A funny thing happened the other day: Long Island Press stoked a mini-controversy among the Irish. But along the way, a few important points were lost. So here are a few clarifications for those who refused to listen to our side of the story, and the story itself for those who missed it.
On March 5 the cover story, “Drinking Problem,” which was the latest in our monthly Our Children’s Health series—this one about Fetal Alcohol Syndrome—featured a picture of a baby being fed a bottle of whiskey. But not just any whiskey, we went with a bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey because, well, that is the whiskey of choice among our graphic artists.
Basically the thought process went like this. Graphic artist A: “Hey, we need a picture of a bottle of liquor for this cover image I’m creating.” Graphic artist B: “OK, let’s take a picture of this empty bottle on my desk and we’ll use that.” And through the magic of graphic design, the rest is history.
Then, once the paper hit stands, the calls came. There was the guy who yelled at our receptionist before he angrily hung up: “Why didn’t we use a bottle of tequila or vodka!?” There was the woman who said “how dare we,” especially when this is “so close to my holiday,” with a brogue. But when my editor took the call, he thought he was just going to have to explain that this was a story about FAS and we were not encouraging babies to drink liquor. He didn’t realize the woman was inconsolable because she felt her heritage was disparaged.
Then there was the bar owner who canceled delivery of the paper. Same problem: We offended some Irish folks with within weeks of St. Patrick’s Day. Eventually, a representative from Jameson’s parent company wrote a letter, which we ran with a response from our editor.
Certainly, from a public relations standpoint, it is not hard to see why Jameson’s would be upset—especially when they donate to a FAS research fund. And the legality of our creating the image has already been addressed by my boss. All I want to clarify is just where we are coming from, since everyone kept hanging up when we attempted to explain.
So like I said, the graphic artists here love Jameson. It wasn’t some kind of anti-Irish sentiment that inspired the image. We certainly weren’t intending to perpetuate the stereotype of the Irish as being alcoholics. A few of the designers are Irish themselves. The receptionist who took the call? An Irish lass. This writer and the majority of people I share an office with? You guessed it: Irish.
What we found most odd was how much those who complained seemed to directly associate their heritage with a brand of whiskey. So here’s a short list of a few Irish contributions to society that are a tad more meaningful than the one beverage we’re stereotyped as being addicted to.
Seismology: Those who live in earthquake-prone areas would have even more difficult lives without this Irish invention.
Oscar Wilde: Anyone who has ever read Portrait of Dorian Gray knows this significance. And this is only entry in the volumes of Irish literary contributions that have become classics.
Atom Smashing: The scientist to first accomplish this is still the only Irishman to win the Nobel Prize for science.
Hypodermic Needles: Sure, everyone hates getting shots, but where would modern medicine be without one of its most essential, and Irish-invented, tools?
History: Irish monks who recorded much of Western civilization’s history through the fall of Rome to the Renaissance stored the books in their impenetrable castles through the rampant plundering of the Dark Ages, successfully preserving our culture.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Depressionistas
The week after “Party Like It’s 1929” (Feb. 19) ran, I got a call from Philip Bolger, an 82-year-old from Franklin Square who wanted to let me know that he was sending me a letter with some of his stories from the Great Depression, as he too was a survivor. In the course of my research for that story, I realized that there was enough material for 100 cover stories, if we only had the time and space to run them all. So I’m sharing his stories below, since he was kind enough to type them out for me in his typewriter and it would be a tad unconventional to run on the Letters to the Editor page.
And as an interesting aside (for me anyway, I don’t know if you’ll care), Bolger—who is not related to me so far as I know—told me that he used to be a copy editor for the original New York Sun. The family founded and published the newspaper in New York City around the turn of the century, which means blood or not, my surname apparently has a long history in journalism. That came as a nice surprise, as all I know is my dad was a mechanic and his dad was a sailor who died at sea after he came over from Ireland.
I’m still trying to confirm that there were publishers named Bolger at one time, because I’m a dork like that. Anyone who has any leads, please email me.
Here’s Phil’s stories:
“So you want depression stories. Here goes:
1. I was attending St. Athanasius school in the Bronx in second grade. I had twin brothers in my class: Frankie and Willie O’Brien. One week I noticed Frankie came in to school on Monday, but not Willie. The following day only Willie came, but not Frankie; so it continued throughout the week. I later found out they only had one pair of sneakers; the father was unemployed for six months. The pastor got someone to get them shoes and the following week both came to school every day.
