I feel bad about what I’m going to do here.

I’ve had a lot of fun at Tim Goeglein’s expense over the last few months. Mean-spirited fun, certainly, but my problem with him has always been one of personal taste. In his columns for The News-Sentinel, my old newspaper, he personifies a certain sort of apple-cheeked Hoosier drippiness, which undoubtedly masks a core of white-hot ambition. I mean, he worked at the right hand of Karl Rove, and remains in the White House. But while he works in the West Wing, he chooses to write awful, turgid essays on the wonders of Hoagy Carmichael, deceased operatic composers and his parents’ marriage. I know it’s unfair to expect policy analyses, but it’s maddening to think that here’s this guy, a home-towner, eyewitness to an epochal period in American history, and he gives us Odes to Summer. Why he chooses to do so for the failing paper in a two-newspaper town, one with a circulation that probably barely nudges 30,000 these days, remains a mystery. (I’ve heard theories: He does it for his mother, and He plans to run for office soon, and he’s raising his local profile. Don’t really care, anyway. He’s just fun to make fun of.

When William F. Buckley died this week, one of my first thoughts was that he’d been friends with Tim, and we would almost certainly have a long, overwrought, superlative-packed column coming down the pike soon, and we’d have ourselves a good time giggling over it. When I saw he had a piece in the paper Thursday, the day after Buckley died, I thought for a second the wait was over, then spotted the headline — Education: Ideas worth defending, honesty of reflective thought — and realized, no, this has been in the pipeline for a while.

Not that it was a total disappointment. I started to read, and a name jumped out at me — “Eugene Rosenstock-Hussey,” described as a “notable professor of philosophy at Dartmouth.” Now, I’m sure Tim’s spare brain space isn’t cluttered, as mine is, with “American Idol,” the internet and what’s-for-dinner concerns. Certainly string quartets waft through his paneled study, where he reads and thinks under the mounted ibex head, far from the vulgar buzz of pop culture. Surely he can acquaint himself with notable professors of philosophy at Dartmouth while I watch the Oscars. But this name was so goofy, just for the hell of it, I Googled it. And look what I found.

Tim:

A notable professor of philosophy at Dartmouth College in the last century, Eugene Rosenstock-Hussey, expressed the matter succinctly. His wisdom is not only profound but also worth pondering in this new century. He said, “The goal of education is to form the Citizen. And the Citizen is a person who, if need be, can re-found his civilization.”

He meant that, I think, in quite a large sense. He did not mean that you had to master all the specialties you can think of, but rather to be an educated man or woman, you needed to be familiar with the large and indispensable components of our civilization.

This does not mean you should not study other cultures and civilizations. It does mean that to be a citizen of this one, you should be aware of what it is and where it — we — came from. It can hardly be challenged that the United States of America is part of the narrative of European history.

“What is a College Education?” by Jeffrey Hart, writing in the Dartmouth Review (cite is unclear, but from the URL it appears to be from 1998):

A notable Professor of Philosophy at Dartmouth, Eugene Rosenstock-Hussey often expressed the matter succinctly, “The goal of education,” he would say, “is to form the Citizen. And the Citizen is a person who, if need be, can re-found his civilization.”

He meant that in quite large a sense. He did not mean that you had to master all the specialties you can think of.

He meant that you need to be familiar with the large and indispensable components of your — this — civilization.

This certainly does not mean that you should not study other cultures and civilizations. It does mean that to be a Citizen of this one you should be aware of what it is and where it came from.

It can scarcely be challenged that the United States is part of the narrative of European history.

My, my, my. Tim Goeglein, director of the White House office of public liaison, is a plagiarist.

Not an accidental or delicate one, either. The piece (Tim’s) goes on:

It can hardly be challenged that the United States of America is part of the narrative of European history. Europe is overwhelmingly the source, and some parts of Europe more than others: Our language, literature, legal tradition, political arrangements derive, demonstrably, from England. This Britain-America connection is central.

There have been many ways of answering the question: What is Europe? A handy way to think of the matter is the paradigm of “Athens” and “Jerusalem.” In this paradigm, those terms designate both the two cities we have all heard of but also two kinds of mind. The tradition designated “Athens” is associated with philosophy and with critical exercise of mind, with reason. The tradition associated with “Jerusalem” is associated with monotheism, with faith.

