Riding the Red Line this week, I ran into Bob Greene in the same place I’ve been running into him for 40 years — a hotel room. From the dateline on his op-ed in Tuesday’s New York Times, this was a hotel room in St. Paul. As always, Greene was on the road, in a room that could have been anywhere, fanning some muse into a story. The subject of this musing was the small purplish mesh bag sitting on the bedspread.