You know what was wrong with the ’70s? At any point in that decade, particularly, oh, the first half, you might be having a conversation with a friend’s boyfriend. Say this boyfriend was not approved of by your friend’s parents. Say those parents were, in fact, actively trying to keep the young lovers apart. Say the boyfriend was in a band. In the middle of your conversation, the boyfriend might shake out his center-parted auburn hair and announce that he was going to sing a song in the next set that would really stick it to his girlfriend’s father. And then he would open his mouth and bray this song right in your face, a capella:

And his breath would smell like beer. Not that you were actually still breathing at this point.

Some women think it’s romantic when men sing to them. I have never understood this.

Today’s Moment of Poignance, Old Newshound Division: Thousands of Michigan schoolchildren, perhaps including my own, will have to retake part of the MEAP, our state test to make sure no child is left behind (God FORBID), because of a security breach.

Which was? A newspaper doing a story on the testing revealed essay topics before all students in the state had been tested. The fear, evidently, is that perhaps an untested child in the Upper Peninsula read the website of the Jackson Citizen-Patriot, and might have gotten an early warning on the test topic. Yes, really.

And the moment of poignance? Ahem:

“It’s not like we were going to find out the answers,” Brooke Nemens, 10, a sixth-grader at L’Anse Creuse Middle School — North, said after she heard the news. “I don’t even read the newspaper.”

Well, Brooke, you should. God knows what you could have learned.

The offending newspaper in Jackson (motto: “Home of the Largest Maximum-Security Prison in Michigan, and also the Jackson Cascades“) is making the usual mea-culpa sounds, although this blog entry, by an “opinion columnist,” is sort of weird — “testicles on a pitchfork”? How times have changed. (I don’t generally talk about my last, strange months in the newspaper business, but in the interest of making wicked fun, I’ll reveal this: Upon my return to the paper post-fellowship, the editor felt compelled to propose a blogging policy. Among the proposed rules: All blogs must adhere to newspaper standards of content and propriety, which at that time included a blanket ban on the word “butt” as a description of the fleshy pads we all sit on. And now, barely three years later, a paper in a city just as conservative as Fort Wayne, arguably more so, is allowing pitchforked testicles under its online brand. Ha. Ha. Ha.)

So what do we think of Al Gore’s Nobel? Lost Bush v. Gore, but got a couple of nice consolation prizes — an Oscar and now this one, which also includes dinner with the King of Sweden. I’ll start: I’ll enjoy this if only for the apoplexy it will induce in the needs-more-evidence community.

Had a good interview yesterday, and now must go over notes to make sure I didn’t forget anything, because the subject leaves for two weeks in Fiji in about 12 hours. How’s that for a ducking-out-early excuse?

Later, maybe. If not, have a good weekend.

Me, or the New York Times?

For those of you who have received Facebook SuperPokes from me in the last few days, I apologize. I’m still figuring out why I need this thing, although I’ve been assured by Those Who Know that all will become clear eventually. Whatever. I spent most of yesterday at a conference, and one of the sessions featured a very energetic woman telling a room full of baffled small businesspeople that they need to be on Twitter, a site that seems to exist for the sole purpose of letting the whole world honk like a goose.*

(* Many years ago, Alan had an interview with an ornithologist. Before he left, I said, “Ask him what geese are saying when they honk at one another when they’re flying.” He returned and reported the answer: A puzzled look, and “Here I am.”)

On the other hand, if I’d been sent a Twitter text message telling me my buds John and Sammy were not in Atlanta yesterday at 8:48 a.m. EDT, but at the Timberline Lodge on Mt. Hood, I would not have awakened John at 5:48 a.m. PDT to ask what sort of DV camera I should buy. I know that’s the sort of day-brightener I always appreciate.

