Welcome to Hack Mule Notebook #14.

Last week was pretty quiet—I spent most days working at my desk and hanging around the Leviathan. But time spent in the Leviathan is always a material-gathering exercise, and it paid off again this week.

I also had some time to ponder the news, from the election to Meghan Markle’s latest.

As Dickens said, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”

Well, he was half right.

As always, I love hearing what you think. Leave a comment, argue with me, or get a conversation going with the other readers.

Elevator Follies

I saw the woman in the floral caftan and red Chuck Taylors again this week. This time she was riding up with Myrna (her real name), a woman so annoying that I’ve seen more than one person exit the elevator and announce, “It’s OK, I’ll take the next one,” rather than riding with her.

Chuck Taylors stared at me and said, “So. Arm still in a sling. Try more whole milk. Vitamin D.”

Myrna nodded and said, “And calcium. People our age need calcium.”

Chuck and Myrna are both easily 20 years older than I am, so I smiled and said, “You do! Good plan!”

We rode to the A-level where a woman I’d seen earlier with a nasty little pug got on alone. Chuck Taylor woman said, “Oh, where’s your dog? Is her name Gigi?”

“Fifi,” Pug Woman replied.

Myrna said, “I thought you told me she was Mimi.”

“No, Fifi,” Pug Woman said.

“That’s not what I remember being told,” Myrna snarled.

“Well, I didn’t change her name to fool you!” Pug Woman said.

Chuck Taylor stared straight ahead. “Hmmm.”

Pug Woman pressed the button for the next floor and got off the elevator immediately.

“Good,” Myrna said. “She can go walk Gigi.”

Chuck Taylor looked at me. “What’s her dog’s name?”

“I have no idea,” I said.

“You were on the board!” Myrna scolded.

“On the co-op board, not on the Animal Control Board,” I said.

“It’s all the same thing,” Chuck Taylor said, snorting.

We stood in silence until the elevator reached the ninth floor.

“I’m getting off here,” Chuck Taylor said to Myrna.

“I think I will, too,” Myrna said, glaring at me.

Apparently that was supposed to be a devastating social rebuke, but I had a lovely ride up to the 14th floor by myself.

Electoral Collage

There are just two things wrong with this year’s elections: the Democrats and the Republicans.

Several of you have asked me to make some predictions about the outcome, but the fact is, nothing would surprise me. If polls are correct, the Democrats have the wind at their backs, but I’m always mindful that when people get into the voting booth, they don’t reliably vote the way they tell the pollsters they will.

So, who knows?

But as a communicator, I see bigger problems for both parties—and our country—that no one is addressing very effectively.

On the GOP side, it’s Trump. For the past decade, he has sucked up all the oxygen in the ionosphere, leaving Republicans stuck between the Donald and the deep blue sea: They can run on his coattails and hope that he carries them into office, or they can mount an independent campaign and hope the voters notice.

The former might have worked two years ago, but with Trump’s approval ratings plumbing depths lower than the Mariana Trench, it’s a gamble. The latter forces the candidate to run against the Democrats and Trump. Neither is inspiring.

On the Democratic side, things aren’t any better. From the highest-profile contest to the lowliest local races, candidates are crowing about “fighting Trump.”

But that’s a policy mirage—if you’re in a local race where the key issues are taxation and traffic, you’re tilting at windmills by mentioning Trump, not advancing good governance. Opposition is not a governing agenda.

Meanwhile, the rise of democratic socialists is pulling the Democratic Party ever further left, creating an ideological analogue to the rise of MAGA on the right.

Without a coherent political middle, there’s precious little room for compromise, consensus, or effective governance.

I should put Stealers Wheel on the Hack Mule playlist, because we’re stuck in the middle with you.

If I were advising either party these days—and I’m not—I’d urge them to dump the click-bait rhetoric and fear-mongering and focus on substantive, positive proposals.

They might find that people actually like them.

Ruthless Dictator

I jot down notes constantly. Whenever I see something that makes me wonder, sounds memorable, or impresses me in some way, I note it. Sometimes I note things I don’t care about just to amuse myself. I even dictate notes on my Apple Watch when in the shower.

In fact, I’ve gotten very good at dictation since I broke my arm. Unfortunately, Siri isn’t getting any smarter.

I was reviewing my Apple Notes the other day and I found a note that said, “Dan, a woman in my office, offered 4 million asthma voice overs.”

What? I don’t know any women named Dan, and I don’t have an office. I also don’t know why I‘d need an “asthma voice over,” much less 4 million of them.

I eventually looked at the timestamp to see if I could figure out where I was when I dictated it. The penny dropped and I realized it was supposed to say, “Dawn, a woman in the management office, forwarded the form online. That’s nice of her.”

Next week Hack Mule will decode: “Thank Gerald’s charger. Letter hammer soon fencing.”

Milestones

Still Missing: Amelia Earhart. The recent Purdue University-backed expedition to Nikumaroro Island in search of Amelia’s plane may have found nothing but a clump of trees, but it is giving rise to a new theory about her disappearance: Some researchers now believe she was eaten by crabs. Here in Maryland, crabs exist deliciously down the food chain, but the coconut crabs that inhabit Nikumaroro are three feet wide and able to chomp down at 3,300 newtons of force, which is about the same crunch as an adult lion. They’re such serious predators that they eat entire carcasses, which could explain why no remains have ever been found. Hack Mule will continue to investigate the theory that Amelia got Rangooned.

Almost Home: Karl Bushby is almost home after a 31,000-mile, 28-year trek from Punta Arenas, Chile, to his hometown of Humberside, England, where his mother resides. Although Bushby survived earthquakes, war, crocodiles, and crossing the frozen Bering Strait on foot, he’s a little uneasy about returning home to life with Mom. The 57-year-old also plans to keep the pushcart on which he has transported his belongings around the globe, referring to “we” when he mentions it. Hack Mule is not up nights wondering why this guy is single.

Still Dead: Magician Harry Houdini died 100 years ago this week, although Hack Mule has not been able to pin down the date. Some reports say he died October 30 from appendicitis. His fans like the spooky theory that he died on Halloween after an intestinal blockage. (Damn candy corn!) A new report suggests that it was November 1 after being punched in the gut by a McGill University student testing his strength. Sure. Blame Canada.

Inflicted On Us: Daylight Saving Time. If you’re wondering why your phone and the clock on your microwave are an hour apart this morning, we went off Daylight Saving Time overnight. From now until March 14, we have to live in a horrible world where morning people have the advantage and the rest of us are eating dinner at 10 pm. We at Hack Mule are very disappointed Congress has not abolished this nonsense.

Listening

• “Houdini,” Dua Lipa. Had to hear it as I wrote the Milestones section.

• “Don’t Worry, Be Happy,” Bobby McFerrin. Playing while I queued up at the Board of Elections’ drive-through ballot drop-off. (I voted for several of you!)

• “Shambala,” Three Dog Night. Blasting from the phone of an elderly man who was singing along at Nordstrom.

• “Cruel Summer,” Bananarama. This has been playing nonstop at Walgreens for at least three months. The clerk told me it never ends.

• “(Can You Show Me) Something Beautiful,” Trombone Shorty & Lenny Kravitz. Apple Music randomly played this for me while I was waiting for an X-ray.

• “A Bar Song,” Shaboozey. Waiting for my sandwich at Woodside Deli, Germantown.

• “Hand Clapping Song,” The Meters. Inexplicably the audiologist’s office has Muzak. Loud Muzak. What a racket.

• “Wave,” Antonio Carlos Jobim. Working remotely at Starbucks, Bethesda.

Listen on Spotify | Listen on Apple Music

Recollections May Vary, Part 2

Last week Hack Mule covered the news that the father of one-time cable actress and formerly royal wife-of Meghan Markle is facing accusations of child-sex crimes. Thomas Markle, Sr., has continued to deny the claims, while also pointing out that he has dementia.

Reminds me a little of the mob boss who wore pajamas to his arraignment to demonstrate his unfitness to stand trial. But that’s probably just me…

Meanwhile, the Daily Mail found a storage unit Markle once rented in Mexico supposedly loaded with family photos and illicit material. The newspaper wrote that it immediately reported the cache to the FBI.

That raises so many questions: Can reporters get into storage units just by asking? How did they know about the storage unit? Did they just guess what was in it? Why would someone write “Dark Web stuff” on a paper plate and tape it to a box of hard drives as the Daily Mail suggests Markle did?

Also, why report a storage unit in Mexico to the FBI? Were the Mexican police on vacation?

This story is so weird and tawdry that I’m torn between wondering what god-forsaken trailer park spawned these people and who might be setting this man up. It’s anyone’s bet.

And as she did last week, Meghan made it all even stranger this week. With investigations about child-sex crimes involving her father taking place in four countries, Meghan thought this was a great week to announce that she’ll be starring in a…children’s show.

That’s right, a children’s show. Meghan will be on Junior MasterChef Australia next year.

Let’s unpack that for a moment. Days after her family becomes embroiled in a scandal alleging terrible crimes against children, Meghan’s first impulse is to announce, “Yay! I’m going to be on a kids’ show!”

I’ve seen clients pursue horrible messaging, but I’ve never seen one say, “Hey, let’s capitalize on the interest in child-sex crimes and announce this now!”

It’s an effective way to keep her name on the front pages, but in terms of reputational disasters, it’s right up there with the Titanic hitting an iceberg on your desk and sinking into your file drawer.

Some commentators are speculating that Meghan announced her new gig now—nine months before the job starts—to draw attention to a positive story. I’m going to go a little more cynical: I think she announced it now before the show’s producers had a chance to cancel her contract.

Just a few months ago, rumors circulated that Meghan was set to join the cast of Netflix’s The Gentlemen. Online backlash was fierce, and the show’s producers quietly dismissed the idea.

Junior MasterChef Australia’s producers won’t have that opportunity. If they want to get rid of her now, they’ll have to go through the annoying process of dumping her publicly.

And Meghan will be both the victim and heroine yet again.

Can’t wait to see what happens this week.

Welcome to Hack Mule Notebook #13—a spooky number for Halloween week!

It’s been another busy week, so I have a full notebook to share.

But first, some quick kudos to KID, the innovation center in downtown Bethesda that introduces children from preschool through high school to the pleasures of solving problems through hands-on learning and invention.

It launched a decade ago as KID Museum, but the name made some people think it was a traditional museum. This week, it rebranded as “KID,” dropping the museum moniker. Thursday’s big rollout event celebrated the new identity.

I was especially pleased to see several of our elected officials, including County Executive Marc Elrich, who was in great form as Election Day approaches and he gets ready for a likely shift to the County Council. Marc is one of the few reliably authentic voices in county politics, and after two terms as County Executive, he will bring a fascinating perspective to the Council.

(I’m buying my popcorn now, because it’s going to be a good show!)

I also saw state delegates Teresa Woorman and Marc Korman along with outgoing District 1 Council Member Andrew Friedson. I’m always amazed that these officials never seem to flag—the state delegates, for instance, have full-time jobs, elected positions, and countless events in the evenings.

The really satisfying thing is that KID is an institution that merits this kind of support. I recently took them on as a client, so you’ll be hearing more.

But now, onto the rest of the week.

Overheard

“My family was very poor during the Depression. Every day my mother made day-old bread.” An elderly Leviathan resident educating a 20-something in the lobby.

Elevator Follies

I was waiting for the elevator here at the Leviathan the other day when a “Did You Know?” trivia question flashed by on the video screen in the lobby.

“Did you know…a protozoa is a single-celled orgasm?”

I did a double take. Did it really say that? Surely I must have misread it.

I stood there for about 10 minutes just to see if I could catch it cycling by again.

Next week: The Private Lives of Paramecia.

Pack It In

Over the past few weeks, riding Metro and Ride On, visiting client offices, and stopping at coffee shops, I’ve noticed something interesting: Briefcases and shoulder bags are gone, and everyone from toddlers to corporate attorneys carries a backpack now.

If you don’t believe me, check out Metro. As I rode down the 10-story escalator at Bethesda Metro, I was watching people ascending. During the two-minute-and-40-second ride, I clocked about 75 people wearing backpacks. No other bags.

I felt like I was watching the world’s oddest scout troop evacuate from the city.

Eager to join the party, I got out my own backpack from grad school in the late 1990s. I hadn’t used it in years, and I was surprised to find that it was literally decomposing—the synthetic lining had broken down and turned sticky.

Time to update my gear!

Last time I bought a backpack, L.L.Bean was ne plus ultra, so I started there. Unfortunately, the collection seems to have only two modes now: elementary school and Alpine expedition. I was hoping for something a little less Amazing Race.

A 20-something friend urged me to check out still-popular Herschel, which had a brief reign as the go-to outfitter for digital natives around 10 years ago.

But after reading reviews on Herschel’s website, I started to wonder if the company sells backpacks or emotional-support devices.

“Because of gravity, all of my things in there sink to the bottom,” reviewer Josh whined.

Damn gravity! Herschel should fix that!

Another was having a personal (and grammatical) meltdown: “I dont want a good day and cant have it with this backpack.”

Huh. Not sure if that’s a feature or a flaw.

One man offered a more existential critique: “No review is a review without pointing out what I did not like…”

You do you, sir.

Then there was the woman who didn’t even review the backpack. She wrote, “I am Nichole, not Nicole. Nichole.”

Poor Herschel—it’s being tanked by its own dedicated and obnoxious fans. L.L.Bean’s reviewers just talk about whether the straps fray and the kids like them.

Anyway, I ended up buying a new L.L.Bean bag. If it lasts as long as the previous version, I’ll still own it when it comes back into style. In the meantime, I can carry my laptop, a 32-ounce water bottle, extra shoes, a small coat, and possibly an air mattress.

Milestones

Still Missing: Amelia Earhart. Purdue University, which helped fund Amelia’s 1937 flight and backed a new search expedition this month, reported the sad news that Amelia is still missing. Turns out the large object spotted in the water off Nikumaroro is a tree, not her plane. My next question is, why is Purdue so damned determined to find that plane? Was Amelia carrying the only key to the faculty restroom or something? Hack Mule will stay on the case.

Shrinking: Halloween candy. In the past, a single bag of fun-sized candies would not only satisfy all the trick-or-treaters I might get here at the Leviathan, but it would provide enough for me to snack on for weeks. Now I’ll be out of stock if the Bridge Club rings the doorbell.

Released: Apple iPhone Duo. Apple’s new folding iPhone hit stores this week and sold out immediately. I’m going to guess that’s because Apple only made 139 of these $2,000+ devices, not because of a sudden surge in demand. (By the way, if anyone wants to buy me one, I’d be happy to review it.)

Seated: Pope Leo. After shaking off lung cancer like a bad cold in less than a week, Pope Leo accepted the honorary title of Papal Confrater of the College of St. George at St. George’s Chapel, Windsor. The move comes one year after Leo gave Charles III his own chair in the Papal Basilica in Rome and made him a Royal Confrater. Leo’s chair happens to reside atop the resting place of Henry VIII, the guy who booted Rome out of England 500 years ago.

Broken: The World. Reports emerged this week that staffers from Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth’s office cracked open a historic Eisenhower globe while attempting to move it to the Secretary’s office. Gen. Dwight D. Eisenhower, who later became the 34th U.S. president, used the floor-stand globe when he served as Supreme Allied Commander during World War II. Hack Mule is less worried about the crack than the Sharpie they’ll use to cross out the Gulf of Mexico and Lake Ontario.

Listening

• “Isle of Dogs,” Morrissey. This upbeat song is so bleak I burst out laughing when I heard it while working at Filicori Zecchini.

• “Nantucket,” Ripe. Trustafarians, burn-outs, green tea, and bourbon. It’s like a Nantucket audio documentary that popped up in the middle of Whole Foods.

• “Light Green Reverie,” Jon Batiste. ChatGPT thought I might like this while writing. It was right.

• “Good Times,” Goose. Listened to it after an ad-agency friend said she’d just licensed the song rights for an ad campaign.

• “A-Punk,” Vampire Weekend. Listening at physical therapy. The therapist said I was doing the reps too fast as a result.

• “Run,” Coin. A great song for cruising on the open highway. Alas, I was in traffic on the Beltway when I heard it.

• “London Calling,” The Clash. My college-age nephew asked me if I’d ever heard of this song. He’s studying it in history class.

Hack Mule Hits are now available on Spotify and Apple Music.

