I always love it when a small paper wins. When I was growing up in the Bronx, the editor of the Riverdale Press - a neighborhood rag - kept submitting his columns for a Pulitzer. We laughed and laughed at his ego. He finally won.

Donald Trump is a boor, and cannot stop being a boor.

Donald Trump is an awful loser.

An editorial writer might consult a reporter to see what she thinks, if it is what she covers. But they are entirely independent.

It is hard to quantify the value of name recognition, but Donald Trump has gone from fame to international mega-fame. That has to be gargantuan when your business is your name.

Ever since roughly 1890, when snot poets first decided that rhyme was confining and unnecessary, every idiot with a pen fancied hisself a poet. The mere act of rhyming was suddenly regarded as a quaint, mannered, and uncool atavism, consigning doggerelists like me to the trash bin of literary history.

I am not saying Rubin Carter was guilty. I am saying he was very likely guilty.