The aging bosses seated at the defense table in the packed federal courtroom in lower Manhattan look harmless enough to be spectators at a Sunday-after noon boccie game.
In 1985, when the first rumblings of Gorbachev’s thunder disturbed the moldy Soviet silence, the holy fools on the street–the people who always gather at flea markets and around churches–predicted that the new Czar would rule seven years. They assured anyone interested in listening that Gorbachev was “foretold in the Bible,” that he was an apocalyptic figure: he had a mark on his forehead
William Basie: 1904-1984The rotund man with the barrel chest and impeccable mustache would sit down at the piano, pop his fingers a couple of times to get the rhythm just right and, boom, his band would take off. Reeds and brasses would blast out in an ensemble sharp enough to shave with, trombones explosively punctuating the seductive murmurs of the saxophones
Immigrant rights activists are calling on U.S.