When They Start Charging Corner Boys With Terrorism and Think They’re Superman in LE


Recovered in East New York by a 75th  precinct raid;  6 men arrested:.  25 caliber Raven Arms semi-automatic, .38 caliber Revolver Taurus. .380, pistol-grip shotgun, 3 lbs weed, cocaine residue, a.22 caliber, .9 mm  ammo and $1,329 in cash.

Ok fair enough,gangsters but these were the changes against all six:
Criminal Possession of a Weapon (six counts)
Criminal Possession of Marihuana
Tampering with Physical Evidence
Obstructing Governmental Administration
Criminal Use of Drug Paraphernalia
Criminal Possession of a Controlled Substance
Violation of local law
And all six were also charged with Terrorism Criminal Possession of a Weapon (italics and emphasis not mine but probably overzealous prosecutors). 

And small thing but whats up with cops wearing superman, batman t-shirts and hats played backward at a press conference- heros ok but be humble out there or well you know

Rolling Stone (fucking) Journalism

Limp Bizkit investigates statistical manipulation in FDA clinical drug trials

Bret Michaels on transnational petro smuggling inside the ISIS network

The Oak Ridge Boys analyze the Chinese expansion threat and cross strait relations

Heavy D’s last dispatch – – Bullfighting in Catalonia

Rico Suave on memoir, idenity and magic realism in Latin American Literature


The Carter Family

Rosalyn Carter and President Jimmy Carter with me lurking in the background looking freaky. I won a Carter Center journalism fellow and they had us down to Atlanta.  I can not say enough about that women, she is wonderful and treated me with such respect, compassion and kindness.  She's a saint.

Rosalyn Carter and President Jimmy Carter with me lurking in the background looking freaky.
I won a Carter Center journalism fellowship and they had us down to Atlanta. I can not say enough about that woman, she is wonderful and treated me with such respect, compassion and kindness. She’s a saint.

Ambien is destroying (seriously) lives

I don’t want to write this – – it’s personal, autobiographical, and personally damaging and I’m long since tired of that genre – I say this sincerely, this is not a gimmick I’m trotting out to justify memoir writing.

But I’m a journalist, and you find the best subject to tell a story. And if I’m not the best subject on this issue I’m a pretty damn good one.

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Interview with an Escapee from a Maximum Security Jail, a reform school buddy

With jail/prison escapes in the news, this seems relevant — an old acquaintance from a bad boys home gave me a detailed break down on how he escaped, it was crazy and ingenious and probably instructive for jailers.

Mick (he didn’t want his real name used) engineered a complicated escape from a jail in Nassau County, New York that landed him on the front page. He took along a  career criminal (now deceased), and a man awaiting murder charges; that man, Shi Fu Huang,  once featured on America’s Most Wanted, is still at large.


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A Memoir: The Old School Rehab; shaved heads, digging your own grave outside, young men forced to wear diapers, donkey costumes, eat baby food, and sit for weeks motionless on a wooden chair with no back

They went quite crazy back then in the name of reforming us; the other aspect of the war on drugs.

Photo: Me at 17 with my buddy, the armed robber, dust patient bisexual, martial arts expert from Hollis, Queens

It was the early 1980s in NYC, around the birth of hip hop and these rehabs (TCs) were a world of prison culture, living in Bronx tenements, sleeping with one eye open, 125th Street in Harlem, Pitkin Avenue in East New York, Brooklyn, dusties detoxing on cranberry juice, the cooker, razor blades in mouths, Nicky Barnes, fresh waves, Five Percenters, Mighty Whiteys from Queens, speedballs, the hole stroll, spades, playing the corner slap boxing, wild like reform school, excessively rigid as a skinner box mixed with super Orwellian behaviorism (forced to constantly inform on each other to staff) — all to treat us misfits, gangstas and burnouts in army jackets and work-boots messing with girls with roach clip feather earrings who were made to wear stocking caps if they broke a rule.

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Beyond NSA’s PRISM — The Extreme Monitoring Developed in the Combating Terrorism Technical Support Office

In their 2012 Review publication a seemingly obscure government entity, the Combating Terrorism Technical Support Office (CTTSO), describes an operational program called PRISM.  The description doesn’t match exactly with the NSA slides of the PRISM program that the Washington Post recently published in relation to leaks by former CIA/former NSA contractor Edward Snowden.   In the CTTSO publication there is no specific mention of PRISM working with Microsoft, Yahoo, Google, Facebook, PalTalk, AOL, Skype, YouTube, or Apple and the collection focus is, as some government officials have stated, on what is referred to as foreign web media extraction. There is language that hints at ambiguity, overreach, potential for abuse (“PRISM provided access to an extensive database of related contextual data trends”) and there is language that might just be pseudo-Intelligence babble (“PRISM integrated visualization components with sentiment estimation” or “a cognitive task analysis was conducted to develop an analytic methodology and a processing pipeline to provide trend data from foreign media.”)

