Yesterday, the Sunday before Memorial Day, for a 10-mile stretch of I-270 in Maryland, there were people on every overpass waving flags, holding signs that said, “Support our Troops,” and hollering to every car below that beeped.

My car let out a long beep as I approached each overpass. It felt real good.

Thanks people on overpass.

My goddaughter was on the verge of suffering dangerous child neglect. I intervened. I saved her. I did what a godparent is supposed to do.

My brother — my goddaughter’s father — emailed me yesterday. He and his wife are buying my goddaughter, who is a preteen, a cell phone. But they were not going to get text messaging for her. They were afraid of cyber-bullying.

“Oh my god,” I exclaimed. As the parent of two current and one former teen I immediately recognized the horror my brother was about to inflict upon my goddaughter. “Do they really think a girl can survive middle school and, eventually, high school, without text messaging?!?!” I thought to myself.

I emailed my brother. Stop watching Dateline, I told him. Get her text messaging. And soon, very soon, she will want a Facebook account. Let her.

Teach her about online safety, yes, but don’t leave her stranded on the social equivalent of a deserted island.

One day my goddaughter will thank me. I have saved her from her well meaning but confused parents.

As a child, I had the occasional, repeating nightmare: pollution from factories turned the air black and killed lakes, rivers, and oceans. It was a vibrant dream, dark and terrifying, having been warned about the perils of pollution by my elementary school teacher.

BP and the government seem to have no idea how to stop the gusher of oil pouring into the Gulf of Mexico.

“To dream the impossible nightmare…”

Guess not so impossible.

My oldest son graduated from conservatory last Friday in Boston. He graduated summa cum laude and was inducted into the national music honor society.

I am fifty. That’s plenty old enough to have learned one thing — real accomplishment, the kind that requires prolonged effort and overcoming obstacles, is rare in life. That’s why I am so proud.

He may or may not build the career he wants. Indeed, he may not know exactly what that career will look like. But he has achieved something significant at the age of 22. That puts him ahead of most men and women.

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On the same trip to Boston I discovered America’s worst sports bar: Champions in the Boston Marriott Copley Place.

A sports bar has one core competency: make sure the game is on the TV. If the food doesn’t suck, that’s just gravy.

Saturday afternoon, while my wife and daughter were shopping, my youngest son and I sat at this sports bar for three hours watching college lacrosse. The game went into sudden death overtime. Somebody at this sports bar decided to change the channel at that very moment. That made me angry. Nobody at this sports bar could figure out how to change the channel back. That made me even angrier.

Here is free advice for every manager of a sports bar in America: make sure your staff knows how to operate the televisions. If not, no matter how many beers you serve and how good the food, your sports bar sucks.

This week’s recommended reading from your friends at Blogenberg…

• Here are 8 websites you need to stop building.
• A case for why following your gut is overrated when making decisions.
• A straightforward case for why BP needs to get back to basics in the PR approach to its current crisis.
• Twitter is more of a news service now than a social network.
• Social media can help government work better.

I read this article today about the funeral for Yeardley Love. It tearfully reminded me of perspective.

I learned about the murder of Love, allegedly by a former boyfriend, a lacrosse player from this area, the same day my 16-year-old son was playing in a high school lacrosse playoff game. His team just didn’t show up — they got beat bad. That day, I felt more upset about that game than the news about Yeardley Love.

A few days has reminded me what a tremendous season my son’s team had. A few days has reminded me what a future my son and his teammates have, both on and off the lacrosse field. A few days — capped by the article about Yeardley’s burial — reminded me that it’s short, fleeting, and to be cherished.

I almost feel as if I should be apologizing to my son, his teammates, his coaches, and Yeardley Love for forgetting that what has been accomplished must be celebrated, because what tomorrow brings can be wonderful or woeful, but only what has been done today is known.

Last week, I shared a cab with a guy who works for a large foundation. He told me that they are very involved in the First Lady’s initiative to combat childhood obesity. We both agreed how sad it is that we need major public education campaigns to encourage children to get outside and play.

I commented that, in just one generation, we have changed the nature of American childhood and, as a result, children are suffering the health consequences. I suggested that one of the biggest problems is that we have scared parents into never letting their children out of their sight. Children today are not encouraged to “get out and play.” They are required to stay in and be watched. And that, I said, may be beyond repair.

Sensational media reports have convinced parents that it is too dangerous to let their children get out of view. But, in any given year, there are only about 100 stranger abductions of children in the U.S. Of course, it’s horrible. But it’s not the “kidnapper around every corner” that the media often presents.

As we continued to talk on our way to the airport, I suggested that one of the best things we can do to combat childhood obesity is to launch a campaign telling parents that they can let their children go out and play.

Or maybe it’s to permanently cancel “Dateline NBC: To Catch a Predator” and every show like it.