2. In those days, if a tenant failed to pay monthly rent for a few months, the landlord could call a storage company to have all of their furniture removed from the apartment and put into the street. My mother always asked me if I saw any such situation and when I did, she would put on her shawl and go to the dispossessed. The mother was usually sobbing and the father put out an old fedora so passersby could drop nickels and dimes into it. See, once he had $5, the storage people would come and take the furniture off the street and put them into a storage house. The bereft parents had to arrange for the children that night. My mother always took in one of the boys. This happened several times in my school days (The parochial school had no lunchroom and I had to run home nine blocks for lunch and then back again to make the ring-a-leevio game. Parochial schools got no aid; no buses for transportation of any kind. Just run).
3. It was common to hear homeless men singing in the alley of apartment houses for the pennies and nickels women would toss down to them.
4. Many homeless men built shanty towns near the rivers. One night the shanty town in Hunts Point went on fire and several of the homeless men died. The fire department came and destroyed the remaining huts.
5. Families helped one another while waiting for federal programs to kick in. My uncle Harry in Classon Point lost his job with the Otis Elevator people; he also lost the tenant who rented the upstairs of his house. He could no longer pay the mortgage. To help him, my father moved us up there as tenants and paid rent. Each night my cousins and sisters went down to the kitchen to paste buttons onto cards; this was called homework. For about 1,000 cards, my uncle got a $5 bill.
6. People forgot the positive part that the entertainment industry played to help us through the grim days. Songs of hope like Happy Days Are Here Again, Just Around the Corner There’s A Rainbow in the Skies, Potatoes are Cheaper, Tomatoes are Cheaper and Now’s the Time to Fall in Love gave us hope that it would end soon. The 10-cent weekend movie kept people away from misery and led them into a fantasy world of great momentary pleasure. But now and then Hollywood gave us the grim truth, like The Grapes of Wrath and Cannery Row. Of all the boys in my graduation class, only two finished high school. All the rest went to work to put bread on the table or lied and joined the service, some never to return.
7. A pal of mine, Billy B., could draw naturally. He would produce pictures of Little Orphan Annie and Dick Tracy on old scrap paper. He told me there was a WPA artist who held classes down near the Bronx Creek for about six people. He took me down there with him and we watched the artist and his pupils. Billie asked the artist if we could be in the class and the artist screamed “Get the hell out of here you kids or I’ll call a cop!” That was the end of my introduction to the fine arts. Looking back, I guess the artist was fed up. He got only about $12 per week and was probably on the verge of a breakdown because of the demeaning state he was in.
8. Life went on through it all. Young people got married regardless. It was never a catered affair, naturally, but the people got together and gave them a beer and baloney send off party. Usually they rented (for nothing) a church hall. For about $2 the girl’s friends bought cheap rolls of crepe paper and decorated. Usually there was a leftover Shamrock put up. A three-piece band played all night for $15. there was no formal invitation; everybody in the neighborhood was invited. The groom’s brothers sat at the entrance to keep “the no-goods” out. The girl’s brothers threw out the guy who couldn’t hold his beer. Mothers made baloney sandwiches. Scores of kids ran around the place eating ice cream. The funeral parlor donated chairs. Finally, the couple appeared and were cheered off for their honeymoon at the Half Moon Hotel at Coney Island.
Depression or not, people went on thinking life was great. Until, of course, the following Monday morning. And from there we went off to war to save our country.”
And as an interesting aside (for me anyway, I don’t know if you’ll care), Bolger—who is not related to me so far as I know—told me that he used to be a copy editor for the original New York Sun. The family founded and published the newspaper in New York City around the turn of the century, which means blood or not, my surname apparently has a long history in journalism. That came as a nice surprise, as all I know is my dad was a mechanic and his dad was a sailor who died at sea after he came over from Ireland.
I’m still trying to confirm that there were publishers named Bolger at one time, because I’m a dork like that. Anyone who has any leads, please email me.
Here’s Phil’s stories:
“So you want depression stories. Here goes:
1. I was attending St. Athanasius school in the Bronx in second grade. I had twin brothers in my class: Frankie and Willie O’Brien. One week I noticed Frankie came in to school on Monday, but not Willie. The following day only Willie came, but not Frankie; so it continued throughout the week. I later found out they only had one pair of sneakers; the father was unemployed for six months. The pastor got someone to get them shoes and the following week both came to school every day.
