Alan surfed past “Queer Eye” tonight; the boys were taking on a frat house. And as those words passed through my brain — “oh, they’re taking on a frat house” — I wondered how much, er, San Fernando Valley-school cinema if-you-catch-my-drift has used QE as the framework for their plotlines. Because, you know, it’s perfect: The Fab Five take on the Sigma Chi house, and the Sweetheart gets locked out — for good! Maybe Ashley will do the soundtrack.

That may have been the most interesting thought I had all day. Illness passed through our household Monday evening and into Tuesday, and that tends to take your attention away from everything else. I discover, yet again, why I’m not cut out for nursing — too results-oriented. I want everything to happen the way it does on a Tylenol commercial; I want everyone feeling better within 30 seconds. Alas this rarely happens, although a good two-minute barf can do wonders.

I did get some reading done, and I recommend this interesting take on Bruce Springsteen, from Slate. I also heartily endorse “Gilead,” but so did the Pulitzer jury, so my second is probably unnecessary. And just to show I can roll in the gutter with the best of them, I wish the voting on “American Idol” would switch to a who-do-you-want-to-leave format, so I could give either Scott or Anthony the hook. Someone defend them — that should get the party started.

Someone asked what I thought of the runaway bride. Truthfully? Not much. If you want to know why, follow that link which, when I posted it, features this apparently irony-free headline:

Runaway bride may forgo $250 ice bucket

Honestly, I don’t know what goes through a woman’s head when she adds a $250 ice bucket to her gift registry; I’ve never been that kind of woman, although I had a wedding and a registry. The difference between my wedding and the runaway bride’s, however, at least in how she planned it to be, was approximately the same as the difference between one of our subsequent marital squabbles and the Civil War. Or between the normal cold feet I felt at the idea of standing in front of 100 of my closest friends and colleagues with a giant bow on my butt, and the cold feet that made the runaway bride get itchy feet and flee for the desert southwest, just to get a little time to herself.

I understand the desert is good for that sort of thing.

Honestly, I think whatever punishment the runaway bride deserves for this wild goose chase has already been meted out by CNN, which sadistically published a click-through gallery of her registry gifts, which is where I found out about the $250 ice bucket. (It’s Waterford.) And yes, I meant sadistic. I don’t know what else you call droll prose like this:

According to her bridal registry at Macy’s.com, the couple could have expected to receive a 16-inch Lenox “Solitaire” Oval Platter, which normally sells for $237 but is on sale for $189.99; the Kate Spade “Union Street” line 5-piece place setting ($55), and the KitchenAid Artisan 5-Qt. Stand Mixer (on sale for $249.99).

A spokesperson from Macy’s was unable to comment on individuals within their bridal registry, although the company will allow returns of most registry merchandise for up to one year along with a receipt.

It’s easy to see what happened, how what might have started out as a relatively sensible girl got steamrollered by the wedding industry. It’s hard not to, especially when your friends are getting married, and it’s all about whether you have salmon or beef tenderloin at the reception and a Vera Wang dress. In such an environment, a $250 ice bucket becomes a perfectly reasonable gift to request. A temper tantrum seems a perfectly reasonable response to discovering the cocktail napkins are the wrong shade. I got a manicure before my wedding (and still managed to chip the polish before I said my vows). Today’s bride gets a manicure, pedicure, hot-stone massage, aromatherapy session and professional makeup job. Don’t get me started on the hair. Last week I surfed past “Extreme Makeover” to see a bride getting a nose job, chin implant, brow lift, breast implants and lipo before her groom lifted her veil (the “reveal” — I shit you not) on national television.

Amy has a discussion going over certain changes in the Catholic wedding liturgy that have brides-to-be in tears all over Philadelphia; I won’t link because ultimately it’s one of those angels-on-the-head-of-a-pin debates and the point I want to make is this: She’s religious, I’m not, and we’re in total agreement on one thing — the wedding industry is evil.

After Kate was born, I came to see the similarities between the wedding industry and the cult of birth, which has less merchandise to sell but an equally warped view of what are undeniably two very big days in a woman’s life, but ultimately, just the first day in two much more complicated long-term tasks — being married and raising a child. Wedding shysters stress “your special day” and birth cultists insist that anything but the perfect birth experience will leave you unfulfilled as a woman and your baby psychologically scarred by delayed bonding.

Poor runaway bride. What a hard act to follow, but maybe not. Her groom can’t say he doesn’t know what he’s getting into, if he ends up marrying her anyway. And she can’t say she didn’t know either. But at this point I’d advise her to burn the gift registry, kiss her deposits goodbye and head for a justice of the peace. In Vegas, maybe.

As usual, Hank is much funnier than me, at least on this topic. OK, on all topics.

This news, about industry-wide circulation slides in newspaper circulation, comes as no surprise to anyone who’s worked in the business lately. You can debate the “why” for days and days, although it’s rather neatly summed up here:

The losses come at a time when Americans have many news outlets that didn’t exist 20 years ago, including cable-television news channels and Internet sites, as well as email and cellphone alerts. Many newspapers have substantial and free online sites offering much of what is in the printed paper. These sites might not hurt readership overall, but they can erode a newspaper’s paying audience.

