Coney Island looms large in the American mind—a place of cotton candy and Nathan’s franks, of ferris wheels and roller coasters, of crowded beaches, sideshows and carnivals. However, millions of Americans have never been to Coney and probably couldn’t find it on a map.

Each year, the conference donates books to schools or libraries to encourage reading and research about the legacy of the Negro Leagues, raises funds to purchase headstones for unmarked graves of players and awards $2500 college scholarships in an essay writing competition.

The casual use of marijuana is becoming increasingly accepted, or at least tolerated, in the United States. According to The San Francisco Chronicle, 100 million Americans have used weed, with 15 million smoking in the last month and two million more people trying it each year. According to The New York Times, citing Harvard economist Jeffrey Miron, Americans spend about $25 billion a year on weed. Medical marijuana has created what amounts to the legalization of weed in 14 states so far, including California. Fortune magazine calls it “the greening of America.”

Any real fan of professional baseball can tell you a little bit about the late, great African-American pitcher Satchel Paige, born in Mobile in 1906. Maybe they’ve read about his first game as a rookie with the all-black Chattanooga White Sox in 1926, when the wild young pitcher impressed everyone with his velocity but also hit virtually every player on the opposing team. Perhaps they know that Paige, after years in the Negro Leagues—including a stint with the Birmingham Black Barons—got his shot in the majors with the Cleveland Indians in 1948 at the age of 42 and managed to finish the year with the second-best ERA in the American League.

Yeah, it’s time for another exciting “letter from the editor.” The only other one I’ve written was printed in March, in my first paper as managing editor. This is my final paper as managing editor, so—once again—it’s time to say… something. It’s 9:45 a.m. on Wednesday, deadline day. I have about 45 minutes to write this piece. That’s it. Of course, I’ve already written the damned thing in my head a hundred times. It feels as though this piece should be a summing up, but of more than just my exhausting, emotionally rich few months as editor of this newspaper. It’s more a summing up of 53 years of trying to prove myself, of trying to be a good soldier.

It’s my last day as managing editor, so I decided to write whatever the hell I want. The following proposals, I believe, could dramatically improve this city of my birth, this city that I love (and hate… natives will understand my schizophrenia). Some of the proposals are wackier than others. Some are not at all original. But if you want to see Vulcan alive again, you’ll do what I say.

Little Red Rooster. Lady Jane. Don’t Fade Away. As Tears Go By. Paint It Black. Ruby Tuesday. Play With Fire. Sympathy For the Devil. You’ve heard these Rolling Stones hits a gazillion times but pr

Human trafficking—keeping other human beings in bondage for sex or labor—is an international problem. Nearly 27 million people worldwide, including poor people, immigrants, and abandoned wives and chi

I’ve never been a fan of professional wrestling (excuse me, “wrasslin”), despite its huge commercial popularity, and despite the fact that it's one of the most enduring forms of American pop performan

"When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro . . ."—Hunter S. Thompson Allow me to introduce myself. I am the new managing editor of this newspaper, replacing Glenny Brock. Many of you have talke