It’s been a long time since New Year’s Eve was a circled-in-red day on the calendar. The idea of packing into some hotel ballroom for a warm glass of champagne at midnight and 10 minutes of kissing strangers is a vision of hell. We had an impromptu gathering at our house in Ann Arbor to welcome in 2004, and that was fun, although the year that followed didn’t play out all that well, and only underlined the idea that less is more on December 31 of any year.

If I had more money to travel, it might be fun to greet the new year in an exotic locale, Guam or atop Mt. Fuji or someplace with cheap firecrackers and new customs. File that one under pipe dreams. Truth be told, one of the best New Year’s Eves I ever had was when I was a kid, and we went next door to celebrate with the neighbors, and the lady of the house made me one apple beignet after another until I couldn’t eat any more. She was Dutch and said it was traditional. Powdered sugar was better than champagne to a 10-year-old.

The problem is the expectation of fun, of course. Even an optimist can find it hard to be merry when you’re expected to be, and after a string of underwhelming years I just gave up. Now our custom is to make a nice dinner, open a better-than-average bottle of wine, pop in a better-than-average rented movie, switch over to Times Square at 11:55 p.m. and go to bed 20 minutes later. Now that I think of it, that was one of the more memorable nights in recent memory, watching “Spartacus” and finishing 19-whatever laughing over the oysters-or-snails scene.

Whatever your plans are tonight, I hope they’re fun and safe and whatever you’d like it to be — oysters or snails.

So, then. Bloggage? Not bloody much. Having completed my entire four-item to-do list yesterday, we celebrated by seeing “Avatar.” I walked in irritable, having inadvertently chosen a 2-D screening time and unwilling to wait three more hours for the next 3-D, and got more irritable as we sat through 15 minutes of ads and 15 minutes of previews of movies I’d forfeit a kidney to avoid (“Clash of the Titans,” anyone? “Release the kraken” — are they serious?). I spent the time thinking how many people I know are calling it “Dances With Blue Cats,” and assuming this was another waste of an afternoon.

Two hours later I was yelling, “Go, red dinosaur!” and reflecting that I hadn’t had this much fun watching the totally predictable since “Star Wars.” Funny how that goes — you watch the setup and reflect that the characters couldn’t be more crudely rendered if they were drawn in grease pencil, the story all but lit with neon signs, and yet you’re still completely entertained. It’s the journey, not the destination.

We’re going to have to see it again in 3-D. No, we won’t. 3-D Imax. Then I never have to see it again.

Actually, what amazes me about special-effects bonanzas like this is how the actors do it. It’s one thing to summon up emotion in a kitchen, another thing in a sound stage, another thing entirely while dressed in a special suit, sword-fighting in front of a green screen. I heard an interview with James Cameron in which he described who played the flying dinosaur Zoe Saldana leaps onto in the course of demonstrating warrior skills to her humanoid pupil — some grip big enough to endure take after take of being leapt upon by a skinny actress. Movie magic.

It’s probably just a pepperoni pizza repeatin’ on him, but the year closes out with a reminder the reaper was busy in 2009, and most of the names on his list were in boldface. Get well soon, Rusty. Because it would be bad karma to wish for a painful…fail, wouldn’t it? Bad. Karma.

Welcome to whatever new readers we’re getting today; we’re ending the old year with a small honor. This blog is included in a Detroit News feature on notable local sites, which I had to stay up late to read. My husband always washes his hands of these things, a wise move. There aren’t many rules in our lively comment section other than: Be interesting. And be aware, the content isn’t usually so lame. Every blogger gets a glide pattern once in a while. In another two weeks this blog celebrates its ninth birthday, plugging along more or less five days a week. It’s worth what you pay for it, and I hope it surprises you from time to time.

Happy new year to all, and fingers crossed for the good kind of surprises.

We’ve been having some coyote drama here of late. The story is familiar all over the Midwest — after years, perhaps a century or more, of never seeing a coyote anywhere but a cowboy movie, the critters are turning up in the suburbs and sometimes not the suburbs at all, as when a pregnant female was found trotting the streets of downtown Detroit a year or two ago. The reporter from the local Fox affiliate about peed his pants squealing about the coyote who came in from “the wild.” He kept repeating the phrase, right through his happy ending, in which the animal was released in Oakland County, i.e., “back into the wild.”

