Make forward progress — this is my 2006 resolution. Of course, even lying in bed all day constitutes some form of forward progress, but my goal is to do a little something every day on a number of fronts, and hope they add up to something at the end of the day, week, month and year.

MFP, for short.

Today — I remind you, a staggering three days into the new year — I logged MFP points on exercise, work, social and miscellaneous fronts. In late afternoon, it feels like a pretty good day.

One of those chores was writing a recommendation letter for one of my writing group members, who’s going for an MFA in creative writing. Among her choices is none other than my beloved U of M, and I’m here to tell you, these folks have online application down to a science. I was given a log-in and password, and the whole thing took about five minutes, including saving my recommendation letter as a PDF. It reminded me of how that big ol’ learning factory chugs along on the digital highway. It’s the only place I’ve ever been where checking your e-mail hourly is not an illness, but a requirement. To wit:

“Class is cancelled?”

“Didn’t you get the e-mail?”

“No.”

“Why? I sent it 20 minutes ago.”

On the other hand, the place always seemed one virus away from disaster.

Today’s forward progress did not keep me from finding you the linkalicious roundup I always strive for. First, I was thrilled to find so many other typeface nerds out there, and Nerd Nonpareil John even had…the rest of the Helvetica-in-“Good Night, and Good Luck” story:

I was very happy to be included in a short article in today’s New York Times about designers who notice anachronistic font choices in films, but I was a bit taken aback when I received an email first thing this morning from the art director of Good Night, And Good Luck. She pointed out that Helvetica was not used in the film, contrary to what was claimed in the article. She said, rather, that the sign shown in the example frame was set in Akzidenz Grotesk, a face which predated (and in fact was the basis for) Helvetica, and that this choice was based on extensive research of CBS’s graphic design during the period depicted in the film.

Whew. I am so relieved.

See it now.

Our e-mail buddy Hank did the WashPost’s in-and-out list. It’s a fine effort; many chuckles (Out: Badunkadunks, In: Humps). I had to think for a bit to get Out: Fitzmas, In: Abramoffukkah. But I think he missed one, which only a New Year’s weekend couch potato like me would include:

Out: TV poker shows, In: TV One’s Bid Whist Party Throwdown.

I’m telling you, bid whist shows are the coming thing. Out: Attitude-laden, sunglasses-wearing paunchy white boys throwing shade around the room, In: Fun-having black folks bringing big platters of food and talking trash as they actually have a good time, playing cards. You mark my words.

And thanks to the Poor Man, yet again, for one of those where-does-he-FIND-these links, things you should know about Chuck Norris. Sample:

Chuck Norris’ tears cure cancer. Too bad he has never cried.

Chuck Norris sold his soul to the devil for his rugged good looks and unparalleled martial arts ability. Shortly after the transaction was finalized, Chuck roundhouse kicked the devil in the face and took his soul back. The devil, who appreciates irony, couldn’t stay mad and admitted he should have seen it coming. They now play poker every second Wednesday of the month.

Finally, I think I mentioned before that this is the first time I’ve lived in a metro area big enough to support a B-team conservative talk station. The B-team consists of people like William Bennett, Laura Ingraham and other sparkling stars of the right-wing speakers’ tour. All are pretty mediocre — all talk radio is pretty mediocre, no matter the spot on the political spectrum — but none is more fascinating than Dennis Prager, at least to me. You’ve never heard more arrogance, smugness and self-righteousness in one voice. No, not even in Rush Limbaugh. El Rushbo is a drug-addicted screwup and knows it, and his self-loathing underlies everything about him. But Prager? He knows, deep in his orthodox-Jewish, evangelical-butt-kissing, holier-than-thou soul, that he really is better than all the rest of us.

Well, no, maybe not. He’s getting a divorce. His second. I guess he’s right: Gay marriage does weaken the traditional kind.

Who knew? We do, now.