The conference wasn’t a total waste of time. It was a research trip, and I got lots of ideas, even though the temperature indoors seemed to be turned down to stun. I spent the first part of the week worrying that the nape of my neck would never feel cool and dry again and by Wednesday — not even the end of the week — I’m blowing on my fingers in hopes of feeling sensation in them. During a break in the action, I wandered out to the lobby to discover the UAW had struck Chrysler. By the time I got home, the strike was over. Six hours — not even a whole shift — and yet it was enough to send yet another sheaf of solidarity-forever photos out into the world. Tom Walsh at the Freep points out the stakes:

(UAW President) Ron Gettelfinger is on the verge of doing something so historic, forging the most important UAW contracts since the GM sit-down strikes of 1936-37, that he felt compelled to deploy the biggest weapon in his arsenal, the strike, to make it happen. He called strikes to squeeze every last penny and every possible promise of a job from the companies, in return for the UAW agreeing to major cost-saving measures, most importantly, a union-run trust fund to handle future health care costs for retirees.

And he called strikes to show the hourly rank-and-file workers that he has their back, that he’s doing everything he can to get the most he can for his people. If UAW members don’t trust their leader to do that, they won’t ratify these contracts. The heavy lifting is not done. Gettelfinger, UAW Vice President Bob King and their bargaining team must now hunker down with Ford Motor Co., arguably the weakest of Detroit’s automakers, to negotiate one more contract.

I point this out not to bore the crap out of you, only to pause for a moment and reflect that a smart beat reporter-turned-columnist can be a real service to readers. That is all.

One of the sessions I attended was on innovation. After I adjusted my brain to the idea — having spent my career in an industry that could have hung out a sign reading, PROUDLY INNOVATION-FREE SINCE THE CIVIL WAR — I started to wonder if newspapers might not have had to travel this rocky path, if they’d had the sense to see the future coming down the road at them. Impossible question to answer, I know, but I do know what kept them from seeing it: Fear. Newspapers have been managed from a position of nail-biting fear for so long they don’t know any other way to do it. Kind of like the UAW. Too bad.

When I snapped back to attention the speaker was talking about how the parking decks at Metro Airport were innovated to within an inch of their lives, and the next step will likely be a Star Trek transporter between your home and your departure gate, cutting the car and the parking out of the equation completely. Kind of like the internet and newspapers. Too bad.

Friends, I’m beat, and I told myself I’d get this chore out of the way early, so I can shower and eat and adjust my caffeine balance. I don’t have much bloggage, but I advise you to find your own at Comics Curmudgeon, where daily the proprietor points out the utter laziness and fear-based management that rules the funny pages. Psst: He’s just devastating on Ziggy today. Or Doghouse Riley, who is having Hoosier-style water problems, something I recall from my Hoosier days.

And if you’d like to be sucked into a Flash vortex and not get any work done for the rest of the day, go ahead and try to spot the difference. Make sure the monitor faces the wall and no one can see what you’re really doing.

Also, where’s Danny been these days? The halls feel empty and echo-y without him.

There are days when I wouldn’t go back to work in an office, in a downtown, for any amount of money. There are days when I’d pay any amount for just another day there. Tuesday was one of those days — a successful meeting in the morning, a lunch hour all to myself, a sparkling day on the riverfront. Lousy picture, seen here:

(Why do they even put cameras this crappy in cell phones? You’d be better off drawing a picture.)

I tried the new Asian Village on the waterfront, a combination fast-casual/sushi/white-tablecloth complex that’s new in town. Verdict: OK, but needs more foot traffic, and if you can’t get foot traffic on a perfect fall day, keep your fingers crossed. “It’s not organic,” Alan points out, and he’s not talking about the vegetables. It’s one thing when a Whatevertown springs up because the whatevers are drawn together individually, and another thing entirely when they’re plunked in by fiat. But it’s beautiful, the location can’t be beat, and with thousands of GM office staff right next door, my guess is they’ll be rolling in dough eventually.

(“Don’t be so sure,” says Alan. We’ll have to make a bet.)