Hart:

It can scarcely be challenged that the United States is part of the narrative of European history. It owes little or nothing to Confucius or Laotse or to Chief Shaka or to the Aztecs. At the margin it owes a bit to the American Indians, but not a great deal — corn, tobacco, some legendary material. But Europe is overwhelmingly the source. And some parts of Europe more than others: Our language, legal tradition, political arrangements derive, and demonstrably so, from England.

There have been many ways of answering the question, “What is Europe?” But a handy way to think of the matter is the paradigm of “Athens” and “Jerusalem.” In this paradigm, those terms designate both the two cities we have all heard of, and also two kinds of mind.

The tradition designated “Athens” is associated with philosophy and with critical exercise of mind. The tradition associated with “Jerusalem” is associated with monotheism.

Note that Tim leaves out the gratuitous swipe at non-European cultures. Well, the original was written a few years ago, and times have changed. But other than a word here and there — Hart likes “scarcely,” while Tim goes for “hardly” — these two great minds think alike. A lot alike:

On the side of Athens, you would want to learn something about Homer, who in many ways laid the basis of Greek philosophy, and you would need to meet Plato, Aristotle, Socrates — the three greatest Greek philosophers — as well as the Greek dramatists, historians, architects and sculptors.

Over in Jerusalem, you would find the epic account of the career of monotheism as it worked its way out in history. The scriptures, like Homer, have their epic heroes — Moses most dramatically — and like the Greek tradition in some ways, they refine and internalize the epic virtues. Athens and Jerusalem, reason and faith, interact, and much flows from this interaction that results in the fullest expression of the educated man and woman.

The intellectually exciting thing is that with Athens and Jerusalem as the foundations, you would follow all of this down through the centuries, through Virgil (the great Roman poet), Augustine, Dante (who is perhaps the greatest poet of Western culture), Shakespeare (who is probably our greatest playwright), Cervantes, Montaigne, Moliere, Voltaire, Goethe and on to modernity. “The best that has been thought and said,” as Matthew Arnold called it. The mind of Europe as T.S. Eliot put it, “from Homer to the present.”

That was Tim. This is Hart:

On the side of “Athens” you will want to learn something about Homer, who in many ways laid the basis of Greek philosophy, and you will need to meet Plato, Aristotle, the Greek dramatists, historians, architects and sculptors.

Over in “Jerusalem” you will find the epic account of the career of monotheism as it worked its way out in history. The scriptures like Homer, have their epic heroes, and, like the Greek tradition in some ways they refine and internalize the epic virtues. “Athens” and “Jerusalem” interact and much flows from the interaction.

You will follow all of this down through the centuries, through Virgil and Augustine, and Dante, in Shakespeare, Cervantes, and Montaigne, Moliere, Voltaire, Goethe and on to modernity. “The best that has been thought and said, “ as Matthew Arnold called it. The mind of Europe as T.S. Eliot put it, “from Homer to the present.”

Interestingly, Jeffrey Hart himself is quite the character, another aide to a president (Nixon, Reagan), a spiritual and intellectual brother to Tim. As for the Dartmouth Review, well, most people know the story of one of the first high-profile right-wing student publications, that gave an early-career boost to Dinesh D’Souza and Laura Ingraham, among others. (Tim went to Indiana University.) All accounts paint a picture of a dedicated academic who, you’d think, would frown on one of academia’s most serious sins. I look forward to hearing his reaction, if any.

I mentioned at the top of this post that I feel bad about what I’m going to do here. (I stole that line, by the way; it’s Nora Ephron’s opening for her devastating profile of Dorothy Schiff’s New York Post. Now that I’ve given credit, it’s not plagiarism, it’s an homage. See how it works?) I feel bad because my old buddy Leo Morris, who edits the op-ed pages, is going to bear the brunt of this — the investigation, the uncomfortable announcement to readers, the search through the archives for more time bombs, the embarrassment of being took by someone any editor would trust, a self-styled intellectual and senior White House aide, for crying out loud. But either this stuff is important or it isn’t, and I say it is.

UPDATE: Thanks to the Kenosha Kid, in comments, who finds more evidence of unattributed sourcing, in the Hoagy Carmichael essay linked above. The rifled pockets were those of Jonathan Yardley in the Washington Post. Way to pick an obscure source, Tim.

