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Hit It Here

One of the greatest hitters of all time and a true hero besides, Ted Williams played for the Boston Red Sox for 19 years.

I never watched a Home Run Derby before last year. I had always thought, what’s the point? If there’s no game on the line, it all seemed kind of, I don’t know, silly.

How silly of me.

As a relative newcomer to the world of baseball, I still have a lot to learn about the strangely addictive game. I can’t pretend to know much about it really. But I have come to my own way of thinking about baseball, and it goes like this: Baseball is like art, in that you don’t have to understand it to know what you like when you see it.

Which brings me to article two in the playbook: Breathes there a soul so dead who doesn’t like to see a well-struck home run?

I think not. There’s something in that sound, the solid crack of the bat and the collective gasp of the crowd that triggers a Pavlovian surge of satisfaction. No matter who is batting. We all admire a heavy hitter. Even if some of them aren’t all that admirable outside the ball park.

There are plenty of skillful hitters who manage to scrabble hits out of lousy pitches. There are patient batters who can wear pitchers down, fouling off the junk until they get something they can drive. There are bunters and choppers and steady swingers who somehow always wind up on base. But the hitters who light up the nights and take us right out of our seats are the home run hitters.

I defy anyone to watch Giancarlo Stanton launch one into the sky and not feel something akin to awe.

The Major League Baseball Home Run Derby has been going on since 1985. Before that the American League and the National League each held their own championships. The Derby brought the two leagues together to crown one overall batting champ. This year they changed the format, supposedly to make it more interesting or something. When something’s not broken some people seem driven to add features to “improve” it. I could go off on a computer tangent here, but seriously, I watch baseball to get away from that stuff.

And so what if the Home Run Derby has devolved into a corny pageant of childish delight? So what if marketing strategies and team politics sully the purity of the contest? It all comes down to a guy standing at the plate with a bat and another guy throwing the ball toward him, and thousands of fans enjoying the moments.

A home run arching into the upper decks perfectly symbolizes the trajectory of all hope. Time slips loose from its clockwork and slows as we watch a ball sailing into the sky, where all dreams fly, never to come down, and for a brief transcendent moment we become one nation, soaring on a home run hit out of the park.

Why Not A Duck?

My brother Jeff watched the baby ducks enjoy our backyard stream. — My brother Jeff watched the ducks enjoy our backyard stream.

Audiences are trained to expect comedy from ducks.

Consider Donald. Also Daffy. And, of course, the Marx Brothers, who, while not ducks themselves, knew the value of a good duck joke.

So perhaps it’s understandable that when writer/director Nicole Bettauer’s 2005 independent film Duck was released some people were dismayed by the serious issues and quiet tragedy embedded in the plot. Some internet ranters apparently felt that they’d been swindled, sold a false bill of goods. And in their defense, it must be said that the movie’s original tagline: “Think outside the flock,” is a bit enigmatic.

I was instantly intrigued when I first learned of the film. I put it in our Netflix queue last year. And there it sat, for months, constantly bumped lower by some shiny new release, or “important” film that had to be seen.

But last weekend “Duck” finally waddled out of the queue and into my heart. That’s right naysayers. I liked it.

Yes, it made me cry. But it also made me feel somehow hopeful in spite of everything. And if you’ve been reading your newspapers and feeding at the online Trough of Doom, you know that only lottery ticket buyers and reality show contestants really know how to hope.

The film stars longtime character actor Philip Baker Hall as Arthur Pratt, a widowed man in Los Angeles who has lost everything while caring for his dying wife. At the start of the film he is planning to end his life.

So then, the moment duck fans have been waiting for: an orphaned baby duck comes into the picture and takes an immediate shine to Arthur. In some other film, this could have evolved into a sort of Up parable about destiny, making the most of every minute, blah, blah, blah. (Don’t get me wrong. Up is great. But apples and oranges.) What transpires in Duck is more of a mystic journey through the loveless underbelly of a dying city. Yay! Dystopia! It’s all the rage.

As a suddenly homeless person, with a duck, Arthur has to find a way to survive in a society that views him as a quack. I won’t spoil it for anyone who might want to see Duck, but I have to say, there are some surprises. There are lots of movies about boys with dogs, girls with horses, even musicians with cats. There aren’t a lot buddy movies with a duck as the co-star.