While I was there, I looked around at contemporary American white-collar workers, wearing their lanyards of IDs and card keys and personal electronic devices. We’re becoming a nation of janitors. At my meeting, I not only had to be card-swiped into the building and personally escorted, but also the reverse. Employees had to swipe themselves out for smoke breaks. I had just been telling someone I sort of missed the days when all men wore neckties to the office, if for no other reason than to indicate status, and the more I watched these salarymen and women go through their day, it became clear why: Why wear all that crap and a tie? I tried to think of the last time I saw Alan in a tie (months). GM is a conservative company, and a few of the men tucking into Thai noodles wore neckties, but more didn’t. Khakis, polos, loafers — this is the new gray flannel suit.

I don’t mind it; I’m all for comfort within reason. But I recall watching the deterioration of dress at my old newspaper, which over 20 years went from neckties to collared shirts/no neckties to collared knit shirts to plain T-shirts to the day one of the Neighbors reporters came in wearing a T-shirt that said MUSTARD PLUG on the front, along with Teva sandals that showed off his grody toenails. I used to wear skirts and pantyhose to work; now I wear jeans to business meetings with bankers, and frequently the bankers are wearing jeans, too. If I have a blazer on, it’s like I’m dressed up. Yay me.

OK, just a bit of bloggage, because this is a busy week and I have less time for web-surfing and nose-picking:

This is too good not to be real: Mrs. Larry Craig’s Super Tuber recipe. HT: Weingarten.

When Alabama men of God die, they die alone. Thank God.

See you soon.

I was meandering through a Kurt Andersen piece in New York magazine — “The Age of Apoplexy,” fyi — when Brian dumped another link in the previous post’s comments, about some free-floating apoplexy in Indiana, that seemed to underline Kurt’s point.

When you’re looking for a topic that can be dashed off quickly, sometimes the Lord provides. Also, “Free-Floating Apoplexy in Indiana” would be a great name for a band.

Andersen’s point is, the world has grown too touchy, about practically everything:

For a while now, I’ve fretted that we’re turning into a nation of weenies and permanently enraged censors, that too many of us are afraid of letting disagreeable or uncomfortable ideas into the limelight. If it’s not the p.c. overreach of campus “speech codes” or the attempts to criminalize “hate speech,” it’s the FCC’s crackdown on cussing in PBS documentaries and the Secret Service’s keeping protesters fenced off in “free speech zones.” But during the last month, this impulse to squelch—indulged by the left and the right and the milquetoast middle—seems to have reached some kind of tipping point, as if we’ve entered a permanent state of hysterical overreaction.

…During a single week at the end of September, everyone from the Daily News to the Democratic speaker of the New York City Council denounced Columbia for inviting Mahmoud Ahmadinejad to speak (and Hillary Clinton joined the mob in saying he should be turned away by police—at gunpoint?—if he tried to go near ground zero); Verizon refused to broadcast NARAL’s abortion-rights text messages; Bill O’Reilly’s goofy can’t-we-all-just-get-along attempt to sow racial harmony was called racist; and Congress, after wasting its time officially condemning MoveOn.org for its stupid, over-the-top “General Betray Us” ad, was asked to waste its time condemning Rush Limbaugh’s stupid, over-the-top crack that only “phony soldiers” criticize the war in Iraq.

Not a bad summation of the case, but Andersen lives in New York, and probably is unaware of the naked mockery represented in Fort Wayne mayoral candidate Matt Kelty’s birthday cake. Feel free to examine this excellent photo of the offending foodstuff, described in the usual dead-serious newspaper prose:

The cake had a Wizard of Oz theme. It depicts an outhouse labeled “GOP HQ” sitting on top of a baseball field, believed to be reference to the $120 million Harrison Square project Kelty opposes. Resting atop the diamond and under the outhouse are legs resembling those of the Wicked Witch of the East.

The outhouse also refers to Allen County Republican Chairman Steve Shine and Allen County Commissioner Nelson Peters, whom Kelty defeated in the mayoral primary.

From the outhouse is a yellow road leading to the Emerald City. Along the road are signs referring to City Councilman Sam Talarico, R-at large, who has been an outspoken supporter of Kelty’s opponent, Democrat Tom Henry.

Not that the story lacked humor. Nothing like a quote like this to get the giggles started:

“I don’t endorse the comments made on the cake,” (said Kelty).