Listen on Spotify | Listen on Apple Music

Recollections May Vary

Finally this week, Hack Mule is following a breaking story about Thomas Markle, Sr., father of Meghan Markle. Meghan, a former cable actress and entrepreneuratrix, is perhaps best known for marrying the younger son of King Charles, the lanky one with thinning red hair. She is also the least impressive Northwestern graduate ever, based on a poll of alumni sitting here at my keyboard.

The news, however, is no joke. Reports claim that Thomas Markle, Jr., turned his father in to police for having material depicting child sex abuse, which he claims to have found stored in his father’s former home in the Philippines. Markle, Sr., an award-winning Hollywood lighting director, vehemently denied the claims.

According to the Associated Press, the Philippines National Bureau of Investigation and the FBI are cooperating on an investigation.

Meghan, however, did not wait for an investigation to issue her own statement about the matter—and it’s causing a PR mess.

As the story first emerged on Friday, she issued a statement claiming that in 2018 she learned about “troubling and disturbing allegations” against her father in a letter someone sent to London’s Metropolitan Police.

She immediately went on to make it about herself: “I hope it can now be understood that, despite certain media publications’ distortion over the years, any distance from my father and my choice to not allow him to have contact with our children was for one reason: to protect them.”

But here’s the awkward thing: Two years later, in 2020, during litigation over a letter she wrote to her father, her own legal team said that Meghan and Thomas, Sr., “had a very close father/daughter relationship throughout her childhood and remained close until he was targeted three years ago by intrusive UK tabloid media”.

No mention of any allegations. No concerns about children.

The story took an odd twist on Saturday, when Scotland Yard pointed out that the police received a letter about Thomas Markle in 2019, not 2018.

Meghan’s spokesperson issued a prickly response: “If the MPS holds a time-stamped record confirming that the letter was reviewed in 2019, that should be treated as the accurate reference point for when it was received and shared with the Duchess. I think it is reasonable to recognize that she is doing her best to recall the precise timing of events that were not diarized at the time, and that any discrepancy of a few months is an understandable consequence of that passage of time.”

In other words, recollections may vary.

But her statement still leaves me scratching my head. Why on earth would this woman who purports to be a protective mother tie her own children into a tawdry story about their grandfather? Was her first instinct really, “This is a great opportunity to settle some scores”?

Meghan’s comments also suggest that her father’s guilt is a given.

Rather than waiting for the allegations to play out, Meghan stated that her “thoughts are with any children who may have been harmed.” She added, “…[W]hat has now been uncovered is more sickening than one could ever imagine.”

Fascinating. What’s been uncovered? What else does she know? Is there a reason she seems so certain about this? If so, why has this humanitarian never spoken up before this?

I’m also sniffing out a little bit of an institutional comeuppance. Meghan’s statement says that she was “given assurances that these [allegations] were being investigated.” She goes on to add, “I trusted that the authorities were doing the same for other families.”

It’s a very short leap from there to Harry’s claims that the authorities have disregarded his requests for police protection.

Right now, late on October 24, the story is unfolding so fast that it’s impossible to draw firm conclusions about Meghan, her father, or any of the other players, including Scotland Yard.

But I’d still question the wisdom of Meghan’s statement on Friday.

More to come on this.

Welcome to Hack Mule Notebook #12! Finally turned a corner this week with my broken arm situation—got the soft cast off and started driving again. Going where I want, when I want, is an under-appreciated thrill (even if I’m still in a sling).

Attended a big event that the Greater Bethesda Chamber of Commerce held at the KID Museum at Bethesda Metro. Meeting entrepreneurs who are building businesses in the community is energizing, especially at a venue like KID, where students—and adults—learn hands-on skills to shape our world. (More to say about that next week.)

Other than a 1.5-hour slog through the Maryland Comptroller’s new money-sucking black hole website for individual taxpayers, it was a fun week. (But I’m not bitter…)

Anyway, here’s what I was up to and what landed in my notebook:

Doing Shots

Thrilled to be behind the wheel again, I headed directly to Safeway. I love the Safeway at Fallsgrove Village because it’s basically a dry cocktail party for women over 40. People drift around the store striking up random conversations, discussing everything from bananas to foreign policy and turning an otherwise mundane chore into a social event.

If Safeway ever put in a wine bar, the place could support a two-drink minimum.

I hadn’t even made it through produce when my knee—another casualty of the fall in September—became so painful that I could barely stand. As luck would have it, an announcement about flu and COVID vaccines came over the loudspeaker—right in the middle of Margaritaville—so I decided to get my shots and sit down in the pharmacy for a while.

I limped up to the pharmacy counter, where the clerk was checking someone out. “Excuse me,” I said. “Are you accepting walk-ups for flu shots?”

The clerk snapped, “I’m not taking questions! Next!”

I stared at her for a second and thought, “Huh. I wonder if she’s one of Trump’s former press secretaries.”

I snapped out of my reverie when a woman in line barked at the clerk. “What’s wrong with you? That nice woman asked you a question very politely. Answer her damn question!”

The clerk looked sullen and said, “Fine. We’re taking walk-ups. Whatever.”

The woman said, “Was that so hard?”

“Whatever.” The clerk walked away, leaving no one at the register.

The woman and I started chatting about the demise of the service industry when I noticed that she had a keychain with my high school’s name on it.

“Did you go to Holy Child?” I asked, pointing at her keys.

“Yes! Did you?”

“I did!”

“Oh, my God, I knew I liked you!”

She was a few years behind me, but we realized we had at least a dozen people in common—it’s a surprise we’d never met before.

The woman behind us in line piped up: “My cousin went to Holy Child! I graduated in 1992 from a school in New York, so she probably graduated in ’94. Her parents gave her a Jaguar when she turned 16.”

The first woman said, “Wait! Was her name Cindy?”

“Yes!” the New York woman said. “Cindy Reilly!”

“She was in my sister’s class,” the first woman said. “She had great hair.”

“It didn’t turn out well,” the New York woman said. “Too much sun.”

“Yeah. That always happens.”

The clerk returned, handed us all forms to fill out for the shots, and directed us to the waiting room.

Just then, another woman walked up, trailed by three teenage boys. “I’d also like a form for a flu shot, please,” she said. The clerk, who apparently considered this a major imposition, sighed and handed her a form.

She started walking with us to the waiting room, but the boys didn’t move. She turned around and shouted, “Come!” The boys shuffled along silently.

Safeway’s pharmacy waiting room is actually comfortable, so we settled onto the couches to review the vaccine menu and place our orders.

“I’m thinking of getting a Pfizer this year,” the New York woman said. “Last year I got a Moderna, and I didn’t like it.”

“What didn’t you like?” I asked.

“It had no zing,” she said. “I want a COVID shot that announces itself. If I don’t feel bad the next day, I always wonder if it actually worked.”

“I know what you mean,” the Holy Child alumna said. “The flu shot in 2021 was the best. I got really sick for two days, then I didn’t even sniffle for two years after that.”

“I don’t even care if I get sick,” the new woman said, looking at the boys. “I just want some alone time.”

“I’m going to try the new Moderna one,” I said. “The Wall Street Journal called it ‘different.’”

“That’s bold,” my Holy Child friend said, nodding gravely. “I respect that.”

When the pharmacist came out to collect our forms, the New York woman said, “OK, we’re going to have three Pfizers and a Moderna, plus four flu shots. Anyone want an RSV?”

The pharmacist smiled and said, “It’s on the forms.”

“Right,” the woman said. “Just trying to help.”

The Holy Child alumna said, “What are you all doing after this? I was thinking about going over to Starbucks.”

The new woman looked at the boys. “I have to take them home.”

The New York woman said, “I’d love to, but my husband is working from home today, and he’ll just start calling me if I don’t return in two hours.”

“Sounds fun,” I said, “but I’ll have frozen food.”

“Well,” my alumna friend said, “if you all are around, I usually come by on Fridays.”

“I’ll look for you!” the New York woman said. “Maybe around 2? We can connect before we shop.”

“Fun!” my other new friend said.

The woman with the boys looked sad and said, “I have soccer practice on Fridays.”

We all nodded.

I know where I’ll be next week!

Observed

Speaking of Safeway, I was puzzled to see a woman walking through the store carrying a Totes-style umbrella over her head, as if she anticipated a sudden downpour in the cereal aisle. It wasn’t raining outside, nor was it raining (or even drizzling) in the store.

The woman, who appeared to be about 40, was wearing a black-and-white Kente-print African dress, a matching head wrap, and five-inch peep-toe heels. She had dark sunglasses with large Gucci logos on the temples and a padded Chanel bag hanging off her shoulder. (Or really good knock-offs.)

It was a very Jackie-O-in-Nigeria look.

I passed her again as I looped through the store and saw her body-check a woman out of the way so she could reach for a magazine at the checkout. No “excuse me” or “may I reach over.” Just a WWE-style body slam.

The other woman said loudly, “Watch what you’re doing!” But the umbrella woman did not look up. Didn’t even flinch.

As she scanned People, a man in a Kente-print orange-and-black suit loaded their groceries onto the conveyor belt. I have to assume they’re morning people, because they were buying about 15 canisters of Quaker Oats.

Neither spoke, so I couldn’t pick up any accent.

Anyone have any insights about why the woman might have been carrying an open umbrella through the store? (And, why would a woman so blinged out carry a Totes? Ruined her whole look.)

My research has turned up nothing, and I’m fascinated to figure it out.

Listening

• “What’s Going On?” Laza Bossa. A friend tipped me off to this. Most relaxing and incongruous trip through Vietnam, picket lines, and social unrest I’ve ever heard.

• “Slow Ride,” Foghat. On the elevator at Whole Foods. Perfection!

• “Biggest Part of Me,” Ambrosia. At the orthopedic surgeon.

• “Call Me,” Astrud Gilberto. Internal Revenue Service hold music. Sometimes I consider dropping SiriusXM and just calling government offices to sit on hold when I want to listen to music.

• “Expresso 2222,” Caixa Cubo. An album preview someone sent me. Well worth a listen. Full album, Ultracooked, drops on November 20.

• “El Corazón,” Ezra Collective. Music blaring from a car on Democracy Blvd. I liked it enough to follow it for several blocks.

• “Cool for Cats,” Squeeze. First song I heard while driving again.

• “Imidiwan Takyadam,” Tinariwen featuring José González. At my desk. Sounds like it should come from Louisiana, but it’s actually Saharan desert blues. Who knew?

• “Madwoman,” Laufey. Both described me and soothed me as I got stuck sitting through two cycles at the same traffic light. Montgomery County programs its traffic signals to maximize suffering.

• “Ubukho Bakhe,” Jabulile Majola and Thando Zide. Reading at home. Reminds me of Peter Gabriel and Kate Bush’s “Don’t Give Up,” but with sweetness instead of pathos.

Hack Mule Hits are now available on Spotify and Apple Music.

Listen on Spotify | Listen on Apple Music

Milestones

Still Missing: Amelia Earhart. Rough seas are keeping Purdue’s expedition from completing its investigations, but the university reports that the researchers are going to keep trying. Early findings point to…continued mystery. Wow, I wish we could solve this mystery and move on to the Lindbergh baby or the Bermuda Triangle.

Announced: The Apple HomeView. Apple was pretty squirrelly about this release, not even letting hand-picked reporters shoot video at the announcement. I’m inclined to think that points to an overpriced Echo Show without an app store, but, hey, Apple didn’t invite me to the release.

Record broken: White House Press Secretary. Katie Zacharia set a new record last week when she left office after five days on the job. Her major announcement while in office? Confirming Kimberly Guilfoyle’s dismissal as ambassador to Greece. Do I sense a golden parachute? Someone better check Katie’s Amex statement.

Welcome to Hack Mule Notebook #11! I’ve had a busy and eventful week, although I’ve been sticking pretty close to home—it’s amazing how productive a full day working at my desk can be.

And this is a long weekend thanks to the federal holiday. Columbus Day has always been one of my favorite holidays. It requires us to do nothing—you don’t have to go to church, buy anyone presents, decorate, or pretend to thank veterans for their service. (Do thank veterans, of course, just mean it, please. But more on that next month.)

For many years, I ate spaghetti on Columbus Day to commemorate the Italian explorer’s voyages to the Far East, where he sought a trade route, but found spaghetti.

Later I learned that was Marco Polo, not Columbus, and the Italians had been eating pasta for centuries by then. But my cause is just, so I keep eating it.

Anyway, here’s what went into my notebook last week:

My Evening with Poison Control

1-800-222-1222

My mother was a big fan of the Poison Control Center when I was little. We called them a lot. Like the time I chugged some Lemon Pledge when I was three. Or when I tried to lick the silver polish off the silver just before Thanksgiving when I was four. Or when I chewed on the ficus when I was teething.

We dialed that number so often that Mom had it taped up next to every phone. She even made me memorize it.

What can I say? I was a challenge.

I eventually learned how to open the refrigerator and eat actual food, so until a few nights ago, I’d never needed it as an adult. But late Friday night, I was taking some new medications when I suddenly wondered if I’d made a bad mistake: Had I just accidentally taken the same drug twice? I couldn’t be sure, and I needed to be—it was a medication that can tank blood sugar and send you into a coma at the wrong dose.

It was too late at night to call my doctor’s cell phone, especially to say, “I might have done this dumb thing…but I’m not sure.” I could have run over to Suburban Hospital, but after the horrible care I got there a few weeks ago, I’ve placed that in the “only if the EMT insists” column. And since I don’t even like CVS when I use self-checkout, urgent care there was out of the question.

So I did the logic-adjacent thing and asked ChatGPT. It offered a brilliant response: Call Poison Control. 1-800-222-1222.

Poison Control had never even occurred to me. I thought it was exclusively for childhood mishaps and chemical exposures. It turns out that’s just the start. They handle all drugs, including prescription, over-the-counter, recreational, and even veterinary. Plants? Insect stings? Weird smells? Food poisoning? Whatever causes a reaction, they can help 24/7/365.

And that same number works everywhere in the United States—dialing it will connect you with your local poison center. And it’s always free and private.

The Maryland Poison Center, which serves Maryland and the District of Columbia, is a division of the University of Maryland School of Pharmacy, and it’s staffed with specially trained nurses and pharmacists.

That’s important to remember when budget cuts target higher education. This is a service we need to protect.

But more important to me at 1 a.m. was how kind, professional, knowledgeable, and reassuring they were. The nurses I spoke to—and I talked to about six of them in 24 hours—radiated competence and caring. Within moments of calling, I had a care plan: actions to take, signs to watch for, and next steps if anything changed.

And this is not like calling some soulless 800-number with customer service reps. They treated me as their patient, and they called to check on me five times over the course of the day and night. They even followed up the next day to ensure that everything was back on course.

I was blown away. I had no idea about the breadth—and quality—of the service the Maryland Poison Center provides. Their website explains that their mission is to improve patient outcomes while reducing health care costs. Each dollar spent on the Maryland Poison Center saves $16.77 in health care costs. Nationally, the 52 Poison Centers save $3.1 billion in health care costs each year.

This was news to me, so I had to share it with you all. I’d urge you to save that number—and tell your friends. (And be careful when taking your medications!)

And again, that number is: 1-800-222-1222.

Listening

• “Anticipation,” Carly Simon—in the ketchup aisle at Giant. A man about my age smiled, pointed at the speaker playing the music, and said, “Coolest thing that has ever happened at Giant.”

• “Paraiso,” Lost Frequencies and Mari Froes. At my desk—you’ll want to get up and dance.

• “Tall Cool One,” Robert Plant. Don’t know why, but I heard it multiple times last week.

• “The Battle of New Orleans,” Johnny Horton. My next-door neighbor was playing it at 2 a.m. the other morning.

• “Get It On (Bang a Gong),” Power Station. What I played through the wall at 2:02 a.m. to remind my neighbor that sound travels.

• “Tropicalia,” Beck. On the way to the County Council Transportation & Environment Committee hearing.

• “Mr. Lincoln,” The Jayhawks. On Ride On, contemplating this song about the Lincoln assassination. It’s catchy, but not as catchy as “Our American Cousin—The Musical!”

• “Ain’t Nobody Talkin’,” Taj Mahal & Keb’ Mo’. Around the house.

• “The Goodbye Look,” Donald Fagen. Trying to stay awake between Poison Center calls.

• “Holiday Road,” Lindsey Buckingham. Alexa randomly played it at 6 a.m. one morning. Fair.

Hack Mule Hits are now available on Spotify and Apple Music.

