I saw the news about the Brown University mass shooting Saturday evening, and woke up to the Bondi Beach mass shooting Sunday morning. I have no thoughts about this other than: :::deep sigh.:::

No, just this: Mass shootings are a true American export, aren’t they? As always, more will be revealed about both incidents, but that’s my knee-jerk reaction.

So let’s wait a bit before we talk too much about it.

And it was such a pleasant weekend, too. Erected the tree, squired the out-of-towners around a bit, hit a Christmas bazaar, set up a wrapping station in the basement, spotted a Cooper’s hawk sitting on our back-yard fence. My plan to get the decks cleared by today isn’t going perfectly, but it’s close enough.

If you follow sports at all, you’ve probably heard about the travails of the just-fired University of Michigan head football coach, Sherrone Moore. It’s a tale as old as time: Sexually profligate man allows his sexual profligacy to get the best of him. We don’t know all the details yet, but it seems pretty obvious that his main side piece was his executive assistant, herself the daughter of an NFL scout and an Erika Kirk doppelgänger, minus the Tammy Faye Bakker level of eye makeup. Moore is said to have “grabbed butter knives” from her kitchen drawers in a confrontation, and threatened to kill himself with them and make her watch. I don’t know how she responded to this threat, but needless to say, it came up at his arraignment and, well. Like I said: A tale as old as time.

At least he was fired for cause, which means the university won’t have to pay out his bloated contract, as Michigan State University is doing with its own fired coach. For once, I find myself in complete agreement with Nolan Finley, the conservative ed-page editor at The Detroit News. I’m sure his column today is paywalled, but these two grafs are hammer-meet-nail dead-on:

Schools hire coaches who promise to take them to the mountaintop, sign them to lengthy, multimillion-dollar contracts, and when no championship banners arrive in two or three years, cut them loose and go looking for their next savior. Most end up stuck paying the salaries of both the old coach and the new one at the expense of students.

Look up the road to East Lansing, where Michigan State University will be paying $32.5 million over the next five years to fired coach John Smith, and $30 million over that same period to new coach Pat Fitzgerald. So the head coaching position will cost MSU roughly $12 million a year. And if Mel Tucker wins his $125 million wrongful discharge lawsuit, that figure will skyrocket.

I used to say the best job in America is to be the first ex-wife of a billionaire: Marry him, birth and raise the kids, then bail out with an eight- or nine-figure settlement when a spiritual sister of Lauren Sanchez enters the chat. Now I think it’s being a losing football coach with a multi-year contract.

One last note, a story that dropped online a few days ago, but I’m just getting to today, about how the loathsome Tate Brothers were sprung from custody in Romania thanks to the Trump administration, and yes, that’s a gift link. It’s as upsetting as you’d imagine, and my takeaway is this: No more hands off Barron Trump, that poor innocent kid, who appears to have blossomed into the apple that doesn’t fall far from the tree, or a grosser metaphor about assholes and shit:

Barron, now 19, admired Andrew (Tate), and spoke with him over Zoom last year, according to Justin Waller, a mutual friend who was on the call. During the call, they discussed their shared belief that the Romanian criminal case was an effort to silence the Tates, he said.

Maybe he never had a chance, being the son of a criminal and a whore, but he’s made his own choices.

Off to enjoy a very cold Sunday, if “doing some work” can be called enjoyment.

I watched “Jay Kelly,” the new George Clooney movie, this week. I found it to be entirely enjoyable, yet also, as the kids say today, mid. Which is to say it may be like the book I talked about earlier this week: It wasn’t terrible to watch, but I’ll forget every frame of it in 10 days. My main takeaway was this: George is old now.

For me, it might be the most unsettling part of aging — seeing the movie stars I grew up with turning into senior citizens. Some of the most striking women of my youth, beauties like Sharon Stone, Michelle Pfeiffer, all old now. The men, those lust objects like Clooney: Old. Robert Redford had a cameo on the last season of “Dark Skies,” and looked as lined as one of those dried-apple dolls, and he’s dead now, anyway.

