A few months ago, I started seeing a therapist.
Netflix recommended him.
He’s good; smart, well-read, cultured. Physically imposing, but generally optimistic. He’s anxious, balding, frustratingly indecisive, pretentious, and simultaneously deliberate, kind-hearted, generous, and charming. He’s human, and he knows it.
His name is Frasier Crane, and for the past eight weeks, and 11 seasons, he’s been with me night and day, right in my living room.
25 years ago, Frasier debuted as a spin-off of the popular Boston bar based sitcom Cheers. And I can’t really talk about one without the other.
We talk a lot about Bruce around here.
Springsteen is one of those topics — one of those humans — that gets us going. We read about him, we see him live, we argue about his best and worst songs, we dream up set lists, and we dive into his catalog frequently.
Bruce is one of those guys who doesn’t haphazardly fill silence. It’s all deliberate. Every word, every note, every coda has a reason. He somehow finds a way to articulate the most indescribable feelings. …
I was home for a bit recently. I’ve had some time off since I left my amazing team at Northeastern at the end of February in pursuit of broader horizons. Between the transition to a new job, going through the ebbs and flows of relationships, and just generally trying to decide what I want and need, I had decided I needed to spend some time in the places that make sense to me. Sometimes you have to go home to return to yourself.
Mid-week, my master plan was to hop a commuter rail train out of Boston, get to Salem…
I spent the better part of a recent Saturday laid out on my couch, recovering from a rather rowdy Friday night. Between popping Tylenol, re-hydrating, and cursing my night-before self for her foolishness, I was truly a sight.
In a vain attempt to be able to say I accomplished something, I decided to watch a documentary. They’re educational! Maybe I’d learn something. At the very least, it would help distract me from the brain tunnels that accompany a rough morning after. I was grasping at straws.
So, I started clicking through my options. A while back, I had saved the…
Adam Alexander has a favorite pew at the Antioch Baptist Church North.
It’s the one in the balcony that overlooks the choir stand. From up there, he can see it all: his dad leading the band as the congregation’s musical director, his grandfather leading those in attendance in prayer, and his centuries-old community engaged in soulful self exploration.
As he told National Public Radio earlier this year, “You can see how everything’s moving, how a black church operates. It’s a very beautiful thing.”
It’s also how Alexander, known in musical circles as Demo Taped, grew up: learning soul and connection…
That’s the belief that led Lou and I to start Side Streets last year.
We had this feeling that if we built this space for our ideas, our long-held beliefs, our fleeting musings — our words — that people would come. And we were right. This little site has grown from a simple concept, to something with a logo, and contributors. As Lou said in our Year in Review, our corner of the internet “provided that small window into a more creative world.” It has been amazing to watch it grow in readership and inventiveness over the last…
It’s the season of giving, and self-reflection. We’re not proud of everything we’ve said about celebrities who may not have deserved it over the years. Now is our chance to set the record straight. Side Streets cofounder Alex Lane does her best to make amends.
I have a secret.
It’s something most people don’t learn about me until I’m a few Bud Lights deep at a local bar, and someone invariably starts talking Boston sports. They’ll pose one of those late-night, “what-if” questions.
“What if the ’07 Pats had pulled it off?”
“What if Buckner had stopped that…
When Chris Stapleton’s debut album, Traveller, came out in 2015, I was chained to a desk job, slinging content for a marketing agency in downtown Boston. The job was a repetitive, task-heavy slog where the monotony was broken up by the office gossip of overly-hormonal 20-somethings, and good tunes. When the shrill voices of coworkers got to be too much, I often retreated into my headphones seeking the reprieve of something that would drown out the constant influx of client requests.
Luckily, I had some friends who worked in the cubes next door who had similar tendencies and would send…
The other day, I was walking down Boylston Street in Boston, on my way to meet a friend, and was stopped by a man on the street who saw me coming. He stood directly in my walking path, looked me up and down, and loudly said “Damn Ma, you lookin’ thick in them jeans.”
The jeans in question are a modest, dark wash. I also had on a jacket and oversized scarf. …