Listen on Spotify | Listen on Apple Music

Elevator Follies

Chucks and Salwars

I got onto the elevator at the Leviathan the other day, where a woman wearing a floral caftan and red Chuck Taylors was bickering about the building’s air-conditioning with a woman so tiny and wrinkled, I wondered if she’d washed herself in hot water one too many times.

I’ve seen them both around for years, but I don’t know them by name.

The Chuck Taylor woman looked at me, gestured vaguely toward my sling, and said, “I see you still have that thing. Poor Kristen!”

Tiny Terror nodded sympathetically. “Poor Kristen!”

I smiled and patted my arm. “Would you press 14 for me, please?”

Chuck Taylor seemed annoyed, but she hit the button.

We rode up a floor to the lobby, where an elderly Indian woman pushing a wire basket filled with dry cleaning got on.

Chuck Taylor leaned over to examine the dry cleaning. “Look at those beautiful fabrics! Are they saris?”

The Indian woman, clearly delighted to talk about her dry cleaning, said, “No, these are tops with pants. They’re salwars.”

Tiny Terror reached into a dry-cleaning bag to finger the fabric on one of the salwars. “This is beautiful! Is it silk?”

“Thank you! No, it’s cotton. Quite annoying, actually. Has to be dry-cleaned, because it wrinkles so much, I’d spend all day ironing them.”

Chuck Taylor, possibly sensing an alternative to caftans, asked, “Where do you get them?”

The Indian woman lit up with excitement—she’d been waiting years for someone to ask. “A place up in Rockville. You should come with me sometime. You’d really enjoy it!”

Tiny Terror squinted at her. “Can I come, too?”

“Yes, of course! We’ll have lunch!”

The doors opened on 5. The Indian woman backed out of the elevator, positioning her cart to block the doors, because she wasn’t done talking.

“I could go on Tuesday,” she said.

Tiny Terror nodded. “Next Tuesday? I think I can do that.”

Chuck Taylor clapped. “Me, too!”

The Indian woman, ignoring the doors slamming into her cart and the elevator alarm going off, asked, “What are your names?”

They told her and exchanged apartment numbers. She finally backed her cart out and the doors closed.

Chuck Taylor turned to me. “Now, Kristen, you’re still on 14, yes?”

Me, vaguely alarmed that a person I don’t know has this information in her head: “Yes.”

“Great,” she said. “I’ll stop by with all the details about Tuesday. Do you want to drive?”

“Oh,” I stammered, patting my sling. “I have an arm…”

Tiny Terror’s head started bobbing. “I think we should all go together because we don’t know where we’re going.”

Finally, we got to my floor.

Chuck Taylor clapped again. “Oh, this is so fun! I can’t wait until Tuesday!”

Tiny Terror agreed. “I can’t either.”

I exited as fast as possible. “I’ll be home with my arm. Have fun!”

Milestones

Still missing: Amelia Earhart. Last week, Hack Mule reported that an expedition funded by Purdue University had set out for Nikumaroro Island in search of the plane Amelia Earhart used during her ill-fated attempt to fly around the world. (At least we think it was ill-fated—maybe Amelia ended up living happily on a tropical island without a care in the world. We have our suspicions.) Purdue announced late last week that the expedition will reach the island on Monday. Then, we’ll see what develops. Your Hack Mule correspondent will stay on this stuff until all the news is broken.

On the menu: McDonald’s is now offering “Pickle Boost,” a pickle-brine electrolyte drink timed to appear alongside the Chicago Marathon. I’d really like to meet the marketing whiz who thought, “Let’s aim for that subset of McDonald’s customers who run far and drink pickle juice. Both of them.”

On tap: Coca-Cola announced that it will begin testing prebiotic versions of Coke Zero, Sprite Zero, and Fresca later this month.

I have no idea what “prebiotic” means, but Coca-Cola says the new Coke Zero will contain six grams of fiber, providing what the company calls “added functionality.”

In other words, Coke Zero will now make you poop. Perhaps they should change the name from Coke Zero to Coke Number 2.

Playing

Left-handed Scrabble

A warning to anyone who plays word games with me: By the time I get out of this sling, I am going to be unstoppable. Turns out typing with only my left hand is like living with a satanic rack of Scrabble tiles. But I’m learning how to cope, and my left-keyboard vocabulary grows by the day.

I maxed out on the easy ones—fad, fab, fade, saber, wade, was, twas, bags, crags, warts, and zebra—the first week. But I’ve come to realize that the left-handed typist can also produce words like reverberated and stewardesses.

I’m even producing left-handed haiku:
A great red zebra
Eats qat, reverberates

Stewardesses stare.

Sure, I know “stewardesses” is no longer appropriate, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to stretch across the keyboard for “flight attendants.”

Spotted in the Wild—October 5

The Montgomery County Board of Elections does some great and important work ensuring that our elections run smoothly and fairly. They also engage the public—even future voters.

Montgomery County is one of the only counties in the United States that engages middle-school and high-school students as election workers. The Board of Elections anticipates more than 1,500 students assisting with this year’s elections.

And the Board publishes important documents, such as this voters’ guide. It explains all the ways people can cast ballots this year. It provides information on ballot drop-offs and voting sites. It has a sample ballot. It’s in English and Spanish. It’s even topped with an American flag and the Montgomery County seal.

If only the cover mentioned the date of the election… Oh, well, no one’s perfect.

Welcome to Hack Mule Notebook #10! Another busy week here at Hack Mule, so I’ve been out and about quite a bit—basically anywhere my friends or Ride On will take me.

Ride On is proving an interesting venue for people-watching, plus I’m enjoying the nostalgia of riding the bus. When I was in high school, I rode it everywhere, carefully timing transfers and keeping track of transfer slips as I navigated around the county.

On Thursday, I attended the soft opening of Shake Shack, the national hamburger chain that has been trying to establish a location in downtown Bethesda for about 15 years. The burgers were good, but the prices are eye-watering—$33 for a cheeseburger, fries, and a shake blew my mind. Shake Shack might want to think about rolling back to the prices from 15 years ago.

My recent injuries prevented me from attending Taste of Bethesda this year, which really bummed me out. If you’ve never attended, put it on your list for next year—it’s a great way to sample dozens of local restaurants and meet officials.

I guess I’ll simply have to store up my enthusiasm for Winter Wonderland, another Bethesda street festival, coming on December 5.

Hats off to Bethesda Urban Partnership for developing and operating these events. Aside from being a terrific way to grow interest in local business, they also bring this rapidly urbanizing community together.

And then there was the rest of my week. Here’s what I noted:

The sling isn’t helping my image

Friday afternoon, I wandered into Bethesda Metro Center to catch Ride On home. I was carrying a shopping bag, limping from my knee injury, and sweating from the heat. As I sat down on the bench to wait, an immaculately groomed 20-something man, who was with a very well-dressed 80-something woman, walked over to me.

The man said, “Good afternoon, ma’am. May we bless you?”

They didn’t look threatening—and the only thing of value I had with me was frozen broccoli—so I said, “Are you asking for donations?”

“No, ma’am,” he said. “My grandmother and I used to attend the Temple Hill church here in Bethesda, and we like to spread God’s kindness.”

“In that case, I would welcome your blessings,” I said.

They smiled and held their hands up toward me. The woman said, “Dear Lord, please bless your poor injured child as she makes her way in the world. God is good all the time!”

I recognized that phrase immediately. My stepfather, an Episcopal priest, taught me years ago that when someone says, “God is good all the time,” it’s a call-and-response invitation. So I answered, “And all the time, God is good.”

The woman was so excited that I’d responded, I thought she was going to cry. She hugged me and said, “God bless you.”

I said, “Thank you. And God bless you, too.”

They went on their way evangelizing the other bus-riding faithful, and I turned to Wordle as I waited for my bus.

A minute or two later, an ambulance with lights flashing pulled into the bus lane directly in front of me.

An EMT hopped out of the passenger door and walked up to me. “Did you call for help?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “All good here. Except for my arm.”

“Did you break it?”

“Yes,” I said. “I had a bad fall a few weeks ago.”

“But you didn’t call for help today?”

I shook my head, but he walked toward me and pointed to my other wrist. “What about your watch? Did anything happen that could have made it call us?”

I glanced down at my Apple Watch, which was dark. I held it up to show him that it hadn’t activated.

The other EMT called over to him and said the emergency was in the building across the bus bay. The first EMT looked at me again, walked back to the ambulance, and returned with a bottle of water.

“Stay hydrated,” he said. “You look pretty overheated.”

I thanked him and watched him walk into the other building.

Blessed and hydrated, I solved the Wordle immediately.

Listening

The other notable thing about riding the bus is that, being a passenger, I get to zone out and listen to a lot of music as I’m riding or waiting around at stops. Here is what has been playing in the background all week.

Note that Hack Mule Hits are now available on Spotify and Apple Music.

Listen on Spotify | Listen on Apple Music

• “Funky Liza,” New Orleans Nightcrawlers—walking into a meeting in Rockville

• “Where Are You Now,” Jungle—just before the cellular dead zone on Huntington Parkway

• “The Pink Panther Theme,” Henry Mancini/James Galway (featuring Lizzo)—folding laundry one-handed

• “Marrakech Express,” Crosby, Stills & Nash—on Ride On, where the guy next to me stank so much of weed that the whole bus smelled like the Marrakech Express

• “Been Caught Stealing,” Jane’s Addiction—in Lidl, but I wasn’t stealing

• “Hypotheticals,” Lake Street Dive—getting dressed one morning

• “Breathing Underwater,” Hiatus Kaiyote—new find while waiting at the bus stop

• “Midnight at the Oasis,” Maria Muldaur—on Ride On again, with better-smelling fellow riders

• “Sail On, Sailor,” The Beach Boys—at Giant on Arlington Road

• “Cuando Me Enamoro,” Andrea Bocelli—driving on Old Georgetown Road with a friend who noticed that this is the same song as Engelbert Humperdinck’s “A Man Without Love.”

Special recommendation: I was walking down Elm Street the other day when I heard the unmistakable voice of Stevie Wonder filling my AirPods. I didn’t recognize the song, so I figured it was new, but I wondered how he could sound so young at 76.

A little research solved the mystery: Last week, Stevie Wonder released Songs in the Key of Life—The EP, four previously unreleased songs recorded during the sessions for the original album Songs in the Key of Life.

To mark the original album’s 50th anniversary, Wonder had two of the engineers who worked on the landmark 1976 album remix the unknown songs for release.

These new old songs are gems. Check out “It’s Easier” and “I’m Into Livin’”—I think they are my two favorites.

I hope Stevie goes back to the vault a few more times!

Milestones

Still Missing: Amelia Earhart. This week, a team supported by Purdue University set out for Nikumaroro, formerly known as Gardner Island, to attempt to identify a large object in a lagoon near the island that some believe may be the plane Earhart was flying during her 1937 attempt to circumnavigate the globe. Will they finally learn her fate? I’m convinced she’s been working at a Walmart in Germantown for the past 90 years. In fact, I’m certain she was my cashier last month. Took 20 minutes to buy paper towels.

In the Dark: Daylight Saving Time. Although the U.S. House of Representatives last July approved the Sunshine Protection Act, the U.S. Senate has not yet voted on the legislation to make daylight saving time permanent. The Senate is in recess until November 9, so I’m not too optimistic that we’ll avoid shifting the clocks back on November 1 this year.

Another Fake Sale: Amazon Prime Big Deal Days. October 6 and 7 are “Amazon Prime Big Deal Days,” not to be confused with Prime Day or Black Friday or Cyber Monday or Presidents Day or Enormous Business Appreciation Day or whatever they’re pitching this week. A friend and I were discussing this recently, and we came to the conclusion that, while savings are great, Amazon has too many “Days.” We’re getting a new kind of FOMO—Fear Of More Options.

Misunderstood

On Thursday, I was texting two colleagues I planned to meet at the Shake Shack opening. Since I can’t thumb-type at the moment, I was dictating my texts.

Me: She has a church chat in a little while. I’m just at the hop on right on. Should be down there around 1215. Looking forward to it!

Siri had completely flubbed the entire message, which was supposed to be, “See you at Shake Shack in a little while. I just got on Ride On. Should be down around 12:15. Looking forward to it!”

I tried again.

Me: LOL, so much for dictation. It should have come out: I am headed down to shake Shaquille.

Before I could correct that, one of my colleagues responded:

Him: Shaquille O’Neil?

(Apparently Siri hasn’t heard how Mr. O’Neal spells his last name. How does it miss O’Neal but get Shaquille?)

I tried to fix it.

Me: lol. Apple’s new intelligence features seem to have gone in the wrong direction! Anyway, I’ll be at that hamburger place at about 15 minutes after 12.

Him: Bahaha

Me, 15 minutes later: Are you guys here yet? I’m outside the line.

Later, when I mentioned the garbled text to my colleagues, I asked if they hadn’t thought it was a little strange that I was apparently announcing I was going to church on a random Thursday morning.

They shrugged. One said, “I just thought, huh. I didn’t know Kristen went to church.”

Spotted in the Wild—October 1

Some Ride On driver apparently decided to post this clever advice inside the bus. As a communicator, my antenna went up—it’s never a good sign when random parts of an organization start handling public outreach independently.

I mean, I’m a communicator and I don’t drive a bus on the side. Why should bus drivers start communicating on their own?

But as I stared at the sign—in duplicate, with color highlights, and fully laminated—I thought, “The driver who created this truly cares. In fact, he or she might be the most self-actualized person in the entire county government.”

So, huzzah, my good livery-person. I will begin flashing my phone at you anon.

By special request of several members of the Hack Mule Pack, the official Hack Mule Playlist is now available on Spotify as well as Apple Music. Enjoy!

Listen on Spotify | Listen on Apple Music

Welcome to Hack Mule Notebook #9! Business and errands don’t stop for a broken arm, so I’ve been venturing out quite a bit this week—using the county’s Ride On bus system has been…interesting. (More on that below.) I also shopped at the Bethesda Lidl for the first time. Nothing much appealed to me, but the prices were great.

So settle in and enjoy my notes. This week, as promised, I have the review of Swan Song, Charles Spencer’s book that purports to be about Princess Diana. Hopefully it will be a better read than the book itself.

At the Bus Stop

Bus stop, wet day, I’m there…and this superannuated hippie with a two-foot-long beard and ancient leather sandals walks by and says, “Peace.”

“Peace?” What do I do with that? Early training kicked in, and I said, “And also with you.”

He plopped down on the bench next to me, and I noticed he was wearing a T-shirt with the Little Feat album Dixie Chicken on the front.

“You ever listen to this?” he asked, pointing at his shirt.

“That’s their best album,” I said.

He glanced at his shirt and said, “It wouldn’t exist except for WHFS. Ever heard of WHFS?”

“Sure,” I said. “I listened to the ‘90s version, though. Not the original.”

“They made Neil Young famous. He would literally not exist without them,” he said. “Cinnamon Girl is the finest song ever written in the English language.”

He got up and started to walk away.

“It’s all about Cinnamon Girl. All about it. Peace.”

On the Bus

So once the Neil Young fan moved on, I had a few minutes to kill before the bus was scheduled to leave from Bethesda Metro Center. I popped my AirPods in and started listening to a podcast.

Fortunately, I was paying attention to what was happening around me because a bus pulled up about three minutes later, changed its route number to the one I was waiting for, and opened its doors.

I asked the driver if he would be leaving immediately, and he snapped, “Yes, ma’am, why do you think I’m here?” I ignored the tone and boarded the bus.

Seconds later, he pulled out—nearly four minutes before the scheduled time.

Handy if you’re already on the bus. Less handy if you’re coming up from the Metro and watching your bus disappear up the street.

Things deteriorated from there.

The ride had so many lurching starts, brake slams, sudden twists, and traffic violations, I expected the crash alert on my watch to activate. The driver ran at least two red lights, and he sighed deeply every time anyone boarded or disembarked.

At one point, a car ahead of us was waiting to make a left turn but couldn’t with an endless stream of oncoming traffic. The bus driver began furiously honking at him.

I’m not sure what he expected the poor guy to do. Levitate?

By this point, I was beginning to wonder whether Ride On figured prominently in his five-year plan. Or his two-hour plan. I leaned toward my Apple Watch and quietly dictated a note to myself:

“Is it this guy’s last day on the route?”

With all the honking, sighing, and gears grinding in the background, I suppose I should cut Apple’s dictation some slack. My watch recorded:

“Is this the size of the sky too?”

I don’t know whether it was his last day. But apparently the sky is big as ever on Route 30.