It’s unsettling, of course, because it means I’m old now too, which I objectively am, but apart from the pain in my knees, honestly, I don’t feel old. I feel…mature. Capable of holding my tongue in situations where I once would have let loose, to no good end. I can take the long view more often. I have no interest in chasing trends, or even knowing anything about them. You say baggy jeans are back? That’s nice. I think I have a pair in my drawer. From the ’90s. And as someone who could never, ever coast on her looks, I even think I look better than I did at, say, 30. I’m a better-looking old person than I was a young person. That has to count for something.

“Jay Kelly” is about an aging actor, and — this is not a spoiler — culminates with a career-tribute highlight reel, many of the shots recognizable from Clooney’s earlier work. He watches it with a slow tear sliding down his cheek, tinged with all the joy and regret over roads taken and not taken, and I guess that’s what life is like at our age. George and I are about the same age but he took the rich-Hollywood-movie-star-male-division life path of marrying a much younger woman, so he could have children. I wouldn’t want to be mothering twins at 56, or even 39, the age of his wife when she gave birth, but I can’t afford round-the-clock nannies, either, so it all works out.

We’ve spoken here often about growing old, and I know I’m still in early old age, that everything can go south tomorrow, but so far so good. Look me up in five years, see how I feel.

I’ve almost grown out of one of my bad habits of aging, which is to say, comparing my physical decrepitude with that of other women my age: Look at that crepey cleavage. At least I don’t have that, and so on. Sooner or later the crepe is all we have. Live until you die, I guess.

Getting older means I’m more likely to be a victim of a scam, something I’m reminded of almost daily, as I read about some miscreant persuading one of my cohort into depositing cash into a Bitcoin ATM to avoid prosecution for child porn, or something. I worry that one day I’ll get a call from someone close to me, begging for bail money, and I’ll fall for it, but it’ll turn out to be an AI sample of their voice. I think we should discuss a family code phrase to use. I think I should let Kate have veto power over big withdrawals from the nest-egg funds, so it doesn’t all go to Chinese or Russian thieves. Then I think, nah. Not time to panic yet.

Alan used to chide me for peeling off a couple singles for every panhandler we pass, arguing that it was just going to go for booze or drugs. That’s a type of scam, I guess. No one asks for money on the street for a pint of Mad Dog. On the other hand, everyone should have a small pleasure. So I keep giving.

Why so philosophical today, Nance? Can’t say. I had an enjoyable morning, meeting two friends of the blog in town for a couple days. Then a quiet afternoon. Indiana rejected further gerrymandering the state, indicating the cracks in Tubby’s coalition are widening.

I hope I live long enough to see him die, though, preferably of natural causes, in public and painfully. It’ll be awesome. How’s that for maturity?

Have a good weekend, all!

The other day I was down at Wayne State, turning in my textbooks, browsing the campus Barnes & Noble. On a whim, I bought Emily St. John Mandel’s “Sea of Tranquility,” because I loved “Station Eleven” so, so much.

This week I’ve been reading it, and I was 50 pages in when I realized: I’ve already read this. And not that long ago, either. And it took me 50 pages to realize it.

Obviously, this is an affirmative diagnosis of dementia. Also, I’m out $18.

It’s still a good book. Mandel has a real gift.

How’s everyone, midweek? Man, has it EVER been winter all up in this place. It got cold early, snowed early, and now we’re getting another 1-2 inches overnight, followed by a single-digit cold snap this weekend. Our Atlanta guests are heading south as we speak, and I don’t blame them. (Also, I don’t mind the snow, either. I am large, I contain multitudes. With dementia.) Woke up this morning to two more inches of slush, with school called off, which means early-morning lifeguarding is cancelled, too, but the call came late and I was already at the pool and the pre-dawn patrol was pulling in, so? We swam. Or rather, they swam. I sat in the chair and watched.

Bloggage? Oh yeah:

President Shit-for-brains goes off-script:

MOUNT POCONO, Pa. — He had charts that he read from, touting economic data. The stage around him was filled with signs reading, “Lower Prices Bigger Paychecks.” He introduced Pennsylvanians who he said had more take-home pay because of his policies.

