It was back in the ‘60s that I met Whitey Bulger.

I had traveled to Boston’s colorful old Southie neighborhood to finally see if I could realize my dream: to make it as an Irish minstrel.

At a raffish neighborhood bar one night, after I had sung “Danny Boy” while accompanying myself on the flute–no easy feat, by the way—a tough-looking guy with extremely blond hair came over and introduced himself.

“I’m James Bulger,” he said. “Call me Whitey and I’ll  strangle you.”

“How about Bulgy?” I quipped. He struck me over the head with a bottle of beer, opening a gash on my scalp that required fourteen stitches. From then on, we were the best of pals.

“If Whitey don’t kill you, that means he likes you,” a member of his organization, the Winter Hill Gang, explained. “He’s got rage issues.”   Read more…….