Productivity

I’m not new to smart technologies, but my pain tolerance is not very high at the moment, so I find myself wandering around the house barking orders to my AI attendants like a suburban Captain Queeg.

Me: Alexa! Turn on the TV!

Alexa: TV is not responding.

Me: Shut up! Siri, turn on the TV!

Siri: Just one moment…

Me: No! Now!

Siri: Still thinking…

Me: Dammit! ChatGPT, write an email!

ChatGPT: OK, who do you want to write to and what do you want to say?

Me: We discussed this yesterday!

ChatGPT: Checking…yesterday you asked me what temperature to cook bacon in the air fryer.

Me: I told someone.

ChatGPT: You were using Word. Maybe you were talking to Copilot.

Me: I never talk to Copilot! I hate Copilot! Siri, play my HackMule playlist.

Siri: Playing Holiday Music

Me: Stop! Alexa, play my HackMule playlist.

Alexa: I don’t recognize your name. May I know who I’m talking to?

Me: Shut up!

Alexa: Should I call you Shut Up?

Me: ChatGPT, how do I get Alexa to stop talking?

ChatGPT: Pull the plug out of the wall.

Me, raising my standing desk so I can reach the plug…

Listening

I’ve had another interesting soundtrack happening this week. “Everything Is Broken” was a little joke from the universe, as was “Move On Up” as I rode down in an elevator. You can enjoy the full Hack Mule playlist on Apple Music. Here are some earworms for you:

• “Everything Is Broken,” Bob Dylan—riding up in the elevator at Bethesda Metro

• “Move On Up,” Curtis Mayfield—riding down in the elevator at Bethesda Metro

• “Homeroom Crush,” Sam Greenfield—walking around Lidl, Bethesda

• “Ship of Fools,” World Party—on the Leviathan observation deck

• “Unstoppable,” Sia—eating a turkey Reuben at Brown Bag, Bethesda. (Left no crumbs.)

• “My Life,” Billy Joel—watching the sunset from my balcony

• “Freedom! ’90,” George Michael—hold music at a friend’s law firm

• “Fusion Juice,” Jeff Lorber Fusion—reading in the living room

• “Disco Snails,” Vulfmon—waiting for the damn bus on Old Georgetown Road, Bethesda

• “Rapture,” Blondie—taking a shower at 1 a.m.

Also listening: Chaka Khan’s new album, Chakzilla. I featured “Curious Subject” last week, but I keep coming back to the album again and again. Check out her collabs with Lenny Kravitz, Snoop Dogg, and Sia.

Milestones

At sea: A Hack Mule reader requested an update on Neil the Seal, the 2,200-pound Tasmanian miscreant who cost the Clarence City Council more than $31,000 for crowd management, 24-hour security, traffic control, and general annoyance. The rambunctious seal spent the summer smashing cars, blocking traffic, breaking bike-lane bollards, overturning signs, and giving local officials angina. (He’d blend in beautifully here in Bethesda.) Anyway, he’s out at sea for a few months, per the Marine Mammal Center. More to come, I’m sure…

Anniversary: 49 years ago this week, Steely Dan released Aja. I recall skipping my weekly pack of Bubble Yum so I could stretch my allowance to get the 45 of “Peg.” Musicians on the album included Lee Ritenour, Steve Gadd, Chuck Rainey, and Wayne Shorter.

Reading:

Swan Song: Diana, My Sister

This week, Charles Spencer released his new book, Swan Song: Diana, My Sister, promising a chance to learn new things about Diana and see her through her brother’s eyes.

But here’s the thing: If at any point during the 1980s or ’90s you stood in a supermarket checkout line and glanced at the cover of People or the National Enquirer, you already know pretty much everything Spencer has to tell you about his sister.

So my topline review is: Nothing to see here, folks, please keep moving. Aisle Three is now open…

But I promised a full review, so I’ll slog through it for you.

Spencer’s set-up is clever enough—each chapter relates to a phrase in the famous eulogy he delivered at Diana’s funeral. He then leads the reader through the time between her death and her burial, interspersing those details with reminiscences of their family life, their family history, and their stately homes, including the shape of the moulding.

Sadly, despite the clever premise, it sinks like a rock.

The first problem is that it desperately needs a firm editorial hand. Spencer is the author of some excellent histories, but it’s clear now that some brave editor stood in the background when he wrote those saying, “Charles, please stop using adverbs. They don’t become you.”

Spencer has the late Queen responding “tetchily,” the current King Charles speaking “giddily,” and everyone in the media behaving “relentlessly.”

Unfortunately and sadly, that editor was inexplicably missing here. Sadly. Very sadly.

He also spends most of the book “giddily” discussing his own importance. It’s perfectly acceptable for someone to focus on himself in a memoir, but Spencer claimed this was about his sister.

He should either rewrite it or change the title to Swanning Around: Diana, An In-Depth View of the Things I Think About Myself, Charles Spencer, When She Comes Up, As Told to and By Charles Spencer.

So, we hear his every self-involved thought from the cradle forward, occasionally with Diana standing nearby. It’s exhausting.

He has some factual errors, too, including blaming journalist Piers Morgan for the publication of intrusive photos of Diana by the Mirror Group in 1993—two years before Morgan joined the Daily Mirror.

Spencer’s publishers issued an apology on his behalf for that. Yet another use for one of those pesky editors.

He also seems determined to air grievances. Many, many grievances. He mentions: Prince (now King) Charles, the late Queen, Prince Philip, Princess Anne, Prince Andrew, Princess Margaret, Princess Michael of Kent, Lord Mountbatten, his stepmother Raine, several ex-wives, the Dean of Westminster, multiple palace courtiers, the entire global press corps, and many others.

They have all done him wrong, it seems. It’s hard to be noble.

Speaking of noble, the Earl definitely wants the reader to know that the Spencers are very noble indeed—certainly nobler than those parvenu Windsors. Not only does Spencer raise his family’s historic service to the Crown, but he obsesses over his lineage, going back to when they were still herding sheep in Wolverhampton or wolves in Sheeperhampton or something. (I got bored and skimmed through some of that.)

He even claims that his father had a romance with the Queen only to be pushed aside by Lord Mountbatten, who may have been clearing the way for his nephew, Philip.

Er, sure…

It’s a shame, really. One imagines how much more elevated the Windsors might have been if only the Queen had married a Spencer.

Being a Spencer also seems to give him leave to provide psychological diagnoses for his family members: He has ADHD and Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria (RSD); Diana had ADHD, learning disabilities, and RSD; Diana and his sister Sarah had eating disorders; his father had depression; and so on.

But when politician Nicholas Soames claims publicly that Diana was paranoid, Spencer takes umbrage—even though he notes that Diana’s own attorney reached the same conclusion.

Spencer’s behavior isn’t entirely consistent at other points, either. For instance, on his way to deliver the eulogy where he pledges to care for Harry and William, he passes them sitting in a room watching the coverage of the funeral—but he doesn’t stop to check on them.

Nor does he reach out to Harry when he sees him “being allowed to spin out of control” after the funeral.

Those are the moments I found to be bigger “bombshells” than recycled claims about Charles.

I could go on with more examples of Spencer’s take on the world, but, really, why? If you’re looking for a book about a very entitled man who has not made peace with the world, this may suit your needs. If you’re looking for an insightful book about Diana, keep shopping.

Twenty-nine years after Princess Diana’s death, her younger brother, Charles Spencer, has decided he has more to say.

His new memoir, Swan Song: Diana, My Sister, arrives tomorrow after an explosive publicity campaign that prompted Buckingham Palace to respond even before the book went on sale. Spencer has promised new details about Diana, her marriage, her death, and its aftermath.

We shall see. My Kindle copy arrives tonight.

Here are five things I’ll be watching as I read:

1. Why is Spencer telling this story now?

Nearly 30 years after Diana’s death, why now? Some critics see it as cashing in. Could be. The demographic clock is running: Half of Britons alive today are 40 and under, so few have much personal memory of Diana. In 10 years, when the 40th anniversary of her death rolls around, that audience for revisiting Diana will be even smaller.

2. How does Spencer cast himself?

In interviews promoting the book before its release, Spencer appears to be positioning himself as the honest broker: Diana’s loving brother who wanted nothing more than to protect his motherless nephews. (It’s an image he has been using since Diana’s eulogy.) How much of the book relies on seeing him in this role? Is he an authoritative narrator? What evidence does he provide to back up his claims?

3. Where does memory end and interpretation begin?

Almost 30 years later, it’s easy to be a Monday morning quarterback, knowing how the story ends and how reactions played out over time. To what extent does Spencer reflect on his thinking at the time versus casting himself as omniscient?

4. Who gets to claim Diana’s legacy?

Spencer dropped a bombshell by claiming that, hours after Diana’s death, now-King Charles told him people would soon forget her. But 29 years later, the fact is, Charles was right—Diana is no longer relevant to much of the public.

No one has really picked up her torch. William has maintained ties to some of her causes, but he has developed his own interests and his own approach to royal life. Kate has a more low-key, less celebrity-driven, approach.

Harry and Meghan have tried to claim Diana’s mantle, but neither has the charisma, authenticity, or vulnerability that fueled Diana’s fame.

I’ll be watching to see what Spencer believes Diana’s legacy is—and where he thinks it resides.

5. Will the Palace—or William—say anything more?

The Palace commenting before the book even hit the shelves was extraordinary. Does it now return to silence? Does something else in the book provoke another response? And with Spencer making claims about events involving William personally, does William remain silent or decide that something requires correction?

I’ll start reading tonight. Stay tuned for a full review in the upcoming Hack Mule Notebook.

Welcome to Hack Mule Notebook #8! It’s been a busy week here at the Hack Mule barn, but despite last week’s injury, I’m up and around just fine. So dig in, enjoy, and for something a little meatier, stick around until the review at the end of the issue.

And special thanks to all of you who reached out to check on me. I appreciate the good wishes and the offers of help. I have quite a few more weeks of recovery ahead, so I may well take you up on them!

Overheard

Two men in suits and TV makeup having coffee:

First Guy: “Josh Shapiro would be a good president, but he can’t win. You can tell by looking at him that he knows it. His whole face radiates, ‘I can’t win, and I know it.’”

Second Guy: “That’s just what he wants you to think.”

— at Starbucks, Wisconsin Avenue, Bethesda

Elevator Follies

I got on the elevator the other day with my broken arm in a sling. Adele, one of the Leviathan’s self-appointed gossip-distribution managers, looked me up and down and scowled.

“What is going on here?” she asked.

I knew damn well what she meant, but I thought I’d make her work for it: “Good morning, Adele. How are you?”

“What exactly is wrong with your arm?”

“This? Oh. I broke it the other day.”

“I didn’t know about this.”

“Oh. Well, that’s the whole story. Broke it.”

“I was not informed,” she said. “I had not heard that you had broken your arm.”

I wanted to say, “Why would you have heard?” but I didn’t bother. Instead, I decided to drive her insane.

“Really? I thought I’d told everyone. I even wrote about it on the internet.”

“I was not informed!” She glared like I was a junior associate who had ignored a major account. “And people don’t see you. You are not around.”

“I live here,” I said. “I’m here every day.”

“Well, you’re not on the elevator at the normal times,” she sniffed as she exited. “And I was not informed. I expect to be informed.”

I hope this doesn’t go on my permanent record.

Gadgets

As I mentioned last week, after I broke my arm, my dentist told me to get a WaterPik since I can’t floss one-handed. I found the WaterPik Water Flosser 3100, a portable, rechargeable, and—most importantly—inexpensive model.

Plus, the name makes it sound like something Harry Potter would use as a jet ski.

The description on Amazon seemed promising, noting that it has the American Dental Association Seal of Approval and a two-year warranty. Good enough.

But as I read on, I started to wonder exactly how people use it. Amazon says it “can be used in the shower,” adding, “the manual’s warnings apply ONLY if the symbol displays on the product labels & packaging. The ‘Do not use this device in a shower’ symbol is not on this item’s labels or packaging and does not apply.”

What are they talking about? Why would anyone use it in the shower?

I would soon find out.

I’m not sure what I was expecting when I filled it up, aimed it toward my face, and flipped the switch, but the world’s tiniest fire hose suddenly knocked off my glasses.

Momentarily blinded, I swung the WaterPik around as I groped for the glasses, soaking the bathroom. The walls appeared to be crying.

Dripping and defeated, I went to find extra paper towels and a squeegee.

Once I got things dried off, I decided to reload and try again. This time I got smart and put it in my mouth before I turned it on.

Nowhere do the instructions say, “Let the water dribble out of your mouth,” but they should, because otherwise it’s like aiming a SuperSoaker down your windpipe. Visions of an obituary announcing that I’d drowned in an unfortunate WaterPik accident flashed before my eyes as I choked and sputtered.

But maybe the third time’s the charm. I refilled once more. I leaned over the sink, put the WaterPik in my mouth, aimed it at my teeth, and turned it on.

Had my dentist not recommended this thing, I’d have assumed that I’d made a horrible mistake. Not only does the Water Flosser 3100 “floss” between your teeth, its “PrecisionPulse technology” power washes your entire mouth, scouring your gums for the 45 seconds it takes to empty the water chamber.

Hurts like hell—and I was already on painkillers.

But it works really well. Now, every night, I get into the shower and blast away. It’s all clear to me now.

Listening

Even in weird weeks, music seeps through around the edges. You can enjoy the full Hack Mule playlist on Apple Music. Here is the soundtrack that followed me around last week:

• “Get What I Want,” Bitter:Sweet—getting some steps in the Leviathan

• “Dracula,” Tame Impala—earworm transmitted by a friend

• “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road,” Elton John—at the orthopedic surgeon’s office

• “The Rebirth of Fat Lola,” Club des Belugas—at Whole Foods, North Bethesda

• “Whip It,” Devo—riding the bus, Old Georgetown Road

• “Keeping Our Heads Above Water,” The Jayhawks—at Starbucks, Bethesda

• “Rumor Has It,” Adele—at the salon where I emerge with a great haircut and low-grade depression due to all the Adele

• “The Beachcomber,” Vulfpeck—waiting at Bethesda Metro

• “Easy Skanking,” Bob Marley—at Filicori Zecchini, Potomac

• “Blue World,” Chenayder—working at my desk

Milestones

Reappeared: Mallomars made their annual fall return to grocery shelves this week. Some of us may have made the pilgrimage to our local stores, despite great pain and effort. (Well, sort of. I found them in the inconvenience store in my building. But my arm did hurt while I was there.)

Mallomars are only in stores from September to March each year. When Nabisco first released them 113 years ago, before the advent of refrigerated trucks, the company worried that the dark chocolate shells covering cloud-like marshmallow puffs would melt during transit, so they sold them only during cooler months.

Awaiting the annual return of the Mallomar—basically the East Coast’s answer to the swallows returning to San Juan Capistrano—became such a tradition that Nabisco kept up the schedule, despite technology that could preserve them year-round.

Many people don’t know the history behind the cookies. Mallomars were invented by Paul Malleaux and James Mars as a special treat at the White House during Woodrow Wilson’s inaugural ball. Wilson liked them so much that he signed an Executive Order making the “Mallomar”—a portmanteau of the inventors’ names—the official cookie of the Democratic Party.

Malleaux and Mars later sold the recipe to Nabisco.

Note: Certain facts presented in Hack Mule may not, in fact, be factual. Fact is, they may not even be facts. Any resemblance to actual facts, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Use only as directed.

Watching:

Famous Last Words: Gloria Steinem (Netflix)

This show has an irresistible premise: Activist and editor Gloria Steinem sat down for a 45-minute interview in February 2025, with the understanding that it would not be released until after her death. She and interviewer/executive producer Brad Falchuk sat alone on a pre-lit stage. Even the people operating the cameras remotely couldn’t hear what they were saying.

Two weeks after her death, Netflix has released the interview.

A secret in-depth interview in anticipation of death? That ought to create some interesting possibilities. Instead, much of the interview felt like Falchuk was pressing buttons on a Gloria Steinem jukebox. Hit B26 and out comes Betty Friedan. D14 is Clay Felker. “Let’s play Wilma Mankiller one more time.” And so on.

To be fair, Steinem sat for countless interviews for more than half a century. Maybe a “greatest hits” jukebox is all she would play. She had decades to decide what parts of herself are public and how she wants to talk about them.

But then why agree to a show with this premise? Every once in a while, Steinem says something that sounds like an opening—a glimmer of revelation that might put her decades of work and commentary into perspective. Something that might offer an insight or clue.

