A brief tribute to Frank McCourt

One Sunday afternoon, I was on Metro North with my niece. I was reading the New York Times--- an excerpt of Teacher Man. I was laughing like a hyena the whole time. When I first read Angela's Ashes, I was in D.C., alone, having dinner, also laughing--- snorting is more like it. People looked at me funny, but I just couldn't stop. I could never re-read the latter, way too painful. He used to live on Atlantic Avenue, over Montero's Bar and Grill, one block from my home. Once I saw him on Henry Street, and I thought, Oh my God, there goes Frank McCourt! He is one of my favorite writers. Rest in peace, teacher man.