The thing about freelancing is, I told a fellow freelancer (translation, not journalism) yesterday, it has the predictability of rain. You can usually see what’s coming three days out, maybe, but you can never discount the possibility of a random cloudburst. All you can do is pack an umbrella and train your family to get their own damn dinner once in a while.
Which is my own lame excuse for not posting anything yesterday. I drove, for a story, to a suburb not considered particularly exurban, by Detroit standards. The core of the village was distinctly rural-gone-upmarket, which is to say, a strip of storefronts that once held dry goods and hardware and other needs of a farming populace, but now feature boutique fashions and a bar where you can get a salad featuring dried cherries.
(Dried cherries are the quintessential Michigan goes-with-anything ingredient. They’re always turning up in salads and stuffed into chicken breasts or swimming around in a white sauce. Good think I like them. I believe California went through a phase like this with jicama.)
Anyway, this town, thoroughly suburbanized, not considered all that far out? Was, from my front door, 50 miles away. I guess Los Angeles sprawls that much, and a few other cities. But I couldn’t help but think that if I’d left my house in Indiana and driven 50 miles north or south, I’d either be a) halfway to Indianapolis; or b) at the Michigan border.
By the time I got home I was behind on the rest of the day’s activities, so I elected to be productive rather than bloggy. I’m trying to limit my online time, with some success, but not enough. I’ve subscribed to all my fave blogs’ RSS feeds, which helps a lot, even though the updating is a bit…slow. But really, does one need to haunt Romenesko like a stalker? I don’t think so, even as I tell myself I’m only doing it to see if my ex-employer has been sold yet. Eventually I will get another job, and won’t be able to read the entire internet before lunch and call it “research.” Time to start weaning.
One other thing that happened this week: I saw Bob Seger’s boat, or one of them. Entirely unremarkable to the untrained eye, by the way. Kid Rock would be disappointed, as it doesn’t even remotely match his fantasy to buy a yacht with a flag saying, “Chillin’ the most,” and rock that bitch up and down the coast. Bob’s a serious, serious competitive sailor, which means when he’s rocking this bitch up and down the coast, he’s flying Kevlar sails and no cocktail flags. “He’s hardcore,” said my guide. “Always the last to come out of the water in the fall. If he can, he goes sailing on Thanksgiving morning.” In Detroit. Respect.
I’ve been to an Ikea store before. It was OK, but didn’t seem like the sort of place you’d need a traffic cop for, just to manage the teeming millions. But what do I know? Not bloody much, evidently: In Staughton, Mass., the 2003 opening of an Ikea store created such massive traffic jams on local freeways that extra police were brought in to keep the situation from getting out of hand. In Dallas, customers camped in the store’s parking lot awaiting the opening of a new Ikea; resulting traffic jams lasted most of the week.
Swedish modern — the new crack.
Are all law professors/bloggers fatuous twits? Lance Mannion dissects Ann Althouse.
And that’s it for me, for now.