But if he was supposed to launch a speaking tour to connect with Americans struggling with higher prices and stagnant wages, President Donald Trump didn’t hesitate to veer off course.

He mocked the word “affordability,” touted how high the stock market had risen and said Americans didn’t need so many pencils. He launched into a number of digressions to disparage the country of Somalia, the concept of climate change and the news media in the back of the room.

Yeah, he’s back on the you-have-too-many-pencils-and-dolls thing. But remember! It’s Biden who was senile!

Miami elected its first Democratic mayor in 30 years. More bad news for you-know-who.

Can a typeface be woke? Mario Rubio sure thinks so, the dolt.

Among the many funny things Jeff Borden said during our time as across-the-hall neighbors was his offhand observation about exercise: “I could get into it if I could find one like…oh, like sex. You work a little while, you get a big reward, and then you go to sleep.” Ha ha.

I swam on Sunday for the second time in 72 hours, and reflected that it is the most paradoxical of the three or four workouts I most often do. It’s the one I have to work hardest to show up for, but once it’s over, I feel much better than after boxing, cycling or doing weight work. I don’t know if it’s the shower, or what. I certainly don’t get an orgasm out of the deal. But I always leave feeling not just exercised, but energized.

Then I go home, eat my weight in carbs, and fall into a food coma.

Swam 2,075 yards in 58 minutes, average heart rate 121. Nothing special, but it started the week off right.

Most of the weekend, I worked. I had to file 1,600 words on pickleball, and I now invite you to ask me anything about pickleball, a game I’ve never played. My favorite research was on the war between pickleball players and those who do almost anything else on a court. Pity poor tennis, now eclipsed by what appears to be a goofier form of ping-pong. In Santa Rosa, Calif. in 2021, pickleball courts were vandalized by a deliberate motor-oil spill:

The players also found a profanity-laced note printed on a piece of white paper lying on one of the courts. Its writer threatened to key the cars of any pickleball players who came to the courts, and called tennis players who didn’t do anything to stop the pickleball players “chickens.”

Don’t cross Big Tennis! They don’t mess around!

Then there’s this guy, who squats on handball courts in New York to keep picklers away:

His name is Paul Owens (or maybe Paul Rubenfarb or Paul Rosenberg); he claims to be 97, and his cryptic business card reads “Let’s go dancing,” while listing a variety of genres like “doo-wop” and “1950s red-light mambo.”

All they know for sure is that his life seems to revolve around arriving at the North Meadow Recreation Center as early as 7 a.m., well before Parks Department employees clock in for the day, and just as the earliest pickleball players begin trickling in. That is when he stakes his claim in the middle of the courts and, in a sense, holds the pickleballers hostage. He contends they are taking away space originally devoted to the proletarian sport of handball, historically favored by teenagers of color. (He himself is an ex-handball player, but like many old-timers, he has switched to paddleball, which is more forgiving on the knees.)

To anyone who asks why he insists on ruining the fun, he hands out a flyer in the style of a ransom note that slams “pickleball’s well-off aggressive elite.”

My dad played handball. He often called racquetball “a ladies’ game.” I wonder what he’d think of pickleball. My guess: Not much.

Otherwise, it was a pleasant weekend. J.C. and Sammy are swinging through tomorrow for a brief visit, and I’m very much looking forward to that. Thanks for your comments on my Belle Isle piece, also. I don’t have a lot to add, except that the man with this big idea went on something called the Charter Cities podcast to discuss it. I gather the concept of charter cities is the same as charter schools, i.e., a boondoggle that allows chartered individuals to step outside the law with the promise of innovating their problems away. I expect it will end the way the charter-school movement has, i.e. with wealthy people getting wealthier, the problems remaining and the rest of us, screwed.

Bloggage? A good WashPost dive into the state of the Kennedy Center (gift link):

So what is the Kennedy Center now?

For one thing, it’s getting a Trumpian revamp. He ordered new marble and the repainting of the exterior columns in austere white. Portraits of the first and second couples now hang in the center’s Hall of Nations, and the building exterior is occasionally lit up in red, white and blue (a move that, many staffers joke, makes the building look like the flag of France, not America).

