On the way to the vet’s today, a ring-necked pheasant sauntered across the road in front of me, in the heart of Grosse Pointe. This is, supposedly, a common sight in these parts, and yet, my heart always jumps a little. I mean, it’s hardly a pigeon.

I asked the vet about it, and he said he had the same feeling, but over time, you grow out of it. Mostly this happens if you live in a neighborhood with pheasant in it. “The cocks crow at first light,” he said. “And it’s not like a rooster crowing. It sounds like fingernails on a blackboard. That’s one thing at this time of year, when it comes at around 6:15. In the middle of summer, it can be as early as 3. That starts the dogs barking, and so on.”

Well, hell. They’re still pretty birds, and I reserve the right to be impressed by them.

Actually, the birds that wake me before I’m ready on summer mornings are, more often than not, sparrows. All that tuneless chirping — bleah. I’ll take a pheasant any day.

Lite bloggage today, until we hit the homestretch of this week:

Last year, I wrote something about insomnia here, which sparked a discussion in the comments about varioius pharmaceutical sleep aids. 4dbirds wrote: I took Ambien one evening to ensure a good night sleep. I seemed to wake-up fine but remember yawning quite a bit on the drive to work. At work, I started shutting down. I had to close the door to my office and slept the entire work day. I don’t remember driving home (what an idiot to even try it) and went straight to bed and sleep the second I got home. Next morning I was my usual self. One Ambien put me out for a good 32 hours.

NN.C, ahead of the curve again. From today’s NYT:

With a tendency to stare zombie-like and run into stationary objects, a new species of impaired motorist is hitting the roads: the Ambien driver. Ambien, the nation’s best-selling prescription sleeping pill, is showing up with regularity as a factor in traffic arrests, sometimes involving drivers who later say they were sleep-driving and have no memory of taking the wheel after taking the drug.

Wow. I feel all new-media and voice-of-the-people, don’t you?

By reader request, a picture of the lion in winter. That bed was my Christmas present for him — it just looked so soft and fleecy. Alan derides it as a “cat bed.” He avoided it for a few days, but now, most mornings, that’s where you can find him, having his a.m. snooze. He could use a haircut, but he always does, this time of year. He’s not growling or fussing, just mid-yawn. That’s our dog. Tomorrow he sees the vet for his 140,000-mile checkup. After which I hope to post something a little more substantive. But hey, you know you love the dog pictures.

Someone I met recently said she’d just seen “Hustle & Flow,” that she’d liked it a lot, but that it needed subtitles. I saw it last night, liked it a lot less, but didn’t think it needed subtitles. Once I got accustomed to the hustle and flow of the accent — which I understand is authentic Memphis African-American English — it was relatively easy to follow, and of course there’s no mistaking those m-f-bombs, no matter what the accent. It (the accent) was one thing I liked about it, one of a nice scattering of journalistic touches that tells you the writer knows his stuff.

Terrence Howard was another thing to like about it. Isn’t it thrilling to see an actor having a great year? You look at that face, and think: That’s a movie-star face. Why hasn’t anyone noticed until now? Maybe he had to grow into it.

The music? Was ludicrous. I like hip-hop as much as the next middle-aged white girl, but come on. How do recording engineers not burst out laughing when they hear some of this stuff? The central song we see produced in the movie, “It’s Hard Out Here for a Pimp,” is nominated for an Academy Award. It’ll most likely win, too. I can’t wait to see the audience-reaction shots when that one rolls out. Maybe Reese Witherspoon will bob her head along.

And that’s about all I have to say about the Oscars. Every year since Kate was born, I think, “Next year I’ll see all the Best Picture nominees before the Oscars are awarded” and every year I fail. When you add the baby-sitter surcharge, I just don’t care enough; there’s always one stinker. This year, for me, and your mileage may vary, it’s “Munich.” My severe Steven Spielberg allergy makes my head swell whenever I get near a theater showing one of his films. I regret missing “Capote,” though, and of course “Brokeback Mountain,” but I’ll get around to them.

Washed the dog today. He hated it, as all dogs are required to do. He fussed and objected and glared at me when it was all over. And an hour later? He loved me again. Ask yourself: What if someone dragged me through a very uncomfortable physical experience that left me smelling all wrong and my skin itchy? How soon would I feel like being nice to that person again? Inside of an hour? Not bloody likely. Dogs really are man’s best friend.

Later: OK, that gay-Western montage was funny. Settling in for the rest of it now. Feel free to turn the comments into your playground.

I have a shiny new Nevada state quarter to trade with anyone holding a West Virginia in good condition or better.