UPDATE 2: Since we’re getting some outside linkage today, a word about comments: I have mine set for “first-timers go to moderation,” and after that, you’re in. So if you’re a newbie, feel free to comment, but if it doesn’t appear right away, don’t keep trying. I’ll stay close to my computer today, but I have to run a few errands today, too, and will be out.

UPDATE 3: Tim comes clean. Thanks, Natalie, for the tipoff.

UPDATE 4 (and it’s hardly noon yet): Thanks to commenters Adam Stanhope and Grytpype Thynne, who did the work on the operatic composers piece, down in the comments. (Click here to go there directly.) I am reminded of a recent scene from “The Wire”: “You think the first time he gets caught is the first time he does it?” Apparently not.

UPDATE 5: And MOOOOOOOORE.

UPDATE 6: OK, this is funny, the News-Sentinel’s response. The subhed should be, “Nall? Never heard of her.” Oh, and keep following our bird dogs, Adam Stanhope and Grytpype Thynne, in the comments. I can’t keep up any more and I have to step out for half an hour.

When Kate was wee and I was an energetic mum who believed in early-childhood education, my plan to make her a lifelong reader* involved going to storytime every week at the Allen County Public Library. It was always led by one of the several excellent children’s librarians there, but my fave was Miss Beth. Miss Beth had a knack with kids and many piercings. She was also funny, and said things like “right on” when she agreed with you.

Anyway, Miss Beth is in Indy now, but she still reads NN.C, and checked in the other day when we briefly discussed the problem of library perverts — the men too cheap to get their own computer and broadband, and come to the library to surf for porn. It turns out Miss Beth also has mad skilz with the pervz:

There’s a system to catching a perv that I feel I’ve perfected lo these ten years. The rumor at my library is that I can smell a perv at 20 paces because of my success rate. The real tip-off? The subtle tilting of a computer monitor. No innocent person cares if you see their game of hearts or online dating profile. I give it about 20-30 minutes after I see the tilt and then do a fly-by. At this point, the patron is so engrossed (emphasis on “gross”) that he never even hears me approaching. It’s the heart-stopping jump and scramble that I love the most. The best line I ever heard? “I wasn’t looking at porn; those ladies were just missing clothes.” Hand to God.

It also reminds me of the summer I spent about a week (with the help of a few other librarians) combing and interpreting Indiana Code to aid in reprimanding a patron. This particular gent never actually whipped it out. Oh, no, nothing that crass. He would rub himself through his shorts. And when he would come up to ask for more time at his terminal, the evidence of his electronic love was front and center. I usually sat in a low chair and was confronted with his spreading stain enough to ask for help in getting him out. And wouldn’t you know? We found something (and since none of us are law librarians, we took great liberty with it) that suggested one could not self-pleasure through one’s clothes in public in this great state.

Just so’s you know.

How did librarians ever get tagged as shushing, severe, boring old maids? I’ve yet to meet one you wouldn’t want to have a beer with, just so you could hear their stories. On the other hand, maybe there’s a reason they turn into old maids. You can hardly blame a girl for swearing off men forever, after meeting a few like this.

*Obviously this plan has been a miserable failure. I just came downstairs to find her watching a Disney Channel show featuring a talking zit. Yes way.

I feel so much better today, I’m a new person. Still stiff, but no longer fatigued and miserable about it. Some things you just have to wait out. Even…the bloggage!

For Better or For Worse used to be one of my favorite comic strips, until Lynn Johnston embraced her inner conservative, the one that believes that while young ladies may dabble in these things called “careers,” there comes a time when they all have to come home, marry someone parentally approved and open the baby factory. The drawn-out final storyline leading to Johnston’s retirement — the marriage of Elizabeth and her unbelievably boring childhood friend, Andrew — has finally begun. The Comics Curmudgeon finds the turning point.

