All are welcome aboard

There’s a train station down the hill from my house. My wife used to take the train to work from there when she worked in Boston, and I’d pick her up at night, but now that she works closer to home, she drives.

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Heather and her friends need to stop calling

I recently had a problem with the my Sports Illustrated subscription for my iPad, if you define “not being able to read it” as a problem.

Time begins today

Let the games begin!

Today is the first of 162 games that will take us from spring trying desperately to make itself known (at least here in the Northeast) through the summer and deep into the fall.

Extreme dishwashing

The time it must have taken to figure this out is probably more than I’ve ever spent on how to do anything.

(Of course, if you read his wife’s replies to the thread, she appears somewhat less than impressed.)

Count me in on the poetry parodies

This Facebook-as-William-Carlos-Williams poem was so good, I felt compelled to read the writer’s analysis of the Alberta budget that came afterward.

Facebook sucks, except when it doesn’t

Facebook is pretty horrible.

If it’s not an algorithm that makes you wonder if you’re seeing everything your friends post, even if you’re like me and click on “most recent” when you go on the page, it’s getting dragged into political disputes even though you try really, really hard not to. (“Just block him,” my wife said. “Then you won’t see his comments,” she said.)

Childhood bowling memories

Until I saw the news today that the PBA Tour was moving to Fox in 2019, I can’t tell you the last time I thought about bowling on TV.

Oh, but it wasn’t always that way.

You want to debate dominance? Fine, let’s do it

Several years ago, my mother proclaimed that she wasn’t going to watch NASCAR anymore because “Jimmie Johnson won all the time.”

This, as I tried to point out to her, from a woman who was a fan of Jeff Gordon.

Please, just look both ways

”Crosswalks are making us soft.”

No, I promise I haven’t gone fully old-man-yelling-at-cloud, equating crosswalks with smartphones, any concern about NFL players maiming themselves for our entertainment or whatever else is causing the ruination of our society. (And participation trophies, always participation trophies.)

That tweet did not mean what someone thought it meant

You never know what it’s going to be when the little bell with a blue number at the bottom of Twitter has in store.

It could be a new follower. It could be someone liking or retweeting what you wrote. It could be a comment on how brilliant you are, or how stupid you are.