…(Kennedy Center President Richard) Grenell, who directed his staff refer to him as “Ambassador,” quickly began overhauling the center’s leadership. Hires included Roma Daravi, a White House communications aide from the first Trump administration and a former ballerina, as head of the public relations team; and Lisa Dale, a former senior campaign adviser to Trump ally Kari Lake, as the senior vice president of development. He installed the former national chairman of the Young Republicans, Rick Loughery, and his longtime adviser Nick Meade in top roles. None of the three had any previous arts expertise. (Staffers quickly dubbed the trio “The Icks.”) Grenell spends a significant amount of time in California, where he primarily resides, and is rarely seen in the building, staffers say.

Ai-yi-yi. Can’t wait to see the new medals.

OK, time to make some dinner. Have a good week, everyone.

This has been a week. You might recall I’m taking a creative writing class this semester? Today was the last class. We were asked to read a selection from our final project, which encompassed short fiction, poetry and memoir. I read my memoir excerpt.

It was about Tim Goeglein. Might as well choose a vivid chapter. It got some giggles, especially from the teacher, who, like most teachers, has had her experiences with plagiarism. A snippet:

Like President Bush, I believe in forgiveness. But I also believe in shame, and we live in a shameless age. A man exposed as a thief of other’s thoughts and expression – for years – shouldn’t be publishing book after book. The online left has long spoken of “wingnut welfare,” the seemingly endless trough from which certain conservative “thinkers” can feed, in perpetuity. Scandals, whether it be taking laundered money from the Russians, sexual misbehavior or worse, don’t seem to dent people on the right, while Sen. Al Franken was pressured into resigning for making a naughty gesture in a photograph.

It was no doubt hard for Tim Goeglein to lose his White House job. But like so many of these preening God-botherers, he was shoved off the roof with a parachute on his back, and drifted gently down into another well-paid position.

What a bitch the lady who wrote that is.

Here’s something else I wrote, for the Free Press. It was paywalled when it went up, so here’s a non-paywalled link. It’s not what I’d usually do, but I assume you guys are mostly not in the Freep area, so oh well.

Tell me what you think. And have a swell weekend.

As expected, Kate’s health insurance, purchased on the ACA marketplace, is going to be more expensive next year. In fact, her plan won’t even be available, so she was booted to an allegedly comparable one for…quadruple her current premium. Which she absolutely can’t afford. And so the three of us must now put our heads together and try to figure out an alternative.

I’ve reached the point where I despise every Republican on the planet, and at least some of the Democrats, for allowing this to happen. I can’t even tell you how angry I am that a modestly paid gig worker like her has to risk going bareback because she can’t afford even the shitty health insurance the private marketplace offers.

But remember! The key to Democrats taking back Washington? Is MODERATION. What a joke. Medicare for all.

That rant out of the way, let me commence another: President Shit-for-brains has said he plans to pardon the former president of Honduras, Juan Orlando Hernández. Yeah, this guy:

He once boasted that he would “stuff the drugs up the gringos’ noses.” He accepted a $1 million bribe from El Chapo to allow cocaine shipments to pass through Honduras. A man was killed in prison to protect him.

At the federal trial of Juan Orlando Hernández in New York, testimony and evidence showed how the former president maintained Honduras as a bastion of the global drug trade. He orchestrated a vast trafficking conspiracy that prosecutors said raked in millions for cartels while keeping Honduras one of Central America’s poorest, most violent and most corrupt countries.

All this, while we’re still blowing up boats in the Caribbean, claiming without evidence that they’re drug-runners. And millions of Americans are just fine with all of this.

I must say, however, this is really a time for the NYT Pitchbot to shine:

In this Ohio town, it was tradition: Latin mass, biscuits and gravy at Bob Evans, and then down to the old marina to shoot a bunch of fishermen and claim they were running drugs. But now the woke mob wants to take all that away.

