A couple weeks ago, I was walking through Reservoir Hill en route to the light rail station. I was on my way to BWI to catch a flight to Michigan where I would join Miriam, the kids and my in-laws for a much-needed vacation. It was a hot day (what else is new?). I was wearing shorts and a t-shirt and schlepping my roller-bag and Martin “Back-Packer” guitar down an old cobblestone alley near my house. A middle-aged African-American woman, well dressed and driving a shiny black sedan, pulled up along side and rolled down her window. “You know, you should be careful in this neighborhood,” she warned. I paused for a moment and then replied, “I live in this neighborhood.” “Oh, okay,” she said clearly surprised. And then she drove off. A new book by Eli Pariser, president… read more
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The Anti-Filter Bubble
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