Writings

The Lessons of Lindsay

“I read somewhere on the Internet about these nine stages of grief. And I thought to myself, ‘I didn't have any of those.' But the more I thought about it, the more I realized I had all of them. Just not in the right order."

The Spies Next Door

In my North Arlington subdivision, it’s more of a question of who isn’t retired CIA. I mean, I'm not. I can’t even figure out how to unlock my car at six in the morning without it making two beeps loud enough to wake the whole block.

Remains of the Day

With so much attention these days placed upon the wedding day itself as the be-all, end-all of a relationship (instead of, say, step one, which it actually is), I decided to take a look back at some former clients. My piece for Washingtonian, now the most downloaded in the magazine's history, can be found here.

Fathers Know Best

Thank you, thank you very much. It’s a great honor to be here tonight. My fellow Americans, I stand here a proud but humbled public servant, ready to face the challenges and issues that weigh so heavily on this great land and ever mindful of the sage words of my hardworking father: “People drive like maniacs in parking lots.”

Ground Control to Major Matt

For the last twenty-five years, from the time I landed my first job out of college in 1986, the year Challenger went go at throttle up and then went no more, a small, bendable astronaut named Major Matt Mason has been perched atop my display.

Door Number One

We had just returned from a dusk climb up Solsbury Hill, that grassy lump of Peter Gabriel fame outside the ancient city of Bath, the song whose bum-bum-bum-balm-bomb-bum-balm-be-dum-bum always seems to pop into one’s brain at the oddest moments, when I heard the news about the Berlin Wall falling.

Postcard from an Analog Youth

When I think back on all the crap I learned in high school, to steal a line from a Paul Simon song playing nonstop in the wake of Kodak’s bankruptcy filing, I’m always transported to the same place—Long Island, 1975, inside a large darkroom.

Diary of a Wimpy Dad

“Daddy, can you win me a Domo?” In her six years on this earth, the word Domo had never before left my daughter’s lips, not once, not ever, but that’s the nature of the beast. Silly Bandz and Uglydolls yesterday, Domos today, yet-uninvented fad tomorrow.

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