He must be about sixty years old, an African American man of average height with a neat, grizzled beard. He has glasses perched on his nose and speaks quietly but with assurance, and there's no mistaking the immense power in his frame, his voice, and his mind.
He looks to the circle of other inmates, all seated in a (sort of) cheery, be-muraled cinderblock room in Grafton Prison. It is late July in Ohio, it is not air conditioned, and it is hot. We munch on popcorn and drink lemonade (-flavored Kool-Aid).
Friday, July 25, 2014
Wednesday, July 9, 2014
Tour of the Homeland, Part One: New York City
You guys. This city.
There is literally nothing that I could say about New York City that hasn't already been said by authors and movie stars and artists far more profound and witty and articulate than I. That said, I'm obviously going to write about it anyway, because, well, BECAUSE, okay? So there.
There is literally nothing that I could say about New York City that hasn't already been said by authors and movie stars and artists far more profound and witty and articulate than I. That said, I'm obviously going to write about it anyway, because, well, BECAUSE, okay? So there.
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