There is a part of me that would like to be able to laugh about the—legally speaking probably imminent but temporally speaking still a ways off—proposed Dwight D. Eisenhower Memorial.
It is, after all, to be built between the Lyndon Baines Johnson Department of Education building and the John F. Kennedy-venerating Smithsonian Air and Space Museum, in earshot of the carousel on the National Mall that plays ice cream truck music forever. Designed by Frank Gehry with an estimated cost of some $150 million, it is supposed to include 8 enormous columns, 10 feet in diameter and 80 feet tall, standing about huge and erect, clad in limestone, like some sort of over-enthusiastic temple complex for Osiris or—as others have described them more delicately—missile silos, or smokestacks, or bad jokes about Ike’s interstate highway system.
Not long ago, on a summer afternoon, I found myself in Las Vegas with nothing much to do. My flight back home wasn’t until the next day. The $20 I was willing to throw away on gambling didn’t last as long, so I needed something to do. Luckily, over the last decade or so, Las Vegas has become the machine gun capital of the world. A Mecca of hot lead unloaded at a blistering pace. There’s at least half a dozen places where you can rent some full-auto fun. There’s no other town I’m aware of that has more than one. There’s only one place, however, located right on the strip. It’s tucked nicely into the shadow of the Stratosphere: The Strip Gun Club.
K9 Cena’s life ended on July 26 but his impact on Marine veteran Jeff DeYoung and the country is lasting.
Imagine yourself several hundred feet off the ground, zipping through the air in a Eurocopter AS350 B2 A-Star helicopter, Credence Clearwater Revival blaring over your headset, wind in your face, and nothing between yourself and the Nevada desert floor but some rope and the grace of God. Now, put a fully automatic M-249 SAW in your hands.
Earlier this week a colleague and I test drove a Tesla Model X. I immediately pictured the cars from Minority Report. All you have to do is just sit and stare—the driverless machine does the rest. But this isn’t 2054. Fully autonomous vehicles (for better or for worse) are still a thing of the future. But it was nonetheless fascinating.
The green and black camouflage submarine’s steering mechanism failed due to an electrical malfunction. It veered left and briefly surfaced just before it sank to the bottom of the water with one soul aboard.
Washington, D.C., is about to become a better place. That’s because Wawa is finally coming to town.
At a Newseum event I attended last week, Wawa announced its first location in the city will be at 1111 19th Street Northwest, and is scheduled to open in December. It sounds like it is going to be amazing. It will be the largest Wawa in history, and is set to feature the indoor and outdoor seating that many of us have long wanted in our Wawas. There is even going to be a “Wild Goose Café.”
Anyone could have the senatorial treatment Thursday night at Reagan National.
Jon Ossoff’s campaign is an impressive one. The offices are filled with young excited volunteers and staffers, chatting in rooms covered with bright posters that make you feel like you are at a summer camp arts and crafts center. Personnel are well trained to hide Ossoff’s vulnerabilities—one volunteer, introducing himself to a staffer, said “I’m from California—I know, shh,” putting a finger to his lips. Another bragged about how he taught his little brother, who didn’t appear to be more than 14 years old, not to talk to reporters—”What is press?” the younger brother was trained to say.
The Georgetown Marriott offers a Virtual Concierge, on-site laundry, in-room coffee/tea service, valet dry-cleaning, and something called “Bourbon Program.” But the top amenity listed on its website is “All public areas non-smoking.” A sign advises smokers to stay at least 25 feet from the entrance; the Smokers Pole lies a few paces beyond the overhang that shields guests from the elements. Six people puff away defiantly underneath the carport. They marvel at the injustice of it all. They don’t belong outside, let alone next to that pole; that’s for the killers who leave cotton butts, smoldering ash, and cancer in their wake.