

They call him the Rapper...
Donnie Iris is sitting in what’s supposed to be his dressing room on the second floor of the Rivers Casino. Down the hall from the Grand View Buffet and a line of people waiting behind velvet ropes for the $14.99 crab legs. There are three full length mirrors pushed up against the wall and no one in the room seems to be interested in them. “This is my cousin Petey… and my other cousin Petey,” he says, pointing to a handful of guys sitting around the rectangular conference tab


Backstage
The guys are hanging out in the dressing room, the green room, the whatever room. Donnie Iris, Dave Granati, Ricky Granati, Hermie Granati, and Joey Granati, occupying subterranean quarters underneath The Strand Theater in Zelienople, like, thirty minutes before their gig. The Granati’s mom should have been here already but she’s stuck outside because someone forgot to put her name on The List. Norma. Eighty-three years old. “She looks good for her age. You’d think maybe six