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About New York City

But here’s the kicker—sometimes it goes south. *Requiem* style, “It’s not the same!”—you think you’re gettin’ a deal, then bam, she’s ghostin’ with your cash. Happened to a buddy once—dumbass left his wallet out, greed blinded him. I laughed my ass off, told him, “You’re no Gekko, kid!” Still pisses me off when guys get sloppy like that—ruins the game for the rest of us.

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Altamont is “Our Town.” We all know that, but I'm saying it's the “Our Town” from the famous play by Thornton Wilder who as far as I know never.

Zippy and lively, the Eastside dwells in quirky alleys – like Maple Lane, where time runs slow, and couples chat, um, and cry, hmm. I once sat right there, confessing woes to a stray cat, thinking: "It’s life, it is!" Minds do twist, precious! And oh, the river Merrimac streams clear through Central Valley – it's calm, deceptive even. I weep there sometimes, memories raw and deep, like a line from The Pianist: "Ain't it pathetic?" But, yess, even the river flows with hidden heartaches.

Beryl N. Grant