When the White House, back in March, made the unexpected announcement that this month's G-8 summit, long planned to take place in Chicago, was being moved to Camp David, the reasons given were bland:
If you're watching the first round of the National Basketball Association playoffs this weekend, take a good look at the players' jerseys.
In a long line at an airport security checkpoint, the man in front of me wearily reached into his travel cases and began to unload his electronic gear into the gray plastic bin.
May we spend a few minutes discussing a major part of American life where there has been a shocking lack of diversity?
A few years ago a group of us were having dinner at a steakhouse, and among the people at the table were the terrific sports columnist Mike Downey and his wife, Gail Martin. The manager of the place came over to say hello; introductions were made.
For months now, platoons of politicians have been filling the air with words.
Here's a free idea that will make some businessperson millions of dollars.
"Every day and every night I want to see you and be with you. Yet I have no feeling of selfish ownership or jealousy.
Remember those carefree days when a gallon of gas was only $5? And when you could cheerfully mail a letter for the rock-bottom price of 50 cents?
For half a century, the world has applauded John Glenn as a heart-stirring American hero. He lifted the nation's spirits when, as one of the original Mercury 7 astronauts, he was blasted alone into orbit around the Earth; the enduring affection for him is so powerful that even now people find themselves misting up at the sight of his face or the sound of his voice.
The cigarette companies -- and, boy, it's hard to say this -- may turn out to be right.
If Super Bowl Sunday is a day you look forward to with great anticipation each year, if it is a day that you equate with excitement and good times, there's something you should know:
We are now able to project a winner in the 2012 presidential race:
Winston Churchill, glaring, resolute, combative, left hand on hip, stares straight off the page -- a moment, and an image, like no other.
All around the world today, people are in the early hours of trying to keep their New Year's resolutions: Lose that 15 pounds, find that job that will make you happy, move to that city where you've always dreamed of living.
Like two freight trains rumbling in opposite directions on parallel tracks, a pair of internationally famous U.S. companies sped past each other in the news in recent days.
As we head into a workweek that ends with a federal holiday on Friday, you can expect the usual:
On Wednesday night, on a small patch of lawn in central Ohio, generations of people bearing affection and gratitude will gather to say one last goodbye to Miss Barbara.
"I may have spoken too soon," Bob Orsa said the other afternoon, with a sardonic laugh that didn't carry much mirth.
One day there will be no one alive who remembers.
This summer there hangs in the White House, in a hallway outside the Oval Office, one of the greatest American paintings by one of the greatest American artists.
You probably see it many times every day: at work, on the bus, in restaurants.
On a trip to New York this summer, I was in the newsstand/gift shop of a hotel, and a man in front of me in line was purchasing something. I heard the clerk say to him: "That will be $18.30."
How do dry economic numbers translate into real human pain?
Some people are so big during their lives, even death doesn't seem to entirely take them away.
In Las Vegas, they say, the house always wins. In professional sports -- at least in the long run -- so do the owners.
The answers are starting to emerge. It is hard to imagine them being any more heartbreaking.
"I'm 95 years old," Tom Griffin said. He smiled a gentle smile. "And some of those years were even good ones."
You know that great television commercial you saw from the peanut butter company that wants the world to know how much U.S. troops in Afghanistan love eating its product?
It is one of the most famous exchanges of dialogue in the history of movies.
Why did no one miss him? Why didn't anyone seem to even notice he wasn't around?
Now, no one is claiming that this quirky idea will be the salvation of the music industry.
There was a moment that came and went quickly during Monday's White House ceremony posthumously awarding the Medal of Honor to two Army privates who were killed in the Korean War.
Even as her grandson and his new bride were saying their vows Friday, there she was, being gazed upon by the world.
The happily-ever-after business would not necessarily seem to be a growth industry these days.
Royalty is not supposed to show any flamboyant outward emotion, but you can't blame Prince Charles if, inside, he's getting a little antsy.
Sunday is the anniversary of something that undoubtedly has changed your life.
First, I wanted to find out if Lyndon Sanders was still alive. Second, I wanted to find out if he was feeling triumphant.
It started with a 5-year-old boy who had the decency to do the right thing.
Your face may be about to get official corporate sponsorship.
So there is Abraham Lincoln -- Henry Fonda, actually, in a stovepipe hat -- walking toward the horizon as the gorgeous strains of an orchestra swell up behind him. Soon the orchestra is joined by a choir, the strings and the voices blending into a beautiful, almost ethereal, rendition of "The Battle Hymn of the Republic." Thunder crackles in the cinematic sky.
"Sometimes I'll drive by the old stadium," Lisa Carver said, "and it kind of feels like a dream. You can almost hear the cheers from the crowds, even though the place is empty."
Why does it always seem to take something like this to move us, however briefly, toward civility and mutual understanding?
On Monday night, with millions of fans watching every play, Auburn will take on Oregon for the national championship of college football.
A person who dies a violent and newsmaking death is often destined to be defined by a brief label.
Walking along the New York street known as Central Park South the other afternoon, I passed a restaurant that seems to have been busy every time I have visited the city for decades.
As you are standing in an airport security line this Thanksgiving week, waiting to be funneled into one of the invasive new body-imaging machines, or, if you decline that, to be pulled aside and subjected to a way-too-personal pat-down, ask yourself how you would feel if you lived in a country like this:
The good news is that you'll still be allowed to look out the window.
The searchers search, even when they fear that they may fail.
In a few weeks a noteworthy anniversary will arrive: fifty years since the election of John F. Kennedy as president of the United States.
And now the saga of the Chilean miners -- at least a part of it -- may be about to make a detour to Graceland.
If you should find yourself visiting New York -- or even if New York is where you live -- there is a place I'd like to recommend that you stop by.
The world changes, but I'm not sure it's supposed to change this much:
September 12 is always the day that reminds us that the war may never end.
In this acrimonious and bitter American summer of 2010, a summer during which at times it has seemed that everyone is angry at everyone else, I sat outside the other afternoon and read a magazine.
On the afternoon last week when the Rod Blagojevich jury rendered its verdict, you just know that someone, in some entertainment-industry high-rise office suite somewhere, was seeing the invisible lightbulb click on:
The throaty, thumping churn of the military helicopter convoy is a sound like no other.
The question is not just whether Jim Thorpe, in death, will ever be allowed to rest in peace.
Those of us who knew Alex Clowson understood that his baseball dreams were all behind him.
On the day that LeBron James announced that he would accept an employment offer from the Miami Heat, I had a conversation with a person you would not automatically associate with basketball expertise.
On the day that LeBron James announced that he would accept an employment offer from the Miami Heat, I had a conversation with a person you would not automatically associate with basketball expertise.
It's the Fourth of July, and you're gazing up toward the sky in anticipation of glorious fireworks; you're happily looking at a festive Independence Day parade; you're peering toward the grill, where hot dogs are sizzling ...
It's beginning to feel like this has been with us forever.
The enduring beauty of the U.S. Open has little to do with the golf course on which it is played in a given year.
When 4-year-old Ethan Stacy was reluctantly sent off to spend the summer with his mother late last month, he was in effect being given a death sentence.
For a few days there, it looked as if the typographical error was finally going to get its moment in the sun.
The dirty and tattered piece of paper, with remnants of thick black industrial-strength tape still stuck to its edges, would not necessarily seem to be a harbinger of summer.
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