I cut my own grass, or else Alan does. Always have; probably always will, at least until we’re unable, at which point our problems will be more profound than a shaggy lawn.

Truth to tell? I kind of like it. Writers live in their heads way too much, and we’re always looking for stupid physical tasks to reorder things up there in our crowded skulls. As long as it’s not too hot and the lawn’s not too big, it’s a half-hour of back-and-forth mindlessness. I don’t get creative. No diagonal lines for me. Just cut the damn thing and have a beer — this I believe.

I grew up in an affluent neighborhood; our next-door neighbor was a carriage-trade OB-GYN, later replaced by a dermatologist. Across the street was a CEO of a thriving company. There was an OSU professor, a retired businessman, this and that from the middle to upper-middle class. The doctor cut his own grass, and the CEO delegated it to his teenage sons, but the job stayed in the family. Everybody cut their own grass, unless they couldn’t, at which point they hired a teenager to do it.

That was then; this is now. No doctor cuts his own grass anymore, and the CEO’s teenage sons are in tennis camp or SAT-prep classes. Most mornings I ride my bike through the lovely streets of the Pointes’ better neighborhoods, and I dodge pickups towing flat-bed trailers hauling mowers, blowers, trimmers and crews of Latino guys. They arrive, pull their starter cords in unison and, in short order and at very high volume, make the place lovely.

Granted, these folks generally have larger lawns than I do, and probably two high-powered careers, too busy to waste a Saturday morning doing yard work. They’d rather write a check than risk spilling gasoline on the driveway filling the mower’s tank.

After a while, these crews become invisible. They’re as much a part of the landscape as the lawns themselves. Someday I’m going to write a murder mystery where the lawn guys hold the key to the mystery, because they see everything and no one thinks they see anything at all.

I’m still cutting my own grass.

Want a good Google? Try “cuts his own grass.”

Bloggage: One of our best KWF seminars last year was on the brave new world of out-there reproductive technology, which Slate sketches briefly in light of the photo op last week by the First Embryo-cuddler.

I have no thoughts at all on the revelation of Deep Throat, other than it’s amusing to watch Pat Buchanan and Charles Colson get all spluttery ‘n’ stuff.

Move to an affluent neighborhood — one a few cuts above your previous neighborhood, anyway — and garage sales become the focus of keen interest. You may have a functioning brain, but you still have a greedy, greedy id, and the id is not only sorely tempted, it’s stupid: Look, a garage sale at a zillion-dollar house! Surely they’re selling a bunch of old diamonds and fur coats they have heaped up in the closets, and at great savings!

I’ve learned this lesson before, but I offer it to you if you haven’t:

1) Affluent people are at least as likely as poorer ones to have atrocious taste (see: Donald Trump).

2) Affluent people are more likely to be really cheap. (It’s how they got affluent.)

3) Their junk looks like anyone else’s junk.

The tag and estate sales have been the biggest disappointment in terms of bargains, but are almost always interesting for the entree you get to a house in transition — I was in one last week that appeared to have been decorated by a preppie on acid. Everything was pink and green, but bright kelly green and vivid fuschia pink. All top-of-the-line fabrics, but, well, if I’m going to drop $2,000 on a used couch, it ain’t gonna be kelly green moire silk. With a ruffle.

Garage sales have been better, but hit-or-miss. This week the city of GP held its World’s Greatest Garage Sale inside a parking garage downtown, surely a stroke of genius — we went through the thing exactly the way you look for a parking place, spiraling up and then down. The bad news: It didn’t live up to its name — it was more flea market than garage sale, and yes, there’s a difference — but there were a few moments. Like: Earlier this year we came thisclose to buying an oversize Mission-style bookcase at a consignment store in Royal Oak. They were having a “half-off sale” that knocked the price from $1,800 to $900. There were two to choose from in different finishes, they weren’t antique, but one was big enough to fill up a big empty wall in our living room and at least partially solve our book-storage problem. Finally, sometime in March, when John and Sammy were visiting, Alan and Sam drove out there to dicker and, with luck, pull the trigger on one of them, the one with the darker finish. As they arrived, some guy was closing a deal to buy it — for $800. Curses! Alan considered getting the other one, but by then it felt like a non-antique, honey-finished oak consolation prize, so he passed.

