Anyway, a couple pics.

Here’s author Jay Atkinson, with one of the many people that night that scared the crap out of me, despite their clear awesomeness. (I blame this on my lack of tattoos, biceps, and fedoras.)

And here’s Joe McCain, Jr., a Somerville cop like his famed father, both of whom are the subjects of Atkinson’s book.

I bought my copy of The Legends of Winter Hill from Jesse. (He and his father ably manned a Legends-filled table two steps from the bar. I never saw Mr. Haley’s hand leave the top of the cash-box.) Then last week I read the book—tore through it, really—and fell in love with Boston all over again. It’s a city that acts tough but is really a big softie, the home (well, Somerville) of folks like the McCains or like the crossing guard on my route to work who will say to a five year old, “Good mahwnin’, dearie, look at that beautiful jacket yuv got on today,” and immediately turn to a speeding driver to yell, “It’s called a stop light, ya fuck!”