— NY Times Pitchbot (@nytpitchbot.bsky.social) November 30, 2025 at 4:47 PM

Friends, I have a lot of work to get out the door in the next two weeks, plus the usual holiday ramp-up. The good news: My shopping is all but done. The bad news: See above. Expect light posting, but I’ll be here, because blogging is a great way to procrastinate.

This will be quick because I have a long to-do list, as generally happens to women before a holiday. But they’re all happy errands, for the most part, so no biggie.

First, let’s go with the lighter stuff, if you consider waiting for a fool to drown “lighter,” but you know my sense of humor.

There’s a guy who’s been hanging around the local waterways for a while, navigating what’s charitably called a “homemade houseboat.” It looks like a shipping container sitting on a raft, the raft itself floating on 55-gallon plastic drums. It might not be a shipping container, but that’s about the size. Everything about it is what you’d call “makeshift,” and maybe “half-assed.” It made the papers when it required Coast Guard assistance to get through the considerable currents at Port Huron, where Lake Huron drains into the St. Clair River. Once past, though, the captain — of the houseboat — waved them off and said he was fine. He’s now docked in Lexington, Mich., and the story goes that he’s trying to do “the Great Loop,” or the circumnavigation of the eastern U.S. via the Atlantic Ocean, the Great Lakes and the Mississippi River. It’s unconfirmed, but if he is, I’d advise taking a few days off, or even a few months.

The gales of November are blowing as we speak, with a blizzard bearing down on the U.P. and just general misery everywhere else. If that ridiculous thing leaves the safety of its current mooring, it’s bound to be broken up before he reaches Saginaw Bay.

On a darker note, I don’t know how I missed this earlier in the week, but here’s a gift link to a great analysis of the Epstein emails by that guy whose name I always have to look up, Anand Giridharadas:

At the dark heart of this story is a sex criminal and his victims — and his enmeshment with President Trump. But it is also a tale about a powerful social network in which some, depending on what they knew, were perhaps able to look away because they had learned to look away from so much other abuse and suffering: the financial meltdowns some in the network helped trigger, the misbegotten wars some in the network pushed, the overdose crisis some of them enabled, the monopolies they defended, the inequality they turbocharged, the housing crisis they milked, the technologies they failed to protect people against.

This is Giridharadas’ particular hobbyhorse; he writes a lot about the global elite, who care less for the rest of us than they do their own spouses. But it’s pretty perceptive, rich with detail and observations like this:

Many of the Epstein emails begin with a seemingly banal rite that, the more I read, took on greater meaning: the whereabouts update and inquiry. In the Epstein class, emails often begin and end with pings of echolocation. “Just got to New York — love to meet, brainstorm,” the banker Robert Kuhn wrote to Mr. Epstein. “i’m in wed, fri. edelman?” Mr. Epstein wrote to the billionaire Thomas Pritzker (it is unclear if he meant a person, corporation or convening). To Lawrence Krauss, a physicist in Arizona: “noam is going to tucson on the 7th. will you be around.” Mr. Chopra wrote to say he would be in New York, first speaking, then going “for silence.” Gino Yu, a game developer, announced travel plans involving Tulum, Davos and the D.L.D. (Digital Life Design) conference — an Epstein-class hat trick.

Landings and takeoffs, comings and goings, speaking engagements and silent retreats — members of this group relentlessly track one another’s passages through JFK, LHR, NRT and airports you’ve never even heard of. Whereabouts are the pheromones of this elite. They occasion the connection-making and information barter that are its lifeblood. If “Have you eaten?” was a traditional Chinese greeting, “Where are you today?” is the Epstein-class query.

A long read, but it kept my interest throughout.

And with that, it’s off to tackle the to-do list. At the end, I’ll have a homemade apple pie, a brined turkey, the makings of tomorrow’s green-bean dish and maybe time for a cleaned bathroom or drink with a friend. (I’m hoping for the latter.)

Have a great Thanksgiving, all. Back after.

I’ll say this for Detroit: People here know how to throw a good party.