You have to have been to a few birthday parties in Fort Wayne to fully appreciate the humor in this story, especially birthday parties for Republican Christian knobs like Kelty, parties where the most exciting thing that could happen is someone getting a little frosting in their mustache. Always remember, though, a candidate should have plausible deniability:

Kelty said his 43d birthday party – which served as a fundraiser charging $43 per person – was a hectic event and he did not know about the cake until it was already cut and served.

Well, there you go.

Friends, I got a front-loaded morning. Might be back this afternoon. In the meantime, tell any offensive-cake stories you have.

American son:

(Born into an automotive fortune), Erik Prince, with three older sisters, was a hardworking boy, an athlete whose straight-arrow ways amazed classmates. Even at Holland Christian High, he stood out. He neither drank nor smoked. While friends flashed new-wave haircuts or mullets in the 1980s, he was one of two boys pictured in his senior yearbook with a crew cut.

…After graduating, Prince headed to the U.S. Naval Academy, only to quit after three semesters. He told friends he was disappointed in the maturity and morality of his fellow midshipmen.

“I know when he got back, he said that he thought everybody at the academy would just bleed red, white and blue like he did,” the former coach, Heethuis said. “But he found out some people were just there for a free education.”

Prince landed an internship in the early 1990s in the White House under then-President George Bush. Again, he was disappointed.

He later told the Grand Rapids Press: “I saw a lot of things I didn’t agree with — homosexual groups being invited in, the budget agreement, the Clean Air Act, those kinds of bills.”

I have a mantra that I use sometimes; I devised it when I was living in Indiana, and had to keep a straight face when, for instance, my neighbor said he was moving to the suburbs so his children wouldn’t be subjected to “outcome-based education” in Fort Wayne schools. I’d say to myself: “Everyone travels a different path to this moment in time. People see different things along the way, which may lead them to different conclusions about how the world works. Their path is not my path, and I respect their right to travel it and make up their own minds.”

Repeated inside one’s head, perhaps with a nod and smile, it makes for far smoother relations in life than going with a knee-jerk, “God, you are so full of shit.” And the thing is, I really believe it. I know some of you who disagree with me might believe I tip a little too far into the you-are-so-full-of-shit direction, but in my heart of hearts, I think this country is big enough for all of us, and is, in fact, better for it. Viva diversity, all diversity. Honest: I don’t want to live in a world where everyone agrees with me.

Only sometimes do I despair. The profile of Erik Prince quoted above was one such moment. I had to sit for a long time digesting it before I came up with something good to say about this son of privilege who grew up to be some sort of patriotic robo-monster, a boy who scorned his Naval Academy classmates for being there for “the free education” — It’s always the rich ones who don’t know what education is worth, isn’t it? — who then went on to raise a mercenary army where the warriors are paid in the neighborhood of $100K (but aren’t in it for the money, “just loyal Americans who ‘bleed red, white and blue.'”). And it was this: Well, at least he didn’t go the George Bush route.

If Erik Prince’s private jet — I’m assuming Blackwater has one — went down today, his obituaries would be respectful and, in some circles anyway, even reverent. A son of privilege who nevertheless worked hard, achieved much, gave much back, he’d be lionized as the best America has to give to the world. Even though, for all his fine qualities, he seems to have developed ideas that are nothing short of un-American.

Such as:

That America should fight wars with soldiers for hire, for starters. There’s a reason our professional soldier class is small, and works for respect and glory, not money. There’s a reason mercenaries get the same respect as prostitutes. There’s a reason “war profiteer” isn’t a term of endearment.

That making policy means getting your way, every time. I love these guys, the sorts who carry a copy of the Constitution in their back pockets, and forget what it took to write the thing, i.e., compromise. Then it meant fighting over a bicameral legislature. Today it means meeting with gay-rights groups and crafting budget deals. Same idea — consensus. Winning an election doesn’t mean ignoring the people in the country who didn’t vote for your guy.

Among other things.