The reaction to Mr. F’Buckley’s death — I prefer Ernestine the Telephone Lady’s pronunciation — has been more tolerable than I expected, but then again, I’ve been avoiding the National Review. (Although Jeff forced me to read Tim Goeglein’s initial tribute, which was amusing. I’m keeping the bookmark close, to compare it with his inevitable News-Sentinel column.) A few lefty sources dug up this chestnut, which reads like it came out of a brandy-and-cigars conversation in the parlor at Twelve Oaks. Granted, the quote is old — older than me; that’s old — so I did the math and figured Buckley would have been 31 when he said it. Old enough to know better, certainly, but 1957 America was a different place, too. As a writer who’s produced millions of hastily churned words in thousands of forgettable pieces, my natural sympathy lies with the writer. What someone wrote then isn’t as important as what they’d write today. Writing has always been a form of thinking for me (and, I suspect, for Buckley), and part of the reason I do it all day is because it helps me clarify my own thoughts. Someone once asked, “What do you think of X?” and I replied, “Dunno. Haven’t written about it yet.” A sloppy thinker/writer like me might ramble all over the place before arriving at a destination, and if they did the same thing 24 hours later, arrive at an entirely different place.

From this NYT roundup of readers’ questions to Book Review editor Sam Tanenhaus, who’s writing a bio on the man (thanks, Jeff), we get this:

I never heard him make a personally disparaging remark about anyone, even adversaries like Arthur M. Schlesinger Jr. and Gore Vidal. He might describe something they did or the style in which they did it, but never in an insulting or even critical way. He had a large sense of the human comedy.

Also:

He said it was a mistake for National Review not to have supported the civil rights legislation of 1964-65, and later supported a national holiday honoring Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., whom he grew to admire a good deal, above all for combining spiritual and political values.

So, see, Darwin was right. We do evolve.

Rereading that first quote, I see the trap. “Having a large sense of the human comedy” can be another way of saying, “He was a bullshit artist who would say anything for a paying audience.” Someday, Ann Coulter is going to die of lung cancer, and someone will say that about her. I know people who’ve met her, and say she’s funny and charming and nothing at all like she appears in print, that it’s all a schtick to make a living, etc. Or it might just be that Buckley really did have a large sense of the human comedy. This no longer matters. There’s a reason we say “rest in peace.”

Something I never knew: John McCain was born in the Canal Zone.

And with that, I’m dragging my stiff ass (literally; Tuesday’s workout included a set of two-at-a-time stair climbs, and now my ass hurts) off to the gym in hopes of limbering things up a bit. Later.

Bill McGraw had a heartbreaker in the Freep today, about a fatal fire in southwest Detroit last week, one where the two closest pumpers were out of service for “staffing reasons.” They weren’t in service because the city couldn’t pay firefighters to staff them. A third pumper, also closer, was taken out of service permanently three years ago, for the same reason. You want to read some chilling statistics? How about these:

In May, the Free Press reported that 22% of the city’s 66 firefighting vehicles either were unavailable to answer alarms or were working with broken equipment.

On the day Marian Rembis died, 27% of the fire vehicles were out of service or working with acknowledged defects — such as ladder trucks with ladders that won’t rise. Ten rigs in good condition sat idle in their quarters that day because the department couldn’t staff them.

The problems play out every day, though mostly beyond public view.

Battalion chiefs, who supervise at fire scenes, sometimes can be heard on the radio begging dispatchers to send them a truck with a functioning ladder, even though their bosses discourage them from speaking so explicitly over public airwaves.

On Feb. 6, the first ladder truck — Ladder 10 — to arrive at the scene of what became a five-alarm fire at the Forest Arms apartment building near Wayne State University did not have a working ladder, but it was not needed to perform immediate rescues. Ladder 10’s ladder has been broken since at least early January, firefighters said.

If a city has any business collecting taxes at all, job one is public safety. Police and fire. In recent years it’s become fashionable for city government to venture into economic development, and I have no objection, but only as long as they’re still covering the basics. In some respects, the city’s police department has all the money they need, certainly enough to give the mayor a publicly funded security entourage that’s said to be the biggest in the nation for a mayor. I went out to dinner with the girls the other night, and one was talking about a Democratic fundraiser in Grosse Pointe Farms. The governor, a woman, showed up with one state police officer working as driver and escort. The mayor of Detroit, Kwame Kilpatrick, arrived a few moments later in a black Cadillac Escalade with a full complement of muscle. Because the GP can be a pretty dangerous place, I guess.

