James D. Winslow

We all live in a bubble of our own making. We surround ourselves with those who think like us, have similar backgrounds and family structures, and have achieved equivalent socio-economic status. Outside of family and the office, we spend the most time with those who belong to the same clubs, associations, and religious groups as we choose to do. We read, watch, and listen to the news outlets that confirm our own solidly held beliefs. And it’s the very rare occasion when someone or something pops this metaphorical bubble.

Before becoming a university professor and management consultant, my father was a small college basketball coach. He brought that experience to coaching both my and my sister’s youth teams.

Although the cherry blossoms on the Tidal Basin peaked early this year, it’s Spring Break season in Washington.

I’ve dated myself numerous times writing this blog over the past several years. At the risk of doing it again, this week, an old adage came to mind, “All politics is local.”

If a group of eagles is called a convocation, a group of ravens a conspiracy, and a group of crows a murder, what is a group of lobbyists from foreign subsidiaries descending all at once on the nation’s capital called?

Every job comes with its own particular package of perks. You know, things like paid volunteer days, flexible work schedules, and remote work options. I’ve always been a bit jealous of the free and discounted air travel my friends in Delta’s lobbying shop receive, and the number of times federal government sales executives attend conferences and meetings at, or near, famous golf resorts seems more than coincidental.

One of my wife’s favorite movies is the Gen X defining film Reality Bites. A classic scene in the picture is when Winona Ryder’s character, Lelaina, is asked by a potential employer to define irony. Ryder stumbles, and, as an elevator door closes on her, hurriedly exclaims she can’t define it but knows it when she she’s it.

Made famous by the band R.E.M. with their early-1980’s hit Don’t Go Back to Rockville, my hometown has been going through a sort of identity crisis lately.

Cascatelli? Quattrotini? Vesuvio? Have you walked into your favorite Italian restaurant lately and not recognized the pasta(s) on the menu? I grew up in an Italian household, and until recently, thought I had a handle on the various long strand, short-cut, filled, and soup pastas out there. I was wrong.

I’ve received more calls, texts, emails, and direct questions than usual this week asking me who will win the election in November.