruce Springsteen. When
they cry, something is very wrong. When they laugh, the moment is very right. In
Pete’s estimation, these were the women a man should spend the night and make a
life with.<b> </b>To validate his cherished
theory, he found his eventual wife sipping a Coors Light under “Jungleland” when
he first spotted her across a lakefront barroom. Still, he wanted me to confirm
his theory with the images of my dream. <b><o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“She wasn’t
drinking booze or beer. We were sitting in a coffee shop, with coffee,” I said.
“What’s the point of this question, anyway? Are you planning on asking her
out?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I’m just curious,
that’s all.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“She sips coffee.
How does your compatibility meter read on coffee drinkers?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Leaning his head
to the left, he scratched the back of his neck while contemplating.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“That tells me
nothing. If I had to guess, though, I’d say Samantha’s a beer girl. If you told
me she was drinking a Miller Lite, this little talk of ours would be a lot more
interesting.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Noted.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Do you remember
that one conversation I had with her?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“You call the
exchange you had a conversation?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“What? We talked,
exchanged musical tastes, blessings.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“First of all,” I
said, “you asked her what she was listening to on her iPod.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“‘Torn and Frayed’
by the Stones,” he remembered, proudly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“And then, you
sneezed a mouthful of coffee all over the front of her winter coat.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
He smiled,
reminiscing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Which she said
‘God bless you’ to,” he said. “And she was wearing a green raincoat, not a
winter coat. She was protected.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Have you noticed
how she now flinches whenever you hand her an envelope? Good for you, but that
wasn’t a conversation. An incredibly embarrassing moment, yes. Not a conversation.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Still, until my
recent encounter, Pete’s awkward exchange was more communicative than any
moment I’d had with her. I usually smiled, handed her the envelope and watched
her alluring exit before I retreated to my desk. But why? If I thought she was
that cool, that fond of dogs and Springsteen and light beer, why couldn’t I simply
be friendly? Why couldn’t I just ask a question or two to validate Pete’s
theory and confirm her legitimacy? Maybe because it would spoil the illusion. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Whenever we heard
Sam’s low-top Chucks come clicking into our civic confines, we needed to
believe in her perfection. She was a “what if” girl for two married men, an
entity to look to and wonder how our lives would be different if we were dating
her. If we asked her too many questions, her answers might prove our idealistic
assumptions wrong. We wouldn’t admit it to each other, but Pete and I wanted to
know as little as possible. This way, we could fill in the details ourselves
and mold Samantha into exactly who we wanted her to be. We developed all kinds
of scenarios for where she worked and what she did in her free time. The only
thing we knew for sure was that she wasn’t a cashier at Cigarettes &
Coffee. I’d been there on Saturday mornings to read the paper and listen to
whatever saxophone-infused soul the baristas soothed through the shop’s
overhead speakers. If she worked there, she would’ve been there those mornings.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
In our favorite
and most detailed fantasy scenario, she works as a cashier at an indie music
shop, like Record Theater over by Canisius College. She spends her mornings
stocking shelves with Canadian imports before helping some elitist audiophile
complete his massive conversion from CDs back to vinyl. When her day is done,
she goes back to her downtown loft to write poetry in spiral Mead notebooks and
slowly sip from a tall pilsner glass full of ice cold domestic beer. Van
Morrison’s “St. Dominic’s Preview” serenades her scribbling and, a minute into
the song, her sublime voice joins the rising percussion, precise guitar picking
and piano tinkering to sing only one line:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>“And it’s a long way to Buffalo.”</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
After filling a
few pages with profound stanzas, she takes her male black lab Duke for a walk
through her neighborhood full of rockers and painters and writers. And maybe
one of her neighbors is the owner of Cigarettes & Coffee. One of the many neighborly
favors she does for him or her is a nice stroll over to City Hall, where she
takes an elevator ride to the fifth floor and picks up the Second Saturday
Serenade entertainment licenses.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
This was the kind
of bullshit we invented instead of asking her real questions. Since Pete’s
infamous sneeze, she never got a full sentence from either of us. There was once
a time we weren’t hesitant to engage a woman like Samantha, a time when the
mere chance to talk to any woman like her lured us into pubs and rock clubs. Those
nights reigned in a different life, when each of us held idealistic assumptions
for how our futures were going to erect themselves. When those assumptions
yielded to a different reality, things changed, just as they do in everyone’s
life. People act, react and absorb the aftermath. They get married, take
civilized jobs and try to mature. That’s where Pete and I were standing. We
were now embedded in a life of obligations, not impulses; a life of responsibilities,
not recklessness. Love and commitment had put us on more solid ground. We were
thankful for this. Most of the time. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Was I happy to be
away from the Nighthawk, away from Lynyrd Skynyrd covers, Genesee pints and
insane (yet alluring) pyromaniac jugglers? Sometimes, sure. Was Pete better off
cradling a baby girl in his arms instead of being hog-tied on the 20-yard line
of a nationally televised football game? Definitely. But despite the security this
responsibility afforded, it could never soothe the glaring reality that those old
nights of excitement, those hours spent in the early stages of dizzying attraction,
were gone forever. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
And maybe that’s
why Samantha’s appearance every month was so thrilling for the two of us, so
exciting that her voice and image filled the end of my sleep every once in a
while. In her, we could see those old tavern nights and unknown possibilities
we used to bask in, still right at her delicate fingertips. We could see her at
the bar, adhering to some lucky bastard’s expectations before eclipsing every
last desire. We imagined the moment she looked up through those tortoise shell
frames of hers and injected the guy’s chest with that nascent warm surge we
yearned for. Through our silence, these assumptions remained intact.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
If we had a real
conversation with her, she might tell us otherwise. She might tell us that her
life sucks, that it’s complicated and empty and unfulfilling. She might tell us
that, on her Friday nights, she drinks chardonnay while watching reality
television with her best friend Bentley, her male housecat. She might reveal
her life to be not nearly as romantic and reckless as Pete and I remember our
own to be. With this remote possibility, we erred on the side of idealism. We
needed to recall that euphoria of romantic possibilities. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Once a month, we
were able to do that through the beautiful existence of a mysterious entity
named Sam.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'times new roman', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; text-indent: 0.5in;">(Interested in purchasing </span><i style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; text-indent: 0.5in;">When the Lights Go Out</i><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'times new roman', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; text-indent: 0.5in;">? Get it </span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/When-Lights-Out-Michael-Farrell/dp/0692524479/ref=sr_1_11?ie=UTF8&qid=1478721947&sr=8-11&keywords=when+the+lights+go+out" style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">here</a><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'times new roman', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; text-indent: 0.5in;">.)</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'old standard tt'; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 29.7px; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span></div>
Michael Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456704796652317256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-189861602738161477.post-74568841199563660452016-12-02T10:22:00.002-08:002016-12-02T10:22:42.796-08:00"When the Lights Go Out" - Chapter Five<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_vgXh0lUBgs/WByhc2217YI/AAAAAAAAAbA/zTs500E0XfwEC7WOxOdoRJP-owX405VfQCPcB/s1600/WTLGO%2B%2528cover%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_vgXh0lUBgs/WByhc2217YI/AAAAAAAAAbA/zTs500E0XfwEC7WOxOdoRJP-owX405VfQCPcB/s320/WTLGO%2B%2528cover%2529.jpg" width="213" /></a><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><i>(Author's note: In the
earliest stages of writing </i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/When-Lights-Out-Michael-Farrell/dp/0692524479/ref=sr_1_4?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1480702794&sr=1-4&keywords=when+the+lights+go+out">When the Lights Go Out</a><i>, I had the idea of starting
every chapter with original lyrics from the story's musician protagonist,
Johnny Nolan. These lyrics were meant to be indicative of who he was as an
artist and person, but also lead the reader into the eventual details of the
chapter. Some readers have understood this; other readers haven't; and some
have assumed the lyrics were simply quoted from other actual songs by actual songwriters. They're
not. They're Johnny Nolan's words, and they help introduce this and every other
chapter of this novel. Enjoy the below, and if you haven't yet, please read the
previous four chapters posted on this blog.)</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><u><br /></u></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<b style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><u>5</u></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>The snow will fall down<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Start a winter parade<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Here in Buffalo<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>This is how we were
made<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>-</i>“Kings of the Queen”
by J. Nolan<i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
When a winter
storm blows through Buffalo and the surrounding streets off Lake Erie, it’s a
harsh, windswept blitzkrieg of snowflakes. It’s not a scene out of a Frank
Capra film, where gentle white specks drop slowly over lampposts and passing
cars. It’s frustrating accumulations on roads, yards and rooftops. Snow blows
thick, sticks to car windshields so firmly wipers snap off, losers of a fight
with an inch-thick layer of ice. When a strong storm relentlessly blows with a
foot or more of overnight snow, it’s never something so delicate that you’re
eager to stand outside with your girlfriend, embracing as soft flakes dust your
eartops. You look for cover until the winds stop rattling your windows and heavy
flakes cease burying your front porch.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The day after the
storm? That’s the calendar portrait, with white fluff coating everything that
sits idle. Men shovel out narrow driveways, with cigars dangling from their
mouths as aromatic smoke drifts above their winter caps; children tap plastic
orange balls with hockey sticks down plowed side streets. This is the calm
after the rage in a region known more for its blizzards than its beauty. And on
days like these, it’s good to be a Buffalonian.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“You think the
Ridge is gonna be packed today, Uncle Finn?” said Brendan, bundled in his red
Hawks hockey coat and a winter cap in the backseat of my Subaru Outback. With
Finn next to me in shotgun and Mickey in back with his brother, we rolled over layers
of Southtowns snow toward Chestnut Ridge Park for a day of sledding,
tobogganing and football tosses. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“It’s definitely
going to be packed,” said Finn, who pulled his wool Irish cap down his forehead
before he turned to the backseat. “But that’s the fun of it, men. It’s the
whole region together, enjoying conditions the rest of the country cries about.
Are you ready, or are you ready?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Ready,” the boys
yelled before each clapped their gloved hands together.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
In the summer
months, Chestnut Ridge accommodated daily picnics, scenic biking, jogging
routes and hiding places for teenagers to polish off a few cases of beer.
Winter ushered in a snow-coated wonderland, busy with giggling children gliding
down adventurous hills on blue and red plastic sleds, their parents watching
while snapping pictures and sipping Tim Horton’s coffee. The more adventurous
guardians would haul out wooden toboggans, a longer sleigh-like transport to
seat two or three at a time, and ride down the park’s rickety chutes with their
children, hooting the whole way down until the ground became level. In the back
of my Outback, we had two sleds and a football, as well as an archaic toboggan
strapped atop the car. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
When we pulled up
the drive and into the Ridge’s main parking lot, it was mobbed, with families
dragging sleds across icy pavement and toward the top of the park’s main run. There,
parents and children stood with cocoa and coffee in gloved hands, staying warm
inside ski coats and gazing at the panorama of downtown Buffalo in the cloudy
distance. After we parked, we grabbed our gear and joined them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Should we take
the toboggan down?” said Mickey, a royal blue and red Bills ski hat pulled down
just above his eyebrows to complement a bulky bright red winter coat.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Not yet, Mick,” I
said. “Why don’t you grab your sled and go to the hill with Brendan. Finn and I
are gonna stay up here and toss the football around.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Can I play too? I’ll
sled around later.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“No, Mick. Go with
your brother. I’ll toss you a few passes later, okay? Nolan promise.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
He slumped away
with his brother and found a place with the boys and girls playing in the snow.
I waited until they were a good distance away to reach underneath my black wool
pea coat to pull out a cigarette.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“You’re still
smoking?” said Finn, zipping up his green ski jacket. “What’s wrong with you,
kid? I can’t imagine you’re stressed out about work on a day off, right?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I lit my cigarette
and enjoyed a drag.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“No, no,” I said. “I
think it’s the baby only five months away, that sort of thing.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Finn held the
football in his right hand, his fingers lined on the laces.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“What are you worried
about? Being a father? You’ve been in training with Meg’s two for years. You’ll
be fine.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I stepped back, let
the cigarette burn between my fingers.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Look, I know we never
talk about this, but can I ask you something?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Shoot.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I took another
long drag to let a few more seconds pass.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Do you know why
Billy left Meg?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
He glared at me.
We never talked about Billy Doyle. Ever.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Where is this
coming from?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Meg never wanted
to talk about it right after he split,” I said. “Hell, she never talks about it
now, either, so I’ve been content assuming he was just another guy who fell in
line with the rest of the shitbags she dated over the years.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“There were plenty,
sure.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“But he wasn’t
always a bad guy. You remember how in love he seemed with Meg during their
first years dating? The matching Sabres jerseys he bought for the two of them?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“The Pat
LaFontaine ones,” he said. “I remember.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“So while this was
going on, did you ever sense that Billy was the same as the rest? That he’d
eventually split?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Not until after Brendan was born, but yeah, I
did. I’ve never told Meg this, but I stopped trusting Billy after he didn’t
push for marriage after Brendan. I remember talking to him after church one day
when Meg was pregnant with Mickey. He was so distant, so off. I could see this
glazed fear in his eyes, this intention to bolt out the first open door. I
can’t explain how I knew; I just did. He was gone soon after that.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“So what do you
think happened with the guy? What do you think made him bail on so much?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“God only knows,”
he said. “I’ve seen it happen with so many couples over the years, both young
and old. On their wedding day, they’re on the altar together, wide-eyed and
smiling as they promise to live for each other, through good times and bad.
Then one day, one of them decides the deal isn’t convenient. One of them decides
to reset their life and leave everything else behind. I imagine that’s what
Billy did. And if you don’t mind me saying, good riddance to the bastard.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“No, I don’t mind.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I took another
drag through a grin.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“So,” he said, “are
you going to tell me or not? Why are you asking me about a shit like Billy Doyle?
Why now?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
He leaned back and
threw the ball to me. I caught the pass, looked at the ball and flipped it in
the air to myself.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“You remember when
we used to come here when I was a kid? My dad brought you and me, we found a
picnic site and we’d play one-on-one football in the snow, with Dad as the
all-time quarterback.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“He used to always
lead you a little bit, so you had to dive into the snow for it,” he said and smiled.
“Then he’d yell, ‘If you can touch it, you can catch it.’ What about it?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“When we were
here, tossing that football around, I never wanted to be anywhere else. Never
even had a thought about it,” I said, then watched Finn catch my toss. “My
father didn’t, either. He was as enthusiastic as I was, as interested in
throwing a pass as I was in catching it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Of course he was.
Guy was a spark plug. But is that it? Are you afraid you’re not going to
perform like your father and, instead, wake up as a gutless Billy Doyle?
Abandon your wife and kids?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I don’t know why,
but yeah. Ever since my father and mother passed, I’ve been waiting for this
day, waiting for a chance to become the parent they each were for me. Now that
it’s approaching, I’m scared. Scared that whatever seeps in and infects guys
like Billy Doyle will get to me, too. You see where I’m coming from?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
He stood there for
a moment of silence, cradling the ball while staring stone-faced at me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Not really, no,”
he said. “I’m a priest, thus preventing me from starting a family I’d even think
about abandoning. The only guardian role I’ve experienced is being your uncle.
When you were younger, I took you to Bills games, even took you down to Home of
the Hits to buy you your first cassette tape, remember?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“It was a double
tape. <i>The River</i>.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Good memory,” he
said, smiling. “I think I was a damn good uncle, right?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“You bought me my
first guitar, too. That old, beat-up Yamaha we picked up at Allentown Music. Of
course you were a good uncle. Still are.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I know,” he said.
“And do you know why I’m stating these feats?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“No.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Because despite
all of these things I did for you as a kid, despite all I do for you now,
you’re ten times the uncle and father figure to the boys that scumbag Doyle
left behind than I’ve ever been to you. You care for them more than you care
about yourself, and that’s what parental love is. If you can already do that,
you’re golden, kid. Stop worrying.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“What if I wake up
one day, changed?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Well, a few things,”
he said, then put the ball on the ground so he could count on his hands. “One,
you look into the eyes of your wife and the faces of your children and know
what they mean to you, and what you mean to them. Two, you turn to God and ask
for the strength every man can summon. And three, stare into your own reflection
and know who you are. You’re not a coward, and you’re not weak. You’re a Leary
and a Nolan. Our families have always believed that depth of character defines
the virtue of a man. Understand?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
He picked up the
ball off the ground and continued.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Is it going to be
easy? No. Are you going to screw up, go through hard times? Absolutely. But
please, know where you come from. Your parents are watching down on you, and
your sister and I are here for you. We won’t let you walk away, ever. Got it?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Sure,” I said,
then tossed my cigarette to the ground. I watched the ice extinguish it for a
moment. “Thanks, Finn.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“This is what I’m
here for. I just didn’t expect to have such an in-depth Saturday discussion
outside of a confessional. I’m supposed to be off today, dammit. Are we done?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“For today, we’re
done.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Good.” He lined
his fingers up on the football’s laces again. “Now, you think your black lungs
can still go long, past that tree on the left?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Never mind if I
can get there. Do you think your rusty arm can throw it there?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Kid, there isn’t
an arm like mine in the entire diocese. Just get near the pine tree and look
up.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I pulled my navy
fleece cap down tight, rubbed my bare hands together and started kicking
through the snow and wind, past coffee sippers and young sledders. Approaching
the tree, I turned back and looked to the sky. The football was twisting, descending
in a perfect spiral inches ahead of me. Before it reached the ground, I dove,
arms outstretched and hands open. When the ball touched my fingertips, it
bounced off and fell to the snow before my face mashed into the hard, cold
ground. Immobile and atop snow, I heard faint cheers through my covered ears as
random onlookers applauded my efforts. After the applause, I rolled over on my
back and heard Finn in the distance.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“You see? Despite
our best efforts, things don’t always fall the way we want them to.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Right,” I said,
staring up into the light, falling snow.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“But it doesn’t
mean we quit.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Nope,” I yelled
back. “Just let me gain feeling again in my chest before going out for another,
okay?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I sat up to Finn’s
laughter as an uprising of excited and angry children’s voices rose above it,
floating up the main hill to the two of us.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“What’s going on
down there,” I said to Finn, who was standing at a better vantage point than I
was.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Some of the kids
have gathered around a little brawl. Looks like it could be a good one.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Finn,” I said,
jogging toward him. “You see a red Hawks jacket in that mix?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“No Hawks jacket,”
he said, then let out a gasp of a laugh. “I do see a little boy in a floppy Bills
ski cap, right in the middle of the scrum.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Mickey,” I said.
“Dammit, c’mon. And stop laughing.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I’m sorry,” he
said, still laughing as we made our way to the wooden stairway built into the
side of the hill. “You’ll laugh too once you see the size of the other kid.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I ran down the
stairs, skipping every other step while holding the side railing to avoid a spill.
When Finn and I hit the bottom, we tore toward the gathered circle and
shouldered into the front. In the middle of it all was a yelling Mickey, arms
flailing as Brendan pulled him backwards by his coattail. On the ground curled
in the fetal position and covering his head was a boy a bit bigger than Brendan.
Draped in a coat much like Brendan’s—except it was navy and read “Stars” on the
back instead of “Hawks”—the poor kid laid sniffling and loudly whimpering. I
burst through the front line, grabbed both Brendan and Mickey by their coat
collars and dragged them out of the circle and away from the boy, who started
to wail even louder once we left him alone.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“What’s going on
down here?” I said. “Finn and I leave you two for five minutes and you’re
starting fights?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“But Uncle John,
I—”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“No way, Brendan.
You’re supposed to be watching after Mickey and instead, you’re slugging people?
Is that kid on a rival hockey team?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“He is, but I
didn’t hit him,” said Brendan amid another loud wail from the circle.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“So why is that
kid crying?” I said, confused. “What happened?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Mickey punched
him in the stomach.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“What?” I said, eyes
wide open. The kid on the ground was at least twice the size of Mickey. “Mickey
punched the kid once and he’s wailing like that?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“No. After he fell
down, Mick jumped on top of him and hit him in the face a bunch of times until
I pulled him off.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I looked down to
Mickey, who stood staring at the tops of his boots.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Why in the world would
you pick a fight with a kid that big?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“He started it,”
said Mickey, still looking down. “When we got to the bottom of the hill, he saw
Brendan’s coat and said the Hawks sucked.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“That’s why you
hit him?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Well,” he said,
kicking some snow with his boot, “then he made fun of my Bills hat. He said it
looked like it’s from the eighties.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Wait a minute,” I
said. “Brendan, where were you when this was all happening?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Over there. I
heard him say the Hawks sucked, but I ignored him and kept walking. I scored
three goals against the Stars earlier this season,” he said. “Then I heard some
yelling, turned around and saw that kid bawling like a baby. Mickey took him
down pretty fast, and I tried to drag him out as fast as I could.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Mickey looked up
and exhaled.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I’m sorry, Uncle
John. Should I go apologize to that kid?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I looked to the
circle. The kid had risen under the taunts and laughter of red-faced tweeners
in Columbias and Carhardts. To have Mickey approach him would be embarrassing,
even more so than getting hammered by a kid half his size. I kept him away until
the blubbering kid fled the scene—then felt an odd pride simmering inside me. Mickey
defended his older brother. He beat up a kid twice his size. Still, when I
looked down at my nephew, I kept that pride from swelling to my face.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“No, no,” I said.
“Just grab your sleds and get up the stairs. Now.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
When the boys were
safely in front of me, I turned back to Finn. He didn’t even try to hold back
his laughter. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I say we keep the
Buffalo Brawler and his floppy hat off the hill before someone claims to be
that kid’s parent. Deal?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Smart thinking,
Johnny,” he said. “Smart thinking.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
We all sat on a bench to the left
of the Ridge’s old toboggan chutes, recently repaired after years of neglect. Brendan
and Mickey were on the inside; Finn and I took the outsides. The boys’ sleds
were propped against the ends of the bench, dripping with wet snow. The day’s
crowd had thinned out, leaving a spattering of children sledding and a few
couples drinking hot chocolate outdoors with the sun dipping low on the
downtown horizon. The four of us each had a hot cup and watched the steam drift
out their sipping holes and up into the cold afternoon air.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“So we’re all in
agreement,” I said. “We will not speak of Mickey’s little altercation today
around Meg?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“What’s an <i>al-tar-ca-tion</i>?” said Mickey.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“It’s when you
have a disagreement with someone and punch that someone—repeatedly,” I said.
“You’re lucky that kid’s parents were nowhere to be found.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“But, Uncle John,
I—”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Enough, Mick. And
I don’t care what he said. You can’t just go around punching people. What’s a
little kid like you ever going to become if you keep swinging like that?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“A Gold Gloves
boxer,” said Finn. He mumbled it low enough for the bundled, snow-drenched boys
not to hear, their ears now covered with different, non-descript dry ski hats. I
bit the inside of my mouth and tried not to laugh at the thought of “Irish” Mickey
Nolan. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Finn sat up to
speak louder. “Your uncle’s right, Mick. Remember what I said before we got here?
This is a day to be with our neighbors. And you don’t hit your neighbors. You
help them.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Okay,” said
Mickey. “I’m real sorry.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Good,” I said,
then thought of him mercilessly pummeling that bigger kid. I had to take a deep
breath to hold in my inflated pride. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Uncle John,” said
Brendan, “you and my mom used to come here all the time when you were kids,
right?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Absolutely,” I
said. “Your grandpa used to send us down those old chutes over there on the
toboggan, the same one strapped to my car. We’d stay out here for hours, freezing
and laughing while your grandma snapped her camera. Your mom probably has a
bunch of those pictures around your house.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I’ve seen them,”
said Mickey. “You’re wearing a hat like mine.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Not <i>like</i> yours, Mick. It <i>is</i> yours,” I said of the fluffy royal
blue and red ski cap now hidden in the car. “That Bills hat used to be mine.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“So it <i>is</i> from the eighties?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“It is.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh. Do you want
it back?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“No,” I said,
laughing. “You fought for it, so now it’s yours.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I turned away from
Mickey and leaned back on the bench to look out at the city skyline. I thought
more about those days past.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“After we were
nice and frozen, we’d go into that building over there,” I said, pointing to
the hilltop lodge. “We’d sit by the fireplace. They used to have an old piano
in there, remember Finn?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“How could I
forget? You and Meg made me play songs on it. You both would jump up and down,
singing at the top of your lungs. You two were a spectacle.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“But it was fun,
right?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Of course it was.
You boys should have seen your mother back then. She was quite a little
singer.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“She still sings sometimes,”
said Brendan. “She’s been singing that song Mickey loves, by Neil Young.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Long May You Run,”
said Mickey. “That’s my new favorite song, Uncle John.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I think it’s your
mom’s favorite, too. Maybe you should spend a little more time listening to
Neil. Might mellow you out a bit.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
He smiled.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Maybe.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
We all laughed and
went back to sipping our drinks and gazing at the skyline. After a few minutes,
it was time to leave.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“You guys want to
head out of here?” I said. “I think we should call it a day.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Can we do one
more thing before we leave?” said Brendan.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Like what?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Can we take the
toboggan off the car and take it for a run? Please?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh yeah, I forgot
about the toboggan,” I said. “Sure, let’s go get it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
We drained the
last of our hot chocolate, untied the toboggan from the luggage rack and
dragged it up the steps to the top of the chute. A few brave souls were still
gliding through the snow, leaving a wide vacant expanse to openly navigate.
After I set the toboggan down for the boys, I backed off and let them mount it.
Once Brendan and Mickey were settled in, they looked back at me as I stood off
to the side. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Are you coming or
not?” said Brendan.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Me?” I wondered.
“You want me on that thing, too?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Sure,” he said.
“You can show us how you used to ride. Plus, you can stop Mickey if he tries to
start another brawl at the bottom.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I already said
I’m sorry,” yelled Mickey.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Alright, alright.
Settle down,” I said. “I’m in.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I climbed in last to
put the bulk of our weight at the back, with Mickey directly in front of me,
then Brendan at the front of the toboggan. He grasped the front ropes while I
pushed us to the edge and tipped us down the chute. After gliding down the
chute’s steel track, we went flying through the snow, kicking up flakes with
Mickey and Brendan howling. Faster and faster, wind numbed our faces as we slid
past kids with sleds, teenagers with snowboards. Finally, we glided to a stop
at the level bottom. When I climbed out, I looked back up the hill at Finn and
raised my arms. After we were all off and standing in snow a foot high up our
legs, Brendan looked up at me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“That was awesome.
Just like when you were a kid, right?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Clutching the
toboggan rope to drag it back up the hill, I laughed again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I think this was
better,” I said. “Much better.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; text-indent: 0.5in;">(Interested in purchasing </span><i style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; text-indent: 0.5in;">When the Lights Go Out</i><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; text-indent: 0.5in;">? Get it </span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/When-Lights-Out-Michael-Farrell/dp/0692524479/ref=sr_1_11?ie=UTF8&qid=1478721947&sr=8-11&keywords=when+the+lights+go+out" style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">here</a><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; text-indent: 0.5in;">.)</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "old standard tt"; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 29.7px; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span></div>
Michael Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456704796652317256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-189861602738161477.post-61394943547850809142016-11-23T12:49:00.002-08:002016-11-23T12:49:41.890-08:00"When the Lights Go Out" - Chapter Four<br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_vgXh0lUBgs/WByhc2217YI/AAAAAAAAAbA/zTs500E0XfwEC7WOxOdoRJP-owX405VfQCPcB/s1600/WTLGO%2B%2528cover%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_vgXh0lUBgs/WByhc2217YI/AAAAAAAAAbA/zTs500E0XfwEC7WOxOdoRJP-owX405VfQCPcB/s320/WTLGO%2B%2528cover%2529.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><i>(Author's note: When I
was writing the first pages for </i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/When-Lights-Out-Michael-Farrell/dp/0692524479/ref=sr_1_14?ie=UTF8&qid=1479933924&sr=8-14&keywords=when+the+lights+go+out">When the Lights Go Out</a><i>, I envisioned the story
would open from the observation deck of Buffalo's towering, art deco City Hall. The opportunity to
introduce the story's protagonist above the city's radial street configuration
and staring out toward Canada seemed to be a good way to start things--but my
graduate school professor disagreed. He thought the introduction was labored
and lacked enough action to entice the reader to launch into the story, so I
cut it. But, like any pack rat of a writer who's afraid to fully delete any
paragraphs, I saved it and eventually moved it to the middle and end of Chapter
Four, which unfolds below. Enjoy the read, and Happy Thanksgiving.)</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><br /></u></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><u><br /></u></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<b style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><u>4</u></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>When<b> </b>we see our lives go by<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>See the days roar on
past<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Do we ever stop and think
<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Of how to make ‘em last?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
-“Stop, Feel” by J. Nolan<b>
<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Later that Monday,
a city resident stood in front of me at my office’s counter. I tried to ignore
the scent of stale cigarettes off his black wool overcoat. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“When I ordered
the latex suit, the clerk assured me it would be a tight fit,” he said, running
his long, black-polished fingernails through the dark, greasy locks flowing
past his ears. “It was for a party, so I wanted this cat suit to cling to the
skin, you know? Really fucking tight.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I understand,” I
said. “So you were dissatisfied with the way the suit fit your wife or
girlfriend?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“My wife or
girlfriend?” He put his palms on the counter. “No, no. The suit was for me.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh, I’m sorry. Of
course it was. My mistake.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I was officially
desensitized to such odd revelations. They had merely become the irregular
order of my days. I stood in front of this festive visitor as a consumer
mediator for the Consumer Aid and Entertainment Licensing division on the fifth
floor of downtown Buffalo’s architectural jewel, City Hall. After I retired my
guitar, an old high school friend hooked me up with the job. I needed a
nine-to-five gig, one that would afford me the time and resources to get
married and enjoy a family. After two interviews, I officially became an
embedded government drone. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Every day since, I’ve
monotonously dealt with<i> </i>incoming
consumer complaints and mechanically issued entertainment licenses to bars and
restaurants. Consumers have trudged into our downtown government office from the
Metrorail station on Main Street. Tavern owners have strolled in from Niagara
Square. On many mornings, I’ve listened to a litany of local consumers and
their problems. I’ve helped these taxpayers garner refunds from businesses that
have wronged them. The unkempt and greasy gentleman in front of me had, in his
estimation, been wronged—in multiple ways. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“And the costume’s
fit was my second problem,” he said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“What was the
first?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“It wasn’t
anatomically correct.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Excuse me?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Cat penis,” he
said, scratching his facial stubble. “There wasn’t a cat penis on the suit.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I took a deep
breath and crossed my arms over my blue dress shirt and navy tie. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Do cats even have
penises?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Well, they sure
as shit better have something to distinguish themselves from the lady cats,
right?” he said, very matter of fact-like. “I mean, I don’t want to split hairs
here, but I was told I was getting a male cat suit. For three fifty, I want
what I was promised.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Three <i>hundred</i> and fifty? Dollars?” I said, wide-eyed.