Saturday, I went out to a double event at the Schvitz: First, a screening of “The Concert for Bangladesh” movie, followed by a one-hour set of all George Harrison music, by local musicians. And it was kind of a blast, being able to move around the whole building, which included a nice fire on the outdoor patio, have something to eat and even take the steam. (I didn’t.)

I walked in during the film’s extended Ravi Shankar performance, and told Paddy, “George Harrison’s great genius was in convincing people to listen to this for longer than two minutes.” I guess everyone needs an opener, but man — a little bit of sitar goes a long way for me.

Things to notice about the concert film: There was a period in the early ’70s when really big bands were, well, really big. Recall Joe Cocker touring with Mad Dogs and Englishmen, which was about two dozen people coming on and off the stage, singing, playing, partying. Harrison’s band for that night, billed “George Harrison & Friends,” was equally populated, although certain players were essential — Billy Preston, Leon Russell, Eric Clapton, a few others.

When the movie wrapped and the show started, they followed the same model, within the limits of the Schvitz stage. Four guitars, two drummers, four background vocalists, a keyboard…there may have been more. But they did a great job. It was nostalgic, but not, Just a nice reminder of one of the century’s great artists.

Plus that fire on the patio.

As for the rest of the weekend, I resolved to get work done, and I did. I’m ready for the holiday (kinda), and maybe even the holiday(s).

How about you guys?

Not much bloggage today, but I found this story about finding one’s second chapter, work-wise, to be amazingly sweet. Gift link.

Sometimes I feel bad about calling the First Lady a sex worker. (Or an old whore, depending on my mood.) First, because sex work is work, as we feminists say. Second, because I believe she’s retired from sex work, and maybe that should be acknowledged. And finally, because the current non-occupant of the now-demolished East Wing isn’t much of a First Lady this term, why quibble about what she did to get the job?

First, maybe we might address the question: Was she a sex worker at one time? (And I know we’ve talked about this before. I’m not obsessed. OK, maybe a little.) Not in the stand-on-a-corner-in-skimpy-clothing sense, no. But everything we know about her history as an immigrant, about what she did when she came to New York, the people she associated with, etc. suggests a form of…polite sex work, you might say. She was a “model,” a job description applied to many pretty girls whose photo will never appear in a magazine or catalog, or walk a runway. But she would make herself available for events requiring a certain number of hot women in attendance — parties, openings, nightclubs, etc. — and would be happy to catch the eye of the rich men in attendance. I suspect that is exactly why she came to the U.S., in fact: To find a wealthy man who might marry her and allow her to not only never see the rough side of Slovenia again, but to maybe get her parents out, too.

And that’s exactly what happened. Is that sex work? Probably millions of women consider potential life partners with eyes that cold. I think FLOTUS herself answered that best of all, when asked if she’d be married to her husband if he wasn’t rich: “Would he be married to me if I weren’t beautiful?” A transactional woman.

Her empty, loveless marriage suggests they both got what they wanted from it. After all, this is a woman who wouldn’t move into the White House until her prenup was recast to her satisfaction. At this point, she doesn’t need to have sex with anyone. She has a child and a wedding ring; she will never go quietly, unless it’s with suitcases stuffed with cash.

But I get salty when I hear the most repulsive of the MAGA crowd go on about the warm, elegant, refined Michelle Obama, calling her “Big Mike” because she used to be a MAN, doncha know? They photoshopped dicks onto her dresses and say her husband is gay, then complain that no one will put Melania on the cover of Vogue. “That old whore?” I reply.

This is counterproductive, I know. It won’t bring people together, join hands across the chasm of our differences, etc. But it seems the only response.

What else is going on today? There were some demonstrations in Dearborn yesterday. One was initially organized by a fringe candidate for governor — go ahead, guess which party!!! — protesting SHARIA LAW, etc. He called it off after claiming to have a change of heart about our Muslim neighbors. but the ball he started rolling didn’t stop. This guy appeared to be behind the wingnuts:

At about 6 p.m., there was a growing crowd confronting Jake Lang, a rightwing activist from Florida who organized one of three rallies Tuesday. Police then brought up several metal barriers around Lang and his supporters, keeping them separated from the crowd, who yelled back at Lang at times.