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Senator Rand Paul believes mental health is a hoax; legislation pending

In late 2011 Senator Rand Paul introduced Bill H.R. 2769 and related Bill S.1800, co-sponsored by Rep. Marsha Blackburn, Rep. Dan Burton, and Rep. Jeb Hensarling. It was read twice and referred to the Committee on Health, Education, Labor, and Pensions.

The name of the legislation was disingenuously called The Parental Consent Act – – it pretends to be all about protecting the children and stopping the state from taking away your parental right to raise your child as you see fit, but it’s just as much, more really, about adult issues masquerading as child protection.

The gist of it is that Rand Paul believes mental health is a hoax.

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Your Wife Dies in Your Arms; This is What it Sounds Like Then and for Five More Years

 Sumiko was diagnosed with stage four cancer in September of 2001  – – 36 years old. She died on April 7, 2004.

For two years and seven months I was by default reporting all day, every day in every nook and cranny of health care.

If I look at it bluntly, now in retrospect, it was probably the worst kind of participatory, immersion journalism – – partly because when it was over I didn’t want to think about any of it again, couldn’t look at anything related to my wife, pictures, diaries, memories, do follow-up interviews. But all I could do was think about it.

What I have now amounts to basically a catalogue of suffering, some grace, and first hand reportorial experience with EMS, hospice, doctors, pain specialists, the insurance industry.

Some of what follows I wrote a month or two before Sumiko died, then I went back and revised it – – some was written after she died. The tense is not consistent so bear with me.

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When You Run Around Afghanistan Alone And in Shirtsleeves While All Around You Your Fellow Americans Are Barricaded, Bunkered, And Bulletproof-Vested Up, This is What You Can Experience

The government, ethnic resentment dynamic seems pretty raw. Power, Karzai was from the south, being bombarded with how bad the government is, how bad the NGOs are – – I don’t know if I’m being used, spun or it’s legitimate resistance fighter rhetoric.

The rural poverty is pretty staggering. The isolation of so many of these villages also staggering — the urban areas, bazaars, mazes of mud huts, little girls carrying water jugs on their shoulders and navigating sharp rock mountains like billy goats, boys standing with naked legs in rivers while I’m bundled up against hypothermia in the SUV.

Then suddenly if you look somewhere else there are palatial structures, gleaming corporate office buildings.Two artillery sounding blasts in Faisalabad, think they were blowing something up intentionally and announced it in Dari over loudspeakers, but ugly sickening sound.

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Good-bye and Mea Culpa, or as they say in jail when they’re 15,

My Fault (though a lot of them do say, often,  “Don’t say sorry, it makes you sound weak).   But I’m not 15, not in jail,  not caring terribly about image of weak or strong, and didn’t mind when the Dixie Chicks talked.

However, I should and will just shut up and write (Dixie Chicks Shut Up and Sing reference…)  It’s 4:34 pm in NY, my computer says 10:34 (Albanian time) —  I will change that and shut up and write the damn/darn/fug-n story:  The end and the beginning of Albanian Transnational Crime.

Was, is a litte hard to concentrate, get motivated, but today I just Googled something (yeah, I just Googled something, I Googled my fu–) and found this reporter editor Mike Dang had me on a site, I think Bundle.com and/or LongReads and/or a Tumblr site called Dang and he said about a story I wrote (Chinese Take Out Story), “This was a terrific read” and there were 44 Notes/retweets/likes.

Yo, I’m so easy, that’s all it takes.  Means so much.  I worked hard on that story and it was appreicated — so here goes, back into isolation, let me write this Albanian story, bust my ass and go into my own world and act like this is the most important thing in the world, type until my finegers get clawed out and my calves get swollen (too much information) and my back hurts (every writer’s back hurts) — but hey, as Kershis told me in 5th grade about fighting or about smashing your closed fist into n a tree when you’re prone, on your stomach, zipping down a hill on an old school sled with the navigation handle up front controlled by your hands and you have to go between those two trees (of course we had to go between those two closely positioned trees and of course I hit my almost frozen fist on that tree one time) — he said the pain goes away, it alway goes away.  He was right.