“That’s what you paid for a Halloween costume?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Who said it was
for Halloween?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh, well, I guess
I assumed that—”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Whatever,
whatever,” he interrupted. “I bought a latex cat suit, but I wouldn’t have paid
a goddamn dime if I knew I wasn’t getting a cock on it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Okay,” I sighed,
aware that maybe I wasn’t <i>completely</i>
desensitized. “So you want a refund for a three hundred and fifty dollar cat
suit because it didn’t cling to your skin and, most importantly, lacked proper
feline genitalia?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“That’s right.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Sure,” I said.
“Could you wait here for a second?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I walked away from
the counter and past my shoulder-high cubicle walls, soft and gray and
scattered with pictures of places I’d been and people I should be with. Every
day, strangers I didn’t want to be with demanded refunds for televisions,
radios, vacuums and telephones. Their new car broke down; their old car’s
repairs weren’t performed. They wanted refunds for pants that didn’t fit, for
winter coats they didn’t like. Their landlord’s a deadbeat, scumbag or general
Nazi prick. A veterinarian killed their cat, Bubbles. Their neighbor scared
their dog, Ruffles. They want a refund; they want to press charges, and they
need to get paid <i>right fucking now</i>.
Yelling. Crying. Screaming. As I walked back through our office, past more
steel desktops and cube walls and pictures from Florida vacations, all these
emotions pinballed through my head. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
When I arrived at the
back office of my old high school pal Pete Konarski, I found him staring at his
computer monitor, stroking his neatly trimmed brown goatee. Without
acknowledging him, I found the corner of the room and the six-foot high silver
file cabinet tucked into the angle. I clutched its metallic sides and began
pounding my head against its flimsy exterior. By the third time my forehead found
the cabinet’s side, Pete looked up from his monitor.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Hey, hey, hey,”
he said, sitting up straight in his powder blue dress shirt and maroon necktie.
“What the fuck, Nolan? I’m trying to read about last night’s Sabres game here.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
After I smashed my
head two more times, I looked at Pete, dazed and enjoying the dancing specks
floating in front of my sight. Thankfully, they adequately dulled my
astonishment.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I guarantee you
can’t imagine the level of perversion that’s waiting at our counter.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Christ, don’t be
so dramatic.” He took a sip from his coffee, still steaming in a blue ceramic
Sabres mug. “Is this consumer so deranged he’s worth a lunchtime concussion?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“How deranged is
it to want a latex cat penis swinging between your legs?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Pete put down his
mug.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Come again?” he
said. “You’re kidding, right?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Afraid not,
captain.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Since he’d worked
in our office for nearly six years, a consumer complaint had to be extra
strange to pique Pete’s interest. He’d read or heard them all. He’d also
engaged in his share of questionable adventures, so his understanding of what
constitutes crazy was not that of the everyman. The stories about his past—some
of which I’d witnessed in person—were giddily rehashed with City Hall employees
during my first week of work. Did he really run onto the field during the
Bills-Cowboys game on “Monday Night Football”? (Yes, and security mauled him
before he hit the twenty.) Was it true that he once ran up a five-hundred-dollar
bar tab at McGinty’s for himself and five co-workers—at lunch? (Actually, no; the
bill was well over six hundred.) And on that Single’s Night on the Miss Buffalo
cruise ship, the night he housed fifteen rum and cokes before singing karaoke
to Bush’s “Little Things,” did he really jump into the Niagara River to close
his performance? (Absolutely. He also swam back to shore and fell asleep in the
Colonel Ward Pumping Station parking lot. That’s where I found him the next
morning.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
When I first took
the job, I enjoyed our Happy Hour trips that ended at last call, our table
littered with empty Molson bottles. I played it straight while he convinced
unsuspecting girls he was an ex-professional hockey player whose career was cut
short by a horrific eye injury. Somehow, it always worked, always suckered some
impressionable girl into drunken bar-necking. Then, Pete found Tracy, a rabid hockey
fan who knew he’d never skated a professional shift. They dated and fell in
love. Tracy became pregnant. Pete found marriage, fatherhood, financial
commitments, and modest weight gain. In the throes of these changes, he came to
work sober, went home before dark and woke up under moonlight to feed his
beautiful baby girl, Mia. He stopped jumping off moving cruise boats, too. He
became a regular guy in his early thirties, one who dealt with our derelict
consumers better than I could.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“So, a cat dick,
huh? Yikes,” he said, leaning back in his chair to scratch his small gut. “So what
are we dealing with here? Standard goofball or dangerous deviant? The kind we
might need to worry about, like a John Wayne Gacy type?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I don’t have a
fucking clue. Why don’t you have a look at this dude and make your own judgment.
See if this guy’s presence gets you to send a few BPD cars to check his litter
box.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“But what do <i>you</i> think, smartass?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Honestly? I think
he’s another Nickel City weirdo who thinks this office is here to do his perverted
bidding. Just like last week. You remember the call I got?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“The Girls Gone
Wild guy,” he said, grinned, and cracked his knuckles. “The guy who wanted his
money back because the DVDs he ordered weren’t smutty enough.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I was under the
impression there’d be actual <i>sex</i> in
these videos,” I said in a mocking, hillbilly voice, mimicking the conversation
in question. “You know, like a real porn film, couples just going <i>at it</i>. All these were just a guy with a
camera, filming girlies showing off their goods at Mardi Gras. Hell, my buddy
Tony has tapes like this all over his living room. If I wanted to see some
titties, I could borrow one of his tailgating videos from last season’s Bills
games. Titties <i>everywhere </i>on those!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“That accent is
dead on,” Pete said, laughing before he sipped his coffee. “But what do you
want me to tell you, pal? It is what it is. We get a lot of shitheads who come
in here because we’re all they have. We’re their safety net.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“A safety net for
dudes buying cockless cat suits? Christ, the city should commit these lunatics,
not shuffle them into our office.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“But he’s here, so
let’s just give him a complaint form to fill out, file it and send him on his
way. How long you been here for? Two fucking years?” He rose from his desk
chair. “C’mon, I’ll show you how it’s done. We’ll get this pervert out of here,
then you and I can jump up to the deck for a smoke. Sound good?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
After Pete took
the necessary information from our visitor and sent him on his way, we grabbed
our coats for a walk up to the 28<sup>th</sup> floor observation deck. In the
fall, painters occupied the art deco-style civic cathedral’s upper stairwells
with tarps and tin cans as they added a fresh coat of cream-colored latex to
hallways and lobbies traveled by local sight-seers and Canadian tourists during
the city’s pristine summer months. On a clear August day, one could peer
through the deck’s protective plexiglass and across Lake Erie to see the sun
set over green shores. In October, one could still find these views, but there
were obstacles to avoid, like tarps, pans, brushes, scaffolding, and union
laborers named names like Lou or Carl. If we wanted to feel the thick autumn
breeze off the lake, we headed up the stairs, under the ladders and outside for
a 360-degree view of Western New York and Southern Ontario. When Pete came
along, he bummed a smoke. He never brought his own. Never.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“So how was Brendan’s
birthday lunch yesterday?” Pete said, exhaling smoke toward Lake Erie. “Did he
like the Sam Roberts album?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b> </b>“I
think,” I said, then took a drag as I leaned against the deck’s exterior bricks
and looked to the distant Canadian shores. “He always has the same reaction
when I give him a new album. Grateful confusion, I guess. He was much more
excited about the Sabres jersey. You should have seen the look on his face when
he opened that.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Hey, how old is
he now anyway? Eight? Nine?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Ten,” I said,
smiling. “Can you believe it?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Number ten’s a
big one, man. Double digits. And of course he liked the jersey better. He’s a
sports-crazed kid. All kids don’t grow up attached to their guitar like you did.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I was a sports
fanatic, too. Punched things when the Bills and Sabres lost games, that kind of
shit. I did get my first guitar at ten. I remember borrowing one of my dad’s
Stones albums so I could try to play along with the songs.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Really?” he said,
impressed. “At ten, I think I was listening to dubbed Run DMC tapes I got from some
dickhead neighbor of mine.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“But you remember
listening to the tapes, right? That’s the beauty of songs, their ability to
help stamp moments in your memory. Each can attach to an event and align itself
with those minutes forever. For instance, what song was playing the first time
you got laid?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Honestly? I was
so shit-faced the first time I got laid, I barely remember the girl’s face, let
alone the background noise.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Mine was Van
Morrison, ‘Sweet Thing.’ I set it up like that, but still. Every time I hear
that song, I think of that night and laugh.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“And that’s why you
give these poor kids Canadian rock albums for their birthdays? Albums they
could give two shits about?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“That’s why I give
the boys records they don’t give two shits about <i>yet</i>,” I said, flicked my smoke to the ground and stepped on it.
“Eventually they will, and they can attach their own memories to the songs.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“And what are you
going to do with your own kids? You’ll have to be Dad, not the cool rocker uncle.
I mean, I love Van Halen, but I don’t think Tracy would be cool with me giving
Mia her own copy of <i>1984</i>. We try to
stick to Dora the Explorer. Is Dana going to be cool with you playing
Springsteen while Elmo sits on the shelf?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I turned to my
left and took a few seconds to think about the question. Looking down Route
Five, toward the Buffalo River and the billowing smoke from the General Mills
factory, I thought about my first born flipping through my piles of records,
exploring. My little boy or girl will find albums, spin them and ask questions.
I’ll pull out Deirdre and play along with the songs, maybe even sing a verse or
two. I couldn’t wait. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Pete,” I said, then
walked over and placed my hand on his shoulder, “if I can learn how to appease
the wackos who roll into this building, I’m sure I can win over my wife when it
comes to our children’s upbringing.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Don’t worry,
Nolan,” said Pete, laughing. “I’ll be around to help you with both.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; text-indent: 0.5in;">(Interested in purchasing </span><i style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; text-indent: 0.5in;">When the Lights Go Out</i><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; text-indent: 0.5in;">? Get it </span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/When-Lights-Out-Michael-Farrell/dp/0692524479/ref=sr_1_11?ie=UTF8&qid=1478721947&sr=8-11&keywords=when+the+lights+go+out" style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">here</a><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; text-indent: 0.5in;">.)</span><span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
Michael Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456704796652317256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-189861602738161477.post-2606529898556306042016-11-17T12:53:00.001-08:002016-11-23T12:50:25.789-08:00"When the Lights Go Out" - Chapter Three<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_vgXh0lUBgs/WByhc2217YI/AAAAAAAAAbA/zTs500E0XfwEC7WOxOdoRJP-owX405VfQCPcB/s1600/WTLGO%2B%2528cover%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_vgXh0lUBgs/WByhc2217YI/AAAAAAAAAbA/zTs500E0XfwEC7WOxOdoRJP-owX405VfQCPcB/s320/WTLGO%2B%2528cover%2529.jpg" width="213" /></a><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><i>(Author's
note: In the six years I spent writing, editing and rewriting this story, I
spent a lot of time amid live music. Not only did I see a lot of performances
on my own time, but I also worked for three years as a bartender at three
different music venues in Boston, Massachusetts--including the legendary
Paradise Rock Club. Over this period of time, I saw hundreds of musicians and
bands, from acts as large as Arcade Fire to middling collectives still finding
their footing. Every night provided a new entry, one with their own style,
substance and deficiencies. Many of those shows provided motivation for
characters and performances in this story--including some of the scenes that
unfold in the following pages. This is Chapter Three of </i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/When-Lights-Out-Michael-Farrell/dp/0692524479/ref=sr_1_13?ie=UTF8&qid=1479415772&sr=8-13&keywords=when+the+lights+go+out">When the Lights Go Out</a><i>,
so enjoy.)</i></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; line-height: 150%;"> </span><i> </i><br />
<br />
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<b><u><br /></u></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><u>3<o:p></o:p></u></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>I look into your eyes<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>See you standing by the
bar<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Wonder if you’ll have
the time<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>To dance with this young
rock star<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
-“Nights of You & Me” by J. Nolan <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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My alarm clock was
beeping and squealing as sunlight joined a wailing car alarm outside my window
shades. When I glared at the clock, it read 7:23 a.m. Again. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The day was
Monday, which was nowhere near Friday. On Fridays, I could slip out after work
for an exhale away from the job, away from home. At the end of the week, McGinty’s Pub on Swan
Street featured five-dollar Miller Lite pitchers to accompany its world-class
jukebox, full of rock legends and undiscovered Canadian guitar magicians. But
Monday was not Friday. The frustration of this reality brought my palm down
hard on the clock, which silenced the cacophony and elicited grumblings from my
wife, Dana.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Why do you have
to smack the shit out of that snooze every morning?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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I caught my first
glimpse of a tanned twenty-one-year-old named Dana Morelli a little over four
years ago, back in the thick of my Nighthawk residency. I remember exactly what
she wore that night. I remember the way her raven hair hung past her emerald
eyes and over her shoulders, covering the first and last letters of “CBGB”
across the chest of her tight black T-shirt. I remember how she moved and swayed
a few rows back from the front edge of stage. I even remember her vodka tonic and
how she held her straw during every sip. Most of all, I’ll never forget her sharp
green gaze, a look that didn’t burn as much as it warmed. When a look like that
connects, it’s like a lightning bolt that staggers before it injects a dizzying
sense of drug-free alteration. It’s hard to shake off, harder to forget. Still,
I gathered myself, let that look wash over me. Once stable, I returned a glance
of my own, one that connected and locked before I spoke up and took a chance.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“For my last one
tonight, I want to take a request,” I said into the mic, looking right into her
eyes. “How about you, miss? You in the black tee. Do you have a song you want
to hear?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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She smiled,
embarrassed at the attention.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“How about ‘American
Woman’,” she asked. “Do you know that one?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Do I know it?” I
asked, adjusting myself on the stool. “Sweetheart, after this rendition, you’re
going to think I wrote it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Laughs, claps,
hoots from the floor joined her smile as she took another sip from her drink. After
my left hand was set on the guitar neck and my boot soles were planted
comfortably on the stage, I began finger picking the loose strings, plucking
lightly to incite the emanation of a sultry blues walk-down to a G. After I
repeated this progression a few times, I replicated the humming and the
doo-doos famous in the song’s introduction. I soothed out lyrics about an
American woman and how she can mess your mind before I spelled out “American” letter-by-letter.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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The crowd swayed
in anticipation of what was coming—the visceral thrust forward that followed
the tame picking and humming and singing. When I hit the last string of the
lead-in, I paused, looked at her again. She was waiting. I pulled an orange pick
from my pocket and stomped my black Doc Marten boot on the stage four
times—THUMP, THUMP, THUMP, THUMP—before thundering down on the heavier acoustic
strings to reach the power of the song’s electric guitar work. My fingers slid
up and down the neck, through the frets, changing chords and manipulating
strings to stir patrons into a head-bobbing lather. I continued to stomp the
stage planks and replicate a beat in the absence of a bass drum. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I leaned into the
mic to wail out the opening lyrics about an American woman, how she should stay
away from me and let me be. This song wasn’t exactly conducive to what I hoped
to achieve with my request solicitation. As the divisive lyrics hit her ears, I
hoped she didn’t get the wrong idea. Even though I didn’t know anything about
her, I knew I wanted her to stay. But she requested the song, so I played the
shit out of it, regardless of the nasty lyrical connotations. Strumming and
singing, I caught sight of her again. She was rocking back and forth, flailing
her wiry arms above her head and calling for more, loving every second of it.
At the end of the song, I struck a string so hard it snapped and curled up the
neck, effectively ending the performance. When I stood to take a bow, sweat
dropped from my shoulder-length black hair and stung my eyes. After I rubbed
them dry, I opened them to see Dana, smiling and clapping. She waved me over to
the bar, so I stashed my guitar before stepping off the stage. When I reached her,
she already had a bottle of Budweiser waiting for me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“For my request,”
she said, holding out the beer to me. We did introductions. I was Johnny. She
was Dana.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Interesting take
on that song,” she said. “I saw Lenny in concert last year and he doesn’t
perform it like that at all.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Lenny?” I asked.
“Lenny Kravitz?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Of course. Who
else would sing his song?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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I turned my head
to the side and took a long, deep swig. Annoyance, confusion and irritation were
all simmering. I tossed strands of my sweaty hair away from my face. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Kravitz’s version
is a cover,” I said. “It’s originally sung by the Guess Who, from Canada.
You’ve never heard the original version?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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She paused,
perplexed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I guess not,” she
said, looking a bit embarrassed. “When I think of that song, I think of the
video with Lenny, the American flag, and Heather Graham gyrating on the roof of
a school bus. He doesn’t do a bad version, though, right?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
It was the worst
cover. Ever. Worse than Madonna’s cover of Don McLean’s “American Pie.” Worse
than U2’s cover of the Beatles’ “Helter Skelter.” This was fact, not opinion,
but I still shrugged with indifference. Damn those eyes of hers. Every time I
locked with them, that radiating euphoria returned to my head and chest. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“This is my first
time here,” she said. “My friend has been begging me to come with her for
weeks, and she finally broke me down. She’s over there, at the high top with
that guy.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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I turned to see a
mass of snarled dyed blonde hair being cradled and led by a tattooed forearm. The
girl’s lips were mashed into the face belonging to the inked forearm, and the
pace the two moved with was aggressive and impressive. Even prudes throughout
the barroom had to be inspired.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Couple?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“No,” she said.
“They just met a little while ago. She’s quick like that, I guess.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Decisive, for
damn sure,” I said, smirking before I took another swig. “You two don’t go out
much together?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Not really. Like
I said, this is my first time here. After seeing you perform, though, maybe
I’ll be back again. You play every Friday?” <o:p></o:p></div>
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“You got it. I tend
to attract the heaviest drinkers on the scene, so that’s how I nailed down the
Friday slot,” I said. “It’s not CBGB’s, but it’ll do.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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She looked at me,
perplexed again.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“CBGB’s? Is that
another rock joint around here? I don’t hang around this area of downtown too
much.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Are you kidding?”
I said, looking down and pinching her shirtsleeve. “You’re <i>wearing</i> the bar’s shirt. You didn’t know what this shirt was for
when you bought it?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Not really, no. I
got it at Urban Outfitters for twenty-eight bucks. It fits nice, looks cool.
Don’t you think it looks good on me?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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And I did. I liked
how tightly it fit over her breasts, how cool it looked with her skinny-legged
black jeans, her black strap heels. I liked the depth in those emeralds, the
style of her raven hair. The way her scent intermixed with the Nighthawk’s
tobacco and Southern Comfort-tinged interior breeze; the way her delicate hand grazed
my arm to send soothing warmth through my chest. I loved all of it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Later that night, we
sat outside the bar and shared a few cigarettes before we made out against a
parked Honda. I kissed her left cheek before she pulled back and told me she
had a boyfriend. I told her I didn’t care. She smiled at my confidence, then
leaned toward me so I could move my lips down to her neck. I worked up to her
mouth as she slid her fingers across the ink sleeve of Celtic knotting over my entire
upper left arm. At four in the morning, we hiked up to my place on Allen Street
and made love on the kitchen floor. She broke up with her boyfriend the next
weekend. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Over the next
year, we had some good times and survived some bad times. I took Dana to rock
shows at the Nighthawk, for strolls up Elmwood, down Delaware and around the
Erie Basin Marina. We went to Sabres games, grabbed postgame beers at the
Swannie House. When my parents died, she was there for the crying, the
depression and the hurt. She was there when I needed someone to take away the
pain, to coax me toward some path of relevance. About sixteen months after our
first night together, we stood in front of Uncle Finn at St. Stephen’s and were
married. At the reception, we danced to both the Lenny Kravitz and Guess Who
version of “American Woman,” our first necessary compromise as husband and wife.
A little over four years after I played that song for her at the Nighthawk, we
slept in the same bed—and dealt with drastically different schedules.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Do you want me to
make you some coffee?” I asked. “I’m gonna go turn the pot on for myself.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Coffee?” she
grumbled. “I’m fucking pregnant. I can’t drink caffeine.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Right, right,” I
said. Of course she couldn’t drink coffee. “Well, you missed out on Brendan’s
party yesterday. Finn showed up with a cake, we had some laughs. Good times.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Look, I don’t
mean to sound like a total rag, but could you please make yourself silent? I
worked a double until two last night and my ears are still ringing from all the
yelling and screaming during the football game. This talking isn’t helping the
ringing.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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A little over three
months into her pregnancy and she was already irritable. I just shook my head,
set my feet on the cold hardwood and tucked the comforter tightly under a
shivering Dana. She rolled away from me to cradle a body pillow between her
arms and legs, cooing and moaning as she adjusted herself back into a sleeping
position. I stood there enviously watching her as she jostled about. I leaned
over and kissed the back of her head, pulled the window shades down and let her
be.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Our schedules
weren’t always so contrasting. When we started dating, Dana worked as a
customer service representative for B&B Collections, located in an office park
near downtown’s Amtrak station on Exchange Street. Every day, she went to her
desk, put on a headset and went down a list of residents who missed payments on
phones, cars, credit cards or student loans. She spent her mornings listening
to excuses and reluctantly enforcing penalties. Every day, she absorbed the
yelling, crying and pleading associated with problems considered bothersome one
day, life-threatening the next. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I’m out of work,”
they’d say to her. “I’m still looking for work. The wife left me. My husband
cheated on me. The kids are in college. The kids are selfish brats. I need my
car for work. I need my car for fun. Mother died. Father died. Depression has
worn me down. Gonna get paid soon. Have to get paid next week. Give me another
week. How about another month? One more chance? Don’t you have a soul, you
heartless bitch?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
By the time we
married, this omnipresent flurry of resident fury buried Dana like a
lake-effect snowdrift. Every morning, she walked into work hollowed, numb. The
job transformed her, sucked out all that youthful exuberance stowed behind her
eyes when we first connected at the Nighthawk. In its place, it instilled an acceptance
of life’s brutal hand, a jaded attitude to combat a nagging empathy—and such
emotions were useless between nine and five. Feeling bad for people didn’t
relieve debt or remove boots from car tires. Sympathy didn’t dismiss the fact
that Dana was on the delivering end of a harsh reality. Every evening, she
returned to our Allen Street apartment depleted by the job, tortured with the
nagging whispers of guilt from the necessary actions of her days. <o:p></o:p></div>
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One day, she decided
to revolt. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Dana took her last
call at B&B on a Tuesday. After she hung up the phone, she took off her
headset, packed up her stuff, and walked right out the door. No goodbyes. No
two weeks’ notice. No consultation with a boss. She simply left and never went
back. She needed a change in her life before it was too late, before the
resignation that extinguished the hopes of her methodical coworkers had a
chance to douse hers. She wanted satisfaction, fulfillment and all that other
shit young idealists want to bask in. She wanted to escape Buffalo, to leave
behind the gray skies and long winters that could sap ambition. Dana wanted to
work a job she loved under perpetual sunny skies, in a place where overcoats and
tanning booths were unnecessary; where flip-flops were the preferable footwear.
She wanted to move to Florida, a state her parents had already made home a
couple years back, right when we started dating. Every few nights after she
left B&B, she’d pitch a move. And every few nights, I talked her down. Eventually,
I defeated the relocation idea. I had no interest in leaving my family behind
to escape to the south; I didn’t intend to leave my birthplace. I wanted to
live in Buffalo, raise my kids in Buffalo and be laid to rest in Buffalo. Dana
still needed to find a new life path while she was young enough to abruptly change
course. So a year into our marriage, she decided to go back to school. She
decided to pursue an associate’s degree in the Eastern art of massage therapy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
While learning
this trade, she needed to work somewhere on the side, somewhere with a flexible
schedule and decent pay for someone absorbing the benefits of holism, Oriental
anatomy and physiology at the Western New York College of Massage. With these
considerations, Dana became a waitress at the White Room, a blues bar down the
street from the Nighthawk. The joint was known for its Wednesday karaoke night and
killer blues revues on Fridays and Saturdays. Also, according to the <i>Buffalo
Gazette</i> article framed outside their men’s bathroom, the White Room hosted
the city’s <i>third</i> best Sunday Night
Football party, making Monday mornings a bleary ordeal for the bar’s Sunday
evening patrons. Its battered wooden tables played lunch host for area Democrats,
salesmen and servicemen, dealing out large portions of crisp, sauce-soaked chicken
wings and pulled pork sandwiches, complete with the White Room’s own homemade barbeque
sauce. These lunch shifts were the safe play for waitresses. With the standard
wing and sandwich fare came few drinks and even fewer drunks, a welcome respite
from the rowdy biker crowds who frequented the neighboring whiskey dives around
Lafayette Square. If a waitress wanted to make some serious money, she’d have
to brave the dinner elements, which were fueled by a loud trio of large appetites,
leather-clad alcoholics and functional binge drinkers. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
When Dana was
offered night shifts to balance with her daytime therapy classes, she went for
it. Her dark hair wooed older men into generous tips from dinner through the
wee morning hours. Her emerald eyes invited even more, ranging from whispered
pick-up lines by blue-collared union reps, to phone numbers from white-collared
suitors. When she would hustle her
delicate frame across the restaurant floor, these men watched and admired. Each
kept the wings and pork and beer and liquor coming just to earn a glance in
their direction, the same glance that hypnotized me. And Dana knew this. She knew
that, every time she grooved her hips from side to side and tapped her heels on
the tiles, the tips would pile up. Staged or not, she learned to like it. There
were no more repossessions to deal with, no more faceless tears over the
telephone. Anything was better than debt collection. Anything. Even working as
a waitress through her first trimester.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
After I left Dana
to sleep that morning, I walked into the bathroom and shut the door behind me. I
stepped into the shower and flicked on the waterproof radio, tuned it to 97
Rock and kept the volume low. I turned on the water and made it scalding hot,
let it fall down on my dark hair as I listened to three straight wailers from
Zeppelin. After ten minutes, I stepped out of the shower, humming the melody of
Robert Plant’s vocals on “The Ocean.” Once toweled off, I returned to the
bedroom to quietly grab a pair of navy blue pants from my dresser. Dana was still
clutching the elongated pillow and was curled up next to it while rhythmically
breathing. She had entered the heightened relaxation of back-to-sleep sleep, a
state that elicits the most vivid dreams, the most tempting fantasies. Those
were my Saturday mornings, the early hours I’d lie under the sheets and slip
into dreams until thoughts of coffee and a newspaper put my feet on the floor.
Watching Dana adjust herself under the sheets again, I wanted the rest she was
having, the sleep she was lost in. I delicately crawled atop the sheets to sit
next to her and watch her serene temperament until she felt my gaze on her
lids. Her eyelids fluttered open, wearily.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“What?” she
growled, her voice muffled as her face was still plowed into her pillow.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I’m just watching
you sleep,” I whispered.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Great. Have fun
with that.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh, I almost
forgot,” I said. “Finn’s band scored a spot on the bill for the annual Joe
Strummer tribute night and wants us to go.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Isn’t that show
around Christmas?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“A little after
Christmas, at the Nighthawk. Finn would never do a show in the middle of Advent,
so I imagine it’s a few days after. What do you think?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“What do I think? I
think it’s fucking October,” she said. “Ask me a little closer to the date,
preferably when I’m not freezing and telling you to leave me alone. If I was forced
into an answer right now, I’d tell you I have no interest in trudging through
the snow to watch Clash covers before another one of your uncle’s bass players
gets clipped by a shoe.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“No, no. He said
this new guy is—”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I don’t care,” she
interrupted. “Can’t you tell me this later? Also, why are you still here?
Aren’t you going to be late for work?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“That all
depends,” I said. “Do you want me to go? I could stay home today, call in
sick.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Are you joking?”
she said, then turned over to yank the covers down to her waist. “Why the hell
do you want to stay home from work?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I haven’t seen
you in a while. I could stay in bed with you all day, keep you warm. Maybe you
can practice your massage techniques on me. What do you think?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“What do I <i>think</i>?” she said. “I think you’re talking
like an asshole who’s thinking with his cock, not his brain. I’m a student and
a waitress, pregnant and attached to your health insurance. If you lose your
job, we’re completely screwed.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Dana, c’mon. You
think I could get fired for calling in sick? Guys in my building have been lighting
up their morning coffees with Jack for decades.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I don’t give a
shit about the old drunks in your building,” she said. “You’re the one I’m
depending on, so quit acting like a boy and think like a man, dammit. Get your
fucking pants on and get out of here!”
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Fine, I get it.