It’s possible I was drawn to this film because in the first years of my life we had ducks at the house where I was born in Erie. A small stream with a little bridge over it ran through the backyard. My dad bought a bunch of baby ducks that lived for a while in a pen until they got big enough to paddle in the stream. I don’t know what happened to them after we moved away. I’d like to think their offspring are still swimming around in Lake Erie, unless they’ve relocated to L.A. to work as extras on Duck Two: The Punchline.

Baby ducks just naturally go with the flow.

Summer in the City

Claude Jones played for free under the stars at Fort Reno Park in 1970. — Claude Jones played real good for free at Fort Reno Park in 1970.

Everybody sing: “Back of my neck gettin’ hot and gritty.”

In 1966, whether you lived on a farm or in a penthouse, chances are you heard that Lovin Spoonful hit floating on the breeze. It was everywhere for a few weeks that summer while it rose to number one on popular music charts.

With its catchy rhythm track that included the sound of car horns and even a jackhammer, the song evoked the kind of pressure cooker atmosphere that makes living in a major city such an adrenaline boost. You either love it or you don’t.

I did. Having been raised in the suburbs, I couldn’t wait to make my home in a city. In the summer of ’68, I lived in Washington, D.C..

The District is always full of energy and passionate people espousing causes. That summer was unique. The city was recovering from the riots that tore through downtown in the spring. Anti-war sentiment mixed with a surge of frustration and anger after the murder of Martin Luther King had left many people feeling hopeless and bitter.

But life goes on. And when we have a choice of either working to make things better or tearing down the whole country, I’d like to think our better natures will prevail. They did in 1968. People regrouped, rebuilt, and continued the process of trying to make things better for everyone.

One of the small steps taken in that summer of 1968 was the beginning of the summer in the parks free music concerts at Fort Reno Park in the Tenleytown neighborhood. Tenleytown was fairly low-key back then. There was no Whole Foods, no metro stop, and Wilson High School was relatively small.

The stage was nestled under some trees next to a basketball court. The concerts were casual and eclectic. I have fond memories of those first few summers in the city.

The city has changed a lot since then, but I was happy to see that the Fort Reno concerts are still going strong. Stronger than ever in some ways. The stage has been moved to an open field, and the crowds are much bigger. In fact, the scene has become so popular that this week there was talk on the news about shutting it down because the Park Service wanted organizers to provide paid security staff. As there is no budget for this, there was concern that it would be the end of an era. At present, it looks like the crisis has been averted, and I, for one, am glad.

Summer in the city, any city, is a special time. When large numbers of people live in close proximity to each other, their chances to interact are influenced by the architecture of the city in which they live. Unlike New York City, D.C. has no Central Park. Our riverfront is a work in progress. But our parks are vibrant and plentiful and full of life in the summer. The chance to enjoy free music together is an essential element of our shared environment.

Another song that got a lot of airplay in the late sixties was “Get Together.” Written by Chet Powers in 1964, it became a hit after The Youngbloods released their version in 1967. The lyrics might strike modern ears as too earnest and sappy, but the message still resonates, even for today’s bright young millennials with their cute chapeaux and sustainably sourced optimism.

Come on people now
Smile on your brother
Everybody get together
Try to love one another right now.

You need a lot more than love, of course. You need affordable housing, a decent job, access to health care — subjects too weighty for popular music. But lightweight as it may be, the songs of summer help lift the mood when the going gets sweaty.

It’s July. Let’s get together and celebrate the music of warm summer nights.

The Sky Is Falling

Twinkle, twinkle little drone, why won't you leave me alone? — Twinkle, twinkle little drone, why won’t you leave me alone?

I want an Iron Man suit.

I think a full-body indestructible metal suit is a must-have for the modern wardrobe.

True, it may clank a bit, and the weight may slow you down when you’re fleeing zombies. But then again, clad in your iron suit you’ll have no need to flee. Also on the plus side, when the drone with your name on it falls from the sky, you’ll be able to walk away from the scene of the crash with a smile on your lips and a song in your heart.

Ah, I know what you’re thinking. You’re paranoid, Con.

Well, yes, this is no doubt true. But, also true, the fact is that hundreds of these unmanned aircraft fall from the sky each year, as was reported in a sobering, yet strangely entertaining, article that ran in The Washington Post recently. Spoiler alert: they don’t all crash harmlessly into the ocean.

