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THE ESCAPIST

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THE ESCAPIST

In light of the shit show in the Oval Office the other day, the historian in me is tempted to write at length about Ronald Reagan rolling over in his grave. But that line is as close as I'll come. Instead, I'm watching Black Labrador reels on Insta, among them a very cute story about a dog who looks very much like my Sadie on her way to Starbucks for a pup cup. Just can't get enough of Black Labs. The algorithm knows this. I get constant Springsteen and Lab reels as I scroll, which lifts my spirits in these uncertain times.

Yes, it's escapist.

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RETIREMENT

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RETIREMENT

Track season started yesterday. The weather was glorious, the sort of sunshine-y, not-too-hot-not-cold day that reminded me why I love living in Southern California. Mother Saddleback loomed in the distant background as runners circled the track in their new singlets and shorts. The race announcer backed out at the last minute so I was on the mic. This put me in the position of amiable commentator, calling out each race and its contestants while also turning off the sound so I could coach my runners as they passed. Tacos and Co. sold burritos for lunch, which meant that I bought mine at 10:15 to beat the rush. Carnitas with spicy red sauce.

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BIG APPLE

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BIG APPLE

I've been to New York dozens of times so I don't feel like I'm a tourist. But I don't actually live in New York so that means I am. That in mind, I did my own version of the tourist experience the past four days as I wandered the city.

I was in town for a number of very good reasons: lunch with my agent, speech at the Harvard Club, USATF Foundation Board meeting, Millrose Games track meet, and an after-party. There was a lot of downtime built in so I made this a vacation of sorts….

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SATURDAY

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SATURDAY

This author life is a wonderful thing, equal parts strangers writing to tell me how much they enjoy Taking London and others emailing to say their hands are shaking in rage about something I wrote in Confronting the Presidents and they'll never read a word of mine again. I listen intently to the nice words and reply with a thank you. The haters get nothing, not even the nasty response they're praying to re-post on X to show my spiteful nature.

What can I say? The check cashed just fine. My job is to be the best I can be. Working someone into a hot lather is far preferable to people not caring at all.

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MILEAGE RUN

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MILEAGE RUN

As Herbert Viola tells Tom Cruise in Risky Business, sometimes you just have to say "WTF."

I'm abbreviating, but you know what I mean. So it is that I took my longtime friend Chris Teske up on a mileage run to Honolulu He's trying to add to his already formidable number of lifetime United miles. I had a little Taking Midway research to follow up on before 2nd Pass hits my inbox.

The journey goes something like this: buy the cheapest possible economy ticket from Orange County to Honolulu. Work the upgrade. Fly to Hawaii. Spend eight hours enjoying the sights and smells of a tropical paradise. Watch the sunset. Fly home. Total elapsed time: 27 hours.

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PLAY IT LOUD

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PLAY IT LOUD

Never underestimate the value of loud music.

My stereo system went down a couple years ago. I didn't know where to go to get it fixed. So my turntable and receivers and speakers sat silent in a corner of my office below the framed Bruce Springsteen "Night for the Vietnam Veteran" poster. My vinyl collection on the bottom shelf of the bookcase remained unplayed. I went in and out of my office each day, consumed by one creative writing demand or another, until I slowly forgot I'd ever ended my work day with Side One of something extremely loud with lyrics that touched my soul.

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STARTING OVER

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STARTING OVER

I texted a friend in the middle of the fires last week. Checking in to see if everything was ok. That's something of a courtesy around here. We're all subject to wildfires, with the Santa Ana winds, smoke-filled skies, and the nuisance ash that covers cars and windshields. I live in the shadow of Saddleback Mountain, which was denuded by flames back in September. The vegetation is completely gone. Ever since, all that bare soil gets whipped up when the Santa Anas blow, dropping a fine layer of grit on my backyard. I've power washed it and bought a big industrial broom to sweep it all up, but no sooner do I clean it all up than a new layer of wind deposits more silt. It's maddening.

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POD

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POD

I'm starting a podcast. It's time. Bloomberg is reporting this morning that "the business of history is booming," which is a far cry from a recent comment by a prominent publisher that "non-fiction is dead." It's also been noted that academic history is being replaced by a trend towards popular history, in which I may have played a small role. Now it's time to capitalize. Cool but scary.