Granite State of Mind

Having moved from Manchester to Pembroke over the last six months, I must admit that the transition has not been easy.  I miss everything about Manchester.  I miss my daily drive down Elm Street. I miss Paul, Lucy and Nick. I miss eating lunch at Steve’s Restaurant. I miss walking home after midnight from downtown.  I miss the grit, the snags, the seemingly endless array of characters in the Queen City. READ MORE

I sniffed at something foul in the air from inside the bar.  A simmering rage was building down the street. My ears pricked up, my nose reached like an ant-eater, my eyes turned to magnets.  There was a nervous energy soaking the foundation from the Pint to Penuches.  Trouble was brewing close.  I could smell it. READ MORE

Losing my sense of smell has been delightful. Yes, it has.  I don’t need to smell. I’ve come to grips with it. And there was little internal wrestling involved. I bowed immediately, pledging my devotion to the consequences – if one chooses to call it that.  In fact, I’d be okay if I never smell anything or anyone ever again.   READ MORE

Trump is no gangster. Let’s get that straight. If he wasn’t President and insulated and you were able to get up into his face, he would 100 percent crawl into his fat neck and hide from a real fight. That’s the man Don Trump is.  He’s no tough guy, and I doubt he has either ever thrown a punch or taken one to the face in his life. READ MORE

I don’t know what’s got me in such a skunky mood, but someone hung a wet sack of waterwolves around my neck today.  And they’re squirming like a mofo. READ MORE