Like many an optimist, I would like to believe that the people in charge know what they’re doing and that scientists will eventually solve all our problems, etc., etc. Of course, the flaw with this hope is that the people in charge and the scientists are, for the most part, human, and as flawed as the rest of us. Which goes a long way toward explaining why it might not be a bad idea to plan for the unexpected, yet somehow inevitable, arrival of a drone in your backyard, or perhaps on your car.

And that’s when you’ll be so glad you took out the third mortgage and got the Iron Man suit.

Realistically? Not going to happen. Out of my price range. So what’s a Chicken Little to do?

Well, as is often the case, I take comfort in fiction, and science, sometimes simultaneously. While others endorse the soothing homilies of various religions, I’ve never been able to keep my eyes closed long enough to feel at ease with faith-based systems. I’m more inclined to offer my slender prayers to fact-based science systems, even though I realize that those are also prone to human error. But at least they have data.

Data can be so bewitching. It’s like Play-Doh or silly putty. Malleable. One study tells us coffee is bad for us. Another insists it will quicken our wits. Many studies suggest that consuming animal fat shortens life spans. But there’s always another study. And, as Woody Allen joked in his timeless film Sleeper, it may turn out that fried food and animal fat are the secrets to longevity.

Taking this to its illogical extreme, if a food is fried in animal fat it would be a win-win, right?

Not long ago I had lunch in a delightful little cafe in Tarpon Springs where the menu was written in the argot of culinary refinement with confits of this and aioli of that and demi glace this and that. But the most intriguing signs of cutting edge cuisine were the duck fat fries. Thumbing their noses at the cholesterol police, these chubby cuties graced almost every lunch plate. I had to wonder, will lard be pardoned next?

Lard has gone through some tough times since we learned something about heart disease. Could there be new data that hasn’t made it into the popular press? Or is there a lard conspiracy perhaps? A coalition of dairy enthusiasts determined to maintain the butter monarchy?

Well, conspiracy theorists can’t all be wrong, can they? Sooner or later even an unmanned conspiracy theorist lands right side up.

Hallelujah. Praise the lard.

Art on the Wild Side

Bill Wood's stainless steel work suggests mountains made of sky. — Bill Wood’s stainless steel work suggests mountains made of sky.

We set off to explore the wilds of Foggy Bottom on Saturday. The clear blue skies and mild temperatures provided a perfect framework in which to view the outdoor sculpture biennial‘s fourth season.

I’m a big fan of art, but sometimes it’s just too nice a day to go trawling through the big museums, even when they house world famous art works. For this reason when I’m in a city I always keep an eye out for public artworks, whether sanctioned monuments or inspired graffiti.

I was curious about this exhibition because of the location. Foggy Bottom, where George Washington University, the Watergate, and the Kennedy Center loom large, was once the site of Washington’s light industry. It was the home of glass works, lime kilns, and breweries, a low rent district noted for its smoke and fumes. Thus the quirky moniker.

The neighborhood has gone considerably upscale since those early days, of course. But something of its gritty past lingers in the thoughtful art scene that thrives just under the radar. We strolled up and down the narrow streets and mews, musing over the contemporary works of 15 artists. I wasn’t crazy about every one. But all were intriguing.

One of the standouts for me was a stainless steel installation titled “Square Wave” by Bill Wood. Nine mirrored squares rose out of the garden greenery like a reflective mountain range. As the squares reflected pieces of sky and movement, they also brought to mind the light and energy of a body of water. It was a simple concept, deceptively complex.

Another sculpture, more difficult to capture in a single image, is Mary Annella “Mimi” Frank’s “Remembering Andromeda.”

Mimi Frank's tumble of welled steel chairs recalls the myth of Cassiopeia. — Mimi Frank’s tumble of welded steel chairs recalls the myth of Cassiopeia.

This tumble of small welded steel chair frames appears at first glance to be a chaotic spill from the sky. But when you learn the concept behind Frank’s piece — she was inspired by the Greek myth of Cassiopeia, who was punished for her rebellion by being tied to a chair and left to drift through the stars for eternity — the empty chairs resonate with modern issues of gender and freedom.

It’s one of Art’s great functions to call attention to important topics, to tip sacred cows, to wake the slumbering conscience.