Here’s the gubernatorial candidate:

Another gathering was led by Anthony Hudson, a Republican candidate for governor who initially was planning an anti-sharia rally, but had a change of heart after spending four days last week in Dearborn and Dearborn Heights, visiting mosques and Muslim leaders. Hudson told the Free Press in an interview his rally was to promote unity, but also to tell Dearborn Mayor Abdullah Hammoud to be more respective of Christians and their concerns. Hammoud faced criticism earlier this year for berating a Christian minister, but later said the city welcomes all.

Note the misuse of “respective” by the reporter. The word he was trying for is “respectful,” but unfortunately, all the copy editors were purged in some previous round of cuts, apparently.

Listen to this douchebag, though:

Hudson said he visited the Islamic Center of America in Dearborn, Dearborn Community Center, the Islamic Institute of America in Dearborn Heights and the Islamic House of Wisdom in Dearborn Heights, where he met with Imam Mohammad Elahi, a prominent Islamic and interfaith leader in Michigan. He also visited Eternal Light, a nonprofit in Dearborn Heights, and a food bank.

“We’re proving the point that we didn’t see sharia law in Dearborn,” Hudson said. “We didn’t see women getting assaulted or disrespected. We saw women business owners that were yelling at men, telling them what to do. We saw young women walking at night to go to the bars and they weren’t being harassed. We saw the gentlemen’s clubs, which is against sharia law. We saw the liquor stores, which is against it. We just saw so many things that were against sharia law that I made the determination that during my trip, my four days, there was no sharia law.”

Afer living here all these years, I notice the wingnut panic over Dearborn runs in cycles. They all seem to take their cues from one another, because they have so few original ideas, and the wheel has turned again. The other day I looked up M*ll*ssa C*ron*, the fameball from the 2020 election cycle, and even she was posting “content” from Dearborn during the call to prayer, barking, “How would you like to listen to this five times a day?” And I considered that nearly all the people within earshot are Muslim themselves, and Melly herself lives in goddamn Macomb County, so what’s her damage? It’s just Dearborn’s turn, I guess.

God help us if they discover Hamtramck. OK, then. Time to find a grindstone and press my nose to it. Happy Wednesday, all.

Oh, no. I haven’t written anything today. Or yesterday. I am sorry. But I was cooking for, and wrapping for, the birthday twins’ celebration, which was yesterday. We had dinner, cake, gifts, the first half of the Lions game. I didn’t sleep well, and today I’ve been dragging ass, as they say. But it was a good party.

The individual gifts aren’t as important as my one brainstorm for a family gift that all three of us November babies can enjoy (along with three friends): A two-hour cruise on the J.W. Wescott, i.e., the mail boat that services freight vessels on the Detroit River. It advertises itself as the only floating zip code in the country (48222), based on when it would deliver mail to ships on the Great Lakes for weeks at a time. Now that letters from home aren’t so important, they do package and food deliveries — yes, you can order a pizza or a shwarma to be delivered to, say, the MV Paul R. Tregurtha as it passes through town — as well as pilot changes, which is what I’d really like to see. They pull up next to a ship under way, match their speed, and send the new pilot up a rope ladder, and take on the guy coming off duty.

I think that’s also how they’d deliver a pizza, only with a basket or some sort of conveyance, now that I think about it.

It all sounds exciting, different, fun and very Detroit. I can’t wait. Now to herd all our cats aboard.

The Wescott website talks about how they got their start, ferrying letters to ships in a bucket tied to a rope, and it reminded me of the Columbus Dispatch bucket, the fifth-floor bucket the staff would drop to photographers coming back from breaking news, on deadline. They’d deposit their exposed film in the bucket, and by the time they got parked and back into the building, the film was being processed. Was it ever used by a particular photographer to purchase weed from his dealer down on the sidewalk? I’ll never tell.

(Yes.)

So that’s why I’m so tired and not particularly productive today. But tomorrow is another one, and it won’t involve cake and two bottles of wine. So let’s see how it goes.