The Grosse Pointe News was sold last year, its longtime family ownership getting out while the lifeboats were still above the waterline. It wasn’t a very good paper when they owned it. It’s safe to say they set a pretty low bar. Our friend JohnC stopped subscribing when he couldn’t figure out what was happening at a big economic redevelopment project three blocks away from his house — they just couldn’t seem to explain it in a way he could understand. This was par for the course.

They also had lots of eccentric touches. There was a column on the editorial page, called Offering From the Loft. It was written in the first person. But there was no byline. Ever. It was the mystery column.

Needless to say, they honored the traditions of small-town journalism, the three Bs — boosterism, b.s. and bad writing. They sent one of their best guys to write about the Annie Leibovitz photography show at the Detroit Institute of Arts. This was his lead:

Sho’ as grits ain’t groceries theys doins t’night at Po’ Monkey’s Lounge.

Huh? Eight paragraphs of apostrophes later, here’s the nut:

Po’ Monkey’s place is among 70 of Leibovitz’s photographs gathered as “Annie Leibovitz: American Music” at the Detroit Institute of Arts through Jan. 7.

I’m being a little unfair. In the triple-A minors, they really don’t have the editors to rein in the writers who want to do stuff like this. But it isn’t too much to expect an editor who knows what the main issues are in a cluster of five municipalities encompassing 50,000 souls. I don’t expect a multi-part series on racism, but I do want them to stand up to the police departments once in a while. In return for their cooperation in sharing public documents, the police require that no names be attached to their reports. This isn’t entirely unjustified — there are many times when it would only cause more trouble for the involved parties, and there needs to be some sort of policy — but in the pages of this paper, it gets ridiculous. Last week’s police briefs contained a reference to police being called to “a high school on Vernier Road.” There is only one high school on Vernier Road. Like that.

After the paper was sold to a local businessman, I hoped a little fresh blood might enliven it a bit. Not a chance. It’s even worse. The Offering From the Loft might have been a puzzle, but at least it was written by (I think) a soul residing somewhere in this zip code. Now the editorial pages are full of syndicated material and canned op-eds from the Mackinac Institute for Public Policy, a conservative propaganda outfit. Local news coverage is weaker than ever; the police briefs are frequently the only real “news” in the paper, and yes, they’re still not identifying public buildings.

This was the lead on yesterday’s guest editorial, headlined “Broadcasting Rights Applied.” It’s by James H. Quello, a former FCC commissioner:

The recent Federal Communications Commission Notice of Proposed Rulemaking on localism released with the report and order regarding revised Form 355 — mandating more detailed programming and ascertainment than ever required before — represents a grossly untimely and blatant government mandated violations of the First Amendment.

Huh. It goes on:

The excessive burdensome additional governmental FCC requirements are counter to the urgent need to update regulatory and ownership rules of the past.

I read the whole thing twice. I have no idea what he’s talking about, or why I should care.

But there was still room for more suckitude, and it came in a King Features syndicated column from National Review editor Rich Lowry, who in 500 words or so tells us what Detroit’s problems are. In the interest of brevity, I’ll boil it down to one. Ready? “Liberalism.”

OK. The decline and fall of Detroit is a big, big story, an epic, encompassing so many titanic themes Cecil B. DeMille couldn’t get his arms around them. Economics, race, class, hubris, fear, greed — I could go on. It has defeated greater storytellers than Rich Lowry, but few have dismissed it with such a casual wave of the hand. I’m all for vigorous commentary on Detroit’s problems, especially by one of its closest neighbors. But is it too much to ask that it not be by a syndicated scold who, I’d be willing to bet, has never even set foot here? (It wouldn’t be a big bet; Detroit does a fair amount of convention business, and there’s a good chance Lowry overnighted at the RenCen at some point in the past. But the guy grew up in D.C., went to college in Virginia and lives in New York. So much for boots on the ground.)

But wait! Here’s a local column about Detroit’s problems. The writer objects to the mayor’s friends collecting money for his legal defense. She tries that “humor” thing all the blogs are about:

People who know me well, know I am a good cook and I enjoy it, so I deserve that $150,000 kitchen. I’m creating a “Karen’s Kitchen Kache Fund.” Anyone who wants to donate can.

It goes on from there. It doesn’t get better.

It’s unfortunate that this week’s issue arrived with the annual subscription-renewal mailing. It’s not expensive. I hate to cancel any newspaper subscription; they’re all struggling. But at some point, you have to make a statement about what you’re willing to pay for, and I’m drawing the line. I might reconsider if an editor can explain to me, in two concise sentences, what that FCC editorial was about and why they ran it. Otherwise, we’re letting it lapse here.