Anyway, they’re well-established in Grosse Pointe now, drawn by the same factors that lure rich people — wide-open spaces, access to clean water and plenty to eat. Unfortunately, one of the things they’ve been eating of late is cats and dogs — killing them, anyway — and this! Can! Not! Stand! So the police are hunting them with shotguns and have already killed one. They, the police, hunt the same time the coyotes do, at dawn and dusk, and try to get a clean shot between the people who like to walk their Labs and Goldens in the area at the same time.

I’m of two minds. Well, no, not really. I’m sympathetic to people who’ve lost their pets, really I am, but on the other hand all that’s going to happen in the long run is, some coyotes will be shot and more will move in, and that will be that.

One of the police chiefs speculated the coyotes moved in during a cold snap a couple of years ago, when they “crossed the ice from Harsen’s Island.” (The geography in question, for the unfamiliar.) Alan scoffed when I told him this and said, “Or else they came up Jefferson Avenue.” That’s approximately what I suggested to the police chief, too. I’m always amazed at how even people who like to think of themselves as outdoorsy don’t really know all that much about it, and I include myself in that number. One of the things I find most interesting about this crazy place is how feral it is, from the plant life to the mammals. I wonder how many feral pit bulls have joined up with coyote gangs in Detroit. Plump pheasant, squirrel too numerous to count, endless prairie joined by easily trottable paved roads? Life would be a dream sh-boom.

I haven’t seen one yet. I’m rarely abroad when the coyotes are, so I have to live through others’ sightings, and what they tell me — the coyote who flew across Lake Shore Road in a couple of strides and then leaped the wall around the Ford House like it was little more than a low hedge, etc. My secret: I’m kind of glad the police are on a fool’s errand. There’s enough domestication in the world.

Bloggage? Not much:

I guess everyone has seen the Wienie Roast Bomber’s undies by now. Tell me, how are full-body scans going to catch this? The explosive was sewn up tight in the crotch. I think the next step in airport security is going to be one of those sniffing machines; we had to go through them before being admitted to the Statue of Liberty a couple of years ago. Each turn took about 15 seconds. Multiply by the number of people on your flight, and have a nice day.

Here’s an interview with David Simon. I haven’t read it yet. Don’t I already know enough about this guy? Nevertheless, I salute anyone willing to give this much time to a pesky reporter.

Off to the shower with me. This is my to-do list today:

Bank
Post office
Beer
Library

That beer isn’t going to drink itself. Have a good one, all.

There was a photo on the front page of my New York Times Sunday, and for the life of me I can’t find it online, sorry. A police officer is directing his bomb-sniffing dog through a check of luggage at Detroit Metro airport, and not just any luggage, but the long, logo’d bags you see in every airport the day after Christmas. Skis. The bags are surrounded by the other thing you see in every airport the day after Christmas. Young people, getting ready to fly out to Colorado or Utah or somewhere else with mountains and snow; one is wearing a sweatshirt with the name of a local high school. The young people are watching the dog work, smiles on their faces. Even the cop looks nice and relaxed. Only the dog looks concerned.

Don’t you feel safer already?

I’m so, so glad I don’t have to fly very often, and when I do, only in the context of taking a vacation. I’m nice and relaxed and don’t mind hanging around the carousels for my bags, which I check, leaving the overheads to hysterical business travelers. I’m glad that if and/or when full-body scans become standard boarding procedure in the nation’s airports, I will be spared the worst of it.

And I’m sure they’re coming. Aren’t you? I mean, we managed to miss a guy who’d been dimed out by his own father using the human method; technology better save us. You hear El Al’s security techniques mentioned frequently when these things come up; Israel’s national airline is known for brutal and unapologetic profiling and more security hoops than you can count, right down to armed air marshals on every flight. You get the idea they would not have missed this guy. You also get the idea it’s good Israel is a very small country and El Al likely doesn’t send that many flights out of it.

Yes, it was quite an exciting weekend in the D. I’ve barely looked at other blogs, but for my Idiots file, and that was enough to scare me away from the internet for two weeks. It’s nice to see experts in armchair trigonometry calculating what the terrorist might have been trying to hit on the ground by detonating his device juuuust so. Jihad urban renewal! Detroit is so cutting edge sometimes, it just kills me.

Lots of things are cutting edge these days. The Dutch hero who bravely wrestled the Roasted Wienie Bomber down and then talked and talked and talked about it on CNN? He’s a very modern sort of hero, as Gawker explains.

Also, Joe Lieberman, WTF? A third front in an endless war we can’t win? Why not?