I notice the Freep reader comments quickly turned up a you-can’t-HANDLE-the-truth contingent, which may be about the only defense of this outfit one can make. Dream of an America that takes its warmaking seriously enough to ask sacrifice from everyone, of one that doesn’t torture or tolerate civilian “contractors” who shoot civilians, and you get a sneer and a wave-off.

Everyone travels a different path to this moment in time. People see different things along the way, which may lead them to different conclusions about how the world works. Their path is not my path, and I respect their right to travel it and make up their own minds.

Eh. It was that kind of morning. The Prince story was the first thing I read. The second was on Page One of the NYT, about the puzzling, seemingly inexplicable rise of rape as a weapon of terror in eastern Congo. Warning: Do not read after a recent breakfast. And why is it happening? Well, shit happens, and then it happens again:

Many Congolese aid workers denied that the problem was cultural and insisted that the widespread rapes were not the product of something ingrained in the way men treated women in Congolese society. “If that were the case, this would have showed up long ago,” said Wilhelmine Ntakebuka, who coordinates a sexual violence program in Bukavu.

Instead, she said, the epidemic of rapes seems to have started in the mid-1990s. That coincides with the waves of Hutu militiamen who escaped into Congo’s forests after exterminating 800,000 Tutsis and moderate Hutus during Rwanda’s genocide 13 years ago.

Mr. Holmes said that while government troops might have raped thousands of women, the most vicious attacks had been carried out by Hutu militias.

“These are people who were involved with the genocide and have been psychologically destroyed by it,” he said.

Mr. Bourque called this phenomenon “reversed values” and said it could develop in heavily traumatized areas that had been steeped in conflict for many years, like eastern Congo.

After this, I was tempted to go back to bed. But then I read this story, which made me no more optimistic about the state of the world, but at least had an element of grim humor in it. Only in Ann Arbor:

Last month, about 1,100 members of the (People’s Food Co-op) voted on a proposal that, if approved, would ban the store from selling goods from Israel. The results are to be released Thursday after a year of debate across metro Detroit. The co-op has many members in the tri-country area who have closely followed the controversy.

I love Ann Arbor, I loved living there, it’s the only place I’ve lived where I felt really and truly at home, at one with my people. But even I have my limits, and I think it’s right around the Palestine: Peace not Couscous zone:

The controversy started when a shopper got upset after seeing that the store was selling Israeli couscous. A petition drive was launched, and a group called Boycott Israeli Goods garnered enough signatures to get a ballot proposal on which the co-op’s roughly 6,000 members could vote. Two previous co-op boycotts involved tuna that harmed dolphins and grapes, in support of farm workers. Both boycotts ended years ago.

Last month, members cast ballots on the Israeli-products boycott. At times, the arguments involved anti-Semitic sentiments. Some boycott supporters held up Nazi swastikas outside the store, concerning many shoppers.

OK, anti-Semitism and swastikas = not funny. I did indicate the humor was grim.

It’s this heat that’s making me crabby. I went to a high-school football game Friday — half of it, anyway — and sat in the stands in sheer misery, feeling my styling products melt down my neck in a slimy trail. We raked leaves on Saturday at the lake cottage in shorts and T-shirts, and the fire afterward, always a pleasant ritual of fall, was sheer misery. You read about the Chicago Marathon, surely. And yesterday I did the unthinkable — turned on the air conditioning. In October.

Well, by Wednesday the temperature will be back into the 50s, and I’ll have something new to bitch about.

Have a groovy Monday.

Unseasonable warmth here of late; today’s high is predicted to be in the mid-80s. Of course journalistic objectivity requires me to insert the phrase “so-called” in front of “global warming,” so I’ll refrain from bringing it up.* I’ll only say it makes for some strange mornings.

Summer flip-flops, for instance, are not made for my driveway these days, littered so heavily with acorns it’s like walking through a landscape of marbles and broken glass. The birds are quieter as the sky lightens, so the earliest sounds of the awakening city come from the freeway, half a mile as the (less talkative these days) crow files. Zoom. Zoom. The rumble of a truck. The blat of a motorcycle. I lie there and think: I went to bed 4.5 hours ago. Why am I awake? Answer: Because the universe hates you and wants you to suffer. The leaves are changing right on schedule, the mums replaced the coleus and impatiens on the front porch two weeks ago, but they have to be watered just as often, because the fall rains aren’t coming. Also, 85-degree temperatures take it out of even hardy mums.