ADDED: No writer tackling Detroit should have to make weak jokes when reality is so much funnier. Note the photo. Note the caption. Note the goddamn TIARA.

OK. While we’re on the subject, a little more media bloggage:

I didn’t flip Wednesday night’s debate on until more than halfway through, so I missed the fun part. Thank God for Jon Stewart, because if he hadn’t had video I never would have believed it:

I mean, not even. I am ashamed for Charles Gibson. George Stephanopoulos isn’t really a journalist, but Gibson has no excuse. (And he’s a Michigan fellow! Argh.)

OK, time’s a-wasting. It’s a gorgeous day, and I’d like to enjoy it, even though it’s now Leaf Blower Season. My neighbors two doors down employ a lawn service that does every task with extra-loud leaf blowers. Seriously. They’ve been down there for a solid hour, drowning out the birds. Think I’ll ride by and glare at them.

Have a great weekend, all.

Did the president really tell the pope he gave an “awesome speech”? Sigh. “Awesome” is one of those words I banter with my 11-year-old about. I tell her I’m really not being a language cop or anything, oh no not me, but it’s a crying shame how we took a perfectly fine word like awesome and stretched its meaning to cover, well, let me give a recent example:

“Have you tried the breadsticks? They’re awesome.”

I’m not opposed to using “awesome” in its slangy sense, but in using it in casual conversation with the damn pope, George Bush has plumbed new depths. See, the Vicar of Christ’s business is awe. He claims to speak for God on earth; he wants to literally be awesome. Awe is, after all, a “feeling of reverential respect, mixed with fear or wonder.” Reverence. Respect. Wonder. That’s the pope’s stock in trade, and our president uses the word the way skaters do, while praising one another’s half-pipe moves.

OK, then. A couple of pix from Michael G, regular commenter and, today, citizen journalist. (Can you feel the awesome?!) They’re from his California perambulations, and of interest to us because? Because we all drink Two Buck Chuck from time to time, and yes, folks, this is where they make it. Note the Napa Valley, “Sideways”-style charm of the entrance to the Bronco Wine Co.:

As Michael writes:

Bronco is not your typical yuppie winery. There is no sign, no tasting room, no tour, no nuthin. They seem to be a tad shy. Shy to the extent that the property is surrounded by a border of barbed wire topped fencing and screened by very close set cemetery trees. I don’t know the proper name. They’ve always been “cemetery trees” to me. The front gate has a guard shack. This is a quite large facility and the only way to distinguish it from all the other processing plants and packing sheds along 99 is the huge tank farm out back.

Seen here, at a bit of a distance:

The road was narrow and there was no place to stop so I took the pix as I drove by. There’s a blurry one of the warmly welcoming entrance to the property and the hospitality room cleverly disguised as a guard shack and one of the caves, I mean tanks where the product is aged. I know TBC has to be referred to by Bronco as “product” rather than wine. You can tell by looking at the place.

So there you are, but as it turns out, there is nothing to be seen at Chuck’s house and that’s just the way they want it. Still, how many people have actual pictures of the place?

Every time I drive around Detroit, I’m reminded anew that we make things here, and making things ain’t pretty. I won’t recall, yet again, my husband’s adventures with industrial food production in Napoleon, Ohio, except to say that it put him off Campbell’s Soup and frozen pizza for life. But making anything on a factory scale is pretty grim; no wonder people like to tell themselves lies about free-range chicken and artisanal cheese. So much easier not to think about.

And that, my friends, is it for me today. Got a couple of projects that require close attention, and I need to give them some. So go forth and have, dare I say, an awesome day.

You’ve heard me talk about the Ballad of the Big O here before. You surely thought I was mad. I’m not! (Slams open palm on table.) Here’s proof!

One man sleeps while the other man drives. A forgotten detail: The guy on top of the tanker, watching the juice pour in. Whoa! That’s enough! Now let’s get on the road!

Also, in honor of J.C., who went without sleep for years until this appeared on YouTube, the Corporate Logo Quiz. I got 19 out of 20.

Everybody knows certain foods have gender. Quiche = female. Chili = male. I like both, so I guess that makes me bisexual, or maybe just fat. But if food gender falls on a spectrum, I’d put ribs way over on the male side, even more macho than chili.

I’m not a huge ribs fan. They’re too Fred Flintstone for me, and require more work than escargot — and that’s just in the eating, with the gnawing and copious napkins and all the rest of it. And the sauce overwhelms everything; it seems you could get the same effect by dipping white bread into Open Pit and dabbing a little around your face and clothing. It seemed like Chinese food — not worth the effort to make at home, and best left to restaurants.