P.S. Never collect anything, not even something simple and inexpensive and good for teaching a school-age child about the geography of her nation. Sooner or later, it always breaks your heart. You have no idea what I was willing to do for Minnesota, until finally the Amtrak snack vendor’s change tray coughed one up. Kansas took its time making its way here. And we’ve barely begun to explore the west. Meanwhile, I get one of those stupid Connecticut charter-oak quarters every other day. Is the Mint creating artificial shortages to gin up interest in the 50 State Quarters program, now entering its final years, or have they just gotten bored and moved on to the nickels?

Of course, you still can’t find Sacagawea to save your life. Living on the Canadian border, I see loonies and toonies almost every week — I carry a few on me, just in case I’m called upon to run a diplomatic mission across the bridge. But we’re still feeding toilet-papery singles into pop machines.

I ask you.

Anyway, I’m not exactly jonesin’ for West Virginia, but to get one and get caught up? Would be almost heaven.

I think I finally have the answer to the eternal question: “Oldies radio — threat or menace?”

Menace.

I just watched the little kid on “American Idol” — the Poindexter teen rockin’ the eyebrows and glasses — and I feel like Simon. You can’t take a baby-faced teenager and have him sing “I Heard it Through the Grapevine” without having it come off like Bette Davis in “Whatever Happened to Baby Jane,” the scene where she reprises her childhood act for the chubby pianist guy.

I mean, he’s 16 years old. He can’t sell a song about a cheating girlfriend. He hasn’t had one yet.

He had the same problem the girl last week did, the one who did “Because the Night” as though it were an anthem to her cuteness and not a rave-up about tragic young love. Did you listen to the words, hon? If Patti Smith had a grave, she’d be rolling in it. As it is, she probably gnawed her braid off.

That’s the problem with oldies radio. You’ve got kids who know every single note, who’ve heard it since they were in diapers, to whom the songs have become audio wallpaper, not cultural touchstones. It’s how great songs like “Respect” and “I Got You” got ruined. There’s a reason you don’t eat roast beef every night, you know?

Someone asked if I ate lots of pizza in Chicago. I didn’t. Not that the weekend was free of new culinary experiences, however. I did sample something previously unexplored.

Wheatgrass juice.

I don’t know why. Kate and I were loitering at Water Tower Place with about a dozen other little girls, all early risers from the Eastern time zone no doubt, clutching our dolls and waiting for the American Girl Place to open. By our body clocks, it was mid-morning, and Kate wanted a snack. There was a juice bar. I got her a blueberry-strawberry smoothie and turned to the less milkshakey portion of the menu. I wanted the fortification of vegetables to take on this big day. Raw carrot juice? Naw. Raw beet juice? Nope. Carrot-beet blends, then? Uh-uh. And then I saw it — the flat of grass, the fearsome sign admonishing customers to “drink your vegetables,” touting the wonders of wheatgrass juice. Apparently it has so many antioxidants in one little cup that cancer cells quail and shrink. It has chlorophyll, which does…well, something really good, I’m sure.

I’ve read about this stuff. I hear it’s the magic elixir, along with SPF 65 sunblock and the blood of virgin poolboys, that keeps Hollywood women of a certain age from looking that way. They say it tastes like exactly what you’d think it tastes like. They say it takes real guts to swallow this crap.

“Set ’em up,” I told the juicemaster. He looked at me with new respect (or maybe it was the look you give a crazy person) and picked up his knife, hacking off a double handful and stuffing it into the extractor. The closest I came to barfing came when I saw the solids extruded out the other end, a sight anyone with a grass-eating dog will recognize from dozens of carpet cleanups. He served it up in a tiny plastic cup, no more than a swallow.

Kate made a face before returning to her smoothie. I picked it up and took a tentative, tiny sip. Not that bad — obviously there was a dollop of honey involved that I’d missed in the preparation. I wasn’t going to immediately barf it back up. So I thought of dorm rooms and tequila, cough syrup and kale and other disgusting things, closed my eyes and knocked the rest back.

I stood there waiting for the transformation. Anything this bad had to have an immediate payoff — losing 10 pounds overnight, a burst of energy, a new lease on life.

Nothing. At least I didn’t throw up. And no unpleasant GI aftermath, either.

On the whole, I’d rather have had pizza.

So, bloggage:

Lance Mannion was the first person to recommend Fred Busch’s work to me, and it was a good call — I still remember “The Night Inspector” with a great deal of dread and clarity, and as for “Girls,” well.

Busch died unexpectedly — if “suddenly at 63” qualifies as unexpected — last weekend. Lance has some thoughts.

The end of this week should bring the Busy Period to a (tentative) end, for now. Hope to be a little more full-bodied by next.