Well, there it was at the World’s Greatest Garage sale, at the new, Grosse Pointe price — $1,100. Oh, as if.

But we did get a fashionably rusted Mexican iron windowbox for our kitchen, and on the way back to the car, wandered past a homeowner who was, in garage-sale terms, the holy grail — a guy with too much higher-quality crap on his hands who wanted to get rid of all of it.

Which is how, to take the long way around, I bought a brand-new Krups ice-cream maker for $10. (Gotta love affluent suburbanites; when I asked, “why are you selling it?,” he replied, “We have two.”)

We made French vanilla the first night. Nothing like making your own ice cream to appreciate just how much heavy cream and sugar you’re getting in every spoonful. But oh, how far a spoonful goes. I can’t wait until berry season. I told Kate, “We’re going to experiment with ice cream all summer long.” She said, “Yay!” How often do you get to make a kid say yay at the idea of spending time in the kitchen with her mother? Not often. I’d say the money was well-spent.

So now Pretoria is changing its name. The seat of South African government will hereafter be known as Tshwane. So as soon as I read this, my brain started singing “Marching to Pretoria,” which we sang in grade school. An all-white school, of course, but I don’t think that had anything to do with it. It just had a catchy melody.

Whew. Can you tell my brain’s already gone on Memorial Day weekend vacation? If not, that oughta give you a clue.

But hey, I never promised you anything but a stream-of-consciousness rose garden here. Sometimes the roses are droopy.

Fortunately, Jon Carroll is a professional, and works all the way through Friday. Today, he addresses the Wendy’s chili finger:

According to police reports, a guy named Brian Rossiter lost his finger when the lift on a truck severed it. He kept the finger, perhaps in the hope that it could be reattached, perhaps merely as a souvenir. I wonder how many freezers in this great nation contain body parts retained for merely sentimental reasons.

Rossiter: “You’ll think of something.”

And you’ll have a good weekend, I hope. Me, I’ll see you Tuesday-ish.

Did you know Sen. Evan Bayh has a Flickr account? Only, huh, most of the pictures are of him. On the other hand, if you ever wanted to know what Ken and Barbie would look like at midlife, that’s the place to go.

(Which, by the way, should not be construed as a dig at Ken and Barbie. I’ve never talked to Ken, but Barbie herself — Susan — is an effortlessly charming woman. I’m just sayin’: Some things are obvious.)

It’s funny how even journalists bury the lead sometimes. A colleague sent me an e-mail about this and that in Columbus, then oh yeah, I forget if I told you this or not, but a former department head from the paper in my era gave a cocktail party last night to answer any and all questions about … his sex change.

It’s not an all-the-way deal. At his age — 73! — he won’t have the surgery, but will take hormones, a female name and live out his remaining years as a woman. Named Diana.

I can’t tell you how rocked back on my heels I was by this news. I mean: No. Clue.

But as the shock wore off, I started thinking, once again, about the unfathomable mysteries of the human heart. Just a few days ago I was following yet another blog discussion — probably over at Amy’s — about the dangers of turning health ed over to the homos, who won’t stop at sex between men and women or even men and men, but want to open your child’s eyes to transexuality and bisexuality and bestiality and S&M and B&D and probably man-on-dog, except maybe that would be covered in the bestiality chapter.

Obviously, I’m not ready to have middle-schoolers snickering over drag queens. But I also wonder what it must have been like to spend your whole adult life feeling like you got the wrong set of genitals, and finally, at an age when most people have hung up the spikes once and for all, decide what the hell, life is short. I wonder if it would have been any easier if the idea of transexuality had been on the menu 50 years ago. High-school students are certainly old enough to hold such a concept in their minds. Shouldn’t we teach them about it?