In my weekly trips to the Eastern Market I usually make a stop at Gratiot Central, aka the Meat Mall, and there’s a pork place there that always has acres of ribs piled up for Saturday sales. They look good, and there’s never a shortage of portly black dudes standing in line to stock up. I always feel I’m passing up something I should be finding a way to enjoy. (Note: I never feel that way in front of the tripe, hog maws, tongue and other offal cuts.)

Alan, like most guys, likes ribs, and in my effort to spice up the dinner table during grilling season I went looking for a decent recipe for the things that we could make at home and would please both of us. Ladies and gentlemen, I found it. No boiling is required, no sauce is involved, and only middle-school-level grill skilz. There’s a spice rub, and a three-hour turn on indirect heat from a very cool fire (300 degrees, tops), a little action with the hickory chips and several cooking variations to make ‘em Chinese-style, etc.

It’s in Mark Bittman’s “How to Cook Everything,” but you can find the recipe here (scroll down — it’s toward the bottom), called Chris Schlesinger’s Slow-Grilled Ribs. In that linked story, Bittman writes, “These are ribs the way they should be, but you need a day off with an empty schedule to make them.” Not exactly. Three hours will do. I started mine at 4 and took them off the grill at 7, and they were fine. Gas grills make it easier, too.

I made them with the first potato salad of the season. And even I liked them.

Speaking of white bread and rib sauce: There are chains that cater to white suburban rib-eaters (Damon’s comes to mind), but I learned to enjoy sloppy ribs after closing time, at black-owned places in dodgy neighborhoods, dragged there by various rib-loving men in my life. They always served their ribs in styrofoam boxes, with a big stack of the whitest white bread available, the kind that makes Wonder look like a health food. That, the baked beans and the greens were always my favorite part of the meal. At least, as I remember those blurry late-night suppers.

(Obligatory boring story: I once attended a party where the barbecue cooks were “secret” lovers, in the sense that everyone knew, only we were supposed to pretend we didn’t. The night before the party someone said, “Where are Name Redacted and other Name Redacted?” and someone else said, “They went off to rub the meat,” because that was, indeed, where they said they were going. There was a pause, then uproarious laughter.)

Bloggage:

Roy Edroso’s clip-n-save guide to the right-wing blogosphere, in the Village Voice.

Can any of you observant Cat’licks out there tell me if there’s a particular reason the Bush women dressed like crows to meet the pope yesterday?

Black is fine and slimming and all, but you’d think Jenna might have chosen something a bit more suited to a lovely April afternoon. And where was NotJenna? Do only betrothed young presidential daughters get to greet the pope?

These guys accented with a hint of color:

Now that’s more like it.

Got your Passover Coke yet? You’re probably out of luck — it sells out fast, and to gentiles.

Me, I have to get to work enjoying another fabulous spring day.

So yesterday I was e-mailing back and forth with an old pal, and she wrote:

I keep waiting for a courageous blogger to point out that Obama has yet to repudiate his surrogate, speaking at an Obama fundraiser, who called Sen. Clinton a “fucking whore.”

Now, I ask you: If a Clinton supporter, at a Clinton fund-raising event, had uttered an insult toward Obama that was the racial equivalent of the sexist slam “fucking whore” — and I think we all know what that would be — I daresay that Clinton, by now, might have distanced herself from the remark. To say the least.

Oh — wait. I forgot. Racism is awful; sexism is OK.

I don’t know about you, but whomever one backs in this race, the sexism that is so acceptable, so widespread, has just sickened me.

Yeah, me too. I’m not emotionally engaged with Hillary, and I think she deserves a certain amount of what’s being dished out. But she has a point. A short and incomplete roundup, from New York magazine, in an essay that unfortunately goes downhill from here:

A greatest-hits selection provides a measure of the misogyny: There’s Republican axman Roger Stone’s anti-Hillary 527 organization, Citizens United Not Timid, or CUNT. And the Facebook group Hillary Clinton: Stop Running for President and Make Me a Sandwich, which has 44,000-plus members. And the “Hillary Nutcracker” with its “stainless-steel thighs.” And Clinton’s Wikipedia page, which, according to The New Republic, is regularly vandalized with bathroom-stall slurs like “slut” and “cuntbag.” And the truly horrible YouTube video of a KFC bucket that reads HILLARY MEAL DEAL: 2 FAT THIGHS, 2 SMALL BREASTS, AND A BUNCH OF LEFT WINGS. And Rush Limbaugh worrying whether the country is ready to watch a woman age in the White House (as though nearly every male politician has not emerged portly, wearied, and a grandfatherly shade of gray). And those two boors who shouted, “Iron my shirts!” from the sidelines in New Hampshire.