Meanwhile, Charlotte died. She was a spider that spun her web in a corner of our back doorway. I watched her the other evening, catching her just as the spokes were complete and she started on the orbital sections. She didn’t look quite like E.B. White’s description of her namesake — she was a pale beige, not gray, and smaller than a gumdrop. When she finished, she took her place at the center of the web to wait. The next morning, the web had a few torn spots in it — left by the ensnared bugs, I expect — and Charlotte was gone. The following night, the web was unrepaired and Charlotte was back, but she wasn’t moving. I touched the web, and she raised one leg, rather weakly, it seemed. The next day, the web was in tatters, Charlotte was gone, and that evening, she didn’t show up at all.

I dunno. Maybe she moved.

Thus concludes the Annie Dillard wannabe portion of today’s post. As I occasionally point out, at least 50 percent of the reason I started this blog was to force myself to keep a daily journal of some sort, and sometime in the future, I’ll be glad I wrote all this down. Also, low-rent woolgathering about the weather keeps me from thinking about the Grosse Pointe News, my local weekly. Motto: One of America’s many lousy newspapers..

Just to show you where I’m coming from: The state of Michigan narrowly avoided a government shutdown early this week. Unemployment is up, revenues are down, deficits are huge. The state needs more money, but opposing taxes, any taxes, is now an actual religion among Republicans. The no-new-taxes crowd said the deficit could be made up by cutting services, but when pressed to be specific, couldn’t be. The stalemate dragged on for months. At the very last minute, quite literally the last minute, the legislature passed a sales tax on services and an income-tax increase, crisis averted.

The Pointes’ representative voted for the tax increase. His name is Ed Gaffney. Page One headline in this week’s edition: Gaffney defends tax gaff. See, it’s a play on words! And, oh yeah, “gaffe” is misspelled, but what the hell. And the headline is outright editorializing. Never mind that. He had his reasons for voting for the increase, which he explains in the story. He doesn’t say that he’s a lame duck thanks to term limits, and the story doesn’t mention it. An editorial does, but that’s on another page. (It also speaks of his “gaff.” I’m wondering if I missed a photo of my representative running around Lansing brandishing a long pole with a hook on the end.)

The editorial makes a big deal out of noting how fiscally conservative the community is. On the facing page, a man-on-the-street interview asks locals how they thought the crisis should be solved. Of six people interviewed, three were Pointers. Of the three, two answered: With new taxes. Ha.

One more amusing detail: At the end of the angry editorial, there’s a subhead. Late breaking news. (Yes, no hyphen, my copy-editing friends. Argh.) Under it: While going to press we heard that Mr. Gaffney, in budget negotiations, was able to get an additional $800,000 to $1.2 million for the Grosse Pointe and Harper Woods school districts. Oh.

It’s like no one edits this paper at all. It’s like it just assembles itself. The Weekly Miracle, indeed.

Are you ready for some bloggage?

Snort:

LOS ANGELES—A Malawi couple has completed adoption paperwork for Sean Preston Federline, 2, and Jayden James Federline, 1, after their mother, Britney Spears, lost custody of the children Monday.

It was Ms. Spears’ inability to provide car seats that initially brought the plight of her children to the attention of the Malawi couple, who wish to remain anonymous, and who will be referred to here as Mr. and Mrs. M. But it was the widely circulated photograph of Ms. Spears’ vagina that really drew their concern. “In our country, a good mother does not show her business to the press,” Mrs. M said. “It is very bad luck.” After Spears’ “performance” at MTV’s Video Music Awards, the adoptive couple knew they had to do something. “We could not allow innocent children to live under such horrific conditions anymore,” they explained. “The Third World can no longer turn a blind eye to the tragedy affecting so many U.S. celebrity children.”