Because while it’s true that most of us would be happy to order the cheeseburger or the chicken-noodle casserole every day for the rest of our lives, there is a small but significant number who want the pickled monkey brains, and they ought to know they’re available.

Which is a lousy metaphor, but you know what I mean.

Then I consider how far we’ve come. I’m sure my parents had gay friends, but not like I have gay friends. I doubt they knew any transexuals. I’m no longer surprised to hear that someone is coming out at 40 or 50, or that someone who I’d previously thought was gay has fallen for a member of the opposite sex. It happens. People are complicated and life is a river, and you never know what’s around the next bend. Maybe gender isn’t entirely a social construct, but maybe enough is to make it just a tiny bit unpredictable. I think we mistranslated Genesis. I think the order was not “be fruitful and multiply” (which is sort of redundant), but “be fruitful and really, really interesting.”

So Diana, wherever you are, good luck. You’re very brave. But as one of your golf partners says, if you think this means you can play from the ladies’ tees, you’re crazy.

What a night. Ken Jennings lost and so did the man who rocked that look like no one since Mark Farner. I think I’ll go to bed.

Phil Spector and…

Struwwelpeter?

The above is presented for an audience of one; she knows who she is.

OK, it’s my sister, and maybe by now, others can get the joke. Our parents — our mother, actually — used to terrorize us with occasional readings of “Struwwelpeter,” an old German children’s book that, to borrow a punchline from Jim Harrison, explains a lot about why we’ve had so much trouble from those people in the 20th century. I believe I’ve written about it before, but not since “Shockheaded Peter,” the musical based on it (which closes this weekend, coincidentally). It’s a creepy collection of rhymes about misbehaving children, and the horrible fates that befall them. Really. Suck your thumb, and a giant bearing a huge pair of scissors will run into your room and CUT THEM OFF. (I guess this story laid the groundwork for the masturbation talk that came later.)

Anyway, Phil Spector must have seen the show recently.

Not much today, but a bit of bloggage. I’ve taken to keeping my to-do list on a sticky widget — which is not a sticky wicket, but a computerized sticky note. Tiger has this very cool widget display, which I’ve become rather reliant on. My widgets: Dictionary, traffic, calendar, weather, sticky note and the Daily Tao. (And yes, James, sometimes your haiku, but not always.) I love that one, the Daily Tao, because they use the Stephen Mitchell translation, and what do you know, today is one of my favorites. I used to meditate on it when I was riding horses every day, because it’s pretty much the core of horsemanship:

Men are born soft and supple;
dead, they are stiff and hard.
Plants are born tender and pliant;
dead, they are stiff and dry.

The hard and stiff will be broken.
The soft and supple will prevail.

Anyway, my sticky is full-up today, and yesterday was boring, although I read several chapters of “The Darling,” and once again, Russell Banks has run the bases. I love Russell Banks. You just can’t go wrong with that guy.

So, bloggage:

I don’t know how many readers I still have in Fort Wayne, but those who are left might enjoy a new blog there, Fort Wayne Media Notes. I’ve been saying for years that the town needs some competent media criticism, something it’s been lacking under Miss Reynolds’ reign of junior-high-school mean-girl terror. The proprietor seems to be a nice guy with a better-than-average layman’s take on local media, so I’ll wish him well and hope I don’t regret it later. If nothing else, he must be on the right track, because Miss Reynolds immediately went out and snatched up a bunch of nearly identical Blogger domains, I’m sure to capitalize on people who might go looking and not get the address exactly right. So, then, it’s Fort Wayne Media Notes, not notebook, not news, the latter of which are all the new property of the mean girls.

Lance is trying to drag me down Memory Lane again. He has a post about Colm Feore that mentions yours truly, and includes pictures. That was a good trip.

Department of Gee, Thanks, Eric: Zorn has another link to a time-waster, this one at least marginally amusing: What level of Dante’s Inferno are you bound for?