That’s the first I’d heard of Citizens United Not Timid, and I get around. It’s a 527 organization, “to educate the American public about what Hillary Clinton really is.” Charming. I grow a little weary of calls for A to denounce B — having the same general views as another does not make me my brother’s keeper — but it’s nice to have groups like this around. With Citizens United Not Timid in the world, I no longer have to listen to right-wing whining about Michael Moore.

But my friend is right. Can you imagine, even for a minute, a 527 called New Information Guaranteed Greatness Elucidating Reality, “to educate the American public about what Barack Obama really is”? If “cunt” is the female equivalent of “nigger,” how often do you hear Obama called the latter? Some dim bulb in Kentucky refers to him as “this boy” and has to apologize within hours. But insulting Hillary with sexist jokes gets you a high-paying job on the network news:

The frat boys at MSNBC portrayed Clinton as a castrating scold, with Tucker Carlson commenting, “Every time I hear Hillary Clinton speak, I involuntarily cross my legs,” and Chris Matthews calling her male endorsers “castratos in the eunuch chorus.” Matthews also dubbed Clinton “the grieving widow of absurdity,” saying, of her presidential candidacy and senatorial seat, “She didn’t win there on her merit. She won because everybody felt, ‘My God, this woman stood up under humiliation.’ ” While that may be partly true—Hillary’s approval ratings soared in the wake of l’affaire Lewinsky—Matthews’s take reduced her universally recognized political successes to rewards for public sympathy, as though Clinton’s intelligence and long record of public service count for nothing. Would a male candidate be viewed so reductively? Many have argued that the media don’t like Clinton simply because they don’t like Clinton—even her devotees will admit she arrives with a complete set of overstuffed baggage—much in the same way they made up their mind about Al Gore back in 2000 and ganged up on him as a prissy, uptight know-it-all. But whatever is behind the vitriol, it has taken crudely sexist forms.

Part of it is human nature. I used to work for a gay man, who could, on occasion, be a real jerk. (He, too, had a problem with strong women. One of the strong women in the newsroom once told me, in a private moment, “I want to grab him and say, ‘I’m not your MOTHER, asshole.’”) I admit, when I was angry with him, I’d sometimes refer to him as a “misogynist fag.” Someone called me on it, and I thought it over and decided I would now refer to him as a misogynist jerk. (Even though I was dancing in gay bars when he was still pretending to be straight.) But you get the idea: It’s easy to express an ugly emotion in ugly language. You’d hope this would only happen in private moments, but then, we can’t all be Chris Matthews.

So here’s my question for the floor today: How comfortable are you with the cracks about Hillary’s fat butt, lesbian vibe and stainless-steel thighs? Whether you support her or not, at what station do you get off the train? (We’ll assume, to all of our credit, that we don’t ride it all the way to Citizens United Not Timid.) Is there room for chivalry in a presidential race? And any other topics you want to bring up.

Me, I gotta go to the gym. I missed three weightlifting classes in the last 10 days, rationalizing that because I was on my bike most of those days, I wouldn’t pay for the skips. Au contraire; my hammies felt like splintery plywood, only less flexible. But before I go, some bloggage:

Inside baseball, but I found Ken Doctor’s suggestions for jazzing up newspaper-corporation boards to be pretty dead-on.

Tbogg got a new puppy. Now he has three basset hounds to walk. Tbogg is insane, but at least his house has extra cuteness.

Finally, a Metafilter post that rounds up pretty much everything you ever wanted to know about wacky waving inflatable arm-flailing tube men, aka “airdancers.”

Off to stretch the hams.

How important are facts in fiction? I guess it depends on the reader. Since I moved here I’ve been working my way through the vast canon of Detroit-based crime fiction, with varying levels of satisfaction. Loren Estleman’s Amos Walker series is almost uniformly a pleasure to read, although I’ve learned not to try to solve the mystery as I go along, because he’s going to pull a big rabbit out of his hat in the penultimate chapter, and you might as well just go along for the ride. Elmore Leonard is, of course, sublime from beginning to end. Donald Goines, not so much. Everyone else falls within that spectrum.

I’m currently sampling “Detroit Noir,” one of the Noir series, collections of short stories based in and around specific cities. (Sorry, Hoosiers, “Fort Wayne Noir” is not in the pipeline, although there is a Twin Cities Noir, which I hope features lots of killers in earflap hats.) It’s not bad, but it could have used another layer of editing, the kind that changes “Manoogian Manor” to “Manoogian Mansion” and corrects what was, for me, a total momentum-stopper in the one story set in Grosse Pointe, a line where “the sun dropped behind the Yacht Club.” I tried to figure if there was any point at which two people could sit in a car and watch the sun set behind the landmark Moorish watchtower, and came up with, “Not until the earth reverses its orbit.” The Yacht Club sits on the western edge of Lake St. Clair and enjoys some fabulous sunrises, but for sunsets, you’d have to be out in the water somewhere.