And that’s it for me, posting late before another killer Monday. Expect light-to-intermittent posting for a few days, while I enjoy a little of the break everyone else seems to be giving themselves. And get a little housekeeping done around here.

There’s something about a headline like this…

Expert: Beef up airport security

…that makes a person never want to fly again.

Nevertheless, glad all were safe. Way to welcome the holidays, though.

UPDATE: If anyone is interested, the new “How to Cook Everything” appears to be more wonderful than the original. Thanks, family.

My neighbor has outdoor speakers, and is playing Christmas music for… someone. Santa, or maybe me. I’m only hearing it on my trips in and out to the car and recycling bin, but it sounds like those records my dad used to get at the Sohio station when I was a kid — a blend of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, Celine Dion and Barbra Streisand. Lots of strings and feeeeeeling.

Having been in one too many stores in the past week, I’ve had it up to my eyeballs with this crap, however. I’m counter-programming with “Every Picture Tells a Story.” The peak of Rod Stewart’s career, in my opinion, although obviously this isn’t shared by the rest of the world.

My back hurts, but my work is pretty much done. Alan can handle the little bit of wrapping that remains, and I’ve turned out a collection of dishes that do not go together in any way, but will serve for our Christmas fare, which will be sort of haphazard and brunchy. There’s an egg thing, a bean thing, a sweet potato bisque. And while I didn’t do a buche de noel, I did something similar — chocolate roll. It’s imperfect, nothing like the picture, but it looks more like a log than I thought it would:

The last stop today was the liquor store. I asked for a bottle of vodka and a straw.

So, the big day is upon us. I’m taking a few moments to enjoy the tree and a glass of wine. And while I don’t have much to report, I do wish you all a pleasant holiday and last week of the year, however you choose to spend it. I’m thankful for all of you who read and comment here; every day you show up is a gift to me, and I appreciate it.

Just so Bill O’Reilly hears it loud and clear, then.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Well, this is interesting. The Mexican good guys had a big win last week, killing a high-ranking gangster, Arturo Beltrán Leyva, in what is inevitably called “a gun battle.” The soldier who killed him also died in the shootout. Although it’s customary for police and military officers involved in anti-drug work to be anonymous and wear ski masks and other clothing to obscure their identity, once one of them is killed, their identity is made public. Ensign Melquisedet Angulo Córdova was hailed as a national hero. His mother was presented with the Mexican flag at his funeral, in much the same ritual we’ve seen in this country during military funerals.

The day after, Leyva’s henchmen burst into Córdova’s family’s home and killed his mother and three other relatives.

People today use the word “decimated” casually. We forget what it means. Decimation was a specific punishment for one’s enemies, and it meant one in ten — you humiliated and humbled the conquered by killing 10 percent of their soldiers. That was considered punishment enough. What’s going on here is something much worse, a zero-sum game that isn’t, really, because the lesson I mentioned yesterday applies here, too: There’s always a demand for drugs, legal or otherwise, and always a new generation of people willing to take them. Legalize everything and you take the gunplay out of it, but otherwise, there you are.

[Pause.]

Hey, it’s the Christmas season! Let’s turn the page and move on to something cheerier! You know the newspaper racket is in trouble when the freakin’ New York Times, home of the top-of-3A daily Tiffany ad, etc. etc., accepts a full-page ad for the Amish miracle-heater fireplace. It’s a throwback to the days when companies would run ads that looked like newspaper copy, because apparently there are still seven or eight suckers who believe that on one page of the New York Times you can read about the al-Jazeera cameraman who spent six years at Guantanamo Bay, and on the next a full page devoted to the “miracle” that an electric space heater enclosed in an Amish-made plywood box can make your heating bills “drop to a fraction.”

One of the funnier moments I’ve spent in the company of Alan’s family came when his sister Jenny related her conversation with Aunt Dorothy, who wanted to order one of the “free” heaters for Jenny:

“I don’t want one,” Jenny said.

“Why wouldn’t you want it if it’s free!?” said Dorothy. (There’s such a perfect logic to this, I don’t know what to say.)

Anyway. The scam of the Amish miracle heater is pretty easy to figure out, if you read above a third-grade level: The Chinese-made heater is just your average 1500-watt space heater, available at any Wal-Mart for around $20. You pay $350 for the “Amish” mantel that goes around it. There’s a website, of course. Poke around in there and enjoy yourself; did you know the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval is “prestigious?” Srsly.