You’re in a bad mood.” I climbed off the bed and slipped into my pants. “You’re
overworked. You’re tired. You’re pregnant. Maybe you’ll feel better when you
give up some shifts at the bar. Did you tell them about the baby yet?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“During
yesterday’s Bills game? No. If I had to break the news during that shit show,
my manager would have gone berserk. After we went down by three touchdowns, he
looked like he was going to stab himself. I’m lucky I’m not showing that much.”
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“But you’re going
have to tell him soon, right?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“This week. I’ll
tell him this week.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“And then what? How
long can you wait tables pregnant?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“A few more
months, I guess.” She pulled the blankets up to her chin and over her shoulders.
“I could probably do it for a little longer if I could get some proper rest.
Uninterrupted.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Fine, I’m gone,”
I said, clapping my hands while backing toward the door. “You need anything
else before I go?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“My God, just go,”
she said, causing me to grab the bedroom door handle and exit. I had one foot into
the kitchen before her voice turned me around.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Wait, John, hold
up a second,” she said, then sat up and let the comforter fall off her
shoulders and down to her lap. After she flipped the matted black strands of
hair from her face, she fluttered her eyelashes at me. “I’m sorry I’m being
such a bitch, okay? I’m irritable and spent. Plus, after working the last four
nights, my back is fucking killing me. I don’t mean to take it out on you; you
just happen to be here. You’re the one in front of me when I feel like this.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“You know you can
quit, right?” I said. “I can go knock on some doors, get a job bartending
nights somewhere. I know it’s not ideal, but say the word and I’ll make it
happen.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I’m not letting
you do that. Just let me get a little sleep and I’ll be fine, okay?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“You got it,” I
said. “And with that, I’m out.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I shut the bedroom
door behind me and had a sudden urge to say one more thing to her, just three
more words before I let her be. After I turned the knob and poked my head back
in, though, I couldn’t interrupt the silence. Dana lay curled and serene,
utterly peaceful amid her rhythmic breathing. There was something about her
exhaustion I found oddly endearing. Whether it was how her black strands lay
strewn about the pillow or how she spooned with feathered pillows as if they
were people, there was something so alluring it sucked the venom from her
earlier attitude. Watching her slip into her therapeutic slumber, I could
surrender within this truth and note my attraction as an element of love.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">(Interested
in purchasing <i>When the Lights Go Out</i>? Get it <a href="https://www.amazon.com/When-Lights-Out-Michael-Farrell/dp/0692524479/ref=sr_1_11?ie=UTF8&qid=1478721947&sr=8-11&keywords=when+the+lights+go+out">here</a>.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Michael Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456704796652317256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-189861602738161477.post-63187621427098001482016-11-09T11:59:00.001-08:002016-11-09T12:28:24.080-08:00"When the Lights Go Out" - Chapter Two<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_vgXh0lUBgs/WByhc2217YI/AAAAAAAAAbA/zTs500E0XfwEC7WOxOdoRJP-owX405VfQCPcB/s1600/WTLGO%2B%2528cover%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_vgXh0lUBgs/WByhc2217YI/AAAAAAAAAbA/zTs500E0XfwEC7WOxOdoRJP-owX405VfQCPcB/s320/WTLGO%2B%2528cover%2529.jpg" width="213" /></a><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">(Author's
note: When I originally conceived this story, it was rooted in the idea that,
sometimes, life isn't about celebrating the best of times. It's about survival, overcoming the worst of times and the strength you can summon in those
moments. This message seems appropriate on a day like today, one when many in
America and elsewhere are terrified of what comes next after the events of this
morning. But thankfully, many find the best version of themselves when faced
with calamity--and there are now tens of millions facing this same calamity.
Hopefully, those of us in the aforementioned category can eventually take a
deep breath and determine how we can work toward a better tomorrow for
ourselves and our children. Until then, here's the second chapter of my second
novel, </span></i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/When-Lights-Out-Michael-Farrell/dp/0692524479/ref=sr_1_11?ie=UTF8&qid=1478723201&sr=8-11&keywords=when+the+lights+go+out">When theLights Go Out</a><i>.) <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><u><b style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><u>2</u></b></u></b></div>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%;">
<b><u><o:p></o:p></u></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>When my world went
goodbye<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>I took a look inside<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>To find what kind of
truths <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>I’d face or try to hide<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
-“My New Dawn” by J. Nolan<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
After my parents
died, my family joined every October for their memorial mass inside Uncle
Finn’s South Buffalo parish, St. Stephen’s. He’d conduct the annual service,
donning his green Celtic vestment as he commemorated Colleen and Thomas Nolan, the
faithfully departed. He’d echo their names over his congregation, who’d bow
their heads and pray for God’s blessings upon those Colleen and Tom left behind.
We accepted these sentiments every year. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
It was the fourth
Nolan memorial mass. I stood at the end of a pew next to my sister Meg and her two
boys, six-year-old Mickey and newly ten-year-old Brendan, just a few hours into
his birthday. After the service, we’d head downtown to balance the morning’s
somber beginning with an afternoon celebration of Brendan’s birthday. Until
then, we had to endure the mass and prayers, as well as the memories the
mention of my parents’ names would elicit. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“And <i>this</i> is the Gospel of the Lord,” said
Finn. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Praise to you,
Lord Jesus Christ.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
After I took my
seat, I dangled my right Doc Marten boot into the center aisle and slouched
into the corner of the pew as surrounding parishioners nestled into their seats,
awaiting the always-intriguing homily of Father Finn. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
No matter how many
Sundays I saw him in that flowing vestment, his life’s designation always
seemed odd to me. My mother had told us of the heartthrob Finn was in his
youth, how he spent very few Friday nights throughout high school or college
without a date. When Meg and I were younger, we witnessed his popularity in
person, before he became a priest. In his early and mid-twenties, he occasionally
brought women—ones he said he’d met through volunteering at St. Stephen’s or
working as coordinator downtown at St. Jude’s Community Center—to dinner. Devising
activities and community outreach efforts appeared to have scored him an
attractive date or three. When he reached his late twenties and announced his
decision to enroll in the seminary, these memories of his popularity with the ladies
made his vocational direction that much more confusing. Yet soon enough, there
he was, patrolling the altar of our neighborhood parish as the noteworthy
Father Finn. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Only in his early
forties, he appeared and acted more like a gregarious corner tavern bartender than
a respected priest. He stood tall and burly, with wavy salt-and-pepper hair tickling
the eartops that flanked his round Irish head. As St. Stephen’s young and
exuberant pastor, he made the most of his hours on the altar. In that time, he’d
stress selflessness, love and community. He’d speak of how we all must honor
God by reaching our potential not only spiritually, but also socially and
professionally. He stressed compassion at every turn, especially when considering
all sides of controversial wedge issues like abortion, gay marriage or divorce.
Even in the face of intense dissention and diocesan backlash, he’d openly
discuss difficult topics to elicit sincere and rational thought within his
parishioners. In front of a weekly standing-room-only crowd, Father Finn used
means neither conventional nor boring to regularly dismiss attendees inspired
and contemplative. And if the number of these attendees weren’t as great as
they were, if they didn’t ante up and stuff those collection boxes every week, the
diocese would have removed him years ago. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Okay,” he began,
strolling off the altar with a gold Celtic cross stitched at the center of his vestment
to represent St. Stephen’s surrounding Irish-American neighborhood. “Who here
listens to the great Neil Young? C’mon, let’s see some hands, people. Don’t be shy,
get ‘em in the air.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
After a simmer of
commotion around us, I raised my hand, as did Meg and Brendan. Before Mickey
followed, he looked at me to make sure he’d listened to Neil Young before. I nodded,
so his hand went up. With arms rising around us, the church was buzzing. Unpredictable
sermons were one reason Finn was so wildly popular with St. Stephen’s
parishioners. He often referenced topical examples from music, literature, film,
and sports to relay the day’s message. On some Sundays, he would even play pop
songs on his acoustic guitar or the choir piano and sing whatever lyrics helped
facilitate his message. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Now, you’re all
probably wondering why I’m asking you about Neil, a guy born just a smooth
drive up the Q.E.W. in Toronto,” he said. “Because as we sit here today and
remember the lives of my sister Colleen and her husband, Tom, I remember my own
things about them. Personal things, like how much the two of them—particularly
Colleen—loved to listen to Neil Young. I’ll never forget the stack of his
albums she had. If he recorded something, anything, she had it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>After The Goldrush. Everybody Knows This Is
Nowhere. On The Beach. Zuma. Tonight’s The Night.</i> I glanced down the pew to
Meg and smiled. We remembered all the albums and their jacket covers. We
remembered how many times my mother spun each on the rickety turntable in our
living room.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Yesterday, I’m
over in the rectory, thinking of Colleen and Tom and what I’m going to say
today. This is the fourth year we’ve done this, so you’d think this whole exercise
would get easier with time, right? It doesn’t,” said Finn. “Whether you’re a
priest or a plumber, losing a loved one is never easy to handle. As the years
pass, the severity of the pain associated with their absence varies from tough
to tougher. And some days, man, the pain is downright excruciating.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
About midway down
the center aisle, he stopped walking and talking to scan the crowd, to look
over the pews of men dressed in blue oxfords and Notre Dame sweatshirts, women
clad in barn coats and khaki pants. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Unfortunately,
there is no universal answer to alleviate this pain. There’s no prayer to say,
no spell to cast and no drug to take it all away. As long as you remember the loved
ones you lost, remember how much they meant to you, how much you miss them, there’s
going to be a sting right here,” he said, pointing to his heart, “and right
here,” he said, clutching his stomach.<b> <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
At the end of that
sentence, I peered down the pew at Meg again. Looking forward to Finn, she was
biting the inside of her mouth, holding in her emotions as best she could.
Despite her efforts, a single tear slid down her right cheek, causing me to
look away before I duplicated her reaction.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Over these past
four years, I can assure each of you that I’ve felt that sting many times, too
many times to count. But the only way I’ve ever been able to alleviate that
sting, that pain, is to do something that made those lost loved ones happy; something
that made them sing or dance or laugh. Though I may be hurting, they’re the
ones who are gone, the ones not around to bask in the things we can enjoy every
day,” he said. “So yesterday, I played a little Neil Young in the rectory, for
Colleen and Tom. I turned it up nice and loud, even opened a window or two to
get the music out to Okell Street. One of the songs I played was a little
number called ‘Long May You Run.’ Has anyone heard it?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
A few nods and smiles
greeted his question. Most faces seemed frozen, anticipatory of where Finn was
going with all of this. Waiting, they watched as he walked back up to the altar
and over to its podium.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“If you haven’t
heard it, you’re about to hear it from me and my old Fender here,” he said,
reaching under the podium to pull out his chipped and scuffed acoustic guitar.
“When I think of my sister and her husband, I think of music like this and the
happy times they spent listening to it, together. I also think of Colleen playing
this song over and over again when we were younger and—” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
He stopped to let
a laugh slip, then paused to scratch the back of his head and gather himself.
Before he could let his own tears slip down his face, he inhaled and looked up through
St. Stephen’s ceiling, then back to his waiting parishioners. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Now, if I can just
get through this song in one piece, maybe I can give the two of them something
to smile about as they look down on us all, okay?” he said before another deep,
composing breath. “All right then.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
He tossed his
guitar’s leather strap over his shoulder, and applause erupted throughout the
congregation, a Catholic oddity that was a mere regularity at St. Stephen’s. After
he tossed a harmonica harness around his neck to perform some of the song’s
most memorable instrumentation, he got another rousing ovation before he
strummed and sang about things to do in stormy weather, about changes that have
come. I didn’t look to Meg throughout his performance. I didn’t need to. As I
absorbed every sound that soothed from Finn’s Fender, I knew we were channeling
the same memories of our smiling parents. The same nights when they danced
around our kitchen together to this same Neil Young song. Instead of turning to
my left, I bit the inside of my mouth and enjoyed those chords as they bounced
down side aisles and off stained-glass windows.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
After Finn clipped
his last note, he talked about how some of the song’s lyrics connected to his
points about the pain of loss, about honoring our lost. This elicited more nods
of recognition and understanding, then a shower of applause at the sermon’s
end. In the entire diocese, St. Stephen’s was the only Catholic church where
cheers after the homily were expected and accepted. But in the entire Diocese
of Buffalo, there was only one Father Finn Leary. With him, you always expected
the unexpected.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
After mass, I headed downtown to the
corner of Allen Street and Elmwood Avenue with Meg and the boys to find the
sunlit interiors of Jim’s Steakout, a downtown Mecca for loyal bleu cheese and
hot sauce-soaked chicken finger sub disciples like Brendan. After local
taverns’ nightly last call at four a.m., Steakout routinely became packed with intoxicated
loyalists, hungry for greasy wings and subs. Thankful that no one from that
crowd was still hanging around, we huddled into a wooden booth for Brendan’s
birthday celebration. Every Nolan was present—except one. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“It’s a real shame
she couldn’t be here,” said Meg of my expectant wife, Dana. “What happened
again?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“She got called
into work,” I said, frustrated as I straightened myself up in the bench and
took a sip of my Dr. Pepper. “Guess the staff’s post-work drinking got out of
hand last night and left a few waitresses violently ill this morning. Her boss
called frantic at around ten, so she has to serve through lunch and dinner. She
sends her birthday wishes, though. She really wanted to be here, and felt worse
about having to miss the mass.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Should we go over
there and say hello?” she asked before sipping her Diet Coke.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“If you were three
months pregnant and exhausted, would you want people to come visit you at
work?” I asked. “Trust me, we’re better off here. She was pretty pissed this
morning, so we should definitely give her the day to cool off.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Meg smiled while extending
a sympathetic hand to my shoulder. After I took a deep, composing breath, I
looked out one of the restaurant’s windows to see a young couple walking up
Elmwood together. Both in black T-shirts and exposing their tattooed arms, they
wrapped those limbs around each other’s waist as the strolled through the crosswalk
at Allen and kissed on the opposite corner. Together on a Sunday; together to
laugh and touch and feel in front of strangers, in front of passing motorists
and mountain bikes. For a brief moment, I imagined myself on that Allen corner,
clutching Dana absent of inconvenient obstructions that intruded on our lives.
There’d be no Sunday shifts, no tables to wait on. There’d be no other place to
be than that street corner, holding and touching and kissing within our own black-and-white
photograph. Absent this desire, I let the couple walk from my view and continue
up the avenue. I instead turned to focus on my reality, one that sat my nephews
across the table from me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Okay, boys,” I
said, extending my knuckles to both their fists for a bump. “Are we ready for a
birthday lunch or what?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Yeah,” they said,
then reached around their Cokes and connected with my fists. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“So, what are we
ordering? Brendan, since you’re the man of the hour, I think you can do the
honors and start us off.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“How about a large
pizza with extra pepperoni, waffle fries with gravy, and a chicken finger sub
for me?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Quieter than Mickey,
Brendan had sandy blond hair and freckles across his face, marks poached from
his mother. Thin but growing, he was already the star forward for his youth
hockey team, the Hawks. Though emotionally reserved, the slick lefty was all heart
on the ice, shining with grit and hustle when he’d fly after a loose puck and
ignite a breakaway. After he’d flip a wrist shot over the shoulder of an
opposing goaltender, he’d skate along the boards and flash a wide grin
underneath his wire facemask. Once the season ended, he’d spend proceeding
months repetitiously shooting an orange street hockey ball at a tape square on
his battered garage door. Meg grew tired of making him come into the house at
nightfall, so she had a garage spotlight installed to shine on Brendan and his
target. She said it helped him see the square better, but I think she wanted a
brighter view of the kid, a way to keep him closer as she watched from the
kitchen window. Growing older and ordering saucy, scalding chicken finger subs,
he was growing up fast. Meg knew it.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“And who do you think
is going to eat all this food, mister?” she asked. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Yeah,” I added. “You
think the Mick’s gonna eat half a pizza himself?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I could do it,”
said Mickey, sitting up straight and putting his small hands on the table. “I
went to my friend’s house last week and had three pieces of pizza all by
myself.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“It was a sheet
pizza, Mickey,” Brendan said before leaning forward to dismiss his baby
brother’s significant achievement. “Those pieces are smaller, so they don’t count
as whole slices.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Yes they do,”
screamed Mickey. “Mommy, tell Brendan they count. They count!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
With floppy brown
hair tickling his eyebrows and covering forehead freckles, Mickey was feisty,
tough and shorter than his brother. The kid looked like he’d be a fighter one
day, the type whose forearms would breathe out of black rolled-up sleeves in
the doorway of a downtown tavern. Though only in the first grade, he didn’t let
Brendan push him around. Dealing with his mother was a different story. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Michael Patrick
Nolan, you will lower your voice right now,” Meg calmly scolded, with dark eyes
opened wide and use of the boy’s full, baptismal name. “Do you want me to take
you out of here before we order even a slice of pizza?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“No, Mommy.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
What made Meg such
a good single mother was the line she drew between playmate and policeman, a
distinction that earned her the simultaneous adoration and respect of her boys.
In her early thirties, she looked younger. Her brown hair dropped to her
shoulders and complemented scattered freckles over smooth, soft skin. She
should have appeared more worn, working long hours as a court stenographer
downtown. As a woman who’d been left alone to raise two boys, she should have stood
angrier, full of a jaded distrust. It would have been understandable. The boys’
father, a loathsome fucker named Billy Doyle, fled Buffalo’s city limits in an
F-150 pick-up before Mickey was born and hadn’t been heard from since. Billy
and Meg didn’t marry before or after Brendan was born, so Meg attached our surname
to her newborn boy. Maybe she did this because, somewhere deep down, she knew
Billy would eventually split—and fulfill the underwhelming promise of every guy
she drew close. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Meg knew how to be
a mother; she was good at it. She was terrible at picking men, and had a tremendous
knack for scooping the wrong ones. Before Billy Doyle, there was Joey Braun, a long-haired
Lynyrd Skynyrd guy who drank frightening amounts of Southern Comfort—even for a
Buffalonian. After Joe came Bobby Collins, a huge fan of Rush, jean jackets and
cocaine. He stuffed about a thousand dollars of Meg’s money into one of his
denim pockets before eventually landing in rehab. Finally, the quick-fisted Kevin
Quinn stormed into Meg’s life to the thirsty licks of Van Halen’s “Panama.” A
month into their relationship, Quinn earned a week’s stay at the Erie County
Holding Center for instigating a massive drunken brawl inside Ralph Wilson
Stadium. Shortly after, he earned the boot from Meg. His incarceration sucked all
the promise out of their relationship. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Next to that calamitous
trio, Billy seemed God-sent. Unfortunately, while she was pregnant with Mickey,
Meg endured while Billy fulfilled his predictable destiny. He left her, split town
without warning, and without leaving a forwarding address. If there were any
positives to be taken from the situation, it was Meg’s tremendous foresight in
legally making Brendan a Nolan, not a Doyle. When Mickey was born, he too became
a Nolan, one more to add to Brendan, Meg and me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
When our parents
died, we became the final four, the only Nolans left. Meg and I got over the
loss partly by putting everything we had into her boys, who needed the love and
guidance our parents gave to us. Every day, Meg and I thought about that
guidance, thought about the things we’d have to do to honor our parents’
memory. There were the children’s books they read us, the open-air folk
concerts they walked us to. There was the night our mother blindfolded us, put
us in the car and drove us out to a surprise double-feature at the Buffalo
Drive-In. There was our trip to old War Memorial Stadium to see The Beach Boys
play, that humid summer night our father danced with us in the aisle. These were
the memories we laughed and cried inside of before taking a deep breath and wishing
they were each still alive, still around to be grandparents to Brendan and Mickey.
With my fatherhood approaching, I wondered how I’d ever approach my parents’
dedication, their selflessness. With two boys already under her tutelage, Meg’s
actions were her answers. She handled her boys masterfully, just like our
parents would have. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“And Brendan,” she
continued, “I don’t care if it is your birthday. You don’t embarrass your
brother in front of Uncle John. Three pieces of sheet pizza is plenty in my
book.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Mine too,” I said
to Mickey. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I offered my fist
across the table again to meet his kid-sized version before he flashed his
tough, first-grade smile. After civility was restored, I went to the counter, put
our order in and returned to the booth to settle in.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“So,” I said,
tapping my fingertips on the table, “are we doing presents now or are we
waiting until after we eat?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“What do you want
to do, Brendan?” said Meg. “It’s your day, so it’s your choice.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Her sentence was
barely finished before Brendan decided.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Can we do the
presents now, please?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Such polite kids.
If I thought Meg would let me, I’d have bought them presents every week. As the
dominant male presence in their lives, I wanted to make up for the guy who
wasn’t there, the coward who hit the road when reality became inconvenient. She
wouldn’t have any of that. No charity for her or the boys. Just familial love,
doled out in reasonable portions on weekdays, birthdays and holidays. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Here’s mine,
pal.” I pushed a two-tiered package across the table. First was the small square
on top, which he tore open. Holding the gift, he seemed grateful, yet
unfamiliar with the disc case in his hands.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Who is the Sam
Roberts Band?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Group I’ve been
listening to, from Canada,” I said. “Rock and roll, lots of guitar. You’ll love
it, I promise you. If it’s nice out this weekend, we’ll take a ride to the
skate park and listen to it in the car together, okay?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Sure, Uncle John,
sure,” he said, politely smiling like he did at some of the other albums I’d
given him over the previous nine years of his life. “Thank you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Uncle John, can I
listen too?” asked Mickey. “I like rock and roll.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Sure thing, Mick.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Meg and I grew up
with the music of our parents, addicted to their Beatles and Bob Dylan records,
their piles of Paul Simon cassette tapes. Music was a Nolan tradition, so for
every one of the boys’ birthdays, I bought them each a CD or two to go with
whatever toys or clothes or sports equipment they actually wanted. What I didn’t
give them, Meg played for them, spinning the Grateful Dead’s hazy jams or Neil
Young’s acoustical yearn on vinyl in place of bedtime stories. Unfortunately,
both were too young to have seen me play the Nighthawk, but they’d heard the
stories from their mother. Meg also had a bootleg recording of one of my shows,
one she had the bar’s sound guys rip from the soundboard years back. When she
played it for Brendan and Mickey, they loved it, so I broke out Deirdre from
time to time and played a few of the tunes I used to cover on those Friday
nights. On these occasions, I was their rocker uncle. On their birthdays, I was
their music teacher.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
When Brendan
opened the second box, he was as excited as ever. Folded under tissue paper, he
found a throwback royal blue and gold Sabres hockey jersey adorned with the
name and number of his favorite Sabre, forward Derek Roy. With eyes wide and
mouth agape, pure jubilation radiated as he pulled the jersey over his head and
slid his arms into the sleeves. A perfect fit.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“So that’s why you
wanted to open the presents, huh?” hushed Meg. “You show-off. How am I supposed
to compete with that?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Sorry,” I said,
even though I wasn’t. I basked in Brendan’s satisfaction and youthful awe. “I
saw it and had to grab it. What do you think, Brendan?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Thank you so
much,” he said before sliding over to give me another knuckle pound. “Thank
you, thank you, thank you.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
With wrapping paper, tissue and box strewn
across the table, Brendan ran his fingers over the stitched logo on the front
of the jersey, the raging white buffalo and the crossed swords. When he found
the gold stripes on the sleeves, he went over those as well, entranced. He
didn’t even look up to see our bounty of food arrive. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Brendan, you
should take that jersey off and put it back in the box before you start
eating,” said Meg. “You don’t want to get bleu cheese or pizza sauce on it, do
you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I don’t care,”
Brendan said, smiling while he puffed out his chest and ran his hands over the
front of the jersey again. “I’m never taking this off, Ma. Never.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Meg sighed, then relented.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Fine, but tuck
that napkin into the neck and put another on your lap. Right now.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
We dug into the
pizza and let the birthday boy pound down his bleu cheese-soaked chicken finger
sub. Delicious grease coated each pizza slice’s layer of cheese and pepperoni,
and dripped from our chins to the tabletop when we took bites. Mickey tried to
eat his first slice fast, storing each large bite in the sides of his mouth
like a greedy chipmunk. When one side of his mouth was packed, he jammed bites
of mozzarella and tomato sauce in the other. He lowered his eyebrows to glare
at Brendan through every bite. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Mickey, don’t be
a little pig,” said Meg. “Chew every bite and swallow before adding another.
This isn’t some sort of race. Chew. Chew. Swallow.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
While scolding
Mickey, she missed Brendan devouring his sandwich, pushing Frank’s hot sauce,
bits of creamy bleu cheese and shards of lettuce out the back of his sub roll
with every bite. After we finished, our table lay in ruins, with soda and hot
sauce and bits of chicken strewn about the tabletop. On the tin pizza tray laid
a single pepperoni. Mickey snatched it up, tossed it into his mouth and smiled
wide: all teeth. Just as I was about to get up to clear this damage, a large
hand from behind me touched my shoulder before a voice joined it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“You can’t have a
birthday without a cake, right?” said Finn in his deep baritone as he held a
white and green frosted cake with 10 unlit candles above my head.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Uncle Finn,” the
boys yelled and jumped from their seats to hand out low-fives. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“What do you say,
men?” he asked. He always called the boys <i>men</i>.
After he handed me the cake, he mussed Mickey’s floppy hair and gave Brendan a
pat on the back. Finn was our mother’s only brother, the last close relative we
had to share birthdays and holidays with. That morning, he was a popular
clergyman. In Jim’s Steakout, wearing blue jeans, a red flannel shirt and his
brown secondhand overcoat, he was Uncle Finn. That was enough for us.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“So what is a
great uncle to give his great nephew on such a great birthday?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Brendan shrugged,
waiting. Finn reached behind our wooden booth’s wall and revealed a hockey
stick with a red bow attached to the top. When Brendan gripped the handle, his
eyes lit up wide. Again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“A buddy of mine at
the arena owed me a favor,” said Finn, a smile curling the corner of his mouth.
“On that stick are the autographs of every Sabre on last year’s team, even that
defenseman who was traded to San Jose.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Brian Campbell?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“You got it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Wow,” said Brendan,
his mouth open as he read every name scribbled on the stick. “Thanks, Uncle
Finn. Thanks a lot.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
After I pushed the
cake to the center of the table, I folded my arms across my chest and turned to
shake my head.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Nice try,” I
whispered, “but he can’t wear that stick. I bought him the Roy sweater, so I
win this year.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Sure, John. Sure.” He put both hands on my shoulders
and leaned toward my ear. “But what if I told you my arena buddy got that stick
from Roy’s locker? What would the score be then?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Um, call it
even?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Deal,” he
laughed, then turned his attention back to the boys. “I see I missed the
feeding frenzy, but do you think there’s room for cake?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Finn headed to the
front counter to grab five forks and a plastic knife, then returned to light
the cake’s candles with the royal blue lighter he pulled from his pocket. After
we sang the birthday song, Brendan extinguished the candles and Finn served
each sliced section on a napkin. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“So, did you hear
about the gig we booked?” he said, sliding into the bench across from me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“What gig?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“We slid into a
spot for Strummerville, the Joe Strummer tribute night in December at your old
stomping grounds, the Nighthawk,” he said. “We go on around 10-ish, after some old
ska band called Mustache Tango. We’ve been practicing a bunch of Clash covers,
so it should be pretty wild.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Many things made
Finn popular within the St. Stephen’s community, but nothing made him more
notable with the parish’s youth and music enthusiasts than his wildly
entertaining side gig. In local wedding halls, bars and the occasional downtown
rock hole, Father Finn Leary was the only Buffalo priest who punched keys for a
rollicking, non-denominational, piano-infused punk rock band called the Nickel
City Kings. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
In the years
before he entered the priesthood, Finn was a normal, scruffy guy who played
piano for a variety of local bands. After working with the city’s youth at St.
Jude’s during the day, he spent his nights toiling in the smoke-filled bars and
clubs that shook with Buffalo’s rock and blues acts of the late 1980s. He was just
a passionate musician, one tinkling ivory keys behind gravely vocals and spastic
guitar work; one trying to emulate the work of his vinyl heroes like Richard
Manuel and Roy Bittan. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
That was before
Finn’s moment, before the transformational minutes of an event that led him away
from his nights as a side musician and toward his unforeseen spiritual calling.