So, good-bye, the next time you hear from me will be when I publish (knock on wood) this article on Capital New York. Hopefully it will be alright and I’ll do a good job.  So bye, back into lonely writer, drinking coffee and zero sugar Monster energy drinks world.

I don’t mind.  It’s a privilege really.  Shoot, I’ve worked in boring factories and done jobs that were atrociously boring — sand papered newly hung and taped sheet rock for hours and hours — practiced writing pieces of prose on the sheet rock to take a mind break, prose that I sand papered over and away, so I shouldn’t be complaining — it is a privilege to be able to write and to be listened to, have to remember where I came from, where so many others are — so here goes, bye for a while, wish me luck.


Kevin Heldman (reporter with literary aspirations/believer in hard work/heart on sleeve wearer/damaged but not broken by roughish life guy)


20 Year Anniversary — A Reporter’s Life. Motel Gypsy on the Road (motel beds and different local tv shows in different cities and brought in nearby convenience store food feels like so at home) Hermit-ing on the Story at your Garreted out Desk (writing it over and over again in isolation, trying to mold gibberish into verbal gold) — Ah, Bartleby, this little bit of a monk-like reporter’s life is so for me

Coffee mugs, filled up and rag-tagged reporting pads, criminal case files, maps, accordion files filled with contact info, notebooks filled with trial notes, red pens used for slashing through all those read aloud gibberish drafts attempting to turn stream of consciousness dumps into balanced sentence gold; the English to Albanian dictionary, the printed out guilty pleas and allocutions; in the field in and out of internet cafes, airport CPUs, random offices in other countries with thumb drives, lugging around  e-mails from anon sources with their names ripped off to protect identities;  folders with lists of alleged criminals; letters from prisoners and passwords and scores of resource info scotch taped to the wall above your desk.

Revising and shaping raw drafts of notebook dumps on a Saturday — I love this reporter’s life. I love it. Playing the computer keyboard, typing like it’s a damn Stevie Wonder piano.

Writing and publishing to make it realer, not real —  have to learn that and keep that idea protected and sure and hold that tight — the idea that it’s real already, the experience,  it doesn’t have to be a published article to make it real.

I got this Fred Friendly (RIP).  I got this James Agee (RIP).  I got this Pro Publica.  I got this AAN, Association of Alternative Newspapers (RIP).  I got this Dean Isaacs and Columbia Graduate School of Journalism. I got this Long Reads and Long Form and David Isay and all you submitting to Granta, the Beliver,  Ploughshares, this that and the other Review and small journal.  I got this old Village Voice.  I got this Hitchens (RIP, damn goddamn that’s a waste, all that intellect just taken away) and Orwell and Rian Milan and Izzy Stone.   I got this all you all who spent so much time in the field and accumulated  all those boxes of tapes and were going through hell transcribing with that foot pedal.  I got this Random Family and all you struggling with those 60 page, rewritten 20 times, rejected 11 times, book proposals.

So and And:  Long live independent, long form, in-depth  journalism.  It’s not always about money, advertising,  getting paid.  Those guys and gals of IRE — not to be precious or high falutin because they’d hate that — are artists.  Even the guy much ridiculed for typing in pajamas and mom’s basement — I’m with him — it’s art and the First Amendment is not just a joke, lip service, welcome to the real world, yeah right free press dream on, get out of here you can’t come in here, you can’t see that — I believe  in it.  We stand at Cardinal games during the National Anthem and it’s not corny.   So I’m standing, taking my hats off and respecting and believing in our the First Amendment.

Heldman, uh me, on foreign TV; many are surprised; a few say it’s nothing

A TV station in Europe, yeah I’m going to to have to say Albania, says my name, says my name, says my- during the course of her broadcast and seems to make quite a big deal about a series of articles I wrote on a sort of organized crime. Kind of interesting to have happen to you – let’s hope she’s not slamming me and everything I stand for. She’s probably just doing her job,  Please watch it and act accordingly:


The Gambler: Down and out at the Raceway and everywhere else there’s Joker Poker,Jacks or Better, and an ATM (for all those who even for a minute felt they were gambling too much, or thought damn I could stay at this table forever… this one’s for you. Good Luck.

This is my old school writing, but some things never change and I knew this topic too well, too closely, so it’s worth revisiting.