The Amish are no strangers to this sort of thing. Alan once visited an Amish farm in Indiana that turned out olde-timey kountry wagons used in displays at Bath & Body Works. Knock together some scrap plywood, throw on some out-of-round wheels, slap a coat of paint on everything and then turn the kids loose on it — each one was “hand-distressed” by Amish boys and girls, who assaulted it with chains, steel wool, chemicals and whatever, preparatory to its placement in an American shopping mall. I love this country so much it hurts.

Two days left, and my list is painful to look at. Yesterday’s excursion to the mall was fruitless but for the picture of Olga the mannequin in her hello-sailor cocktail dress. The sooner this fashion flies, the better. Kate tried on a dress at Betsey Johnson, just for the heck of it, and looked adorable. Two hundred dollars for a dress seemed a little steep, she said, and of course I agreed. But it’s funny how a Betsey dress can be just as short and just as strapless, but looks fun instead of trashy. That’s why they pay her the big bucks.

Happy Wednesday, whatever yours holds. I’m outta here.

For all your Russian-prostitute wardrobe needs. That’ll be 200 rubles, pazhalusta.

My favorite detail from the Brittany Murphy stories? Let’s take a look. TMZ:

Paramedics moved Brittany from the bathroom to the master bedroom, where they found a slew of prescription drugs — “A check of the nightstands revealed large amounts of prescription medication in the decedent’s name. Also noted were numerous empty prescription medication bottles in the decedent’s husband’s name, the decedent’s mother’s name and unidentified third party names.”

According to the notes, the medications included Topamax (anti-seizure meds also to prevent migraines), Methylprednisolone (anti-inflammatory), Fluoxetine (depression med), Klonopin (anxiety med), Carbamazepine (treats diabetic symptoms and is also a bipolar med), Ativan (anxiety med), Vicoprofen (pain reliever), Propranolol (hypertension, used to prevent heart attacks), Biaxin (antibiotic), Hydrocodone (pain med) and miscellaneous vitamins.

I love how that phrase comes at the end of a long list of central nervous system antagonists, like a good punchline. It’s important to stay healthy with the right nutritional supplements.

Actually, this isn’t funny, is it? Or rather, it’s funny how the rest of the world learned this lesson with Marilyn Monroe and Judy Garland, but Hollywood learned a different one, i.e., that there is an endless supply of young women out there to be chewed up and spit out. The young women learned there’s always a doctor who can be persuaded to write the next prescription. And if the local pharmacy gets suspicious, well, write it to your personal assistant or mom or whatever.

How is it possible I’m this far behind in the week and it’s only Tuesday? Go figure. The shortness of the week has something to do with it, as does the unmopped kitchen floor. But the swing through the cop shops yesterday was brutal, a veritable parade of wrongdoing — all the thieves in the world are doing their Christmas shopping in the Pointes, it seems, stealing everything from cars to wheels to iPods. It did lead to an interesting conversation with the police about the details of auto theft; I jotted down notes about “drop cars” when I got home. Drop cars are the easy-to-steal P.O.S. vehicles thieves drive when they’re looking for something nicer. Check plates around the empty parking spot of a stolen car, and you’re likely to make a recovery of the drop car. I guess that’s good for the statistics, but from some of the reports I’ve read you wouldn’t want your drop car back, unless you relish starting it with a screwdriver for the rest of its life.

Detroit and Miami are the auto-theft capitals of North America. I think the city’s motto should be whatever “don’t leave your keys in the ignition, not even for a minute” translates to in Latin.

The best car-theft story I’ve read since we’ve lived here is about a teacher in Detroit who’s had 13 vehicles stolen 14 times. The only reason it’s not 14 cars stolen 14 times is, she finally figured out the route to a quick recovery — keep the gas tank close to empty at all times by buying $5 worth of gas daily. The car runs dry within hours, and it’s found relatively close to where it was taken.

Big-city survival skills. It’s not all about keeping your purse clutched under your arm.

Oh my, look at the time. Must fly. Two must-see videos:

Roomba-riding cat beats down pit bull. And, if you ever find yourself craving Chinese food in Honolulu, you might be better off with a burger.

Well, Washington, you must be verrrry pleased with yourselves. In the words of a headline my friend Adrianne likes to quote, You’re snow king! And you can’t handle it. Although God knows why not. I know this is an unusual event, meteorologically speaking, but it’s certainly not unprecedented. As long as I’ve been reading newspapers, you can count on the eastern seaboard to be buried at least once every two years or so, and you’d think you’d have it figured out by now.