At the same time, many newspapers have undercut the print product itself, trimming staff and coverage. They also have failed to figure out how to attract younger readers to their pages.

A little of this, a little of that, in other words. More competition leads to lower profits, which leads, at papers all over the country, to hiring freezes, staff cutbacks, shrinking coverage areas (known as “concentrating on our core audience” in staff meetings), a thinner, tighter newshole and all sorts of related flanking maneuvers, all of which lead to, anyone? Yes: More circulation declines.

Professionalism suggests I shouldn’t discuss newspapers with which I have first-hand experience, but the paragraph above pretty much sums it up. I had occasion to look in some microfilm at my alma mater not long before I left — I was looking for a story that appeared around the time I arrived at the paper, in the mid-’80s. How I remember those halcyon days, the paper with a fresh Pulitzer and staff out the yin-yang. We even had a full complement of regional stringers, and oh how we loved to hoot over their dispatches. The guy in Berne wrote his on an antique typewriter, and on the envelope, in his elderly hand, he always added a penciled exhortation to the postman: RUSH. The woman in LaGrange County called in news of a barn fire as though it were the towering inferno. And so on.

It so happened there was a LaGrange dispatch on the Metro/State front that day, about a pack of feral dogs bothering farmers in the area, and the posse that had been assembled to bring them to justice. And you know what? I read that sucker. Six paragraphs start to finish, about a problem that wasn’t mine and never would be, and somehow there was more of a pulse on that page than there was in the elegantly designed incarnations that followed. This might be misplaced nostalgia talking, but I don’t think so. The fact is, a larger staff, spread widely over a multi-county area, will find more news than a smaller one concentrated in one metropolitan area.

Anyway, I like the idea that no one said, “Feral dogs? We overwhelmingly serve an urban population that does not suffer from depradations of its henhouses by such animals. Spike it.” Part of the thrill of reading a general-interest publication is finding out about things you didn’t think you wanted to know about.

That’s what I’ll miss most about the news outlets of the future — the surprises. When our online product first debuted, there was a little ‘bot service called Newshound, which went out and fetched you a made-to-order paper. You told Newshound you were interested in Chicago Cubs baseball, the city governments of Phoenix and Cleveland, the music of Warren Zevon and tips on how to improve your golf swing, and Newshound goes out and assembles it for you. The You News. Motto: “No feral dog packs anywhere.”

Also, “No surprises.” And how much fun is that?

In the last week, two different magazines found their way into the house — it’s easy, they just blend in with the thousands of other magazines — featuring luscious home-decor spreads on the homes of interior designers.

I never know what to think of these, other than: hello? Isn’t the decorator supposed to have a fab house? Wouldn’t you be surprised if he or she didn’t? Wouldn’t you be … disappointed? Figure, if a decorator gives one lousy wine-and-cheese reception for clients at his or her own house, s/he can write the whole 15 fabulous rooms off as a business expense. Why not?

Of course these decorators both had wonderful houses. Both were, however, unsatisfied with said houses, which is probably also to be expected. Every artist needs a fresh canvas once in a while. But the first house, which was actually owned by two decorators, two men, surprise surprise, had a different flaw than the second — the men wanted to downsize and simplify, and make more time with their children. These children were revealed on the last page — a boy and a girl, presumably adopted (they were of a different race).

I’m not mentioning this to make a statement about gay men adopting or anything else. It’s just that when I read stories like this, and look at those pictures, I think: Well sure, if I didn’t have a kid, my house could look like that. In both these showplaces, they did have kids. Two in each, teenage boys in the other one.

Decorators: Always setting the bar higher.

Unlike me.

But I’m improving: Got out of the house a bit this weekend, meeting our new friend John for coffee and a walk out on the marina docks at Windmill Pointe Park, one of GP’s famous private parks. (Longer entry on these coming, one of these days.) Windmill Pointe is actually in G.P. Park, the southermost Pointe, and the Windmill Pointe light is the official point at which Lake St. Clair gives way to the Detroit River. Which is to say, the freighters pass a great deal closer to shore than they do up in the Woods. John’s a sailor, and says these behemoths add a new wrinkle to racing strategy, less so since 9/11 (the Coast Guard doesn’t think it’s funny for small craft to come close to the big guys anymore).

One passed while we were there — the Columbia Star, a homely but utilitarian craft, basically a freight train that floats. Couldn’t see a soul topsides, but that’s probably the way those craft operate — it’s not like they’re waving hankies at sweethearts on the dock, I imagine.

(I have to pause for a moment and observe the essential weirdness of thinking, “I wonder if I can find out any more info about that ship I saw the other day” and, 30 seconds later, to find several resources. Miracle, thy name is Google.)

Bloggage:

I’ve read a version of this story, — about life in the farthest-flung outposts of Inuit America — before, but every time I do, I’m amazed and depressed by it again. Not that I wish to bum people out.

The ivory-billed woodpecker hangs on. Having seen but one pileated ‘pecker in my life — no jokes, please — this is good news.

More later. Tired.