Young un playing college dorm poker on-line; professional educator or medical technician who goes to AC once in a while but so so loves trying to win at those tables; the regular at that broken down harness track sliding card after card into the ATM because you can’t leave yet — you have to get your money back — it’s impossible to keep on losing on that machine, your luck has to change, it’ impossible to lose so many times in a row. The old folks saying over and over “it’s a night out, it’s just fun.”

I know, I watched you all many many years; many many times — I also got your ghost for a while. This is exactly what it feels like, what happens to you, who you become when you, some of you, play. I don’t boast too much and this isn’t even a boast really — I just know the head and the heart in the casino and at the betting parlour too well because I lived there for a long time; too comfortable and too curious.

So this, long and literary and the first paragraph filled with a little too much writerly showing off — this account about why and how we gamble when we gamble hard doesn’t get more definitive. Read it — if you’re a serious player or once were you’ll nod your head (guarantee: if this doesn’t happen, write me and I’ll write you a brand new essay on whatever you want, no charge).

So here you go,read about us as we really are or can be when you log on or slide that $20 into the machine and the thing lights up ready to play:

Caught between a war zone and a monastery; between the penitentiary yard and the Sound of Music

I’m a journalist and I once tweeted this:

“Wrote in my journ pad that every story that matters is worth living for+dying for beat my ass and I’ll just put it in the lede my shield law”

Now that sounds a bit like a loose cannon talking and I was actually told by a fellow journalist that an editor of mine once referred to me as a loose cannon. A magazine once profiled me and used the headline “The Risk Taker”   So just on the self reflection tip, I’m not really macho, I like show tunes and musicals, I’m pretty sensitive, I believe in all forms of welfare, charity, kindness, gentleness.  I hate bullies, wise-asses, sarcastic people, know it alls.  And I think listening to a person deeply is a really good quality.  My heroes are people like Dr. Oliver Sacks, my idea of demeanor to aspire to is Federal Judge Richard Howell of the Southern District Court in NY (Manhattan) in whose courtroom I covered a 3 week trial and stood for him eagerly and gladly when he entered and exited the room.  Also Andy Hardy’s judge father in those old films.  I can’t hit anybody in the face; I don’t like seeing people pranked or laugh when people slip and fall.  This train wreck business — that we’re supposed to be guilty pleasured into watching horrible displays on reality shows, that it’s compelling to watch people destroying themselves.  I can’t watch that, no desire to — I used to look away like crazy if a performer forgot his or her line in a play and I would be too embarrassed and hurt for them.

That said I’ve been wrestling and body punching, tackling, mixing it up, throwing people around, been thrown around on concrete, grass, barracks, jails — I love that contact.  Breaking up fights, I can’t not.  Cop chasing someone, I join in (true story, Southwest Yonkers, 1991 home of DMX and Mary J Blige, saw some guy running from the courthouse down the middle of a busy service road, two cops in pursuit, way behind, I started after him, we ran parallel for a while and then I grabbed him in the middle of the road, cars driving by, held him until the two cops arrived then threw him into their arms and they slammed him on the hood of a car (and I still got turned down for a NYPD press pass this year; c’mon DCPI).

I was also made a serial killer reporter for APB for two years and I covered a lot of crime, saw, heard, a lot of horrible things — but I can’t watch Nancy Grace or any of them, I don’t ever watch horror films.

I’m brave when I have to be because it’s easy — I become a different person, transported — if something is really wrong and bad and I’m in front of it, I get this righteous indignation spirit and I, I do anything, say anything, just confront it no matter how threatening or dangerous.  But give me some day to day — how to live, what people think of me, if I’m a good person, how to keep a job, talk the right way to the right people, job interviews, money issues, the possibility of boredom or shame, yeah that I’m not brave about — it’s scares me steadily, always.  Where do guys like me go when they want to live then, caught between a war zone and a monastery between the penitentiary yard and the Sound of Music.  I don’t — their is no home for that.  Journalism is the closest,  just watching and recording and telling other people’s lives and your life on the page — it’s what you have to do when you can’t live; you have to write.  It works.

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Press Release for Winners of Fund for Investigative Journalism Grants

I received one and am grateful and will work hard to do right by them.  Thank you FIJ board.

And yo, I should add because everyone, I mean everyone is telling me it’s so… (the Romanian waitress at the diner says “Albanians are crazy people, they kill people, they’re the most hot-blooded country there is, I wouldn’t go there, it’s chaos, like a jungle”), I should add: yo,  don’t hurt me when I’m running around Albania asking stupid or rough questions.  I’m just a journalist — we’re not all jerks. Though I know a lot are.  They don’t give a damn about their subjects and they let their editors do whatever they want with their copy and they say “what do we give a damn we’re not social workers” and they stick microphone in front of the faces of the just convicted and those who just lost a loved one.  I was taught that way too — in journalism school by my professor whose name is Ka– nah, let it go. I don’t do that kind of shit, and yes it is shit when it’s done like that.

