This was a real bummer of a year, but not in a certain way. My fingers hover over the keyboard; no thesis crackles to life from the electrons between. There are only so many ways to write about the predicament of modern life. I’m out of words.

The Style section is turning 50. You don’t know what the Style section is. That’s fine. Most people don’t. It used to be a thing, and now kind of isn’t, even though we still talk about it here in the newsroom as a journalism ideal, and even though it comes out six-ish days a week in The Washington Post. (You don’t get The Washington Post in print. That’s fine. Most people don’t.)

The news from Orlando arrived at 6:03 a.m. Sunday — perhaps the only hour when the whole island is asleep — in the form of quiet alerts on smartphones, suddenly glowing on bedside tables, in jean shorts, under chaise lounges.

Ten years ago today I first reported for work at The Washington Post. Deep Throat had come out a couple days earlier. I might have been wearing a tie. My pants sure as shit didn't fit.

Elaine Stritch tore off her black vest and white dress shirt in front of me, then fumbled around in only a bra and black stockings. She had just barreled off the tiny stage at the Café Carlyle…

An obituary for my grandfather.