He never told me the specifics of those minutes, the exact details of a scene
that transformed his existence. All he ever said was it was as if a light
switch was flipped on, as if his situational darkness was lifted and illuminated
by an idea that seemed so right, so absolutely necessary. And so began the
merger of the piano man with the priest, a union that instilled Finn with a
duality that unconventionally augmented his position as the latter. His whole musical
presence made him more relatable, more human to his parishioners. But for
Buffalo’s tattooed barflies, jukebox armies and blues junkies, they could care
less about Finn’s odd spiritual balancing act. As long as he was around to mash
those black and whites, to hit those keys with the same fervor as he had before
he donned the blacks and white, he’d have crowds to bask in his rhythmic
presence. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“We picked up a
new bass player, this big Jamaican named Neko,” said Finn. “Guy’s got a decent
handle and a phenomenal stage presence. He just stalks his stage corner, slaps
his strings and swings his dreads. The kids at our last show loved him.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Nobody threw a
shoe at him?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“No one,” he said,
laughing. “But honestly, how many bands have lost two bass players to
shoe-induced injuries? It has to mean something, right?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Punishment from
the Almighty?” I suggested. “Maybe he’s not a fan of the new material.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“If the good Lord
wanted to break up the band, he’d have to break my hands.” Finn held up his
palms up and wiggled his fingers. “Also, our new songs are brilliant. Imagine
Mick Jones riffs married with Billy Joel keys. You’d pay to hear that, right?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Who wouldn’t?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“That’s why you have
to come out to the Strummerville show,” he replied, then slapped the tabletop
for emphasis. “We’re going to slide in a few new numbers among Clash covers, so
it’s going to be great. Bring Dana and we’ll make a night of it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I’ll get back to
you on that,” I said before slouching in my bench. “Dana will be almost five
months in by then, so it could be dicey. She’s been having a tough go of it,
carrying the pregnancy through school and work. I could use a few prayers for
the two, er, three or us. Please.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“You got it, kid,”
he said, then reached across the table and slapped my arm. “I pray for you guys
every day, but I’ll put in a special call to the boss tonight.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
He always referred
to God as <i>the boss</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“By late December,”
he said, “you’ll be relaxed, the little Nolan won’t be stirring, and the wife
will be begging you, <i>pleading</i> with
you for a night of top-rate piano playing at the Nighthawk. Priest and uncle’s
promise.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Tell the boss I
give my best,” I said, smiling. “And say hello to my parents, too, will you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I always do, John,” he said. “I always do.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">(Interested in purchasing <i>When the Lights Go Out</i>? Get it <a href="https://www.amazon.com/When-Lights-Out-Michael-Farrell/dp/0692524479/ref=sr_1_11?ie=UTF8&qid=1478721947&sr=8-11&keywords=when+the+lights+go+out">here</a>.)</span>Michael Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456704796652317256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-189861602738161477.post-65145584716118056902016-11-04T07:59:00.004-07:002016-11-04T07:59:49.207-07:00"When the Lights Go Out" - Chapter One<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_vgXh0lUBgs/WByhc2217YI/AAAAAAAAAa8/jbozqLR0ZG4qQ4-jqx5lWXdkcFejzocxgCLcB/s1600/WTLGO%2B%2528cover%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_vgXh0lUBgs/WByhc2217YI/AAAAAAAAAa8/jbozqLR0ZG4qQ4-jqx5lWXdkcFejzocxgCLcB/s320/WTLGO%2B%2528cover%2529.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Old Standard TT;"><span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;"><i>(Author's note: Last fall, I welcomed the release of my second novel, </i><a href="http://hamburg.wgrz.com/news/news/254031-no-frills-release-when-lights-go-out-michael-farrell-november-10">When the Lights Go Ou</a>t<i>. From its earliest stages, drafted throughout two years in grad school and edited after an unexpected return to Buffalo, it took six years to finish. </i></span></span></span><div>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Old Standard TT;"><span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;"><i><br /></i></span></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Old Standard TT;"><span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;"><i>But as personally momentous of an occasion as this was, the novel was easily a distant second to another event that happened two days after its finalization: the birth of my son. </i></span></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Old Standard TT;"><span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;"><i><br /></i></span></span></span></div>
<div>
<i><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Old Standard TT;"><span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">Yes, I was able to host some events at bars and bookstores and distribute some information over social media and through small publications. And yes, the work's found plenty of readers, ones that have been able to relate to the story's characters, its relationship between music and its meaning, and its elements of love, family and the ability to wade through tragedy in order to find some sort of purpose. </span></span></span></i></div>
<div>
<i><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Old Standard TT;"><span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;"><br /></span></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Old Standard TT;"><span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">B</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Old Standard TT;"><span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">ut overall, I wasn't able to promote the novel the way it should've been promoted. I thankfully had (and still have) more important things to worry about, and distributing the novel's contents to a larger audience fell by the wayside. </span></span></i><i style="font-family: 'Old Standard TT'; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">I'd like to change that, starting today. </i></div>
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<i style="font-family: 'Old Standard TT'; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;"><br /></i></div>
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<i style="font-family: 'Old Standard TT'; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">Below, you'll find the book's first chapter, and the next five will follow on the next five Fridays, ending December 9. If you like what you read, you can pick up the rest of it inside local Buffalo bookstores like Talking Leaves and Dog Ears; in paperback and Kindle form on <a href="https://www.amazon.com/When-Lights-Out-Michael-Farrell/dp/0692524479/ref=sr_1_9?ie=UTF8&qid=1478270817&sr=8-9&keywords=when+the+lights+go+out">Amazon</a>; in under-scanned Internet areas like <a href="http://www.indiebound.org/book/9780692524473">IndieBound</a>; or with the publisher at <a href="http://www.nfbpublishing.com/product-page/2e6d5847-3eba-5934-71f7-98c51467ac0d">No Frills/Amelia</a>. </i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Old Standard TT;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Old Standard TT;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;"><i>In the meantime, please enjoy the Buffalo-inspired content below, and keep checking back over the next weeks.) </i></span></span></div>
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<b style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><u>1</u></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Once upon a time<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>I had a life in mind<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>But then one day along
the way<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>That dream was left
behind<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
-“What I Lost” by J. Nolan</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Four years ago, I
was someone else.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I was Johnny
Nolan, an acoustic guitarist who performed at the Nighthawk, a glorious and
dingy downtown rock hole in Buffalo, New York. Every Friday night it used to be
just me, isolated on stage, straddling a creaky stool in front of a white
backdrop. The heat from overhead yellow, blue and red bulbs burned my eyelids.
My left fingers aligned between frets on Deirdre, my Martin D-15 guitar. My
right index finger and thumb clasped a small orange pick. The microphone waited,
alive and hot. When I would glance out over the bar, I’d see strangers clutching
beer bottles and pint glasses, taking sips of semi-cold Old Vienna and waiting
for action. They’d shout together, join in a rhythmic arena-like chant of
“Johnny Nolan” then clap five times (like <i>John-nee
No-lan,</i> <i>clap, clap, clap-clap-clap</i>).
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
After the chant
circulated five or six times, I’d bring the guitar to my knee and begin to
strum, slowly but fluidly. The first line of lyrics, then the second. During
the breaks in vocals, I’d shake my head around, like I was winding up for the
next lyrical delivery. Every line would pour out, would wail through the crowded
barroom, wrap around neon Budweiser signs and seep through the hairline cracks
of windows weathered from harsh winters. The guitar chords bounced off steel coolers
littered with Avail and Trashcan Sinatra stickers, walls that donned mounted
Fender guitars and a framed Elvis concert poster from 1957. One cover song, then
another. Once in a while, I’d throw in a Johnny Nolan original, just to make
things interesting. Pretty girls in the front gazed and smiled. Tough guys in
back nodded approval while ordering another round of beers. To others, those
nights may have seemed insignificant or amateur. To me, those Fridays meant
everything.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
On one of those nights,
I attracted a fan, a wiry blonde named Sara.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“With no ‘h’,” she
insisted.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
She had a sweet,
bright smile when she laughed and cornflower blue eyes that opened wide when
she emphasized the last word of every sentence. She also spoke about old punk
music at such a frenetic and jittery pace I feared she’d collapse mid-sentence.
Still, two hours after I stepped off stage that Friday, I sat in front of her
on a leather-seated barstool, listening. She just rolled along, standing up
straight for delivery.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I love, love,
love, love the Ramones and I hate people that say all their songs sound the
same because, yeah, I know they sound the same because they’re all, like,
totally fucking awesome and I’m not sure they’ve ever made a bad song, except
maybe ‘Pet Cemetery,’ but I still like that song, but I don’t love it, and I
want to love it, but I used to have this dog named Charlie who was hit by a
school bus and every time I hear that song it reminds me of poor little Charlie
getting run over, and I cry and cry and I don’t want to cry because I love the
Ramones and all their songs and how fucking awesome they are, you know?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I listened to her
talk and nodded along between sips of beer. She was definitely a shade off, maybe
on something. On Friday nights, I’d met girls way crazier, even ones who
straddled the line between odd and socially problematic. There was the angry
girl who gave a detailed explanation of the motivation behind her demonic wrist
tattoo; the Jack Daniel’s drinker who moaned about my lack of inspired Bon Jovi
numbers; the overtly flirtatious college student who’d send provocative
pictures of herself to my cell phone every Wednesday. When my guitar was near me,
I was approached by all types. Sara was one of them, and those hypnotic eyes
were one reason I didn’t grab my guitar and split for the door. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
That night, after
the Nighthawk closed, we sat on the bar’s curb, sharing a cigarette just down
the street from Lafayette Square. We exchanged drags, exhaled before we kissed,
then repeated through a warm lakefront breeze. During breaks in the action, she
rambled on about an old band called Brent’s TV who played California laundromats.
I nodded politely while intermittently kissing her neck and cheeks between
sentences. Eventually, she jumped up from the curb.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Do you want to do
something crazy, like, right now?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Sure,” I said.
“What and where?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“We have to go to
my car. It’s across from the square.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
She walked quickly
ahead of me as I plodded behind her, carrying my guitar case and wondering what
she had hiding in her car. Would we up the ante on the curb fondling, or did
she plan on taking this night in a whole new direction? Heavy drugs? Petty
vandalism? She seemed crazy enough that nothing aside from homicide was off
limits. When I got to her white Grand Am, though, she was already in the back seat,
taking off her pants. When I saw this, I lightly rapped on the window.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Um, should I come
in?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“No,” she
answered. “Just wait out there, please. I don’t want to ruin the surprise.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I turned my back to
the car and let Sara finish whatever it was she was doing. I could hear her
shifting and struggling, her bare skin squeaking against the leather upholstery
while she prepared for whatever crazy thing we were about to do. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Tell you what,”
she said. “Why don’t you wait for me in the square? I’ll be over in a minute.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Under a bright,
full moon that shined on the windows of shuttered storefronts and closed
convenience shops, I headed over to the small park, complete with empty benches
and strewn debris from recent outdoor concerts. The sun would soon sneak up to
find me standing in the middle of a vacant park, waiting for this Sara. As I
leaned against a tree, hands in my jean pockets, I lit another cigarette before
she began her approach from across the street. In each of her hands, she held a
short rope with dripping, softball-sized spheres attached to the ends. In place
of the tight black pants and simple white T-shirt she wore in the bar were a
long-sleeved fitted orange tee and free-flowing, bell-bottomed nylon windpants,
navy blue with orange flames stitched on the outer seams. Her earlobe-length blonde
hair was now pulled back tightly into a ponytail to reveal dark roots. When she
reached me, she grinned mischievously.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Can I use your lighter?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Can I ask for
what?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Just give me the
lighter and back up,” she said, like she was warning me to look both ways
before crossing the street.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I handed over my
green Bic and took a few steps back. With the lighter, Sara lit the end of the
first rope, saturated in kerosene. With one rope ablaze, she ignited the other.
When flames engulfed both rope ends, she began a maniacal dance, flinging the
ropes over her shoulders and around her legs. She tossed one up in the air,
then the other as I covered my face. Twirling the flames, she whirled around like
some fanatical dervish. With her blue eyes now wide to emphasize nothing but
fevered insanity, she was celebrating for whatever occasion the ropes and
kerosene and firepants were trotted out. Finally, as she spun both ropes around,
a portion of one of the fireballs detached and landed on a tree branch above my
head, sending down a rush of sparks. After I ducked, I darted to the right, away
from the tree. Sara was unfazed and continued to flip the ropes, despite the
detachment. For her finale, she rapidly and simultaneously twirled both ropes at
her sides, then dropped them to the ground. She leapt into the air, touching
her toes in a full split. When her feet came down, she landed on the ropes’ lit
ends and extinguished each with a single plant of her fireproof shoes. Standing
atop each, she posed, arms raised to the night sky, under the stars and
moonlight of downtown Buffalo. I clapped wildly while walking toward her as she
smiled and laughed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Very impressive,”
I said. “Definitely don’t think I’ll ever experience a show like that again.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Well,” she said,
grasping my hips before pulling me close to her, “if you think that show was
impressive, prepare to be dazzled twice in one night.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
She grabbed me by
my shirt and pulled me down to the shadowed grass. After mounting herself on
top of me, her thighs straddling my hips, she ripped off my T-shirt and flung
it toward a nearby bench. She ran her hands over my chest before she took off
her top and tossed it toward mine. As her soft hands ran over the inked
outlines on my arms, her mouth found my chest to kiss and gently nibble every
inch of it she could find. I lay on my back and grasped her hips, staring into
the sky and loving every second before a thick aroma overtook the moment.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Do you smell
something burning?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I was just
tossing some burning ropes around. You think that might be it?” she deadpanned,
then brought her lips back to my chest before her fingers left to fiddle with
my belt.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“No, no,” I said.
“I think it’s something else.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
After I said this,
I looked to my right. In the leaves of a large nearby oak tree, smoke wafted
out as small flames emerged within. It had taken a few minutes, but that detached
fireball from Sara’s dance routine had ignited the fresh leaves and branches
above.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Um, Sara?” I said.
“What do you say we go back to my place?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“What? Why? This
is so—,” she said, then turned to see the nearby smoke and flames. “Oh shit! Yeah,
we should go.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
She hopped off me,
tossed me my shirt and feverishly pulled her own back on. I jumped to my feet, buckled
my pants and grabbed my guitar. I took hold of Sara’s hand before she ran me to
her car across the street. At the doors of her Grand Am, we heard a police
siren wailing, approaching in the distance. We slammed both doors behind us,
Sara hit the gas, and we fled a scene of accidental arson while laughing
hysterically. The next morning, Sara the Fire Dancer was gone. I never saw her
again, and our fling existed as a one-night affair. Unfortunately, that
downtown tree was irrevocably affected. Our evening generated a giant bare spot
it still has within its branches today.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
These days, when I
stroll past that Lafayette Square tree, I remember those wild Nighthawk nights,
when everything was still carefree and unhinged. But those Fridays have been
gone for four years now. They were the nights before I was married, before I
prepared to become a father; before I left the stage and found a desk. It was a
time before everything changed and transitioned as quickly as power chords,
sliding from fret to fret. It was before the diagnosis, the hospital bed, the
endless tears from the eyes of my father, my uncle Finn, my sister Meghan. It
was before breast cancer snatched my mother, before a clutching hand on the
chest of a navy ski vest became the last living image I’d have of my father. It
was before everything in my life was transformed in a matter of weeks. It was
before things that once seemed so important were dwarfed by the enormity of
death and loss. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
My mother went
first, lying emaciated and still in a Mercy Hospital bed on a cold December day.
As I peered down at the once beautiful Colleen Nolan, her pale, freckled skin
yellowed and thin, the memories flowed forth. The nights she served up cold Dr.
Peppers and Neil Young records on our front porch as Lake Erie breezes whisked
up our street and kissed our faces; the frosty winter mornings she stirred up bowls
of apple cinnamon oatmeal and mugs of hot chocolate. The sight of my mother as
she took her last breaths curdled my stomach. The harsh realization that the
aforementioned maternal moments would never be replicated stabbed it, ignited a
sharp pain in my right side. Instead of succumbing to the sting, I clutched my
mother’s limp hand, moved my fingers around in her palm and hoped her eyes
would flutter open one last time. When I watched Finn walk into her room
dressed in his blacks and Catholic collar, I knew it was too late. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“I
know this is hard on everyone,” said Finn, standing at bedside with the three
of us. “But we have to trust there’s a reason for this, a reason only God
understands. Please, somewhere in your broken hearts, try to believe. Let us
pray.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Tears
streamed down Meg’s face as she reached for my hand. My father clenched his
teeth, held back his tears. Looking out a window and into the falling South
Buffalo snow, he grabbed for Meg’s hand before he clutched onto Finn’s. I still
held my mother’s hand, staring into her closed eyelids as I panned across her freckled
forehead, her hanging auburn locks that dusted each mark. I reluctantly closed
my eyelids and bowed my head under Finn’s prayers. For one moment, I stopped my
mind from spiraling wildly into darkness, into pain and hopelessness. For one
moment, I reached out to God and asked him to take my mother into his welcoming
embrace. And just like that, she was his. Not mine. Not ours.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
A
month later, it was my father, struck with a heart attack as he shoveled the
heavy lake-effect snow at the end of our driveway. As I cleared our sidewalk, I
saw him drop the metal shovel before he tumbled helplessly into a snow pile. I ran
to him and found him struggling to breathe, his hand scratching at his chest as
his body lay twitching, encased in white. When I leaned over him to help, he
grabbed my navy pea coat collar and pulled me down to his face as I struggled
to break free and get to a phone. With his teeth clenched tight and his dark Irish
eyes frightened, he stared right through me, but wouldn’t let go. He let the
pain in his eyes act as the saddened and desperate voice he didn’t have.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Pops,”
I yelled. “Pops, you gotta let me go. Pops!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
With
his grip still tight, his dying sight emitted one more glare, one more emotive
stare that said goodbye. Those browns rolled to the side under weakened lids
and I stared at him, petrified. His clutch on my coat loosened and I broke
free. I tore up the driveway and into the kitchen, grabbed a phone and called
for an ambulance. I screamed into the receiver with frightening urgency,
stammering details. Then, I ran back outside to find Tom Nolan unconscious, his
eyelids closed as his face rested in the snow, with more falling from the sky
to sprinkle across his navy vest and brown wool cap. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Frozen in shock, I
could only stare at his body and mumble inaudible hopes. I could only hope for
some spiritual intervention to right this cruel injustice. I could only linger
until God realized his mistake. There was no way he was taking them both. No
fucking way. As minutes disappeared with my father motionless, my mind raced
with evaporating moments. Paul Simon’s voice soothing from the old man’s stereo
and out a screen window, over his canned beer and into our backyard; the sight of
him at the Nighthawk, leaning against the bar with a bottle of Genesee, nodding
approval as I sat on the stage. As those times were fading, my father slipped
away, unable to be awoken by my screaming pleas or the blaring sirens that
arrived too late. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
And this was when
the lights went out, when the darkness of loss dimmed the Nighthawk bulbs and
transitioned me toward another life, another existence. It pushed me away from
the stage and into the arms of family, into an embrace that soothed the trauma
of absence. That absence irrevocably loomed over the isolated stool and
microphone that projected my voice over the Nighthawk’s revelers. I could no
longer appreciate the adulation of the beer sluggers and booze sippers who
huddled in the bar’s dark corners and yelled for Springsteen covers. From my
spot on that stage, I stopped enjoying the cheers of those present and became
hollowed by the evidence of those missing, the empty spaces once filled by my
mother and father. In this state, I walked away from the Nighthawk. I packed up
Deirdre and let my moments of Friday mayhem fade into memory. As painful as it
was to exit, it had to happen. The act of performing had merged with a pain too
significant to play through. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
There was a time when
I could play through any problem, when one strum of my guitar cured all. When I
clutched that Martin’s mahogany, all worries dissipated with a simple touch of
its rosewood fingerboard. I didn’t care about anything except the strings, the
chords, or the sounds; every issue I had disappeared. These days, I bring that
guitar into my kitchen, set it on my lap and tune the strings. I caress the
brown finish, run my fingers over the Nolan family crest sticker still clinging
to the back. I run my left hand down the seductive neck, feel the nicks and splintered
spots on the wood. I line up a chord and flick my fingernails against the
strings. I slide from one chord to another and ignite a sound that doesn’t
bring about sadness, but recollection. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Each note ushers
in a moment from those Friday nights at the Nighthawk, the nights sweat glazed
my Celtic arm tattoos, rolled down my long brown hair and collected on the
stubble of my unshaven face. I think of the bottle of Budweiser that rested
next to my stool’s leg. I’d pick it up, take a swig under the burning bulbs. If
I took a long drink, hoots came from the back to encourage a finish. Someone
else would yell out and jokingly ask me to play “Freebird.” After I put down
the beer, I’d run my hand through my hair, flip the long strands away from my
eyes. I’d start to strum, concentrate on the chord changes before I glared out
to the crowd and exhaled one of their favorites. As I sang, people stood
clapping, stomping and singing. Couples would swing around as my strings
jangled and twanged. When I finished, drinkers applauded my homage to another
great, to a group of geniuses so brilliant that their song was replicated on a
dusty, sweat-soaked Buffalo stage. This was my release, my drug that made cheap
Canadian beer taste like honey. Made the stale, sweat-tinged barroom breeze
smell like cinnamon. Made dilapidated Rust Belt streets into parade routes.
This was my life, and I loved every minute of it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="line-height: 32px;">But that was four years ago. I was someone else then, an unscathed idealist addicted to the euphoria a crowd’s roar could instill in a man. I had to move on from nights infused with intoxicating rhythm, the mornings filled with sporadic reverberations. I don’t play at the Nighthawk anymore. Those nights are gone.</span></div>
<br /></div>
Michael Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456704796652317256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-189861602738161477.post-49830368079417362242016-02-16T07:53:00.002-08:002016-02-16T07:53:48.653-08:00"When the Lights Go Out"--out and about<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZIDeO_PagX0/VsM7gzWWMcI/AAAAAAAAAYY/1LK5JswDsb8/s1600/12309648_10153465255693375_3003410652642202521_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZIDeO_PagX0/VsM7gzWWMcI/AAAAAAAAAYY/1LK5JswDsb8/s320/12309648_10153465255693375_3003410652642202521_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Since its official release on November 10, <i>When the Lights Go Out</i> has been making its way around Buffalo and elsewhere.<br />
<br />
It's been at bars, bookstores and the Buffalo History Museum. It's been with book clubs and under Christmas trees. And thankfully, it's found plenty of readers, ones that have been able to relate to the story and its characters.<br />
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Yes, the novel's about music and its meaning, but it's also about love, family and the ability to wade through tragedy in order to find some sort of purpose. Many have recognized this, and as the book's author, I can't thank you enough for spending any amount of time to enjoy my second novel.<br />
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If you haven't read it yet, good news: it's a book, and it's not going away any time soon. It'll be around, whether in Buffalo bookstores like <a href="http://www.tleavesbooks.com/">Talking Leaves</a> and <a href="http://dogearsbookstore.org/">Dog Ears</a>; in paperback and Kindle form on <a href="http://www.amazon.com/When-Lights-Out-Michael-Farrell/dp/0692524479/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1448892245&sr=1-2&keywords=when+the+lights+go+out">Amazon</a>; in under-scanned areas of the Web like <a href="http://www.indiebound.org/book/9780692524473">IndieBound</a>; or with the publisher at <a href="http://www.nofrillsbuffalo.com/titles-and-sales.html">No Frills/Amelia</a>. And since we're all still enduring winter as we wait for St. Patrick's Day, there's plenty of time and opportunity to fall into a comfortable chair and read this work.<br />
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If interested please check it out. And if you'd like to find out more, check out the below press coverage for details. <br />
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<a href="http://buffalo.com/2015/12/03/news/music/concert-previews/nighthawk-at-the-mohawk/">The Buffalo News</a><br />
<a href="http://www.buffalorising.com/2015/11/when-the-light-go-out-book-signing-accompanied-by-music-performance/">Buffalo Rising</a><br />
<a href="http://www.buffaloscoop.com/no-frills-to-release-when-the-lights-go-out-by-michael-farrell-on-november-10/">Buffalo Scoop</a><br />
<a href="http://www.thesunnews.net/scene/302-Hamburg_native_writes_fiction_based_on_Buffalo_music_scene.html">Hamburg Sun</a><br />
<a href="http://www.dailypublic.com/articles/12152015/bookseller-jonathan-welchs-gift-list">The Public</a><br />
<a href="http://buffstaterecord.com/6390/culture/michael-farrell-returns-to-buffalo-with-when-the-lights-go-out/">SUNY Buffalo State's Record</a><br />
<a href="http://hamburg.wgrz.com/news/news/254031-no-frills-release-when-lights-go-out-michael-farrell-november-10">WGRZ</a><br />
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Until next time, thanks for reading, and take care.<br />
<br />
(Author's note: This update was typed while listening to Basia Bulat's "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EitW5xWa1dk">La La Lie</a>.")<br />
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<br />Michael Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456704796652317256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-189861602738161477.post-22989439593463591332015-11-24T08:04:00.002-08:002015-11-24T08:04:54.224-08:00Local author and musician team for novel release event at Buffalo’s Mohawk Place on December 4 <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ewQPLyZTUnw/VlSJ7Zj-lzI/AAAAAAAAAX8/eRjukEkTY5Y/s1600/MikeF%2BBW.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ewQPLyZTUnw/VlSJ7Zj-lzI/AAAAAAAAAX8/eRjukEkTY5Y/s200/MikeF%2BBW.jpg" width="160" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Author Michael Farrell</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Buffalo author Michael Farrell will
join local singer/songwriter Sara Elizabeth for a Happy Hour event to celebrate
the recent release of Farrell’s new novel, <i>When
the Lights Go Out</i> inside Buffalo’s Mohawk Place (47 E. Mohawk St.) on
December 4 from 5 to 8 p.m. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Farrell’s Buffalo-set novel—which
tells the story of a barroom guitarist and his journey from rock clubs to
familial crisis and rediscovery of music’s revelatory meaning—was officially
released by No Frills/Amelia on November 10. But in collaborating with Elizabeth’s
performance (from 6 to 8 p.m.), Farrell will sign and sell books inside a
reverberating environment which typifies the backdrop of his newest work.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Many of this novel’s most critical
scenes happen in rock clubs just like Mohawk,” said Farrell, whose first novel,
<i>Running with Buffalo</i>, was released in
2007. “To have its release event there aside the music of Sara Elizabeth is
going to be special.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Born in Buffalo and raised in
Hamburg, Michael Farrell is a graduate of St. Bonaventure University and earned
an MFA in Creative Writing from Pine Manor College’s Solstice Program. His work
has regularly appeared in numerous publications, including <i>The Buffalo News, Buffalo Spree </i>and <i>The Boston Herald</i>.
More about Farrell and his writing can be found on his website at
farrellstreet.com. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WpVw3skBxvo/VlSJfnftd4I/AAAAAAAAAX0/rwAYDlrLZ2U/s1600/Sara-Elizabeth-Buffalo-NY-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="196" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WpVw3skBxvo/VlSJfnftd4I/AAAAAAAAAX0/rwAYDlrLZ2U/s320/Sara-Elizabeth-Buffalo-NY-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Singer/songwriter Sara Elizabeth</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Sara Elizabeth is a
singer/songwriter, musician, storyteller, and multi-instrumentalist based in
Western New York. A 2012 graduate of the University at Buffalo's Department of
Music, Elizabeth’s musical influences range from The Beatles to Ingrid
Michaelson and The Avett Brothers. According to Sara, she takes “the heart of
folk music, the soul of the blues, the brain of classical, and the energy of
modern indie rock and uses them to tell stories no one has ever heard before.”