That kind of stuff drives me crazy. In “The Sporting Club,” Thomas McGuane sets his story in 1968 and has two characters go to the dedication of the Mackinac Bridge, which happened a decade previous. I see this stuff all the time. I know many authors aren’t journalists, and I know some ironing of the truth is permissible, but I wish they’d respect certain ironclad truths, including the construction dates of major pieces of infrastructure and the direction of the earth’s travel around the sun.

That is all.

“Detroit Noir” is pretty good, however. I hope there’s another one.

So how was your weekend? Mine went like this: Taxes errands taxes dinner w/JohnC taxes and now, soon, IRA deposits. I hate doing my taxes, but I love TurboTax, the only financial software I use. Every year, it gets better. It now inhales much of my 1099-misc data directly from my bank while I sit there filing my nails. My sole complaint: It keeps a running total of your payment/refund. At one point I owed $14,000, an utterly meaningless figure — I had told it all of my income, and none of my payments — but having a figure like that hovering in the corner makes you want to put off doing your taxes another few days.

I know I pay too much. There are probably dozens of deductions I am entitled to and don’t take. I stay squarely on the right side of the law and probably pay more than Donald Rumsfeld, but there’s no valuing peace of mind. My receipts aren’t creatively embellished. I really do keep a mileage log. If I were audited I would surely spend a few sleepless nights, but at the end it’s entirely possible I’d walk out with a refund. (Not bloody likely, but you never know.) I don’t even hate the IRS, too much. Someone has to be the bad guy.

Early in my career I wrote a story on some tax protesters in Columbus. They were followers of Irwin Schiff, and two of the dumbest telephone installers I’ve ever met. One had a Filipino mail-order bride and the other bragged about how much he wanted a Corvette, so he quit paying taxes and bought one. The latter was en route to federal prison when I left town, the other the subject of keen interest by federal authorities. They both thought they had stumbled across the greatest loophole in the history of tax law — that the income tax is voluntary. P.S. Irwin Schiff is in jail. Wesley Snipes should be.

Not much bloggage today, but a fun one. Find the No. 1 song on the day of your birth. It’s like the rock ‘n’ roll zodiac. Mine was “Jailhouse Rock,” which I consider a good omen. Like being born in the Year of the Dragon. Imagine being born under “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown.” That would suck.

Off to the bank to “save for retirement.”

The Detroit City Council is holding hearings on the current mayoral scandal. Unfortunately, a recess was called this afternoon when one council member got into it with two others, referring to one as “Shrek” and taunting, “You’re not my daddy!”

Video here. Highly recommended. Being a government reporter here must be beyond awesome.

Meanwhile, back in Grosse Pointe, they’re having a sale at Brooks Brothers:

My parents were Catholic and we were raised that way, but we weren’t Pope People. Which is to say, we knew who the Pope was (one of the Johns. I think.), but we didn’t pay him enough respect, if by “respect,” you mean “attention.” Granted, John was not a rock-star Pope, but the idea of my own mother calling him “the Holy Father” and sighing over his personal appearances is incomprehensible to me, and needless to say, there were no Peggy Noonans in the house:

When I was writing a book about John Paul, I’d ask those who’d met him or saw him go by: What did you think, or say? And they’d be startled and say, “I don’t know, I was crying.”

Huh.

I remember Juan Pablo the Deuce’s first U.S. tour. The Columbus Dispatch send one of its star writer/editors to cover it. From her exhaustive reports, I learned that love beamed from the man’s face, and that everywhere he went, people felt the love. But Noonan is a serious Catholic intellectual, right? So, as we await Benedict XVI, what might we expect, Peggy?

Benedict… is the perfect pope for the Internet age. He is a man of the word. You download the text of what he said, print it, ponder it.

This is what I saw as his popemobile came close by in the square: tall man, white hair, shy eyes, deep-set. He is waving, trying to act out pleasure at being the focus of all eyes, center stage. He is not a showman but a scholar, an engaged philosopher nostalgic for the days – he has spoken of them – when he was a professor in a university classroom, surrounded by professors operating in a spirit of academic camaraderie and debate. But, his friends tell you, he enjoys being pope. He has become acclimated.

There is a sweetness about him – all in the Vatican who knew him in the old days speak of it – and a certain vagueness, as if he is preoccupied.

What is it about the Vicar of Christ that he brings out the swoon in middle-aged women? But what, Peggy, is Benedict likely to say?

Perhaps some variation on themes from his famous Regensburg address, in September 2006.