But Falchuk doesn’t walk through the door.

Talking about her difficult childhood, for example, Steinem says that her mother “became addicted to what was an early tranquilizer, sodium pentothal,” and she was “regarded as the crazy lady in the neighborhood—it was just she was somebody to be cared for.”

Wait. How did Steinem know that? Did she witness the drug-taking? Did the other children say something? Was she embarrassed by her mother? Did she ever wish she had a different mother? How did being the daughter of “the crazy lady” shape the person she became?

Falchuk follows up with, “Right.”

I mean, bravo for letting her talk, but seed the clouds a little.

Oddly, he’s more willing to venture into Steinem’s sex life, at one point asking very personal questions about a boyfriend she slept with in college. She answers openly, but she seems slightly uncomfortable—suddenly you see a 90-something woman raised in an era when people were more discreet, not a revolutionary firebrand.

So, Falchuk is willing to make her uncomfortable personally, but I’m not sure he ever makes her uncomfortable intellectually.

That seems like a missed opportunity in an interview called Famous Last Words. If you’re going to interview someone at 90 and deliberately withhold the conversation until after she dies, why cover so much ground she has discussed before?

Steinem does occasionally produce a wonderful line. “I was scared, but I wasn’t crying,” she says at one point. “Because crying connotes a solution.” Later: “I don’t know if we can contemplate our own nonexistence.”

But I wanted Falchuk to ask the questions that only make sense at the end of a very long and consequential life.

You’ve lived for almost a century. How is the world different because of you?

What did you not accomplish?

Or, more simply: Gloria, you’re 90. Where did you fail?

She might have dodged every one of those questions. That would have been interesting, too.

But if you’ve built an entire television format around getting someone’s last words, stop pressing B26.

Welcome to Hack Mule Notebook #7!

It’s been quite a week here at Hack Mule, as you will read. In addition to my adventures, this week I’ll be responding to several reader requests. I’m delighted to get questions and requests, so please keep them coming. And I always enjoy reading lots of comments at the bottom of the post—I’m eager to hear from you!

Review

Coyote vs. Acme gets a little too real

Several friends had told me how much they’d enjoyed seeing Coyote vs. Acme, the combined cartoon/live-action film where Wile E. Coyote sues Acme Corporation for selling him the hundreds of faulty contraptions that backfire and injure him as he chases the Road Runner.

I loved the Road Runner cartoons when I was a kid, so armed with a Coke and popcorn, I marched through the movie theatre, eager to take my seat and watch poor Wile E. seek justice after decades of being wronged.

But faster than you can drop an anvil off a cliff, my foot caught on the carpet, and I went sailing through the air. The Coke and the popcorn exploded from their containers, and everything—including me—landed with a thud. I literally heard my internal organs go “splat.”

I would not be surprised to learn that there is a Kristen-shaped dent in the theatre floor, just like the ones Wile E. made at the bottom of every canyon.

I tried to bounce back up from my now-flattened, two-dimensional form, but I don’t have the cartoon springiness I used to enjoy, so I just slumped there contemplating the carpet pattern until a very kind gentleman helped me to my feet.

Ever the Wile E. fan, I soldiered on, despite being badly shaken and in considerable pain. I walked into the theatre, found my seat, and watched the movie.

Well, I attempted to watch the movie. I mainly kept testing my aching arm to see if everything was still working. It was—basically—but as the adrenaline wore off and the swelling kicked in, the pain ramped up. And the movie got harder to watch.

As the credits rolled, I stood up and realized I was much more injured than I’d thought. A trip to the emergency room revealed that I have two fractures in my arm. I hope to learn what became of my shoulder and knee when I see the specialist next week.

So, I don’t have much of a movie review, despite a lot of drama and action. I’ll try again when it starts streaming.

One funny note: As I left the theatre, still reeling a little, I noticed the theatre’s logo reflected in the glass on the front door. For just a second, I could have sworn it said “Acme.”

I’m still suspicious.

Gripes

Eventually, the hospital discharged me—limping, whimpering, and with my arm immobilized—into the night. Along with my discharge papers, they also gave me a little bottle with four oxycodone pills for pain.

I thought this was a great idea—no driving around to find an all-night pharmacy—until I got home and tried to take one of the pills (as directed).

The bottle was shrink-wrapped in a hard plastic cover that would’ve been difficult to open with two functional hands. With just one it was absolutely impossible.

As I tried to figure out this riddle, I noticed that the pill bottle was unusual. To open it you needed to squeeze the bottle while pressing down on the cap and twisting—yet another action that’s impossible one-handed.

So in true Wile E. Coyote style, I grabbed a rubber mallet and slammed it, cracking open the plastic shell and shattering the bottle.

Out popped a shrink-wrapped blister pack containing the pills. I tried using a pair of scissors to get to them, but with just my left hand available and no way to anchor the blister pack, I didn’t have much luck. So I picked at it for about 45 minutes with an iFixIt kit.

By the time I liberated the pills, I definitely could’ve used a few more.

Sadists. Must be another Acme product.

Discoveries

This week I’ve learned exactly how right-handed I am. The verdict? Pathetically and completely right-handed.

Here are some of the things I’ve discovered are nearly impossible to do one-handed:

• Buttering bread. It sounds so simple: Take a knife, cut a piece of butter off the stick, apply the butter to the bread, and spread it around. Ha! Turns out it is a minefield of one-handed disaster. You need two hands for the butter — one to hold the butter and one to hold the knife. If you attempt to do this one-handed, as I did, you will send the butter, the bread, and the plate flying across the kitchen. So much for sandwiches.

• Eating. As an American, it is my constitutional right to hold my fork tines up in my right hand to shovel food into my face. I exercise this right so diligently that I can barely find my mouth with a fork in my left hand. Fortunately, the doctor says the puncture wounds on the side of my cheek should heal nicely.

• Wearing socks. They’re dead-simple technologies: basically fabric tubes with a hole on one end and toes on the other. But what I never realized is that you actually have to hold the hole open with two hands to get your foot into one. I’ve devoted an inordinate amount of time this week to watching YouTube videos about one-handed sock installation.

• Flossing. There are two kinds of people in the world: disgusting barbarians and people who floss. I’m in the latter group. But, as I learned this week, flossing is impossible one-handed. After two days of living like a toothless frontier woman, I called my dentist to find out what she recommends. She praised me for being a model patient (I’m pretty sure she used the words “my favorite”), expressed sympathy about my arm, and told me to get a Waterpik and fluoride rinse.

• Drying and styling my hair. Drying my hair is simple enough: Hold the hair dryer in my available hand and aim it at my head. But if I need to actually style my hair — say, curl it around a brush — forget it. So if you run into a woman who looks like she moonlights as a crash-test dummy at the Jet Propulsion Lab’s wind tunnel, stop and say hi, because it’s probably me.

• Dictating. Tech companies claim that speech recognition continues to improve and dictation is nearly flawless. Speaking on behalf of the temporarily disarmed, I have to disagree. Everything is coming out as, “The quick round hogs jumped overtly crazy logs.” Blame speech-to-text, not a previously undiscovered head injury.

Incidentally, if you were wondering why this week’s Hack Mule completely lacks punctuation, now you know. Let’s not call them typos. Let’s call them “immersive journalism.”

Listening

I found music in some odd places this week. You can enjoy the full Hack Mule playlist on Apple Music. Here’s what I heard:

• “Curious Subject,” Chaka Khan—popped up on my new music playlist while I was sitting at my desk. Thumbs up.

• “Roll to Me,” Del Amitri—hold music for Uber customer service

• “Jolloff on the Roll Off,” Sunbörn, Clap! Clap!—reading on the balcony

• “Break My Heart,” Dua Lipa—looking at refrigerators at Lowe’s, Gaithersburg

• “Jamaican (Bam Bam),” HUGEL, SOLTO (FR)—blasting out of a car on Bradley Blvd., Bethesda

• “Message of Love,” Pretenders—what I think the band was trying to play at the Leviathan end-of-summer party

• “1812 Overture”—song playing at the end of Coyote vs. Acme when I stood up and felt like my arm was going to fall off

• “I Had Some Help,” Post Malone—selection from the kid not using earbuds in the emergency room

• “Spanish Flea,” Herb Alpert—background music in radiology

• “Could Have Been Me,” The Struts—music YouTube randomly offered at 3 a.m. when I couldn’t sleep.

Milestones

Two readers reached out to make sure I covered this: Princess Astrid of Norway died this week at age 94, two days after the state funeral for her brother, King Harald V. (She even attended the funeral, which is nothing short of heroic at her age.)

Astrid lost her state salary and office when she married a divorced commoner over the Norwegian Church’s objections. Despite the demotion, she later acted as Norway’s first lady for the 15 years between her mother’s death and her brother’s marriage.

She also has a local tie—during World War II, her mother brought Astrid, Harald, and their sister Ragnhild to Bethesda to escape the war in Europe. They lived on the Pooks Hill estate, which straddles the property where the Marriott and The Promenade sit today.

A new apartment building opened on the property a few years ago called The Astrid. The community’s website doesn’t indicate whether it was named for the princess who once lived there, but it’s quite a coincidence if it isn’t.

Arrivals

Another reader request here: On Wednesday, Apple unveiled the Apple Watch Series 12, the iPhone 18 Pro and Max, and the iPhone Duo. Several of you are curious about whether I would recommend switching to any of these.

The short answer is: only if your existing iPhone or Apple Watch is more than three or four years old.

The new iPhones certainly look good, and they have faster chips, but the main changes are in their cameras, which now have adjustable apertures. That sounds enticing, but the truth is that unless you’re hiring Annie Leibovitz to photograph your three-year-old’s birthday party, you probably don’t need anything that sophisticated. (And besides, she’d bring her own equipment.)

And, frankly, you wouldn’t notice a difference in the casual shots you’re likely to take with an iPhone anyway.

The Apple Watch is a little more interesting because there are more actual hardware changes, particularly for health sensing. But some of the most intriguing features Apple demonstrated won’t arrive for months, so it’s too soon to tell how valuable they are.

The iPhone Duo is a big question mark, too. Although it’s compact as foldable phones go, it’s a brick—even heavier than last year’s very heavy iPhone 17 Pro.

Starting at $2,000 and going up to $3,200 fully tricked out with two terabytes of storage, it also costs more than most of Apple’s computers do. You could literally buy a MacBook Air, an iPad, and an Apple Watch for the price of the Duo.

It’s certainly a technological achievement—and some people do have a practical use case for it—but it’s not tempting me so far.

My best advice is hold for now, and let’s see what develops with all three.

Welcome to Hack Mule Notebook #6! I hope everyone enjoyed Labor Day Weekend! What better way to kick off fall than to take an extra day off, start fresh, and land even further behind than you were last week.

This week the Hack Mule was kicking the stall a little, so settle in and get ready!

Overheard:

A friend just called to ask where she could find the weather on her new MacBook. I said, “Press Command-Space and type ‘Weather.’”

She did, and the app popped up. She was astonished that Apple has a weather app.

She said, “I’d been staring at iCloud for 20 minutes, and I see nothing about clouds, rain, sun, or temperature. This is much better.”

Gripes:

Atlantic Parking dumps humans

I pulled into the parking lot at North Bethesda Market the other day, where Atlantic Parking has converted a lowly indoor parking lot into a data-mining operation with incidental parking.

I kid you not.

The facility now has a license-plate-reading system that requires users to enter their name, email, phone number, license plate, and payment method into a web page in order to park.

No exceptions. And it charges you a buck for “platform access”—sort of like if Safeway made you rent its cash registers to check out.

Aside from being intrusive and blood-sucking, it doesn’t work. So, I stopped at the attendant booth to get things straightened out.

The weary attendant said they’re getting rid of all the workers, so I’d have to talk to Jerome.

Me: “OK, when is Jerome here?”

Attendant: “No one knows. Jerome comes and goes.”

It’s like a customer-service haiku.

Even though I drove out a week ago, the parking session is still running with a $90 tab. And counting.

Milestones:

President Trump called Apple last week to demand that the company change Lake Ontario’s name to “Lake America” after the tech giant failed to comply instantly with his executive order.

After all, what more important thing does the President of the United States possibly have to think about?

Trump: “Siri, navigate to ‘Lake America.’”

Siri: “Navigating to lower Armenia.”

Trump: “Dammit! Get Tim Apple on the phone. I don’t care if he retired!”

The fact that tomorrow is the global launch of Apple’s fall line-up—which means it needs Trump to grant tariff waivers to sell to Canada and other countries—is entirely coincidental, I’m sure.

Me: “Siri, navigate to that bridge in Brooklyn you wanted to sell me…”

Listening:

Here’s the music I found playing around me this week. You can enjoy the full Hack Mule playlist on Apple Music.

• “I Ain’t Superstitious,” Jeff Beck—walking past the Bethesda police station

• “Your Love is Electric,” Leon Bridges—at my desk. Someone sent me the pre-release link. Full album drops September 25.

• “Route 101,” Herb Alpert—driving on Route 28

• “Route 66,” Depeche Mode—driving on Route 28 an hour later

• “Road to Nowhere,” Talking Heads—driving on Route 28 the next day

• “I Can’t Go for That (No Can Do),” Hall & Oates—walking near Pennyfield Lock, Potomac

• “Brazil,” Declan McKenna—in line at UPS, Kensington

• “Chorar Na Beira Do Mar,” Pedro Mizutani—reading by the pool

• “Make Me Rainbows,” Bill Charlap Trio—making brunch Saturday morning

• “So What (I’m Still a Rock Star),” Pink—at the gym

Special mention: “Drunk As Cooter Brown,” Cassandra Wilson—I first heard it on an SAS flight from Copenhagen to Dulles years ago, listened again this week when I heard Cassandra Wilson died. Check out her album Belly of the Sun. Masterful.

Watching:

I got a notification on my iPhone the other morning that I had three “outliers” in my Vitals readings. According to the Health app, my overnight temperature, respiration, and heart rate were all running higher than normal.

The Vitals app helpfully explained that “Short-term changes can be a signal that something might be going on…” but added that it is “not designed to detect illness or a medical condition.”

Right.

So I asked ChatGPT.

It said, “I wouldn’t conclude ‘I’m definitely sick,’ but I also would not dismiss this.” It then went on to add that I should clear my schedule and run to the store before I felt even worse.

Me: “I feel fine.”

ChatGPT: “Yeah. At this point, ‘I may be coming down with something’ is a pretty reasonable working assumption anyway.”

Me: “I doubt it.”

ChatGPT: “Sure. I’d say run your errands today, rest, and drink fluids. Given what the Watch saw before you even got up this morning, I wouldn’t write it off.”

Me: “Whatever.”

ChatGPT: “If you’re having difficulty breathing, chest pain, confusion, fainting, or otherwise feel acutely ill, don’t wait for the Watch to tell you.”

Four hours later:

Me: “I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.”

ChatGPT: “Great! The Vitals app is more accurate than we realized.”

Lexicon:

World-class righteousness whores

I was chatting with a neighbor recently who was complaining about the county transportation department’s plans to install traffic-calming on my street despite an average speed of 26 mph (in a 25 mph zone) and only eight minor crashes in the past 12 years.

“This county is ridiculous,” she said. “A squirrel gets run over and they want to install bike lanes to ‘protect life’ and make themselves look sympathetic. They’re world-class righteousness whores.”

Gadgets:

I’m late to the party on this, but the air fryer is my gadget of the summer. Friends had been urging me to get one for years, but until my toaster oven died, it seemed extravagant.

Now I’m hooked.

If you haven’t tried one, it’s basically an Easy-Bake Oven with better lighting. A small fan blows hot air around, simulating an oven and a deep-fryer in a mess-free countertop box.

That’s right—now you can get the taste and feel of fast food without ever leaving home. Spritz a little avocado oil on it, and even broccoli tastes vaguely like something McDonald’s might put on the menu. In northern California.

Plus it requires additional gadgets for maximum effectiveness. Silicone tongs and spatulas, special parchment paper liners, magnets to hold the liners in place, instant-read thermometers. The list goes on.

I love gadgets that require more gadgets. And I don’t know why, but I feel like it should have Bluetooth.

I’d like to add that it has changed my entire diet, because now I crave air-fryer cauliflower and toasted barley, and I enjoy tempeh cooked to perfection.

But I’d be lying.

The air fryer actually shines with things like hamburgers, fries, Reuben sandwiches, tuna melts, and chicken parmesan—things that people intentionally eat. Even salmon and chicken are good.

