by Margaret Banka
I’ve had an uncanny streak of running into Amos Nadlersmith, namesake of Amos the Kid, in unexpected places, at unexpected times: karaoke at the Sherb (where the median age is fifty); in the Village streets on a late Monday night; during the cold, early morning hours of Harvest Moon, passing around a bag of Old Dutch chips in a tent crammed with five people; emerging from the inevitable cloud of fog after a Smoky Tiger set at Rainbow Trout (okay, that one might have been a hallucination). Wherever it seems to be, Nadlersmith’s familiar presence and easy-going personality ensure that he is never out of place.
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