There he traced and limned some of the development of Christianity, but he turned first to Islam. Faith in God does not justify violence, he said. “The right use of reason” prompts us to understand that violence is incompatible with the nature of God, and the nature, therefore, of the soul. God, he quotes an ancient Byzantine ruler, “is not pleased by blood,” and “not acting reasonably is contrary to God’s nature.” More: “To convince a reasonable soul, one does not need a strong arm.” This is a message for our time, and a courageous one, too. (The speech was followed by riots and by Osama bin Laden’s charge that the pope was starting a new “crusade.”)

There you have it. Folks, this is what we call a clip job. Plus a lot of swooning.

As for me, I’m going to follow the visit through the NYT’s Pope blog, to which Fort Wayne’s own Amy Welborn is contributing. Go, Amy.

Folks, I slept late today, and now I’m behind. Content yourself with some bloggage while I finish my taxes and drink the last of this morning’s coffee over ice:

No links in this one, but you get the gist. From the Will You Damn Kids Leave Me Alone file, via Brian:

Logansport woman reported missing by her son

A Logansport woman has been reported missing by her son and police are interested in talking to anyone who may have seen her.

Kim S. Steele, 41, was last seen on Thursday, just before meeting a man she had recently met through an Internet chat room. Repeated calls to her cell phone by friends, family and the Logansport police have gone unanswered.

…According to a police report, Steele left without extra clothing or personal items. The last contact she had with anyone was her son, who told police she was on her way to help move a trailer or camper with man from the Internet. Investigators have entered her name into a national database for missing person.

Later…

Woman reported missing had been camping

The Logansport woman reported missing by her son turned up late this morning.

Kim S. Steele, 41, had been camping out of town with her new boyfriend — the man she met through an Internet chat room. Steele told police her cell phone went dead and that’s why she had not returned the numerous calls made by her family, friends and Logansport police.

When she came into Logansport today, she saw the newspaper article and reported to police that she was all right.

Well, I guess it beats rotting in a ditch for two months until someone says, “Has anyone heard from Nance lately?”

Alan had to edit “MILF” out of a story a couple years ago — those sneaky reporters! — and at the time I think he was one of the very few who knew what a MILF was. Now it’s everywhere.

Hey, it’s J.C.’s birthday! Let’s steal some of his bandwidth:

No, I guess it’s Flickr’s bandwidth. Sign at the Buford Highway Farmers Market, Doraville, Ga., which you may know as “a touch of country in the city.”

Coffee’s done. Off to the bank.

Stayed up late last night to read the Chris Matthews profile in the NYT magazine, a rather astonishing document, all things considered. Matthews comes off as a loud, crafty, needy, insecure, boastful toad who’s every bit the sexist shitheel you suspected he was, only utterly unaware of it. I say “all things considered” because the NYT generally doesn’t truck with this sort of thing. Here’s the lede:

Whenever Chris Matthews says something he likes, which happens a lot, he repeats it often and at volumes suggesting a speaker who feels insufficiently listened to at times. “Tim Russert finally reeled the big marlin into the boat tonight,” Matthews yelled — nine times, on and off the air, after a Democratic debate that Russert moderated with Brian Williams in late February at Cleveland State University. Matthews believed that Russert (the fisherman) had finally succeeded in getting Hillary Clinton (the marlin) to admit that she was wrong to vote in favor of the Iraq war resolution in 2002. “We’ve been trolling for that marlin for what, a year now?” Matthews said to Russert.

Comparing Hillary Rodham Clinton to a big flopping fish will do nothing to stop criticism — from Clinton’s presidential campaign, among others — that Matthews and his network, MSNBC, have treated the former first lady unfairly. But this didn’t keep Matthews from bludgeoning the marlin line to death in the postdebate “spin room.” “Russert caught the marlin; he got the marlin,” Matthews shouted to a school of downcast reporters who had been hanging on every canned word of Clinton’s chief campaign strategist, Mark Penn.

The spin room is a modern political-media marvel whose full-on uselessness is perfectly conveyed by its name, but Matthews appeared in his element. He wore a dreamy smile, walking around, signing autographs. As he went, Matthews seemed compelled to give his “take,” which is how he describes his job each night at 5 and 7, Eastern time, on “Hardball” — “giving my take.”