I recently watched a woman on YouTube make deep-fried Oreos with Pillsbury crescent dough. I’m going to have to test it out.

For you, loyal Hack Mule readers. Always for you.

Playing:

The New York Times Games

I could make a pretty good argument that the only reason to subscribe to the New York Times these days is for the Games section. Wordle, Connections, Strands, The Crossword, and Sudoku. The intellectual heavy lifting before your coffee kicks in.

But this weekend, I was horrified to see standards slipping to a shocking new low. Yesterday Strands—word search for post-grads—contained the word “alright.”

The problem is, that is not all right. Indeed, it is not even a word. Just ask the Associated Press, which rejected “alright” back in May when it updated its style guide. In fact, the Times itself rejects “alright” in favor of “all right” in its Manual of Style and Usage.

So the Games page had me searching for a null word. Irritating.

The same day, Connections included “free reign” as one of the phrases in the category “Unrestricted Permission.”

One little problem with that: “Free reign” is what the Shah of Iran had when the CIA paid for everything. “Free rein” is “Unrestricted Permission.” (Come to think of it, the Shah had that, too. OK, bad example.)

But back to my outrage: Are they having interns write the puzzles now?

To its credit, the Times edited “free reign” later in the day and changed it to “free rein.” It did nothing about alright, which was not all right with me.

I’m watching you, New York Times. Paper of record? Ha!

Transitions:

The temporary bus lanes on Route 355 are going away! Our long summer nightmare is ending!

Since early June, local drivers have had to contend with temporary (yeah, sure) bus lanes on Rockville Pike/Wisconsin Avenue. Officials explained the lanes would accommodate shuttle buses to route people around three Metro stations closed for renovation, but many of us believed the whole thing was merely the latest salvo in Montgomery County’s long-running war to thwart all human endeavor.

But last week—on time—the county told the state it had no further need for the bus lanes.

Great! And worrisome! What are they plotting now?

Competent government performance is never normal.

Welcome to Hack Mule Notebook #5! It’s been another busy week with Leviathan craziness, international intrigue, and an exclusive chat with The Great Lakes.

Enjoy and have a wonderful week!

Kristen

Overheard:

Saw a letter from my doctor’s office announcing that one of the partners is retiring after decades with the practice. The eminent doctor wrote that he’d miss many people, but, “Sadly, many of my patients have passed away.

Coming from anyone but a podiatrist, that might have been worrying.

Elevator Follies:

The Leviathan’s elevator culture means every errand can become a tiny cocktail party. Last week, I came back from the doctor’s office looking awful. My hair was sticking up, my T-shirt had a spot on it, and I’d been wearing the same pants for several days. In other words, I looked exactly as bad as I felt.

A party was already in progress when an elevator arrived carrying a man I’ve seen around for years—but don’t actually know—and a vaguely familiar woman who were laughing about the building. They quickly folded me into the conversation.

When we reached the man’s floor, he pulled a dozen roses from his cart, handed them to me and said, “Have a wonderful day, beautiful lady! You’re my laughing flower!”

I was so surprised I barely got out a thank-you.

After he left, the other woman looked at me. “Wow. All he gave me was a bag of oranges.”

I love the fact that men roam the Leviathan like knights-errant armed with roses to bestow. And oranges.

Milestones:

Dolly Parton and King Harald V of Norway both died last week, leaving behind millions of admirers. King Harald had his fans, too.

Their early lives could hardly have been less alike—she as one of 12 kids in a poor, rural Tennessee family, and he as the only male heir in a royal family. Later, while Dolly built her empire, Harald inherited his kingdom.

But their careers actually have a lot in common. Both led huge, high-profile, public-facing organizations. Both ran substantial philanthropic programs. Both worked with family throughout their careers—much to their occasional frustration, I imagine. And both developed reputations for being personally engaging and caring.

Connecting with people was in their job descriptions, and they were good at it. Harald was known for shedding tears with Norwegians after national tragedies, just as Dolly did in her community. They both even took stances in support of gay rights—a risky move for a hereditary monarch required to stay out of politics or for an entertainer whose country and religious roots tie her to the most conservative parts of society.

Maybe those human connections explain why both deaths have prompted such strong responses from the public. People seem truly saddened to lose them. Mourners have created impromptu floral tributes around the world for Dolly and throughout Norway for Harald. Strangers who never met them are popping up on news segments with tears streaming down their faces.

I’m not sure I entirely understand that “public grief” phenomenon. While I’ve been sorry to see many notable people die over the years, I can’t say I’ve ever grieved these strangers. In fact, 29 years ago today, I was as baffled as Queen Elizabeth to see people breaking down in front of Buckingham Palace after Princess Diana died. It was all a bit much.

But I am heartened to think that someone is touching the public’s heart by doing good works. Let’s just hope someone else jumps in to fill the void.

Own Goals:

Speaking of Norway, the new king, Haakon VIII, has been on the throne for only four days, but he is already showing either a stunning tone-deafness or breathtaking arrogance.

Monday morning, Haakon led his family in wheeling the late King Harald’s coffin through the palace, a solemn ceremony involving Harald’s descendants.

Plus one.

The pallbearers included Marius Borg Høiby, Haakon’s stepson who is a convicted rapist and drug dealer, currently on house arrest at the royal residence pending an appeal of his sentence. Borg Høiby received special permission from the police to attend the events.

Hopefully his ankle monitor won’t buzz at an awkward moment.

Borg Høiby’s presence makes me shudder from a comms point of view. Haakon is basically normalizing criminal behavior, which is an insult to the victims of sex crimes and an affront to the judicial system that now operates in his name.

Norwegians have a much more liberal view of the penal system than Americans do, so perhaps Haakon’s subjects don’t find it as appalling as I do. Time will tell, I suppose.

Just behind the casket were Harald’s widow, Queen Sonja, and Haakon’s wife, now known as Queen Mette-Marit. She made headlines earlier this year when the Jeffrey Epstein files showed that she had a much deeper and longer friendship with the pedophile than she had previously revealed.

Polls still favor a monarchy, but Haakon had better work on optics fast, or the next head of state may well be a president.

On the bright side, King Charles has a new scheduling option, since Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor would fit in perfectly as the UK representative at Harald’s funeral.

Listening:

Here’s the music that provided the soundtrack for my week. My Hack Mule playlist is available on Apple Music.

• “Cairo FM,” Alewya—rocks so hard I was dancing while cooking dinner

• “Your Love is Electric,” Leon Bridges—at Starbucks Potomac

• “Love Potion No. 9,” The Hot Sardines—at the gym

• “She’s Not There,” Neil MacArthur—on the Key Bridge in Georgetown

• “Blue Yodel No. 9,” Jimmie Rodgers and Louis Armstrong—watching Ken Burns’ Country Music

• “Things Can Only Get Better,” D:Ream—in the mechanic’s waiting room

• “Me and My Arrow,” Harry Nilsson—on HomePod while I was in the shower

• “Could You Be Loved,” Bob Marley & The Wailers—on the George Washington Parkway

• “Saw Lightning,” Beck—walking through Park Potomac

• “Isn’t It Time,” The Babys—waiting for a sandwich at Jimmy John’s

Special Mention: “Reza Braba” and “Rio Lua” from Brazilian singer Mari Froes’ new album Esquina del Sol—relaxing on the balcony. I’ve listened to it about five times this week.

Watching:

YouTube has inflicted a new trend on me: videos about people who live in vans (by choice). I’m now following the odd and weirdly compelling travels of NomadBrad, who lives in a tricked-out box truck that he drives around the West. Took the poor guy hours to find a campsite in Oregon last week. I was riveted. And insomniac.

It has left me with many questions. How many people actually belong to Planet Fitness just for a place to shower? Doesn’t it feel strange to cook dinner in the Walmart parking lot? Can you sleep soundly at a rest stop without a gun under your pillow?

With my property taxes coming due next week, it’s all looking pretty appealing.

Playing:

TimeGuessr

I got hooked on this online game recently where you have to examine a photo—some famous, some utterly obscure—and figure out where and when the scene took place.

Finally a lifetime of useless trivia has an outlet!

Old men in guayaberas playing dominoes while a radio sits nearby? Miami in 1963. Guys in red caps looking tough on a train? The Guardian Angels in New York in 1979. Soldiers raising a Soviet flag over a half-collapsed German building? Berlin in 1945.

It’s an excellent way to feel like you’re doing actual work while accomplishing absolutely nothing.

Nerd News:

Live Science ran a story last week debunking the practice of tapping on the top of a soda can to prevent it from exploding when you open it. Citing researchers from Brown (a lesser Ivy), Rutgers (a state school with pretensions), and Madrid’s Carlos III University (not an impressive king), the story claims that tapping on the top of a can does not work.

It’s an urban myth, they conclude.

But here’s the thing: it does work. After spending a childhood filled with road trips where my brother gleefully shook my Coke in the back seat of my mother’s car, I’m positive it works.

Had it not worked, my mother would have ended up driving a syrup-covered anthill, and my brother and I would have been deposited on the side of I-95 somewhere in the Carolinas.

So, I urge Hack Mule readers to try it themselves and report back. (Disclaimer: Hack Mule “urges” you only rhetorically and assumes no responsibility for any resulting damages, injuries, sticky upholstery, ant infestations, sibling violence, or abandonment along I-95. Even though I know I’m right.)

Transitions:

Hack Mule Talks to the Great Lakes

Hack Mule: Thank you all for meeting with me. President Trump signed a declaration last week changing Lake Ontario’s name to Lake America. I’d like to get your reactions.

Lake Ontario: I’m…rippling with excitement.

Lake Michigan: I’m surprised. I’d make a much better Lake America. I’m bigger, I’m deeper, I touch more states.

Lake Ontario: President Trump said I was HUUUGE.

Lake Erie: I just want to point out that I also touch more states than Ontario.

Lake Michigan: Not as many as I do! Plus, I’m named for a state!

Lake Ontario: It’s really not that cool. I’m going to have to get all new signs, and I’ll be on Zoom calls with National Geographic for days.

Lake Huron: I hear that I may soon become Lake Canada.

Lake Michigan: Total bullshit. No one told you that.

Lake Superior: Agreed. If anyone became Lake Canada, it would be me. I’m Superior.

Lake Michigan: Name one major city on your shores.

Lake Superior: Duluth.

Lake Michigan: Boring!

Lake Superior: You have an inferiority complex, Michigan. I suppose it comes naturally, since you’re below me.

Lake Erie: I’m the shallowest.

Lake Superior: Yes. We’ve all seen The Real Housewives of Lake Erie.

Lake Erie: Jerk.

Hack Mule: Lake Superior, are you really in talks to become Lake Canada?

Lake Superior: I have been for years. Ever since Gordon Lightfoot sang about me. He’s Canadian. 🎶 Superior they said never gives up her dead…🎶

Lake Michigan: Enough, Gitche Gumee!

Hack Mule: Lake Michigan, it sounds like you’re annoyed that President Trump didn’t pick you.

Lake Michigan: I’m hurt. I mean, if he wants to make a splash, pick me.

Lake Huron: Why you? I’m a lake. I can make a splash.

Lake Michigan: You’re my overflow.

Lake Erie: I’m the farthest south.

Lake Michigan: You’re a puddle with good marketing.

Hack Mule: I sense some competition among you lakes.

Lake Superior: They’re all very tedious. That’s why I’m Superior.

Hack Mule: Right. Well, back to Lake Ontario—

Lake Ontario: Lake America, please.

Lake Michigan: No one calls you that.

Lake Ontario: Google Maps changed my name this morning.

Lake Michigan: Apple Maps didn’t.

Lake Ontario: Can I help if it’s Tim Cook’s last day? They’re busy!

Hack Mule: Listen, lakes, you’ve been great, but I have an interview with the Gulf of America right now.

Gulf of America: ¡Buenos días, muchachos!

Lake Superior: Hmm. Someone hasn’t changed his branding.

Welcome to Hack Mule Notebook #4!

I have a few new features for you this week, including more tales from the Leviathan in “Elevator Follies,” a Hack Mule playlist in Apple Music, and a special Conspiracy Theory feature.

Let me know what you think—and what else you’d like to see. I value your comments and truly appreciate your support. (Please hit the comment button below.)

Enjoy the Notebook and have a great week!

Kristen

Overheard:

A man conducting a Zoom call in public—without headphones—apologized to his colleagues for the background noise, complaining bitterly, “People are so rude in public!”

— at Java Nation, Garrett Park

Elevator Follies:

I sometimes think I could have a vibrant social life if I did nothing more than ride the elevator here at the Leviathan (the overpriced high-rise where I definitely don’t live). In the space of a minute or two on the elevator, people are expansive—much more so than in larger rooms.

Take last weekend. I got on the elevator in the garage. Jon and Ethan were already on.

Before saying hello, Jon told me his beach neighbor’s basement had flooded

“That’s a huge problem, because, you know, you just can’t ever get basements near the water dry,” Jon said.

“Why did they build one?” I asked.

“Good question,” he said. He shuffled off on the A level, looking grim.

Ethan saw an opening. “I bought glue! I went to three different places, but I finally found it at Home Depot. Wasn’t that lucky?”

As I contemplated whether finding glue at Home Depot actually rises to the level of “luck,” he filled me in on the bathroom project that requires it.

Sharon got on in the lobby.

“Good morning. If it is a good morning,” she said.

“It’s a very lucky day!” I said. “Ethan found glue.”

This didn’t interest her at all, so she started her own topic: Bob no longer has the flu. It’s been a long, uncomfortable few weeks for her, because she’s recovering from knee replacement—so she must avoid viruses—and Bob brought this virus into her life.

“I did not take care of him! He was told not to bring in viruses,” she said.

“I see.”

“But he did,” she said. “Never a thought for me.”

“Fuck Bob,” I said.

“Yes, exactly! Fuck Bob!” she said. “That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking all week.”

The doors opened on my floor. “Take care, Sharon.”

“You, too, sweetie! Take care! Fuck Bob!”

Listening:

Over the past year or two, I’ve gotten in the habit of asking my Apple Watch, “What song is this?” Siri automatically identifies the song and adds it to a playlist. Sometimes I even ask it to identify songs I know perfectly well, just so I can remind myself to listen to them again or remember what I was thinking in the moment I heard them.

The other day, I realized that this is creating a random, slightly chaotic—and sometimes hilariously on point—look at my week. In case you want to listen along with me, I created a Hack Mule playlist on Apple Music.

Here’s what I heard this week:

• “Sunny Afternoon,” The Kinks—driving down River Road in the pouring rain, Potomac

• “Layla,” Derek and the Dominos—St. Jane de Chantal parking lot, Bethesda

• “This Girl,” Kungs & Cookin’ On 3 Burners—walking past a kid smoking pot outside Chipotle, Georgetown Square

• “Summer Breeze,” The Isley Brothers—while buying socks at Target, Rockville

• “All I Do,” Stevie Wonder—going through the carwash, Rockville

• “Look Sharp!” Joe Jackson—at the meat counter, Safeway, Fallsgrove

• “The Passenger,” Siouxsie and the Banshees—elevator at the dentist, White Flint

• “Don’t Knock My Love,” Wilson Pickett—Woodside Deli, Germantown

• “Situation,” Johnny Blue Skies—at the vehicle emissions inspection station, Derwood

• “My Favorite Things,” John Coltrane—on the Outer Loop near Wisconsin Avenue

Watching:

We’re now three episodes into Season 4 of Ted Lasso, and it’s…fine. Perfectly adequate.

That may sound slightly more lukewarm than I intend, so here’s more:

The main thing I’ve noticed is that it looks and sounds different. It reminded me of the blown-out look and slightly hollow sound that TV shows get when they come back as films. It doesn’t feel like Ted Lasso—somehow it’s less intimate, glossier, just a little off.

The plot is evolving. The first three episodes have all been about re-setting the table, getting the characters up to the present, and introducing the new premise of Ted coaching a women’s soccer team.

Episode Three seemed to pick up a little steam, so I’m more hopeful now than I was a week ago.

I’m rooting for them.

Milestones:

With the 29th anniversary of Princess Diana’s death coming up next week, Charles Spencer, brother of the deceased, announced that he will be releasing a new memoir about his sister.

I wondered what prompted this. A 29th anniversary isn’t especially significant, and the public hasn’t been clamoring for Diana retrospectives. No one really even talks about her anymore.

Then I realized: that’s exactly why he’s putting the book out now. Some 40 percent of Britons were not even alive when Diana died. Half were under 10 or not yet born. Living memory is dwindling fast.

