Feels like twenty. You know how U.S. Presidents age after four years in office. You should see what eight years does to a newspaper publisher. I blew in like Baby Face Nelson and now I see Keith Richards in the mirror.

I gotta repeat my own Yogism from back then: I know when to quit; I just don’t know when to give up.

Now, I’m not one for celebrating anniversaries, but The Rockaway Times is eight years old this week and I have a space to fill in the paper. So, I gotta write something. Just like I did, eight years ago.

Starting a business is like sleeping in your car. You can’t find a motel, you can’t afford a motel, or you run out of gas. You make do. When I realized there was a space in that first edition that had to be filled, we ran

A very warm Memorial Day threw me off. It felt like the 4th of July, so I said summer was over. And with summer over, I thought it was ok to break the first rule of Rockaway and leave the peninsula for a vacation.

 I had pre-pandemic plans to check out the happiest places on earth (ever since Dalton’s closed) and had to use my travel credits or else I’d get squadoosh.

I don’t know if it’s propaganda like Greenland being called Greenland even though there’s nothing green about it, but all the

In honor of recent conversations I’ve had, I’m here to miscommunicate. Man, English is so overrated.

I haven’t been tested, but I’m pretty sure I’m a Charlie Brown adult. When some people talk to me, I just hear wah-wah-wah-wah.

Starting with plumbers. Or electricians. And definitely doctors. Once they drop a little jargon or specialized language on me, it’s all wah-wah-wah for me.

I was chatting with a plumber the other day and I’m someone who can’t tell a house trap from a speed trap, a

Sometimes you write a column and you only learn how dumb you were after people read the thing. I mentioned last week that I took a ride with a stranger into Mexico and how the border patrol police ordered us out of the van while they inspected it. I failed to mention, my new friend, Philip, was wearing a parka. As my brother said, just what you need in Mexico, a parka. You didn’t think that was suspicious?

The guy was in his 70s, so I just figured he was always cold. I’m now thinking the van

He said he was speaking for all of the Canarsie firehouse when he concluded his eulogy,

“We will never forget you. We all love you, Kleino.” But Vin Geary, friend and fellow firefighter of Tim Klein, could have been speaking for thousands of people. Thousands who came to St. Francis de Sales last Friday. Thousands who watched the livestream and thousands and thousands from across the city and country.

You didn’t have to personally know Tim Klein to love Klein-o. You love him for his bravery

In my usual Jed Clampett attire, I loaded up the truck and moved towards Beverly – Road, that is. I told the GPS to avoid a massive storm and tornadoes beating the hell out of the Midwest and get me to Brooklyn or Queens where it’s a winter I recognize.

After a few weeks in Arizona, I had to get home and I really wanted to avoid the mayhem I tasted in Amarillo when ice and snow caused trucks to slide into gullies like falling bowling pins.

So, I headed towards Marfa, Texas. Oh, wait. My quick

You gotta be an explorer to find this place named for an explorer.

Columbus, New Mexico is out there/out there, three miles from the Mexico border, eighty miles west of the last human.

Fifty miles past El Paso, on the way to Columbus, you could be driving on Mars, but you can see the wall, the one built to stop people from illegal entry into the U.S. From here, it looks like you’d have to cross a mountain range and hundreds of miles of hilly desert to get to the wall, which is a black fence

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