Thirty years ago today, the shuttle crashed. Something else happened that day.
I was a reporter at a small daily in upstate New York and our publisher got arrested. He was found filming a porn scene with him, his best friend and the general manager of the local radio station all enjoying one of the local ladies of the evening. Drugs were confiscated from the scene, the police told us.
He refused to let us publish anything about it, which was demoralizing. He also had so much dirt on the local police force that by the time he was finished, the only charge against him was solicitation, a misdemeanor.
He eventually inherited the newspaper, sold it, squandered his money, woke up, changed his life around and ended up selling shoes.