2. In those days, if a tenant failed to pay monthly rent for a few months, the landlord could call a storage company to have all of their furniture removed from the apartment and put into the street. My mother always asked me if I saw any such situation and when I did, she would put on her shawl and go to the dispossessed. The mother was usually sobbing and the father put out an old fedora so passersby could drop nickels and dimes into it. See, once he had $5, the storage people would come and take the furniture off the street and put them into a storage house. The bereft parents had to arrange for the children that night. My mother always took in one of the boys. This happened several times in my school days (The parochial school had no lunchroom and I had to run home nine blocks for lunch and then back again to make the ring-a-leevio game. Parochial schools got no aid; no buses for transportation of any kind. Just run).
3. It was common to hear homeless men singing in the alley of apartment houses for the pennies and nickels women would toss down to them.
4. Many homeless men built shanty towns near the rivers. One night the shanty town in Hunts Point went on fire and several of the homeless men died. The fire department came and destroyed the remaining huts.
5. Families helped one another while waiting for federal programs to kick in. My uncle Harry in Classon Point lost his job with the Otis Elevator people; he also lost the tenant who rented the upstairs of his house. He could no longer pay the mortgage. To help him, my father moved us up there as tenants and paid rent. Each night my cousins and sisters went down to the kitchen to paste buttons onto cards; this was called homework. For about 1,000 cards, my uncle got a $5 bill.
6. People forgot the positive part that the entertainment industry played to help us through the grim days. Songs of hope like Happy Days Are Here Again, Just Around the Corner There’s A Rainbow in the Skies, Potatoes are Cheaper, Tomatoes are Cheaper and Now’s the Time to Fall in Love gave us hope that it would end soon. The 10-cent weekend movie kept people away from misery and led them into a fantasy world of great momentary pleasure. But now and then Hollywood gave us the grim truth, like The Grapes of Wrath and Cannery Row. Of all the boys in my graduation class, only two finished high school. All the rest went to work to put bread on the table or lied and joined the service, some never to return.
7. A pal of mine, Billy B., could draw naturally. He would produce pictures of Little Orphan Annie and Dick Tracy on old scrap paper. He told me there was a WPA artist who held classes down near the Bronx Creek for about six people. He took me down there with him and we watched the artist and his pupils. Billie asked the artist if we could be in the class and the artist screamed “Get the hell out of here you kids or I’ll call a cop!” That was the end of my introduction to the fine arts. Looking back, I guess the artist was fed up. He got only about $12 per week and was probably on the verge of a breakdown because of the demeaning state he was in.
8. Life went on through it all. Young people got married regardless. It was never a catered affair, naturally, but the people got together and gave them a beer and baloney send off party. Usually they rented (for nothing) a church hall. For about $2 the girl’s friends bought cheap rolls of crepe paper and decorated. Usually there was a leftover Shamrock put up. A three-piece band played all night for $15. there was no formal invitation; everybody in the neighborhood was invited. The groom’s brothers sat at the entrance to keep “the no-goods” out. The girl’s brothers threw out the guy who couldn’t hold his beer. Mothers made baloney sandwiches. Scores of kids ran around the place eating ice cream. The funeral parlor donated chairs. Finally, the couple appeared and were cheered off for their honeymoon at the Half Moon Hotel at Coney Island.
Depression or not, people went on thinking life was great. Until, of course, the following Monday morning. And from there we went off to war to save our country.”
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Notes From O-Town
Sorry it's been so long since I've updated. I've got some good stuff in the hopper, I promise. It's just been a tad hectic here in Pressland lately, but things are smoothing out now. So here is the first draft of last week's cover story. I tried to avoid writing a first person story originally, or at least not have it be so much about my time at the inauguration and more about the meaning of the day itself. But when the bosses wanted a re-write, I gave them what they wanted. I still like this version though...
On the outside looking in, it is not hard to see how some cynics may think that Inauguration Day appeared shallow and cheap, with the all the merchandising for sale and the circus-like atmosphere. I haven't come across anyone that pessimistic yet, although I'm sure they're out there. But there is still a need to clarify Tuesday's significance for those who could not make the trip to Washington D.C. to take part.