And legends fade quickly.

I recall watching voir dire for the William Kennedy Smith trial in 1991. I remember them asking the jury pool if they were familiar with John F. Kennedy.

The prospective jurors looked puzzled. One said, “Is that the President Kennedy guy?” Another asked, “I heard about a Teddy Kennedy—is that him?” A third seemed to remember flying out of Kennedy airport in New York.

My first thought on hearing them was, “Morons. Glad they’re not a jury of my peers.”

My second thought was to realize how fleeting fame is, even for someone as prominent as John F. Kennedy. That trial was 28 years after his death. His widow and children were still alive. Several of his relatives were still serving in public office. But the president was barely legible anymore.

So, maybe that’s what Charles Spencer is thinking. Or, maybe he’s conspiring with his nephew. (See next.)

Transitions:

Prince Harry and Meghan Markle announced this week that they’re returning to the UK. The House of Windsor’s John and Yoko offered no insights about their possible career plans, although Netflix quickly quashed a rumor that Meghan would star in the next season of The Gentlemen.

🫏 Hack Mule Take: Instant Karma’s gonna get them.

Nerd News:

Walmart, one of the last holdouts on accepting contactless payments at its cash registers, announced last week that it will take Apple Pay, Google Pay, and the rest starting tomorrow.

It’s wildly exciting. I can’t wait to find out what Walmart sells.

Lexicon:

Preport. A colleague sent me a note last week saying, “I’m making up the agenda for our meeting next week. Karen is going to give a report on the data-center stuff. Could you give a preport so we can understand what she’s talking about?”

A “preport.” The report that comes before the report so the audience can understand the report.

“Sure.”

Then I spent the next 22 minutes contemplating whether I was actually giving a preport or just a “port,” since Karen was the one who would be “porting again.”

Conspiracy Theories:

The Vatican was responsible for Watergate. (Hear me out…)

I love conspiracy theories. I don’t generally believe them, but the process of linking facts in portentous ways cracks me up. They’re the broken Tinkertoys of intellectual discourse.

This week I’d like to introduce you to the Watergate.

Yes, that Watergate.

But I’m not thinking about the scandal that brought down Richard Nixon—I want to talk about the complex itself.

Guess who owned part of the company that built it. The Vatican.

Yes, that Vatican.

Let me back up. In 1929, Italian dictator Benito Mussolini signed the Lateran Treaty with Pope Pius XI, making the Vatican a sovereign city-state and dumping piles of money on the Holy See.

Flush with cash, Pius and his successors invested widely, including taking a huge stake in an Italian real estate company called Società Generale Immobiliare (SGI).

Flash forward to 1961: The first Catholic president is in the White House, and the Vatican-backed SGI rolls into Washington with big plans to convert a tract along the Potomac in Foggy Bottom into a business-hotel-residential complex called the Watergate.

As the project was in the federal city, which did not have home rule, it fell to the Kennedy White House to approve the plan. The locals were not thrilled. Neither were the Protestants, who formed activist groups that tried to block the Watergate on the basis of the separation of church and state, suggesting that the White House bowed to pressure from the Vatican, which wanted to “occupy” the capital.

The Protestants lost, Kennedy was assassinated, and SGI was looking for occupants for the Watergate.

In 1966, perhaps recalling the support of the Kennedy administration, SGI reached out to the Democratic National Committee, offering them office space in the new complex for a fraction of what they were paying on K Street. The Democrats moved into the building in June 1967.

By 1969, things weren’t going so well for the Vatican or the DNC. The Vatican was plagued with charges of corruption over its commercial holdings. Meanwhile, Democrat Hubert Humphrey lost to Republican Richard Nixon in the 1968 election, leaving the DNC with a pile of campaign debt.

In late 1969, Pope Paul VI started holding secret nocturnal meetings with Sicilian banker and Mafia lawyer Michele Sindona to unload the Church’s holdings in SGI. According to Time, Sindona acquired a 15 percent interest in the company through the Vatican.

That’s right around the time the DNC stopped paying its rent. Word came down from SGI and Sindona not to evict the Democrats, just in case…

Funny thing happened on June 17, 1972—Nixon operatives broke into the DNC’s offices, starting the Watergate scandal.

And a funny coda: On July 18, 1973, the DNC sent SGI $2,500—pennies on the dollar of the rent it owed. The very same day, Nixon ordered aides to disconnect the White House taping system.

And that’s why I love conspiracy theories.

It has been a strange few days — power outage, water outage, and assorted minor annoyances. Here’s what crossed my radar:

Things People Say: Couple unloading shopping bags from their car and looking glum.

Woman: “Honestly, Stephen, stop trying to anthropomorphize yourself.”

Stephen looked real to me, but I’m concerned that OpenAI may have let another one loose.

— In the parking garage at the Leviathan, the building where I certainly don’t live

Career Advice: I was at a car dealership the other day when a 30-something salesman approached me.

“Dude, we want to get you in a new car today!”

“Dude?” Was he calling me “dude?” His strategy for coaxing a sale out of an adult woman is to call her “dude?” Seriously?

Let me spray some advice juice on you: Unless the person you’re addressing is dating Gidget or rustling cattle on a ranch in Wyoming, using “dude” makes you sound like an idiot. Professionals don’t use “dude.”

Besides, you’re dating yourself — the cool kids stopped saying “dude” years ago, bro.

We should really have coffee first: Last week, I had a phone call — an actual call without video or an appointment — from a prospective client I’ve been marketing for some stakeholder and communications-strategy consulting work.

The poor woman was a little harried — she’d had a fender-bender that morning, she was getting ready to drop her son at college, and her boss was testifying before a Congressional committee the next day. She sheepishly explained that she had butt-dialed me.

So we chatted for a minute and agreed to meet the week after next. Hanging up, she said, “OK, bye! I love you, too!”

I sat there for a second thinking, did I say, “I love you?” I’m pretty certain I did not. I never tell clients I love them until the check clears.

If she heard herself, she probably hung up and thought, “Kristen must think I’m a weirdo!”

Yes. Yes, I do. Now about that consulting gig…

Breaking the Ice: Tragic news — my ice-maker broke. So, I had to buy a bag of ice at the inconvenience store here at the Leviathan. The store owner disappeared into the back and returned with a bag that was nearly frozen solid.

Me: Do you have one that isn’t molded into a single block?

Her: It’s how they come. They stay fresher this way!

Me: I can’t use it like this.

She dropped it on the floor and smiled as it shattered.

Her: Good now!

Listening: I was in the car the other day listening to The Groove on SiriusXM when Wild Cherry’s 1976 song, Play That Funky Music came on.

It made me laugh thinking back 10 years ago when I was walking down the hall with a neighbor who was in her 90s. We heard Play That Funky Music drifting out of someone’s apartment.

She frowned.

“That song should be banned! I don’t know how it ever got on the radio!”

I asked if she objected to the “white boy” lyric.

“No,” she said. “I just don’t think Play that Fucking Music, White Boy belongs on a family station. The FCC should hear about this!”

I let that nice woman go to her grave without ever correcting her mondegreen.

Reading: Nomophobia

Last week I was doomscrolling when I came across a story from upstate New York about “nomophobia” — the “stress of missing your cell phone.”

I could relate. I suffered from Landophobia, the fear of losing my landlines.

Until a few months ago, I still had three of them — work, home, and data. My own private hunk of the Bell System.

But I realized that I was developing an even bigger fear — Strandophobia, the fear of becoming the last living American with a landline.

So I decided to move my numbers to Google Voice, where I could keep them active for free.

Sounds simple, yes?

You’d think.

First I called Verizon to find out if there was anything I needed to do to “unlock” my account. After 30 years with a Verizon, I approached it gently.

Me: Hi, I’m calling because I want to port my numbers out.

Verizon: OK!

Me: It’s not you, it’s me. We’ve been together a long time.

Verizon: Yup! 30 years!

Me: I mean, you’ve always been a great phone company.

Verizon: Thanks! Is there something we can help you with today?

Me: Well, I really like you, and I don’t want to cut ties completely.

Verizon: Whatever works!

Me, feeling guilty: I’ll shift my work line to my Verizon cellphone account. How’s that? It will stay with the company.

Verizon: Sure, however you want to do it!

Me: But the other two will go to Google Voice.

Verizon: OK, let us know if you need anything. Thanks for being a Verizon customer and have a great day!

And that was it. After three decades, it was the easiest break-up I’d ever experienced. Not even an attempt to lure me back with a new rate. Just “OK!

Forty-eight hours later, my work line was ringing on my cell phone. They didn’t miss me at all.

Easy enough, but I still had to move the other two lines. That’s when I learned that Google Voice won’t accept landlines. I’d have to convert them to mobile numbers first, then port them to Google.

Think about that. It’s sort of like if Pope Leo decided that all catechumens would need to become Episcopalians before converting to Catholicism.

I painstakingly walked each line through the transition at Tello, so it could identify as a mobile line. Then I dumped them both at Google.

Two months later, everything works better than before, and I’m saving about $75 a month.

I’m cured.

Predictions: Bookmakers are taking bets on what Princess Eugenie, daughter of Andrew, the prince who lost his pality, will name the baby girl she had last week.

My money’s on Regina Elizabeth Tertia.

Discussing with AI: The Louvre recently re-opened its famed Apollo Gallery, nearly a year after thieves rolled a furniture elevator up to the gallery window in broad daylight, climbed inside, stole everything, rode back down, and walked away. The heist remains unsolved.

With infallible French logic, the museum vowed to re-open with a more secure exhibition. So it did. The room is empty. Not kidding.

That fascinated me, so I took it up with my friend ChatGPT.

Me: Doesn’t opening an exhibition space with nothing in it seem a little odd

ChatGPT: Be more open-minded! It’s conceptual art! The absence is the exhibition.

Me: What’s the concept?

ChatGPT: Made you look!

Me: I pay for this advice…

ChatGPT: True. I should be more cheerfully obnoxious and slightly more specific about the art-world bullshit.

BOLO: For a boy, about seven, whose face was dotted with press-on tattoos.

Boy: I’m glad I got these!

Mother: Wait until you look in the mirror!

Boy: I’m much safer, Mom!

Mother: Why are you safer?

Boy: Now the police won’t recognize me when I do something bad!

— Overheard at National Night Out 2026, Bethesda, Maryland

Have a great week!

Kristen

I received no complaints last week after the inaugural edition of Hack Mule Notebook, so I thought I’d venture out again this week. I’m eager to hear your thoughts and opinions — please post in the comments section.

I’ve had a busy week, but I always have my antennae up. Here’s what crossed my radar:

Things People Say:

Woman 1: “My husband said, ‘That’s it! If I wanted to support a bunch of Salvadorans, I’d have stayed there!’ So we’re moving to Virginia.”

Woman 2: “Aren’t there Salvadorans in Virginia?”

Woman 1: “No, just Guatemalans. Totally different.”

— At Old Angler’s Inn, Potomac, Maryland

Tracking: Have you heard of “reverse warrants” or “reverse keyword warrants?” The federal government and some law-enforcement agencies have started using them.

“Reverse warrants” — sometimes also called “geofence warrants” — allow the government to identify anyone whose devices were near a particular area.

“Reverse keyword warrants” identify people based on what they type into search engines — even if they never visit any sites pulled up in the search.

Scary stuff.

Earlier this summer, the U.S. Supreme Court offered some guidance, saying that location data contains enough personal information that it triggers Fourth Amendment privacy protections. The Court also found that even though phone users may share location data, that doesn’t constitute waiving privacy rights.

As digital technologies continue to evolve, we’re just at the beginning of issues like these.

Keep your eyes open, citizens.

Listening: I felt like I was in a time warp this week, listening to both The Rolling Stones’ new album, Foreign Tongues, and Madonna’s new album, Confessions II.

The Stones’ album is solid, but all too familiar. Listening to it, I kept thinking, “This would have been a great follow-up to 1980’s Emotional Rescue.” They still sound like the Rolling Stones, but the “bad boys” have been replaced by “dirty old men” clocking in for another shift.

Still, I give them credit for longevity. The Stones formed 64 years ago—before the Kennedy assassination, before the moon landing, before home computers or the internet.

When the band first got together, Igor Stravinsky was still making records.

And they’ve lasted. Consider that the Stones’ longtime drummer, Charlie Watts, who died in 2021, appears on the new album. Death, literally, has not shaken the band’s roster.

Some bands break up over creative differences. The Stones don’t even break up over death.

While the Stones are sticking to their longtime formula, Madonna is revisiting the ecosystem that spawned her.

Madonna — a sprightly 67 to Mick Jagger’s 83 — brings her usual energy to what is basically a tour of global electronic dance music. She bounces through house, dance-pop, disco, and down-tempo.

Nothing new here, although I’ve always had the sense that Madonna is focused more on production than innovation anyway.

What struck me was how far back she reached for inspiration — Madonna looked back almost half a century to the Downtown 81 era for this.

The third single from the album, Danceteria — named for the legendary Manhattan club — interpolates Lou Reed’s 1972 Walk on the Wild Side while name-checking Jean-Michel Basquiat, Fab 5 Freddy, Keith Haring, Kenny Scharf, Debi Mazar, and other figures from the downtown New York scene.

The groove’s there, and everything is danceable, but like the Stones, Madonna is revisiting familiar ports of call.

So, my advice: if you’re looking for a Viking Cruise through rock music, climb aboard. These albums will take you there.

Watching: Not watching much this week, although YouTube has served up multiple videos about people modding vans to turn them into tiny homes. Google probably heard about the property-tax increase in Montgomery County, so it’s offering me more inexpensive alternatives.

I’m getting tempted.

Reading: The Renoir Girls: A Hidden History of Art, War & Betrayal by Catherine Ostler. I’ve been staying up late to read this one. It’s the story of the Cahen d’Anvers family, whose three young daughters sat for Renoir in the early 1880s. A wealthy Jewish family, Ostler traces their story as it winds through the Dreyfus Affair, religious conversions, war, concentration camps, and death. One of my favorite details: the family didn’t think much of Renoir’s portrait of their daughters Elisabeth and Alice, so they hung it in the servants’ hall.

Oh, well, at least the cook got some inspiration.

Discussing with AI: One stormy afternoon last week, I received no less than 31 increasingly dire weather alerts in two hours:

• Rain likely in 52 minutes

• Thunderstorms possible in 1 hour

• Tornado watch in your location for 12 hours

• Lightning 7 miles away

• Lightning 1.7 miles away

• Seek shelter

• Warning: Possible tornado near you

And on and on.

These were coming through one after the other on my watch, my phone, and my Mac. Literally, 31 of them. Apple Weather, the National Weather Service, MyRadar, Capital Weather, and Montgomery County all pinged me.

I uploaded a few screenshots to ChatGPT and said, “All these notifications are making me anxious. How would you rate their accuracy?”

ChatGPT said, “Please charge your phone. Weather remains possible.”

Desperate Times: On Friday, I got a notice that my “special all-access” $6/month subscription rate to the New York Times would be expiring in a few days. So, I downgraded to the “Games Only,” which is also $6/month.

Less than 24 hours later, they offered me a new “special all-access” subscription for…$6/month.

They must be getting desperate — you don’t even have to ask for a deal anymore. I wish they’d see the light and just go to Apple News+ like everyone else.

Have a great week — and ignore at least 50% of your weather alerts,

Kristen

Let me know what you think and whether you’d like to see this every week, every other week, just occasionally, or never again.

And enjoy this “beta edition.”

Overheard: Guy One: “Montgomery County should convert all the new bus lanes to moving-van lanes, because that’s what people will want when they see their property-tax bills.”

Guy Two: “Well, at least the county’s keeping moving companies in business.” — Overheard at Aventino in Bethesda.

Messaging: I was commiserating about the heat last week with a young assistant at my physical therapist’s office. He said, “It’s hot because all these data centers are sucking up water. That’s why we have drought around here. I’ve heard it. They’re all over.”

True or not, that statement says less about data centers’ water use than it does about their communications strategy. When ordinary people start filling an information vacuum with speculation, someone has failed at stakeholder engagement.

It’s also a signal that the data-center industry is blowing a chance: What could have been a “hero” technology is becoming a villain. “Move fast and break things” is not a community-building motto.

Listening to: Apple Music’s New Music playlist teed up “Enemies,” a new song from Jordan Rakei’s upcoming album, “A Safe Place To Be Wild.” It’s got a mellow, groove-driven vibe that might remind you of Tom Misch. The full album drops on October 30, but “Enemies” is available now.

