He paid $44,000 for a piece of Beatles history. He just sold it for $2 million.
In the words of the immortal Spinal Tap: Hello, Cleveland!
Also: Goodbye, Cleveland!
I wasn’t there for long, just the night of Dec. 27 and the following day. My Lovely Wife and I stopped on our way back from visiting her sister in Evanston, Ill.
I love Washington, but it’s a good idea to get out of it every now and then. And no offense to my family living in North Carolina, but boy is it nice to drive on an interstate that isn’t called “I-95.” Breezewood, Pa., may be a strange carbuncle, I-80 may cross the featureless landscape of Ohio, and Gary, Ind., may resemble Mordor, but at least traffic was moving. We weren’t inching past Quantico at a snail’s pace, like you do on 95.
All we had to contend with was rain in all its myriad guises, from fine mist to apocalyptic downpour. There were some scary moments in Indiana when it seemed as if we’d been plunged into a carwash. Even the truckers — those jaded cowboys of the asphalt — were slowing down and putting on their hazards.
Those sorts of conditions always remind me of riding in the back seat when we lived in Texas. Thunderstorms would explode across the landscape, my father would grip the steering wheel tightly, and my mother would lead my brother and me in reciting the rosary. All of us have since fallen from the church, but it seemed to work at the time.
By: John Kelly
Source: Washington Post
