Youre tired, youre cranky, you just want to be left aloneyou enter the subway and a stranger hands you a postcard: Its about the Iraq War; Its free. Looking at the picture and reading the text, its not about you anymorebut in fact it is.
It was a hot day in July 1996 when Dorothy Swick started smelling chemicals in the basement of her Greenpoint home. She scoured the sheetrock walls and barren concrete floor for clues, but found nothing.
Harold and Joan met in August 1958 and went out every night for a week. Harold’s parents were away, “and not knowing anything about cooking, and never having been left alone at home, I was absolutely ready for the right girl to come along,” he says.
This session of the New Skool Journalism Workshop found teen journos digging into the lives of other writers and artists. Applying a critical scrutiny to their own world and their own work.
A brisk but clear morning high atop the roof of the former Esquire Shoe Polish Building in Williamsburg brought out the latest effort in putting public focus on massive and often uncontrolled development in this part of Brooklyn.
Soon, it will be seven months since my brother Mark’s youngest child, Marine Lance Cpl. Chase Johnson Comley, was killed in Iraq, his face blown off by a massive, vehicular suicide bomb.