So crooks and cops, don’t look at me as the enemy — I’m just writing what goes on so people know and we and they and you are not in the dark as much.


FIJ Awards Grants to Investigative Journalists

Thursday, October 6th, 2011

WASHINGTON – (October 6, 2011) The Board of Directors of the Fund for Investigative Journalism has awarded $40,000 in grants for nine independent investigative projects in the United States and overseas.

The grants cover travel and other reporting expenses for investigative stories that otherwise would not be told. Significant support from the Park Foundation, the Gannett Foundation, the Ethics and Excellence in Journalism Foundation, the Green Park Foundation, and generous donations from individuals made these grants possible.

This year so far, FIJ has awarded $118,000 to journalists working on 32 investigative reporting projects.

Journalists awarded grants in the most recent round are:

Idris Olalekan Akinbajo, investigative journalist from Nigeria

Ken Englade, non-fiction author specializing in trial coverage

Elizabeth Grossman, environmental science reporter

Lorie Hearn, Investigative Newsource

Kevin Heldman, New York-based crime and justice reporter

Chris Kromm, publisher, Southern Exposure

Paige McClanahan and Felicity Thompson, Sierra Leone-based reporters

Rocco Rorandelli, photojournalist with TerraProject, based in Italy and Catherine Segal, Paris-based journalist

Susan Southard, Arizona-based author

The topics of grantees’ investigations are confidential until completed. In addition to critical funding, grantees receive editorial guidance from mentors through a partnership with Investigative Reporters and Editors.

Recently completed projects include:

• Trevor Aaronson’s report, “The Informants,” published by Mother Jones, on sting operations conducted by the FBI in the War on Terror. Aaronson describes how FBI operatives use the threat of deportation to recruit informants, then use their informants to lure alleged terrorists into schemes where the means, the method, and the opportunity to commit acts of terror are cooked up by the FBI.

• An investigation by the Florida Center for Investigative Reporting into the misuse of federal stimulus funds in Florida schools. The nonprofit news center found that schools shored up their budgets, which were sagging due to the recession, rather than making school improvements as intended. Now that the recession is continuing to depress revenues from local taxing bodies, the schools will have to dig themselves out of even deeper financial holes and make drastic cuts.

• “Render Unto Rome,” a groundbreaking book by Jason Berry, who has investigated sexual abuse and now financial abuses within the Catholic Church over his long, distinguished career. Berry’s most recent book reveals how bishops use their power to close parishes and sell off property despite the wishes of parishioners — even in cases of parishes that were thriving financially. Church property is sold to bail out other parishes with expensive legal bills and court battles over allegations of sexual abuse. Berry was recently the subject of a profile in the Washington Post, which focused on the tension between his Catholic faith and his dogged reporting on the Church.

• An investigation for The Guardian of the use of child laborers to pick tobacco in Malawi. The children are paid extremely low wages and develop nicotine poisoning in the fields, inhaling fumes equivalent to smoking 30 cigarettes a day. Malawi’s economy is dependent on its tobacco production, with 70 percent of its exports coming from this industry. The country also has the highest incidence of child labor in southern Africa, with 90 percent of all underage children working on farms.

• The Chicago Reporter took an in-depth look at the minority contracting program in Illinois. It discovered that work that is supposed to be designated for companies owned by people with disabilities instead goes to sheltered workshops – which employ disabled people in supervised settings and pay less than minimum wage. They also found that the state isn’t meeting its own goals for minority contracts, and that for those minority contractors who get work, it doesn’t necessarily expand their business in any lasting way – the ultimate goal of this set-aside program.

The Fund for Investigative Journalism is an independent, non-profit organization that has supported hundreds of public service reporting projects since 1969, when it provided funding for Seymour Hersh to investigate and expose the massacre of Vietnamese civilians by American soldiers in My Lai. His stories won the Pulitzer Prize.

Read more about FIJ-supported projects and instructions for grant applications at http://www.fij.org. The next deadline to submit proposals is Tuesday, November 1. Journalists with questions about the application process are encouraged to contact executive director Sandy Bergo by phone, 202-391-0206, or email, fundfij@gmail.com.