A few weeks ago, Metro Times columnist Jack Lessenberry chided those of us who were giggling over the text-message scandal, saying it was only lurid cover for real tragedy, the ongoing tragedy of Detroit and, in a larger sense, all of rustbelt urban America, and I’ve come to see he’s right. This is like the comic relief in Hamlet, but while you might smile at the Poor Yorick scene, there’s no denying the stage will be covered with bodies at the final curtain. It takes an event like this fire to remind us that one of the bodies will be a 37-year-old Down Syndrome victim, too scared to run out of a burning house and too far from a fully staffed fire station to get help in time.

The Metro Times lays out its case for resignation in this week’s issue, by the way.

Forgive me the late posting today. I’m having one of those days. The Committee has been working overtime this week, and I simply could not get over the hump without some extra morning sleep today, which I accomplished by skipping the morning coffee and going back to bed once Kate had been shuffled out the door. I got my sleep, but woke up with a caffeine-deprivation headache, which is pretty absurd when you think about it — you can’t sleep because you haven’t had any coffee. Also, my rededication to the gym this week reveals, once again, just how stiff and out of shape I am. So here I sit, headache-y, muscle ache-y, ache-y break-y. In a few minutes I’m going to get a shower, then head off to Starbucks for some medicine. An ibuprofen latte, please (aka triple espresso).

Hearing William F. Buckley Jr. has died is having no effect on my day, Danny. I can’t say anything bad about him. He started something, and others are ending it now, and I’ve got to think he’d disapprove of what’s become of his beloved conservative movement. Never cared for his twee affectations, but give him this: The man died in the saddle. At his desk. Writing something. That’s how I want to go. (If this headache gets any worse, that may well be my fate.)

Granted, a lot of what he wrote was crap, but Michael Jordan missed a lot of baskets, too.

What I’m mainly dreading is the reaction. After reading Ann Coulter’s eulogy for her daddy — Now Daddy is with Joe McCarthy and Ronald Reagan. I hope they stop laughing about the Reds long enough to talk to God about smiting some liberals for me. — I can only imagine what they’ll say about Bill. I’m virtually certain we can expect a goo-fest from Tim Goeglein. He was a regular weekend guest on Bill’s piece of Connecticut waterfront. Huh — so was Rod Dreher:

Just this past weekend, Julie and I were talking about the time we went to the Buckleys’ Connecticut house on the water, and we were both kind of intimidated by the indomitable Mrs. Buckley. Then she sat down next to Julie and they started talking about gardening, and the evil of squirrels. Pat, with her smoker’s cackle, said she used to lie in bed upstairs at their place and take aim with her .22 rifle at the little bulb-eating bastards in the yard. It was hilarious to hear her this locked-and-loaded socialite talk about her adventures in gardening with gunpowder. Julie and I laughed in recalling the humanity of the Buckleys. That’s how they are.

Proof Dreher isn’t the Right Sort: Well brought-up girls have been taught hunting skills by their daddies for generations. Ask Ann Coulter.

Anyway, I never met the old gasbag, but I did meet his son, Christopher, who was easily one of the nicest and most charming fellows I’ve ever had the pleasure of making small talk with. Whatever part of that he owes to the old man, he couldn’t have been all bad.

We’re having a snowstorm. Very pretty. Every twig is outlined, all the dog poop is covered with a fresh blanket. I ran the blower around for a while and felt the strong need for another cup of coffee. Alan can finish it if he wants it done. Sometimes it’s fun to be the man of the house, but mostly it’s the same drudgery, only outside.

For the record, I am not yet tired of winter. I like this part of winter, the covering-up-of-dog-poop part. It’s the demi-winter that depresses me, when the world outside is brown, not white. But give me two weeks, and I’ll be ready for it all to be over.

[Sits for five minutes, stares at screen, wonders if it's possible to be even more boring.]

For what it’s worth (noted: not bloody much), the Rolling Stone story on Britney Spears is up, in its entirety. It’s more interesting than I thought it would be, in that scab-picking kind of way. Fun fact: Paparazzi call themselves “paps” for short, which until now I’d always known as an archaic word for a breast, mostly used to apply to animals, in the Wild Kingdom sense: “[hushed voice] Let’s watch while the grizzly sow exposes her paps to her cubs, allowing them to suckle on this fine spring morning.”

