In Praise of the Dive Bar

divebarbitches

It’s Friday night, 10 p.m.

You and your peeps weren’t hip enough to get invited to that chic club opening down at the corner of Seventh and Pretense, and you need someplace to go.

Time’s a-wastin’ and you need to get wasted. Your liver sighs a deep sigh.

It’s time to go diving. Continue reading

There’s no such thing as a free drink.

whiskey-shot

Some minor history was made last night. I did something I’ve never done in 31 years.

But, before I get to that, I should inform you that I’m (mostly) Sicilian. You’ve met Central Casting Dagos like me before. Sexy. Loquacious. Pretty big into artichoke. If you’re ever at an epic bash at a Sicilian’s household, you know damn sure to do three things: Continue reading

10 pieces of advice I would’ve given to myself 10 years ago.

sculpture_park

In order of importance. Possibly.

10. Grades don’t matter. Relationships do. Communicate with purpose. Talk to everyone. Walk through every open door and kick down all the closed ones. Go to class and befriend your teachers, classmates and the gal who makes your Venti Vanilla Chai. You never know what might happen.

Continue reading

Sisi and the Ladder

SisiLadder

“I want to see the stars,” Sisi said to her mother.

She was seven, a young Venezuelan long before the time of Bolivar, and, as children often are, she was unafraid to dream.

“Well, Sisi,” said her mother as she ushered the young lass outside, “The stars are right here for you to see. See?”

And the stars bespectacled the night sky, flickering and shining bright as a young girl’s eye.

“No, mother,” Sisi insisted, “I don’t just want to see the stars,” and she became spectacularly serious, “I want to see them from up there. I want to go to the stars. I want to touch them.” Continue reading

The Rain in Brooklyn

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There was a soft pitter-patter on the duvet cover. The calico cat clawed its way up the bed; waking me.

I glance at her inquisitive eyes, as if felines could posit anything beyond, “I’m hungry” or “Pet me” or “There are no Q-tips left for me to kill.”

I leisurely rise from bed, and meander into the living room, where I noticed a grey drizzle out my window and the laptop remained primed from the night before, screensaver didn’t take and the story stopped mid-sentence. I should stop writing on Xanax. I quit too easily. I pick up my last thought, “Where were you the last time you felt completely safe? I can tell you” … Continue reading