But let’s face it, sometimes all we really want is something pretty to put on the wall. If I had to pick a favorite out of the fifteen works, I wouldn’t have to think twice. Elizabeth Graeber‘s “Garden” made my day. I’ve been an admirer of her work for a while. She’s illustrated funny books, and has a lovely light touch that makes me smile. Her “Garden” will be on display for a few more months on an out of the way wall in Hughes Mews, blooming like the secret prize at the end of a scavenger hunt.

Rain or shine, Eizabeth Graeber's "Garden" won't wilt. — Rain or shine, Eizabeth Graeber’s “Garden” won’t wilt.

My Heart Belongs to Laddy

My Dad, who woul dhave been 91 tomorrow, was a lifelong cat lover, but he had room in his heart for dogs. This is Laddy, our collie who made life interesting in our tiny house until he bit the mailman and had to move to a farm where there was more room for him to run off his high energy. — My Dad, who would have been 91 tomorrow, was a lifelong cat lover, but he had room in his heart for dogs. This is Laddy, our collie who made life interesting in our tiny house until he bit the mailman and had to move to a farm where there was more room for him to run off his high energy.

Did we learn nothing from Planet of the Apes?

While that classic sci-fi film may be a bit dated and far-fetched, the ideas it raised remain compelling. In particular, the way the film exposes the tendency of humans to view themselves as masters of all other species.

Of course, we have books, written by humans, which codify this conceit. However, simply because something is written in a book, or even a law, doesn’t make it necessarily true or right. The argument has been around for centuries, long before Darwin suggested another way of looking at things. Yet we are no closer to a clear understanding of the Big Picture, even when it’s screened on IMax.

So why do I care? Well, this morning, in my glutton for punishment way, I was reading the newspaper and came across a story about recent research into the mechanisms that cause depression. Such studies have been going on for decades. You might hope they would have figured it out by now. But no. What they have figured out is how to cause debilitating depression in mice. And dogs.

That’s when I began to feel depressed myself.

I mean, obviously I understand the need to conduct research to find life-saving drugs. And I realize that it isn’t always possible to use human subjects for all tests. Yet when it comes to problems humans face, stress doesn’t seem to me to be high on the list. Yes, we live in stressful times. But there has always been stress. Being chased by a sabre-toothed tiger? Not exactly a theme-park thrill. Yet stress is a natural part of existence, and overcoming naturally occurring stress is part of the process of being alive.

But there’s stress and there’s stress. Someone you love dies or becomes very ill, that’s stress. When someone forces you to walk barefoot on an electrified floor with no apparent means of escape, that’s torture. A different breed of stress entirely.

That electrified floor was used on dogs in a well-known 1967 study which showed that when dogs are made to feel that they have no options, they develop what is called “learned helplessness.” In other words, they learn to give up hope. This induced depression can be traumatizing to a human. How much more traumatic it must be to a dog, a creature which has been bred to trust humans.

I have no moral high ground on the issues of animal rights. I’m no vegetarian. But I draw the line at dogs. Also cats, but that’s a much harder argument to win.

Dogs, on the other hand, are, in fact, Man’s Best Friend. Everybody knows this. Even people who claim to dislike dogs have to respect the heroic qualities of our canine companions. They sniff out bombs, they save babies from burning buildings, they lead the blind, they comfort the sick and aging. They go into battle and they don’t do it for medals. They do these things because we ask them to.

For some incredible reason, dogs love us. God knows why.

Some may argue that we humans deserve our “right” to dominion over all the animals because of our superior intellect. I would argue that if we wish to consider ourselves “superior” to any other species the proof of this edge must begin with greater compassion for all other species. But especially dogs.

A few years ago the brilliant comic writer Tom Holt penned a remarkable satire called Blonde Bombshell which riffed wildly on the idea of a planet where “a dog’s best friend is his man.” It’s a lot funnier than Planet of the Apes, though that may owe something to the fact that a human dressed up as an ape could never hope to rival a golden retriever.

It’s been more than two thousand years since a wise teacher gave us a golden tip: “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” The luster of that line has sadly dimmed in these me-first times, and realistically, maybe we’ll never be able to love one another. But if we can at least learn to treat our best friends as well as we’d like to be treated, that would be a start.

The Art of Lending

A glass of wine, a book of verse, and thou beneath the palm trees. What could be better?

As a young nerd I was never the sort of child who had to be encouraged to read.

My parents were more concerned that I spent altogether too much time with my nose in a book and not enough time playing outside with the neighborhood kids. The Boomer Generation ruled our neighborhood. But it came as a rude awakening to me at around age seven to discover that few of them enjoyed reading. Not only that, but they had an ingrained distrust of anyone their own age who thought twice about more or less anything.

