At the crossroads of the two major avenues of the East Bronx was a magical, idyllic spot known as Pop’s Pool Room. It was the place where I spent most of my spare time between the ages of 16 and 24, subtracting the two years that Pop banned me from his establishment.
Nassau schools have a right to be proud. Teachers receive good wages, the schools are relatively free of crime, and the amount of equipment, supplies and resources rival even that of many colleges. But many people feel that to support these schools, the high-cost of administration needs to be taken into account, and possibly adjusted downwards. In these times of belt-tightening and real estate decline, it’s a wonder that the school budgets get higher every year. Just recently, the school budget increases in Syosset and Oyster-Bay school districts, and most others on Long Island, were approved.
It was a beautiful sunny day in Seoul, Korea.
My father was born in Eastern Poland. He and his three brothers, Sheldon, Sol and Murray were all better than average soccer players. My father would drag my mother and me all over Brooklyn, the Bronx and Manhattan to watch soccer games. Through all those years my mother never understood or appreciated the game.
I have never thought of myself as a particularly brave person; however, each day I take upon myself a truly terrifying task. People have been killed, maimed, or scarred for life doing this thing that I have chosen to do, and knowing this, I must somehow find the courage to continue on. I wish I could now segue into my dazzling adventures as a mountain climber or Bengal tiger trainer, or something with equal glamour, but unfortunately that’s not where this is going; I’m talking about driving on Jericho Turnpike.
I have never been much of a card player. Somehow, myself and three other gentlemen formed a Monday night gin rummy game. It has been classified as a Damon Runyonesque experience because the players are alumni from the streets of the Bronx and Brooklyn circa 1940s, ’50s and ’60s.
It was Halloween. The year was 1953.
I was studying calculus in my apartment in the East Bronx on the high ground floor. It was above Sid’s Candy Store. Sid’s was a noisy neighborhood hangout for the unemployed and the indigent.
The volcanic explosion in Iceland affected me in two distinct ways. One, it reminded me of my visit to this North Atlantic Island about 10 years ago. We chose Iceland, just to say we had been there.
As someone who was a blogger before entering the world of newspapers, I am perhaps in a unique position to see the irony in many of the popular criticisms of blogging, as well as social media services such as Twitter, that emerge from the world of print. While critics of new media often bemoan the paltry research and lack of accountability to be found in the world of blogging, criticisms of blogging are often based on nebulous fears for the future of publishing as opposed to actual facts, and the critics themselves don’t think they should be held accountable for the fact that they don’t know the culture of the blogosphere very well, or even know anyone who does. Many criticize Twitter for encouraging the oversimplification of concepts through the enforced character limit, however ignoring the many possible uses of Twitter that do not have such limitations- to instead judge the phenomenon only by its weakest applications- is itself a gross oversimplification. In short, while there are undoubtedly legitimate concerns about the veracity of information to be found online in general, many media traditionalists have been presenting these concerns either dishonestly, or through a veil of genuine fear and culture shock.
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