Me? Oh, you knew I was headed there:

The Dante’s Inferno Test has banished you to the Second Level of Hell!
Here is how you matched up against all the levels:

Take the Dante’s Inferno Hell Test

Note that I ranked high on gluttony and lust. Sounds like a disciple of life to me.

Lance recently confessed that he doesn’t watch TV news. I don’t either — for the most part. But occasionally it sneaks up on you. Last night while waiting up for Alan I caught the 11 p.m. newscast on WXYZ, aka the station that employs Fat Ass. The investigative report was about Roy. Roy is — was — a “teacup chihuahua,” which I assume is like a regular chihuahua, only smaller.

(I love writing “chihuahua.” It’s one of those words like “hors d’oeuvre,” where just learning the correct spelling feels like an accomplishment worthy of your resume.)

Anyway, the story was about the dangers of putting your teacup chihuahua in daycare with the wrong sort of companions. I’m not kidding. Evidently Roy’s owner had him in daycare; why, we weren’t told. Perhaps he was nervous, like all chihuahuas. Imagine living in a world of giants, and you’d be nervous too. But at some point Roy was placed in a cage with “a larger dog,” which wasn’t a helpful description, since virtually every dog in creation is larger than a teacup chihuahua. And the larger dog — “a terrier” is the only description we got — killed Roy.

“Of course he did,” Lance said when I told him the sad story today. “He thought Roy was a rat.”

I’m sure he did. Terriers are famously tenacious ratters. They clamp onto the back of the neck, give a few brisk shakes, and goodbye rat. Sometimes they trot around in a proud circle, shaking the dead rat. Sometimes they drop it and move on to the next one. These details we weren’t given. All we heard was how sad Roy’s owner was, and how sorry she was that she put him in dog daycare with people so thoughtless as to kennel him with a dog who thought he was a rodent.

Roy’s owner only had one photo of Roy, or at least the news crew only got one. We came back to the picture of Roy, goggle-eyed and winsome, again and again. “I miss him,” the owner said, tearing up. “I really do.”

I’m sure she does. The question is, however: Is this report worthy of a top-10 TV news market?

Silly question. Of course it is. That’s been the biggest shock, skipping the 90 or so places between Fort Wayne and Detroit. While FW TV news pitched its product to the mouth-breathing demographic, they didn’t dive quite so enthusiastically for the bottom of the barrel as they do here. I’m sure coming up with a news mix for such a sprawling community is quite the challenge. Do you pitch to the people who keep their TVs on all day long and choose their news based on which has the better lead-in? Or do you go for the wealthier suburbanites, who have the money but, frankly, no interest in what’s happening in, oh, Warren?

Also a silly question. You go with the best video. And in Detroit, there’s never a shortage. Last week, the mayor announced his campaign for re-election, in the wake of yet another story about his fiscal irresponsibility. His father got up and compared his son’s critics to Nazis. His mother got up and had a teeny freak-out; I thought we’d need smelling salts. The mayor himself cried. “I ain’t cried since I was 10 years old,” he said.

I should watch the news more often. Where else can you get entertainment like this at these prices?

POSTSCRIPT: When Alan was a feature writer, he wrote a story about God’s Tiny Kennel, a house we passed in Hicksville (yes, really), Ohio en route to Defiance. There was a sign out front that read “God’s Tiny Kennel — Chihuahua Stud Service.” It turned out the lady was a devout Christian who prayed over every litter before she let them go.

“Would Spriggy kill Roy if they were kenneled together?” I wondered tonight.

“No, he’d just make him his bitch,” Alan replied.

Kate and I and a few zillion other motorists hit I-94 this weekend, and I-94 is hitting back. If we’re going to spend any time at our lake cottage this summer — and I foresee a drastically reduced visitation schedule, for reasons I’ll get to in a minute — we’re going to have to develop some alternate routes. Construction and various improvements have this vital thoroughfare a snarly mess, and a mess it will remain for months, I fear. There’s a stretch west of Ann Arbor where the eastbound lanes have been taken down to bare dirt; they’re rebuilding the road from the ground up, it seems, which does not portend smooth sailing by the Fourth of July.