Suffice it to say, books were my best friends in grade school. And once I discovered that the public library was in walking distance and I was allowed to go there by myself, well, the writing was on the wall.

I’ve been a lifelong lover of public libraries. Wherever I’ve lived, getting a card at the local library has always felt like a vital part of feeling at home. These days, when every laptop can provide access to digital books anywhere anytime, the notion of a brick and mortar library might seem hopelessly quaint to the modern generations. But bibliophiles are nothing if not imaginative. And the mere fact that the times have changed hasn’t altered the imaginative landscape for those who feel naked without a book bag.

A few years ago while walking through one of the old neighborhoods here in D.C. I noticed a little house on a post right beside the sidewalk. At first glance I thought it might be a birdhouse. But as I got closer I discovered that it was a little lending library. A sign on the side of it encouraged passersby to take a book, and return it later, or leave another in its place. Wow, I thought. What a cool idea.

I didn’t realize it was part of a grassroots library movement. In fact, the Little Free Library craze is a relatively new phenomenon. The first one was put up in 2009 by a Wisconsin man named Todd Boll who did it to honor his mother. The idea was immediately embraced by locals and spread like wildfire. Today there are more than 15,000 Little Free Libraries all around the world. You can read all about it on their website, as well as keep up with their blog, get a kit to build your own Little Free Library, and much more.

On a recent trip to Dunedin, Florida, I had just finished the book I’d brought along to read on the plane, and was wondering if I could find a bookstore nearby to get something for the trip home, when I was delighted to discover a Little Free Library nestled under a palm tree at the water’s edge. I placed my book inside it and perused the books available. As it turned out, none of them caught my fancy. But that’s okay.

It’s encouraging just to know that in this world filled with strife and distress there are altruistic book lovers out there sowing the seeds of literacy far and wide.

Sometimes, hope is the thing with pages.

A splendid location for a Little Free Library.

Lost and Found in Austen

There'll always be an England in one small corner of Georgetown. — There’ll always be an England in one small corner of Georgetown.

Every fandom has its debates.

Gryffindor vs Slytherin. Edward vs Jacob. Angel vs Spike.

Fans of Jane Austen tend to be a civil bunch, disinclined to wage the sort of rough and tumble debate that thrives on the internet. Although, much as I like Colin Firth, whose 1995 portrayal of Mr. Darcy in the TV series raised the bar for repressed heroes everywhere, I think we can all agree that the 2005 Keira Knightley/Matthew Macfadyen film version of Pride and Prejudice was as close to perfection as we are likely to see. Ever.

However, that doesn’t stop us from allowing our modest hopes to rise every time some trailer bursts on the scene announcing a new take on the works of Miss Austen. Thus, when I saw the wacky clips from the 2013 spoof Austenland, I couldn’t help hoping it would at least be watchable. After all, the cast included Keri Russell, Jenifer Coolidge and Bret Mackenzie, all gifted actors adept at light comedy. It seemed reasonable to expect something entertaining.

To be fair, the movie wasn’t terrible. But it was no moon shot. In spite of an amusing premise — a modern American woman visits an Austen theme park in England in hopes of finding her own Mr. Darcy — the film managed to shoot itself in the slippered foot.

Yet of course, Austennut that I am, I still enjoyed it. It’s comforting to believe that there are other people similarly obsessed with the carefully edited and beautifully observed world of Austen’s novels.

I had only the sketchiest idea about her work when I went to college. But there, while seeking respite from the weighty work of Aristotle and Plato, I came across an old copy of Pride and Prejudice in the college library. From the famous first sentence I knew she was The One, the writer I could count on to soothe my soul and provide escape from the fractious static of the so-called real world.

People who don’t enjoy fiction must, I presume, find other ways to negotiate the sticky parts and sharp curves that give life its curious flavor. But for me, fiction has always been essential.

I’ve never been to England. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to make the trip to visit the places Austen describes. Perhaps those places don’t exist anymore, at least not in the way they did when she was writing. But I know how I’ve always seen them in my mind.