It goes on from there. It doesn’t get nicer. Matthews has bugged me for years and enraged me for most of them, but by the end I almost felt sorry for him. The era of the cable shoutfest is waning, and he hasn’t figured it out yet. The appeal of listening to two or three blowhards is pretty thin in ideal conditions, and when you can surf on your laptop to eight or nine smarter amateurs’ “take,” or watch the considerably more entertaining “Daily Show,” it goes utterly flat. And when you’re sitting with your laptop in front of the TV, and the comparison is right there in your face, it’s even less appealing. This gets it, I think:

Cable political coverage has changed, however, and so has the sensibility that viewers — particularly young ones — expect from it. Matthews’s bombast is radically at odds with the wry, antipolitical style fashioned by Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert or the cutting and finely tuned cynicism of Matthews’s MSNBC co-worker Keith Olbermann. These hosts betray none of the reverence for politics or the rituals of Washington that Matthews does. On the contrary, they appeal to the eye-rolling tendencies of a cooler, highly educated urban cohort of the electorate that mostly dismisses an exuberant political animal like Matthews as annoyingly antiquated, like the ranting uncle at the Thanksgiving table whom the kids have learned to tune out.

Nothing illustrated Matthews’s discordance with the new cable ethos better than an eviscerating interview he suffered through last fall at the hands of Stewart himself. Matthews went on the “The Daily Show” to promote his book “Life’s a Campaign: What Politics Has Taught Me About Friendship, Rivalry, Reputation and Success.” The book essentially advertises itself as a guidebook for readers wishing to apply the lessons of winning politicians to succeeding in life. “People don’t mind being used; they mind being discarded” is the title of one chapter. “A self-hurt book” and “a recipe for sadness” Stewart called it, and the interview was all squirms from there. “This strikes me as artifice,” Stewart said. “If you live by this book, your life will be strategy, and if your life is strategy, you will be unhappy.”

Matthews accused Stewart of “trashing my book.”

“I’m not trashing your book,” Stewart protested. “I’m trashing your philosophy of life.”

(Can I just say that a book titled “Life’s a Campaign: What Politics Has Taught Me About Friendship, Rivalry, Reputation and Success” will probably be in Hell’s library. The only book I want to read less is “Big Russ and Me.” Or anything by Mitch Albom.)

Funny how these things change, how you go to bed in the summer and wake up and it’s autumn. The temperature’s the same but the wind has just a hint of north in it, the slant of the light is just a little different, and you know a new season is coming. Being able to feel those changes early on is a good skill to have, but once you get to a certain level of success, the world conspires to keep you in the dark. I once read a story about Bill O’Reilly’s sexual-harassment problem, and someone described the thin-air culture of national-TV anchors, how they go through their life trailed by squadrons of young women — interns, assistants, relentlessly ambitious climbers — whose job it is to make sure these hothouse flowers stay happy, hydrated and at the top of their game. They go, essentially, to a Graceland-without-walls, with the entourage saying, “Yes, boss” at every turn. No wonder they can’t feel the air.

I imagine reading Sunday’s NYT magazine will be like having a broken window in the house in January, however. At least at the Matthews’.

OK, I’m running late and trying to get to the gym while simultaneously listening to a “Fresh Air” podcast that explains the national economic meltdown in simple terms. I am but human, and so I’m going to cut one activity short — this one. Enjoy this bloggage, which finds the roots of Indian curry and Mexican mole in medieval Islamic cuisine. Mmm, mole.

Back in a bit.

One of Gene Weingarten’s chatters Tuesday says what I was thinking yesterday:

Billings, Mont.: Thought your Bell in the Metro story was good and all, but your Great Zucchini story from two years ago was the best thing you’ve ever written. Was that story submitted for a Pulitzer?

Pulitzer Prize-winner Gene Weingarten: It was. And I was only recently reliably informed that it got real consideration, but was ultimately rejected because it was perceived as not serious enough.

I’m not surprised; the Pulitzers are like that. It strikes me that of the journalists I’ve known who’ve served on Pulitzer juries, they tended to be at either best-or-worst ends of the spectrum, so it figures they get a few wrong. The Great Zucchini story was a work of storytelling art. I urge you to read it; it’s that good. And while the Joshua Bell story that earned Weingarten the big P was great, it was something you could stand at the beginning of and see all the way to the end. When I told Alan what the story was, I said, “They got this virtuoso violinist, Joshua Bell, to be a subway busker in D.C. and watched how people reacted.” He replied, “And they ignored him, right?” He didn’t know anything about the story; he just guessed that if you put a virtuoso playing a Stradivarius in a busy Metro station at rush hour, he’s not going to draw a crowd. The telling of the story is wonderful, but there’s no real surprise.

But the Great Zucchini had a huge surprise halfway through. You thought it was about one thing (a story about a children’s party entertainer), and then it turned out to be another thing (the common roots of fear and humor). Let’s see, what did win that year?

Jim Sheeler of Rocky Mountain News, Denver, Colo.
For his poignant story on a Marine major who helps the families of comrades killed in Iraq cope with their loss and honor their sacrifice.

See? Serious enough.