Also, showbiz sucks:

There was a wig waiting for her by master coiffeur Ken Pavés, who created Jessica Simpson’s cascading fake tresses — it had been seven months since Britney shaved her head, and her real hair was less than six inches long. All she had to do was sit for the afternoon so the wig could be glued to her head, piece by piece, then remain very still for an hour so it could set, and she would be the old Britney again.

They say Madonna is using testosterone cream on her face as an anti-aging ploy, but it’s making her grow chest fuzz. I’m sure that goes really well with her dick, and makes her irresistible to her husband, but it’s times like this I’m glad a few wrinkles don’t make me want to stick my head in the oven.

Perhaps you’re wondering if I really spend time looking at this stuff all day. I don’t, but it’s inescapable. Just the other day someone told me Jennifer Lopez buys $2,000 jars of Créme de la Mer and rubs it on her ass. Some people consider politics inappropriate for polite conversation.

[Sits for five more minutes, stares at screen, wonders if it's possible to be even more boring.]

OK, here’s something funny: “American Gladiators” wants you! The first time AG was on TV, the crew came through the Fort to recruit challengers. It was a festival of whining. Ninety percent of the applicants were eliminated at the pushups test, which they were astonished to discover had to be done on fingertips, not flat hands. (This makes pushups more difficult by a factor of a jillion.) “I’m a Marine, I can do pushups all day,” groused on rejectee. “This is ridiculous.” But that was nothing compared to the Gladiators themselves, who came in to sign autographs and pump up the crowd. Sit them down for an interview, and all they did was complain — their back hurts, they need knee surgery, their fingers are always getting broken, ow ow ow. For a celebration of physical toughness, it was like listening to the bingo players at a nursing home.

I notice the application asks for “a Poem or rap.” Good luck with that, glads.

OK, I’m going to go pump some iron. Never know when they’ll add a seniors edition. Later.

I know nobody cares about this stuff but me, but for some reason Because good, clear writing is the cornerstone of democracy and even human freedom itself, I keep scratching that itch about columnists qualifying their opinions. So I Googled the phrase “don’t get me wrong” in G-News — 2,517 results. Sixty-four hits on “‘i’m not saying’ AND ‘i am saying’.”

Go forth and write clearly, grasshopper. Say what you mean, and be brave.

Who says the newspaper isn’t a bargain? Mitch Albom, turning up his nose at the Oscars, shares the secret of his success:

Now, I’m not a Pollyanna. I enjoy films. I collect them. And I understand that not every story ends with music swirling and heroes walking off into a sunset.

But lately there’s this sense that unless a movie is dark, violent and hopeless, it can’t be “real.” It can’t be “art.” It can’t truly “matter.” I put these words in quotes because it feels as if critics and awards committees define things that way.

So instead of praise for, say, “The Bucket List,” a film that everyone I know has loved and which has a positive message about getting old and sick, most critics attacked it as too “sentimental.” Meanwhile, we get an Oscar nomination for “The Savages,” a movie about getting old and sick that is so depressing, you want to jump off a building.

If only the crusty old dad in “The Savages” had taken the time to share some of the accumulated wisdom of a lifetime, it might have worked for Mitch. But take heed, America — if you want to be as rich as Mitch, and he is vastly rich, be more like him. Go see “The Bucket List” and don’t be afraid to smile through your tears at the end. Because that’s entertainment.

(Just a writerly aside here: Does any newspaper column these days fail to contain a qualifier? Now, I’m not a Pollyanna. I’ve learned to look for it. I’m not saying Obama is an empty suit, but… I see it because I’ve done it myself, and I know exactly how it happens. First, you state a strong opinion. Then, the imaginary editor reading over your shoulder says, “Christ, I’m going to be talking to pissed-off readers all morning tomorrow. I have better things to do.” And so you pull your punch. If Mitch Albom thinks “The Bucket List” is a better movie than “No Country for Old Men,” the spineless tool ought not to be afraid to say so. On the other hand, that might be an unpopular opinion, and the cycle continues.)

I didn’t really watch the Oscars last night, but I had it on in the next room while I farmed health-care news. My overwhelming impression: Tilda Swinton has never actually been out in the sunlight, has she? I know Great Britain is famously cloudy, but she’s as pale as one of those fish that only lives in the Marianas Trench. I’m a child of the pre-melanoma ’70s, but I never see skin that pale and think “luminous English rose.” Only “fish-belly.”