Anyway, the road is still carrying plenty of traffic, some of it of the winged and insectile variety. The carrion-eaters must have ordered venison this spring, because it seemed there was a dead deer every three miles between the Detroit Metro airport and I-69, where the carnage continues. If there’s a dead-animal pickup crew, they’re either running behind or have thrown up their hands. Since I’ve watched a little “CSI,” I found myself less grossed out than curious at the full range of decomposition on display. One unfortunate doe looked untouched, but appeared to have been snacked upon, anus-first. Ewww. (”That’s where the tender meat is!” chirps Mr. Crow. Ewww.)

Why were we on I-94? Opening the cottage, sweeping away cobwebs, scrubbing the winter off the place. Why just me and Kate? Because Alan was on a road trip of his own. Where to? Southern Indiana. Why? To look at a sailboat.

Yes, a hole in the water you throw money into! He’s not coming home with this one — he and the seller are still $1,200 apart — but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before we dock something at our city marina on Lake St. Clair and start spending our weekends tearing up $100 bills in a cold shower, so to speak.

The boat is like this. We’ll see if he gets that one, or something like it.

Much good bloggage this weekend. Too much. I’ll leave you with but one, a delightful NYT piece about the still-standing drag-ball underground. (If you saw “Paris is Burning,” you know. I dragged Alan to that movie early in our courtship. He dug it, proof that marrying him was the right choice.)

Oh, and Lance has a useful explanation of a sometimes-confusing point of theology, vis-a-vis that Santorum profile in the NYT yesterday.

I was making my way down the ever-fascinating 8 Mile Road yesterday, sort of half-listening to “Fresh Air,” when I snapped to attention: Some critic, reviewing some Billie Holiday collection, pronounced “Lady Sings the Blues,” the 1972 movie about her, ahem, “howlingly bad.”

My lower lip pooched out. I kind of liked “Lady Sings the Blues.”

Of course, it came out when I was 14 years old. Fourteen-year-olds are effortlessly easy to please, particularly 14-year-olds who fancy themselves rebels. Take one Motown star, stick a gardenia in her hair, add Billy Dee Williams, a lynching and some heroin, and you’ve got a winner. I started thinking about the movie. Diana Ross? As Billie Holiday? All they share is a one-octave range. And I remember an embarrassing entrance for Williams, where he steps out of the shadow, looks up at the camera Clark Gable-style and the camera holds for a long beat you know was added so that the women in the theater could squeal and slide off their seats, recover and not miss the next line, which was, as I recall, “What’s the matter, don’t you like gardenias?”

OK, so it was howlingly bad. I pounded the steering wheel. Damn these critics, ruining yet another fond memory.

8 Mile Road is never boring. After I did my errand, I meandered into Detroit down Gratiot and stopped at the Eastern Market. Bought some roasted almonds and sour cherry balls. There’re not many afternoons that can’t be improved with salt and sugar.

And in the afternoon, at least one and maybe two more freelance assignments — sputtering and wheezing, my career lurches into its next phase.

So, bloggage: A nice read in the Freep today about Steve Wilson, one of those on-your-side TV guys whose specialty is chasing people down the street. Fortunately for him, some people deserve chasing. Detroit’s mayor, for instance:

TV investigative reporter Steve Wilson and Detroit Mayor Kwame Kilpatrick had had other dustups — most notably an incident in Washington, D.C., when Wilson flew there to catch the mayor with a microphone, a camera and an attitude he knew would make compelling, and, some say, revulsive television.

Kilpatrick supporters began shouting for Wilson to back off, to quit harassing the mayor. But the pushing and shoving continued. A child was knocked down in the scrum.

This entertaining anecdote ends with the mayor’s walk-off line, calling Wilson a “fat ass.”

Which he is, but man, have you seen the mayor? He’s got that football-player build, true, but he also looks about one Twinkie away from a diabetes diagnosis.

Two halfway-decent tag sales are calling my name. More later, or maybe not.