In the District: A game

We’re actually home from Washington, D.C., but I had some more thoughts to share, so there will be a couple more posts.

Our hotel in Washington, D.C., the Omni Shoreham, has seen some things.

Rudy Vallee played the grand opening. The Beatles and Sinatra have been there. Bill Clinton had an inaugural ball there.

And baseball teams in town to play the Senators used to stay there. Right in the front window, along with other notes to the hotel’s past, is the story of the Yankees throwing Joe DiMaggio a surprise party there to celebrate his 56-game hitting streak.

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Forgotten history

I got my Facebook page back the other day.

No one had hacked it, but apparently Facebook was afraid someone would, so it wanted me to use two-factor authentication to have access to it, and after I resisted for a couple days I let it send me a text and now it’s fine.

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What you see, is what they could get

There was a certain unintentional hilarity about Urban Meyer’s book being in the humor section of the bookstore, being it’s a tome on “leadership” from a football coach.

Of course, it would have been even funnier if this same “leader” hadn’t been accused of covering up for an abusive assistant, engaging in certain activities in a bar with a woman who is not his wife or kicking his players.

After all, there’s gross humor, but there also stuff that’s just gross.

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Age is … whatever number it is

I’ve long pondered the implications of age, but especially turning 50, even months before it actually happened.

My primary insight remains the same — that I don’t know what 50 feels like because I don’t know what 50 is supposed to feel like — but to be honest, the whole thing is probably a fool’s errand, anyway.

After all, it’s mostly because we have a thing for ages divisible by 10, and to a lesser degree five, but when that first number is a five … now, we’re talking.

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Pieces for me

It’s not a “secret spot,” not even “my spot.”

Given that it’s a footbridge between a public parking lot and the town’s shopping district, I’m sure the town mothers and fathers would be very distressed if it was either of those things.

But what it is, is “a spot.”

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Maggie Rogers and the power of joy


Of course we were. How could we not? It was Friday, for starters, but as bonus, we were going to see Maggie Rogers in Boston that night.

But we adopted the mantra of impending “FUN!” to get past worrying about getting through the workday and the thought of our 50-something selves standing for a couple hours in a hot club with the better part of 3,000 people who could be our children.

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Breaking down

Getting dressed to go to the gym, I grabbed a pair of shorts out of the drawer.

They were thick, gray sturdy athletic shorts that I’ve had forever … and I looked down to notice they had holes in a place you don’t want to have holes.

So much for those shorts. They certainly didn’t owe me anything.

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