Bury My Heart at the DMV

The pandemic is a terrible thing. But it is the best thing to ever happen to the Department of Motor Vehicles. At least from the perspective of this resident of the District of Columbia, that is. Hear me out.  

We have all been there, or heard what it is like to be there. Abhorring the DMV and its Kafkaesque procedures is practically an American tradition. Growing up, I recall family members speaking of a trip to the DMV in absolutely funereal tones. Loved ones would hug and kiss the departing soul, uncertain of when or if they would return. The goodbyes would then echo throughout the silent household with bleak anxiety only comparable, I am sure, to that of families ravaged by military draft orders.

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Is This the Fyre Fest of Bikes?

Superstrata and the moral hazard of crowdfunding. 

I have returned to the cycling world like a chicken coming home to roost, one of thousands to flock to the sport as a result of ongoing COVID-19 concerns and gym closures. This passion of my youth went on pause when I went to college and entered the workforce, but now it’s back in full force. Cue the pablum about never forgetting how to ride a bike. That tired saying is true, though, and the childlike joy that comes from a late afternoon ride down an unfamiliar trail approaches the realm of the sacred when so many of our usual sources of happiness are off limits. 

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Negative Space

Considerations on Banishing the Corporate Lobby 

It takes a certain type of person to walk into a space and get … mad at it. This distinction is usually left to persnickety architects, interior designers, decorators, and Kate Wagner. Spend enough time around these types, and soon you too will find yourself fuming at the inanimate, exhaling audibly as if your life partner personally slighted you in conversation. We speak of the language of architecture, after all. 

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Hug the Tree; Shoot the Messenger

Environmentalism and the pitfalls of doomsday rhetoric

Spring in Washington is a beautiful book. So much so that it sounds positively hokey to the modern ear. Today’s reader might be challenged to sit-straight faced through passages like this, about the sheer glory of the cherry blossoms’ annual performance in the capital’s Tidal Basin: 

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