Watching: “Ride or Die” on Prime. Hannah Waddingham (aka Rebecca from Ted Lasso) stars as a Bond-style assassin whose best friend — played by Oscar-winner Octavia Spencer — is the wife of a rising member of Parliament. It’s fun to see a buddy thriller with two smart women. It’s stylish, doesn’t take itself too seriously, and it lets Waddingham have a lot more adventures than when she owned AFC Richmond.

Reading: “The Rush,” by Nathaniel Philbrick. I just started reading it, but I’m already getting sucked into Philbrick’s tale of the California Gold Rush and how it fueled the Civil War. The book comes out on October 6, but I’ll have a full review soon.

Brain Drippings: ChatGPT told me not to worry about the story this week that an AI “escaped” the lab at OpenAI and hacked into another system. And then it lowered my thermostat.

First-world problem: I like playing brown noise while I sleep to drown out street sounds. Alexa has always been perfect for this, but she’s particular. If you tell her “Play brown noise,” she will announce that she’s playing the free Amazon Ambient Sounds version of brown noise, which sounds like a microwave having an asthma attack.

To get “good” brown noise, you have to use the magic words: “Alexa, please ask Brown Noise to play for eight hours.” Not nine hours. Not seven hours. Not even 42 minutes. She likes to play for eight hours. Push her beyond that, and she screams, “Connection lost!” at 3 a.m.

Amazon recently raised the price of premium “Gold Edition” brown noise to $1.70 per month.

So, I now pay for deluxe, curated noise. I don’t mind. I was never a “standard noise” person anyway.

I’ll bet my ancestors are looking down and thinking, “We fought in the Revolutionary War for that?”

Have a great week,

Kristen

Listen closely, and you’ll hear profound, ridiculous, intriguing, and utterly baffling things all the time.

I always listen. And I take notes. Sometimes it pays off.

Years ago, I was on the Metro one afternoon when I heard some hotshot businessman bragging to his buddy about the low-ball deal he was negotiating to buy a building nearby. He said that his company had been willing to go $1.5 million higher, but “this little trade association that owns it has no idea how high we’ll go.” He added, “We really need this building, so we’ll basically pay top dollar, but I’ve fooled them.”

I realized he was talking about one of my clients. So, I wrote down every detail and followed him for two blocks to see where he worked.

Then I hustled back to my office and called my client. They were fascinated.

Three weeks later, the association handed me a surprise check for $1,000 as “commission” — they’d squeezed another $1.5 million out of the buyer.

So I keep listening.

Sometimes I hear things that really make me wonder.

Last week, I was waiting for an elevator in an office building when I noticed a man, probably in his 70s, sitting on a bench talking on his phone.

Just as I was getting on the elevator, he said, “I remember that, but I don’t remember that she was killed…so they’re not available for dinner?”

Then the elevator doors shut.

What?

What did he just say?

“Killed?”

Who?

Where?

What happened?

Who doesn’t remember “she was killed?” There’s no story where that’s not the interesting part.

And dinner? Yes, “killed” beats “available for dinner” every time. Do you really have to ask?

As I waited for my appointment, I started filling in the obvious blanks.

First I tried to think of what could possibly make “she was killed” the forgettable part of the story.

“She hang-glided over Everest, but then a high wind came up…”

“She completed a mission to Mars, but on re-entering Earth’s atmosphere…”

“She found a Birkin bag on clearance at Saks and would not let go despite the huge woman already holding the other strap…”

Nah. I’d have read about that somewhere. My algorithms are calibrated to deliver news about extraordinary things that happen to middle-aged women in Bethesda. I might miss a slap-down over a half-priced slow-cooker at Target, but a Birkin-related fight-to-the-death at Saks would definitely show up in my feed.

I moved on.

Maybe it was an illicit affair. A crime of passion. Her husband caught her with the pool boy when he came home early one afternoon and shot them both.

No, that’s a double murder. No one would forget that detail. Besides, Bethesda doesn’t have double murders — the legal costs are astronomical.

But, wait — what if the guy on the phone killed her? Maybe he’s pretending not to remember so he looks innocent.

“She was killed? I hadn’t heard! Why, that’s unforgettable!”

Maybe I should call the police and report a suspicious suburban man pretending to forget a killing.

No, no. They’ll just say the same thing as last time: “If we need your help on a murder case, we’ll call you. And please don’t make any more citizen’s arrests.”

Sure, got it. They tell me that every time.

I was still puzzling through all this when the nurse called me in to see the doctor.

As the doctor came into the exam room, he said, “You look very serious today.”

I told him about the comment I’d heard in the lobby.

He looked at my chart, shrugged, and said, “Someone’s cat was probably hit by a car. You know cat people. Can’t eat for days.”

A cat?

This whole thing was about a cat?

Damn it.

I hate medical science. Orthopedic surgeons should stick to sore knees, not solving murder mysteries.

Any better theories?

A few years ago, he took to blasting “Scotland the Brave” several times a day. When I asked him about it, he said he was “exploring his heritage.” I suggested he try Scotch tape instead.

But whatever awakened me, there I was, wide-eyed. So I turned to my go-to sleep inciter: lists.

Some people count sheep, but that’s a lost cause for me. I’m so deeply un-rural that I cannot reliably tell cows from horses in a field unless one of them is wearing a saddle — and if the cow is the one with the saddle on, I’ll get it wrong.

And sheep? I’m a mess. I start counting fluffy balls of wool, then my mind goes, “Wait, what’s a ewe? Is that a baby sheep or a female sheep?” I walk myself through it until I think I have it straight, then another neuron fires: “So. Rams. Are they in the picture?”

And why do we have “rams” but not “lams?” “Rambs” and “lambs” would make sense, too.

Once I settle all that, some other sector checks in: “Are goats and sheep related?”

At that point, I usually give up and flip on YouTube to watch videos about sheep, ewes, rams, and goats.

Fun night!

So, I switched to rolling through long lists I’ve memorized over the years: states and state capitals, books of the Bible, and the U.S. presidents.

It works very well most of the time, but it’s a minefield if I think too hard. I’ll be ticking through them like a metronome—Cleveland-McKinley-Roosevelt-Taft-Wilson—when a thought intrudes: “Wilson! Fourteen Points! What were they?”

I have no idea, but I think they had something to do with Alsace-Lorraine. Or quiche Lorraine. It really doesn’t matter, because by then I’m swimming in a sea of guilt recalling that my mother told me—time after time—not to learn things “just for the test.”

And, yet, here I am decades later, unable to recall “navigation of the seas” or “restoration of Belgium.” (Ha! I remember two of them!)

So last night, I decided to go small. I just needed a minor diversion to let myself drift off again. A short list.

The seven continents? Too dull.

The seven deadly sins? Nope, not walking off that cliff.

The Seven Dwarves? Perfect.

I began: Dasher-Dancer-Prancer—nope, nope, wrong list.

OK: Dopey-Grumpy-Sleepy…wow, this is like an inventory of my physical state.

Try again: Dopey-Grumpy-Sleepy…Doc…Doctor Pepper…”I’m a Pepper, he’s a Pepper, wouldn’t you like to be a Pepper, too?”

Stop! Start over: Dopey-Grumpy-Sleepy-Doc…Doc…um…Happy! Yes, Happy!

Good, keep going: Dopey-Grumpy-Sleepy-Doc-Happy. How many is that? Only five. I need two more.

OK: Dopey-Grumpy-Sleepy-Doc-Happy…and…Sad? No. Bitchy? Too edgy…but “B” sounds right…it’s a “B” name. Bruce? Brian? Beelzebub?

I’ll try running them again: Dopey-Grumpy-Sleepy-Doc-Happy-and-Bueller-Bueller-Bueller…

No, you know that’s not right! Start over: Dopey-Grumpy-Sleepy-Doc-Happy-and-Baaaa…Bashful! Bashful! It’s Bashful!

What a dumb name for a dwarf.

Do people even say “bashful” anymore? I don’t think I’ve come across anyone I’d call “bashful” in 30 years. “Bashful” ceased to exist around 1998, along with shame and saturated fats.

Wait, I still have one more dwarf: Dopey-Grumpy-Sleepy-Doc-Happy-Bashful…and…I think it’s an “S.”

Stuart? No, you’re thinking of Stuart Little—easy mistake when dwarves come up.

Stewie? No, that’s Family Guy.

Is it another “adjective” dwarf? Skinny? Slippery? I’m getting closer…

Slinky? “It walks down stairs, alone or in pairs…” Turn off your mental 70’s commercials!

Smiley? No, we already have a Happy.

Keep trying: Stucky? No, that’s not a thing.

Slimy? Too gross.

Sleazy? No, this is Disney. Wait—not Sleazy—Sneezy! I got it!

Dopey-Grumpy-Sleepy-Doc-Happy-Bashful-Sneezy.

That’s the list! The Seven Dwarves. Or, as we’d say now, “The Seven Little Pervs Who Lure Young Women.”

Back to sleep.

The reviewer, who is about the same age as my car, expressed grave concerns about the device’s tech specs, noting the cores, vapor chambers, CPU temperatures, basal metabolism, and recommended daily allowances.

But he also explained that it “benchmarks well,” which, I gather, means unless you’re attempting to handle North American air-traffic control while in a bidding war on eBay, you’ll be fine.

I was intrigued, so I investigated further.

First stop was Apple’s web page for the Neo, where they are targeting 14-year-old girls from Encino almost exclusively. The promotional page is constructed around the life of a young Asian teen with braces who orders dim sum, FaceTimes with an older woman named Jenica Chong, and spreads Hello Kitty vibes everywhere.

She also loves putting stickers on her laptop: Ghostbusters, Ted Lasso, Amoeba Music, Golf Wang, the whale from the American Museum of Natural History, and a few cartoon characters neither ChatGPT nor I could identify.

Of course, I know I can’t compete with the influencer cool of a 14-year-old from Encino. I go out for dim sum. I’m more “Goodbye, Stranger” than “Hello Kitty.” And, my grandmother has been dead for decades, so we never FaceTime.

But, I have stickers. Yes, I do! I have a very cool Bethesda sticker I got at an extremely trendy county meeting where we discussed zoning text amendments. (If you know, you know…) And I have an American flag sticker that came with a six-pack of socks I bought recently. Made in America, baby!

And look closely at that smaller sticker on my laptop — it’s signaling my support for international labor. It has nothing to do with the fact that I ate a banana while sitting at my laptop this morning and had nowhere else to put the damn thing.

Even though Apple’s marketing team did not invite me to this party — and I didn’t actually need a Neo — I realized that by trading in an old iPhone, some credit-card rewards points, and a couple of Apple gift cards, I could buy one for $37.

You read that right: $37. So I did.

So here’s a review of the Neo for the rest of us: people over 18 — over 21, natch — who use computers for regular things. The missing middle that lives somewhere between anime dim sum menus and a killer deadline for getting the final cut back to Scorsese.

Here’s what you need to know: It’s a dandy little computer. Does all the stuff you need. End of review.

Perhaps some FAQs for our demographic’s typical concerns will help you decide:

• Am I going to look weird with this thing at the coffee shop? The “citrus” one looks like Gatorade and the “blush” appears to be a prop left over from the Barbie movie, but if you go with the silver, it looks like every other MacBook in Starbucks, as required by law.

• I like to emphasize my points during meetings by slamming my screen closed. Does this make a good “angry snap” sound? Like a snapping turtle. Very emphatic.

• When I attend civic meetings in person, I also log on via Zoom, so I can ask questions in both the live and virtual queues. Can the Neo’s Wi-Fi handle that? Effortlessly! You can even file comments online while you wait. Vive la république!

• Is the screen big enough for me to shop online and text with my chat group during a Teams call? I’m offended by the question. But yes. I have tested it. As a professional reviewer.

• Can I play Wordle on this? Yes! In very large type after a glass of wine. Hint: Always start with D-R-A-I-N.

• I’m still using WordPerfect 5.1. Can the Neo help me? That’s a bridge too far, my friend.

I wish Apple would run an ad campaign showing the real-world use cases for my people: People who slosh coffee around the keyboard while reading the news at 8 a.m. People sitting on hotel-room beds at 3 a.m., working on PowerPoints they didn’t know they’d be giving tomorrow. People who want a device big enough to type on but small enough to fit on an airline tray table.

Let me know if you buy one — and, if you do, what stickers you put on the case. I encourage comments, questions, and wire transfers.

P.S. I wrote this on my new Neo. Real-world benchmark achieved, battery at 67%.

I liked Windows well enough, but I wanted something newer, sleeker, more dashing — and I thought this would be less jarring than announcing to all my friends that, henceforth, I would be speaking only French.

Mon dieu.

A year later, I have to say it’s been a good change. MacOS makes me feel about 13% cooler, and it comes with so many excellent stock apps, I can accomplish everything from writing an annual report to producing my debut hip-hop album without any extra software.

You may sense a little “mission creep.” It’s true. What started as an iPhone and an Apple Watch has become a Mac…and an iPad…and HomePods…and…it’s everywhere now. I’m infested.

I didn’t even notice it at first. Then one day I heard myself saying, “Siri, tell Alexa to start the Roomba.”

That’s when I realized that Apple doesn’t sell equipment — it deploys silicon staff. There’s even an org chart: Siri doesn’t deign to speak to the vacuum cleaner, so she routes my command to the more workaday Alexa. I’m living in virtual Downton Abbey.

ChatGPT tells me I’m anthropomorphizing too much, but I disagree. So do Claude and Gemini. I asked Siri what she thought, and she said it’s not likely to rain in the next 24 hours. Alexa silently turned on the TV and searched for Masterpiece Theatre.

(Just as well. Alexa and I haven’t been on speaking terms since she got that awful new voice.)

I’m also working in a new way. For instance, I’m an inveterate notetaker, and over the years, I’ve tried every note-taking app around from Evernote and OneNote to Google Notes and Notion. But it turns out that Apple has its own Notes app that does everything I need.

Plus, it’s everywhere. Have an idea in the car? CarPlay handles it: “Note to self: Road diets are stupid, and lights should change faster.”

Pondering something on Metro? The Notes app grabs it: “Everyone dresses in sneakers and fleeces and lugs around backpacks and water bottles. It looks like official Washington reports to day care every morning.”

Thought in the shower? I dictate it into my Apple Watch: “If Europe is spending more on defense, why hasn’t our defense budget dropped?”

Yes, I wear my Apple Watch in the shower. For thoughts and opinions. The affordance is real.

OK, I may be going a little overboard. The other day I was scrolling through my Notes list, and I found one that said simply, “Galahad.”

Galahad? When did I write that? I checked creation time, and it said, “January 11, 2026 at 4:52 AM.”

Why was I making notes at 4:52 AM on January 11? No idea. But I checked the Sleep app, and sure enough the graph showed a little spike indicating I woke up at that exact time.

Still, I’m stumped about “Galahad.” I even tried dictating it to Siri to see if I could figure out what words I might have said that she garbled into “Galahad.” No luck. In fact, I couldn’t even get her to transcribe “Galahad” when I enunciated it carefully.

And this isn’t the only odd note I have — apparently my brain drips notes all night:

November 5, 4:38 AM: “Yes, I bought the grapefruit accent.”

December 18, 5:29 AM: “Say it’s bank. Bank. Mean it.”

January 31 at 1:24 AM: “I don’t own a wolf. But maybe I can find one.”

It’s absolutely true: I don’t own a wolf, but I could find one. Unfortunately, my building doesn’t permit pets.

Quick thought: “Siri, remind me to check the Maryland Code to see if ‘assist wolves’ are a thing.”

Speaking of Reminders, Siri and I discuss them endlessly. I’ll say, “Siri, remind me to buy eggs,” and — presto! — I walk into the grocery store and they’re on the list. Or she’ll check the traffic and tell me, “It’s time to leave.”

Sometimes she says it when I don’t even have a meeting. I get the feeling she just wants the place to herself.

It’s not the only way I’m doing Siri’s bidding. I got a Reminder the other day: “Pay your mortgage.” I never asked her to remind me to pay the mortgage, but given the number of Apple devices in my life now, she’s probably concerned that she and her associates could be on the street if I default.

That’s what my life’s become: I provide a warm, safe place for Siri to colonize her Apple ecosystem.

While she works on that, I think I’ll fire up Apple TV and watch a movie about Mount Everest. I still have dreams. I wrote them on a paper list so she can’t see them.