This is evident in her trio of original releases, including 2014’s "Be
Well.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Books published by No Frills Buffalo
can be purchased online at www.amazon.com, www.powells.com,
www.barnesandnoble.com, www.ECKO.com and www.nofrillsbuffalo.com. No Frills
Buffalo titles can also be found in Western New York bookstores, including
Talking Leaves; Dog Ears Bookstore; The Second Reader; Monkey See, Monkey Do;
Lift Bridge Books in Brockport; and Buffalo Street Books in Ithaca.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Michael Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456704796652317256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-189861602738161477.post-59131825782966389092015-11-04T06:28:00.000-08:002015-11-04T06:45:59.746-08:00Home (Revisited)(<strong>Author's note #1</strong>: With my second novel finally finding the light of day over the next week, figured I should re-post the following, which I wrote three years ago for my graduate school's nationally distributed newsletter<i>. </i>It discusses my relationship with Buffalo and the need to write about it, both pertinent as my Queen City-set <i><a href="http://farrellstreet.blogspot.com/2015/10/when-lights-go-out-due-out-on-november.html">When the Lights Go Out</a></i> starts to find its way to the public. Enjoy.)<br />
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<em>I saw the streets all ripe with jewels</em><br />
<em>Balconies and the laundry lines</em><br />
<em>They tried to make me welcome there</em><br />
<em>But their streets did not feel like mine</em><br />
<em>So long, I’m goin’, goin’ home</em><br />
-Dan Auerbach, “Goin’ Home”<br />
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One’s connection to home can be like one’s connection to family. At its best, home is a wonderful thing. It is the one place that feels like yours, the place you’re truly attached to. At its worst, home is a suffocating beast, full of frustration and timeless annoyances. I somehow overlooked the enduring duality of this relationship while living elsewhere. Now back on my hometown streets of Buffalo, New York as a returned resident, I’m surrounded by the daily complications of this association.<br />
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Buffalo has been both haven and harrowing for most of my life. It’s the city that hosted my birth, my Christmas mornings and high school basketball games. It gave me friends I’ve kept since preschool, girls I kissed in elementary school. It instilled the competitive grit I’ve used to tough through professional obstacles and rejection. And it infected me with the underdog mentality that western New Yorkers are born with. Every Buffalo kid grows up with a chip on the shoulder, earned from condescending New York City scowls and southern state insults—the ones about snow and rust, urban blight and Super Bowl losses. I’m from a city that no one understands, compliments or respects. This has bred intense loyalty, one that’s ignited arguments with ignorant strangers and <a href="http://www.damons.com/startinglineup.cfm">Florida waiters</a>. It’s been an inconvenient loyalty, but it’s always been considered necessary. This is my hometown, to defend and support. In <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rNsXH829Ex4">good times</a> and <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AbBte3eXgAM">bad</a>.<br />
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Unfortunately, the whole defend-and-support thing isn’t always reciprocal. Home can agitate, frustrate and torment. It can be like a Springsteen song, but not in a good way. No matter how your beliefs, attitudes and aptitudes have progressed, home drags behind. No matter how many positive memories you’ve generated away from it, home can rekindle the painful moments you’ve forever tried to shake. No matter how many out-of-town successes you’ve experienced, home can preserve your failures for family dinners, Friday night socials and supermarket reunions. Buffalo is where my mother wants me to become a teacher, where my father thinks I should become a salesman. And it will forever be where my <a href="http://www.frontier.wnyric.org/fchs/site/default.asp">high school</a> English teacher said, if he had one piece of advice for me, it was to never pursue a career in English.<br />
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But it will also remain the chief source of my <a href="http://farrellstreet.com/">artistic inspiration</a>, just as it has for my entire writing life.<br />
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I lived in Boston for eleven years; I worked inside Manhattan’s Rockefeller Center for a summer. I once fell asleep in Spain and woke up in France. I’ve been to Ireland twice, Italy, Iceland and Scotland once, and to nearly every major American city for more than a weekend. I’ve never felt compelled to write about those places the way I do about Buffalo. It’s forever been an underutilized backdrop, full of faded glory amid glimmers of progress and waterfront panoramas; it’s loaded with complex characters striving for genuine salvation in the shadows of economic stall. Its story has surrounded my own story, and continues to affect me with its successes and failures. Some days, I smile at <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/jerrygodwinfoto/3354039631/">nineteenth-century buildings</a> being refurbished by flanneled laborers; other days, I seethe down sidewalks as another Hunt Realty sign finds an empty storefront. Both experiences sear through me in different ways, both eliciting intense feelings usually reserved for personal hardships. But that tightening cringe in my stomach—whether from excitement or resentment—proves I care. It’s undeniable evidence of an intense and, at times, exhausting personal connection. And it’s a multi-faceted emotional connection that’s injected a voice, passion and literary purpose into every Buffalo-set item I’ve ever scribbled.<br />
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And maybe that’s why I moved back here last year. Maybe I grew tired of disrespecting this connection, of treating it with distance when it’s actually truly special. Maybe I got sick of not contributing to the place whose avenues, buildings and barflies have given me chapters of narrative inspiration. Or maybe I’ve simply grown weary of writing <a href="http://www.buffalorising.com/2012/03/a-bona-fide-opportunity.html">essays</a>, <a href="http://www.buffalorising.com/2012/01/a-plea-for-genesee.html">columns</a> and <a href="http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/buffalomick">novels</a> about the only home I’d ever claim, all while keeping it four hundred miles away.<br />
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Whatever the reason, one thing is certain: I’m back, living and writing in the <a href="http://www.visitbuffaloniagara.com/">Queen City of the Lakes</a>. Our winters are cold, but our summers are gorgeous. Our local economy’s inconsistent, but our neighborhoods are varied and vibrant. All our streets aren’t ripe with jewels, but many of them feel like mine. If you need me, I’ll be here.<br />
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This is my home.<br />
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(<strong>Author's note #2:</strong> This entry was posted while listening to "Vagabond Moon" by Willie Nile.)Michael Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456704796652317256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-189861602738161477.post-82810990771442514492015-10-30T10:26:00.001-07:002015-10-30T10:27:36.746-07:00"When the Lights Go Out" due out on November 10<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>After six long years of writing, editing, re-writing, screaming, drinking, and thinking, I'm proud to say that my second novel, When the Lights Go Out, is finally ready for release by No Frills/Amelia on November 10. Here's the press release, distributed to the Buffalo media on October 30:</i><br />
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A barroom guitarist strumming between two lives. A faded bluesman drunk on his own legend. A rock pianist who responds to a higher calling. These compelling characters clash to drive the drama of author Michael Farrell’s second Buffalo-set novel, “When the Lights Go Out,” set for release by No Frills Buffalo on Nov. 10.<br />
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Farrell — whose debut novel “Running with Buffalo” was released in 2007 — returns to introduce readers to local musician Johnny “Nighthawk” Nolan, a downtown Buffalo favorite who spent his evenings exhaling covers and originals, all while basking in the adulation of devoted revelers. To Nolan, those nights under the lights meant everything — until he needed to walk away.<br />
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But what happens to a musician when his life strays from the stage? Does he settle into his marriage to a barroom waitress? Does he try to smooth past friction with the city’s most prominent bluesman? Or does he lean on the scene’s only garage band-leading Catholic priest to find his voice with or without the microphone? Throughout his journey from rock clubs to familial crisis and rediscovery of music’s revelatory meaning, Nolan will find out how life unfolds — when the lights go out. <br />
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Born in Buffalo and raised in Hamburg, Farrell is a graduate of St. Bonaventure University and earned an MFA in Creative Writing from Pine Manor College’s Solstice Program. His work has regularly appeared in numerous publications, including The Buffalo News, Buffalo Spree and The Boston Herald. More about Farrell and his writing can be found on his website at farrellstreet.com.<br />
<br />
Books published by No Frills Buffalo can be purchased online at www.amazon.com, www.powells.com, www.barnesandnoble.com, www.ECKO.com and www.nofrillsbuffalo.com. No Frills Buffalo titles can also be found in Western New York bookstores, including Talking Leaves; Dog Ears Bookstore; The Second Reader; Monkey See, Monkey Do; Lift Bridge Books in Brockport; and Buffalo Street Books in Ithaca.Michael Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456704796652317256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-189861602738161477.post-19373364344451277562015-05-13T15:38:00.000-07:002016-10-07T08:40:40.807-07:00Spending time off Farrell Street--and still alive<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
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Note: To the four or five ADD-addled surfers who either check or happen upon this blog from time to time, you’ve probably noticed I haven’t been posting a whole lot of work lately (aside from last year's <a href="http://farrellstreet.blogspot.com/2014/01/the-mark-of-st-mary.html">The Mark of St. Mary</a>).<br />
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Have I stopped writing? No; quite the opposite. I’ve thankfully been freelancing for a variety of Buffalo publications over the past three years, which has cut into my introspective blog time. I also put out a new, semi-refined copy of my first novel (<i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0989622053/ref=s9_simh_gw_p14_d22_i1?pf_rd_m=ATVPDKIKX0DER&pf_rd_s=center-6&pf_rd_r=0GD1NNCKG72JJF4QWKQB&pf_rd_t=101&pf_rd_p=1688200482&pf_rd_i=507846">Running with Buffalo</a></i>) with No Frills/Amelia Press, and have spent any other writing time working on the 94<sup>th</sup> edit of my second novel, <i><a href="http://westside.wgrz.com/news/news/254031-no-frills-release-when-lights-go-out-michael-farrell-november-10">When the Lights Go Out </a></i>(now available). This offering is getting closer and closer to seeing the light of day, so stay tuned for details. <o:p></o:p></div>
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So, translation? I’ve been busy. The good news is that, if you are interested in finding anything with my byline—and you refuse to pick up paper copies of either <i>The Buffalo News</i>, <i>Buffalo Spree </i>or<i> WNY Craft Beer Magazine</i>—there are plenty of links on the Interwebs to explore.<o:p></o:p><br />
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And if you need to get hold of me? Email farrellstreet@gmail.com.</div>
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I’ll be back to regularly posting on this site sooner than later. Until then, scroll (and click) below to see what I’ve been doing with myself, look for more of my work on a browser near you, and stay tuned for more. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b><i>Buffalo News </i>reviews</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Bars</i></div>
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<a href="http://buffalo.com/2015/06/30/featured/roll-in-and-raise-a-pint-at-adolfs/">Adolf's Old First Ward Tavern</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2015/04/29/featured/location-makes-the-archer-good-spot-for-before-the-action-drinks/">The Archer</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2014/09/18/featured/bada-bing-celebrates-move-to-chippewa-street/">Bada Bing</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2014/11/13/featured/ballyhoo-merges-past-present/">Ballyhoo</a><br />
<span style="color: black;"><a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/club-watch/bar-tab-lion-loving-barrys-bar-and-grill-stands-pat-as-affordable-neighborhood-favorite-20140319">Barry’s Bar and Grill</a><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<a href="http://buffalonews.com/gusto/club-watch/the-big-tree-inn-is-a-sports-bar-mecca-20131127">The Big Tree</a></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/club-watch/the-blue-wall-stands-with-desired-dive-status-20131010">The Blue Wall</a><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/bar-tab/buffalo-iron-works-caters-to-music-sports-and-industrial-history-enthusiasts-20150128">Buffalo Iron Works</a></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/club-watch/simple-blues-and-brews-served-up-at-central-park-grill-20130911">Central Park Grill</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/club-watch/darcy-mcgees-retains-its-irish-pub-flair-20140227">D’Arcy McGee’s</a><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/04/13/news/food-drink/bar-tab/an-updated-doc-sullivans-is-familiar-but-fresh/">Doc Sullivan's</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2015/10/07/featured/ellicottville-brewing-company-remains-a-craft-beer-leader/">Ellicottville Brewing Co.</a><br />
<a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/bar-tab/buffalos-first-pedaler-pub-handlebar-is-innovative-exciting-20141015">Handlebar</a><br />
<a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/bar-tab/birth-of-hydraulic-hearth-is-a-story-of-loyalty-to-buffalo-20141223">Hydraulic Hearth</a></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><a href="http://buffalonews.com/gusto/club-watch/bar-tab-south-buffalos-the-hop-inn-goes-beyond-traditional-fare-20131031">The Hop Inn</a><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2014/05/08/news/food-drink/mackys-essex-street-pub-catches-the-rhythm-of-the-night/">Macky's Essex Street Pub</a></div>
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<a href="http://buffalo.com/2015/10/29/featured/great-beer-food-add-to-mooneys-man-cave-cred/">Mooney's II</a><br />
<span style="color: black;"><a href="http://buffalonews.com/gusto/club-watch/nietzsches-patrons-and-musicians-all-embrace-celtic-sessions-20140109">Nietzsche’s</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><a href="http://buffalonews.com/gusto/club-watch/bar-tab-papa-jakes-is-one-of-buffalos-best-tap-houses-20140130">Papa Jake’s</a><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/bar-tab/potters-field-has-corner-tavern-charm-with-an-alehouse-ambiance-20140605">Potter's Field</a><br />
<a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/city-region/swannie-house-is-a-piece-of-buffalos-history-future-20140709">The Swannie House</a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/club-watch/taltys-is-an-under-the-radar-place-for-live-music-thanks-to-the-legacy-of-charlie-oneill-20131212">Talty’s</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><a href="http://buffalonews.com/gusto/club-watch/washington-square-shines-amid-a-rising-corridors-shadows-20130829">Washington Square</a></span><o:p></o:p><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>One beer. One bar.</i><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/01/29/featured/one-beer-allen-burger-venture/">Allen Burger Venture (ABV</a>)<br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2015/12/18/featured/one-beer-armor-inn-tap-room/">Armor Inn Tap Room</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/10/04/news/food-drink/at-becker-farms-a-rewing-company-serves-seasonal-delights-for-adults/">Becker Brewing Co.</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/01/08/featured/137372/">Brick Oven Bistro</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/02/10/featured/one-beer-at-deep-south-taco/">Deep South Taco</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2015/12/25/featured/one-beer/">Del's Tavern</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/09/14/news/food-drink/bar-tab/one-beer-eddie-bradys/">Eddie Brady's</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/04/21/news/food-drink/one-beer-gypsy-bohemian-grove-bar-gbgb-expo-market/">GBGB</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/02/26/featured/one-beer-irish-times/">The Irish Times</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/07/19/news/food-drink/bar-tab/one-beer-j-p-fitzgeralds/">J.P. Fitzgerald's</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/08/31/news/food-drink/bar-tab/one-beer-liberty-hound/">Liberty Hound</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/02/19/featured/one-beer-lloyd-taco-factory/">Lloyd Taco Factory</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/02/05/featured/one-beer-mammosers/">Mammoser's</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/01/21/featured/one-beer-four-mile-unfurl-at-mr-goodbar/">Mr. Goodbar</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2015/12/31/featured/one-beer-parkside-meadow-2/">Parkside Meadow</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/07/26/news/food-drink/bar-tab/one-beer-public-house-lake/">Public House on the Lake</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/03/10/featured/one-beer-pizza-plant/">Pizza Plant</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/03/03/news/food-drink/one-beer-buffalos-rl-lounge-a-taste-of-polonia-with-plenty-of-hospitality/">R&L Lounge</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/08/23/uncategorized/one-beer-wanakah-grill/">Wanakah Grill</a><br />
<br />
<i>Music/Comedy</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/09/09/featured/an-american-idiot-with-genuine-punk-spirit/">American Idiot (play)</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/07/23/news/music/concert-reviews/arcs-blend-music-with-ambience-at-canalside/">The Arcs</a><br />
<a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/concert-reviews/what-a-deal-x2013-arctic-monkeys-put-on-great-show-at-artpark-20140619">Arctic Monkeys, White Denim</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2015/06/11/news/arkells-sizzling-performance-rewards-warm-welcome-from-buffalo-fans-at-canalside-concert/">Arkells</a><br />
<a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/concert-reviews/band-of-horses-puts-on-a-tour-de-force-performance-at-town-ballroom-20140723">Band of Horses</a><br />
<a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/concert-reviews/blitzen-trapper-is-a-folk-band-yes-but-so-much-more-20131005">Blitzen Trapper</a><br />
<a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/concert-reviews/boyz-ii-men-bring-just-the-right-tonic-for-buffalo-20141122">Boyz II Men</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalonews.com/gusto/concert-reviews/jackson-browne-treats-fans-to-a-fresh-evening-of-favorites-20140812">Jackson Browne</a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/concert-reviews/in-bare-bones-performance-adams-connects-with-sheas-crowd-20131123">Bryan Adams</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><a href="http://buffalonews.com/gusto/concert-reviews/rolling-stones-get-the-bpo-treatment-20131108">BPO: The Rolling Stones</a><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/07/28/news/music/concert-reviews/bpo-offers-a-fitting-tribute-to-david-bowie-at-canalside/">BPO: David Bowie</a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/concert-reviews/adam-carolla-brings-popular-podcast-show-to-ub-20140201">Adam Carolla</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/concert-reviews/aaron-carter-brings-his-comeback-party-to-amherst-20130914">Aaron Carter</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/music/chieftains-know-how-to-fuel-the-irish-heartbeat-20140315">The Chieftains</a></span><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/07/31/featured/hard-rocking-edgefest-proves-almighty-guitar-is-alive-and-well/">Edgefest 2016</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalonews.com/gusto/concert-reviews/fans-return-to-past-at-extreme-concert-20140724">Extreme</a><br />
<a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/city-region/downie-and-the-sadies-deliver-summertime-party-at-canalside-20140704">Gord Downie & the Sadies</a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/comedy-reviews/jeff-dunham-brings-popular-puppet-show-with-colorful-cast-of-characters-to-buffalo-20131228">Jeff Dunham</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/concert-reviews/gin-blossoms-give-rousing-revival-of-90s-pop-20131116">Gin Blossoms</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/concert-reviews/goo-goo-dolls-duo-delights-hometown-fans-20140413">Goo Goo Dolls</a><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2015/06/21/news/music/concert-reviews/gray-lee-concert-defies-serene-expectations/">David Gray, Amos Lee</a><br />
<a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/hall-oates-show-versatility-in-artpark-series-20140610">Hall & Oates</a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/concert-reviews/70s-80s-hits-resonate-with-fans-as-lou-gramm-rocks-the-bpo-20140426">Lou Gramm</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><a href="http://buffalonews.com/gusto/concert-reviews/haggard-offers-a-flowing-flawless-set-20131102">Merle Haggard</a><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2014/09/20/featured/captivating-emmylou-harris-charms-kleinhans-crowd/">Emmylou Harris</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2015/07/30/featured/beam-bridwell-join-forces-to-deliver-reimagined-tributes/">Iron & Wine, Ben Bridwell</a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><a href="http://buffalonews.com/gusto/local-music-royalty-takes-the-stage-20140118">John & Mary</a><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2015/07/25/featured/fans-of-all-ages-pack-canalside-for-second-annual-kerfuffle/">Kerfuffle 2015</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2015/12/18/news/music/concert-reviews/kerfuffle-provides-alternative-take-on-christmas-music/">Kerfuffle Before Christmas 2015</a><br />
<a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/concert-reviews/lake-street-dives-thrilling-canalside-set-likely-wins-some-new-fans-20140717">Lake Street Dive</a><br />
<a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/concert-reviews/mclachlan-connects-with-audience-at-artpark-20140714">Sarah McLachlan</a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/concert-reviews/mari-mcneil-explores-jazz-standards-at-release-party-for-her-new-cd-20140329">Mary McNeil</a><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2015/06/05/featured/matt-kim-give-canalside-concert-season-a-fresh-start/">Matt & Kim, Made Violent</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/07/07/news/music/concert-reviews/maxwell-brings-sheas-crowd-to-feet-with-sultry-soul/">Maxwell</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2015/07/09/featured/bosstones-bring-solid-set-to-soggy-canalside/">Mighty Mighty Bosstones</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2015/04/18/news/music/concert-reviews/modest-mouse-electrifies-crowd-at-babeville/">Modest Mouse</a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><a href="http://buffalonews.com/gusto/concert-reviews/monster-truck-puts-on-a-show-of-crushing-power-at-the-waiting-room-20130817">Monster Truck</a><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/09/10/news/music/a-festival-of-talent-culture-and-color/">Music is Art</a><br />
<a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/concert-reviews/nelson-deals-out-new-material-classic-hits-20140607">Willie Nelson</a><br />
<a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/concert-reviews/alan-parsons-bpo-mesh-in-dazzling-show-20150130">Alan Parsons Project</a><br />
<a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/concert-reviews/tom-petty-provides-a-fitting-end-to-good-day-for-rocking-bills-fans-20140907">Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2015/07/28/featured/grace-potter-makes-sweltering-night-even-hotter/">Grace Potter</a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/concert-reviews/red-hot-chilli-pipers-bring-inventive-and-entertaining-show-to-kleinhans-20140208">The Red Hot Chilli Pipers</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/concert-reviews/richard-thompsons-guitar-wizardry-enthralls-sellout-crowd-in-asbury-hall-20140308">Richard Thompson</a><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/02/21/featured/torontos-sadies-satisfy-with-friday-night-set-at-iron-works/">The Sadies</a><br />
<a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/concert-reviews/sam-roberts-band-finds-american-fame-at-canalside-20140626">Sam Roberts Band</a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/concert-reviews/honky-tonk-heavy-springfest-lineup-connects-with-crowd-20140503">SUNY at Buffalo Springfest</a></span><o:p></o:p><br />
<a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/concert-reviews/tedeschi-trucks-band-brings-the-summertime-blues-to-canalside-20140621">Tedeschi Trucks Band</a><br />
<a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/concert-previews/trans-siberian-orchestra-finally-brings-christmas-attic-to-holiday-tour-20141224">Trans-Siberian Orchestra</a><br />
<a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/concert-reviews/hank3-carries-on-country-musics-outlaw-tradition-20140614">Hank Williams III</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/07/28/news/music/concert-previews/the-case-for-coldplay/">The case for: Coldplay</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/08/23/uncategorized/one-beer-wanakah-grill/">The case for: Counting Crows, Rob Thomas</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/09/13/news/music/concert-previews/case-gwar-town-ballroom/">The case for: Gwar</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/07/20/news/music/concert-previews/case-kerfuffle-2016/">The case for: Kerfuffle 2016</a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<i>Gusto's Farrell Four</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/three-club-shows-worth-checking-out-20140425">Gangstagrass, Whigs</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/music/four-concerts-to-catch-over-the-weekend-20140502">Ian McFeron, Spirit of the West</a></span><o:p></o:p><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2014/05/16/news/music/glass-tiger-among-four-dont-miss-club-shows/">The Observers, Glass Tiger</a><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/concert-previews/farrell-four-a-quartet-of-great-club-shows-20140523">Black Star Riders, Driftwood</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/music/four-club-show-picks-for-the-weekend-20140509">Texas in July, Willie May</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/article/20140530/GUSTO/140539990">Funktional Flow, Jony James Band</a></span><br />
<a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/concert-previews/farrell-four-the-best-of-the-club-shows-20140606">A Band Named Sue, Sauce Boss</a><br />
<a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/music/farrell-four-fathers-day-edition-20140613">Crikwater, World's Fair</a><br />
<a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/city-region/farrell-four-a-busy-night-in-allentown-and-more-20140620">Ozric Tentacles, Primus</a><br />
<a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/city-region/farrell-four-missing-mohawk-place-20140627">The Royal Halls, Chuck Mead</a><br />
<a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/city-region/farrell-four-holiday-weekend-has-plenty-of-musical-options-20140704">Bobo, Survivor</a><br />
<a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/music/farrell-four-the-tins-celebrate-new-ep-20140711">The Tins, Turnpike Troubadours</a><br />
<a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/concert-previews/farrell-four-mac-demarco-the-maniacs-mr-boneless-aj-woods-20140718">Mac DeMarco, AJ Woods</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalonews.com/gusto/concert-previews/farrell-four-the-traditional-matthew-good-rhubarb-electric-church-20140725">Matthew Good, The Traditional</a><br />
<a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/concert-previews/farrell-four-the-best-of-weekend-club-shows-20140801">Time Giant, Michael King Project</a><br />
<a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/concert-previews/farrell-four-a-roundup-of-weekend-club-shows-20140815">Our Lady Peace, The Spin Wires</a><br />
<a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/gusto/concert-previews/farrell-four-the-best-of-weekend-club-shows-20140905">Bad Suns, Kurt and The Loders</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2014/09/19/featured/farrell-four-best-bets-for-weekend-music/">Suzanne Vega, Buffalo Killers</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2014/09/26/featured/farrell-four-the-best-of-the-weekend-club-shows/">Daydream Chronicles, Blue Ribbon Bastards</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2014/10/03/featured/farrell-four-mcferon-arkells/">Arkells, MXPX</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2014/10/10/featured/farrell-four-wicked-weekend-shows/">Conehead Buddha, Tugboat</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2014/10/24/featured/farrell-four-the-best-of-the-weekend-club-shows-3/">Laura Stevenson, Aqueous</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2014/10/31/featured/farrell-four-a-look-at-weekend-club-shows/">Pianos Become the Teeth, Applennium</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2014/11/07/featured/farrell-four-pick-hits-for-weekend-club-shows/">Sloan, Imperial Brown</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2015/03/13/featured/farrell-four-an-irish-edition-of-weekend-shows/">St. Patrick's Day weekend</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2015/04/24/featured/farrell-four-a-quartet-of-weekend-club-shows-3/">English Beat, Sheila Divine</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2015/05/01/featured/tough-old-bird-jim-lauderdale-highlight-weekend-shows-in-buffalo/">Tough Old Bird, Jim Lauderdale</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2015/05/22/featured/four-shows-holiday-weekend-is-bursting-with-music/">The Naturalists, Whiskey Charmers</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2015/05/29/featured/four-shows-tribute-honors-music-of-sun-records/">The Early November, Sugar Blue</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2015/06/05/featured/four-shows-skiffle-minstrels-head-north-armcannon-will-hoge/">Will Hoge, Head North</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2015/06/12/featured/four-shows-neil-young-tribute-imperial-brown-rael-more/">Imperial Brown, Pattern is Movement</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2015/07/31/featured/four-shows-wakos-frances-black-and-more/">Johnny Revolting, Frances Black</a><br />
<br />
<i>Travel</i><br />
<div style="margin: 0cm;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/life-arts/travel/a-winter-taste-of-icelands-lager-liberty-20140323">A winter taste of Iceland’s lager liberty</a></span><br />
<a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/life-arts/travel/the-sound-of-scotland-20150503">The sound of Scotland</a><br />
<br />
<i>Misc.</i><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2014/12/30/featured/a-rockin-new-years-eve/">A rockin' New Year's Eve</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2015/02/04/featured/buffalos-newest-bar-district/">Buffalo's newest bar district</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2015/03/11/featured/a-weekend-of-st-patricks-festivities/">Keeping the Irish in Buffalo's St. Patrick's Day</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2014/10/02/featured/emil-novak-upholds-sanctity-of-american-comic-book/">Queen City crusaders</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2015/06/03/featured/concert-guide-buffalos-summer-concert-playlist/">2015 summer playlist</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2015/06/04/news/music/buffalos-summer-shows-by-the-decade/">Buffalo's summer shows--by the decade</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2015/09/15/news/music/concert-previews/alternative-buffalo-parties-for-two/">Alternative Buffalo parties for two</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2015/09/30/featured/game-day-guide-for-buffalos-best-football-bars/">Beers with the Bills: Buffalo's best football bars</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2015/10/21/featured/reaching-across-new-york-for-five-fall-beers/">Reaching across New York State for five fall beers</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2015/11/22/buffalo-magazine/get-festive-buffalos-cant-miss-traditions-at-the-holidays/">Buffalo's holiday traditions</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2015/11/25/featured/davey-o-and-friends-sing-for-the-food-bank/">Davey O. and friends sing for the Food Bank</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2015/12/16/featured/kerfuffle-boasts-stellar-lineup-of-young-seasoned-acts/">Kerfuffle boasts stellar lineup for Christmas show</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/03/03/featured/a-south-buffalo-pub-crawl/#comment-wall">A South Buffalo pub crawl</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2015/06/17/featured/david-gray-on-the-craft-of-writing-and-love-songs/">BN Interview: David Gray</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2015/11/27/featured/catching-up-with-jess-collins-of-orations/">BN Interview: Jess Collins of Orations</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2015/12/08/featured/arkells-find-a-musical-home-in-buffalo/">BN Interview: Max Kerman of Arkells</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2015/12/18/featured/catching-up-with-zak-ward/">BN Interview: Zak Ward of Son of the Sun</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2015/12/18/featured/catching-up-with-zak-ward/">BN Interview: Tyler Westcott of Folkfaces</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/01/21/featured/brothers-evoke-moods-through-music-of-tough-old-bird/">BN Interview: Tough Old Bird</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/02/05/featured/catching-up-with-sara-elizabeth/">BN Interview: Sara Elizabeth</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/02/12/featured/catching-up-with-casey-mullaney-of-tugboat/">BN Interview: Casey Mullaney of Tugboat</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/02/15/featured/10-minutes-chris-malachowski-wolf-tickets/">BN Interview: Chris Malachowski of Wolf Tickets</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/02/03/featured/10-minutes-tommy-z/">BN Interview: Tommy Z</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/03/01/featured/10-minutes-sharon-mok-tiny-rhymes/">BN Interview: Sharon Mok of Tiny Rhymes</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/02/26/featured/neko-cases-canadian-connection-singer-discusses-enduring-bond-buffalo-show/">BN Interview: Neko Case</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/02/17/featured/torontos-sadies-relishes-ties-buffalo-music-fans/">BN Interview: The Sadies</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/03/11/featured/10-minutes-tyson-prince-spin-wires/">BN Interview: The Spin Wires</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/03/15/featured/10-minutes-liam-caulfield-crikwater/">BN Interview: Crikwater</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/04/14/featured/10-minutes-buck-quigley-steam-donkeys/">BN Interview: The Steam Donkeys</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/04/20/featured/beloved-hawkins-brings-classics-new-cuts-buffalo/">BN Interview: Ron Hawkins</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/07/28/news/music/concert-previews/shapeshifter-sam-roberts-wont-rest-past-success/">BN Interview: Sam Roberts</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/09/20/news/food-drink/the-case-for-oinktoberfest/">The case for: Oinktoberfest</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/08/25/news/family/festivals-family-news/case-buffalo-irish-festival/">The case for: the Buffalo Irish Festival</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/09/29/news/music/planet-waves-coffeehouse-serves-music-appreciation-education-hertel/">Coffee and concerts at Daily Planet</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/09/28/news/food-drink/fall-brews-abound-buffalo/">Celebrate fall beers (national)</a><br />
<a href="http://buffalo.com/2016/09/16/news/food-drink/fall-beers-across-buffalo/">Celebrate fall beers (Buffalo)</a><br />
<br />
<b><i>Buffalo Spree </i>features</b></div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><a href="http://www.buffalospree.com/Buffalo-Spree/December-2013/Feature-Amherst-Street/">A district dawns on Amherst Street</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><a href="http://www.buffalospree.com/Buffalo-Spree/October-2013/Write-about-Buffalo/">Write about Buffalo</a><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<a href="http://www.buffalospree.com/Buffalo-Spree/May-2014/Liku-Gaos-wooden-toys/">Toying with Liku Gao</a><br />
<a href="http://www.buffalospree.com/Buffalo-Spree/July-2014/Game-On-The-Buffalo-Fenians/">Game On: The Buffalo Fenians</a><br />
<a href="http://www.buffalospree.com/Buffalo-Spree/April-2015/Paying-homage-to-Buffalos-baseball-opus/">Paying homage to Buffalo's baseball opus</a><br />
<a href="http://www.buffalospree.com/Buffalo-Spree/February-2016/LPT-D-Neighborhood-Favorites-City/">Lounges, pubs and dives: Buffalo</a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<b><i>Buffalo Business First </i>reviews/features</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><a href="http://www.bizjournals.com/buffalo/blog/2013/06/unconventional-place-stays-sterling.html?page=all">Sterling Place Tavern</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><a href="http://www.bizjournals.com/buffalo/blog/2013/06/tapping-another-change-for-chippewa.html">Buffalo Tap House</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><a href="http://www.bizjournals.com/buffalo/print-edition/2012/10/26/wall-provides-chance-for-historic.html">Wall provides chance for historic triple play</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><a href="http://www.bizjournals.com/buffalo/print-edition/2012/06/22/young-buffalonians-showing-their.html">Young Buffalonians showing their constructive interest</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<b><i>Block Club: Issue 33</i></b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><a href="http://issuu.com/blockclub/docs/bcm33_web_reduced/12">A tale of two cities</a></span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<b><i>WNY Craft Beer Magazine</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b><a href="http://wnycraftbeer.com/buy-me-some-peanuts-and-pints/">Buy me some peanuts--and pints</a><br />
<a href="http://wnycraftbeer.com/toasting-bills-history-with-fall-beers/">Toasting Bills history with a taste of fall</a><br />
<a href="http://wnycraftbeer.com/a-cozy-craftmosphere-dinner-at-pizza-plant-with-dan-syracuse/">A cozy craftmosphere: Dinner and beers at the Pizza Plant</a><br />
<a href="http://wnycraftbeer.com/toasting-sabres-history-with-a-taste-of-the-winter/">Toasting Sabres history with a taste of winter</a><br />
<a href="http://wnycraftbeer.com/r-i-p-sterling-place/">R.I.P., Sterling Place</a><br />
<a href="http://wnycraftbeer.com/rock-doppelbock-at-mr-goodbar/">Rock and Dopplebock at Mr. Goodbar</a><br />
<a href="http://wnycraftbeer.com/brick-oven-bistro-breaks-down-south-buffalos-craft-beer-barriers/">Brick Oven Bistro breaks down S. Buffalo's craft beer barriers</a><br />
<a href="http://wnycraftbeer.com/toasting-the-buffalo-braves/">Toasting Braves history with a taste of spring</a><br />
<a href="http://wnycraftbeer.com/toasting-live-songs-with-a-taste-of-the-summer/">Toasting live songs with a taste of summer</a><br />
<a href="http://wnycraftbeer.com/the-art-of-allen-street-hardware/">The art of Allen Street Hardware</a><br />
<a href="http://wnycraftbeer.com/ballyhoo-links-drinks/">Ballyhoo links creativity and comfort</a><br />
<a href="http://wnycraftbeer.com/bands-brews-and-bbq-at-hamburgs-armor-inn/">Bands, brews and BBQ at the Armor Inn</a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
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<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
(<b>Author's note:</b> This post and list were updated while listening to "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PAXj9zYjROc">Like A River</a>" by<span class="apple-converted-space"> My Morning Jacket</span>.) </div>
Michael Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456704796652317256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-189861602738161477.post-87854487624669480182014-01-17T12:10:00.002-08:002014-01-20T09:34:43.724-08:00The Mark of St. Mary<div class="MsoNormal">
Elementary school leaves a mark on all of us. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Whether public or private, both handled us at our most
formative, when everything crackling around us could influence our foundation
and plant the seeds for who we’d become. Within their walls, we garnered
maximum attention while finding out what we liked, what we didn’t like, and
what we were good at. These types of revelations put our lives in motion. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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But when I say that my elementary school left a mark on me,
I don’t mean it in only the aforementioned figurative sense. I mean it literally,
like in an “I have two jagged marks on my head from accidents that occurred
within my elementary school” way. I fell from hanging off a stairwell for one,
and sustained another by diving through a fire exit to save a loose basketball
in a tournament game. Both intelligent decisions earned scars that have endured
for decades—much like the rest of my memories inside Hamburg, New York’s St.