Oh, well. It may be like Paul Newman winning an Oscar for “The Color of Money” when he should have won for half a dozen better performances that preceded it, but it’s all good. (Bonus: I’ve linked to it before, but just in case you’re having a slow day at work and have some time to read it — Tears for Audrey, another Gene-sterpiece.)

Yesterday I mentioned writers who don’t get the web. I think Weingarten gets it. I don’t know another columnist who could pull off what he does every week with his live chat, and I think every single columnist should give it a try sometime. I’d love to know what the traffic is for that.

OK, then. Found this via Leo, and oh my, what was I saying about that word just a couple weeks ago?

Three reporters from Arizona, on the condition of anonymity, also let me in on another incident involving (John) McCain’s intemperateness. In his 1992 Senate bid, McCain was joined on the campaign trail by his wife, Cindy, as well as campaign aide Doug Cole and consultant Wes Gullett. At one point, Cindy playfully twirled McCain’s hair and said, “You’re getting a little thin up there.” McCain’s face reddened, and he responded, “At least I don’t plaster on the makeup like a trollop, you cunt.” McCain’s excuse was that it had been a long day. If elected president of the United States, McCain would have many long days.

Whoa! I know Mrs. McCain favors girly clothes and high heels. If that didn’t call for a shoe to be slipped off and applied, heel-first, to Mr. War Hero’s forehead, I don’t know what would.

You think this story is true? It’s getting a lot of blog attention, but then, we’re allowed to say “cunt” right out in the open, whereas a newspaper won’t even say “the c-word.” It’ll be “an insulting name related to her gender,” and most people will think, “Oh, well, once I told my wife to stop being such a little bitch during an argument; it could happen to anyone.”

I’m fortunate to live with a mellow soul. My dad was a grump, and he could curse, but he generally saved his profanity for inanimate objects, bad drivers, circumstances beyond his control and the like. I can’t imagine him using such a word on my mother, and to do so in front of witnesses? I like to think I’m as tolerant of human frailty as the next gal, but that one required an instant correction, as the dog trainers say. With a shoe.

This week has been seductively beautiful. I’ve been out and about on the bike every day; for once I’m caught up with my library accounts because hey, returning books is a good excuse to ride two miles. Next week, not so much, but oh well. I’m still looked on as something of an oddity around here, where driving half a block is not considered wasteful or slothful, only vigorous support of the local economy. One of my doctors is a cyclist, however, and at my last appointment we made small talk about the cost of being one in the Motor City. He’s been pulled over three times in the last year, he said; twice for running stop signs and once for resembling a person last seen stealing CDs from a car. While I teach Kate to obey stop signs on her bike, sooner or later she’s going to figure out that, for cyclists, a stop sign at a quiet intersection with no cars in sight can safely be ignored. You’re traveling slower, you have the advantage of eyes and ears, and you can’t hurt anyone but yourself. With all the piss-poor drivers I see on a daily basis, I guess it’s a credit to the low crime rate around here that police even bother to bug cyclists about such infractions. (And you should see my doctor, a white-haired soul in his late 50s who looks about as likely to break into cars as the Pope does. Please.)

OK, I’ve run dry. How about some bloggage making cruel fun of the pain of others? Here you go.

Ken Levine’s back with his “American Idol” recaps this season, and he correctly puts his finger on what was wrong with last night’s, which was nearly unwatchable:

While Syesha Mercado was screeching out some faux inspirational song that strung together every “I believe/Catch a shooting star/There’s time for every soul to fly/Reach within your heart/Strive to be the very best/Anything is Possible” bullshit cliché (and every one of those lyrics actually WAS in that song), Doug Davis, a young pitcher for the Arizona Diamondbacks took the mound and pitched the game of his life…knowing that in two days he will undergo surgery for thyroid cancer.

THAT’S inspirational. THAT’S real.

Disclaimer: I do not watch “American Idol” voluntarily. I watch it because my kid watches it, and while one day I will take her to see Iggy Pop, that day has not yet arrived.

This week’s theme was “songs of inspiration.” Every single one sucked, although the leadoff singer did have the advantage of menace:

Michael Johns sang “Dream On”. Most inspirational songs are not angrily shouted at you. Okay, okay, I’ll dream on. Don’t hurt me!

Three-day eventing isn’t for sissies. I watched an Olympic-caliber cross-country phase in Lexington a few years ago, and just being a spectator made my knees shake.

Someone actually makes a semi-amusing ad for special-event mass transit, and Catholics are outraged, so the ad is pulled. Someone make these pinheads direct traffic, then. The ad lives on, where else? On YouTube. Be subversive, and laugh at the Pope.

Me, I’m off for a bike ride.