I would like to dunk on Tom Hanks.
I would like to dunk on Tom Hanks.
My neighbor’s name is either Alex or Nick. I’m absolutely 50-50 on being sure which one it is. He’s lived across the hall from me for more than a year, which means we are wayyyyyyyy past the point where I can ask. And yes, he is 100 percent sure of my name because he always says it when we say hi in passing.
Among the stack of unread books I forced myself to get through this year was Tom Wolfe’s “Bonfire of the Vanities.”
Repeated family names can be fun and meaningful and hold lots of tradition. They can honor someone from the past or the present. They can represent a consistent thread in a line of people. They can also be a complete nightmare in a book.
I don’t know why my brother insisted on meeting in the park. It’s not a nice day. It’s not a nice park. He’s rarely nice to me.
Working overnights includes the quirk that when you get up from your desk, you’re extremely unlikely to run into another person when you walk to the water cooler, the kitchen, vending machine or bathroom. There just aren’t enough people to make those chance encounters happen.
“I’m going to be a cute alien.”
“But you’re not an alien?”
“When I go into space I will be though.”
“I don’t think that’s how it works.”
I’ve been to 164 games at Nationals Park. Some of the first 163 were crazy in all sorts of ways that sports are crazy. None were anything like last night.
Melissa reassured her son that despite striking out for the fifth time at seven stores in three days, she was confident they would eventually secure a Mr. CanDog toy.
In July, I felt great running a 7:32 pace 5K. Then I hurt my wrist playing softball, spent three weeks doing basically no physical activity while it healed and finished the month feeling slow and lazy. And that was a great thing.
