And that's when things got weird

The crowd heading inside Lynn Auditorium on Saturday night was fixed up to the nines. Men looked fresh in suits and ties. Ladies were sparkling in sequins and spandex, hair done and makeup on point. The fancy, mostly 40-plus crowd was there to see R&B singer Keith Sweat, who transformed the venue into a VIP lounge for grown and sexy folk during his provocative two-hour concert. Sweat (yes, that is his real name) first hit the top of Billboard’s R&B chart with his 1987 debut album Make It Last Forever. The multi-platinum artist took the Lynn audience on a journey through his 30-year career as a singer, songwriter and producer with an 18-song show. From the moment he stepped on stage singing his 1990 hit “Make You Sweat,” the 1,500-plus fans in attendance were on their feet and aisles were packed with dancers. It appeared everyone in the house was out to have a good time, including Sweat. Early into the show, Sweat asked that the house lights be turned up so he could see ever...

Never again Since reports detailing decades of alleged sexual harassment and assault by Harvey Weinstein were published last month, nearly 60 women have accused the Hollywood producer of sexual harassment and assault. While the number of allegations against Weinstein are staggering (and nauseating), they pale in comparison to the outpouring by women worldwide who are sharing their stories of being sexually harassed or assaulted in the workplace. With its virtual megaphone, the #MeToo social media movement is shedding light on the magnitude of sexual predation by men in positions of power. Oscar-winning actresses. Receptionists. Acclaimed writers and reporters. Waitstaff. Elected officials. It is happening to women of all walks of life who are just breaking into their professions, are in the peak of their careers, and everywhere in between. Many of us who have long remained silent about workplace harassment experiences feared retaliation, felt ashamed, or simply thought no one wou...

As I stood in line at Market Basket last week, the guy in front of me peered into my cart and asked: “You got a cat?” The visuals of my purchases — six cans of 9-Lives sliced beef in gravy, a 3-lb. bag of Friskies dry food and a store-made spicy tuna sushi roll (trust me on this: Market Basket sushi is good) — combined with my cat-hair-covered yoga pants made it pretty clear signs that I’m a cat lady. I was hungry and not in the best of moods (aka hangry), so I replied: “Nope, that’s my lunch.” As I turned away, I realized I was being a bit of a jerk so I reengaged. “I’m kidding. I have cats.” “Cats?,” he asked. “Yes, I have 12.” That response ceased all interest in his chatting me up, just as I intended. Call my actions anti-social, or just plain rude, but I think we’ve all found ourselves in situations where we don’t feel like making small talk with people we know, let alone strangers. And if you haven’t felt this way, you’re probably on a short list for sainthood. As for...

St. Mary's Lynn Class of 1992. That's me, seemingly about to fall and ruin the class photo.  My 25th high school reunion is next weekend. I have exactly nine days to find a suitor, get married, have 2.5 kids, adopt a puppy, install a white picket fence, and lose 20 pounds. Totally doable, right? If I start on the fence this afternoon, I may be able to pluck that off the list but the rest just isn’t going to happen before next Saturday night. And it likely never will (sorry to break it to you, Mom). Had our class reunited at 5 or 10 years out, I might have been able to pretend that I had actually accomplished some of what are considered life’s major milestones and 21- or 26-year-old me likely would have done so with elaborate tales of grandeur. However, the emergence of social media has completely obliterated the ability to pull something like that off today (which is probably a good thing). And the trend toward “social oversharing” has also eliminated a lot of the int...

A  colleague once took me to the driving range to teach me the basics. After a few swings and misses, I finally connected with the ball. It ricocheted off the divider and somehow sailed behind me, nailing him between the legs. As he folded toward the ground, I apologized profusely. I then gave away what remained of my bucket of balls while my friend tended to his. I never tried golf again. And not surprisingly, no one, especially my male friends, has since offered to teach me. Luckily, Essex Media Group has several skilled golfers on its staff who make up for my shortcomings by providing  North Shore Golf  readers with top-notch writing about the game. But having grown up in Lynn, I do know Gannon Golf Club very well. As a kid, I sledded the hills of the course, which was then known as Happy Valley. As a mischievous teenager, my friends and I would sneak onto the course at night with our backpacks filled with cheap beer for parties. And as an adult, I’ve attended man...