Mary of the Lake.<o:p></o:p></div>
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That’s why this past Wednesday was so hard. When the
Catholic Diocese of Buffalo elects to close the place that raised you, the
place that filled nearly every pre-teen year of your life with the substance
you retell and recall for the rest of your life, it hurts. It cuts. It digs in,
jerks and leaves a painful mark.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I attended St. Mary from 1982 to 1992, preschool through
eighth grade. I walked to school until I was nine years old, took a bus when my
family moved a whole four blocks further away. I arrived every school day in a white
shirt, navy blue tie and matching blue slacks. In my early years, I teamed the
uniform with Michael Jackson-esque black loafers and whatever utilitarian coat
my parents laid out for me. In my later years, I went to school in bluchers and
a white Boston Celtics Starter jacket, earned via an afterschool trade. In both
instances, eventual choices were foretold: I’d gravitate toward a professional
existence that <i>didn’t</i> require me to
wear a tie or loafers, and I’d eventually move to Boston and follow the Celtics
in person.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
But St. Mary was more than a soothsayer for eventual professions
or pro sports allegiances. It was more than your popular Catholic school
imagery, one full of scared children adhering to the rules of priests, nuns and
upstart teachers, all while donning matching shirts and blouses under classroom
crucifixes. It was a place where hardware store washers acted as milk tokens,
where red and blue poker chips acted as school-issued currency for pizza (red)
and hamburgers (blue). It hosted my first right-cross, my first girlfriend and
my first Bobby Brown-serenaded slow dance—one in which a nun approached
too-close partners and asked that they “leave room for the Holy Spirit.” It was
the backdrop for massive Niagara Candy sales, Campbell Soup label computer
sales and “butt-surfing” hallway races, ones that would end with three boys in
blues sliding ass-first over a marble finish line while teachers’ classroom
doors were closed.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XsxyweqpJRk/UtmN2k_mCwI/AAAAAAAAAPw/QEle8aO9SlI/s1600/SMschool+logo.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XsxyweqpJRk/UtmN2k_mCwI/AAAAAAAAAPw/QEle8aO9SlI/s1600/SMschool+logo.png" /></a><o:p> </o:p></div>
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Most of all, it was place for people, influential ones who’d
form the foundation of my existence. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Small classes hosted students I befriended at four years old
and, somehow, still remain connected to. Over the last 20 years, I’ve seen them
at bars, grocery stores and Bills games. We’ve vacationed together, moved away
from Buffalo together and shared in professional success together. And, when I
married in 2010, three kindergarten classmates were in my wedding party. No
matter the time or distance apart, there’s an unmistakable bond that bands not
only my close St. Mary friends, but anyone who walked those halls together. Anyone
who was forced to read <i>Johnny Tremain</i>
in the sixth grade or slice a frog open in the seventh grade. Anyone who was
told by our school librarian to be quiet because “the books are sleeping.” It
all happened within the confines of that Catholic school, and it had a lasting
effect on all of us. <o:p></o:p></div>
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When these moments were seeping into our days, we were
flanked by teachers who lorded over a captive audience of children in need of challenges.
I had teachers I was afraid of at St. Mary—physically. Some packed glares and
statures that made me petrified to blow off homework. Others had voices so
frightening they’d follow me home and haunt my dreams. But, on the other side
of this fear was a fear of not performing, of not knuckling down and executing.
I saw these teachers within the same classroom, all day, every day. They wanted
me to succeed, and I didn’t want to disappoint them. This healthy fear of
failure instilled a discipline in me, just as it did with others who were
frightened of—or hell-bent on pleasing—these teachers. Today, this work ethic
fuels everything I do, just as it does with other St. Mary alums working as
teachers, activists, lawyers, doctors, advertising salesmen and financial
advisors.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As complicated events crept into our developing lives, the
school preached faith, support and the power of prayer to help deal with unexplainable,
unfortunate or unmanageable events. In 1986, I sat in a St. Mary classroom and
watched the Challenger unexpectedly explode on live television. A few years
later, I walked through the school’s front doors to find out our hallways and
classrooms had been vandalized by local teenagers, forcing temporary closure.
And, when a fellow student’s mother, father or grandparent unexpectedly passed
away, I joined the rest of the school in processing across our parking lot to
pray for families at morning Mass. It was support through faith and unity, two
things that’ve proved rare as I’ve aged through more complicated problems. But
in those St. Mary halls, they weren’t at a premium. They were the norm. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Outside of our classes and emotional maturation, we were
guided through track meets, baseball games and basketball tournaments. For
some, these are the most vivid St. Mary memories. Stacks of multicolored
ribbons from the standing long jump or 50-yard dash. Late-summer batting
practices at Hamburg Little League. Winter basketball practices inside that
drafty gymnasium, where a burst of arctic Lake Erie air would whip through the
joint every time someone cranked open its heavy steel-encased door. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Basketball was my first love, and I found it at St. Mary. As
I sit here typing this, I can recall every inch of the gym as it looked in
1992. I can picture the lanes, the backboards and sliding wooden doors that
separated the court from the school cafeteria. I remember where the storage
room was and, if you needed to find a basketball, how the weekend janitor used
to stash a loose one behind racks of bingo chairs. That gym was a second home
to me, just like it was for countless other Lakers. It gave us somewhere to go,
somewhere to grow. Now adults, many of us think of that room when we remember
our childhood, what was good about it, and how we’d like our own children to
experience such a connection with such a place. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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And maybe that’s why St. Mary’s upcoming closure has
affected long-departed alums like me. Its shuttering not only alters definitive
chapters of my life, but is yet another reminder that my childhood will never
be replicated by my eventual children.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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They’ll never have the chance to grow within the same
familial, nurturing environment as I did. They’ll never walk the same sallow
halls, play defense on the same court or find themselves unexplainably attached
to a school and its namesake. This is sad, and as more and more of these
Catholic institutions fall to consolidation or outright closure, these types of
blogged goodbyes will become a rite of passage for legions of devastated
students and nostalgic adults. If these testimonials continue to come flowing
forward in hail of intricate details and superlatives, maybe the people making
these decisions might think more considerably about what they’re taking away
from a community. They’re not only taking away a building or classrooms or
teachers. They’re eradicating a way of life that’s formed generations.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is the influence of St. Mary of the Lake. It’s left an
indelible impact on all of us who were lucky enough to call it home and, when its
doors close, that bond will remain. That’s the mark of St. Mary. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Wear it with pride—and let it endure for decades.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
Michael Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456704796652317256noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-189861602738161477.post-67260207587516381452013-10-07T06:28:00.001-07:002013-10-07T06:28:27.353-07:00No Frills to release “Running with Buffalo” by Michael Farrell <div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
(<i>Note: This is the press release sent out by publisher No Frills Buffalo last week. Follow the noted links with any questions or concerns.</i>) </div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0wCLVh9iyeU/UlK2bCE3OYI/AAAAAAAAAO8/xdo2VuzNtUc/s1600/RWB+Cover+(No+Frills).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0wCLVh9iyeU/UlK2bCE3OYI/AAAAAAAAAO8/xdo2VuzNtUc/s320/RWB+Cover+(No+Frills).jpg" width="272" /></a></div>
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<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
The thrill of post-college possibilities. The loyalty of childhood friendship. The pain of necessary transitions, and unexpected answers that could ease a life of uncertainty. These are some of the elements explored in Michael Farrell’s first novel, <i>Running with Buffalo</i>, set for release by No Frills Buffalo.</div>
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The Buffalo-set story’s narrative is delivered by Joseph Cahan, a 2001 college graduate who wants to thrive aside his Irish family and life-long friends who live for football, stout and Fender solos. Full of expectations and idealism fueled by rock music lyrics, Joseph’s goal in life is to become a writer who documents the hilarious and exciting adventures of his post-college life. But, in the months that follow his graduation, dooming complacency, lack of professional opportunity and lingering love alter his path. Delivered as a humorous and heartfelt testimonial about life's fearsome complexities, unanticipated changes, and the simple truths that could quell the intensity of it all, <i>Running with Buffalo</i> is about the uneven search to find a place to call home—and the simple answers that could sooth the journey.</div>
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<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
Born in Buffalo and raised in Hamburg, author Michael Farrell graduated from Frontier High School and St. Bonaventure University before earning an MFA in Creative Writing from Massachusetts-located Pine Manor College’s Solstice Program in 2010. His work has appeared in the <i>Buffalo News</i>, <i>Buffalo Spree Magazine</i>, <i>Buffalo Rising</i>, <i>Bu<a href="" name="14189528d5265baa__GoBack" rel="nofollow"></a>siness First, Block Club Magazine</i> and the <i>Boston Herald</i>, where he worked as a reporter from 2004 to 2011. He now serves as an adjunct English and communication arts professor at SUNY Erie Community College in Buffalo, and can be found on his website at <a href="http://www.farrellstreet.com./" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">www.farrellstreet.com.</a></div>
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<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
Books published by No Frills Buffalo can be purchased online at <a href="http://www.amazon.com%2C/" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">www.amazon.com,</a> <a href="http://www.powells.com%2C/" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">www.powells.com,</a> <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com%2C/" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">www.barnesandnoble.com,</a> <a href="http://www.ecko.com/" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">www.ECKO.com</a> and <a href="http://www.nofrillsbuffalo.com./" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">www.nofrillsbuffalo.com.</a> No Frills Buffalo titles can also be found in Western New York bookstores, including Talking Leaves; Dog Ears Bookstore; The Second Reader; Monkey See, Monkey Do; Lift Bridge Books in Brockport; and Buffalo Street Books in Ithaca.</div>
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<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
No Frills Buffalo is currently accepting submissions from writers interested in being published. For more information, please visit <a href="http://www.nofrillsbuffalo.com/" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">www.nofrillsbuffalo.com</a> or email <a href="mailto:submissions@nofrillsbuffalo.com" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">submissions@nofrillsbuffalo.<wbr></wbr>com</a>. You can also follow No Frills Buffalo on Facebook at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/NoFrillsBuffalo?ref=ts&fref=ts" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">www.facebook.com/<wbr></wbr>NoFrillsBuffalo?ref=ts&fref=ts</a> for frequent updates.</div>
Michael Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456704796652317256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-189861602738161477.post-19227240087082711032013-04-25T06:19:00.000-07:002013-04-25T06:48:32.382-07:00From Forrest to Fundraiser: The Endorsed Evolution of Tom Hanks DayTen years ago, <st1:state w:st="on">Michigan</st1:state>
native Kevin Turk was not an international fundraiser.<br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He was just your everyday <st1:place w:st="on"><a href="http://www.wmich.edu/"><span style="color: blue;">Western Michigan University</span></a></st1:place> student, one
with a great group of friends, a comfortable couch, and some free time between
classes. Then, on an April Fools’ Day that called for rum and a cinematic run
through reconstructed history, Turk’s semi-charmed life got a little more
interesting. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222;">"My friend
looks at me and says, 'Dude, do you want to watch some Tom Hanks movies and
drink?' And I thought that sounded like a good time, so we started drinking rum
and Dr. Pepper, and we popped in Forrest Gump."<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="background: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-B-zFELqhpRk/UXkrkojpjOI/AAAAAAAAAH0/YWt87mYdBNg/s1600/IMG_1274.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-B-zFELqhpRk/UXkrkojpjOI/AAAAAAAAAH0/YWt87mYdBNg/s320/IMG_1274.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The many faces of Tom Hanks.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Thus began the
first official </span><a href="http://thetomhanksday.com/index.php"><span style="color: blue;">Tom Hanks Day</span></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">, an event that’s graduated from its bender beginnings and has morphed into a hybrid celebration of the one-time bosom buddy—and fundraiser for Hanks's chosen charity, Lifeline Energy. One look inside the event’s 10</span><sup style="color: #222222;">th</sup><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
installment—hosted on April 13</span><sup style="color: #222222;">th</sup><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"> by adjoined Chicago bars Headquarters
</span><a href="http://hqbeercade.com/"><span style="color: blue;">Beercade</span></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"> and Uncle Fatty’s Rum Resort—would reveal the enamorment of a
few frighteningly devoted, albeit altruistic, Hanks fanatics. But, according to Turk,
that’s not exactly the case. </span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #222222;">"I can't
say we picked Hanks because we knew what an awesome guy he'd turn out to be.
And none of us are die-hard fans of his,” said Turk, a <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Chicago</st1:place></st1:city> resident who works on an experiential
marketing team for Groupon. “We just loved Forrest Gump and a bunch of his
other movies."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="background: white;"><span style="color: #222222;">Turns out
they’re not the only ones. On a sunny spring afternoon in Chicago, hundreds of
fans of such cinematic classics as </span><i style="color: #222222;">Splash,
Apollo 13 </i><span style="color: #222222;">and</span><i> <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VJhzlV3X5so"><span style="color: blue;">Bachelor Party</span></a> </i><span style="color: #222222;">checked
in for an afternoon of Hanks-related revelry. </span><i style="color: #222222;">Cast Away</i><span style="color: #222222;">-themed t-shirts were sold at the door; green Tom Hanks Day
cozies accommodated the event’s </span><st1:place style="color: #222222;" w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Goose</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Island</st1:placetype></st1:place><span style="color: #222222;"> canned beer
special. Attendees posed for photos behind masks of Hanks characters, and
friends gathered under flat-screen projections of the shirtless </span><st1:place style="color: #222222;" w:st="on">Hollywood</st1:place><span style="color: #222222;"> icon and a slobbering </span></span><span style="background: #FBFBFB;"><a href="http://www.womansday.com/life/entertainment/famous-friends-for-bo-72830"><span style="color: blue;">Dogue de Bordeaux</span></a> </span><span style="background: white; color: #222222;">in <i>Turner
& Hooch</i>. There was even a group dressed as players from <i>A League of Their Own</i>, complete with a
drunken Jimmy Dugan. The influence of Hanks’s career was omnipresent—even
inside Uncle Fattey’s bathroom. When a patron walked in and knocked on a stall
door, the voice from inside replied with a <i>Forrest
Gump</i> quote.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #222222;">“Seat’s taken.”
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FlQzCx9r4tI/UXksCtWc1uI/AAAAAAAAAIA/5op3BnPxGqI/s1600/IMG_1260.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FlQzCx9r4tI/UXksCtWc1uI/AAAAAAAAAIA/5op3BnPxGqI/s320/IMG_1260.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hanks fans pay tribute to <i>A League of Their Own.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #222222;">Ridiculous?
Sure. Fanatical? Maybe. Awesome? Absolutely. Hundreds of people gathering under
the flag of Tom Hanks, arguably the most universally loved and respected actor
of his generation. Hundreds of young adults hoisting cocktails under the
neighborhood disputes of Ray Peterson (</span><i style="color: #222222;">The
‘Burbs</i><span style="color: #222222;">) and growing pains of Josh Baskin (</span><i style="color: #222222;">Big</i><span style="color: #222222;">). Hundreds of fans who’d even adjusted the popular “Ole’” </span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kDOwZIRl7cY"><span style="color: blue;">soccer chant</span></a><span style="color: #222222;"> to accommodate the actor’s name. (</span><i style="color: #222222;">Tom—Hanks,
Tom-Hanks-Tom-Hanks-Tom-Hanks! Tom—Hanks, To-om—Hanks!</i><span style="color: #222222;">) Even in the early years, Turk and </span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=WAuWsLcGSHY"><span style="color: blue;">his college friends</span></a><span style="color: #222222;"> knew they'd created a truly original event</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">—and thought Hanks
should know about it.</span></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #222222;">"My friend
and I started emailing someone we thought was Tom Hanks's brother,” said Turk of mails sent in 2006, after the event had moved from WMU to Chicago.
“Then, I get an email from someone claiming to be Tom's assistant. She said Tom
had heard of the event and wanted to donate merchandise for the day. I'm pretty
cynical, so at first I didn't believe the mail. I even sent a response
mail that read, 'If this is one of my friends, stop f---ing with me. But, if
this is legit, please call me." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222;">Minutes later,
he received a call from Hanks's assistant—who was not f---ing with him.</span><span style="color: #222222;"><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">"She told me that Tom loved the idea and
wanted to send us a bunch of stuff for the event. So I said, great, tell him to
send whatever he wants."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background: white;"><span style="color: #222222;">So he did.
First, Hanks sent Turk and friends </span><a href="file:///C:/Users/farrell/Desktop/Tom%20Hanks%20Day%20letter.htm" style="color: #222222;">a typewritten letter</a><span style="color: #222222;">. Then, he
sent signed movie posters and DVDs. He sent one of the </span><st1:city style="color: #222222;" w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Wilson</st1:place></st1:city><span style="color: #222222;"> volleyballs from </span><i style="color: #222222;">Cast Away</i><span style="color: #222222;"> and props from </span><i><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wPMLG8mnCRM"><span style="color: blue;">That Thing You Do</span></a></i><span style="color: #222222;">. He even sent signed replications of jerseys pressed for his 50</span><sup style="color: #222222;">th</sup><span style="color: #222222;"> birthday baseball stadium road trip, a traveling bash that involved such celebrants as Billy Crystal. One year, he even sent a 20-pound slab of
homemade bologna, shipped in a giant cooler with its recipe. Turk was
overwhelmed. Though he and his friends ate the bologna (which was delicious),
they decided to repay the rest of Hanks’s ridiculous generosity by turning
their </span><i><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A9lceeNQMwk"><span style="color: blue;">Joe Versus the Volcano</span></a></i><span style="color: #222222;">-inspired Kalamazoo kegger into a legitimate charity event.</span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #222222;">"As soon
as his assistant reached out, I just realized that Hanks is super awesome,” he
said. “He was going to send us all this stuff, so we decided to turn this event
into a fundraiser and raise money for whatever charity Tom wanted us to
support."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #222222;">This charity turned out to be </span><a href="http://lifelineenergy.org/"><span style="color: blue;">Lifeline Energy</span></a><span style="color: #222222;">, an
education-driven initiative focused on sub-Saharan </span><st1:place style="color: #222222;" w:st="on">Africa</st1:place><span style="color: #222222;">
that boasts Hanks as its international ambassador. With this redirected focus,
Turk began to generate revenue from the day’s t-shirt and beer sales, as well
as a raffle conducted with Hanks’s generous donations. These proceeds are now directed annually to Lifeline, with donations totaling into the tens of
thousands of dollars since 2008. Exposure for the event through </span><i><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=etcGfwKbE8M"><span style="color: blue;">Jimmy Kimmel Live</span></a><span style="color: #222222;">, </span></i><span style="color: #222222;">CNN and </span><i style="color: #222222;">Time Magazine</i><span style="color: #222222;"> has also drawn direct donations to
the charity through online or independent contributions. Also, in a few instances,
Hanks has personally matched the amount raised through his day’s Goose
Island-sponsored celebration. Such collaboration from the actor has not only impressed the event’s originators, but inspired them to keep the party going year after year. </span></span><br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-as1ynLPNDzQ/UXks1rq85cI/AAAAAAAAAII/O7KvbPpy1J4/s1600/IMG_1268.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-as1ynLPNDzQ/UXks1rq85cI/AAAAAAAAAII/O7KvbPpy1J4/s320/IMG_1268.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tom Hanks superfan, ready to party.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background: white; color: #222222;">"The
reason this is still going strong is because Hanks is such a genuine guy,” said
Turk. “He cares about people and gives back. He's not an egotistical person at
all, and we try to replicate that with these events. Those (good intentions)
are why this event continues."</span><span style="color: #222222;"><br />
</span><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222;">And, it’s started to branch out. Along with stateside appearances in Cleveland and Portland, Tom Hanks Day has now become </span><i style="color: #222222;">International </i><span style="color: #222222;">Tom Hanks Day, with annual
observation </span><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;">in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Toronto</st1:city>, <st1:state w:st="on">Ontario</st1:state></st1:place>.
This year also saw the day’s first acknowledgement in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Taiwan</st1:place></st1:country-region>—on a
boat, and with official event t-shirts for about 75 people, according to Turk. Still,
what once operated under serendipitous western Michigan weather (sunny days that Turk and friends
would refer to as a “Tom Hanks miracle”) has now found its long-term home in
Chicago, with <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=DhhaIaBam6Y"><span style="color: blue;">official acknowledgement</span></a> and revelers like Dawn Wilson, a
27-year-old stage manager of <i>Saturday
Night Live</i> feeder troupe, <a href="http://www.secondcity.com/"><span style="color: blue;">Second City</span></a>.</span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #222222;">"When I
first started coming to this, I assumed it was some festival of drunkeness.
But, when I realized it was all to support some awesome cause, I thought, yeah,
I can support that," said Wilson, who’s attended two Tom Hanks Day events.
"This is an event to cater to my age demographic. There's beer and a
party, but there's also an underlying cause. That's why people are here."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="background: white;"><span style="color: #222222;">And that’s why
Turk hopes people keep coming. What started as a couple of dudes hoovering
spiked DP while Jenny and Forrest danced to </span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4eECO5dlVh8"><span style="color: blue;">Skynard</span></a><span style="color: #222222;"> has matured into a
legitimate opportunity to boost those in need of financial aid and education.
It’s a ridiculous transition, but one that’s now rolled forth for a decade. Back
when they were still hosting Tom Hanks Day on April Fools’ Day, Turk responded to
Hanks’s aforementioned Smith Corona communication with the following message: <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i><span style="background: white; color: #222222;">With your help, April 1st will no longer
be known for tomfoolery, but rather Tom Hanks.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #222222;">And for <i>The Money Pit</i>. And <i>Saving Private Ryan</i>. And, for the most creative, Captain
Morgan-influenced charity idea ever endorsed by a two-time Oscar winner. <i> </i></span><i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">(</span><b style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Author's note:</b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"> This
entry was finished while listening to “Signed, Sealed, Delivered I’m Yours” by
Stevie Wonder, featured in the Tom Hanks classic </span><i style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">You’ve Got Mail</i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
(<b>Final note</b>: If you'd like to aid the efforts of Lifeline Energy, please
visit their <a href="http://lifelineenergy.org/support-us/"><span style="color: blue;">website</span></a> for donation information and
instruction.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Michael Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456704796652317256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-189861602738161477.post-63434276858422231012013-04-05T08:10:00.001-07:002013-04-05T08:40:13.930-07:00A New Wedding SongAside from John Mayer, I’m not sure a whole lot of musicians
set out to purposely write a song to be used at your wedding.<br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I doubt The Edge planned his heaven’s echo guitar solo on
“<a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x1w4rt_u2-all-i-want-is-you_music#.UV7NYaKKJu0"><span style="color: blue;">All I Want Is You</span></a>” with someone’s nuptials in mind, and it’s unlikely Eric
Clapton took pause from another day’s <a href="http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=15412830"><span style="color: blue;">heroin daze</span></a> and mumbled to himself,
“Wonderful Tonight is going to be a bloody smash at weddings.” And, I find it
impossible to believe that David Gray designed his entire catalogue around the
possibility that couple after couple would harvest his chords for their first
dance as a married match.</div>
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<br /></div>
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(Note: “<st1:city w:st="on"><a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/video/xtvarp_david-gray-babylon-live-1080-hd_music?search_algo=2#.UV7No6KKJu0"><span style="color: blue;">Babylon</span></a></st1:city>”
is not about your love. It’s a beautiful song about Gray’s emotional
realizations after inhaling a load of beers. Listen to the lyrics, dammit.)</div>
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<br /></div>
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But, sometimes a song can embody more than it’s meant to
embody. It can soundtrack a moment or symbolize a feeling. It can say words we
can’t find or elicit emotions we didn’t know we had. Or, in the case of the upcoming onslaught of spring and summer weddings, it can communicate the
meaning of a formal, romantic moment in front of family, friends and caterers. </div>
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<br /></div>
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“<a href="http://www.fuse.tv/videos/2013/03/jim-james-a-new-life-muisc-video"><span style="color: blue;">A New Life</span></a>” by Jim James is one of these songs, and it’s destined
to become the next big wedding song—albeit unintentionally. Off his eclectic 2013 release <i><a href="http://jimjames.com/store"><span style="color: blue;">Regions of Light and Sound of God</span></a></i>, it’s a gorgeous and
inventive arrangement of acoustic guitar, percussion and strings, strumming
listeners through a sublime lead-in before transitioning into an emotional,
marching cacophony. Without any vocals, it could be absorbed as a sonic
embodiment of advancing emotions toward the realization of love. But, lucky for
future brides and grooms, its locomotive progression is supported by the following lyrics:</div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-H0xhhI5-6Cc/UV7p8YVwznI/AAAAAAAAAGk/PEyLZxzyOaM/s1600/Jim+James+album.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="198" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-H0xhhI5-6Cc/UV7p8YVwznI/AAAAAAAAAGk/PEyLZxzyOaM/s200/Jim+James+album.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jim James's <i>Regions of Light and Sound of God</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">Hey, open the door</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">I want a new life</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">Hey, and here’s what’s more</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">I want a new life, a new life</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">Babe, let’s get one thing clear</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">There’s much more star dust when you’re near</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">I think I’m really being sincere</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">I want a new life, a new life</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">With you<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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Perfect. If you’re like me, you pick apart wedding song communication
like a reverse rotation of <i>The White
Album.</i> <span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">A wedding
song's lyrics earn the most confirmation or confusion from alert guests. A couple
borrows an artist’s words to describe their own thoughts and feelings while
isolated on a dance floor. Choose a song with a direct, simplistic message of
love, devotion and transition and you’re golden. Mistakenly select one
about sexual liberation (Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On”) or banging groupies
(Kings of Leon’s “<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ugpjfYA1hZ4"><span style="color: blue;">Use Somebody</span></a>”) and you're swaying amid horrified aunts, uncles
and coworkers. Rest assured, James comes direct, providing an unambiguous
message for couples entering into commitment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">Can’t you see a perfect picture</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">You and me</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">But you know, it won’t come easy</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">And what’s more<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background: white;">It’s worth looking for</span> </i> </div>
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<br /></div>
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After the lyrics, there are length and pace to consider. My
unproven theories on this topic include the following: <span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">If the song’s too short, the couple isn't truly invested in their choice. If
it’s too long, they’re totally inconsiderate of their guests. If it’s too fast,
they’re acting too casual on what’s supposed to be the most important day of
their lives. If it’s too slow and/or sexual, they’re overcompensating for
something—or simply accentuating their constructed fairytale for those willing to buy in.