Chris “Leave Britney Alone” Crocker is coming to Detroit Saturday:

On Saturday night, Crocker is scheduled to appear at Ice in Hamtramck, which bills itself as Detroit’s premier gay nightclub. What will he be doing there, other than being his fabulous self? “It’s a surprise,” said Crocker, who uses a pseudonym. “It’s going to be worth it, for sure.”

If you get on the road now, you can still make it. I’ll change the sheets in the guest room.

Oh, and finally, the Freep takes a look at how Islam is lived on the majority-Muslim football team at Fordson High School in Dearborn, sneeringly referred to as “Dearbornistan” by people who have never been there. Join us as we see how the high-school athlete copes when Ramadan falls during football season:

Last season, Fordson High’s football team, which is about 95% Muslim, started 4-0.

Then Ramadan came.

The team lost its next four games, all held during the holy month. After Ramadan, the team won its last regular game of the year, squeaking into the playoffs.

Did the fasting affect their performance? Maybe.

But this season, new head coach Fouad Zaban isn’t making it an issue.

“It became an excuse, whether legitimate or not,” said Zaban, a former star running back at Fordson. “It became a distraction, something we had to deal with the last four to five years. …But our motto this year is: ‘No excuses.’ We will not bring the issue up, and we haven’t.”

Zaban is a devout Muslim and fasts. But he’s leaving the choice up to his players: There’s water on the sidelines if they want to drink during workouts. During a practice last Thursday, though, the players chose to sweat it out.

Really interesting story.

Have a great weekend.

* Of course I am kidding. We are currently experiencing climate change that is almost certainly man-made and will be catastrophic, and not just to the bottom of our boat when we try to get it out of the harbor this fall, now that the water has dropped precipitously. Sorry for any misunderstanding. That is all.

The “Sex and the City” movie (motto: “Like watching four episodes back-to-back”) is shooting in where-else this month, and not many days go by without one of the gossip rags or websites featuring a photo taken on-set. The good news (I guess): Nothing really changes. Carrie isn’t wearing jeans and polos, or even sweats with an Hermes-scarf-as-halter-top. But it’s a good thing this is a movie, because you’re going to need one wiiiide screen for this getup.

The other day the NYPost reported the crew was shooting the Big/Carrie wedding scenes at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, which I forwarded to Amy, because if there’s anything that brightens an orthodox Catholic’s day, it’s news that the One True Church has allowed a production celebrating guilt-free, non-marital fornication to use one of its most famous North American cathedrals as a location.

But we may have to get the Pope involved, after all:

I’m thinking a papal bull condemning stylist Patricia Field is called for here. She has plainly lost her mind.

Never mind the propriety of dressing a woman on the far side of 40 in a dress last worn by the 20-year-old Princess Diana — this is a cathedral wedding, after all. Never mind the horror it makes of SJP’s bony, chicken chest. What is that thing on her head?

I told Amy it was either a Bride of Frankenstein riff or else an abstract representation of the Holy Spirit. Your guess is as good as mine.

For the borderline snark I’ve brought to Funky Winkerbean of late, I can’t really fault him too much. The comics pages are a risk-free zone most days, and for whatever Tom Batiuk has done to change that, even down to bumping off his characters, well, hats off. (And luckless Lisa was certainly a candidate for early death.) I come today to draw your attention to a small detail of this week’s strips:

The afghan of death, seen here on Lisa’s penultimate resting place. (UPDATE: Link doesn’t appear to want to load. Might be a traffic issue, as millions of comics fans check out the end, the end, the bitter end. Maybe try back later. It sort of looks like this.)

For you knitters out there, that is what this pattern is called, isn’t it? Because I don’t think I’ve been in a nursing home or hospice that didn’t have one in every room. Always the zigzag pattern, always those colors, always acrylic yarn. It’s like that cat that knows when you’re going to die — get the afghan of death, get your affairs in order.

Actually, you could say that about most afghans, although I have one on every couch and wouldn’t live without any of them. It gives Alan’s knitty family something to give us, and they’re all in shades of cream. Thank God.