1969. Seventh grade. School trip to an amusement park. While sitting with a friend in a shaded and secluded spot, I was surrounded by 5 or 6 kids who demanded our ride tickets. When I stood to my 6-foot-2-inch frame and invited them to try and take my tickets, they decided to pick on someone else.
1975. A high-school football linebacker decided to test the band major in the boys’ locker room. Football linebacker had a sore nose. Band major was unscathed.
A patient, we’ll call him John, called my office several years ago, frantic over the behavior of his son Aaron. “My son thinks there are helicopters circling our home, following his movements,” he said.
At my office the next day, dad was frantic. Aaron, who appeared disheveled and preoccupied, presented his experiences in a matter-of-fact style. He was certain some authority had singled him out to be placed under surveillance. He had no insight into the psychotic nature of his thinking.
Once upon a time, nurses were not allowed to take blood pressure – only the doctor could do that. Times change.
But they haven’t changed enough. For 19 years, nurse practitioners in Florida have tried to get the right to practice to the full extent of our education and capability, which includes prescribing scheduled substances. So far, our efforts have been fruitless.
Three years ago, a group of friends and I started to dream up what a lot of people considered impossible: a festival that would bring poetry to all 2.6 million residents of greater Miami.
At that time, Miami’s cultural scene was exploding. Art Basel was in full force, and we wanted to do a festival that was the opposite of the “pipe-and-blazer” readings that most people associate with poetry. We wanted to do a festival that reflected Miami’s diversity and personality.
Absentee ballots. Polling centers open for days on end. Early voting. All of these are ways in which Americans can vote for their nation’s elections. So they might be shocked to hear me tell them that 19,542 Venezuelans living in the United States have to go through a much more grueling process to be able to do the same thing they can do rather easily.
Barrel-chested Leo Thalassites squints like Clint Eastwood, hops around like Jackie Chan and has been an active cop for nearly six decades. He is 86 years old.
He first joined the Miami-Dade Police Department in 1956. He moved to the Hialeah Police Department in 1963, where he has been on active duty ever since. And now, according to the International Police Association, he is the oldest active police officer.
On a mostly sun drenched South Florida day, about 900 former Miami Herald employees—myself included-- joined the current staff on Wednesday to reminisce, cry, and mourn the loss of the once proud building by the bay that will soon become a hotel/condo and possible mega casino now planned for the old property.
The Miami Herald isn’t going away. The newspaper operations, along with news partner WLRN, will move out to Doral in April.
On June 22, 2004 I was shot point blank with a .45-caliber gun as I entered a subway station in Astoria Queens. The bullet entered my back and rattled around, destroying my hip. It had just enough inertia to come to a stop after puncturing the femoral artery. Nobody was ever prosecuted for my shooting. Meanwhile, I suffered for six years before being diagnosed with post traumatic stress disorder.
The Florida Public Records Act, also known as F.S. 119, is straightforward: All state, county and municipal records are open for personal inspection and copying by any person. And it is the duty of each agency to provide you with access to public records.
As I lean my motorcycle into the curve that takes me onto I-95, I roll the throttle to accelerate up to highway speeds. Up ahead I see a car going well below the minimum speed of 45 mph, with the left turn signal on but swerving to the right. I give this big unknown a wide berth, and as I pass, I see the person gabbing it up on a cell phone.
Perhaps you’ve seen the phrase “Live to Ride—Ride to Live” on a T-shirt or bumper sticker somewhere. It has been on my belt buckle for about 30 years. Motorcycling has been a passion of mine pretty much from the day I got my driver’s license. The activity of being in the wind, leaning into corners, the sight of a bike, and the very simplistic nature of the machine, all bring joy.