As a Midwesterner, I think it’s amusing that every storm on the east coast is covered like an attack by al-Qaeda. You read the NYT roundup, and they mention how “60 million people” were affected by the storm — or, as the NYT likes to call on its college education from time to time, that many people had “Whittier’s snowbound American landscape recreated” for their edification. (The web story contains a link to the poem. Thanks, English majors!) The unspoken subordinate clause, “…30 million of them journalists.”

I’m just grousing here. Detroit got less snow over the weekend than Columbus, Ohio, which is where we were on Saturday. We’ll catch up, we always do, but by the winter solstice, I’m yearning for the blanket of white to reflect what little light there is.

If I’m talking weather on a Monday, it’s a bad Monday. In the great traditions of Short Attention Span Theater, let’s make this an all-bloggage day.

Staying offline most of the weekend was the best thing I’ve done in a while. I should do more of it. You sign back on after a day away, and discover Brittany Murphy died, and your first thought is “drugs,” your second “anorexia,” and your third, “It’s sort of embarrassing that I even know who Brittany Murphy is,” although I always thought her work as Luanne Platter was her best.

In three minutes, Michigan’s attorney general is going to outline a lawsuit he plans to file, designed to keep Asian carp out of the Great Lakes. Kind of funny, when you think about it. Sue the bastards!

You are commanded to listen to the podcast/webstream of “This American Life” from this past weekend, which was about the drinking culture on the campus of Penn State University, only of course it wasn’t just about Penn State, but college in general. You are especially commanded to do so if you have a kid in college, or headed that way. It was, how you say, grim. Listening to the students speak of the rituals of college drinking — the tailgating, the pregame, the brand names, the “fracket” — I was reminded of rituals at another well-known American center of binge drinking, the Indian reservation. The students aren’t yet consuming hair spray cocktails, but that’s the next logical step after Red Bull and Vladimir vodka, in my opinion.

I kept asking myself if I was in any position to talk. I drank in college. Almost everyone did. I sometimes overindulged. Almost everyone did. I did it often enough that in sober moments I reflected on how fortunate I was to live on a small, walking-centered campus, rather than one that required a car. I asked myself if I would stand on the steps of a fraternity house, dressed in a tiny cocktail dress and towering stilettos, shivering in my fracket (defined as a cheap, crummy jacket you wear to frat parties, because you know it’s going to get vomit on it by night’s end, and you don’t mind losing it), hoping my tits or legs or pout or whatever will stir the doorman enough to grant me entrance to the party, because that’s where you go to get hammered, and that’s what a girl has to wear to get in — if I would have done this at the age of 19, and I think the answer is no. I didn’t know anyone at Ohio University who had to go to the E.R. from drinking, a common event in State College, Pa. Barfing? Sure. Hospital admissions with a BAC of .25, the average among hospital visits? No. And O.U. was a party school right down to its bones.

Sad, sad listening. And I don’t know what’s to be done.

But I do know what’s to be done today, and that’s work-work-work. So I’m outta here.

My e-mail program seems to be hosed. Oddly, I am unconcerned. I can pick up the mail in two other places (phone and web), and besides, I’m starting to see problems like this as not really problems at all. Weekends are good for unplugging, and I intend to do so. I might even like it.

It occurred to me the other day that making a writer work on a computer with an internet connection is a little like making an alcoholic insurance agent move his office to a bar. Which reminds me, if you haven’t read Sweet Juniper’s latest post, you should. It’s not about writing or alcoholics, but it is about insurance. Sorta. It’s also funny.

Two cups of coffee, and I can sense it’s already going to be a short-attention-span kind of day. Sometimes I hit the finish line of the week like one of those rubber-legged marathoners, and today has one of those hit-or-miss to-do lists: Meeting, buy sanding sugar, clean house, make elaborate Christmas cookies. Sometimes Friday turns out productive against all odds, because I don’t have to work four hours farming news at the end of it. I’m free to work myself into a frazzle and collapse on the couch with a glass of wine at its end. Plus, I want to make a giant dent in “Chronic City” this weekend.

I need to remind myself, however, that to-do lists are proof you’re alive, and if I wanted even the alive alternative, I could look up the Facebook photo of our own mild-mannered Jeff with a giant bandage taped under his nose. He looks a little like Jack Nicholson in “Chinatown,” only without the nice suit.

So with that, I’m dumping this thin gruel into the same ol’ same ol’ category and starting my day. Because that sanding sugar isn’t going to buy itself, y’know.

Have a great weekend.