And, if they go with Journey’s “Faithfully,” they’re simply ripping off my high
school’s senior prom. (Note: This song was not new at the time of the prom, which made its choice as the evening's theme song incredibly pathetic.) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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“A New Life” provides a diversified opportunity for adventurous new
couples. It runs a little long at 4:22, but its change of pace at the 1:26
mark allows for the always popular “you thought this song was slow, but we’ve fooled
you” transition. The bride can kick off her shoes, the groom can work off his crippling anxiety, and
guests will be spared of watching another couple’s uncomfortable PDA’s under Joe
Cocker’s “<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wlDmslyGmGI"><span style="color: blue;">You Are So Beautiful To Me</span></a>.” As an added bonus, the wedding party or whole reception can
be invited to the floor amid James's impassioned howl to share in the stomp that rolls the song to its end. What could ensue would be a scene worthy of a YouTube clip <span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">and
a videographer’s fee—which would seem like a bargain for the first time in
history.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 18px;">And isn't this vibrant display of happiness and elation what love's supposed to look like? Isn't this the euphoria a wedding day is supposed to elicit? It isn't about the perfect dress or the most extravagant cake. It isn't about the most picturesque hall, all-you-can-drink Jameson or <a href="http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/the-essence-of-emeril/scallops-wrapped-in-bacon-recipe/index.html"><span style="color: blue;">seafood wrapped in bacon</span></a>. It's about two people excited and prepared to start a new life together, one surrounded by family, friends and music. Seems like such a decision should be celebrated in the type of collective fashion James's track is ideally suited to soundtrack. </span><br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
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Like I noted at the start of this, I doubt most credible
musicians purposely carve out songs to be used for your wedding. Jeff Tweedy
didn’t record “<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MS4QYPqQmPY"><span style="color: blue;">One By One</span></a>” for my sister’s event, and Bob Dylan
didn’t write “If Not For You” for mine. I’m fairly certain Jim James didn’t
write “A New Life” to be used by anonymous couples inside the <a href="http://thehotellafayette.com/banquets"><span style="color: blue;">Hotel Lafayette</span></a>’s
ballroom. But here it is, there for the taking on your wedding day. </div>
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<i><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">Babe, open the door</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">And start you new life,</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">Oh, your new life</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">Babe, on to the shore</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">And start your new life</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">Your new life, with me.</span> <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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A new life for you. A new wedding song for everyone. Your
move, John Mayer. </div>
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<br /></div>
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(<b>Author’s note:</b>
This entry was finished while listening to “While You Were Sleeping” by Elvis
Perkins—but I did listen to “A New Life” roughly 17 times while writing the
bulk of this post.)<i> <o:p></o:p></i></div>
Michael Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456704796652317256noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-189861602738161477.post-59898718813677203092013-03-14T07:08:00.002-07:002013-03-14T07:57:23.164-07:00First Ward Marches Forward<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">"The story of the Old
First Ward is not finished; it remains to be written by future generations.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">-Timothy Bohen, <i>Against
the Grain</i><br />
<br />
As a Buffalo gateway—as well as home to one of the city’s two St. Patrick’s Day
parades—it’s hard to believe that any area resident would have no idea how to
find the riverfront enclave known as the </span><a href="http://old1stward.com/"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Old First Ward</span></a><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">. But, during his five years of work on his
first book <i>Against the Grain</i>, Buffalo author Timothy
Bohen regularly encountered such confusion.<br />
<br />
“When I mentioned (my book’s topic) to people who didn’t have roots in the
Ward, their first question was always, ‘Where exactly is the First Ward?”<br />
<br />
A passing survey of the aforementioned individuals may yield Ward knowledge
results of “Irish,” “grain elevators” or “free Sabres parking.” But these
people have never walked down O’Connell Avenue or Mackinaw
Street; they’ve never found Sunday mass at Our Lady of Perpetual Help or a can
of Genny Double Bock at Cook’s. They haven’t inhaled a <a href="http://www.mazureksbakery.com/"><span style="color: blue;">Mazurek’s</span></a> pastry
heart or split a Carbone’s chicken finger pizza. And, unless they’re the
masochistic type, they’ve never toured the neighborhood at a plodding,
wind-restricted shuffle during the annual emerald slog known as the </span><a href="http://www.buffaloshamrockrun.com/"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Shamrock Run</span></a><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">But Bohen didn’t enter
into half a decade cataloging the Ward’s historical relevance for </span><a href="http://oldfirstward.com/"><i><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Against
the Grain</span></i></a><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"> because he knew
it’d be a hot read. He did it because, initially, he was unfamiliar with the
origins of his Irish surname (Bohane). But, the deeper he dug into the
neighborhood of his ancestors, the more certain he was that the neighborhood’s
story needed to be told to those unaware of its tremendous international
significance.<br />
<br />
“The story of wanting to know more about the First Ward started to overtake my
concerns about the spelling of my last name,” said Bohen, nursing a Guinness
under a Shane MacGowan </span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TaHMG_SvUkw"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">serenade</span></a><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"> last month
inside </span><a href="http://www.genemccarthys.com/"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Gene McCarthy’s Tavern</span></a><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">, a Ward institution. “I didn’t get answers on
the spelling until several years after starting this journey.”<br />
<br />
It’s proved a journey worth taking. Over the 258 pages of Bohen’s stirring
march through Ward history, he takes readers through an exhausting amount of
significant institutions, individuals and achievements, ones fueled by an
immigrant population entrusted with managing lucrative waterfront commerce and
building a lakefront city into a national economic power. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div align="center">
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<tbody>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 4.5pt 4.5pt 4.5pt 4.5pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tIUxzXeN4J4/UUHWaFeW3CI/AAAAAAAAAGY/Mcib7NE3brk/s1600/Timothy+Bohen+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tIUxzXeN4J4/UUHWaFeW3CI/AAAAAAAAAGY/Mcib7NE3brk/s320/Timothy+Bohen+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Against the Grain </span></span></i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">author Timothy Bohen</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“A lot of the treasures
that we have in Buffalo—whether architecture treasures or some of the
other identifiable features—came from the wealth generated in the First Ward,”
said Bohen. “Many of Delaware Avenue’s fortunes were made from the First
Ward and the waterfront, and without its role in the region’s history, this
region would be radically different.”</span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">As would the rest of the country. Grain elevators now used for inventive art
festivals and </span><a href="http://www.indiegogo.com/projects/grain-elevator-rock-climbing-center"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">prospective rock-climbing venues</span></a><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"> once housed the bulk of America’s
grain. Ward residents walked down streets
like Hamburg, Alabama and Vincennes to find shovels
and fill Lake Erie vessels, ones tasked with shipping this essential
ingredient across the country.<br />
<br />
“This area played an integral part in not only feeding this country, but
feeding the world,” said Bohen. “Being on the eastern end of Lake Erie, it was
responsible for handling grain that was later made into cereal or dough for
pizzas in New York City. It was all done right here in the First Ward,
whether it was the milling of the grain or its shipment.”<br />
<br />
But this information is just a piece of the First Ward’s significance to the region
and, in particular, its Irish Americans. Dig a little deeper and you’ll find
the neighborhood once housed one of America’s top five Irish immigrant
populations, earning the constant guidance of Catholic leader John Timon, and
earning Buffalo visits from such Irish independence advocates
as <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/history/historic_figures/de_valera_eamon.shtml"><span style="color: blue;">Eamon DeValera</span></a> and, more recently, Gerry
Adams. On their trips into Western New York, they found the Ward, backdrop of
the Labor Strike of 1899, violent and deadly railroad strikes of 1877 and 1892,
and land once home to Michael Quinn’s Tavern, which hosted planning stages of
the infamous <a href="http://www.historynet.com/fenian-raids-invasions-of-british-ruled-canada.htm"><span style="color: blue;">Fenian raid on Canada</span></a> in 1866. Also,
the first Buffalo St. Patrick’s Day Parade? In the First Ward, and
organized by tavern owner Quinn.<br />
<br />
“I don’t think locals or people across the country have any idea of how
important of an Irish center this once was,” said Bohen. “It was always on a
short list of cities that Irish independence leaders would visit in the late
19th and early 20th centuries.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">When they’d visit, they
traveled the same streets of historical figures who once called the First Ward
home. Go one way and they’d find residences of Bishop Timon and the Sisters of
Mercy, both essential shepherds of the community; go another and they’d find
addresses belonging to Michael Shea and </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_D'Arcy_McGee"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">D’Arcy McGee</span></a><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">,
both namesakes of two current downtown entertainment venues. Boxing legend
Jimmy Slattery prepped for
eventual Madison Square Garden bouts on Ward streets;
mayoral legend Jimmy Griffin rehearsed for years of Buffalo political
scrapes inside now shuttered bars like Leahy's. And, raised in a house
on Michigan Street, World War hero and O.S.S. founder </span><a href="http://www.newyorker.com/arts/critics/books/2011/03/14/110314crbo_books_menand"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Major General William Donovan</span></a><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"> grew up to be arguably the most
significant Buffalonian ever, a fact Bohen is quick to note.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“What’s mind-boggling to
me is the lack of honor (Buffalo has) paid to General William Donovan,” he
said. “There was the Donovan State Building now being
converted to One Canalside, so that’s gone. Then, there was talk about having
his name on the new federal courthouse, but that didn’t come to fruition. This
is a character that, in any other city would have a bridge or turnpike named
after him. There would at least be a major monument in his honor. Historically,
he’s the most important Buffalonian to come out of the 20<sup>th</sup> century.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">And maybe there will
soon be proper respect shown to all the events and individuals that made the
Old First Ward worthy of Bohen’s engaging and illuminating offering. Maybe
there will soon be long-overdue attention paid to the neighborhood’s historical
relevance—and the devoted residents who’ve kept it alive—by those who don’t
know nearly enough about either. Renaming the Ohio Street Bridge the General
William Donovan Bridge would be a start, and moving the city’s </span><a href="http://www.irishfaminememorial.com/"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Irish Famine Memorial</span></a><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"> (soon to be made more clandestine by Ellicott Development’s
mammoth Carlo project) to the Ward would be another. The Erie Canal Harbor
Development Corporation’s planned $11 million complete street </span><a href="http://www.bizjournals.com/buffalo/news/2012/11/14/plan-to-transform-ohio-street-moves.html?page=all"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">conversion of Ohio Street</span></a><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">—which will connect Canalside to
the Outer Harbor—provides the opportunity for a litany of historical
markers, as well as for eventually naming the reconstructed thoroughfare for
the most significant modern First Ward resident, Peg Overdorf.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“She’s probably done
more over the past two decades for the Ward and the Valley than anyone,” said
Bohen. “She’s got a lot of help behind her, but she’s the one with the vision
and dogged spirit that ultimately gets things done.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Overdorf’s devoted
vision now welcomes First Ward visitors
off Michigan with Riverfest Park, and lures kayakers
through the Buffalo River’s Elevator Alley
to Mutual Riverfront Park and the </span><a href="http://waterfrontmemoriesandmore.com/"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Waterfront Memories and More Museum</span></a><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">. Aided by the tireless efforts of loyal
neighborhood residents, the momentum continues. Two weeks ago, over 5,600
Under-Armored lunatics descended on the Ward to conquer the terrain (five
miles) and temperatures (mid-20s) of the Shamrock Run, now in its 34th year.
The Buffalo Scholastic Rowing Association Boathouse has plans for a new
facility near the Ohio Basin Inlet; riverfront housing has been discussed for
the collapsed </span><a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20121219/BUSINESS/121219087/1005"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Erie Freight House</span></a><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">; the Ohio and Michigan
Street bridges have plans to be illuminated; and uniting historical
signage for Buffalo’s Industrial Heritage Trail is on the way. And, don’t
forget about </span><a href="http://www.visitbuffaloniagara.com/includes/events/index.cfm?action=displayDetail&eventid=62568"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">this Saturday’s parade</span></a><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">. With more than 100 marching units scheduled to
find South Park Avenue, it plans to be the largest St. Patrick’s
installment since the event was resurrected 20 years ago.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">All these developments
join the interest in Bohen’s work as reasons to believe the Ward’s days of
inadequate appreciation are approaching a thankful end.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“When I started this
project, I didn’t see all of the synergy and development happening in the First
Ward. In the year I finished the project, I found two new parks, the museum,
and even a focus (from the ECHDC) on lighting up the city’s grain elevators.
None of this has anything to do with my book, but if the history detailed in my
book leads to future historical endeavors, then that will be a great thing.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">(</span><b style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Author's note:</b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"> This
report was finished while listening to "Streams of Whiskey" by The
Pogues)</span></div>
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<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Michael Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456704796652317256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-189861602738161477.post-31841065878700539152012-12-21T06:02:00.000-08:002013-05-15T09:20:12.649-07:00Last Moments of the Mohawk When I think about<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><st1:street w:st="on">Mohawk Place</st1:street>,
my first thought is of holiday reunions spent amid their annual <a href="http://www.facebook.com/JoeStrummerTribute">Joe Strummer Tribute Night</a>, scheduled for the 11<sup>th</sup><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>and final time this Saturday night.<br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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My
second thought? The hilariously abhorrent condition of their men’s bathroom.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I
don’t immediately think about how The White Stripes, My Morning Jacket or <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9_4_By9NJOc">Dr. Dog</a> once
mounted the Mohawk stage to echo vocals and chords off steel coolers and street
signs. I don’t think about the Elvis in<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><st1:city w:st="on">Buffalo</st1:city><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>poster, the hawk-emblazoned
mirror or walls covered with local guitar heroes. And, I don’t think about how
they may have been the last bar in<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><st1:city w:st="on">Buffalo</st1:city><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>to offer (and actually
move) bottles of <a href="http://www.thebeerstore.ca/beers/old-vienna">Old Vienna</a>. I think about their bathroom, with walls and
urinals covered in band stickers, floor swimming in spilled or recycled <a href="http://beeradvocate.com/beer/profile/302/1376">Genny Cream Ale</a>—and a
toilet seat covered in duct tape.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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But,
the state of those facilities has always been oddly complementary to the gritty,
leather-clad aura of <a href="http://www.themohawkplace.com/">the Mohawk</a>. It’s always stood as an unkempt rock hole, one
focused less on presentation of pristine interiors and more on presentation of
Fenders and feedback. If you were there to use the can, you were definitely in
the wrong place. If you were there to see<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><st1:city w:st="on">Buffalo</st1:city>’s
finest musicians, some touring up-and-comers, or a group of your childhood
friends cover The Clash’s “<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=psB0cidB5bg">Clampdown</a>” as a tribute to Strummer, then you were
in the right place.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fDrI94RuQnE/UZO1FIxUN7I/AAAAAAAAAIs/lv9zX0KcESE/s1600/Mohawk+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fDrI94RuQnE/UZO1FIxUN7I/AAAAAAAAAIs/lv9zX0KcESE/s320/Mohawk+(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sticker-covered wall of Buffalo's Mohawk Place </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
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If
you grew up in or around<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><st1:city w:st="on">Buffalo</st1:city><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>in the nineties, you found
your music at Record Theatre or <a href="http://artvoice.com/issues/v5n49/day_the_music_died">Home of the Hits</a>. You may have followed up that shopping with shows inside Showplace Theater or Nietzsche's before, eventually, a friend’s band—or some band you
absolutely needed to see—booked Mohawk. And, once you weaved through its dingy
interiors, continued past the odd pile of crumbled, roped-off debris near the
bathrooms and found a place atop the raised landing in the front right corner,
you fell in love with the joint. Like every great<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><st1:city w:st="on">Buffalo</st1:city><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>dive, it attached itself
to you. It felt like yours.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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If
you’ve stayed local since 1990, you’ve been able to treat it like yours for
decades. If you moved away, maybe you visited while home and carried it with
you when you left.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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After
I left<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><st1:city w:st="on"><st1:city u1:st="on">Buffalo</st1:city><span class="apple-converted-space"></span></st1:city> for<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><st1:city w:st="on"><st1:city u1:st="on">Boston</st1:city><span class="apple-converted-space"></span></st1:city> in 2000, I spent time in<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><st1:city w:st="on"><st1:city u1:st="on">Cambridge</st1:city><span class="apple-converted-space"></span></st1:city> venues like T.T The Bear’s
Place and the<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><st1:place w:st="on">Middle
East</st1:place>, watching acts like Ted Leo and the Pharmacists
or <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A2GPTvr-2Tc">The Moondoggies</a>. From 2008 to 2011, I tended bar at the <a href="http://thedise.com/index.html">Paradise Rock Club</a>, a
Boston venue famous for hosting upstarts in the seventies like Tom Petty and
AC/DC, and some Irish band in 1980 named <a href="http://www.u2gigs.com/show1031.html">U2</a>. Five nights-a-week, I watched
bands like the Bouncing Souls, Deer Tick or Dinosaur Jr. tear up the Paradise,
churning out ear-bleeding riffs while patrons would move together, belt out
lyrics or fist-pump drum beats. At least once per night, I’d smile, take it all
in and realize I was employed to sling cans of Pabst and watch electric
sets. And, at least once every few nights, I’d look over the same scene, see
joy or recognition cascade over shadowed faces and think to myself, “This
reminds me of the Mohawk.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Environments within the Paradise and Mohawk Place are special; these types of venues don’t just open up. They
develop like a relationship, with years of memories forming a connection
between two entities. Place and patron unite to elicit a sense of genuine
contentment, albeit over cans of beer and jangling cacophony. With more shows
grows a deeper connection, and with a deeper connection grows a loyalty that’s
essential to longevity and reputation. Most major cities have a few places like this, but every city needs at least one. Mohawk’s been one of<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><st1:city w:st="on">Buffalo</st1:city>’s
best, and now it’s down to its last days.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_PDSC8FsCFc/UZO1gmh6DpI/AAAAAAAAAI0/m6iH3QwkXE0/s1600/Mohawk+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_PDSC8FsCFc/UZO1gmh6DpI/AAAAAAAAAI0/m6iH3QwkXE0/s320/Mohawk+(2).jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A farewell message for legions of loyal patrons</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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When
it finally closes its doors in January, it’ll leave behind thousands of moments
for thousands of people. It’ll disconnect from the relationship it formed with
patrons over cover bands, punk quartets and Canadian frontmen. Many will
remember those early, blues-soaked Friday nights with<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><st1:place w:st="on"><st1:place u1:st="on">South
Buffalo</st1:place><span class="apple-converted-space"></span></st1:place> standard
Willie Schoellkopf. Others will recall a bourbon-fueled evening with the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lG1NH7G254M">Felice Brothers</a> or a sweat-drenched show with Snapcase. If you were there for the
Hollerado show two weeks ago, maybe you’ll cherish the memory of<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Kids in the Hall</i>’s <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=83tnWFojtcY">Dave Foley</a>,
nonchalantly roaming around the joint amid the flashes of iPhone cameras. If these
moments are yours, take them with you as another<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><st1:city w:st="on">Buffalo</st1:city><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>backdrop fades into
history.</div>
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As
for me, I’ll stash the vision of the venue’s glorified outhouse. Instead, I’ll
lean on other Strummer Tribute Night-related memories, like the scene that
flanked me a couple of years ago. As I stood talking to a friend at the bar, a
drunken couple next to us began bar-necking so hard they lost their balance and
crashed to the floor under the wail of The Clash’s “Safe European Home.”
Tattered romance to a few; reckless action to some. Genuine Mohawk to others.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Thanks
for the memories.<o:p></o:p></div>
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(<b>Author’s note</b>: This entry
was finished while listening to “I’m Not Down” by The Clash.) </div>
<br />Michael Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456704796652317256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-189861602738161477.post-71922427674859538252012-06-29T08:01:00.001-07:002012-07-16T12:50:06.423-07:00Sam City<span style="background-color: white;">Sam Roberts is not from </span><city style="background-color: white;" w:st="on">Buffalo</city><span style="background-color: white;">.</span><br />
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He’s from <place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Montreal</city>, <state w:st="on">Quebec</state></place>. He’s been churning out songs with his current Sam Roberts Band since 2000, setting Canadian sales records while rocking a steady number of onstage <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qhPmRVbLXCc">Levi’s tuxedos</a> in the process. He’s ruled the Rock Album category of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Juno_Awards">Juno Awards</a> for most of the past decade, has his music blasted over Montreal Canadiens home games, and probably can’t walk into a Pizza Pizza without having faded denim torn from his diminutive frame by crazed <a href="http://www.hulu.com/degrassi-junior-high">Degrassi</a> fans.</div>
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Yes, <a href="http://www.samrobertsband.com/">Sam Roberts</a> is Canadian. But, if you come down to Canalside for his band’s “<city w:st="on">Buffalo</city> Place Rocks the Harbor” performance tonight (<a href="http://purchase.tickets.com/buy/TicketPurchase?agency=TDC&pid=7227769">with Grace Potter and the Nocturnals</a>; lawn opens at 6 p.m.), you’ll see a guitarist and band whose style and substance may be the sonic embodiment of modern day <city w:st="on">Buffalo</city>.</div>
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Roll through the tracks on 2001’s <i><a href="http://www.samrobertsband.com/albums/We+Were+Born+in+a+Flame/">We Were Born In A Flame</a></i> and you’ll hear a Cobblestone barroom. Cue up follow-ups <i><a href="http://www.samrobertsband.com/albums/Chemical+City/">Chemical City</a></i>, <i><a href="http://www.samrobertsband.com/albums/Love+At+the+End+of+the+World/">Love at the End of the World</a></i> or <i><a href="http://www.samrobertsband.com/albums/Collider/">Collider</a></i> and you’ll absorb the level of eclectic rock and roll variances found on a pub crawl down <street w:st="on">Allen Street</street>. You’ll find mandatory <place w:st="on"><placename w:st="on">Queen</placename> <placetype w:st="on">City</placetype></place> rock riffs and optimistic melodies amid contemplative lyrics, all with a bit of rust on its edges. You’ll hear about <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LRGyGEtZyY4&feature=related">hard roads</a>, about how your friends will save you in the end; you’ll hear about a brother, graveyard shifts and love <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SQpvbWMSGtg&list=UU9TCITxkm2KxqCHZSih4VHw&index=3&feature=plcp">as deep as a coal mine</a>. You’ll sing along with songs because you’re rhythmically lured in, even if you don’t like girls named Eileen or Maria (or necessarily agree with metaphorical stretches concerning the <a href="http://www.samrobertsband.com/albums/We+Were+Born+in+a+Flame/Taj+Mahal+/">Taj Mahal</a>). And, when you’re done with each album, you’ll play it again. And again. And again.</div>
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And another Canadian musician finds American fandom in <city w:st="on">Buffalo</city>. In a city that’s showered QEW acts like Rush and the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_qxGYnZCeTY">Tragically Hip</a> with mania reserved for 70's-era Zeppelin or Springsteen, we’re attracted to the type of rough-hued northern musicianship not always appreciated by the rest of <country-region w:st="on">America</country-region>. We’ve bought <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2xOplqgcg3g">Matthew Good Band</a> imports from Record Theatre, crossed the <place w:st="on"><placename w:st="on">Peace</placename> <placetype w:st="on">Bridge</placetype></place> for Sloan shows—and considered the memorization of Ron Hawkins lyrics required for over two decades. Simply put, we’ve always gravitated toward the honesty of blue-collar Canadian artistry. </div>
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But, with Roberts and today’s <city w:st="on">Buffalo</city>, the cross-border connection seems different. </div>
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Sure, he was the pea-coated guitarist at 2008’s Winter Classic, charging through “Fixed to Ruin” on an outdoor riser between periods. And yes, the guy’s sold out Town Ballroom and other local venues over the past few years. But, he’s also <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z0SZtc3nSqI">a scruffy underdog</a> who’s striving toward better times, albeit with an appreciation of the past. He’s an unassuming frontman who’s grinding forward not with huge singles, but with endless road work and a succession of solid albums. And, just like <place w:st="on">Buffalo</place>, he’s adding new elements to his composition while not losing the essence of his act. </div>
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(Hell, on newer numbers like “The Last Crusade” and “<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_aQRmaMn8Mo">Let It In</a>,” Roberts joins bandmates Dave Nugent, Eric Fares, James Hall and Josh Trager to rip through their traditional guitar-and-percussion approach—and accommodate an intermingling of saxophone notes. This addition to their historical foundation could be considered the Sam Roberts Band’s <a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/entertainment/columns/colin-dabkowski/article918440.ece">Larkinville</a>.) </div>
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With this connection understood, it’s appropriate that Roberts is opening up this summer’s “Rocks the Harbor” series. These are optimistic, adventurous times in <city w:st="on">Buffalo</city>, with downtown renewal blooming amid a seemingly endless stream of outdoor music and 80-degree temperatures. Tonight, you’ll have a chance to see the best of the present, surrounded by glipses of <a href="http://www.google.com/imgres?hl=en&sa=X&biw=1280&bih=709&tbm=isch&prmd=imvns&tbnid=i7bhdFlrYt9QdM:&imgrefurl=http://www.wkbw.com/news/local/Hotel-Adds-To-Improvements-At-Canalside-139399458.html&docid=rdlcl1osSG_iDM&imgurl=http://media.wkbw.com/images/canalside%252Bart%252Brendering.jpg&w=425&h=241&ei=xkftT5jYAqLs0gHL_IzWDQ&zoom=1&iact=rc&dur=605&sig=114574755516556817078&page=1&tbnh=109&tbnw=193&start=0&ndsp=15&ved=1t:429,r:4,s:0,i:88&tx=103&ty=45">the future</a>. All the while, you’ll be serenaded by the guitar chords of the city’s possible soundtrack, with songs to make you gently sway, hoist a beer or head nod. </div>
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And once again, no: Sam Roberts is not from <city w:st="on">Buffalo</city>. But tonight, you can assuredly count on him delivering a show that’s emblematic of the current rhythm of this city. </div>
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(<b>Author's note:</b> This entry was finished while listening to "Up Sister" by the Sam Roberts Band.)</div>Michael Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456704796652317256noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-189861602738161477.post-61577041023802594492012-06-11T12:11:00.000-07:002015-11-04T06:17:51.299-08:00Home(<strong>Author's note #1</strong>: I wrote the below essay for my graduate school's nationally distributed newsletter. Since it's started to make its way around via cut-paste-and-forward, I decided to post it on the blog. If you've ever read my <em>Idea of Buffalo</em> piece from last fall, then I apologize for a few of the regugitated points below<em>.</em>) <br />
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<em>I saw the streets all ripe with jewels</em><br />
<em>Balconies and the laundry lines</em><br />
<em>They tried to make me welcome there</em><br />
<em>But their streets did not feel like mine</em><br />
<em>So long, I’m goin’, goin’ home </em><br />
-Dan Auerbach, “Goin’ Home”<br />
<br />
One’s connection to home can be like one’s connection to family. At its best, home is a wonderful thing. It is the one place that feels like yours, the place you’re truly attached to. At its worst, home is a suffocating beast, full of frustration and timeless annoyances. I somehow overlooked the enduring duality of this relationship while living elsewhere. Now back on my hometown streets of Buffalo, New York as a returned resident, I’m surrounded by the daily complications of this association.<br />
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Buffalo has been both haven and harrowing for most of my life. It’s the city that hosted my birth, my Christmas mornings and high school basketball games. It gave me friends I’ve kept since preschool, girls I kissed in elementary school. It instilled the competitive grit I’ve used to tough through professional obstacles and rejection. And, it infected me with the underdog mentality that western New Yorkers are born with. Every Buffalo kid grows up with a chip on the shoulder, earned from condescending New York City scowls and southern state insults—the ones about snow and rust, urban blight and Super Bowl losses. I’m from a city that no one understands, compliments or respects. This has bred intense loyalty, one that’s ignited arguments with ignorant strangers and <a href="http://www.damons.com/startinglineup.cfm">Florida waiters</a>. It’s been an inconvenient loyalty, but it’s always been considered necessary. This is my hometown, to defend and support. In <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rNsXH829Ex4">good times</a> and <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AbBte3eXgAM">bad</a>. <br />
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Unfortunately, the whole defend-and-support thing isn’t always reciprocal. Home can agitate, frustrate and torment. It can be like a Springsteen song, but not in a good way. No matter how your beliefs, attitudes and aptitudes have progressed, home drags behind. No matter how many positive memories you’ve generated away from it, home can rekindle the painful moments you’ve forever tried to shake. No matter how many out-of-town successes you’ve experienced, home can preserve your failures for family dinners, Friday night socials and supermarket reunions. Buffalo is where my mother wants me to become a teacher, where my father thinks I should become a salesman. And, it will forever be where my <a href="http://www.frontier.wnyric.org/fchs/site/default.asp">high school</a> English teacher said, if he had one piece of advice for me, it was to never pursue a career in English. <br />
<br />
But, it will also remain the chief source of my <a href="http://farrellstreet.com/">artistic inspiration</a>, just as it has for my entire writing life. <br />
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I lived in Boston for eleven years; I worked inside Manhattan’s Rockefeller Center for a summer. I once fell asleep in Spain and woke up in France. I’ve been to Ireland twice, Italy once, and to nearly every major American city for more than a weekend. I’ve never felt compelled to write about those places the way I do about Buffalo. It’s forever been an underutilized backdrop, full of faded glory amid glimmers of progress and waterfront panoramas; it’s loaded with complex characters striving for genuine salvation in the shadows of economic stall. Its story has surrounded my own story, and continues to affect me with its successes and failures. Some days, I smile at <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/jerrygodwinfoto/3354039631/">nineteenth-century buildings</a> being refurbished by flanneled laborers; other days, I seethe down sidewalks as another Hunt Realty sign finds an empty storefront. Both experiences sear through me in different ways, both eliciting intense feelings usually reserved for personal hardships. But, that tightening cringe in my stomach—whether from excitement or resentment—proves I care. It’s undeniable evidence of an intense and, at times, exhausting personal connection. And, it’s a multi-faceted emotional connection that’s injected a voice, passion and literary purpose into every Buffalo-set item I’ve ever scribbled.<br />
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And maybe that’s why I moved back here last year. Maybe I grew tired of disrespecting this connection, of treating it with distance when it’s actually truly special. Maybe I got sick of not contributing to the place whose avenues, buildings and barflies have given me chapters of narrative inspiration. Or, maybe I’ve simply grown weary of writing <a href="http://www.buffalorising.com/2012/03/a-bona-fide-opportunity.html">essays</a>, <a href="http://www.buffalorising.com/2012/01/a-plea-for-genesee.html">columns</a> and <a href="http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/buffalomick">novels</a> about the only home I’d ever claim, all while keeping it four hundred miles away.<br />
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Whatever the reason, one thing is certain: I’m back, living and writing in the <a href="http://www.visitbuffaloniagara.com/">Queen City of the Lakes</a>. Our winters are cold, but our summers are gorgeous. Our local economy’s inconsistent, but our neighborhoods are varied and vibrant. All our streets aren’t ripe with jewels, but many of them feel like mine. If you need me, I’ll be here. <br />
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This is my home.<br />
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(<strong>Author's note #2:</strong> This entry was posted while listening to "Atlantic City" by The Band.)Michael Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456704796652317256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-189861602738161477.post-68441267522188021502012-05-23T20:29:00.002-07:002012-05-24T09:43:02.415-07:00Barstool Prophet: Embrace Buf-rontoAccording to the latest<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><city w:st="on">Buffalo</city><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>football scheduling news, the Bills are<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="http://www.buffalonews.com/sports/bills-nfl/article868632.ece">signing on with Toronto for five more years of Canadian visits</a>—and the hometown faithful are not exactly giddy with the arrangement.<br />
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For the next five seasons, stubborn western New Yorkers will sit on their couches, shout expletives over beers and wonder why they have to sacrifice a game per season to thousands of<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ODrT0fRCyi4">drunken Maple Leaf fans</a>. Confused locals can look forward to seeing the Bills play in front of Southern Ontarians (?) wearing a odd smattering of Peyton Manning, Michael Vick and Doug Flutie jerseys inside the Rogers Center as they care less about who's actually playing on the field in front of them. We'll see televised Fred Jackson touchdowns inside<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><country-region w:st="on">Canada</country-region>'s answer to<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><state w:st="on">Minnesota</state>'s Metrodome, and we'll all yearn for those freewheeling days of the nineties when<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><place w:st="on"><placename w:st="on">Orchard</placename><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><placetype w:st="on">Park</placetype></place><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>was enough. When it was a sprawling weekly<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><place w:st="on">Woodstock</place>, full of<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XPHHpEdC_8Q">wild, committed, ticket-gobbling fans</a><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>waiting for another impending AFC championship.</div>
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Only two problems with this: 1. the NFL economy has changed drastically since my January 12th, 1992 AFC Championship ticket cost $32 (including tax and county charge); and 2. this<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="http://www.toronto.ca/">Toronto</a><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>arrangement is extremely smart—and not without precedent.</div>
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Is it wrong to wonder whether the extension of this agreement is further proof that the Bills might move to<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><city w:st="on">Toronto</city>? I guess not. Since many fatalistic Bills fans already fear the team is<span class="apple-converted-space"> California-</span>bound, I guess you're free to pick your pessimism. But, why would the NFL move<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VuIeHiM20Ng&feature=related">the Bills</a><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>up the QEW when a regionalized, lucrative partnership between an international metropolis and an established, passionate, historical football locale makes far more sense? The Bills extending their reach into Southern Ontario doesn't hurt<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><city w:st="on">Buffalo</city>'s viability for any future ownership group; it helps it. </div>
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About 15% of Bills season ticket holders are from <country-region w:st="on">Canada</country-region>, so why not play one annual game there in December? Sure, prideful Bills fans are reluctant to admit it, but<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><city w:st="on">Buffalo</city> (by itself) lacks the economic and/or corporate swingers to both regularly compete and keep the Bills here long-term. Regionalization of the franchise isn't a choice;<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="http://bleacherreport.com/articles/1192233-buffalo-bills-reportedly-will-play-games-in-toronto-for-5-more-seasons">it's a necessity</a>. Fans bitch about giving<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><country-region w:st="on">Canada</country-region><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>a regular season game, but would those same fans be willing to pay double to see that Canadian-located game? Nope. You can't have it both ways. If<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><place w:st="on">Rogers</place><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>wants to fork over another $78 million to rent the Bills for five more Sundays (and a meaningless preseason game every now and then), no problem; a small price to pay for solidifying the franchise's place in the region. In order for the Bills to remain in Buffalo—and, in a much larger sense, for this region's business sector to advance and thrive forward—a partnership with Southern Ontario and Toronto makes a tremendous amount of sense. (It's amazing that this cross-border relationship is considered such a controversial idea. And, maybe that border's the problem. Would there be such a stink about playing games in Syracuse? It's just an underwhelming bridge between collaborative countries, so why the hostility? Who are we, the <a href="http://www.theirishstory.com/2011/09/16/the-fenian-invasion-of-canada-1866/#.T72vHuhSSSo">Fenians</a>?)<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span> </div>
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Embrace it or endure through it, but know that this kind of travel arrangement has happened before—and for a much more prestigious organization.</div>
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There is a precedent set by another small market franchise who enhanced their viability by playing games in a regional location where a larger fan base existed. The team? The<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Green_Bay_Packers">Green Bay Packers</a>. From 1933 to 1994, the Packers played<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>two to three games per year</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>in<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><city w:st="on">Milwaukee</city><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>due to the regional lure of the team. The Packers are 13-time NFL champions and arguably the league's most historic franchise, steeped in narrative lore and profanity-laden Lombardi speeches. They are the small market model and, yes, even they had to travel out of their hamlet to enhance their reach. Also, the distance between<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Green Bay and<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Milwaukee? 118.96 miles.<br />
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The distance between<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><city w:st="on">Buffalo</city> and<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><place w:st="on">Toronto</place>? 98.61. </div>
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Not a bad drive. And, it's a lot closer than<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?f=d&source=s_d&saddr=Buffalo,+NY&daddr=Los+Angeles,+CA&hl=en&geocode=FS9ljgIdX2lM-ymh5d9SYRLTiTFxgR8YpQQjmA%3BFYqYBwIdm77z-CkT2ifcXcfCgDH0CEYlb98v4g&aq=0&oq=Los+&sll=37.0625,-95.677068&sspn=42.224734,79.013672&vpsrc=0&t=h&mra=ls&ie=UTF8&z=5&layer=c&ei=Cqy9T8mrFIes8ga-7PSwBw&pw=2">Los Angeles</a>.</div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">(<b>Author's note:</b><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>This entry was completed while listening to Donovan's "Sunshine Superman.")</span><br />
<br />Michael Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456704796652317256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-189861602738161477.post-87368968901014453992012-05-05T12:06:00.000-07:002012-05-05T12:06:40.892-07:00Barstool Prophet: GratitudeThere wasn’t many weekends of my teens or early twenties
that didn’t include an intervention or two from the Beastie Boys’ now deceased Adam
Yauch, aka MCA.<br />
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His voice came out of Ford speakers and bar jukeboxes, from radio
headphones or the tape deck from an old basement stereo system. The instances
are so numerous that, as I type this, I can still see friends dancing and
mimicking lyrics from songs off <i>Paul’s
Boutique</i> or <i>Ill Communication</i>.
