ESSAY: It Came From the VCR

I’ll admit: I have never downloaded a movie. And I probably never will. I have no ethical obligation to Hollywood’s bloated wallets. I just doubt I’ll ever upgrade my clunky laptop. So why bother? It doesn’t sound fun to me, downloading a movie. Going to the movies: that’s fun, kinda old-timey. Watching a movie: simple, direct, a close second. I’d feel like a robot to download one. And truth be told, I don’t have the patience to let a little green bar tick by at a snail’s pace so I can watch a shitty digital transfer of a probably lousy movie on a certainly outdated-by-now PC.

Saying this makes me feel old. Especially considering my generation relegated “ADD” to mood and brought “instant gratification” to everything. We were raised with movies in our homes and channel surfing in our hearts. Now we YouTube. Those kids, they grow up so fast.

Even with the HD-Blu-ray format war decided, movie collectors needn’t worry about reorganizing their shelves all over again. It’s become painfully obvious, after the diminishing interims between Betamax, Laserdisc, DVD and now, that we are programmed to forever be catching up with technology. There wouldn’t be an entertainment industry if we weren’t being bated, that golden carrot of progress dangling in front of our gawking faces.

ESSAY: Everything Tastes Better with Bacon Grease

Read out loud for my family, Fall 2009:

We’ll all remember Mimi for many reasons, and I’m sure we all have our own. Whether what sticks with you is her humor, or her spirit, or the admirable hard-headedness she maintained like a full-time job, or the unparalleled devotion to her family that in fact was her life’s work, you have to admit: This is a whole lot of woman to fit into a few words, into a few hours of communal remembrance.

So let me quickly tell you a little of what I’ll remember. I’ll remember a strong-willed woman who never uttered a coarse word about anyone in her life. I’ll remember a parish celebrity who’d be waved down by dozens of admirers in the vestibule. I’ll remember a world traveler who took more pictures of food than buildings. I’ll remember a moviegoer who shamelessly shouted at characters on the screen and always ordered her popcorn with extra butter. I’ll remember the warm embrace that only a grandmother can provide.

ESSAY: Nighthawk at the Diner

Published in The Emerson Review, Spring 2009:


I broke up with my girlfriend of three years because I wanted more time to myself. This being the single worst reason a guy can give to a girl, I have to ask: What the hell was I thinking? No closure, easily rectified. For me, though, it was the most honest route. I didn't want to continue the relationship because I didn't want to be in one.

Sexually frustrated, creatively stifled, I was the rogue brown seed ready to pop out of the brittle peanut shell of our shared experience. I played solitaire unironically, went on bike rides without destinations. I caught up on my reading and got ahead on my drinking. I listened to nothing but Tom Waits and Hank Williams. Single friends having slurred their goodnights, my mind its most lucid at four a.m., I began frequenting the only establishment in Boston that would accept me at this hour, in this state.

It's called the South Street Diner, and it is magical. The cooks look like garbage men, the waitresses like buxom housewives on the run. Its mustached owner, Sol Sidell, carries a money clip and probably hides guns in his trunk. The eggs are yellow and runny. Slices of pie are served from a dirty glass case. Lover, where have you been all my life?