But I can’t hate her, either. She’s a great actress. I saw “Michael Clayton” Saturday night, and she did such a fine impersonation of a former boss of mine — ruthlessly ambitious, high-strung, brittle, murderous — that I nearly had to squinch my eyes when she came onscreen. I loved her white pantyhose, too. Dressing for success is the same in Omaha as in Fort Wayne, apparently.

So how about some Oscar bloggage? David Mills followed the action with underachieving crazy-lady — and Detroiter! — Debbie Schlussel: “Self-hating, pro-Palestinian Jew Daniel Day-Lewis who stars in the very depressing, awful anti-Christian, anti-business, ‘There Will Be Blood,’ wins Best Actor. Predictable.” What a fun date! P.S. Thanks to the miracle of Safari’s command-F feature, I know the word “annoying” appeared eight times in her live-blog entry.

I thought Nicole Kidman was pregnant. Aren’t pregnant ladies supposed to lay off the Botox? She’s not.

I guess John Travolta overslept, and mixed up his hair product with a can of spray paint.

Sean what’s-his-name Combs charitably described as “entertainer.” That’s one way to put it.

Javy: Still smokin‘. Viggo: Less so. Isn’t covering a natural chin dimple like his with facial hair a crime against beauty? Yes.

Finally, I see the subject of could-Obama-be-assassinated is finally being discussed openly. I guess we know why Hillary’s still in the race, then: She’s still scrambling a team down in Arkansas.

To the gym! Because I’m paying for it whether I show up or not!

Kate couldn’t stay awake for the eclipse the other night, so I taped it for her, lens flare and all. The Pink Floyd she just has to endure:

(It was about 10 degrees. I went inside between 30-second takes, and kept the battery charged with extra boob power.)

As for Friday night in the Fort, the plan is to meet in the bar at Catablu on Broadway around 6:30ish. Come if you’d like and don’t worry about the time; I expect we’ll be there for a couple-three hours at least. E-mail an RSVP if you get a chance and include a phone number, just so if the venue changes for any reason, we can alert you. Or call seven three four, five four eight, zero zero three three and get the update. Don’t abuse this information, although I’m sure somebody will. If disaster strikes, check this space.

Now I have to go write a big check for some Girl Scout cookies. Ah, parenthood. Have a good weekend.

As personal disasters go, it fell somewhere between breaking a nail and traumatic injury in an auto accident, but maybe a bit closer to the latter. Somewhere between parking the car and arriving at the hair salon across the street, I lost my wallet.

I knew it wasn’t in the car, because I’d had it out to feed the meter. It wasn’t anywhere to be found in the salon; I looked under every possible shelf and structure. (Found some nice Aveda products in sample-size bottles down there, however.) Retracing steps turned up nothin’. Hands-and-knees on the freezing pavement to peer under parked cars — nothin’. And so it began, off to the Grosse Pointe police to file a report, up and down the block to the other businesses to see if anyone turned anything in, a check of all area trash receptacles. Finally, home to start the inevitable process of rebuilding.

In the list of Inanimate Objects I Fear Losing, my laptop is No. 1, but my wallet has to be No. 2. Never mind the cash and credit cards; it’s the documentation that matters. Driver’s license, registration, proof of insurance. Costco card, Blockbuster card, Border’s Rewards card, just in the “commerce” slot. Park pass, library card, health insurance card. My University of Michigan student ID, carried strictly for sentimental reasons, and because I like the flash of yellow (er, maize) I get when I see it there. (Also, because the photo is recent and the expiration date not until 2009, occasionally useful for claiming a student discount on merchandise I consider overpriced.) Every one represented an enervating errand or argument with a clerk. Sigh.

And yet, oddly, I didn’t feel upset. I figured there was an excellent chance my identity was strewn all over some thief’s coffee table, but an equal one that a nice, honest person had picked it up and that the phone would ring momentarily.

(The phone rang. One of Kate’s friends, prank-calling us with one of her stupid voices. She thinks because she star-six-sevens, I don’t know who she is. Oh, to be young again.)

Credit cards cancelled, I set about rescheduling today. First to the BMV; did I have my Social Security card nearby? Yes. Then to the insurance agent for dupes on my proof-of card, jeez I’m not going to get a goddamn thing done today, and…

Doorbell.