Recently I discovered a place right here in the District that comes close to that imaginary ideal. On a surprisingly secluded 5-1/2 acre property at the northern edge of Georgetown, Tudor Place offers a serene glimpse into the past. In the gardens, especially if you are an Austen fan, you can easily imagine Elizabeth Bennet strolling the gravel paths, enjoying the roses and the grand trees, while musing on the perplexing business of human emotion. And perhaps hoping to bump into Mr. Darcy in the shrubbery.

Old roses thrive in the sunny knot garden.

At the end of the bowling green a shady pool offers a perfect spot for a tryst.

This "Millennium Landmark Tree" on the lawn is more than 200 years old. Jane would have loved it. — This “Millennium Landmark Tree” on the lawn is more than 200 years old. Jane would have loved it.

The song a robin sings plays on at Tudor Place.

Now Hear This

Fine feathered feeders enjoy the low tide buffet.

When I lived in Seattle one of the things I missed most about the East Coast was the musical sound of songbirds.

Some diehard Seattle boosters may insist that Seattle has warblers of its own, and I’m willing to believe it. But in the six years I lived there I never heard one. The signature tune of that misty city is the quark and ratcheting caw of crows.

I’ve got nothing against crows. Although it’s a little spooky how smart they are. I read somewhere that crows can recognize human faces, and it doesn’t take much imagination to take that idea a step further and start to recognize the quirky personalities of the crows themselves.

But getting back to songbirds, the D.C. metropolitan area is serenaded by a variety of local songsters, such as mockingbirds and finches. Mourning doves wail in the shrubbery. Orioles pass through on tour. It’s a harmonious scene. If you grew up around here you could close your eyes and recognize the locale by the spring soundtrack.

On a recent trip to the Florida Gulf I noticed a few familiar bird calls. But Florida’s warmth and water attracts a whole different group of birds, not least of which are the ospreys and pelicans, hunters and clowns, neither of which could be mistaken for a songbird.

Fine feathers feast at low tide. — It’s a moveable feast at low tide.

Yet the birds that speak most eloquently to me when I’m in Florida do it silently. The herons, egrets and ibis, with their impossibly long necks, their graceful ballet moves, and their delicate manners, seem to embody a stillness that pairs well with silence.

I assume they must have vocal chords, though I’ve never heard a peep out of them. But that’s okay by me. Something in the way they move speaks volumes, without making a sound.

I could listen for hours.

The One, The Only

In the fall of 2013 the Washington Monument wore a cloak of metal scaffolding.

Tourists who come to Washington, D.C., to view the significant sights have their work cut out for them.

The city has no shortage of museums, memorials and historic sites. But one of them has been out of commission for the last couple of years.

Since the summer of 2011, when a rare 5.8 magnitude earthquake shook the city and damaged several local landmarks, the Washington Monument has been swathed in a giant web of scaffolding while repairs were underway. Tourists during this time have had to be content with viewing the 555-foot-tall obelisk from the outside. But now the long wait is over, and they can get in line to ride up to the top and take in the view from the tallest structure in the city.

Whoop de doo!

I went up there once as a kid. If you live around here it’s one of those things you’re expected to do. Like visiting the Statue of Liberty if you’re a New Yorker, I imagine.

I have to say, the Lady’s view tops that of George’s. Washington is a pretty city to see on foot, in places. The river adds a lot. And there’s the Capitol and the White House and the Smithsonian Castle. But most of the scenic sights in D.C. are better viewed up close and personal.

Still, there’s no getting away from the fact that the Washington Monument is the top icon of the city. Even though it’s sort of…how can I put this? Boring. There. I said it.

I mean, compared to the Lincoln Memorial, or the Jefferson Memorial, or the rambling Franklin Delano Roosevelt Memorial, the Washington Monument is just a pointy white pile of stone. And even if it is the most recognizable landmark in the city, that distinction has been maintained mostly through legislation that restricts the height of new construction inside the city.

Paris has its own similar restriction, enacted after a developer built the enormous and none-too-lovely Tour Montparnasse, which tops out at 689 feet, a bit higher than George’s pile. Of course, Paris’s defining sight is la Tour Eiffel, which, at more than 1,000 feet tall, would dwarf the Washington Monument if they happened to share the same turf.

But the Washington Monument is our own pointy place, and it was missed while it was convalescing, so when it reopened to the public today there was hoopla, and gladness in some hearts.

After all, the Washington Monument is unique in our fair city. Because while we have oodles of memorials, we have only one monument.

It’s big, it’s white, it’s not exactly thrilling, but it’s back in business.