For starters, even President Barack Obama is tired of people trying to pile more symbolism onto an event that is already plenty emblematic of American ideals. Sometimes a hot dog is just a hot dog, as he reminded a journalist who asked what the significance was of his eating a chilidog upon arrival in the nation's capitol. Ever the cynic myself, I, too, needed a view beyond the camera's gaze to get to the heart of it, because some things you just have to see for yourself.
So I made the trip to D.C., to see the swearing in and all its surrounding mayhem, to be part of a true once-in-a-lifetime event, a part of history.
And this thing was nothing short of a pilgrimage. Some may reject the religious connotation of that word's application to anything to do with a man who has not been canonized, but is painted, both literally and figuratively, as a saint. That is not what I am implying here, as not all pilgrimages have to do with religion—although these people I joined on this bitterly cold Tuesday in January surely were full of faith. It was the sight of thousands of people pouring into the streets, filling them to capacity at 5 a.m., hoping to get the best view, despite below-freezing temperatures. Usually such scenes result from something catastrophic, and the people aren't as giddy.
So eager were we patriots to witness history in the making that even when arriving at the Mall seven hours prior to the swearing-in ceremony, it was just an hour away from the police closing out our section. Crowd estimates of two million may never do the turnout justice, as those who arrived later in the morning to watch the event on Jumbotrons from two miles away at the Lincoln Memorial reported spillover that packed the side streets, even that far away.
In short, it was like nothing anyone has ever seen. It paled in comparison to Obama's "We Are One" speech and concert at the Lincoln Memorial the previous Sunday, or even to the mass gathered at Woodstock for that matter.
But it was more than just a huge gathering of Obama supporters. There were hugs shared by black Southerners who made the trip, who had never expected to see an African-American become president in their lifetime. They were joined by high school kids learning the greatest civics lesson of all, and by families bonding over the momentous and surreal communal experience. Some have even said that this event replaces the moon landing as far as greatest national achievements that folks will tell their grandkids about.
Don’t try defining it strictly through the lens of Democrat, Republican, black or white. This was a uniquely American occasion.
Imagine instead that you were an African immigrant in the U.S., a journalist by trade, barred from visiting your home because you report on the misdeeds of dictators who hold pseudo-democratic elections. And despite not being able to visit family and friends back home, you were so overjoyed with the mere integrity of our American process that you dressed in a suit, even though you were not attending an inaugural ball, instead dancing to a remix of Martin Luther King's "I Have a Dream" speech at a local pub.
That was the experience of Henok Fente, a 28-year-old Ethiopian who is now a radio reporter for Voice of America's English to Africa broadcast, which is the only independent, non-government run media in many parts of the continent. "To witness the exchange of power without an armed conflict from a ruler for eight years," Fente said, after toasting America, letting his point make itself. "It is one thing to read about, it is another thing to see an election be rigged in your country," he added with a wide grin, referring to the compromised electoral process in his homeland. This guy who's not even a US citizen applies the principles of our First Amendment in a continent dying for freedom. He may be the biggest patriot I've met, as we traipsed in the frigid air from one Inauguration event to another.
Sure, Obama's anecdote about his father’s inability to be served at a local restaurant 60 years ago, and the significance of that man’s son now being sworn in as president, speak volumes about this nation. But with that, we also are taking for granted the fact that we have free elections to begin with. Not that it's a bad thing that we only think about the concept of freedom as it’s portrayed in songs. But for Fente, freedom is about more than just lyrics. It is a good thing that we're so used to being able to freely elect our leaders that we don't have to worry about a coup or a blatant abuse of power in the voting booths.
And while we're taking our freedoms for granted, why should we not take a moment to celebrate the day the American way, by buying Obama souvenirs. Especially when it's as amusing as Obama action figures, mix tapes and the endless T-shirt variations. We should not be made to feel guilty for sometimes turning this into a circus. It is nice to hear so many people speaking glowingly of national politics for a change, even though we all know the glow will wear off as soon as we start dealing with the mess.
We in New York have a tendency to refer to the city as the "Capitol of the World" for its melting-pot history while we deride the crippling partisan nature of D.C. I say it's time to give that title back to D.C., let our leaders get to work and not forget the selfless promises to pitch in that we all made this week.
On the outside looking in, it is not hard to see how some cynics may think that Inauguration Day appeared shallow and cheap, with the all the merchandising for sale and the circus-like atmosphere. I haven't come across anyone that pessimistic yet, although I'm sure they're out there. But there is still a need to clarify Tuesday's significance for those who could not make the trip to Washington D.C. to take part.