A Jaguar stood idling in the driveway, a 50ish gent in a nice topcoat on the step. Holding my wallet. Every card was in its place, my paltry cash reserves untouched. “I would have returned it earlier, but I had somewhere to be,” he said in an eastern European-sounding accent. Of course he wouldn’t take a reward, but he gave me his card; his name is Harry, and he runs Harry’s of Grosse Pointe, a restaurant on Mack. My new favorite place to eat.

I guess what I’m telling you today is: The Secret works! Now if I could only get that billion dollars I’ve been visualizing…

OK, bloggage:

Whatever you do, do not watch the reputed Gene Simmons sex tape. Are you listening? Do. Not. WATCH. Let me just say this, though: The day a man and a woman get into bed together, and the former does not remove his chewing gum, and the latter does not remove her platform flip-flops, they really and truly do deserve one another.

Headline you would only see in Detroit: Chevy Tahoe hybrid sips gas. Relatively speaking. (The particulars: The rear-drive hybrid Tahoe rated 21 m.p.g. in the city and 22 m.p.g. on the highway in EPA fuel economy tests. That compares with 14 m.p.g. city and 20 m.p.g. highway for a similar gasoline-only Tahoe.) P.S. It costs 50 grand. Sigh.

Re the eight-million-word revelation that John McCain is a sleazebag with shady ethics: You don’t say. Best single snark, from Metafilter: I hear she lets him be on top sometimes. That’s a better deal that he’s been getting from Bush.

Another glacier-glasses day. Upside: Ample vitamin D! Downside: 15 degrees. Enjoy it.

So you sit down to write and look what happens: Shh. “The Godfather” baptism scene is coming on AMC. I need to watch it for the seven millionth time.

Look at baby Sofia, playing the infant. So beautiful, hands like little starfish. Let’s see if I can spot a detail I missed the first 6.99 million times. …OK, here’s one: All the anointing, all the hands laid on other bodies — this I never noticed before. Cicci gets a barber’s shave with hot cream, the baby gets the holy oils, Moe Greene’s masseur rubs him down with…probably witch hazel, back then. No faggy essential oils in the ’50s.

Michael Rizzi, will you be baptized? I will. I still get a chill.

The good-vs-evil Mafia montage is a cliché now. Done well, as David Chase did with the season-ending “Sopranos” episodes, it’s an homage, but mostly it’s just a cliché. But like the song says: The original is still the greatest.

As always, when I watch a little Godfather, I wonder what happened to Al Pacino. How did Francis Ford Coppola rein him in? His whole performance is delivered via the eyes, and look what happened when you took those away, made him a blind man — “Scent of a Woman,” that’s what.

It’s just as well cable TV delivered, because I have little for you today. The steady lengthening of the days is no longer a rumor — “be home by dark” gets Kate 45 minutes more freedom than it got in December, but, perversely, spring seems further away than ever. Fourteen degrees at the moment, bright sun, a glacier-glasses sort of day. I’m working on a piece that’s a real bolus, and every find-new-motivation strategy I deploy just feels like procrastination. Time to put the modem in the freezer.

But there’s plenty going on in the world, just the same. Out for discussion: Is Hillary finished? I’m especially interested in hearing from you Buckeyes, as that’s the next battle, and it’s make-or-break for her. Here in Michigan, the dumb-ass Democratic party is trying their best to start an insurrection; the power players are trying to figure out a way to deliver the now-you-see-’em-now-you-don’t — all of Michigan’s perhaps-mythical delegates — to Hillary. The very hint of such a coup makes Alan kick the baseboards and vow to vote for McCain if they even dare to think such a thing, but then, he voted for “uncommitted” in January. I guess I don’t have a leg to stand on, having chosen a strategic Romney vote last month.

What is rickrolling? (This baby is not played by Sofia Coppola.) The Church of Scientology, rickrolled. A more clinical explanation. I used to dance to that song in aerobics class. Not as bitchin’ly as the original Rick, however. Ha.

John reveals his inner Hawaii Five-O fan. Also, a tribute to Adobe After Effects, with which, on his last visit, he demonstrated how they got “300″ to look like that.

I don’t care how Barack Obama talks, as long as he can pronounce “nuclear.”

Time to return to my bolus. Sigh.