It’s not that Yauch himself was inspiring or emotionally invigorating,
instilling everyone at our parties with some expanded world view or political
conscience; that wasn’t it. He—along with his bandmates Mike D and Ad Rock—were
simply responsible for the rhythms and beats that carried so many of our
reckless or carefree nights and weekends. Their music elicited laughter and
air-scratching; it stopped parties and started ridiculous dance contests; and
it inspired the opportunity to shout hilariously crude statements about parties
and mashed potatoes. </div>
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Now, as we grow older and transition deep into adulthood,
those remembered moments will forever be soundtracked by MCA’s sonic imprint. </div>
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Until I pull something together of greater length on this
subject, I wanted to offer the below playlist (with audio or video links) to the honor Yauch’s memory.
Enjoy it alone or gather with friends, ones who know all the words to
“Root Down”—or can recognize the greatest use of an <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on"><i>Abbey Road</i></st1:address></st1:street>
sample ever. Turn it up, raise a beer and count it down for the late, great
MCA: </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Four and three and two and one.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<ol start="1" style="margin-top: 0in;" type="1">
<li class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=99v9-4uk9ZQ">Skills To Pay The Bills</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kMCnHOz1FNQ">Do It</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BptQHAW2T5M&feature=related">Shake Your Rump</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jePh9ITM39A&feature=related">Jimmy James</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JhqyZeUlE8U&feature=relmfu">Sure Shot</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xf1YF_MH1xc&feature=relmfu">Root Down</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oB0NM6reiRE&feature=related">Hold It Now, Hit It</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Unite</li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OSai5klswws">Make Some Noise</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z5rRZdiu1UE&feature=relmfu">Sabotage</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yV8HycFWSIw">The Sounds of Science</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal">The
Negotiation <st1:place w:st="on">Limerick</st1:place> File</li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ru3gH27Fn6E&feature=related">So What’cha Want</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GvFcMu-AvZs">Heart Attack Man</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0i1iGa96GYM">Ch-Check It Out</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CdnYzIxQUWE">Don’t Play No Game That I Can’t Win</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pzRKkXk56iE&feature=fvwrel">Get It Together</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PyBEgjVxUIo">The New Style</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NLFlW3UaQuU&feature=related">Flute <st1:place w:st="on">Loop</st1:place></a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jTccpBi4K-o">Egg Man </a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nrbc_0Pf10Q&feature=related">Intergalactic</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NpsvBvwRuf0&ob=av2e">Pass The Mic</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Professor
Booty</li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D4-F6QFcNxQ">B-Boys Makin’ With The Freak Freak</a></li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ILSBonpoVPI&feature=related">Super Disco Breakin’</a></span></li>
</ol>
<div>
(<b>Author's Note:</b> This entry was finished while listening to "Unite" by the Beastie Boys.)</div>Michael Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456704796652317256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-189861602738161477.post-15356887860092688132012-04-20T09:28:00.001-07:002012-04-20T09:33:05.520-07:00From the Bleachers<em>(Author's note: In honor of Fenway Park's 100th anniversary today, I'm re-releasing this short baseball piece I wrote back in the early aughts while living in Boston. In my 11 years as a Massachusetts residents, I saw nearly 70 baseball games inside Fenway, both as a spectator and as a reporter for the</em> Boston Herald<em>. As a spectator, I watched Manny's Ramirez's last Sox homer in Fenway; Pokey Reese's improbable two-homer game (including an inside-the-park) against the Royals; and Jon Lester's improbable no-hitter. As a reporter, I interviewed the White Sox's Ozzie Guillen inside Fenway's visitor's dugout; was blown off by Carl Crawford while writing a column--about him; and watched Tim Wakefield's knuckler get smashed into every corner of the park. It's the greatest sports venue I've ever been inside, and it's been responsible for supplying some of the best personal and professional moments of my life. Happy birthday, Fenway, and thanks for hosting my twenties and early thirties.)</em><br />
<br />
A new season provides new hope for every man, woman and child who holds a stub for the bleacher section of venerable Fenway Park. With every hot dog purchased, thoughts of a pennant chase infect our expectations. For every draft beer poured, a chance to evaporate last season’s frustrations passes through our consciousness. This is the hope that flows through the veins of Red Sox fans every spring. A new season is upon us, and it’s a chance for new beginnings.<br />
<br />
These beginnings lead you down to Yawkey Way. Walking by the fleet of t-shirt peddlers and program pushers, you pass the ongoing flow of anxious fans with whom you’ll soon be united. You continue down to Landsdowne, looking for Gate C with a twenty dollar investment firmly clenched in your fist. You're led through the gates, head tilted upwards looking for where you should enter.<br />
<br />
43. 42. 41.<br />
<br />
There you are. At Section 41, you begin up the stairs, wanting to find your seat before a departure for concessions. Sure it would make sense to grab the food first, but you’d like to get settled in. As you emerge from the stairwell, your eyes are blurred by the sunlight. The beams are shining down bright, but it’s something more. You’ve just entered history and are taken back to a time when the sport was simpler. A time when it wasn’t about money or labor disputes. It was just a game, and it was a game you love. It’s a beautiful sight, and as the sun blurs your vision, the aura intoxicates your perceptions.<br />
<br />
As you take a right, the centerfield wall approaches on your left. Just because you can, you reach down and graze the green facade with your palm. You stop again, take a deep breath. As you overlook the field, you look at the bullpen to your left. Regular catchers are warming up tonight’s starters. What will these pitchers bring to the mound tonight? Will they be sluggish from an offseason of procrastination, or will they be fresh, awarded for their winter diligence? You’ll find out soon enough.<br />
<br />
You turn from the bullpen and gaze toward left field. There, the large majesty stands before you. An obstacle that has turned long balls into two-baggers for years. Just a simple green wall has provided years of memories for some, days of misery for others. You’ve touched it with the tips of your fingers before just to say you did it, but not today. Finding today’s seat is the top priority.<br />
<br />
8. 9. 10.<br />
<br />
You stop at Row 11 and look at you ticket. Seat three. No one has arrived in seats one or two yet, so your route is uncontested. As you hover over your destination, you take another look around at the people you’ll be sharing the next nine innings with.<br />
<br />
A woman holding her sleeping child.<br />
A young couple on their first date.<br />
Seven young men with their chests painted red.<br />
<br />
They’ve all come for the experience. The chance at a new beginning on yet another spring day. You each smell the same scents and see the same scenes, but it’s different for everyone. Every experience is its own, and as you get comfortable in Seat Three, Row 11, Section 41, you prepare for this experience. It’s the start of another season of Red Sox baseball.<br />
<br />
Now go down the stairs to grab that dog and a beer.<br />
<br />
(<strong>Author's Note</strong>: This entry was posted while listening to The Band's "The Weight." Rest in peace, Levon.)Michael Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456704796652317256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-189861602738161477.post-86570819041801032452012-03-27T12:06:00.000-07:002012-03-27T12:12:19.663-07:00Barstool Prophet: Michael on the NFTA<em>(Author's Note: This is the first in an upcoming number of shorter pieces for the Farrell Street Blog, all to be under the title "Barstool Prophet." They'll be different from my usual rambling posts because each will be quick bursts of either anger, sympathy or both--much like you'd hear from some random barfly. Anyway, the following is a somewhat controlled rant I pounded out this morning for the Buffalo News comment section in response to Bob McCarthy's jarring NFTA report. Enjoy.) </em><br />
<br />
Question: When these NFTA wags are sitting around a conference table, making formative decisions for this region, do they spend even a minute thinking about the consequences of their short-sighted actions? <br />
<br />
Do they think about the anger simmering in people after they read ridiculous quotes like, "we feel like we can make substantially more money" from an agency that has barely mowed the lawn of this region's most underutilized resource for over 50 years? Do they even consider how their hilarious incompetence has stunted this city's vibrancy? How it's inspired frustrated businesses to relocate and fed-up adults to find more progressive, creative cities? And, is there even a moment in any day when they drive by that waste of an outer harbor, look at the tumbleweeds and vacant space and think to themselves, "This is my fault."<br />
<br />
They should. Buffalo and Erie County residents have cruised past that embarrassing swath of land for decades, feeling sick at the sight of it. Thankfully, some of these nauseous citizens (see Peg Overdorf and Riverfest Park) have taken their own formative action elsewhere while a new fleet of suits spin the same record of egregious inaction. Do they not see how the simple addition of grass and fluorescent chairs has transformed a former Aud parking lot? Apparently not. New ideas come forth, they're needlessly rejected, and the cycle continues. <br />
<br />
This isn't about a series of concerts; this isn't about the Black Keys playing "10 a.m. Automatic" on Lake Erie. It's about how stagnant, greedy agencies like the NFTA show no remorse or accountability for their decades of disservice to residents hungry for even the slightest activity. <br />
<br />
With this noted, what's another vetoed opportunity amid an endless history of empty leadership?<br />
<br />Michael Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456704796652317256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-189861602738161477.post-26198350619832959452012-03-14T10:06:00.000-07:002012-03-15T11:41:42.924-07:00A Bona Fide OpportunityWhat does ‘Bona’ mean?<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s a question a lot of now out-of-state St. Bonaventure graduates have had to answer. The letters adorn baseball caps and hooded sweatshirts, bumper stickers and coffee mugs. Back in the summer of 2009, my North Carolina-born graduate professor stopped his lecture mid-sentence when he was distracted by these confusing brown letters across my mustard yellow t-shirt.</div>
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<br /></div>
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“What does ‘Bona’ mean?” </div>
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<br /></div>
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“It stands for <a href="http://www.sbu.edu/">St. Bonaventure</a>,” I said, “a university about an hour south of <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Buffalo</place></city>. It’s where I went for undergrad.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He paused, folded his arms across his chest and said, “I’ve never heard of it.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Many people haven’t. Those without <place w:st="on">Western New York</place> birth certificates, Northeast residences or recollection of the <a href="http://www.gobonnies.com/gennews/Stith_Mural">Stith brothers</a> may not be familiar with St. Bonaventure University. They’ve never encountered Merton’s Heart, the Jandoli School of Journalism or Devereux Hall’s third floor runner. They’ve never eaten a <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/P6D1zKsYrCtGpMgnZwYsvw">Burton</a></place></city> burger or heard of Patsy Collins. They’ve never rounded third on Spring Weekend or stood misty-eyed at the sight of a shuttered Mad Dogs. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But, most people <i>have</i> heard of March Madness.</div>
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<br /></div>
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With St. Bonaventure’s inclusion in both the men’s and women’s NCAA basketball tournament this week, office drones, casual gamblers and maniacal hoop fans are eager to find out about this St. Bonaventure. They’ll want to know about the school’s background, location and history. They’ll want to know about their past tourney appearances. And, finally, they’ll want to know why they should pick some brown-uniformed team named the “Bonnies” as their tourney dark horse. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Both teams’ appearance on the national stage is a tremendous advertising opportunity for a university and athletic program that have persevered through adversity. But ultimately, basketball is merely a vehicle for what may be a more important opportunity for the school. With their Franciscan name found in ESPN brackets, St. Bonaventure alums now have the forum to effusively tout their clandestine college experience to associates. Simply put, it gives alumni a chance to reminisce and relay what exactly Bonas means to them.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My family has been doing this at an exhausting clip for nearly two deacdes. Of our four children, three of us graduated from St. Bonaventure—and the fourth married a Bona graduate. Between 1991 and 2000, we pursued different career paths while led by influential professors. We toiled at <i>The Bona Venture</i> newspaper, suited up for rugby or spun Bouncing Souls discs at <a href="http://www.wsbufm.net/">WSBU</a>. We occupied different bars, developed enduring friendships and lived in shabby, nicknamed off-campus housing (or atop multiple Allegany taverns in the same semester). But, on this past Sunday night and Monday morning, you can bet we were each united, ready to ramble out our own dazzling versions of SBU to anyone who would listen.</div>
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<br /></div>
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And basketball is <i>a part</i> of my version. It’s not because I wore a Bona-fanatic t-shirt and <a href="http://articles.latimes.com/2000/jan/18/sports/sp-55137">threw cookies at <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Temple</place></city>’s John Chaney</a>. (I didn’t.) It’s not because of my memories of heckling USC’s Brian Scalabrine when he rolled into the RC (though I did). Maybe it’s because I can still remember the musty smell of the <place w:st="on"><placename w:st="on">Reilly</placename> <placetype w:st="on">Center</placetype></place> on a Sunday morning. Maybe it’s because I liked how the old version of Butler Gym struck a vague resemblance to <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Hickory</place></city>’s gym from <i>Hoosiers</i>. Or, maybe it’s because I was in a <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Cleveland</place></city> bar called <a href="http://www.flannerys.com/">Flannery’s</a> on March 16<sup>th</sup>, 2000—the last time the Bonnies were dancing.</div>
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Two months away from graduation, I carpooled to <state w:st="on">Ohio</state> with eight people, little money and no tickets to our first round match-up with <state w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Kentucky</place></state>. If we could score some cheap tickets once we got there, great. If not, we’d find this Irish pub across from Cleveland State's Convocation Center, some barstools by the television—and pray for a massive upset. When we woke up Thursday morning with no ticket prospects, we headed to downtown <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Cleveland</place></city> with intentions of settling in at the day's established Bonaventure bar, Flannery’s.</div>
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If you walked up Prospect Avenue that Thursday morning, guided through the city's quiet hum by a distant, thumping tavern chant of, “Let’s go, Bonas,” you’ll never forget it. You’ll always remember the pregame bar scene, complete with Bob Lanier-era grads hoisting breakfast pints with robed Franciscans and graduating seniors; the overwhelmed Flannery's bar staff, who were not prepared for over 150 patrons at 11 a.m.; the laughing conversations between strangers in brown, yellow and white. And, whether you watched the game on the edge of an arena seat or on the edge of a barstool, you’ll never forget the <a href="http://www.bigbluehistory.net/bb/statistics/Games/20000316StBonaventure.html">unfortunate ending</a>. <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But the game itself didn’t instill the meaning of Bonas; the two halves and two overtimes didn’t define the St. Bonaventure experience. It was what happened at Flannery’s after the game that’s always stayed with me. Slowly but surely, students and alums found their way back to the bar not to complain, but to celebrate how little St. Bonaventure University nearly shocked the Kentucky Wildcats on national television. We charged rounds of pre-St. Patrick’s Day Guinness and started up the Bona clap-chants. Those at the game relayed stories of how the center's crowd—regardless of their collegiate affiliation—joined in the rising <i>Rudy</i>-like chants for the overlooked Bonnies as the game stayed tight. Before we finally embarked on the drive back to <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Olean</place></city>, we stood amid a sense of unexplainable communion that most SBU alumni associate with their time as college students.</div>
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And this is the essence of the Bonaventure connection. This is the embrace of the underdog, the intrinsic bond that breeds such overt loyalty from the school's graduates. It was evident through my four undergraduate years, and it's been fact through the 12 years after. That’s what Bonas means to me. </div>
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Over the next few days, SBU alumni everywhere will get ample opportunities to answer questions about the reach of Andrew Nicholson, the range of Jessica Jenkins, and why “St. Bonaventure’s” have a fluffy wolf as their mascot. You'll be asked about the <a href="http://www.chicagonow.com/chicago-tough/2012/03/the-last-time-st-bonaventure-dominated-the-ncaa-tournament-1970-ncaa-final-four/">1970 Final Four</a>, the 1977 NIT finals or the aforementioned Kentucky thriller. In the midst of this questioning, please enjoy the moments of genuine, national interest. Reminisce about your October days outside Plassman Hall or your April nights on the OP patio. Recall the mayhem of West Main Street or the brief, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AQ4xwmZ6zi4">Def Leppard</a>-fueled heyday of Allegany Sub Shop. Remember your undergrad days, the freewheeling hours amid the mountains of New York's southern tier. And throughout the upcoming tournament days, complete with confused CBS analysts and interns who cite Chuck Daly as a full-fledged alum, celebrate the following:<br />
<br />
You'll always know what 'Bona' means.<br />
<br />
<strong>Author's note:</strong> This entry was finished while listening to Otis Redding's "She's All Right." </div>Michael Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456704796652317256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-189861602738161477.post-33727803421147051782012-02-22T08:00:00.001-08:002012-02-22T08:00:32.102-08:00Kicking Television(<strong>Author's note</strong>:<em> Over the past month, I've been buried in edits and rewrites on my second novel,</em> When the Lights Go Out<em>. If you've ever tried to juggle or slash through over 80,000 words, you realize that such work can make a man go borderline insane. Since I'm currently trying to fight off this dementia while working other jobs, enjoying Linsanity, listening to </em>Nebraska<em> on vinyl, and living a somewhat normal Buffalo existence, I haven't had time to post anything new over the past month. To the four or five of you who regularly check this blog, I apologize. In the meantime, I'd like to offer the following quasi-flash fiction I reconfigured in my spare time, entitled</em> Kicking Television<em>. I originally wrote this a few years ago, but cleaned it up a bit for the sake of posting. </em><br />
<br />
<em>I'll be back in the coming week with some original Farrell Street rambling. Until then, I hope you enjoy the following, and thanks for stopping by.</em>) <br />
<br />
Denny Dobson awoke and rolled to his left, smiling. <br />
<br />
It was the same dream he'd had on Tuesday, the same dream he'd had on Monday. She had the same dark hair and dark eyes, the same white woolen sweater as the nights before. He took a walk with her down a darkened neighborhood street, under the same dimmed street lamps that previously lit their path. <br />
<br />
Still, it was only a dream. <br />
<br />
As he lay in bed, he could still feel her hand in his. It was an odd excitement to have, but the elation still dizzied his head as he mashed his face into his plaid body pillow. It was a dream, but the girl was real, a girl from his third period history class on Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Her name was Maggie Tynan, the name she answered to during morning attendance. That was the only reason Denny even knew her name. <br />
<br />
The two had never talked, never walked together under the sun or moon. Their eyes had only met once, when she noticed Denny gazing in her direction from the back of their weekday class. When he was caught, he looked away. But it was too late. He already had a crush. At 13 years old, that's all it took. <br />
<br />
In his dreams, Denny was in love. If the images from television and sentences from books were right, he was in deep. He'd watched every episode of The O.C. and movies starring Zach Braff. He'd even read the romantic exploits of Romeo & Juliet. Each fashioned love as a “first sight” experience; this was what he was feeling. He wondered if Maggie Tynan had any clue what she was in for. <br />
<br />
He enjoyed the chill of possibilities swimming through his head and chest as he sank deep into his mattress. The blankets were comfortable, but as he rolled into them, the flickering light of the living room television seeped through his opened door. It was only opened a crack, but the beams still snuck in. <br />
<br />
Down the hallway in a brown leather recliner sat Denny's uncle, Paul. It was a little late to have the television on, but Paul had the time. Though most people treated sleeping as a necessity, Paul Dobson considered it a choice. As the tube shone in front of him, he chose to watch the images instead of staring into the dark. The dark was empty and cold; the color picture was warm. <br />
<br />
On the right arm of his recliner rested the VCR remote. On the left, Paul cupped a chilled high ball of bourbon, watered down but still potent. His eyes were mildly glazed and a smile crept across his face as he gazed at the rolling video. One of the scenes encouraged Paul’s smile just as Denny appeared in the room's doorway. <br />
<br />
“Did I wake you?” asked Paul. <br />
<br />
“No,” said Denny, “but the television's not helping me sleep. What are you doing up so late, Uncle Paul?” <br />
<br />
He sat up a little straighter while delicately balancing his drink.<br />
<br />
“Couldn't sleep,” said Paul. “Sometimes, it's hard to sleep when you have things on your mind.” <br />
<br />
Denny understood. When he saw an afghan bunched at the corner of the couch, it looked inviting. <br />
<br />
“You mind if I join you?” Denny began making his way over to the afghan before Paul could even respond. <br />
<br />
“It looks like you've already decided to,” Paul said, then slipped down into his recliner’s leather. Once situated, he took a little sip of his bourbon. <br />
<br />
Denny wrapped the afghan over his shoulders and started to focus on the video. Squinting as to confirm what he was watching, he double-checked with Paul. <br />
<br />
“Is that you?' <br />
<br />
“Yep. Me and your aunt, Sues.” <br />
<br />
Denny smiled and watched a much younger, thinner and hirsute Paul stand on a beach, with the tide coming in behind him. The beach was littered with both young and old people basking in the sun, frolicking in the water. On the video, Paul stood on the beach with one foot planted in the sand, another perched on a football. He jokingly flexed his arms and smiled wide as Denny heard Sues laughing from behind the camera. <br />
<br />
“Paulie, Paulie, you're scaring all the boys on the beach,” she laughed. “Put those muscles away.” <br />
<br />
Denny laughed and looked over to see Paul, smiling and sipping. It was odd to see his uncle like this on screen, younger and full of more life than he'd ever seen him. He had to be in his early 20s, but Denny wasn't sure. <br />
<br />
“When is this video from?” <br />
<br />
“Our honeymoon, in Cancun, Mexico,” he said. “We were both twenty-five years old. Hard to believe, huh? It goes by fast, kid. It goes by fast.” <br />
<br />
Denny nodded before he continued to watch. <br />
<br />
The camera focused on Paul and reached toward Sues. When he got a hold of her left hand, she stopped filming and the camera's focus shifted to the sand beneath their feet. As it rolled, you could hear the lip-smack shared between the two of them. Over and over again, the sounds continued as the scene featured their bare feet facing each other. When their lips broke, Denny heard his Uncle Paul's soft and sincere words. <br />
<br />
“Oh Sues, baby. I love you so much.” <br />
<br />
When he heard these words, Denny smiled at the television. This is how you sound when you're in love, Denny thought. You sound relieved and overwhelmed, almost simultaneously. She didn't know it yet, but this is how Denny Dobson wanted to sound around Maggie Tynan. It was just like in the movies, just like on television. Actually, it was on television, but it starred two familiar leads. Denny continued to beam a wide grin with his thoughts while he turned to Paul. <br />
<br />
In his recliner, Paul was silent. Tears streamed down his face as he cupped his drink. In attempt to hide these emotions, he clenched his teeth, but it was too late. Denny had never seen his uncle like this. <br />
<br />
“Are you all right, Uncle Paul?” <br />
<br />
“No,” he said. No, I'm not.”<br />
<br />
“Well, what can I do?” asked Denny. <br />
<br />
Paul slowly turned to face his nephew.<br />
<br />
“What can you do? You really want to know?” <br />
<br />
“Sure.” <br />
<br />
“Okay,” he said, then set down his drink down on the coffee table. “If you really want to do something for me, just don't make the same mistake I did.” <br />
<br />
Denny sat for a moment, confused.<br />
<br />
“What mistake?” <br />
<br />
While Denny stared at Paul for further explanation, a pair of headlights flashed into the living room window before turning toward the driveway. When the car was parked, Paul picked his drink and finished it before leaning toward the window. It was only opened a crack, but it was all Paul needed to hear the conversation. <br />
<br />
She was late again. He gave her a ride home. Again. <br />
<br />
Paul had seen enough. He took a deep breath, turned back to Denny and answered his question. <br />
<br />
“Falling in love, kid,” he said. “It’s never the way it appears on screen.”<br />
<br />Michael Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456704796652317256noreply@blogger.com0