Going to Albania/the Balkans to report, seriously, on transnational organized crime; can I get a hand fellas

I spent over a year reporting and publishing on this topic. I applied for a grant (it was quite a package we were required to put together) and I just found out I received it.  It was from a very decent journalism foundation willing to support my trip and reporting.  I fly out of Newark airport on Nov. 9.

I’m happy as hell and grateful.  It’s an important story with a lot of national security implications.  It’s also a hard story to do.  To do right that is, not just some soft feature, get a few quotes, talk to a retired Interpol cat and some experts in the field.

I want to get the hell deep inside and tell the truth of their story, all of them, the cops and the robbers, the mothers, the gun slingers, the analysts, the guards, the beat up mob friend, the in charge shot caller, the hapless detective, the cop or prosecutor who works 14 hour days and is nailing this thing and no one really knows (I mean, damn, nobody ever knows about Albania here in the States) — no judgements — just a true story for posterity, history, so it will be documented, real.

Yeah, so a little help — you journos, sources, cops, feds, marshalls, friends from the old days, criminologists, bag men, young muscle, retired big shots — tell me what’s up.  I’ll do it right.  You know my e-mail kevinjayheldman[at]yahoo.com

I’ll give you my damn phone number if it’ll help — 347 – 351, the rest is easy to find.  Tell me if you have something real.  I know this unorthodox but I don’t work for the Times or the New Yorker (I would though, Dave and Susan/Sam/Punch whoever hires there; but I’m not good punching a clock to be honest).  I’m grass roots, renting cars, borrowing money, hitting up old friend skip tracers for database help, hustling on my own so…I’m asking.  No shame — it’s an important story — I’m going to do it anyway.  A little help though fella’s.

Thanks, Kevin Heldman (check my credentials, I’m a pretty good reporter; I try to do decent work).  It’s hard out here for an investigative journalist who likes to get a little literary and doesn’t want to be Dateline, wait till everything is over and then get the nice little story with a bow.

What it feels like to be heard and why journalism shouldn’t die

There is a man named Samuel Rubenfeld, he covers corruption for The Wall Street Journal.  This series I wrote on Albanian crime, I worked to the point of exhaustion on it, I probably embarrassed myself a number of times begging and haggling for information.  I thought it was important so I hawked it, hustled it, marketed it like a, like a bad merchant.  And this Samuel Rubenfeld, he took to Pro Publica’s new website and wrote this:
srubenfeld This series on the Albanian mob is truly one of the greatest things I’ve read all year http://bit.ly/p6mxbL via @capitalnewyork #muckreadsa day ago by Samuel Rubenfeld, Reporter, Corruption Currents, Wall Street Journal

That’s a damn nice thing of him to say. Not ego or publicity going on for me really, just that I got to do something good and that there are people out there, better people than me, who will read this, what I wrote and think that I did something worthwhile, correct, useful.  I can hold my head up for a little while, that means a lot. Because heads, they go down so quickly and easily when you’re a journalist (I remember when Pete Hamill was kissed by Abe Hirschfeld and Pete said so.  Does anyone else remember this, where my ### people at).
So thank you reporter Sam Rubenfeld,  good looking out, hopefully someday I can return the favor. May we both continue to have the opportunity to do good work.

The nice guy mob sidekick who just wanted to hang out with the fellas – kidnapped, interrogated, beaten, guns to his head, flipped and wired by the government, facing federal prison. He’s employee of the month every month, the guy just wants to go home. Some things are damn sad.


Data based journalism vs. human interest based journalism — the most melodramatic tortured analysis possible while still being a click from valid, or something – what Fiona does it

I would’ve been a digital journalist or a data journalist, or a developer, I would’ve been always working on new platforms, or on open sources, or on programing different elements so they were connected, interactive, logical and transportive, I would’ve found new ways to tell stories but I was born, then I went to playgrounds and school lunch rooms, then I kissed someone, got hit in the face by someone else, applied for a lot of jobs, was in a hospital, was shocked and didn’t believe that somebody didn’t like me, that somebody else hated me, that somebody else lo…, got my self hacked and abused on you tube by some psychotic regular joe, found out Dylan was kind of dick and liked to fug with people, sat around in the 80s watching the Drummonds and thought am I crazy, they must be crazy, but all of them, no it must be me, then I found these pills and thought what!, why doesn’t everyone take these all the time, then later, oh, that’s why, then realized I had to slug through 85 years of this, so for journalism I just do really in-depth immersion/martyr/crash test dummy investigative mission like stories and I stay there —  got the heck out of that whole life business.

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