For starters, even President Barack Obama is tired of people trying to pile more symbolism onto an event that is already plenty emblematic of American ideals. Sometimes a hot dog is just a hot dog, as he reminded a journalist who asked what the significance was of his eating a chilidog upon arrival in the nation's capitol. Ever the cynic myself, I, too, needed a view beyond the camera's gaze to get to the heart of it, because some things you just have to see for yourself.
So I made the trip to D.C., to see the swearing in and all its surrounding mayhem, to be part of a true once-in-a-lifetime event, a part of history.
And this thing was nothing short of a pilgrimage. Some may reject the religious connotation of that word's application to anything to do with a man who has not been canonized, but is painted, both literally and figuratively, as a saint. That is not what I am implying here, as not all pilgrimages have to do with religion—although these people I joined on this bitterly cold Tuesday in January surely were full of faith. It was the sight of thousands of people pouring into the streets, filling them to capacity at 5 a.m., hoping to get the best view, despite below-freezing temperatures. Usually such scenes result from something catastrophic, and the people aren't as giddy.
So eager were we patriots to witness history in the making that even when arriving at the Mall seven hours prior to the swearing-in ceremony, it was just an hour away from the police closing out our section. Crowd estimates of two million may never do the turnout justice, as those who arrived later in the morning to watch the event on Jumbotrons from two miles away at the Lincoln Memorial reported spillover that packed the side streets, even that far away.
In short, it was like nothing anyone has ever seen. It paled in comparison to Obama's "We Are One" speech and concert at the Lincoln Memorial the previous Sunday, or even to the mass gathered at Woodstock for that matter.
But it was more than just a huge gathering of Obama supporters. There were hugs shared by black Southerners who made the trip, who had never expected to see an African-American become president in their lifetime. They were joined by high school kids learning the greatest civics lesson of all, and by families bonding over the momentous and surreal communal experience. Some have even said that this event replaces the moon landing as far as greatest national achievements that folks will tell their grandkids about.
Don’t try defining it strictly through the lens of Democrat, Republican, black or white. This was a uniquely American occasion.
Imagine instead that you were an African immigrant in the U.S., a journalist by trade, barred from visiting your home because you report on the misdeeds of dictators who hold pseudo-democratic elections. And despite not being able to visit family and friends back home, you were so overjoyed with the mere integrity of our American process that you dressed in a suit, even though you were not attending an inaugural ball, instead dancing to a remix of Martin Luther King's "I Have a Dream" speech at a local pub.
That was the experience of Henok Fente, a 28-year-old Ethiopian who is now a radio reporter for Voice of America's English to Africa broadcast, which is the only independent, non-government run media in many parts of the continent. "To witness the exchange of power without an armed conflict from a ruler for eight years," Fente said, after toasting America, letting his point make itself. "It is one thing to read about, it is another thing to see an election be rigged in your country," he added with a wide grin, referring to the compromised electoral process in his homeland. This guy who's not even a US citizen applies the principles of our First Amendment in a continent dying for freedom. He may be the biggest patriot I've met, as we traipsed in the frigid air from one Inauguration event to another.
Sure, Obama's anecdote about his father’s inability to be served at a local restaurant 60 years ago, and the significance of that man’s son now being sworn in as president, speak volumes about this nation. But with that, we also are taking for granted the fact that we have free elections to begin with. Not that it's a bad thing that we only think about the concept of freedom as it’s portrayed in songs. But for Fente, freedom is about more than just lyrics. It is a good thing that we're so used to being able to freely elect our leaders that we don't have to worry about a coup or a blatant abuse of power in the voting booths.
And while we're taking our freedoms for granted, why should we not take a moment to celebrate the day the American way, by buying Obama souvenirs. Especially when it's as amusing as Obama action figures, mix tapes and the endless T-shirt variations. We should not be made to feel guilty for sometimes turning this into a circus. It is nice to hear so many people speaking glowingly of national politics for a change, even though we all know the glow will wear off as soon as we start dealing with the mess.
We in New York have a tendency to refer to the city as the "Capitol of the World" for its melting-pot history while we deride the crippling partisan nature of D.C. I say it's time to give that title back to D.C., let our leaders get to work and not forget the selfless promises to pitch in that we all made this week.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Not So Secret Anymore
Not to harp on the subject, but last week’s cover story had a few amusing reactions worth sharing.
There was the high school friend I haven’t spoken in years who texted me “of course you got detained, that beard screams terrorist!” There were the colleagues that I haven’t spoken to in months who reached out to share in the laugh. Then there was the guy who stapled a copy of the cover in a letter he wrote to ask how we pick our models, in which he included a few head shots and an offer of his modeling services.
That was a first. Our production department always has to hunt down models. They don’t ever come to us.
Meanwhile, seeing my face on the cover every time I walked into a store where we have a rack got old fast. Even co-workers and family members said it got a little freaky that my face was plastered everywhere they went. Now I know how those billboard ad models feel.
Of course, no story about the Secret Service would be complete without an influx of letters from more conspiracy theorists. The majority of the letters were from regular folks simply sharing stories similar to mine. But a few others were really out there. The most bizarre one was faxed to us, although in all fairness, after deciphering the main points as best as I could, it appears to have been faxed to every media outlet in the Western Hemisphere.
While I must leave out names for the sake of not getting sued, it claims that several U.S. Senators as well as current and past White House officials are actually Canadian ex-felons and one is allegedly a man in drag, according to the mostly hand-written 11-page list of rambling accusations. And all of them also happen to be from the same city: Calgary, Alberta. Needless to say, don’t expect that story to make it to print anytime soon.
That’s all for now. Happy Halloween and don’t forget to vote.
There was the high school friend I haven’t spoken in years who texted me “of course you got detained, that beard screams terrorist!” There were the colleagues that I haven’t spoken to in months who reached out to share in the laugh. Then there was the guy who stapled a copy of the cover in a letter he wrote to ask how we pick our models, in which he included a few head shots and an offer of his modeling services.
That was a first. Our production department always has to hunt down models. They don’t ever come to us.
Meanwhile, seeing my face on the cover every time I walked into a store where we have a rack got old fast. Even co-workers and family members said it got a little freaky that my face was plastered everywhere they went. Now I know how those billboard ad models feel.
Of course, no story about the Secret Service would be complete without an influx of letters from more conspiracy theorists. The majority of the letters were from regular folks simply sharing stories similar to mine. But a few others were really out there. The most bizarre one was faxed to us, although in all fairness, after deciphering the main points as best as I could, it appears to have been faxed to every media outlet in the Western Hemisphere.
While I must leave out names for the sake of not getting sued, it claims that several U.S. Senators as well as current and past White House officials are actually Canadian ex-felons and one is allegedly a man in drag, according to the mostly hand-written 11-page list of rambling accusations. And all of them also happen to be from the same city: Calgary, Alberta. Needless to say, don’t expect that story to make it to print anytime soon.
That’s all for now. Happy Halloween and don’t forget to vote.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
A Few Firsts
Welcome to the reincarnation of my blog. The original one bit the dust upon the re-launching of our website this week, but I had fell off on the consistency while gearing up for the change-over anyway. I let the old content dissolve into the cyber-space Never Neverland since I prefer to focus my energy on moving forward. So here's to a new venue and well, my first time using Blogger.
As for other firsts this week, perhaps you noticed my mug on the cover. Yep, that's really me with the hat. I think that's a first for all of us here. The author of a story has never posed for the cover picture for their own story before, at least not in the six-year-plus run of this paper.Not that this should be surprising for anyone, it's not really common practice at any publication.
But aside from my reluctantly warming to the idea, the story itself contains a few unprecedented snippets. It was the first time, at least in modern history so far as we were able to tell, that a presidential debate was held on Long Island. It was our first time covering the debates from the inside.
And yes, it was my first time being questioned by federal authorities, instead of the other way around. I'll be crossing my fingers that it's the last.
As for other firsts this week, perhaps you noticed my mug on the cover. Yep, that's really me with the hat. I think that's a first for all of us here. The author of a story has never posed for the cover picture for their own story before, at least not in the six-year-plus run of this paper.Not that this should be surprising for anyone, it's not really common practice at any publication.
But aside from my reluctantly warming to the idea, the story itself contains a few unprecedented snippets. It was the first time, at least in modern history so far as we were able to tell, that a presidential debate was held on Long Island. It was our first time covering the debates from the inside.
And yes, it was my first time being questioned by federal authorities, instead of the other way around. I'll be crossing my fingers that it's the last.
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